“Lieutenant, they want I should ask you for a story.”
“They” are the dozen or more of lads and lasses who, in the pleasant
summer twilights, have frequently been seen, as now, gathered before the
house where the blind soldier lives. The sparrows soon learn to know that
door or window where they are welcome, and where crumbs are scattered
for them. They flock about it, fearless, chirping cheerily, and make
themselves at home there. Thus these stone steps leading up to the porch
have become a favorite resort of the youngsters of the neighborhood; for
here they may meet unmolested, and chatter and laugh to their hearts’
content; here crumbs, in the shape of stories, are now and then thrown
out for bait; and partly they may be drawn hither by the presence of
the amused listener to their random talk; tacitly understanding that to
him, who is denied the sight of their bright young faces, the sound of
their clear young voices is doubly sweet. But he is not the only one who
is entertained. Sometimes one of his older friends will join the merry
group—often the venerable Frenchman who resides across the street. It so
happens that he approaches just now, as Harry is making that time-worn
request—“a story”; and the other says, “I think that is Monsieur, coming?
Perhaps _he_ will tell us one.”
“Yes, now, grandpapa,” coaxes Marie, “tell us about Gabrielle.”
“_Bien_,” and he accepts the proffered arm-chair; “I will tell, then, the
story of Gabrielle.
“Without doubt, my dear children, some of you have heard of that event in
the history of France which is termed the Revolution? I do not speak of
those more recent troubles which have distracted my native land, but of
that memorable Revolution which blackened the closing years of the last
century—a period at which you gaze as upon a sky filled with the darkness
of clouds, and the threatening thunder, and the fierce lightning-flashes.
“Ah, my children, you are happy to be of a nation which has not that wild
and horrible dream to remember. And here I will say to you, I, that you
are truly fortunate to live in a land most free, where there is less of
oppression than in any other; where one can say what he will, do what he
will. If but he keep the laws he is secure. He may be of whatever party
he chooses. Nobody is going to harm him. He may, if so ill-disposed, say
whatever _désagréables_ he please of those who believe not as he. He will
not be obliged to fly and to take refuge among strangers, as I myself,
long time ago, for that, in company with others, I preferred a king to an
emperor, and was not sufficiently secret about it. Deserving, indeed, of
gratitude are they who, defending this beautiful country, have preserved
to it peace and freedom.
“Alas! if poor France had not been for so long burdened with oppressions,
this Revolution could not have occurred. That was the reaction, the
recoil. Let me illustrate. I will remove from my pocket-book this band
elastic which confines it. I stretch it with my two hands to its full
length. With one hand I release it. It flies back. Ugh! it makes me
wince. (That is a very homely illustration, is it not?) Now for a long
time the nations of Europe had been engaged in wars in which France
took a leading part. It requires money to conduct wars. To procure it
the people are taxed. Also, there was no court so gay and luxurious as
that of France. To support this luxury and splendor required money.
Still again taxes. When taxes are great the cost of living is increased.
Thus while there was feasting and revelry in palaces, in hovels there
was famine and misery. The little ones moaned and sobbed for bread,
and there was no bread to give them. The people were full of wrath at
this state of affairs. Force was required to keep them in subjection.
Now there came to the throne a good and merciful king, who in peaceful
times would have been much revered. But, in this situation, great wisdom
as well as justice was needful. From his unsteady grasp the reins of
government slipped, as you have seen the elastic slip from mine. Behold
the recoil—most terrible!—which destroyed the king, the queen, and all
who believed in the royalist cause. The people who had so long suffered
might now take revenge. They who had yearned for liberty were filled with
hope. Their land was to be free, like that one beyond the ocean.
“Alas! the despotism which had been called a monarchy was succeeded by
a despotism far worse, which was called a republic. This was truly the
Reign of Terror. The guillotine was never idle. ‘Madame Guillotine,’
it was entitled—that deadly machine invented for those days, when
victims were so numerous it was necessary that they be dispatched in
the swiftest manner possible. This cruel slaughter was chiefly confined
to the metropolis, to Paris, until here a province and there a city,
disapproving of their deeds, refused submission to the party in power—the
Jacobins. Armies were sent to subdue them. The city of Lyons made the
resistance most notable. Thousands of royalists, fleeing for their lives,
had taken shelter there, and were zealous in the defense. They hoped by
this resistance to inspire other towns, and perhaps all France, to arise
and check the course of this Revolution—this monster, ever thirsting
for blood. Alas! it was impossible. Besieged by the republican troops,
all supplies prevented, for lack of food and ammunition the city was at
length obliged to surrender, after a brave and desperate struggle. For
any who had taken up arms against the republic there was now no safety
but in flight. Flight was nearly useless. They were pursued, captured.
