SIMON THE SHOEMAKER.
The month of May had commenced. A bright clear day expanded the lungs
tired of inhaling the icy fogs of winter, and the rays of the sun, warm
and exhilarating, shone upon the black walls of the Temple. At the
wicket of the interior, which separated the tower from the gardens, the
soldiers of the post were smoking and laughing. But, notwithstanding
the beauty of the day, and the offer made to the prisoners to descend
and walk in the garden, the three females refused to do so; as, since
the execution of her husband, the queen had obstinately secluded
herself in her chamber, not wishing to pass the door of the apartment
lately occupied by the king on the second story. When by any chance she
took the air, since the fatal occurrence of the 21st of January, she
did so on the platform of the tower, where even the battlements were
inclosed with shutters.
The National Guards on duty, who knew the three females had received
permission to go out, waited in vain all day, expecting them to turn
the authority to some account. Toward five o'clock a man descended, and
approached the sergeant in command of the post.
"Ah! ah! is that you, Father Tison?" said the sergeant, who appeared to
be a right merry fellow.
"Yes, it is I, Citizen; I bring you, on the part of the municipal
Maurice Lindey, your friend, who is now upstairs, this permission,
granted by the Council of the Temple to my daughter, to pay a visit to
her mother this evening."
"And you are going out just as your daughter is coming in? Unnatural
father!" said the sergeant.
"I am going much against my inclination, Citizen Sergeant. I also
hoped to see my poor child, whom I have not seen for two months, and
to embrace her this evening. I am going out now. This service, this
damned service, compels me to go out. It is necessary I should go to
the Commune to make my report. A fiacre is waiting for me at the door,
with two gendarmes, and it is exactly the time when my poor Sophie will
arrive."
"Unhappy parent!" said the sergeant.
"And, Citizen Sergeant, when my child comes to see her poor mother, who
is dying to see her, you will allow her to pass?"
"The order is correct," replied the sergeant, whom the reader has no
doubt recognized as our friend Lorin; "so I have nothing to say against
it; when your daughter comes, she may pass."
"Thanks, brave Thermopyle! thanks," said Tison; and he went out to make
his report to the Commune, murmuring, "My poor wife, how happy she will
be!"
"Do you know, Sergeant," said one of the National Guard, seeing
Tison depart, and overhearing the last words,--"do you know there is
something in these things that makes my blood run cold?"
"What things, Citizen Devaux?" demanded Lorin.
"Why," replied the compassionate National Guard, "to see this man,
with his surly face and heart of stone, this pitiless guardian of the
queen, go out with his eyes full of tears, partly of joy, partly of
grief, thinking that his wife will see his daughter, and he shall not.
It does not do to reflect upon it too much, Sergeant; it is really
grievous."
"Doubtless that is why he does not reflect upon it himself, this man
who goes out with tears in his eyes, as you term it."
"Upon what should he reflect?"
"That it is three months since this woman he so brutally uses has
seen her child. He does not think of her grief, only of his own; that
is all. It is true this woman was queen," continued the sergeant, in
an ironical tone rather difficult of comprehension; "and one is not
obliged to feel the same respect for a queen as for the wife of a
journeyman."
"Notwithstanding, all this is very sad," said Devaux.
"Sad, but necessary," said Lorin. "The best way then, is, as you say,
not to think of it," and he began to sing--
"Where the branches met
On a rocky stone
There I found Nicette,
Seated all alone."
Lorin was in the midst of his pastoral ditty, when suddenly a loud
noise was heard from the left side of the post, composed of oaths,
menaces, and tears.
"What is that?" demanded Devaux.
"It sounded like the voice of a child," said Lorin, listening.
"In fact," said the National Guard, "it is a poor little one they are
beating. Truly they ought only to send here those who have no children."
"Will you sing?" said a hoarse and drunken voice.
And the voice sung in example--
"Madame Veto promised
That all our heads should fall--"
"No," said the child, "I will not sing."
"Will you sing?"
And the voice recommenced--
"Madame Veto promised--"
"No! no!" said the child. "No, no, no!"
"Ah! little beggar," said the hoarse voice; and the noise of a lash
whirring through the air was distinctly heard. The infant screamed with
agony.
