THE DOLOROUS WAY.
In the meantime the Royal Family continued on the road to Paris.
They advanced slowly, for the carriage could not move but at the gait
of the escort, and that was composed mostly of men on foot. Their ranks
were filled up with women and children, the women lifting their babes up
in their arms to see the King dragged back to the capital: probably they
would never have seen him under other circumstances.
The coach and the cab with the ladies in waiting, seemed in the human
sea like a ship with her tender. Incidents stirred up the sea into
heaving furiously at times when the coach disappeared under the billows
and appeared very slow to emerge.
Though it was six miles to Clermont where they arrived, the terrible
escort did not lessen in number as those who dropped off were replaced
by new-comers from the countryside who wanted to have a peep at the
show.
Of all the captives on and in this ambulatory prison the worst exposed
to the popular wrath and the plainest butt of the menaces were the
unhappy Lifeguards on the large box seat; as the order of the National
Assembly made the Royal Family inviolable, the way to vent spite on them
by proxy, was to plague these men. Bayonets were continually held to
their breasts, some scythes, really Death's, gleamed over their heads,
or some spear glided like a perfidious serpent, in the gaps to pierce
the flesh with its keen sting and return to the wielder disgusted that
he had not drawn more blood.
All at once they saw a man without hat or weapon, his clothing smeared
with mud and dust, split the crowd. After having addressed a respectful
bow to the King and the Queen, he sprang upon the forepart of the
carriage and from the trace-chain hooks upon the box between the two
Lifeguards.
The Queen's outcry was of fear, joy and pain. She had recognized Charny.
Fear, for what he did was so bold that it was a miracle he had reached
the perch without receiving some wound. Joy, for she was happy to see
that he had escaped the unknown dangers he must have run, all the
greater as imagination was outstripped by the reality. Pain, for she
comprehended that Charny's solitary return implied that nothing was to
be expected from Bouille.
In fact, while Charny had reached the royalists at Grange-au-Bois on a
horse he picked up on the road, his attempt to guide the army ended in
failure: a canal which he had not noted down in his survey, perhaps cut
since then, was brimful of water and he nearly lost his life, as he did
his horse, in trying to swim across it. All he could do, on scrambling
out on the other side from his friends, was to wave them a farewell,
for he understood that the cavaliers as a mass could not succeed where
he had fallen short.
Confounded by the audacity of this recruit to the lost cause, the mob
seemed to respect him for this boldness.
At the turmoil, Billet, who was riding at the head, turned and
recognized the nobleman.
"Ha, I am glad that nothing happened him," he said: "but woe to
whomsoever tries this again, for he shall certainly pay for the two."
At two of the afternoon they arrived at St. Menehould.
Loss of sleep and weariness was telling on all the prisoners, but
particularly on the Dauphin, who was feverish and wanted to be undressed
and put to bed, as he was not well, he said.
But St. Menehould was the place most enraged against the Royal Family.
So no attention was paid to the King who ordered a stop. A contradictory
order from Billet led to the change of horses being hooked on the pole.
The Queen could not withstand her child's complaints and holding the
little prince up at the window to show him to the people, shivering and
in tears, she said:
"Gentlemen, in pity for this boy, stop!"
"Forward, March!" shouted Billet.
"Forward," repeated the people.
Billet passed the carriage window to take his place in the front when
the Queen appealed to him:
"For shame, sir, it is plain, I repeat that you never were a father."
"And I repeat, madam, that I was a father once, but am one no longer."
"Do as you will, for you are the stronger: but beware! for no voice
cries more loudly to heaven than that of these little ones!"
The procession went on again.
It was cruel work passing through the town. If kings could learn any
thing, the enthusiasm excited by sight of Drouet, to whom the arrest was
due, would have been a dreadful lesson; but both captives saw merely
blind fury in the cheers; they saw but rebels in these patriots who
were convinced that they were saving their country.
Perhaps it was the King's impression that Paris alone was perverted that
urged him into the evil course. He had relied on "his dear provinces."
But here were the dear rurals not only escaping him but turning
pitilessly against him. The country folk had frightened Choiseul in
Sommevelle, imprisoned Dandoins at St. Menehould, fired on Damas at
Clermont, and lately killed Isidore Charny under the royal eyes. All
classes rose against him.
