CHAPTER II

The makers of the Revolution—_Fête à la Nature_—Tallien—Dangerous

times—An inharmonious marriage—Colonel la Mothe—A Terrorist—The

beginning of the emigration—A sinister prophecy.

As M. Arsène Houssaye truly remarks, the French Revolution was not

made by the people. They imagine that they made it, but the real

authors were Voltaire, Condorcet, Chamfort, the two Mirabeau, La

Fayette and his friends, Necker, Talleyrand, Barras, Saint-Just, &c.,

nearly all gentlemen, mostly nobles; by Philippe-Égalité, Duke of

Orléans and prince of the blood; by Louis XVI. himself.

[Illustration: MARIE DE VICHY-CHAMBRON, MARQUISE DU DEFFAND]

The new ideas were the fashion, people, especially young people,

believed with enthusiastic fervour in the absurd and impracticable

state of things they imagined they were about to establish, but

meanwhile, though they talked of the rights of man and the sufferings

of the people, they went on just the same, lavishing enormous sums

upon dress, luxury, and costly entertainments.

The stately order, the devotion and charity which filled the lives

of the sisters de Noailles; the absorbing passion for her art which

made the happiness, the safety, and the renown of Louise Vigée,

were not for Térèzia. Her very talents were an additional danger and

temptation, for they increased the attraction of her extraordinary

beauty; and in the set of which her friends were composed there could

be no principles of right and wrong, because there was no authority

to determine them. For if God did not exist at all, or only as a

colourless abstraction, then the words “right” and “wrong” meant

nothing, and what, in that case, was to regulate people’s lives? Why

not injure their neighbours if it were convenient to themselves to do

so? Why should they tell the truth if they preferred to tell lies? To

some it would seem noble to forgive their enemies; to others it would

seem silly. To some, family affection and respect for parents would

appear an indispensable virtue; to others an exploded superstition. It

was all a matter of opinion; who was to decide when one man’s opinion

was as good as another? But, however such theories might serve to

regulate the lives of a few dreamy, cold-blooded philosophers occupied

entirely with their studies and speculations, it seems difficult

to understand that any one could really believe in the possibility

of their controlling the average mass of human beings; who, if not

restrained by the fear of a supernatural power which they believe able

to protect, reward, or punish them, are not likely to be influenced

by the exhortations of those who can offer them no such inducements.

Nevertheless, these ideas were very prevalent until Napoleon, who

regarded them with contempt, declared that without religion no

government was possible, and, whether he believed in it or not,

re-established Christianity.

Meanwhile, those who could not believe in God, set up as their guide

the abstraction they called Nature, which, if they had followed to

the logical consequences, would have led them back to the state of

savages. There were, in fact, some who proposed to live out of doors

with very scanty clothing, and who had begun to cut down a tree and

light a fire when their plans of life were suddenly frustrated by the

appearance of the police.

But these were not the directions in which the guidance of Nature led

most of her followers. It was not to a life of primitive simplicity

and discomfort that Térèzia and her friends felt themselves directed;

no, the _hôtel de Fontenay_, in the _rue de Paradis_, and the

_château_ of the same name in the country were the scene of ceaseless

gaiety and amusement. La Rochefoucauld, Rivarol, Chamfort, La Fayette,

the three brothers de Lameth, all of whom were in love with their

fascinating hostess; Mirabeau, Barnave, Vergniaud, Robespierre,

Camille Desmoulins—all the leaders of the radical party were to be

met at her parties, and most of them were present at a splendid

entertainment given by the Marquis and Marquise de Fontenay to the

_Constituants_ at their _château_, and called, after the fashion of

Rousseau, a _fête à la Nature_.

The guests were met at the park gates by young girls dressed in white,

who gave them bouquets of flowers; they dined out of doors under

the shade of chestnut-trees, while a band played airs from “Richard

Cœur-de-Lion,” “Castor et Pollux,” etc.; the only _contretemps_ being

a sudden gust of wind which took off the wigs of some of the guests:

Robespierre amongst the number. Many beautiful women were present,

but none could rival their lovely hostess. Toasts were drunk to her

beauty, verses improvised to her Spanish eyes, her French _esprit_;

she was declared the goddess of the _fête_, _queen_ being no longer a

popular word.

In all her life she never lost the recollection of the enchantment of

that day, and many years later, in her altered surroundings, would say

to her children, “Ah! that day was the _fête de ma jeunesse_!”

[Illustration: FRANÇOIS MARIE AROUET DE VOLTAIRE]

The first meeting of Térèzia with the man who was to play the most

important part in her life took place in the studio of Mme. Le

Brun, to be painted by whom was then the height of fashion. Mme.

Le Brun, enraptured with her beauty and dissatisfied with her own

representation of it, was a long time altering and retouching, and

every day saw some new improvement to make.

Mme. de Fontenay became impatient, for the sittings appeared to be

interminable, and at last M. de Fontenay begged several of his friends

to go and look at the portrait of his wife and give their opinion

while it was still in the studio. It was in consequence more crowded

than usual one day when M. de Fontenay, being also present, was

joining in a conversation going on about David and his pictures.

“You will see,” said Rivarol, “that these haughty Romans whom M.

Louis David has brought into fashion with his cold, hard painting,

will bring us through a period of Cato and Brutus. It is the law

of contrast. After the solemn airs of Louis XIV., the orgies of

Louis XV.; after the suppers of Sardanapalus-Pompadour, the milk and

water breakfasts of Titus—Louis XVI. The French nation had too much

_esprit_, they are now going to saturate themselves with stupidity.”

“And do you imagine,” cried Mme. Le Brun, “that it is David who has

given the taste for the antique? It is not: it is I! It was my Greek

supper, which they turned into a Roman orgy, which set the fashion.

Fashion is a woman. It is always a woman who imposes the fashion, as

the Comtesse Du Barry said.”

“_Apropos_,” exclaimed Mme. de Fontenay; “have not you begun her

portrait?”

“The poor Countess! I am representing her reading a romance with the

arms of the King. She is the only person who holds to the King now.”

The conversation was presently interrupted by a young man whom nobody

seemed to know.

As Mme. Le Brun had not many servants, he had found nobody to announce

him, but entered without the least shyness, and walking up to M. de

Rivarol, said that he wanted to speak to him about a pamphlet of his,

now being printed at the establishment in which he was employed. There

was a passage in it which they could not read or did not understand,

and M. de Rivarol’s servant having told him where his master was to be

found, he had come after him.

There had been a sudden silence when he entered; no one saluted him

but Mme. Le Brun, who greeted him with a smile, but all regarded him

with curiosity. His dress was not like those of the gentlemen present,

nor of their class at all; it had a sort of Bohemian picturesqueness

which rather suited his handsome, striking, sarcastic face; he was

very young, not more than about twenty, but he spoke and moved with

perfect unconcern amongst the uncongenial society into which he had

fallen. Mme. Le Brun, tired of the stupid, contradictory remarks of

the amateurs who then, as now, were eager to criticise what they knew

nothing about, and nearly always said the wrong thing, exclaimed

impatiently—

“You are all bad judges—

“Détestables flatteurs, présent le plus funeste,

Que puisse faire aux arts la colère céleste!

“I do not believe one word of your opinions. I am like Molière, I

would rather appeal to my servant, but as she is not here I will,

if you do not object, ask that young man, who does not look like a

flatterer: he will tell us the truth.” And turning to him, she said—

“Monsieur, I have just been hearing so much nonsense about this

portrait, that really I don’t know whether I have been working like an

artist or a sign-painter.”

“I will tell you, Madame,” replied the young man, with an assurance

that surprised every one present. They looked at him with

astonishment, and he looked at the portrait, and still more earnestly

at the Marquise de Fontenay, upon whom his long, ardent gaze made a

strange impression. After a few moments’ silence, Mme. Le Brun said—

“Well, Monsieur, I am waiting for your criticism.”

“My criticism, Madame, is this. It seemed to me just now that they

accused you of having made the eyes too small and the mouth too large.

Well, if you will believe me, you will slightly lower the upper

eyelids and open imperceptibly the corner of the lips. Thus you will

have almost the charm of that sculpturesque and expressive face. The

eyes will be still brighter when their brilliance shines from between

the eyelids like the sun through the branches.”

With a few more words of mingled criticism and compliment, he bowed

slightly and turned again to M. Rivarol.

It was Tallien.

The next time they met he was secretary to Alexandre de Lameth.

Térèzia was standing on the steps of their _hôtel_ with Mme. Charles

de Lameth when he came with his hands full of letters.

Telling him that Alexandre was not in, Mme. de Lameth asked him to

gather a bunch of roses for Mme. de Fontenay, which he did, and

picking up one that fell, he kept it, bowed silently, and went in.

Térèzia questioned her friend about him, and was told that he was a

good secretary, clever but idle, and of so bad a reputation that M. de

Lameth was waiting for an opportunity to get rid of him.

Tallien was the acknowledged son of the _maitre-d’hôtel_ of the

Marquis de Bercy, but strongly suspected of being the son of the

Marquis himself, who was his godfather and paid his expenses at a

college from which he ran away when he was fifteen. Already an

atheist and a revolutionist, besides being a lazy scoundrel who would

not work, he was, after a violent scene with the Marquis, abandoned

by him, after which he quarrelled with his reputed father, a worthy

man with several other children, who declined to support him in

idleness, and threatened him with his curse. “_Taisez-vous, mon père,

cela ne se fait plus dans le monde_,” was the answer of the future

_septembriseur_. His mother, however, interposed, and it was arranged

that he should continue to live at home and should study in the office

of a _procureur_. Step by step he rose into notoriety, until he was

elected a member of the commune of Paris, where he was soon recognised

as one of the most violent of the revolutionists.