"Ah! _sacre bleu!_" said Lorin; "it is that rascally Simon beating the
little Capet."
Several of the National Guards shrugged their shoulders. Two or three
tried to smile. Devaux rose and went out.
"I said truly," murmured he, "that parents should never enter here."
All at once a low door opened, and the royal child, chased by the whip
of his guardian made a flying leap into the court, when something hard
struck his leg, and fell on the ground behind him.
He stumbled, and fell upon his knee.
"Bring me my last, little monster, or else--"
The child rose and shook his head, in token of refusal.
"Ah! this is it, is it?" cried the same voice. "Wait, you shall see,"
and the shoemaker Simon rushed from his hut as a wild beast from its
den.
"Hallo! hallo!" cried Lorin, frowning. "Where are you going so fast,
Master Simon?"
"To chastise this little wolf's cub," said the shoemaker.
"To chastise him, for what?"
"For what?"
"Yes."
"Because the little beggar will neither sing like a good patriot, nor
work like a good citizen."
"Well, what have you to do with that?" demanded Lorin. "Did the nation
confide Capet to you that you might teach him to sing?"
"And what business have you to interfere, I should like to know,
Citizen Sergeant?" said Simon, astonished.
"I interfere, as it becomes every man of feeling to do. It is unworthy
of a man to see a child beaten, and to suffer him to be beaten."
"Bah! the son of a tyrant."
"He is a child; and the child has not participated in the crimes of the
father. The child is not culpable, and, consequently, ought not to be
punished."
"And I tell you he was placed with me to do what I choose with him. I
choose that he shall sing 'Madame Veto,' and sing it he shall."
"Contemptible wretch!" said Lorin. "'Madame Veto' is mother to this
child. Would you yourself like your child to be made to sing that you
were one of the canaille?"
"Me!" cried Simon. "Vile aristocrat of a sergeant!"
"No names," said Lorin. "I am not Capet; and they shall not make me
sing by force."
"I will have you arrested, vile _ci-devant_!"
"You!" said Lorin; "you have me arrested! you had better try to arrest
a Thermopyle."
"Good, good; he laughs best who laughs last. And now, Capet, pick up my
last, and come and finish your shoe, or by thunder!--"
"And I," said Lorin, turning deadly pale, and advancing a step forward,
his hands clinched, and his teeth set,-- "I tell you he shall not pick
up your last, he shall not make shoes; do you hear, idiot? Oh, yes! you
have your big sword there, but I am no more afraid of it than I am of
yourself. Just you dare to draw it."
"Ah! _massacre_," roared Simon, turning pale with rage.
At this moment two women entered the court. One of them held a paper in
her hand. She addressed herself to the sentinel.
"Sergeant," cried the sentinel, "it is Tison's daughter, who asks to
see her mother."
"Let her pass, since the Council of the Temple permit it," said Lorin,
who did not wish to leave for a moment, for fear Simon should avail
himself of his absence and again beat the child.
The sentinel allowed the two women to pass; but hardly had they
ascended four steps on the dark staircase, when they encountered
Maurice Lindey, who was descending into the court. It was almost dark,
so that he was unable to distinguish their features. Maurice stopped
them.
"Who are you, citizens?" said he; "and what do you want?"
"I am Sophie Tison," said one of the women; "I obtained permission to
visit my mother, and have come to see her."
"Yes," said Maurice; "but this permission was for yourself only,
Citizeness."
"I brought my friend, that there might be two of us in the midst of the
soldiers, at least."
"Very good; but your friend cannot go up."
"As you please, Citizen," said Sophie Tison, pressing the hand of her
friend, who, close against the wall, seemed paralyzed with surprise and
terror.
"Citizen sentinels," said Maurice, raising his voice and addressing the
sentinels who were stationed on every landing, "allow the Citizen Tison
to pass, but do not permit her friend to pass; she will remain on the
staircase. See that she is treated with all due respect."
"Yes, Citizen," replied the sentinels.
"Go up, then," said Maurice.
The two women then passed on; and Maurice, leaping over the remaining
five or six steps, advanced rapidly into the court.