It would have cut him worse had he seen what the spreading news did;
roused all the country to come--not to stare and form an escort--but to
kill him. The harvest was so bad that this country was called "Blank
Champagne," and here came the King who had brought in the thievish
hussar and the pillaging pandour to trample the poor fields under their
horses' hoofs; but the carriage was guarded by an angel and two cherubs.
Lady Elizabeth was twenty-seven but her chastity had kept the unfading
brilliancy of youth on her brow: the Dauphin, ailing and shivering on
his mother's knee; the princess fair as the blondes can be, looking out
with her firm while astonished gaze.
These men saw these, the Queen bent over her boy, and the King
downhearted: and their anger abated or sought another object on which to
turn it.
They yelped at the Lifeguardsmen; insulted them, called those noble and
devoted hearts traitors and cowards, while the June sun made a fiery
rainbow in the chalky dust flung up by the endless train upon those
hotheads, heated by the cheap wine of the taverns.
Half a mile out of the town, an old Knight of St. Louis was seen
galloping over the fields; he wore the ribbon of the order at his
buttonhole: as it was first thought that he came from sheer curiosity,
the crowd made room for him. He went up to the carriage window, hat in
hand, saluted the King and the Queen, and hailed them as Majesties. The
people had measured true force and real majesty, and were indignant at
the title being given away from them to whom it was due; they began to
grumble and threaten.
The King had already learnt what this growl portended from hearing it
around the house at Varennes.
"Sir Knight," he said to the old chevalier, "the Queen and myself are
touched by this publicly expressed token of your devotion; but in God's
name, get you hence--your life is not safe."
"My life is the King's, and the finest day of it will be when laid down
for the King."
Hearing this speech, some growled.
"Retire," said the King. "Make way there, my friends, for Chevalier
Dampierre."
Those near who heard the appeal, stood back. But unfortunately the
horseman was squeezed in and used the whip and spur on the animal unable
to move freely. Some trodden-on women screamed, a frightened child
cried, and on the men shaking their fists the old noble flourished his
whip. Thereupon the growl changed to a roar: the grand popular and
leonine fury broke forth.
Dampierre was already on the edge of the forest of men; he drove in both
spurs which made the steed leap the ditch where it galloped across the
country. He turned, and waving his hat, cried: "God save the King!"--a
final homage to his sovereign but a supreme insult to the people.
Off went a gun. He pulled a pistol from his holsters and returned the
fire. Everyone who had firearms, let fly at him. The horse fell, riddled
with bullets.
Nobody ever knew whether the man was slain outright or not by this
dreadful volley. The multitude rushed like an avalanche where rider
and steed had dropped, some fifty paces from the royal carriage: one
of those tumults arose such as surge upon a dead body in battle: then,
out of the disordered movements, the shapeless chaos, the gulf of yells
and cheers, up rose a pike surmounted by the white head of the luckless
Chevalier Dampierre.
The Queen screamed and threw herself back in the vehicle.
"Monsters, cannibals, assassins!" shouted Charny.
"Hold your tongue, count," said Billet, "or I cannot answer for you."
"What matters? I am tired of life. What can befall me worse than my poor
brother?"
"Your brother was guilty and you are not," replied Billet.
Charny started to jump down from the box but the other Lifeguard
restrained him, while twenty bayonets bristled to receive him.
"Friends," said the farmer in his strong and imposing voice, as he
pointed to Charny, "whatever this man says or does, never heed--I forbid
a hair of his head being touched. I am answerable for him to his wife."
"To his wife," muttered the Queen, shuddering as though one of the steel
points menacing her beloved had pricked her heart, "why does he say to
his wife?"
Billet could not have himself told. He had invoked the name of the
count's wife, knowing how powerful such a charm is over a mob composed
mainly of men with wives.
They were late reaching Chalons, where the King, in alighting at the
house prepared for the family, heard a bullet whizz by his ear.
Was it an accident where so many were inexperienced in arms or an
attempt at regicide?
"Some clumsy fellow," said he coolly: "gentlemen, you ought to be
careful--an accident soon happens."