In spite of his friendships with the leaders of the Revolution,

his adoption at first of many of their ideas, and the _fête

Constitutionelle_ he gave in their honour, M. de Fontenay, like

many others, began to see that things were going much further than

he expected or wished. He was neither a young, foolish, generous

enthusiast like La Fayette, de Ségur, de Noailles, and their set, nor

a low ruffian thirsting for plunder and bloodshed, nor a penniless

adventurer with everything to gain and nothing to lose; but an elderly

man of rank, fortune, and knowledge of the world, who, however he

might have tampered with the philosophers and revolutionists, as

it was the fashion to do, had no sort of illusions about them,

no sympathy whatever with their plans, and the greatest possible

objection to being deprived of his title of Marquis, his property,

or his life. In fact, he began to consider whether it would not be

more prudent to leave the country and join M. Cabarrus in Spain,

for he was not separated from his wife, nor was there any open

disagreement between them. They simply seem to have taken their own

ways, which were not likely to have been the same. Térèzia was then

much more inclined to the Revolution than her husband, believing

with all the credulity of youth in the happiness and prosperity it

was to establish. Of her life during 1791 and the first part of 1792

little or nothing is known with any certainty, though Mme. d’Abrantès

relates an anecdote told by a Colonel La Mothe which points to her

being in Bordeaux, living or staying with her brother, M. Cabarrus,

and an uncle, M. Jalabert, a banker, each of whom watched her with all

the jealousy of a Spanish duenna, the brother being at the same time

so disagreeable that it was almost impossible to be in his company

without quarrelling with him.

Why, in that case, Térèzia should have allowed them to interfere

with her appears perplexing, as they would, of course, have had

no authority to do so. M. La Mothe proceeded to say that he and

a certain M. Edouard de C——, both of whom were in love with her,

accompanied them to Bagnères de Bigorre. There he and Edouard de C——

quarrelled and fought a duel, in which he, M. La Mothe, was wounded;

whereupon Térèzia, touched by his danger and returning his love for

her, remained to nurse him, while his rival departed; and informing

her uncle and brother that she declined any further interference on

their part, dismissed them. That the uncle returned to his bank in

Bayonne, and the brother, with Edouard de C——, to the army; that

Cabarrus was killed the following year; and that, after some time, M.

La Mothe and Térèzia were separated by circumstances, he having to

rejoin his regiment, while she remained at Bordeaux.[91] But however

the principles she had adopted may have relaxed her ideas of morality,

they never, as will be seen during the history of her life, interfered

with the courage, generosity, and kindness of heart which formed so

conspicuous a part of her character, and which so often met with such

odious ingratitude.

In the latter part of the summer of 1792 she was in Paris, which,

in spite of her revolutionary professions, was no safe abode even

for her, certainly not for her husband. The slightest sympathy shown

to an _emigré_, a priest, a royalist, or any one marked as a prey

by the bloodthirsty monsters who were rapidly showing themselves in

their true colours, might be the death-warrant of whoever dared to

show it. So would any word or gesture of disapproval of the crimes

these miscreants were ordering and perpetrating. Their spies were

everywhere, and the least accusation, very often only caused by a

private grudge, was enough to bring a person, and perhaps their whole

family, to prison and the scaffold. In the early days of the Terror,

the well-known actor Talma, hearing an acquaintance named Alexandre,

a member of his own profession, giving vent in a benign voice to the

most atrocious language of the Terrorists, indignantly reproached him.

“_Que tu es bon!_” exclaimed Alexandre, drawing him aside. “Do you

think I mean all that?”

“Then why say it?”

“Because that Terrorist is listening.”

“Who do you mean.”

“Who? Why that little Bouchiez,” indicating one of the officials of

the theatre. “Whenever he is near me I say the same sort of things. I

should say more if I could.”

“And why?”

“Because, if I spoke differently, he would denounce me to the Jacobins

and have me guillotined.”

“He! Why, I thought you were friends.”

“We! friends! _Allons donc!_”

“_Vous vous tutoyez._”[92]

“What does that prove? Do not all these brutes say _tu_ nowadays?”

“Well, but you call yourself friends.”

“That’s true; but I don’t like him any the better for that, the

wretch! Ah, I hate him! _how_ I hate him! _how_ I hate him! But there

he is coming back, so I shall begin again!” And so he did.[93]

To escape from France was now both difficult and dangerous. The

first to emigrate had been the Comte and Comtesse d’Artois and their

children, the Prince de Condé, Duc de Bourbon, Duc d’Enghien, Mlle.

de Condé, Prince de Lambesc, Maréchaux de Broglie et de Castries, Duc

de la Vauguyon, Comte de Vaudreuil, and a long string of other great

names—Mailly, Bourbon-Busset, d’Aligre, de Mirepoix, all the Polignac

and Polastron, the Abbé de Vermont, &c. They left at night under

borrowed names. The Queen fainted when she parted from the Duchesse de

Polignac, who was carried unconscious to the carriage by the Comte de

Vaudreuil.[94]

The grief of the Duchesse de Polignac was aggravated by the

recollection of a sinister prophecy which, although at the time it

seemed incredible, was apparently being fulfilled in an alarming

manner. The circumstances were as follows:—

The Comtesse d’Adhémar, who held a post in the Queen’s household,

received one day a note from the Duchesse de Polignac, “Governess

of the Children of France,” asking her to go with her to consult a

fortune-teller of whom every one was talking. For many persons who

declined to believe in God were ready and eager to put confidence in

witchcraft, fortune-telling, spiritualism, or any other form of occult

proceedings.

Carefully disguising themselves, they set off together—of course,

at night—taking only the Duchess’s maid, Mlle. Robert, who, though

devoted to her mistress, had been silly enough to persuade her to this

folly, and by an old porter belonging to the palace, who knew the way.

Through many little, narrow streets they at last got out into the

country, and arrived at the filthy, ruinous cottage where lived the

fortune-teller. They gave her each an _écu_, not wishing by too lavish

a payment to betray themselves, and the Comtesse d’Adhémar was the

first to place her hand in the dirty, wrinkled one of the old gipsy,

who, after telling her that she had had two husbands, and would have

no more, added, “You are now in the service of a good mistress, who

loves you; but before long she will send you away against her will,

but she will no longer be free to do as she chooses.”

Then, taking the hand of Mme. de Polignac she turned it over several

times, examining it carefully, and said: “You are, like the other, in

the service of the same lady, who loves you so much that she confides

to you her most precious jewels. You love her just as much, but still,

in a short time you will leave that lady in haste, and what is more,

you will not feel tranquil until you have put three great rivers

between you and her. She will cry bitterly when you leave her and yet

be very glad of the separation.”

Mme. de Polignac shuddered; exclaiming that she would never of her

own accord leave her mistress, or if an absence was necessary to her

health it should be a short one.

“Oh! for that matter,” said the gipsy, “it will have no limit.”

“What! Shall I never see my mistress again?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because she will die.”

A cry of horror escaped the two friends and Mlle. Robert began to

threaten the gipsy.

“Hold your tongue, _tête-qui-roule_,” she cried angrily. “Your body

will be food for dogs.”

Horror-stricken and frightened they hurried from the cottage, but the

prophecies were all fulfilled. Marie Antoinette rejoiced at their

parting as they were going to safety. The three rivers were apparently

the Seine, Rhine, and Danube which Mme. de Polignac crossed on her

way to Vienna. As to Mlle. Robert, she paid with her life for her

faithful affection for her mistress. Insisting on remaining in Paris

to look after her interests she was arrested on the 10th of August and

perished in the September massacres.

The Queen and the Comte d’Artois were the most hated and threatened of

the royal family. Now, as always, they urged the miserable Louis to

defend himself as his forefathers would have done; the Prince de Condé

was of their opinion. Let the King defend himself when his palace

was attacked, and, if necessary, sally out at the head of his loyal

followers and either save his crown and his life, or, if that could

not be, fall gloriously with his sword in his hand like a son of Henri

IV., instead of being taken by his own subjects like a rat in a hole.

Such were the exhortations which at one time or another were poured

into the King’s ears and to which he would never listen.[95] There

was no more to be said. The Comte d’Artois declared he would never

leave his brother unless expressly ordered to do so. Louis gave that

command, desiring the Prince to escape with his wife and children to

their sister Clotilde at Turin; and then with tears and sobs the Comte

and Comtesse d’Artois embraced the King and Queen and tore themselves

away.

The Comte de Provence did not emigrate so soon. He had been more

inclined to liberal ideas and was less unpopular than the Comte

d’Artois. It was not until the time of the unfortunate attempt on the

royal family that he also resolved to escape, and his plans, being

well-arranged and properly carried out, succeeded perfectly.

He was then living in the Luxembourg, and having made all

preparations, he went to bed as usual and drew the curtains; the

_valet-de-chambre_, who always slept in a bed rolled into his room,

went away to undress. When he was gone, the Comte de Provence got up,

passed into his dressing-room, where his devoted friend and confidant,

M. d’Avaray, awaited him and helped him to dress. Passing out by a

small door that was not guarded, they got into a carriage waiting for

them in the courtyard of the Luxembourg and drove away.

He met the Comtesse de Provence as they had arranged, having taken the

precaution of escaping separately. They arrived at Brussels in safety,

and afterwards joined their brother and sister at the court of the

Countess’s father at Turin, where they were joyfully received by the

Princess Clotilde, and afterwards rejoined by their aunts.[96]

FOOTNOTES:

[91] “Salons de Paris” (Duchesse d’Abrantès).

[92] _Tutoyer_ is an expression impossible to translate. It means the

use of the second person singular, “thou,” instead of “you,” and is a

mark of the greatest intimacy.

[93] “Souvenirs d’un Sexagenaire” (Arnault).

[94] “Souvenirs de la Comtesse d’Adhémar.”

[95] At one of the most terrible crises in 1792, the Queen went into

the King’s room and found him mending a lock and key. “Since you are

so well used to handling steel!” she exclaimed, “why do you not take

a sword?” “A sword!” he said, mechanically. “You have played Titus,”

she went on, “now show yourself the descendant of Henry IV., the time

has come, if you love your life you must, as chief of your race, try

to conquer your kingdom!” “You look on the dark side of things,” said

he, “things are going badly, but with time passions will calm down

and then——” “Another family will be on your throne, Sire,” said she,

throwing herself on her knees. “In the name of God, of your children,

of your subjects, of your poor sister who has sacrificed herself to

stay with us, cease to persist in this fatal apathy.”... With a voice

broken by sobs and tears she went on with her entreaties. The King

laid down his tools, looked at her with sorrowful embarrassment, and

said it was not his fault, she must have patience!!

When, after being forced to hear in the Assembly the deposition of the

King, Marie Antoinette exclaimed, “Ah! Sire, it would have been better

to have died all together in the Tuileries” (“Souvenirs de Comtesse

d’Adhémar”).

[96] “Souvenirs d’un Sexagenaire” (Arnault). “Souvenirs de Louis

XVIII.”