The country was searched for leagues around. Within the city, paid
informers were everywhere seeking whom they might report as guilty. For
the head of a priest or noble the price was doubled. The prisons were
filled, crowded. Madame Guillotine could not work sufficiently fast. The
Reign of Terror had now begun in Lyons also.
“I must not pain you, dear children, with a recital of the horrors of
those days.
“Among the unfortunate royalists who had taken shelter in Lyons was the
Marquis de Rochemont. In one of the fierce conflicts during the siege
he had been seriously wounded, and at the time of the surrender was
unable to attempt an escape. Nevertheless, he had taken the precaution
to remove from his former quarters, and had established himself in a
garret of a lofty but dilapidated tenement facing upon an unfrequented
court-yard. There concealed, in a manner which would least betoken his
rank, his sole companions his motherless little daughter and a faithful
servant, he thought to avoid the vigilance of the spies. Often, from his
hiding-place, he would hear the explosions of gunpowder, followed by the
crash of falling buildings.
“What were those buildings?
“The residences or the property of Lyonnese, who had engaged in the
defense. The Jacobins, in their fury, were reducing the city to ruins.
“One evening, as the attendant was dressing his wounds, the Marquis
asked, ‘What is the matter, Antoine? you are pale. Your hands tremble.’
“The other responded; ‘Just now, as I came up the stairs, I saw some
person listening and peering at the key-hole. As I approached he glided
away. It is enough. I fear we are discovered.’
“After discussing this matter it was decided that Antoine go out, and
obtain, if possible, a uniform like that worn by the soldiers of the
republic. Disguised in this, the Marquis would depart in the night, and
await in a forest not far from the city, there to be joined by the
servant with the child, and to proceed thence toward the mountains and
the country of the Swiss, where there were relatives and friends who had
quitted France upon the fall of the king.
“Scarcely had Antoine set forth upon that errand when two _gens d’armes_
appeared. They had come to arrest the Marquis. To be arrested, that was
the cell, the mock trial. After these—the scaffold. Had they come in the
name of law and order he would have resigned himself to that fate. They
came in the name of disorder and opposition to law. _Bien!_ Disabled as
he was, rising, he drew his sword. They supposed to overpower him. Sword
met sword. The hunted stag brought to bay is dangerous. One of those
intruders was slain. The other, wounded, fled. Soon he would return with
assistance; accompanied, perhaps, by the mob. No time was to be lost.
“Seizing his little daughter, who had been a terrified witness of that
scene, the Marquis hastened away, along a low passage leading to the
stairs. A ray of the moon lighted an apartment as he passed. He saw
through the open door heaps of rags. The ragman lay sleeping in their
midst. Near by were his tattered coat, his wooden shoes, his greasy cap,
his basket. The basket was furnished with a lid. One thinks rapidly on
such occasions. The Marquis entered, arrayed himself in the coat, the
cap, the shoes, forgetting not to leave some gold coins in their place,
as compensation. The basket would contain the child.
“‘Fear not, my little Gabrielle,’ he said, as he concealed her in it,
‘but remain quiet while I carry thee away where those terrible men cannot
find us.’
“With this basket upon his head, thus shadowing his face, he descended
through the building to an entrance in the rear, which opened upon an
alley. There he hurried along. Already he could hear the shouts and
cries of people gathering in the court-yard. He quickened his steps.
