prison. We went at once to the royal workshop, where Durey left me,
whilst he went to announce my arrival. Whilst I was alone, I observed an
iron door, recently forged, a mortise lock, well executed, and a little
iron box with a secret spring which I did not at once discover. Then in
came Durey with the King. 'The times are bad,' said Louis XVI., 'and I
do not know how matters will end.' Then he showed me the works I had
noticed, and said, 'What do you say to my skill? It took me ten days to
execute these things. I am your apprentice, Gamain.' I protested my
entire devotion. Then the King assured me that he always had confidence
in me, and that he did not scruple to trust the fate of himself and his
family in my hands. Thereupon he conducted me into the dark passage that
led from his room to the chamber of the Dauphin. Durey lit a taper, and
removed a panel in the passage, behind which I perceived a round hole,
about two feet in diameter, bored in the wall. The King told me he
intended to secrete his money in it, and that Durey, who had helped to
make it, threw the dust and chips into the river during the night. Then
the King told me that he was unable to fit the iron door to the hole
unassisted. I went to work immediately. I went over all the parts of the
lock, and got them into working order; then I fashioned a key to the
lock, then made hinges and fastened them into the wall as firmly as I
could, without letting the hammering be heard. The King helped as well
as he was able, entreating me every moment to strike with less noise,
and to be quicker over my work. The key was put in the little iron
casket, and this casket was concealed under a slab of pavement in the
corridor."
It will be seen that this story does not agree with the account in the
petition made by Gamain to the Convention. In that he said he was
summoned to Paris at the beginning of the month of May, and that "Capet
ordered him to make a cupboard in the thickness of the wall of his
apartment, and to close it with an iron door, the whole of which was not
accomplished till the 22nd of the same month." He was three weeks over
the job, not a few hours. "I had been working," continues Gamain, or M.
Lacroix for him, "for eight consecutive hours. The sweat poured from my
brow; I was impatient to repose, and faint with hunger, as I had eaten
nothing since I got up."
But, according to his account before the Convention, the elixir made him
throw up "all he had eaten and drunk during the day."
"I seated myself a moment in the King's chamber, and he asked me to
count for him two thousand double louis and tie them up in four leather
bags. Whilst so doing I observed that Durey was carrying some bundles of
papers which I conjectured were destined for the secret closet; and,
indeed, the money-counting was designed to distract my attention from
what Durey was about."
What a clumsy story! Why were not the papers hidden after Gamain was
gone? Was it necessary that this should be done in his presence, and he
set to count money, so as not to observe what was going on?
"As I was about to leave, the Queen suddenly entered by a masked door at
the foot of the King's bed, holding in her hands a plate, in which was a
cake (brioche) and a glass of wine. She came up to me, and I saluted her
with surprise, because the King had assured me that she knew nothing
about the fabrication of the chest. 'My dear Gamain,' said she in a
caressing tone, 'how hot you are! Drink this tumbler of wine and eat
this cake, and they will sustain you on your journey home.' I thanked
her, confounded by this consideration for a poor workman, and I emptied
the tumbler to her health. I put the cake in my pocket, intending to
take it home to my children."
Here again is a discrepancy. In his petition Gamain says that the King
gave him a glass of wine, and makes no mention of the Queen.
On leaving the Tuileries, Gamain set out on foot for Versailles, but was
attacked by a violent colic in the Champs Elysées. His agonies
increased; he was no longer able to walk; he fell, and rolled on the
ground, uttering cries and moans. A carriage that was passing stopped,
and an English gentleman got out--wonderful to relate!--extraordinary
coincidence!--a physician, and an acquaintance.
"The Englishman took me to his carriage, and ordered the coachman to
drive at full gallop to an apothecary's shop. The conveyance halted at
last before one in the Rue de Bac; the Englishman left me alone, whilst
he prepared an elixir which might counteract the withering power of the
poison. When I had swallowed this draught I ejected the venomous
substances. An hour later nothing could have saved me. I recovered in
part my sight and hearing; the cold that circulated in my veins was
dissipated by degrees, and the Englishman judged that I might be safely
removed to Versailles, which we reached at two o'clock in the morning. A
physician, M. de Lameyran, and a surgeon, M. Voisin, were called in;
they recognised the unequivocal tokens of poison.