CHAPTER III

The 10th of August—The September massacres—Tallien—The emigrant

ship—Arrest at Bordeaux—In prison—Saved by Tallien.

On the 10th of August, 1792, as every one knows, the fury of the

Revolution broke out in the attack upon the Tuileries. For the third

time Térèzia saw Tallien soon after that carnival of horror and

bloodshed of which he was one of the leading spirits; when a few

days after it she sat in one of the tribunes of the Assembly and

applauded the fiery speech in which he defied the enemies of France,

for the armies of the allies and the _emigrés_ were gathering on

the frontier, eager to avenge the atrocities which had been and

were being committed, and rescue the royal family. Unluckily it was

another failure. The incompetence of the leaders, the delays, the

mismanagement, the mistakes, the disasters, cannot of course be

entered into in a sketch like this, but the effect it had upon the

fate of those still in prison and in danger who remained in the hands

of the tigers thirsting for their blood, was terrible indeed.

No sooner had the news of their first ephemeral successes at Longwy

and Verdun arrived at Paris, and at the same time the rising in La

Vendée become known, than there was a rush to arms, to the frontier,

to drive back the invaders from the soil of France. The revolutionists

seized their opportunity to declare that the royalists left in France

would help the invaders by conspiring at home. It was enough. The

thirst for blood and slaughter, never equalled or approached by any

other civilised nation, which characterised the French Revolution,

burst forth with unheard of atrocity. The September massacres were the

result, and of the order for this horrible crime Tallien and Danton

were chiefly accused.

Danton did not attempt to deny the part he had taken, but declared

that it was necessary to strike terror amongst their opponents and

that he accepted the responsibility.

Tallien had stepped into the place of Guy de Kersaint, deputy of

Versailles, who, though a revolutionist, objected to massacres.[97]

He tried to explain and excuse them by the fury and excitement of

the time when he perceived the horror with which they were regarded,

not only by the civilised world at large, but by many of the

revolutionists, even by some of his own colleagues. However, the

brand of infamy remained attached to his name, notwithstanding his

endeavours to clear himself from the suspicion and accusation which

have nevertheless always clung to him.

“There are many,” he said in one of his speeches, “who accuse me

of being a murderer of the 2nd of September, to stifle my voice

because they know I saw it all. They know that I used the authority

I possessed to save a great number of persons from the hand of

the assassin, they know that I alone in the midst of the Commune,

dared throw myself before the sanguinary multitude to prevent their

violating the _depôts_ entrusted to the Commune. I defy any one

to accuse me of crime or even of weakness. I did my duty on that

occasion....” But the name of “_septembriseur_” clung to him for ever

in spite of his protestations.

Through all this time it is not clear exactly where Térèzia was,

probably at Paris and at Fontenay, but the relations between herself

and her husband did not improve, and without any violent enmity

between them, she had several times thought of getting a divorce from

him.

She had not done so, however, and had even consented to his plan

of their both leaving France and taking refuge with her father in

Spain. She wished no harm to M. de Fontenay, and although in spite

of all that had happened she still believed in the Revolution, its

principles, and future results, she was horrified at the cruelty and

atrocities going on around her at present.

She was conscious also that her own position was not safe. She had

many friends amongst the Girondins, and now terrified at their fall

she felt that she was compromised by her association with them; her

husband was an additional peril to her, for the new abomination called

_loi contre des suspects_ was aimed at those against whom no tangible

thing could be brought forward, but who might be accused of “having

done nothing for the Republic” and would certainly apply to him. M.

de Fontenay had hidden himself for a time and then re-appeared, and

seeing they were both in great danger she agreed to his proposal and

they went first to Bordeaux, intending shortly to put the Pyrenees

between themselves and the Revolution. But swiftly and suddenly the

danger that had struck down so many of their acquaintances fell like a

thunderbolt upon them.

They were staying with an uncle of hers at Bordeaux when she heard

one day that an English ship with three hundred passengers, chiefly

royalists of Bordeaux, but all of them persons flying from France, was

on the point of sailing, but was detained because the captain, whose

conduct in this matter one cannot help saying few Englishmen indeed

would not have despised, refused to sail until he had received three

thousand francs wanting to the sum owing by the emigrants.

Indignant at the avarice which risked the lives of the unfortunate

passengers, Térèzia, disregarding the remonstrances and warnings of

her husband and uncle, ordered a carriage, drove to find the captain,

paid him the three thousand francs, and returned in triumph with a

list of the passengers which she had made the captain give her instead

of the receipt he wished to write.

But while Térèzia congratulated herself that she had happened to

be at Bordeaux, the story got about, and the fierce populace were

infuriated at the escape of their intended prey. Their first revenge

was directed towards the captain, through whose unguarded talk about

“a beautiful woman who looked like a _grande dame_, and had suddenly

appeared and paid him the money,” was the cause of the mischief. They

made a furious attack upon him, several of them rushing at him to drag

him to the guillotine. But if he was avaricious the English captain

was brave and strong, so, drawing his sword with shouts and threats he

wounded three or four, drove back the rest, regained his ship, and set

sail for England.

As Térèzia was walking in the town with her two uncles they were

suddenly surrounded by a furious crowd, who, with shouts of “_La

voilà! La voilà! celle qui a sauvé les aristocrates_,” surrounded her,

and in a moment she was separated from her uncles, her mantilla torn

off, while angry voices, with fierce threats, demanded the list of

fugitives.

“What do you want with me?” she asked coolly, “I am not an enemy of

the people; you can see by my cockade that I am a patriot.”

“Let her give us the list!” was the cry.

Seeing at once what was the question, she answered: “You are mistaken,

_citoyens_, those who embarked were not _contre-revolutionnaires_.”

“Well, then, give us the list for you have it in your bosom!” And one

brutal fellow tried to tear her _corsage_ to get it.

Thrusting him away she pulled out the list, held it up to the

_sans-culottes_, and exclaimed with defiance—

“I will never give it you! If you want to get it, kill me!” And she

swallowed it.

At that moment Tallien, who had been sent to Bordeaux by the

Revolutinary authorities, appeared upon the scene.

“Stop!” he cried; “I know that woman.”

He did not, in fact, recognise her at all, but he wished to save her.

Turning to the crowd, he said—

“If she is guilty she belongs to justice. But you are too magnanimous

to strike an unarmed enemy, above all, a woman.”

Just then Lacomb, president of the tribunal, who had been told that

the aristocrats who went with the English captain were saved by her,

came up and ordered her arrest.

At the same time Tallien recognised the Marquise de Fontenay.

Térèzia, therefore, found herself in one of the horrible prisons of

that Revolution whose progress she had done everything in her power

to assist. In the darkness and gloom of its dungeon she afterwards

declared that the rats had bitten her feet.

In a very short time, however, she was summoned out of the prison and

conducted by the gaolers into the presence of Tallien.

In the fearful tragedy of the French Revolution, as in many earlier

dramas in the history of that nation, one can hardly fail to be struck

by the extreme youth of many, perhaps most, of the leading characters,

good or bad. And the hero and heroine of this act in the revolutionary

drama were young, and both remarkable for their beauty.

Tallien, the member of the Assembly, the blood-stained popular

leader, the pro-consul before whom every one trembled in Bordeaux,

was five-and-twenty. The Marquise de Fontenay, who stood before him,

knowing that her life was in his hands, was not yet twenty.

The position was changed indeed since their first meeting, when,

unknown and unconsidered, he was invited, in a manner that could

scarcely be called complimentary, to criticise the portrait of the

beautiful, fashionable woman who now stood before him as lovely as

ever, her face pale, and her soft dark eyes raised anxiously to his,

but without any symptom of terror.

From the first moment of this interview Tallien was seized with an

overpowering passion for her, which he was compelled to conceal by the

presence of the gaoler, who waited to re-conduct the prisoner to her

cell, and before whom if he showed either pity or sympathy, in spite

of all his power as a leader of the Revolution, he would endanger his

own safety and increase her danger. Therefore he only bowed, signed to

her to sit down, and took a chair opposite her.

“You recognised me?” she asked.

“Yes, _citoyenne_; why are you at Bordeaux?”

“Because every one is in prison at Paris; even the revolutionists. And

I am a revolutionist.”

“We are not blind,” said Tallien. “We only strike the enemies of the

Republic.”

“The prisons are blind, then,” retorted Térèzia; “for both at Paris

and here true republicans are groaning in fetters.”

She spoke in the inflated style of the time, which belonged especially

to the ranting, extravagant, theatrical phraseology of that strange

collection of individuals who now held supreme power in the country so

recently the most civilised and polished in the world.

“If the prison is blind, the tribunal is not. Of what are you accused,

_citoyenne_?”

“Of everything, I suppose, since there is nothing they can bring

against me.”

“I heard you were intending to emigrate with the _ci-devant_ Marquis

de Fontenay.”

“Emigrate? I never thought of such a thing. We were going to Spain to

see my father, who is there.”

“Well, _citoyenne_, I shall give orders for your trial to come on at

once before the tribunal. If the _citoyen_ Fontenay is not guilty you

are not either. In consequence you will be able to go on and see your

father at Madrid.”

“Good God!” cried Térèzia; “appear before your tribunal! But I am

condemned beforehand! A poor creature who is the daughter of a count,

the wife of a marquis, with a hand like this, which has never done any

work but prepare lint for the wounded of the 10th of August.”

“You are wrong, _citoyenne_, to doubt the justice of the tribunal,

we have not created it to assassinate in the name of the law, but to

avenge the republic and proclaim innocence.”

He spoke in the pompous jargon of the Revolution, the language of his

paper, _L’Ami des Citoyens_. Then turning to the gaoler he sent him

away upon a message. When the door had closed behind the spy of his

party, in whose presence even he himself dared not speak freely, he

took the hand of Térèzia and said in a gentle voice—

“We are not tyrants.”

To which astounding assertion she replied in those terms of flattery

in which alone it was safe to address the individuals who “were not

tyrants,” and whose motto was “Liberty, equality, and fraternity.”

“I suppose he who writes so eloquently in _L’Ami des Citoyens_ is also

the friend of the _citoyennes_? If you are my friend, for the sake of

the _citoyenne_, Lameth,[98] do not make me appear before that odious

tribunal, on which _you_ do not sit.”

“I cannot help it,” answered he; “the eyes of France are upon me. If

I betrayed my commission for the sake of a beautiful woman like you,

Robespierre would not have thunderbolts enough to strike me with.”

