THE TEMPLE.
The same day and the same hour, when Maurice, disappointed and unhappy,
repassed the Bridge de la Tournelle, several municipals, accompanied by
Santerre, Commandant of the Parisian National Guard, made a visit of
inquiry to the Temple, which had been transformed into a prison, since
the 13th of August, 1792.
The visit was made especially to a portion of the third story,
consisting of an antechamber and three rooms. One of these chambers was
occupied by two females, a young girl, and a child of nine years old,
all dressed in mourning. The elder of the females was about seven or
eight and thirty. She was seated at a table reading.
The second, whose age appeared twenty-eight or twenty-nine, was engaged
on a piece of tapestry.
The young girl, who was about fourteen, was seated near the child, who,
ill and in bed, closed his eyes as if asleep, although that was utterly
impossible, owing to the noise made by the municipals. While some moved
the beds, others examined their clothes and linen; the rest, when
their search was concluded, remained rudely staring at the unfortunate
prisoners, who never even raised their eyes,--the one from her book,
the other from her embroidery, and the third from her brother.
The eldest of these women was tall, handsome, and very pale. She
appeared to concentrate all her attention on her book, although in all
probability her eyes read, but not her mind. One of the municipals
approached her, brutally snatched away her book, and flung it into the
middle of the room. The prisoner stretched her hand across the table,
took up another book, and continued to read.
The Montagnard made a furious gesture, as if he would take away the
second, as he had the first; but at this attempt, which startled the
prisoner at her embroidery near the window, the young girl sprang
forward, and encircling the reader's head with her arms, weeping,
exclaimed, "My poor mother! my poor mother!" and then embraced her. As
she did so the prisoner placed her mouth to her ear, and whispered:
"Marie, there is a letter concealed in the stove; remove it."
"Come! come!" said the municipal, brutally dragging the young girl
toward him, and separating her from her mother, "shall you soon have
finished embracing?"
"Sir," said the girl, "has the Convention decreed that children shall
not embrace their mothers?"
"No; but it has decreed that traitors, aristocrats, and _ci-devants_
shall be punished. That is why I am here to interrogate you. Answer,
Antoinette."
She who was thus grossly accosted did not even deign to look at her
examiner, but turned her head aside, while a flush passed over her
face, pale with grief and furrowed with tears.
"It is impossible," said he, "that you are ignorant of the attempt last
night. Whence came it?"
The prisoners still maintained silence.
"Answer, Antoinette," said Santerre, approaching her, without remarking
the almost frenzied horror which had seized the young woman at sight of
this man, who, on the morning of the 21st of January, conducted Louis
XVI. from the Temple to the scaffold. "Reply. They were conspiring
last night against the Republic, and seeking your escape from the
captivity in which you are kept till you receive that punishment of
your crimes which the will of the people may inflict upon you. Tell me,
do you know who are the conspirators?"
Marie started at the harsh tone of that voice, which she endeavored to
fly from by removing her chair to the greatest distance possible, but
replied no more to this question than to the former ones, paid no more
deference to Santerre than she had done to the municipal.
"You are then determined not to reply?" said Santerre, stamping his
foot furiously.
The prisoner took up a third volume from the table, Santerre turned
himself away. The brutal power of this man who commanded 80,000 men,
who had only need of a gesture to drown the voice of the dying Louis
XVI., was defeated by the dignity of a poor prisoner, whose head he
could cause to fall, but whose will he could not bend.
"And you, Elizabeth," said he, addressing the other lady, who at that
instant ceased from her embroidery to join her hands in prayer, not to
these men, but to God, "will you reply?"
"I do not know what you ask," said she; "therefore I cannot reply."
"_Morbleu!_ Citizen Capet," said Santerre, impatiently, "I think what
I say is sufficiently clear too. I again tell you, that yesterday an
attempt was made for your escape; and you certainly must know the
culprits."
"Having no communication with those outside, Monsieur, we cannot
possibly tell what people do, either for or against us."
"Very well," said the municipal; "we will now hear what your nephew
will say."
And he approached the bed of the young dauphin. At this menace, Marie
Antoinette suddenly rose.
"Monsieur," said she, "my son is ill, and now asleep--do not wake him."
"Reply then."
"I know nothing."
The municipal walked straight to the bed of the little prisoner, who,
as we have said, feigned sleep.
"Come, wake up, Capet," said he, shaking him roughly.
The child opened his eyes and smiled.
The municipals then surrounded his bed.
The queen, agitated with fear and grief, made a sign to her daughter,
who, profiting by this moment, glided from the apartment into the room
adjoining, opened the mouth of the stove, drew out a letter and burned
it; then, reentering the room, reassured her mother with a glance.
