THE CONSPIRACY.
Immediately following the events we have just narrated, a last scene
came to fill up the complement of the drama which was unfolding its
sombre turns of fortune.
The woman Tison, struck as by a thunderbolt at what had occurred,
and totally abandoned by those who had escorted her,--for there is
something revolting even in an involuntary crime, and it certainly
amounts to a great crime when a mother condemns her own daughter to an
ignominious death, were it even from excess of zealous patriotism,--the
woman, we say, after remaining for some time in a state of
insensibility, at length raised her head, looked wildly around, and
finding herself deserted and alone, uttered a loud cry, and rushed
toward the door.
At this door a few idlers more curious than the rest still remained
congregated together, who dispersed when they beheld her, and pointing
with their fingers, said one to another,--
"Do you see that woman? It is she who denounced her daughter."
The wretched woman uttered a cry of despair, and rushed toward the
Temple. But when she was a third of the way through Rue Michel le
Comte, a man placed himself in front of her, impeding her progress, and
concealing his face in his mantle.
"Are you content," said he, "now you have killed your child?"
"Killed my child!" cried the poor mother,--"killed my child! no, no, it
is not possible!"
"It is so, notwithstanding, for your daughter has been arrested."
"And where have they taken her?"
"To the Conciergerie; from there she will be sent to the Revolutionary
Tribunal, and you know what becomes of those who are sent there."
"Stand aside," said the woman Tison, "and let me pass."
"Where are you going?"
"To the Conciergerie."
"What are you going there for?"
"To see her again."
"They will not allow you to enter."
"They will permit me to lie at the door, to live there, to sleep there.
I will remain there till she comes out, and then at least I shall see
her once more."
"Suppose some one promised to restore you your child?"
"What do you say?"
"I ask you, supposing a man were to promise to give you back your
child, would you do what that man required of you in return?"
"Anything for my child! anything for my Héloïse!" cried the woman,
wringing her hands in despair,--"Anything! anything! anything!"
"Listen," said the unknown. "It is God who now punishes you."
"And for what?"
"For the tortures you have inflicted so mercilessly on a poor mother as
unhappy as yourself."
"Of whom do you speak! What do you mean?"
"You have often driven the unhappy prisoner to the very verge of that
despair where you are yourself at this moment, by your revelations
and brutalities. God now punishes you for all this by conducting this
daughter, whom you love so much, to the scaffold."
"You said there was some man who could save her. Where is that man;
what does he want; what does he demand?"
"This man requires that you cease to persecute the queen; that you ask
her pardon for the outrages already committed against her; and that
if at any time you perceive that this woman, who is also a weeping,
despairing mother, by any unforeseen circumstance, or by some miracle
from Heaven, is upon the point of saving herself, instead of opposing
her flight, you do all in your power to aid and abet it."
"Listen, Citizen," said the woman Tison. "You are the man,--is it not
so?"
"Well."
"It is you who promise to save my child?"
The unknown remained silent.
"Will you engage to do it? Will you promise; will you swear it? Answer
me."
"All that a man can do to save a woman, I will do to save your
daughter."
"He cannot save her!" cried the woman, uttering piercing cries,--"he
cannot save her! When he promised me he lied."
"Do what you can for the queen, and I will do all in my power for your
daughter."
"What care I for the queen? She is a mother who has a daughter. But
if they come to cutting off heads, it will not be her daughter's they
will cut off, but her own. They may cut my throat so that they spare my
child. They may lead me to the guillotine, so that they do not harm a
hair of her head, and I will go there singing,--
"Ah! ça ira, ça ira, ça ira,
Les aristocrates à la lanterne...."
And she commenced singing in a frightful voice, then suddenly stopped
short, and burst into a fit of frenzied laughter.
The man in the mantle himself appeared alarmed at this burst of
madness, and retreated a step or two from her.
"Ah! you shall not escape me thus," said the woman Tison, in despair,
and retaining her hold of his mantle; "you shall not at one moment
come and say to a mother, 'Do this, and I will rescue your child,' and
afterward say, 'Perhaps.' Will you save her?"
"Yes."
"When?"
"The day she is conducted from the Conciergerie to the scaffold."
"But why wait--why not to-night? this evening--this moment, even?"
"Because I cannot do so."
"Ah! you know you cannot; you well know you cannot!" cried the woman
Tison; "but as for me, I can."
"What can you do?"
"I can persecute the prisoner, as you call her; I can watch the queen,
as you term her, aristocrat that you are! and I can enter the prison
any hour of the day or night. All this will I do. And as to her
escaping, we shall see. Yes, we shall very well see--since they will
not save my daughter--if that woman will escape. Head for head. Do
you like that? Madame Veto has been queen; that I know. Héloïse Tison
is only a poor girl; that I know. But under the guillotine we are all
equal."
"Well, be it so," said the man in the mantle. "But you perform your
part, and I will fulfil mine."
"Swear!"
"I swear it."
"By what do you swear?"
"Anything you choose."
"Have you a daughter?"
"No."