“Just so,” she said; “you all strike because you are afraid of being

struck yourselves.”

“Well; what do you want?”

“You know. I want liberty.”

“I understand.”

“And the liberty of M. de Fontenay.”

“Of that I wash my hands,” he exclaimed hastily. Then softening his

voice: “I was told you were divorced?”

“Perhaps so; but at this moment I am more than ever the wife of my

husband.”

“But if he is guilty and you are not?”

“Then I will be guilty too.”

There was a moment’s silence, then Tallien spoke.

“Well! it is worthy of the days of antiquity. But in these times it is

not to a husband but to the nation that a _citoyenne_ should sacrifice

herself. If you have done any wrong to the Republic, it is in your

power publicly to expiate it. In public affairs women must preach and

set the example. If I ask for your liberty it must be on condition

that you promise to be the Egeria of the Montagne, as the Roland was

of the Gironde.”

“I know neither the Montagne nor the Gironde. I know the people, and

I love and serve them. Give me a serge dress and I will go to the

hospitals and nurse the sick patriots.”

“Sister of Charity, is that it? No, no; you must take a more active

part; you must stand in the tribune, and kindle the sacred fire in

those who are not already burning with the religion of the Revolution.

Already I can feel the fire of your words.” And he drew nearer to her.

“It is settled, then, _citoyen_, is it not? You will give the order

for my release? We will start this evening for Spain, and you shall

never hear of me again.”

Tallien’s face fell.

“Well! you take everything for granted,” he said. “I am glad to see

that if ever you become powerful favours will fall from your hands as

if by miracle.”

“I only care for power for the sake of mercy,” she replied. “But now I

am not appealing to your clemency, but to your justice.”

“Justice belongs to the people,” replied Tallien, coldly.

The Marquise felt that she had gone too far.

“It is a mistake,” she exclaimed. “If I appealed to justice it would

be too slow; but the beauty of clemency is that it is quick.”

And she threw herself upon her knees before him.

“Rise, Madame!” exclaimed the young pro-consul. “I risk my head in

this, but what does it matter? You are free.”

And he clasped her in his arms.

At this moment the gaoler returned, accompanied by the _aide-de-camp_

for whom Tallien had sent.

“_Adieu, citoyenne_,” said Tallien, resuming his official manner. “My

_aide-de-camp_ will go at once to the revolutionary tribunal, while I

myself explain to the _Comité_ the error of which you are the victim.”

He signed to the gaoler, who conducted Mme. de Fontenay back to her

cell; and then sat down to write to Robespierre.

“Every one betrays the Republic. The _citoyen_ Tallien is granting

pardon to aristocrats.”[99]

FOOTNOTES:

[97] Guy de Kersaint, after the September massacres, sent in his

resignation, saying “If the love of my country has made me endure the

misfortune of being the colleague of the panegyrists and promoters of

the assassinations of the 2nd of September I will at least protect my

memory from being their accomplice.”—“Notre Dame de Thermidor” (Arsène

Houssaye).

[98] Wife of Charles de Lameth.

[99] The whole account of the arrest of Mme. de Fontenay and the

interview with Tallien is taken from “Notre Dame de Thermidor,” by M.

Arsène Houssaye, who derived his information from her children, her

letters, and other writings.

CHAPTER IV

Divorced—M. de Fontenay escapes to Spain—The

mistress of Tallien—Her influence and his saves many

lives—Robespierre—Singular circumstances at the birth of

Louis XVII.—The vengeance of the Marquis de —— —Enmity of

Robespierre—Arrest of Térèzia—La Force.

The next day was the divorce. M. de Fontenay hurried away towards the

Pyrenees and disappeared from France and from the life and concerns of

the woman who had been his wife.

And Térèzia, released from a marriage she had long disliked and to

which no principle of duty or religion bound her, although she could

scarcely be called free, fulfilled the conditions and accepted the

part offered her willingly enough. She loved Tallien, who worshipped

her with a passionate adoration which, far from concealing, they

gloried in proclaiming.

Térèzia became a power in Bordeaux. She appeared everywhere in

public wearing those scanty Greek draperies so well calculated to

display the perfection of her beauty; affecting the attitude of the

Goddess of Liberty, with a pike in one hand and the other resting

upon the shoulder of Tallien. The populace cheered as she drove

about Bordeaux in a magnificent carriage which, had it belonged to a

royalist, would have excited their rage. She harangued the Convention

with bombastic speeches about women and virtue and modesty, which,

to persons not besotted with frantic republicanism, must appear

singularly out of place; mingling her exhortations with flattery so

fulsome and preposterous that she did not fail to command sympathetic

acclamations, especially when she said that she was not twenty years

old and that she was a mother but no longer a wife.

Over the whole proceedings of Tallien and Térèzia there was, in fact,

an atmosphere and tone that can be best described as “flash”; for no

other word seems to be so thoroughly characteristic of themselves,

their friends, their sentiments, their speech, and their lives at this

time.

That Térèzia was infinitely superior to her lover was not only shown

by the progress of years and events, but was obvious in the early days

of her _liaison_ with Tallien. For her speeches in public and private

were not merely empty bombastic talk. She really did everything in her

power to rescue from danger and help in trouble the unfortunate people

with whom she was surrounded. For she hated cruelty and bloodshed, and

saw no reason or excuse for it; in spite of the sophisms and theories

of her republican friends. It made no difference to her to what party

or class they belonged; she would help any one who was in trouble and

appealed to her. And her power was immense, for Tallien, who held life

and death in his hands, was her slave, and even the savage Lacomb and

Ysabeau, his colleagues, bowed before the charm of her influence.

The _Comité de salut public_ was composed of Barère, Carnot, Couthon,

Billaud-Varennes, Collot-d’Herbois, Robert Lindet, Prieur, Jean-Bon

Saint-André, Saint-Just, and Maximilian Robespierre; as bloodthirsty a

gang of miscreants as ever held an unfortunate country in their grip.

Of these ruffians the most powerful and influential was Robespierre,

who, though cruel, treacherous, and remorseless, was severely moral

and abstemious, and whose anger was deeply aroused by the reports he

received from Bordeaux.

The life of luxurious splendour and open scandal Tallien led with his

mistress irritated him nearly as much as the escape of the victims

so frequently spared by his mercy, or rather by the all-powerful

influence of the woman to whom all Bordeaux now looked for help and

protection; besides which the popularity they both enjoyed at Bordeaux

excited his jealous uneasiness.

But he did not at that time recall him to Paris, preferring that

he should be a satrap at Bordeaux rather than a conspirator in the

Convention; and remarking contemptuously—

“Those sort of men are of no use except to revive vices. They

inoculate the people with the licentiousness of the aristocracy. But

patience; we will deliver the people from their corrupters, as we have

delivered them from their tyrants.”[100]

By caresses, by tyranny, by stratagems, Térèzia opened prison doors,

obtained pardons, delivered victims from the guillotine. Immense

numbers of people were saved by her exertions. Several times her

influence dissolved the Revolutionary Committee; under her reign

people began to breathe freely at Bordeaux, and the Terror for a time

seemed nearly at an end.

Horrified at the _hôtel_ of Tallien being in the _place de

l’Échafaud_, she exclaimed—

“I will not come here again!”

“Well, I will come and live at your _hôtel_.”

“No, I shall come back here. It is not you who will go away, it is the

scaffold.”

To divert his thoughts and attention from the rigours and cruelties,

for the perpetration of which he had been sent to Bordeaux, she

persuaded him to have his portrait done, and induced him and the

artist to prolong the sittings on pretence of making the picture a

_chef d’œuvre_, but in reality to occupy his time and attention;

in fact, he was found by some one who called to see him reclining

comfortably in a boudoir, dividing his attention between the artist

who was painting the portrait and Térèzia, who was also present.

The Marquis de Paroy, a royalist, whose father, a Girondist, had just

been arrested, wrote to ask for an interview, sending an illustrated

petition, in the taste of the day, to the “goddess of Bordeaux,” with

a Cupid he called a _sans-culotte_, &c. Having received an invitation,

he went to her house, where, in the ante-rooms, crowds were waiting

with petitions in their hands. Presently folding doors were thrown

open and Térèzia appeared, exquisitely dressed, asked for the

_citoyen_ Paroy, and invited him to come into her boudoir, which was

filled with the traces of her pursuits. Music was upon the open piano,

a guitar lay upon a sofa, a harp stood in a corner of the room, an

easel, a half-sketched-out miniature, a table covered with drawings,

colours, and brushes, an embroidery frame, a writing table piled with

petitions, notes, and papers. After the first greeting she said—

“I think I remember meeting you at the house of the Comte de l’Estaing

with my father, and I hope you will come and see me as often as you

can. But let us speak of your father. Where is he in prison? I hope to

obtain his release from the _citoyen Tallien_. I will give him your

petition myself, and present you to him.”

She did so on the following day, and Tallien advised him to wait.

“Your father must be a little forgotten in order to save him. It all

depends on the president of the tribunal, Lacomb.”

Térèzia asked him to supper to meet the mistress of Ysabeau, whom she

thought might influence Ysabeau in his favour. During the supper one

of the revolutionary guests, observing a ring with a Love painted on

it, and the inscription—

“Qui que tu sois, voilà ton maître

Il l’est, le fut, ou bien doit l’être,”

kissed the ring, and handed it round to be kissed by all the rest, who

little supposed that it was a portrait of the unfortunate Louis XVII.

The breathing time given to unhappy Bordeaux came to an end. Tallien

was recalled, and his place filled by the ferocious Jullien.

But his position at Paris was too powerful and his friends too

numerous to allow him to be at once attacked with impunity. It

was Térèzia who was to be the first victim. Robespierre dreaded

her influence, her talents, her popularity, her opinions, and the

assistance and support she was to Tallien.

The crimes and horrors of the Revolution had now reached their climax.

Paris was a scene of blood and terror. No one’s life was safe for

an hour, houses were closed, the streets, once so full of life and

gaiety, were now paraded by gangs of drunken ruffians, men and women,

bent on murder and plunder, or re-echoed to the roll of the tumbrils

carrying victims to the scaffold. The prisons were crammed, and yet

arrests went on every day. The King, the Queen, and the gentle,

saintly Madame Elizabeth, had been murdered; the unfortunate Dauphin,

now Louis XVII., and his sister were kept in cruel captivity.