"What do you want with me?" asked the sick child.
"To inquire if you heard nothing during the night?"
"No; I was asleep."
"You are very fond of sleep, it seems."
"Yes; for when I sleep I dream."
"And what do you dream?"
"That I again see my father, whom you killed."
"Then you heard nothing!" said Santerre, quickly.
"Nothing."
"These wolf's cubs are, in truth, well-agreed with the she-wolf," said
the municipal, furious with rage. "There has been, notwithstanding, a
plot."
The queen smiled.
"She defies us, the Austrian!" cried the municipal. "Well, since it is
thus, let us execute in all its rigor the decree of the Commune. Get
up, Capet."
"What would you do?" said the queen, forgetting herself. "Do you not
see my son is ill, and suffering from fever? Do you wish to kill him?"
"Your son," said the municipal, "is the cause of constant alarm to the
Council of the Temple; he is the point at which all the conspirators
aim, and flatter themselves they shall carry you all off together.
Well, let them come. Tison--call Tison."
Tison was a species of journeyman, charged with all the heavy household
work in the prison. He appeared. He was a man of forty years old,
much sunburnt, of a rude and ferocious aspect, with matted black hair
overhanging his eyebrows.
"Tison," said Santerre, "who came yesterday to bring the prisoners'
food?"
Tison gave the name.
"And their linen, who brought it to them?"
"My daughter."
"Then your daughter is a laundress?"
"Certainly."
"And you gave her the washing of the prisoners?"
"Why not? She might as well gain that as another; it is no longer the
tyrant's money, but belongs to the nation, who pays for them."
"You were told to examine the linen with the greatest attention."
"Well, do I ever fail in my duty? In proof of which, they had yesterday
a handkerchief tied in two knots. I took it to the Council, who ordered
my wife to undo the knots, iron, and return it to Madame Capet, without
saying anything about it."
At this remark of two knots being tied in the pocket-handkerchief, the
queen trembled, the pupils of her eyes dilated, and she and Madame
Elizabeth exchanged hasty glances.
"Tison," said Santerre, "your daughter is a person of whose patriotism
no one can entertain a doubt; but when she leaves the Temple to-day she
returns there no more."
"Ah, _mon Dieu_!" said Tison, terrified, "what are you saying to me?
Shall I not see my daughter except when I go out?"
"You shall go out no more," said Santerre.
Tison looked wildly around, without allowing his eye to remain fixed
on any particular object, and suddenly exclaimed, "I am not to go
out; that is it, is it? Well, then, I will go out altogether. Give me
my dismissal. I am neither traitor nor aristocrat, that I should be
detained in prison. I tell you I will go out."
"Citizen," said Santerre, "obey the orders of the Commune, and be
silent; or I tell you it may be all the worse for you. Remain here and
watch all that passes. There is an eye on you. I warn you."
During this time the queen, who thought herself for a moment forgotten,
recovered by degrees, and replaced her son in his bed.
"Desire your wife to come up," said the municipal to Tison.
He obeyed without a word. The threats of Santerre had rendered him as
meek as a lamb.
Tison's wife came up.
"Come here, Citizeness," said Santerre; "we are going into the
antechamber; during that time, search all the prisoners."
"Listen, wife," said Tison; "they are not going to permit our daughter
to come to the Temple any more."
"What! they will not permit our daughter to come here! Then we shall
see her no more?"
Tison mournfully shook his head.
"What do you say to this?"
"I say we shall make a report to the Council of the Temple, and the
Council will decide it. In the mean time--"
"In the mean time I will see my daughter again."
"Silence," said Santerre, "you were brought here for the purpose of
searching the prisoners; search them, then, and afterward we shall
see--"
"But--now--"
"Oh, oh!" said Santerre, knitting his brows, "you are contaminated, it
appears to me."
"Do as the Citizen General tells you, wife," Tison said; "afterward, we
shall see."
And Tison regarded Santerre with a humble smile.
"Very well," said the woman; "go, then, I am ready to search."
The men went out.
"My dear Madame Tison," said the queen, "you know--"
"I only know, Citizeness Capet," said the horrible woman, gnashing her
teeth, "that you are the cause of all the misery of the people; and
also that I have reason to suspect you, and you know it."
Four men waited at the door, to assist Tison's wife, if the queen
offered any resistance.
The search commenced on the queen.
There was found on her person a handkerchief tied in three knots, which
unfortunately appeared a reply to the one spoken of by Tison; a pencil,
a scapulary, and some sealing-wax.