"Well, then," said the woman, in a disappointed tone, "by what then
will you swear?"
"Listen. I swear by God."
"Bah!" exclaimed the woman Tison, "you know very well they have
demolished the old one, and have not yet decided on the new."
"I swear by the tomb of my father."
"Swear not by a tomb, for that is prophetic of evil. Oh, my God! my
God! When I think that perhaps in three days I may swear by the tomb of
my child also! My daughter! My poor Héloïse!" cried the woman Tison,
frantically, till at the sound of her voice, raised to a shrill scream,
several windows were opened.
At sight of the opened windows, another man, who seemed to detach
himself from the wall, advanced toward the first.
"Nothing can be done with this woman," said the first; "she is mad."
"No; she is a mother," replied the other, and dragged his companion
away.
When she saw them leaving her, the woman Tison seemed to come back to
herself.
"Where are you going?" cried she. "Are you going to rescue Héloïse?
Wait for me then; I will go with you. Wait for me; do wait for me!"
And the poor wretch followed them, screaming, till at the corner of
the nearest street, she lost sight of them altogether; and not knowing
which way to turn, she remained for an instant undecided, looking on
every side, when seeing in the silence and darkness of the night only
a double symbol of death, she uttered a cry of horror and fell on the
pavement without sense or motion.
The clock struck ten.
During this time, and while the same hour was resounding from the
Temple clock, the queen as usual sat in her chamber, between her
daughter and her sister, near a smoky lamp. She was concealed from the
sight of the municipals by Madame Royale, who, pretending to embrace
her, was reading over again a small billet written on the smallest
piece of paper imaginable, and in characters so minute that her eyes,
already nearly blinded by her scalding tears, scarcely retained
strength to decipher it.
The billet contained the following lines,--
"To-morrow, Tuesday, ask permission to walk in the garden; this will
be accorded without objection, as an order has been issued to grant
you this favor whenever you think proper to solicit it. After two or
three turns, feign to feel fatigued, approach the cabin, and ask the
Widow Plumeau to allow you to sit down. Then, in a moment, pretend to
feel worse, and faint away. They will then close all the doors that
they may be able to render you assistance, and you will remain with
Madame Elizabeth and Madame Royale. Immediately the trap-door of the
cellar will open. Precipitate yourself, your sister, and daughter
through this aperture, and you are all three saved."
"_Mon Dieu!_" said Madame Royale, "does our evil destiny tire in the
pursuit?"
"If this billet should prove only a trap," said Madame Elizabeth.
"No, no," said the queen; "these characters have always indicated to me
the presence of a mysterious but equally brave and faithful friend."
"Is it the Chevalier?" demanded Madame Royale.
"He himself," replied the queen.
Madame Elizabeth clasped her hands.
"Let us each read the billet again very softly," replied the queen, "so
that if one of us forget any particular, another will remember."
They all three re-read the letter, and had just finished so doing,
when they heard the door of their chamber turn slowly on its hinges.
The two princesses turned round; the queen alone remained stationary,
except that by an almost imperceptible movement she raised her hand to
her hair and hid the billet in her head-dress. It was a municipal who
opened the door.
"What is your business, Monsieur?" demanded Madame Elizabeth and Madame
Royale, at the same moment.
"Hum!" said the municipal, "it appears to me that you retire very late
to-night?"
"Is there, then," said the queen, with her usual dignity, "a new decree
from the Commune, stating the hour at which I am to go to bed?"
"No, Citizen," said the municipal; "but if necessary they will make
one."
"In the mean time, Monsieur," said Marie Antoinette, "respect, I do not
say the chamber of a queen, but that of a woman."
"Truly," growled the municipal, "these aristocrats always speak as if
they were something--"
But in the mean time, subdued by that dignity, haughty in her
prosperity, but which three years of suffering had calmed down, he
withdrew.
An instant afterward the lamp was extinguished, and the three females
retired in darkness, as usual.
The next morning at nine o'clock, the queen, having re-read the letter
before she arose, in order that she might not misconstrue any of the
instructions contained there, tore it into almost invisible fragments.
She then hastily finished her toilet, awoke her sister, and entered the
chamber of the princess.
A minute afterward she came out, and called the municipals on guard.
"What do you want, Citizeness?" said one of them, appearing at the
door, while the other did not even discontinue his breakfast to answer
the royal appeal.
"Sir," said Marie Antoinette, "I have just left my daughter's chamber,
and find her very ill. Her limbs are pained and swollen for want of
exercise; and you know, sir, it is I who have doomed her to this
life of inaction. I received permission to walk in the garden, but
in descending I had necessarily to pass before the door of the room
occupied by my husband in his lifetime. When I made the attempt my
heart failed me, and I had not courage to do so, and have since
limited my walks to the platform. Now, however, I find this exercise
insufficient for my poor child. I therefore entreat you, Citizen
Municipal, to request of General Santerre, in my name, the renewal of
this privilege."