It had been remarked that at the moment of the birth of this most

unfortunate of princes, the crown which was an ornament on the Queen’s

bed fell to the ground, which superstitious persons looked upon as a

bad omen.

Still more strange was the incident related by his uncle, the Comte

de Provence, heir presumptive to the crown, which he afterwards wore.

It happened immediately after the birth of the first Dauphin, elder

brother of Louis XVII., whose early death saved him from the fate of

his family.

“The same evening I found on my table a letter carefully enclosed in

a double envelope, addressed—

“‘POUR MONSIEUR SEUL.’

“I inquired in what manner the letter had arrived there, but all those

in my service declared they knew nothing about it.

“When I was alone I opened the mysterious letter, and by the light of

my lamp I read as follows:—

“‘Console yourself. I have just cast the horoscope of the child

now born. He will not deprive you of the crown. He will not live

when his father ceases to reign. Another than you, however, will

succeed Louis XVI.; but, nevertheless, you will one day be King of

France. Woe to him who will be in your place. Rejoice that you are

without posterity; the existence of your sons would be threatened

with too great calamities, for your family will drink to the dregs

the most bitter contents of the cup of Destiny. Adieu! Tremble for

your life if you try to discover me.—I am

“‘DEATH.’

“I got up and made a copy of this letter ... but on fixing my eyes

on the letters in white ink on black paper ... I saw them disappear.

I recognised in this phenomenon a chemical preparation by which

the mysterious characters would become absorbed after a certain

time.”[101]

No trace was ever found of the person who wrote or conveyed the letter.

It is easy to see that the present state of affairs in France offered

the most dangerous and the strongest temptation to private vengeance.

Any one who had an enemy or who had been offended by any one else, or

even who wished to remove some person whose existence was inconvenient

to them, had only to “denounce” them for some trifle which they might

or might not have said or done; they were sure to be arrested, and

most likely to be put to death.

The following story is an example of the kind.

The Marquis de ——, a proud, stern man of a reserved and apparently

cold temperament, had a young wife whom he adored. Their married life

went on prosperously for some years, at the end of which the young

Marquise was seized with a fatal illness. When on her death-bed she

confessed to her husband, who was nearly frantic with grief, that she

had once, several years since, been unfaithful to him, that remorse

in consequence had poisoned her happiness, and that she could not die

in peace without his forgiveness. The Marquis consented to pardon her

fault on condition that she would tell him the name of her seducer,

which she did, after having extorted from her husband a solemn promise

that he would not challenge him to a duel, as she feared the blood of

one or the other might rest upon her soul.

After her death the Marquis, who had no intention of either breaking

his oath or foregoing his vengeance, shut up his _château_ and went

to Paris, though it was in the height of the Terror; for he had heard

that his enemy was there, and was resolved to find him. He was a

cousin of the young Marquise, the Chevalier de ——, who had in the

early days of their marriage stayed a good deal at the _château_

of the Marquis de ——, and had requited the unsuspicious trust and

hospitality of his host by making love to his wife. Then, influenced

by the remorse and entreaties of the Marquise, he had gone to Paris,

and not been heard of for some time, but was believed to be living

there in concealment.

The death of his wife and the revelation she had made to him, plunged

the Marquis de —— into such a fearful state that at first his reason

was almost overcome; and as he gradually recovered his self-possession

the idea occurred to him to take advantage for his own purposes of the

rumour circulated, that grief for the loss of his wife had affected

his reason.

Accordingly he pretended to be mad, and wandered all day about the

streets of Paris, wearing an old Court dress and an enormous wig,

talking extravagantly, making foolish jokes, but all the time looking

for the Chevalier ——.

His plan succeeded perfectly. He was soon well known to the police as

an ex-noble driven mad by the death of his wife, and being considered

harmless, was allowed to go where he pleased unmolested.

It was the only safeguard he could have found, as his rank and

well-known opinions would have otherwise marked him for destruction.

At last, one day in the _rue St. Honoré_, he came suddenly face to

face with his enemy, disguised as a workman.

Rushing to him, he threw his arms round his neck, exclaiming—

“Eh! how are you, _mon ami_? I am delighted to see you, my dear

Chevalier de——”

The Chevalier tried in vain to escape. The apparent madman seized him

by the arm.

“Let me go!” he cried. “You are mistaken. I don’t know you.”

“You don’t remember me? Your friend, your relation, the Marquis ——?”

“Yes, I remember you now; but let me go.”

A crowd began to gather, and he went on in a loud voice—

“I recognised you directly in spite of your dress, your beard, your

dyed hair, and false scar.”

“Do you wish me to be lost?”

“Lost? Certainly not. I have only just found you, and shall not let

you go. I am going to take you to dine with me, my dear Chevalier de

——”

“Speak lower,” implored the Chevalier. “Are you mad?”

“Ah! you, too, call me mad. It is an insult!”

The Chevalier tore away his arm, the Marquis struck him a furious

blow, the police interfered, and took them both to the _Commissaire de

la section_. The Marquis was released and the Chevalier —— sent to the

Luxembourg.

His friends, hearing of his arrest, organised a plot for his release,

established communications with him, and so skilfully arranged that

one morning the Chevalier de —— left the Luxembourg disguised as a

soldier, passed into the streets, and thought he was saved.

But his enemy stood before him with a smile of triumph.

“Again that wretched madman!” muttered the Chevalier. “Is it God’s

justice that puts him always in my way to destroy me?”

“I am enchanted to see you again, my dear Chevalier de ——, and I hope

you are in a better humour to-day. Instead of the dinner you refused,

accept the _déjeuner_ I offer you this morning.”

“For God’s sake, hold your tongue and let me pass,” said the Chevalier

in a low voice. “My life depends upon it. Do you hear? do you

understand? I have just escaped from prison; I am condemned to death.

If you hold your tongue and let me pass I am saved, but if you keep me

and call out my name you will kill me.”

“What the devil of a story are you telling me, Chevalier de ——?” cried

his tormentor. “Where did you have supper last night? I believe you

have drunk too much.”

“Come, Marquis, try to have a spark of reason. It is my life I ask of

you—my life.”

“_Parbleu_, let us live merrily! that is my motto; and let us begin by

breakfasting. At any rate, I shall not leave you. Where you go I shall

follow, if you run I shall run after you, calling out, ‘Let us go to

breakfast, Chevalier de ——’”

Seeing that attention was being attracted to them, the Chevalier in

despair put his arm into that of the Marquis, saying—

“Very well, let us go to breakfast then, but keep quiet, I beseech

you. Not that way,” as his companion turned towards the Luxembourg.

“Yes, yes! I know the way to the restaurant!” and as he dragged him

along in an iron grasp some guards, who had discovered the escape of

the prisoner, recognised and seized him.

The Chevalier was taken back to his cell, and, knowing that he had

now only a few hours to live, he made his will and wrote the history

of this terrible adventure, saying that he could not but forgive the

Marquis as he was mad. These papers he confided to a fellow prisoner,

and a few hours later was summoned to execution with a number of

others.

As the fatal car passed through the streets, for the third time his

relentless enemy stood before him, and as a slight delay stopped the

car close to him, he called out—

“Ah! Chevalier de ——, where are you going in that carriage? Perhaps to

see your mistress, the Marquise de ——?” and the look of triumph and

hatred revealed the truth to the victim of his vengeance.

It was dearly bought, however. For some time, for prudence sake,

the Marquis kept up his pretence of madness, but after the fall of

Robespierre and the Terror he resumed the apparent use of his reason.

But the next heir had taken possession of the estates of the family in

consequence of the declared madness of its head. The Marquis appealed

to the law, but his own notoriety and the last will and letter of

the Chevalier —— decided the case against him. He was shut up in the

asylum of Charenton, where he lived for many years, resigning himself

after a time to his fate, and dying in extreme old age.

Not many days after the Convention had applauded with enthusiasm an

extravagant speech about charity, full of absurdities and bombastic

sentimentalities, made by Térèzia, Robespierre demanded her arrest of

the _Comité de salut public_.

It has been said that the arrest was made at the end of a _fête_ she

had been giving at which Robespierre himself was present, and which he

had only just left, with professions of the sincerest friendship.

The incident accords so well with the habitual treachery of

Robespierre, that if not true it may be called _ben trovato_; but in

fact it is not really certain that it took place.

But it is confidently affirmed that Robespierre pursued Térèzia, with

even more than his usual vindictiveness. He begged the Marquis de la

Valette, a _ci-devant_ noble and yet a friend of his, to prevent the

escape of this young woman whom they both knew, “for the safety of the

Republic.” But M. de la Valette, although he was not ashamed so far

to degrade himself as to be the friend of Robespierre, shrank from

being the instrument of this infamy; and not only warned Térèzia but

offered her the shelter of his roof, which, for some reason or other,

she declined. She was arrested and sent to La Force, one of the worst

prisons of the Revolution, with the additional horror of being _au

secret_. She had too many and too powerful friends to be sacrificed

without difficulty and risk, and it was, in fact, his attack upon

her that gave the finishing blow to the tottering tyranny of

Robespierre.

[Illustration: MAXIMILIEN ROBESPIERRE]

Robespierre sent Coffinhal, one of his tools, to question her, and

she was offered her liberty if she would denounce Tallien, which she

indignantly refused to do. Far more than in her former experience at

Bordeaux, did she feel that she was already condemned. For then she

had only to dread the general cruelty of the Revolutionists, whose

rage was certainly excited by the escape of their prey, but who had,

beyond doubt, no personal spite against her.

But now she had an enemy, powerful, vindictive, remorseless, and

bent upon her destruction. His object was that her trial should take

place the next day; but her friends were watching her interests. M.

de la Valette and M. Verdun managed to prevent this, and next day a

friend of Tallien, meeting him wandering in desperation about the

_Champs-Elysées_, said to him—

“You have nothing to fear for the _citoyenne_ Cabarrus; she will not

be brought before the tribunal to-day either.”

To gain time in those days was often to gain everything.

In the horrible dungeon in which Térèzia was shut up, she could

receive no communications from without; but after a day or two she was

told by the gaoler that she had leave to go down into the courtyard

in the evening, after the lights were out. To whom she owed this

consolation she was not told, but the first evening as she stood

enjoying the fresh air, a stone fell at her feet, and on picking it

up she found a paper with writing fastened to it. As she could not

see to read it by the light of the moon, she had to wait till after

sunrise next morning, and then, although the writing was disguised,

she recognised the hand of Tallien as she read these words—

“I am watching over you; every evening at nine you will go down to the

courtyard. I shall be near you.”