"Ah! I knew it," said Tison's wife; "I have often told the municipals
she wrote, the Austrian! The other day I found a lump of sealing-wax in
the socket of the candlestick."
"Ah, Madame," said the queen, in a supplicating tone, "only show the
scapulary, I entreat you."
"Yes," said the woman, "I feel pity for you, who have felt so much pity
for me to take my daughter from me."
Madame Elizabeth and Madame Royale had nothing found upon them.
The woman Tison recalled the municipals, who entered, Santerre at their
head. She showed them the articles found upon the queen, which, as they
passed from hand to hand, afforded subject for an infinite variety of
conjectures; but the handkerchief tied in three knots excited, above
all, the imagination of these persecutors of the royal race.
"Now," said Santerre, "we are going to read the decree of the
Convention to you."
"What decree?" demanded the queen.
"The decree which orders you to be separated from your son."
"Is it, then, true that this decree exists?"
"Yes; the Convention has too much regard for the health of a child
confided to its guardianship, to leave him in the care of a mother so
depraved."
The eyes of the queen flashed lightning.
"But make some accusation at least, tigers that you are."
"That is not at all difficult," said a municipal; and he pronounced one
of those infamous accusations brought by Suetonius against Agrippina.
"Oh!" cried the queen, standing, pale with indignation, "I appeal from
it to the heart of every mother."
"That is all very fine," said a municipal; "but we have already been
here two hours, and cannot lose the whole day. Get up, Capet, and
follow us."
"Never, never!" cried the queen, rushing between the municipals and
the young Louis, and preparing to defend the approach to his bed, as a
tigress the entrance to her den. "Never will I permit you to carry away
my child!"
"Oh, Messieurs," said Madame Elizabeth, clasping her hands in the most
touching attitude of prayer, "Messieurs, in the name of Heaven, have
pity on us two mothers."
"Then speak," said Santerre; "state the names, avow the project of your
accomplices; explain what they wished to intimate by the knots made in
the pocket-handkerchief brought with your linen by Tison's daughter,
and the meaning of those tied in the handkerchief found in your pocket,
and on these conditions I will leave you your child."
A look from Madame Elizabeth seemed to implore the queen to submit to
this dreadful sacrifice.
But quietly brushing from her eye a tear which sparkled like a diamond,
"Adieu, my son!" cried she; "never forget your father who is in heaven,
or your mother who will soon join him there, and never omit to repeat
morning and evening the prayer I have taught you. Adieu! my son."
She gave him a last kiss; then rising calm and inflexible, "I know
nothing, Messieurs," said she, "do as you please."
But the queen must have required more fortitude than is contained in
the heart of a woman, and above all of a mother. She fell back fainting
upon a chair, while they carried away the child, who with fast flowing
tears held out his arms, but uttered not a single word or cry.
The door closed behind the municipals who carried away the royal child,
and the three women remained alone. There was for a moment the deep
silence of despair, interrupted only by occasional sobs.
The queen first broke silence.
"My daughter," said she, "that letter?"
"I burned it, as you desired me, mother."
"Without reading it?"
"Without reading it."
"Adieu, then, to the last ray of hope, divine hope!" murmured Madame
Elizabeth.
"You are right, my sister, you are right; it is almost beyond
endurance." Then turning toward her daughter, "But you at least saw the
hand-writing, Marie?"
"Yes, mother, for a moment."
The queen rose, went to the door to make sure she was not observed;
then drawing a pin from her hair, approached the wall, and from a chink
drew out a small paper folded like a letter, and showing it to Madame
Royale, "collect your thoughts before you reply, my child," said she;
"was the writing the same as this?"
"Yes, yes, mother!" cried the princess; "I recognize it!"
"God be praised, then!" cried the queen, falling with fervor on her
knees. "If he could write since this morning, he is safe. Thanks, O
God! thanks! So noble a friend deserves thy miraculous preservation."
"Of whom do you speak, mother?" demanded Madame Royale. "Who is this
friend? Tell me his name, that I may commend him to God in my prayers."
"You are right, my child; never forget it. This name, for it is the
name of a gentleman replete with honor and courage, one not devoted
to us through ambition, for he has only revealed himself since our
misfortunes. He has never seen the queen of France, or rather the queen
of France has never seen him, and he devotes his life to her defence.
Perhaps he will be recompensed as all virtue is now recompensed, by a
dreadful death. But--if he dies.--Oh! I shall still think of him in
heaven. He is called--"
The queen looked uneasily around, then lowering her voice, "He is
called the Chevalier de Maison-Rouge. Pray for him."