Not far distant was the bridge which spans the Rhone. He arrived there
without interruption. To proceed, to attempt to traverse the extensive
plains beyond? Already, doubtless, pursuers were upon his track. In no
disguise was there security. At the same time the earth seemed to be
whirling about. There was a ringing in his ears. He saw some boats upon
the bank below. He approached and shoved one of them into the water. He
lifted Gabrielle from her concealment and placed her in it. He then rowed
out into the midst of the river. There, no need of oars. The current
is swift, strong. It rushed with them away from danger and the doomed
city. He laid himself down in the bottom of the boat. In the moonbeams
Gabrielle saw his face very white. She saw his lips move. His hands
reached out to her. She crept to him. Then all was silent. ‘He sleeps,’
she said. Soon she slept also.
[Illustration: “Remain quiet while I carry thee away where those
terrible men can not find us.”—PAGE 68.]
“When Gabrielle opened again her eyes the sun was shining; the boat was
no longer afloat, but lodged on the sands under willow trees. A rough
voice was saying, ‘What’s this?’ and Gabrielle saw a man in rough clothes
bending over.
“‘It is my father,’ she said. ‘He is very weary. That is why he sleeps so
long. You must not wake him.’
“‘That would be difficult,’ muttered the voice.
“True. The Marquis had received a sword-thrust in that encounter with the
_gens d’armes_, and had expired from loss of blood.
“The rough man went away to a cluster of cottages near by. Soon he
returned with several people, men and women. One of the latter offered
sweet-cakes to Gabrielle. She had a pleasant face, too, but there were
tears in her eyes. Gabrielle was hungry. When the sweet-cakes were gone
she asked for more.
“‘If you will come with me to my house,’ said the good woman, ‘I will
give you all you wish.’
“Gabrielle went home with her. After the dame had amused her some hours
she desired to return to the boat. Her father was not there.
“‘Where is he?’ she demanded, weeping.
“The good dame pointed to a mound with the soil fresh upon it. ‘When
people sleep a very long time,’ she said, ‘they always are laid to rest
in such places. They sleep better there. No one can disturb them. Once
I had a little girl who is sleeping thus. I miss her. Will _you_ be my
little girl?’
“‘Yes,’ answered Gabrielle, ‘until she wakens and my father wakens. Then
I will have mine, I, and you will have your own.’
“After, she learned better to understand those matters. Also, as she grew
older, she learned to be very useful. She could drive the cow from the
pasture and assist in tending the garden. She could make the soup, the
bread. She learned to sew, to knit, and to spin. Sometimes she heard them
talk of a wonderful person upon the throne, who was conquering all the
world. They called him Napoleon. The Revolution was finished. France was
no longer a republic.
“One day, as Gabrielle stood at her spinning-wheel before the door, two
travelers rode by. One of them gazed at her attentively. He addressed
a few words to the other. They halted and accosted a villager who was
passing.
“‘Who is that young girl?’ they asked.
“The villager—it was he with the rough voice—related how the waves
had brought her to them, how that he had found her—a sleeping child in
the arms of the dead. ‘The man was clad in rags,’ said he, ‘but he was
provided with a purse containing much gold, and with a sword.’
“‘It is true,’ said the stranger who had first observed Gabrielle, and
who seemed to be the attendant. ‘There was a collector of rags who lodged
near us, and who in the crowd, after the escape of my master, complained
of the loss of his coat.’
“They requested to see the sword. When it was shown to them, the
attendant said, ‘It is the sword of the Marquis. I recognize it by the
carving of the hilt.’ Then gazing once more at Gabrielle, he exclaimed,
‘How she is like her mother!’ (She had grown very beautiful.)
“He approached, and seizing her hands, covered them with kisses and with
tears. ‘Dost thou not remember me?’ he asked, ‘me, old Antoine?’
“She had not forgotten entirely of that Antoine.
“‘And I,’ said the other, embracing her, ‘I am thy father’s brother. It
is a long time that we have searched and made inquiry for thee.’
“It was my grandfather. He took her far away to his home. But the good
dame was presented with the purse, filled with gold, which she had been
keeping for Gabrielle’s dowry.
“And the sword? My dear children, if any of you have intention to some
time visit France, I can indicate where you will find an ancient chateau,
in which is a gallery—a place of armor—where, among shields, and helmets,
and coats of mail, and spears, and tattered banners, and other relics of
past centuries, still is to be seen this sword. It was Gabrielle herself
who pointed it out to me, many years ago, when I was a young boy like
Master Harry, and she was a marchioness, and presided over the same
chateau. And she it was who at the same time told me this story.”