"After three days of fever, delirium, and inconceivable suffering, I
triumphed over the poison, but suffered ever after from a paralysis
almost complete, and a general inflammation of the digestive organs.
"A few days after this catastrophe the servant maid, whilst cleaning my
coat, which I had worn on the occasion of my accident, found my
handkerchief, stained black, and the cake. She took a bite of the
latter, and threw the rest into the yard, where a dog ate it and died.
The girl, who had consumed only a morsel of the cake, fell dangerously
ill. The dog was opened by M. Voisin, and a chemical analysis disclosed
the presence of poison, both on my kerchief stained by my vomit, and in
the cake. The cake alone contained enough corrosive sublimate to kill
ten persons."
So--the poison was found. But how is it that in Gamain's petition none
of this occurs? According to that document, Gamain was offered a goblet
of wine by the King himself. "A few hours later he was attacked by a
violent colic. This was the prelude to a terrible illness." Only a vague
hint as to poison, no specific statement that he had been poisoned, and
that the kind of poison had been determined.
Now, corrosive sublimate, when put in red wine, forms a violet
precipitate, and alters the taste of the wine, giving it a
characteristic metallic, harsh flavour, so disagreeable that it insures
its immediate rejection. Gamain tasted nothing. Again, the action of
corrosive sublimate is immediate or very nearly so; but Gamain was not
affected till several hours after having drunk the wine.
According to the petition, Gamain asserted that he was paralysed in all
his limbs for fourteen months, from May 22, 1792; but the Communal
registers of Versailles show that he attended a session of the Council
and took part in the discussion on June 4 following, that is, less than
a fortnight after; that he was present at the sessions of June 8, 17,
20, and on August 22, and that he was sufficiently hearty and active to
be elected on the commission which was to obliterate the insignia of
monarchy on September 24 following, which certainly would not have been
the case had he been a sick man paralysed in all his members.
Why, we may further inquire, did not Louis the XVI. or Queen Marie
Antoinette attempt to poison Durey also, if they desired to make away
with all those who knew the secret of the iron locker?
Now, Durey was alive in 1800, and Eckard, who wrote the article on
Gamain in the "Biographie Universelle," knew him and saw him at that
date, and Durey told him that Gamain's story was a lie; the iron safe
was made, not in 1792, but in May, 1791; and this is probable, as it
would have been easier for the King to have the locker made before his
escape to Varennes, than in 1792, when he was under the closest
supervision.
According to the version attributed to Gamain by M. Paul Lacroix, Gamain
was paralysed for five months only. Why this change? Because either M.
Lacroix or the locksmith had discovered that it was an anachronism for
him to appear in November before Roland, and assist him in opening the
case which he had made in May--five months before, and afterwards to
declare that he was paralysed in all his members from May till the year
following. We think this correction is due to the Bibliophile. But he
was not acquainted with the Versailles archives proving him to have been
at a session a few days after the pretended poisoning.
There is not much difficulty in discovering Gamain's motive for
formulating the accusation against the King. He betrayed his king, who
trusted him, and then, to excuse his meanness, invented an odious
calumny against him.
But what was M. Lacroix's object in revivifying the base charge? We are
not sure that he comes cleaner out of the slough than the despicable
locksmith. He gave the story a new spell of life; he based his "facts"
on testimonies, who, he said, were ready at any moment to vouch for the
truth. When challenged to produce them he would not do so. His "facts"
were proved again and again to be fables, and yet he dared to republish
his slanderous story again and again, without a word of apology,
explanation, or retractation. M. Lacroix died only a year or two ago,
and it may seem ungenerous to attack a dead man, but one is forced to do
this in defence of the honour of a dead Queen whom he grossly
calumniated. The calumny was ingeniously put. M. Lacroix set it in the
mouth of Gamain, thinking thereby to free himself from responsibility,
but the responsibility sticks when he refuses to withdraw what has been
demonstrated to be false.
There is something offensive to the last degree in the pose of M.