She tried to question the gaoler when he brought her breakfast of

black bread and boiled beans, but he only put his finger on his lips.

Every evening she went down to the courtyard and a stone with a note

from Tallien was thrown to her. He had hired an attic close by, and

his mother had, under another name, gained the gaoler and his wife.

But at the end of a week the gaoler was denounced by the spies of

Robespierre, and Térèzia transferred to the Carmes.

FOOTNOTES:

[100] “Histoire des Girondins,” t. 7, p. 266 (Lamartine).

[101] “Mémoires de Louis XVIII.,” t. ii., pp. 275-7.

CHAPTER V

The Bastille—Prisons of the Revolution—Les Carmes—Cazotte—The

Terrorists turn upon each other—Joséphine de Beauharnais—A

musician in the Conciergerie—A dog in prison—Under the

guardianship of a dog—Tallien tries to save Térèzia—A dagger—La

Force—The last hope—The Tocsin—The 9th Thermidor.

Volumes of denunciation, torrents of execration have been and are

still poured forth against the Bastille, the tyranny and cruelty

it represented, the vast number and terrible fate of the prisoners

confined there and the arbitrary, irresponsible power of which it was

the instrument.

Many of the stories told and assertions made upon the subject are

absolutely false, others greatly exaggerated; although nobody who has

ever studied the history of any country would imagine that any prison

ever existed anywhere, until within the last few years, without a

record of crime, oppression, and cruelty.

When the Bastille was destroyed, and the officers who were accused of

nothing but defending the post entrusted to them were murdered, that

prison contained seven prisoners, of whom one was detained by the

request of his family, four were forgers, one was an idiot, the other

unknown.[102]

Three years later, under the rule of the apostles of liberty,

fraternity, and equality, there were thousands of prisons of the State

crammed with prisoners, besides the supplementary prisons hastily

arranged in the ancient convents, palaces, and colleges of Paris.

The hardships and horrors of these prisons, though always terrible,

were much worse in some than in others. Far the best were the

Luxembourg, Portroyal, then called Port _Libre_, the convents of

the _Bénédictins anglais_, the convents _des Oiseaux_ and _des

Anglaises_, and one or two others, which, in the slang of the day,

were called _prisons muscadines_.[103] There were congregated most of

the prisoners of rank and refinement, although in most of the prisons

there was a mixture of classes and opinions. There the food and

accommodation was much better and the officials more civil, or rather,

less brutal, and for a long time the prisoners were allowed to go into

the gardens, orchards, avenues, and courts belonging to them, also to

amuse themselves together until a certain hour of the night.

At this time, however, everything even in these prisons had become

much worse,[104] the restrictions were severe, the number executed far

greater, the gaolers more brutal, and the perils and horrors of those

awful dwellings more unheard of.

The Carmes was one of the bad ones, as regards accommodation, but

in it were many prisoners belonging to good society, delicate,

refined, bearing bravely the privations and dangers of their lot.

It was supposed to be one of the aristocratic prisons, though less

comfortable than the rest.

If Térèzia had been in immediate danger she would have been sent to

the Conciergerie, which was looked upon as the gate of the guillotine;

and she knew that the important thing was to gain time. Many had thus

been saved; amongst others Mlle. de Montansier, formerly directress of

a theatre. She was imprisoned in the Abbaye, and was condemned with a

number of others to be guillotined on the following day.

But she was so ill that she could not stand, and as she lay delirious

upon her pallet in a high fever, one of her fellow prisoners called to

M. Cazotte, who was also imprisoned there, and was famous for having

predicted many things which had always come true, especially for his

prophecy at the notorious supper of the Prince de Beauvau, at which

he had foretold the horrors of the Revolution and the fate of the

different guests, now being, or having been, terribly fulfilled.[105]

“Well, Cazotte,” said the other, “here, if ever, is a case for you to

call your spirit up and ask him if that poor dying creature will have

strength to mount the horrible machine to-morrow.”

He spoke half jokingly, but Cazotte saw no joke at all, but went into

a corner without speaking, turned his face to the wall, and remained

there in silence for a quarter of an hour, after which he came back

with a joyful look.

“_La brave fille_ will not be guillotined at all,” he said, “for I

have just seen her die in her bed at an advanced age.”

All laughed at the vision, but the next day she was so ill that her

execution was put off, she continued to be so ill that she could not

be moved and was forgotten till the 9th Thermidor came and she was

saved. She died, as Cazotte had predicted, in her own bed at a great

age.

Cazotte himself, after being saved by his daughter from the massacre,

was re-arrested as he always foretold. His friends asked in vain why

he did not hide, escape, save himself; he only replied—

“What is the use, if my hour has come?”

He was executed as he foretold.

Térèzia was much better off at the Carmes, for she was no longer _au

secret_, but mixed in the day with the rest of the prisoners and

shared a cell at night with the Duchesse d’Aiguillon and Joséphine

Vicomtesse de Beauharnais, whose husband, a revolutionary general and

a thoroughly contemptible character, had lately been guillotined by

his republican friends.

For the only consolation was that now the monsters were turning on

each other; there were, in fact, more republicans than royalists

in the prisons. Every now and then some blood-stained miscreant

was brought in amongst those whose homes he had wrecked, whose dear

ones he had murdered, and whose fate he was now to share; while all

shrunk in horror from him, or mocked and triumphed as he passed.

When Chaumette, the high priest of the Revolution, one of the most

blasphemous and blood-stained wretches of all, was brought to the

Luxembourg, the prisoners would look through the little _guichet_

where he was shut up, asking each other, “Have you seen the wolf?”

When Manuel, one of the authors of the September massacres, was

taken to the Conciergerie and stood before the tribunal, a group of

prisoners standing by, regardless of the _gendarmes_, pushed him

against a pillar, still stained with the blood shed on that fearful

day, with cries of “See the blood you shed,”[106] and through applause

and “bravos” he passed to his doom.

In the cell of Térèzia and her companions had been massacred a

number of priests on that occasion, and still upon its wall were the

_silhouettes_ marked in blood, where two of the murderers had rested

their swords.

And yet amidst all the horrors and miseries even of the six last and

most awful weeks of the Terror, in daily peril of death and amongst

the most frightful hardships, laughter and jokes were heard in the

prisons, friendships and love affairs were formed; every one was the

friend of every one.

Those who were going to their death, dined cheerfully for the last

time with their companions, and bade them a brave and cheerful

farewell.

A young musician, waiting at the Conciergerie for the _gendarmes_ to

take him to the tribunal which was his death sentence, remembering

that a friend wanted a certain air, went back to his room, copied it,

and took it to his friend, saying—

“_Mon cher_, here is what you wanted; the music is all right, I have

just tried it on my flute. I am sorry not to be able to get you some

more; I shall not be alive to-morrow.”[107]

There were a thousand prisoners in the Luxembourg alone, and strange

romances, thrilling escapes, fearful tragedies, and touching stories

could indeed be told of what passed within the walls of those gloomy

prisons.

Mme. de la Chabaussière was imprisoned at Port Libre, and her dog

stayed with her all the time, her only comfort. He was well-known and

a favourite in the prison, he knew all the gaolers and officials, and

which of them were kind to his mistress. Of these he was very fond;

but those who were not good to her he flew at, biting their legs and

fighting with their dogs. However, all the officials liked him and let

him stay during the whole time she was imprisoned. When the gaoler

came to open the door of her cell he jumped up and licked his hands;

when she walked, as at Port Libre they could, in the cloisters and

gardens, he went with her; when she came back he rushed in and hid

himself in her cell.

Port Libre was a large building—several buildings, in fact—with great

corridors warmed by stoves; many of the rooms had fireplaces and there

was a great _salon_ where the richer prisoners dined. In the evening

there were concerts, games, lectures, &c., or people read, wrote, and

worked. Collections were made to pay for wood, lights, stores, extra

furniture, water—the richer paid for the poorer. Every one brought

their own lights and sat round a great table; a few _sans-culottes_

were there, but the society for the most part was extremely good.

Little suppers were given by different prisoners to their friend,

better food could be got by paying, also books, letters, parcels,

and newspapers. At 9 p.m. was the _appel_, but they might afterward

return to the _salon_, meet in each other’s rooms, or even get leave

from the _concièrge_ to visit their friends in the other buildings.

Outside were three walks: the garden, the cloisters, and the _cour de

l’accacia_, with palisades and a seat of grass under a great accacia.

Often they sat out till eleven at night, and those whose rooms were

close by sometimes spent the whole night out of doors.

This was one of the best prisons, but during the six weeks before

Thermidor even this was much changed for the worse, brutal ruffians

taking the place of milder gaolers, and food unfit to eat being

supplied.

Many heroic people, women especially, managed to get stolen interviews

with those belonging to them shut up in the different prisons. Mme.

de Beuguot used to visit her husband disguised as a washer-woman, and

through her devotion, courage, and good management he was ultimately

saved. Some bribed or persuaded the more humane gaolers, and one

man was visited through all his imprisonment by his two little

children who came with no other guardian than their large dog. The

faithful creature brought them safe there and back every day, watching

carefully that they were not run over.

The prison of the Carmes was a very different abode to Port Libre,

and it was just at its worst time, but still Térèzia used afterwards

to declare that she, after a time, got accustomed to the horrors of

the prison. The constant presence of death made them more and more

callous, and they would play games together like children, even

enacting the scenes of execution which they had every prospect of

going through in reality. Their room, or cell, looked out into the

garden, through a grating, into which, however, they could not go; a

single mattress in a corner served for their bed.

The Duchesse d’Aiguillon had obtained leave to have a thimble,

needles, and scissors, with which she worked. Joséphine read and

worked; Térèzia told stories and sang.

[Illustration: GEORGES DANTON]

The hand of Charlotte Corday had sent Marat to his own place; Danton

and Camille Desmoulins, beginning to have some slight glimmerings of

mercy and humanity, had been denounced and executed; Robespierre was

still triumphant, with his friends and satellites, Couthon, St.-Just

and David. With them and Foulquièr-Tinville, Paris was like hell upon

earth. Long lists of victims, numbers of whom were women, went every

day to the guillotine; the populace were getting weary of blood and

slaughter. Again Tallien made an attempt to get the release of

Térèzia, even suggesting that it was time to stop the murder of women.