The queen had pronounced these words in a manner at once so mild, yet
dignified; had so strenuously avoided all allusions to anything that
could wound the feelings of the Republican,--that he who had entered
her presence with his head covered, as for the most part was the custom
of these men, gradually raised his red cap, and when she had finished,
said, bowing respectfully,--
"Rest assured, Madame, your request shall be laid before the citizen
general."
Then on retiring, as if to convince himself he had yielded to justice
rather than weakness. "It is just," said he, "after all; it is only
right."
"What is just?" demanded the other municipal.
"That this woman should be permitted to walk in the garden with her
child, who is an invalid."
"Bah!" said the other, "when she asks to be allowed to walk from the
Temple to the Place de la Révolution, that will be permitted her fast
enough."
The queen heard these words, and grew pale, but still drew from them
fresh courage for the great attempt she meditated.
The municipal finished his breakfast, and descended. The queen
requested permission to take hers in her daughter's room, which was
granted.
Madame Royale, to confirm the statement concerning her ill-health, did
not quit her bed; the queen and Madame Elizabeth remained near her.
At eleven o'clock Santerre arrived. His coming was, as usual, announced
by the drums beating the march, and by the entrance of a fresh
battalion and other municipals, who came in their turn to relieve those
on guard.
When Santerre had fully reviewed the battalion leaving, and the one
about to take its place, and had paraded his large heavy-limbed horse
round the court of the Temple, he stood still for a moment. This was
for the purpose of receiving any claims, denunciations, or requests.
The municipal, availing himself of this halt, approached him.
"Well, what do you want?" said Santerre, bruskly.
"Citizen," said the municipal, "I come to entreat on the part of the
queen--"
"Who is the queen?" interrupted Santerre.
"True!" said the municipal, astonished at his own mistake. "What have I
said--I must be mad! I came to speak on the part of Madame Veto--"
"All in good time," said Santerre. "Now I understand you, what have you
to say to me?"
"The young Veto is ill, it appears, from want of proper air and
exercise."
"Well, is it necessary again to bring this before the public? The
nation granted her permission to walk in the garden, and she refused
it. Good-morning."
"That is exactly it. She regrets this now, and requests you will permit
her to do so."
"There is no difficulty about that. You all hear," said Santerre, "that
Capet's wife will come down to walk in the garden. Now," addressing the
whole battalion, "take care she does not abuse this favor granted her
by the nation, by making her escape over the wall; for if that happens
I will cut off every one of your heads." A roar of laughter followed
this pleasantry of the citizen general. "Now that is settled," said
Santerre, "adieu. I am going to the Commune. It appears that they have
reunited Roland and Barbaroux, and the question under debate is to
deliver them a passport to another world."
It was this intelligence that had put the citizen general in such good
humor.
He then galloped away.
The battalion who were removing the guard followed him; then the
municipals also gave place to those who had received Santerre's
instructions respecting the queen.
One of the municipals went up to Marie Antoinette and informed her
that the general had granted her request.
"Oh!" thought she, looking through the window toward heaven, "does
thy wrath abate, Lord? and does thy terrible right hand grow weary of
pressing so heavily upon us?"
"Thanks, Monsieur," said she to the municipal, with that fascinating
smile which had proved the ruin of Barnave, and turned the heads of so
many of his fellowmen,--"thanks!"
Then turning round to her little dog, who leaped after her, walking on
his hind-legs, for he well understood from the looks of his mistress
that something unusual was about to take place,--
"Come, Jet," said she, "we are going for a walk."
The little animal began to yelp and jump, and after looking at the
municipal attentively, comprehending, no doubt, that from this man
originated the intelligence which had made his mistress so happy, ran
toward him, and wagging his long and silky tail, ventured even to
caress him.
This man, who perhaps might be insensible to the prayers of a queen,
could not resist the caresses of a little dog.
"If only on account of this little beast, you should go out more
frequently, Citizeness Capet. Humanity commands us to take care of
every creature."
"At what hour shall we go out, sir?" asked the queen. "Do you not think
the sun would do us good?"
"You may go out when you please," said the municipal; "there has been
no restriction on the subject. If you like to go out at mid-day, as
that is the time they change the sentinels, there will be less bustle
in the court."
"Then let it be at mid-day," said the queen, pressing her hand to her
side to still the beating of her heart.
And she looked at this man, who appeared to her less stern than his
associates, and who, perhaps, for kindly yielding to the wishes of the
prisoner might fall a sacrifice to the conspiracy which they meditated.
But at the moment when compassion was stealing over the heart of the
woman, the soul of the queen was aroused. She thought of the 10th of
August and of the corpses of her faithful friends strewed upon the
floors of the palace; she recalled to memory the 2d of September, and
the head of the Princess Lamballe carried on a pike before her windows;
she remembered the 21st of January when her husband died upon the
scaffold, the noise of drums drowning his feeble voice; finally, she
thought of her son, poor child! whose cries of distress had more than
once reached her ears when she had no power to render him help,--and
her heart became hardened.
"Alas!" cried she, "misfortune is like the blood of the ancient
Hydras,--it teems with crops of future evils!"