Lacroix as he opens his charge. "For some years I have kept by me, with
a sort of terror, the materials for an historic revelation, without
venturing to use them, and yet the fact, now almost unknown, on which I
purpose casting a sinister light, is one that has been the object of my
most active preoccupations. For long I condemned myself to silence and
to fresh research, hitherto fruitless, hoping that the truth would come
to light.... Well! now, at the moment of lifting the veil which covers a
half-effaced page of history, with the documents I have consulted and
the evidence I have gleaned lying before me, surrounded by a crowd of
witnesses, one sustaining the testimony of the other, relying on my
conscience and on my sentiments as a man of honour--still I hesitate to
open my mouth and call up the remembrance of an event monstrous in
itself, that has not found an echo even in the writings of the blindest
partisans of a hideous epoch. Yes, I feel a certain repugnance in
seeming to associate in thought, though not in act, with the enemies of
Louis XVI. I have just re-read the sublime death of this unhappy
political martyr; I have felt my eyes moisten with tears at the
contemplation of the picture of the death inflicted by an inexorable
state necessity, and I felt I must break my pen lest I should mix my ink
with the yet warm blood of the innocent victim. Let my hand wither
rather than rob Louis XVI. of the mantle of probity and goodness, which
the outrages of '93 succeeded neither in staining nor in rending to
rags." And so on--M. Lacroix is only acting under a high sense of the
sacred duty of seeking the truth, "of forcing the disclosure of facts,
before it be too late," which may establish the innocence of Louis XVI.
Now, be it noted that M. Lacroix is the first to accuse the Queen of
attempting the murder; his assault is on her as much as, more than, on
the poor King--in the sacred interests of historic truth!
What are his evidences, his crowd of witnesses, his documents that he
has collected? What proof is there of his active preoccupations and
fresh researches? He produced nothing that can be called proof, and
refused the names of his witnesses when asked for them. We can quite
understand that the Bibliophile Jacob may have heard some gossiping
story such as he narrates, and may have believed it when he wrote the
story; but then, where are the high sense of honour, the tender
conscience, the enthusiasm for truth, when his story is proved to be a
tissue of improbabilities and impossibilities, that permit him to
republish, and again republish at intervals of years, this cruel and
calumnious fabrication?
FOOTNOTE:
[8] Le Bibliophile Jacob says the same: "Les--pièces--détournées
maladroitement par la Restauration."
Abram the Usurer.[9]
In the reign of Heraclius, when Sergius was patriarch of Constantinople,
there lived in Byzantium a merchant named Theodore, a good man and just,
fearing God, and serving him with all his heart. He went on a voyage to
the ports of Syria and Palestine with his wares, in a large well-laden
vessel, sold his goods to profit, and turned his ship's head homewards
with a good lading of silks and spices, the former some of the produce
of the looms of distant China, brought in caravans through Persia and
Syria to the emporiums on the Mediterranean.
It was late in the year when Theodore began his voyage home, the
equinoctial gales had begun to blow, and prudence would have suggested
that he should winter in Cyprus; but he was eager to return to Byzantium
to his beloved wife, and to prepare for another adventure in the ensuing
spring.
But he was overtaken by a storm as he was sailing up the Propontis, and
to save the vessel he was obliged to throw all the lading overboard. He
reached Constantinople in safety, but with the loss of his goods. His
grief and despair were excessive. His wife was unable to console him. He
declared that he was weary of the world, his loss was sent him as a
warning from heaven not to set his heart on Mammon, and that he was
resolved to enter a monastery, and spend the rest of his days in
devotion.
"Hasten, husband mine," said the wife, "put this scheme into execution
at once; for if you delay you may change your mind."
The manifest impatience of his wife to get rid of him somewhat cooled
the ardour of Theodore for the monastic profession, and before taking
the irrevocable step, he consulted a friend. "I think, dearest brother,
nay, I am certain, that this misfortune came on me as the indication of
the finger of Providence that I should give up merchandise and care only
for the saving of my soul."
"My friend," answered the other, "I do not see this in the same light as
you. Every merchant must expect loss. It is one of the ordinary risks of
sailors. It is absurd to despair. Go to your friends and borrow of them
sufficient to load your vessel again, and try your luck once more. You
are known as a merchant, and trusted as an honest man, and will have no
difficulty in raising the sum requisite."
Theodore rushed home, and announced to his wife that he had already
changed his mind, and that he was going to borrow money.
"Whatever pleases you is right in my eyes," said the lady.
Theodore then went the round of his acquaintances, told them of his
misfortune, and then asked them to lend him enough to restock his
vessel, promising to pay them a good percentage on the money lent. But
the autumn had been fatal to more vessels than that of Theodore, and he
found that no one was disposed to advance him the large sum he required.