Even David agreed; but Robespierre was inexorable.

On the morning of the 4th Thermidor a dagger had been mysteriously

sent to Tallien, without a word of explanation. No one knew who had

brought it; there it was upon his table. But he knew the dagger, and

what it meant. It was a Spanish poignard which belonged to Térèzia.

It was then that he went and made his last and useless appeal to

Robespierre. Térèzia had again been removed to La Force, and on the

7th Thermidor he received a letter from her.

“_La citoyenne_ Fontenay to the _citoyen_ Tallien, _rue de la Perle_,

17.

“The _administrateur de police_ has just left; he has been to tell me

that to-morrow I go to the tribunal, which means to the scaffold. It

is indeed unlike the dream I had last night, that Robespierre was dead

and the prisons open; but thanks to your incredible cowardice, there

will soon be nobody left in France capable of realising it.”

He answered immediately—

“Have as much prudence as I will have courage, but calm your head.”

Then he went to find Barras and Fréron.

But Térèzia had nearly lost all hope. She had waited and waited,

always expecting help—for Tallien was powerful among the leaders of

the government. But when she was taken from the Carmes back to La

Force, she knew that her time had come, and now the gaoler had told

her that it was not worth while to make her bed, as it was to be

given to another.

With anguish she saw one cartload of prisoners leave, and she trembled

every moment lest she should hear the sound of the wheels of a second

in the courtyard of the prison.

But the next day passed and she was not called for. All day she

waited in a feverish, terrible suspense that can well be imagined;

night came and she was still spared. Morning dawned, the morning of

the 9th Thermidor. The weather was frightfully oppressive, and in

all the prisons in Paris they were stifling from the heat, for the

late cruel restrictions had put an end, even in the more indulgent

prisons, to the possibility of walks in garden or cloister and the

chance of fresh air. But as the long, weary day wore on, there seemed

to be some change approaching; there was an uneasy feeling about, for

there had lately been rumours of another massacre in the prisons,

and the prisoners, this time resolving to sell their lives dearly,

had been agreeing upon and arranging what little defence they could

make. Some planned a barricade made of their beds, others examined

the furniture with a view to breaking it up into clubs, a few brought

carefully out knives they had managed to conceal in holes and corners

from the prison officials, some filled their pockets with cinders and

ashes to fling in the faces of their assailants, and so escape in

the confusion, while others, republicans and atheists, felt for the

_cabanis_, a poison they carried about them, and assured themselves

that it was all safe and ready for use.

They waited and listened. There was certainly more noise in the

streets, something was evidently going on; but there was no attack

upon any of the prisons; on the contrary, it was the gaolers who were

undoubtedly alarmed. Their whole tone and manner changed from brutal

insolence to civility and indulgence. When evening approached they

were running about from one room to another with looks of dismay,

while the terror of the prison spies was uncontrolled.

In the Luxembourg, between six and seven in the evening, a prisoner

whose room was at the top of the palace came down and said that he

heard the tocsin. In breathless silence all listened, and recognised

that fearful sound. Drums were beating, the noise and tumult grew

louder and nearer, but whether it meant life or death to them they

could not tell; only the discouraged and anxious demeanour of the

officials gave them hope. In spite of the opposition of the gaolers

several of them rushed up the stairs and got out on the roof to see

what was going on. In the _rue Tournon_ they saw an immense crowd with

a carriage in the midst, which by the clamour around it they knew must

contain some important person. It stopped before the Luxembourg, the

name of Robespierre was spoken; it was sent on with him to the Maison

Commune.

The clamour died away; all night reassuring proclamations were heard

about the streets.

The next morning all was changed. The cringing, officious, timid

civility of their tyrants left but little doubt in their minds. They

clasped each other’s hands, even then not daring to speak openly or

show their joy, until the news, first a whisper, then a certainty,

assured them that Robespierre was dead.

Then Térèzia knew that she was safe, and that Tallien, for her sake,

had overthrown the monster and broken the neck of the Terror. Soon

he appeared in triumph to throw open the gates of La Force, and the

following day Térèzia, accompanied by Fréron and Melun de Thionville,

went herself to the club of the Jacobins and closed it without any one

venturing to take the keys from her.

When Pitt heard of it he remarked, “That woman is capable of closing

the gates of hell.”

FOOTNOTES:

[102] De Cassagnac, “Histoire du Directoire.”

[103] A slang word of the time for aristocrat, dandy, _élégant_.

[104] It was six weeks before the 9th Thermidor, the day of

deliverance, that these restrictions and hardships were increased.

[105] The story of this supper is given in “A Leader of Society at

Napoleon’s Court” (Bearne), and in the Memoirs of La Harpe, the

Comtesse d’Adhémar, and others who were present at it.

[106] “Prisons de Paris” (Dauban).

[107] “Mémoires sur les Prisons.”

CHAPTER VI

“Robespierre is dead!”— Notre Dame de Thermidor—End

of the Terror—The prisons open—Decline of Tallien’s

power—Barras—Napoleon—“Notre Dame de Septembre!”—M.

Ouvrard—Separates from Tallien—He goes to Egypt—Consul in

Spain—Dies in Paris—Térèzia stays in Paris—Ingratitude of some she

had saved—Marries the Prince de Chimay—Conclusion.

Robespierre was dead, and Tallien, for the time, reigned in his stead;

and with him and over him, Térèzia, or, as she may be called, Mme.

Tallien, for although Tallien before spoke of her as his wife, it was

only after the 9th Thermidor that some sort of marriage ceremony was

performed. But the name she now received, amongst the acclamation

of the populace, was “Notre Dame de Thermidor.” For it was she who

had brought about the deliverance of that day; for her and by her

the Terror had been broken up; and although the _Thermidoriens_, led

by Tallien, Barras and Fréron, had re-established or continued the

_Comité de Salut Public_, the greater number of the blood-stained

tyrants who ruled the Revolution still remained, and many horrors

and tyrannies for some time longer went on; still there was at once

an enormous difference. The revolutionary gang had, of course, not

altered its nature, those of whom it was composed were the same,

cruel, remorseless, and steeped in crimes; but however much they

wished it they could not continue to carry on the terrorism against

which the anger of the populace was now aroused.

The people had had enough; they were tired of blood and murder. Even

before Thermidor they had begun to murmur as the cars of victims

passed through the streets; a reaction had begun.

The prisons were thrown open, the _Directoire_ was far milder than the

_Convention_, pardons were obtained in numbers, especially by Térèzia,

who, when she could not succeed in saving persons in danger in any

other way, had often risked her own safety to help and conceal them.

Paris seemed to be awaking into life again; the streets were more

animated, the people to be seen in them were more numerous and did not

all look either brutal or terror-stricken. Art, literature, and social

gaiety began to revive.

One of the odious, inevitable republican _fêtes_ was, of course, given

to celebrate the events of Thermidor. Mme. Tallien opened a _salon_,

where, as in the others then existing, the strange, uncouth figures of

the _sans-culottes_ mingled with others whose appearance and manners

showed that they were renegades and traitors to their own order and

blood.

Conspicuous amongst these was Barras, who, though his hands were

deeply dyed in the blood of the Terror, belonged to one of the noblest

families in Provence.

“_Noble comme un Barras_,” was, in fact, a common saying of the

country.

His was the leading _salon_ of Paris at that time, and Mme. Tallien

was the presiding genius there. Music, dancing, and gambling were

again the rage, the women called themselves by mythological names and

wore costumes so scanty and transparent that they were scarcely any

use either for warmth or decency; marriages, celebrated by a civic

functionary, were not considered binding, and were frequently and

quickly followed by divorce. Society, if such it could be called, was

a wild revel of disorder, licence, debauchery, and corruption; while

over all hung, like a cloud, the gloomy figures of Billaud-Varennes,

Collot d’Herbois, Barère, and their Jacobin followers, ready at any

moment to bring back the Terror.

So it was on a volcano that they feasted and sang and danced and made

love, and Térèzia was the life and soul of the pandemonium which had

taken the place of the graceful, polished, cultivated society of the

_ancien régime_.

Her first care had been to release from the Carmes her

fellow-prisoners, Joséphine de Beauharnais and Mme. d’Aiguillon, who

now formed an intimate part of her society and that of Barras. To them

also came Mme. de Stael, wife of the Swedish Ambassador, the beautiful

Mme. Regnault-de-Saint-Jean-d’Angely, Mme. Cambys, and many others

thankful to escape from the shadows of prison and death to the light

of liberty and pleasure. The restraints of religion and morality were,

of course, non-existent; _liaisons_ and licence were the order of

the day, and Térèzia was not likely to be an exception to the general

custom. She had, besides her daughter by Tallien, other children,

who, as no other name belonged to them, were called Cabarrus. And her

being or calling herself Tallien’s wife was no reason why she should

renounce her natural right to love any one else where, when, and as

often as she pleased.

And Barras pleased her. His distinguished appearance and manners

contrasted with those of her present surroundings, and recalled the

days when she lived amongst people who were polite and well-bred,

knew how to talk and eat and enter a drawing-room, and behave when

they were in it; and who wore proper clothes and did not call each

other “_citoyen_,” or any other ridiculous names, and conversation

was delightful, and scenes and memories of blood and horror unknown.

It may well have been at this time that she began to yearn after that

former existence she had been so rashly eager to throw away.

Her love for Tallien was beginning to wane. It had never been more

than a mad passion, aroused by excitement, romance, and the strange

circumstances which threw them into each other’s way; and kept alive

by vanity, interest, gratitude, and perhaps above all by success.

She wanted Tallien to be a great power, a great man; and she was

beginning to see that he was nothing of the sort. If, when Robespierre

fell, instead of helping to set up a government composed of other

men, he had seized the reins himself, she would have supported him

heart and soul, shared his power, ambition, and danger, and probably

her admiration and pride might have preserved her love for him. But

Tallien had not the power to play such a part; he had neither brains

nor character to sway the minds of men and hold their wills in bondage

to his own. And now he was in a position which in any line of life

surely bars the way to success: he was neither one thing or the other.

Between him and the royalists were the September massacres, rivers of

blood, crimes and blasphemies without end.

Between him and the Jacobins, the death of Robespierre and the

destruction of the Montagne.