"What is all this?" said he to the National Guard; "and what is the
cause of this noise? The cries of a child were heard as far as the
prisoners' antechamber."
"It is this," said Simon, who, accustomed to the manners of the
municipals, believed, on perceiving Maurice, that he came as an ally;
"this traitor, this spy, this _ci-devant_, this aristocrat, prevents me
from belaboring Capet," and he shook his fist at Lorin.
"Yes, by Heaven, I did prevent it," said Lorin, drawing his sword; "and
if you again call me _ci-devant_, aristocrat, or traitor, I will run my
sword through your body."
"A threat!" cried Simon; "guard! guard!"
"I am the guard," said Lorin; "so you had better not call; for if I
come to you, I will exterminate you."
"Come here, Citizen Municipal, come here," said Simon, now seriously
alarmed at Lorin's threats.
"The sergeant is quite right," said the municipal, to whom he had
appealed for assistance; "you are a disgrace to the nation, coward, to
beat a child."
"And why did he beat him? Do you know the reason, Maurice? Because the
child would not sing 'Madame Veto;' because the child would not insult
his mother."
"The miserable wretch!" said Maurice.
"And you also?" said Simon. "Am I surrounded by traitors?"
"You villain!" cried the municipal, seizing Simon by the throat, and
tearing the last from his hand; "try to prove that Maurice Lindey is a
traitor," and he applied the leather strap vigorously to the shoulders
of the shoemaker.
"Thanks, sir," said the child, who regarded this scene with the
coolness of a Stoic; "but he will revenge himself upon me."
"Come, Capet, come, my child," said Lorin; "if he beats you again, call
for help; I will chastise him, the hangman. And now, little Capet,
return to your tower."
"Why do you call me Capet, even you who protect me? You know very well
that Capet is not my name."
"Not your name!" said Lorin; "what is your name, then?"
"I am called Louis Charles de Bourbon. Capet is the name of one of my
ancestors. I know the history of France; my father taught me."
"And you want to teach a child to mend old shoes, to whom a king has
taught the history of France?" cried Lorin; "it beats everything."
"You need not be concerned," said Maurice to the child; "I will make my
report."
"And I mine," said Simon; "and among other things I shall say that
instead of allowing one woman to enter the tower, you permitted two to
pass."
At this moment the two women went out from the keep. Maurice ran after
them.
"Well, Citizeness," said he, addressing the one by his side, "have you
seen your mother?"
Sophie Tison placed herself immediately between the municipal and her
companion.
"Yes, Citizen, thank you," said she.
Maurice had wished to see the young girl's friend, or at least to hear
her voice, but she was enveloped in her mantle, and seemed determined
not to utter a single word. He also thought that she trembled. This
appearance of fear excited his suspicion. He reascended the stairs
quickly, and through the glass partition saw the queen endeavoring to
hide something in her pocket which looked like a billet.
"Ah! ah!" said he, "I have been duped."
He called his colleague.
"Citizen Agricola," said he, "enter Marie Antoinette's room, and do not
lose sight of her."
"Heyday!" said the municipal, "is it because--"
"Enter, I tell you, and do not lose sight of her for an instant, a
moment, a second."
The municipal entered the queen's apartment.
"Call the woman Tison," said he to one of the National Guard.
Five minutes afterward Tison's wife arrived in high spirits.
"I have seen my daughter," said she.
"Where was that?" demanded Maurice.
"Here, of course, in this antechamber."
"Well; and did not your daughter ask to see the Austrian?"
"No."
"Did she not enter her room?"
"No."
"And during the time you were conversing with your daughter, did no one
come out of the prisoners' chamber?"
"How should I know? I was fully occupied with my daughter, whom I had
not seen for three months."
"Recollect yourself."
"Ah, yes; I think I remember."
"What?"
"The young girl came out."
"Marie Thérèse?"
"Yes."
"Did she speak to your daughter?"
"No."
"Your daughter gave nothing to her?"
"No."
"Did she pick up nothing from the ground?"
"My daughter?"
"No, the daughter of Marie Antoinette."
"She picked up her pocket-handkerchief."
"Oh, woman! what were you thinking of?" cried Maurice.
And he rushed toward a bell-cord, which he pulled violently. It was an
alarm-bell.