He went from door to door, but a cold refusal met him everywhere.
Disappointed, and sick at heart, distressed at finding friends so
unfriendly, he returned home, and said to his wife, "Woman! the world is
hard and heartless, I will have nothing more to do with it. I will
become a monk."
"Dearest husband, do so by all means, and I shall be well pleased,"
answered the wife.
Theodore tossed on his bed all night, unable to sleep; before dawn an
idea struck him. There was a Jew named Abram who had often importuned
him to trade with his money, but whom he had invariably refused. He
would try this man as a last resource.
So when morning came, Theodore rose and went to the shop of Abram. The
Hebrew listened attentively to his story, and then said, smiling,
"Master Theodore, when thou wast rich, I often asked thee to take my
money and trade with it in foreign parts, so that I might turn it over
with advantage. But I always met with refusal. And now that thou art
poor, with only an empty ship, thou comest to me to ask for a loan. What
if again tempest should fall on thee, and wreck and ruin be thy lot,
where should I look for my money? Thou art poor. If I were to sell thy
house it would not fetch much. Nay, if I am to lend thee money thou must
provide a surety, to whom I may apply, and who will repay me, should
accident befall thee. Go, find security, and I will find the money."
So Theodore went to his best friend, and told him the circumstances, and
asked him to stand surety for him to the Jew.
"Dear friend," answered he, "I should be most happy to oblige you; but I
am a poor man, I have not as much money in the world as would suffice.
The Hebrew would not accept me as surety, he knows the state of my
affairs too well. But I will do for you what little I can. We will go
together to some merchants, and together beseech them to stand security
for you to the Jew."
So the two friends went to a rich merchant with whom they were
acquainted, and told him what they wanted; but he blustered and turned
red, and said, "Away with you, fellows; who ever heard of such insolence
as that two needy beggars should ask a man of substance like me to go
with them to the den of a cursed infidel Jew. God be thanked! I have no
dealings with Jews. I never have spoken to one in my life, and never
give them a greeting when I pass any in street or market-place. A man
who goes to the Jews to-day, goes to the dogs to-morrow, and to the
devil the day after."
The friends visited other merchants, but with like ill-success. Theodore
had spent the day fasting, and he went supperless to bed, very hopeless,
and with the prospect growing more distinct of being obliged to put on
the cowl of the monk, a prospect which somehow or other he did not
relish.
Next morning he started from home to tell Abram his failure. His way
was through the great square called the Copper-Market before the
Imperial palace. Now there stood there a porch consisting of four
pillars, which supported a dome covered with brazen tiles, the whole
surmounted by a cross, on the east side of which, looking down on the
square, and across over the sparkling Bosphorus to the hills of Asia,
was a large, solemn figure of the Crucified. This porch and cross had
been set up by Constantine the Great,[10] and had been restored by
Anastasius.
As Theodore sped through the Copper-Market in the morning, he looked up;
the sky was of the deepest gentian blue. Against it, glittering like
gold in the early sun, above the blazing, brazen tiles, stood the great
cross with the holy form thereon. Theodore halted, in his desolation,
doubt and despair, and looked up at the figure. It was in the old, grave
Byzantine style, very solemn, without the pain expressed in Mediæval
crucifixes, and like so many early figures of the sort was probably
vested and crowned.
A sudden inspiration took hold of the ruined man. He fell on his knees,
stretched his hands towards the shining form, and cried, "Lord Jesus
Christ! the hope of the whole earth, the only succour of all who are
cast down, the sure confidence of those that look to Thee! All on whom I
could lean have failed me. I have none on earth on whom I can call. Do
Thou, Lord, be surety for me, though I am unworthy to ask it." Then
filled with confidence he rose from his knees, and ran to the house of
Abram, and bursting in on him said, "Be of good cheer, I have found a
Surety very great and noble and mighty. Trust thy money, He will keep it
safe."
Abram answered, "Let the man come, and sign the deed and see the money
paid over."
"Nay, my brother," said Theodore; "come thou with me. I have hurried in
thus to bring thee to him."