Apart from this shot, there was a calmer atmosphere to step into. The
uproar ceased at the house door: murmurs of compassion were heard; the
table was laid out with elegance astonishing the captives. There were
servants also, but Charny claimed their work for himself and the other
Lifeguards, hiding under the pretended humility, the intention to stay
close to the King for any event.
Marie Antoinette understood this; but in her heart rumbled Billet's
words about Charny's wife, like a storm brewing.
Charny, whom she had expected to take away from France, to live abroad
with her, was now returning to Paris to see his wife Andrea again!
He was ignorant of this ferment in her heart, from not supposing she had
heard the words; besides, he was busy over some freshly conceived hopes.
Having been sent in advance to study the route he had conscientiously
fulfilled his errand. He knew the political tone of even each village.
Chalons had a royalist bias from it being an old town, without trade,
work or activity, peopled by nobles, retired business men and contented
citizens.
Scarcely were the royal party at table than the County Lieutenant, whose
house they were in, came to bow to the Queen, who looked at him uneasily
from having ceased to expect anything good, and said:
"May it please your Majesty to let the maids of Chalons offer flowers?"
"Flowers?" repeated she, looking with astonishment from him to Lady
Elizabeth. "Pray, let them come."
Shortly after, twelve young ladies, the prettiest they could find in the
town, tripped up to the threshold where the Queen held out her arms to
them. One of them who had been taught a formal speech, was so effected
by this warm greeting that she forgot it all and stammered the general
opinion:
"Oh, your Majesty, what a dreadful misfortune!"
The Queen took the bunch of flowers and kissed the girl.
"Sire," whispered Charny to the King meanwhile, "something good may be
done here; if your Majesty will spare me for an hour, I will go out and
inquire how the wind turns."
"Do so, but be prudent," was the reply: "I shall never console myself if
harm befalls you. Alas, two deaths are enough in one family."
"Sire, my life is as much the King's as my brothers'."
In the presence of the monarch his stoicism could be worn but he felt
his grief when by himself.
"Poor Isidore," he muttered, while pressing his hand to his breast to
see if he still had in the pocket the papers of the dead handed him by
Count Choiseul, which he had promised himself to read as he would the
last will of his loved one.
Behind the girls came their parents, almost all nobles or members of the
upper middle class; they came timidly and humbly to crave permission to
offer their respect to their unfortunate sovereigns. They could hardly
believe that they had seen the unfortunate Dampierre hewn to pieces
under their eyes a while before.
Charny came back in half an hour. It was impossible for the keenest eye
to read the effect of his reconnoitre on his countenance.
"All is for the best, Sire," replied he to the King's inquiry. "The
National Guard offer to conduct your Majesty to-morrow to Montmedy."
"So you have arranged some course?"
"With the principal citizens. It is a church feast to-morrow so that
they cannot refuse your request to go to hear service. At the church
door a carriage will be waiting which will receive your Majesties; amid
the cheering you will give the order to be driven to Montmedy and you
will be obeyed."
"That is well," said Louis: "thank you, count, and we will do this if
nothing comes between. But you and your companions must take some rest;
you must need it more than we."
The reception was not prolonged far into the night so that the Royal
Family retired about nine. A sentinel at their door let them see that
they were still regarded as prisoners. But he presented arms to them. By
his precise movement the King recognized an old soldier.
"Where have you served, my friend?" he inquired.
"In the French Guards, Sire," answered the veteran.
"Then I am not surprised to see you here," returned the monarch; for he
had not forgotten that the French Guards had gone over to the people on
the 13th July, 1789.
This sentinel was posted at their sleeping room door. An hour
afterwards, he asked to speak with the leader of the escort, who was
Billet, on his being relieved of guard-mounting. The farmer was taking
supper with the rustics who flocked in from all sides and endeavoring
to persuade them to stay in town all night. But most of them had seen
the King, which was mainly what led them, and they wanted to celebrate
the holiday at home. He tried to detain them because the aristocratic
tendency of the old town alarmed him.
It was in the midst of this discussion that the sentinel came to talk
with him. They conversed in a low voice most lively.
Next, Billet sent for Drouet, and they held a similar conference. After
this they went to the postmaster, who was Drouet's friend, and the same
line of business made them friendlier still.