And he saw that his influence was declining and with it the love of

the woman to whom he was still devoted.

Of course there were disputes and jealousies as time went on. It is of

Tallien that is told the story of his complaint to his wife—

“_Tu ne me tutoies plus!_” and of her answer—

“_Eh bien! va-t-en._”

Their first house in Paris was a sort of imitation cottage, after

the execrable taste of the day, in the _Champs-Elysées_, from which

they moved into a _hôtel_ in the _rue de la Victoire_, which was for

some time the resort of all the chiefs of their political party, and

the scene of constant contention between the Thermidoriens and the

remnants of the Montagne. The discussions were generally political,

and often violent; they would have been abhorrent to the well-bred

society of former days.

Barras was the leading spirit in this society, and for some time he

was at Térèzia’s feet. But if Tallien was not a great man, neither

was Barras; amongst all the unscrupulous ruffians of the revolutionary

party there did not appear to be one superior enough to his fellows to

command or lead them.

And yet there was one: “a young, pale, sickly-looking Italian,” who

lived in a third-rate inn, wore a shabby uniform, and frequented the

parties of Barras and the rest. He was not a conspicuous figure nor a

particularly honoured guest; his military career had been apparently

ruined by the spite of his enemies; he seemed to have no money, no

connections, and no prospects. But in a few years all of them—all

France and nearly all Europe—were at his feet, for it was Napoleon

Buonaparte.

[Illustration: NAPOLEON]

His career, however, was even now beginning; and not long after

Térèzia, in the height of her beauty and power with Paris at her feet,

rejected his love-making but accepted his friendship, he was sent to

Italy and began the series of triumphs which were to raise him to the

throne of France.

As time went on Térèzia found that her influence as well as that of

Tallien was rapidly declining. Her _salon_ was not at all likely to

last long. Those of the court and of society before the Revolution

had been of an entirely different order; held by women who, besides

their beauty or other attractions, were in an assured position,

surrounded by well-known connections and friends, forming an intimate

society sure to be met at their houses, and always ready to carry

on conversation, avoid all topics likely to give offence, and make

themselves generally agreeable. Nobody was admitted there who was

not accustomed to the usages of the world or who would interfere with

the harmony and general tone of the house. People went there, not to

engage in political discussions or to make love to their hostess, but

to spend a pleasant evening and meet the friends they knew and liked.

These _salons_ continued to be frequented by their usual guests year

after year without any more change than the lapse of time inevitably

brings.

Laure Permon, Duchesse d’Abrantès, than whom no one was a better judge

of these matters, observes—

“To ‘receive’ is to have an open house, where one can go every evening

with the certainty of finding it lighted up and inhabited, the host

ready to receive one with pleasure and courtesy. For that, it is not

an absolute necessity to have a superior intellect, to descend from

Charlemagne, or to possess two hundred thousand _livres de rentes_;

but it is absolutely necessary to have knowledge of the world and

cultivation, qualities which everybody does not possess.”

The sort of people who frequented the _salon_ of Mme. Tallien had

no such ideas. They were a miscellaneous horde collected from the

most opposite sources, many of whom were strangers to each other or

disliked and feared each other, and who went there for different

reasons. When Tallien became less powerful her _salon_ became less and

less full; when men ceased to be in love with her they left off going

there.

The infatuation of Barras for her began also to cool. He left off

going to her as at one time to consult her about everything. If

he wished to see her, or she to see him, she must go to him at the

Luxembourg.

And step by step she was drawing away from the Revolution. She had

had enough of it, and she began to feel that disgust and horror were

taking the place of the frantic admiration she had entertained for it

in former years. And the finishing stroke was put by hearing herself

called, as she walked with Tallien in _Cours la Reine_ one evening,

“_Notre Dame de Septembre_.”

Tallien heard it too, and it was like a blow to him. Do and say

what he might, he could never shake off the stain of the September

massacres, and time only increased the horror with which they were

regarded.

The name, applied to Térèzia, was a cruel injustice, and, with the

ingratitude so often to be met with, now that she was less powerful

and people were not in need of her protection, they forgot or

neglected or slandered her, and that accursed name was frequently to

be heard.

In her altered state of mind Tallien was associated with all the

horrors she longed to forget, and she began to wish to free herself

from a marriage which in her eyes was only a contract entered into for

mutual convenience, to be ended when no longer desirable.

Tallien had saved her life twice, and she had given him her youth

and beauty and fortune; she probably thought they were quits. Her

connection with him had lasted five years, and now her passion both

for him and for the Revolution had burnt itself out, she was in all

the splendour of her beauty and not more than five-and-twenty years

old. Most of her life lay before her.

If she no longer cared for Barras nor he for her, there were plenty of

others ready to worship her. M. Ouvrard, a millionaire who was under

an obligation to her, heard her complain that she had no garden worth

calling one. Some days later he called for her in his carriage, and

took her to the door of a luxurious _hôtel_ in the _rue de Babylone_.

Giving her a gold key, he bade her open the door, and when she had

given vent to her raptures over the sumptuous rooms and shady garden,

he told her that her servants had already arrived; she was at home—all

was hers.

Tallien had no wish to separate from Térèzia. He cared more for her

than she for him, but he saw that her love was gone; he had failed

with her as with everything else. He submitted, and begged to be

allowed to accompany Napoleon to Egypt, why, no one could understand,

unless he feared he might share the fate of Billaud-Varennes, Collot

d’Herbois, Barère, and other of his regicide friends, meditating at

Cayenne upon the result of the Revolution.[108]

Térèzia remained at Paris, which was soon transformed by the wonderful

genius who rose to supreme power upon the ruins of the chimeras with

which she and her friends had deluded themselves. The men of the

Revolution, regicides and murderers, fled from the country. Napoleon

was an enemy of a different kind from Louis XVI., and he was now the

idol of the people. His strong hand held the reins of government, his

mighty genius dominated the nation and led their armies to victory;

the fierce, unruly populace quailed before him. He scorned the mob and

hated the Revolution.

“Saturday—of _Messidor_!” he exclaimed, when ordering the Moniteur

to be dated on a certain day. “We shall be laughed at! But I will

do away with the Messidor! I will efface all the inventions of the

Jacobins!”[109]

Barras fled to Brussels; Tallien, his part played out and his power

and position gone, returned to France, the last link broken between

him and Térèzia. He did not wish for a divorce, but he was obliged

to consent to one. And he had himself been one of its most fervent

advocates.

Napoleon gave him a consulship at Alicante, where he spent some

years. Before he went, Ouvrard offered him the cottage in the

_Champs-Elysées_ and a pension of twelve thousand francs, which he

refused with indignation. He was again a journalist, and would live by

his pen.

He returned to Paris when he left Spain, and lived there, poor,

sickly, and forgotten by all but Térèzia, then Princess de Chimay. She

was nearly his only friend. She visited him often, and though he would

never take money from her, she persuaded him to accept a refuge in

the house in the _Champs-Elysées_ called the _Chaumière_, their first

dwelling in Paris.

For some years Térèzia continued to live at Paris, where she had

witnessed so many transformations and passed through the extremes of

prosperity and adversity.

Many friends were about her; her beauty and fascination were as

remarkable as ever. From numbers of people she met with the affection

and gratitude which, however they might deplore and disapprove of the

laxity of her morals, no one who was not altogether contemptible would

fail to render to a woman who had saved their life or the lives of

those they loved.

Others there were who showed the basest ingratitude. The Marquise de

—— had been saved by Mme. Tallien, and hidden for three weeks in her

boudoir. Not even her maid knew of her presence there. Térèzia herself

not only brought her food and waited upon her, but obtained her

pardon and got part of her fortune restored to her. For some time she

appeared very grateful, and as long as Tallien was powerful she came

constantly to see Térèzia, often asking for fresh favours.

When Tallien had fallen and Napoleon was supreme she ceased to go near

her.

A man of her acquaintance, disgusted by her conduct, remarked one day—

“Mme. Tallien is indignant at your ingratitude; she saved your life,

and I advise you to go and see her.”

To which she replied, “_Comment donc!_ I have a horror of ingratitude.

Of course I intend to go and see her. I owe her a great deal, and I

will prove it by doing so. But you understand that I am obliged to

consider appearances for the sake of my family, and her reputation

forces me to show a reserve which I regret. If you will ask her when I

shall find her alone I shall go and see her at once.”

“Tell her,” said Mme. Tallien, “that I am _désolée_ not to be able to

receive her, but I am never alone, because I am always surrounded by

those to whom I have had the happiness to be of use.”

Mme. de Boufflers, Mme. de Sabran, and their families, on the other

hand, were always assiduous in their attentions to her, and would

refuse other invitations to go to her.

Joséphine, now the wife of Napoleon, and head of society in Paris, had

not forgotten her, and was anxious to receive her at court, but this

Napoleon would not allow, greatly to the disappointment and sorrow of

them both.

Joséphine cried and entreated in vain, pointing out the ingratitude he

was forcing her to display; but though he always retained his private

friendship for Térèzia, he told Joséphine that only respectable women

could be received by the wife of the First Consul.

In 1805 she again married, and this time her husband was in every

respect the incarnation of all that she had hitherto opposed and

objected to.

A royalist, an _emigré_, a Prince; but the only man she never ceased

to love, and of whom she said, “_He_ was her true husband.”

Joseph, Comte de Caraman, who soon after their marriage became

Prince de Chimay, was the third son of the Duc de Caraman, Governor

of Provence. He emigrated with the Princes, and, being an excellent

musician, gained his living by his violin. He established himself at

Hamburg, and there gave lessons.

After the Revolution he returned with the other _emigrés_, and soon

after received the inheritance of his uncle, the fourteenth Prince de

Chimay, and of the Holy Roman Empire and Grandee of Spain.

They went to live at the ancient castle of Chimay,[110] where they led

an intellectual and splendid life, surrounded by the great artists,

musicians, and literary men of the day, and by many devoted friends.

They spent their winters in Brussels, but a bitter drop in Térèzia’s

cup of happiness was the absolute refusal of the King and Queen to

receive her at court. The Prince, who was the King’s Chamberlain, had

to go without her.

He always adored her, saying she was the good genius of his house.

They passed their lives happily together until her death, which took

place at Chimay in January, 1835, surrounded by her children, whom she

adored. They had several besides her former ones, whom she neither

concealed nor separated from.