Then Abram went with Theodore, who led him to the Copper-Market, and
bade him be seated, and then raising his finger, he pointed to the
sacred form hanging on the cross, and, full of confidence, said to the
Hebrew, "There, friend, thou could'st not have a better security than
the Lord of heaven and earth. I have besought Him to stand for me, and I
know He is so good that He will not deny me."
The Jew was perplexed. He said nothing for a moment or two, and then,
wondering at the man's faith, answered, "Friend, dost thou not know the
difference between the faith of a Christian and of a Hebrew? How can'st
thou ask me to accept as thy surety, One whom thou believest my people
to have rejected and crucified? However, I will trust thee, for thou art
a God-fearing and an honest man, and I will risk my money."
So they twain returned to the Jew's quarters, and Abram counted out
fifty pounds of gold, in our money about £2,400. He tied the money up in
bags, and bade his servants bear it after Theodore. And Abram and the
glad merchant came to the Copper-Market, and then the Jew ordered that
the money bags should be set down under the Tetrastyle where was the
great crucifix. Then said the Hebrew usurer, "See, Theodore, I make over
to thee the loan here before thy God." And there, in the face of the
great image of his Saviour, Theodore received the loan, and swore to
deal faithfully by the Jew, and to restore the money to him with usury.
After this, the merchant bought a cargo for his vessel, and hired
sailors, and set sail for Syria. He put into port at Tyre and Sidon, and
traded with his goods, and bought in place of them many rich Oriental
stuffs, with spices and gums, and when his ship was well laden, he
sailed for Constantinople.
But again misfortune befell him. A storm arose, and the sailors were
constrained to throw the bales of silk, and bags of costly gums, and
vessels of Oriental chasing into the greedy waves. But as the ship began
to fill, they were obliged to get into the boat and escape to land. The
ship keeled over and drifted into shallow water. When the storm abated
they got to her, succeeded in floating her, and made the best of their
way in the battered ship to Constantinople, thankful that they had
preserved their lives. But Theodore was in sad distress, chiefly because
he had lost Abram's money. "How shall I dare to face the man who dealt
so generously by me?" he said to himself. "What shall I say, when he
reproaches me? What answer can I make to my Surety for having lost the
money entrusted to me?"
Now when Abram heard that Theodore had arrived in Constantinople in his
wrecked vessel with the loss of all his cargo, he went to him at once,
and found the man prostrate in his chamber, the pavement wet with his
tears of shame and disappointment. Abram laid his hand gently on his
shoulder, and said, in a kind voice, "Rise, my brother, do not be
downcast; give glory to God who rules all things as He wills, and follow
me home. God will order all for the best."
Then the merchant rose, and followed the Jew, but he would not lift his
eyes from the ground, for he was ashamed to look him in the face. Abram
was troubled at the distress of his friend, and he said to him, as he
shut the door of his house, "Let not thy heart be broken with overmuch
grief, dearest friend, for it is the mark of a wise man to bear all
things with firm mind. See! I am ready again to lend thee fifty pounds
of gold, and may better fortune attend thee this time. I trust that our
God will bless the money and multiply it, so that in the end we shall
lose nothing by our former misadventure."
"Then," said Theodore, "Christ shall again stand security for me. Bring
the money to the Tetrastyle."
Therefore again the bags of gold were brought before the cross, and when
they had then been made over to the merchant, Abram said, "Accept,
Master Theodore, this sum of fifty pounds of gold, paid over to thee
before thy Surety, and go in peace. And may the Lord God prosper thee
on thy journey, and make plain the way before thee. And remember, that
before this thy Surety thou art bound to me for a hundred pounds of
gold."
Having thus spoken, Abram returned home. Theodore repaired and reloaded
his ship, engaged mariners and made ready to sail. But on the day that
he was about to depart, he went into the Copper-Market, and kneeling
down, with his face towards the cross, he prayed the Lord to be his
companion and captain, and to guide him on his journey, and bring him
safe through all perils with his goods back to Byzantium once more.
Then he went on to the house of Abram to bid him farewell. And the Jew
said to him, "Keep thyself safe, brother, and beware now of trusting thy
ship to the sea at the time of equinoctial gales. Thou hast twice
experienced the risk, run not into it again. Winter at the place whither
thou goest, and that I may know how thou farest, if thou hast the
opportunity, send me some of the money by a sure hand. Then there is
less chance of total ruin, for if one portion fails, the other is likely
to be secure."