He saddled two horses and in ten minutes Billet was galloping on the
road to Rheims and Drouet to Vitry.
Day dawned. Hardly six hundred men remained of the numerous escort, and
they were fagged out, having passed the night on straw they had brought
along, in the street. As they shook themselves awake in the dawn they
might have seen a dozen men in uniform enter the Lieutenancy Office and
come out hastily shortly after.
Chalons was headquarters for the Villeroy Company of Lifeguards, and
ten or twelve of the officers came to take orders from Charny. He told
them to don full dress and be on their horses by the church door for the
King's exit. These were the uniformed men whom we have seen.
Some of the peasants reckoned their distance from home in the morning
and to the number of two hundred more or less they departed, in spite of
their comrades' pleadings. This reduced the faithful to a little over
four hundred only.
To the same number might be reckoned the National Guards devoted to the
King, without the Royal Guards officers and those recruited, a forlorn
hope which would set the lead in case of emergency.
Besides, as hinted, the town was aristocratic.
When the word was sent to Billet and Drouet to hear what they said about
the King and the Queen going to hear mass, they could not be found and
nothing therefore opposed the desire.
The King was delighted to hear of the absence but Charny shook his head:
he did not know Drouet's character but he knew Billet's.
Nevertheless all the augury was favorable, and indeed the King not only
came out of church amid cheers but the royalist gathering had assumed
colossal proportions.
Still it was not without apprehension that Charny encouraged the King to
make up his mind.
He put his head out of the carriage window and said:
"Gentlemen, yesterday at Varennes, violence was used against me; I gave
the order to be driven to Montmedy but I was constrained to go towards
a revolted capital. Then I was among rebels, but now I am among honest
subjects, to whom I repeat, 'To Montmedy!'"
"To Montmedy!" echoed Charny and the others shouted the same, and to the
chorus of "Long live the King!" the carriage was turned round and retook
the road it had yesterday travelled.
In the absence of Billet and Drouet the rustics seemed commanded by the
French Guardsman who had stood sentry at the royal door. Charny watched
and saw that he made his men wheel and mutely follow the movement
though the scowls showed that they did not approve of it. They let the
National Guards pass them, and massed in their rear as a rearguard.
In the foremost ranks marched the pike and spear-men: then fifty who
carried muskets and fowling pieces manoeuvring so neatly that Charny was
disquieted: but he could not oppose it and he was unable to understand
it.
He was soon to have the explanation.
As they approached the town gates, spite of the cheering, they heard
another sound like the dull rolling of a storm. Suddenly Charny turned
pale and laid his hand on the Lifeguard next him.
"All is lost," he gasped: "do you not hear that drum?"
They turned the corner into a square where two streets entered. One came
from Rheims the other from Vitry, and up each was marching a column of
National Guards; one numbered eighteen hundred, the other more than two
thousand. Each was led by a man on horseback. One was Billet, the other
Drouet.
Charny saw why they had disappeared during the night. Fore-warned no
doubt, of the counteraction in preparation, they had gone off for
reinforcements. They had concerted their movements so as to arrive
simultaneously. They halted their men in the square, completely blocking
the road. Without any cries, they began to load their firearms. The
procession had to stop.
"What is the matter?" asked the King, putting his head out of the
window, of Charny, pale and gritting his teeth.
"Why, my lord, the enemy has gone for reinforcements and they stand
yonder, loading their guns, while behind the Chalons National Guards the
peasants are ready with their guns."
"What do you think of all this?"
"That we are caught between two fires, which will not prevent us
passing, but what will happen to your Majesty I cannot tell."
"Very well, let us turn back. Enough blood has been shed for my sake and
I weep bitter tears for it. I do not wish one drop more to flow. Let us
return."
"Gentlemen," said Charny, jumping down and taking the leader horse by
the bridle, "the King bids us turn back."
At the Paris Gate the Chalons National Guards, become useless, gave
place to those from Rheims and Vitry.
"Do you not think I behaved properly, madam?" inquired Louis of his
wife.
"Yes--but I think Count Charny obeyed you very easily," was her comment.
She fell into one of those gloomy reveries which was not entirely due to
the terrible situation in which she was hedged in.