THE LITTLE DOG JET.
The municipal left to call his colleagues and to read the
_procès-verbal_ left by the former municipals.
The queen remained alone with her sister and child. They all three
looked at one another. Then Madame Royale threw her arms round the
queen, and warmly embraced her. Madame Elizabeth approached her sister,
and held out her hand.
"Let us offer up our prayers to God," said the queen, "but in such a
manner that no one can hear us."
There are fatal epochs when prayer, that natural hymn of praise which
God has implanted in every human heart, becomes suspicious in the eyes
of men, since prayer is an act of praise and acknowledgment for mercies
received. But in the ideas of her keepers hope and gratitude afforded
subject for inquietude; since the queen could hope only for flight, and
could thank God only for affording her the means of effecting it.
This mental prayer concluded, all three remained without uttering a
word.
Eleven o'clock struck, then twelve. At the moment when the last stroke
resounded from the bronze bell, the noise of arms was heard on the
spiral staircase ascending to the queen.
"They are relieving sentinels," said she; "they come for us."
She saw her sister and daughter turn very pale.
"Courage!" said she, trembling herself with emotion.
"It is noon," cried a voice from below. "Bring down the prisoners."
"We are here, gentlemen," replied the queen, who, with a sentiment
almost of regret, took a parting glance at the black walls and the
rude appurtenances which had been more or less the companions of her
captivity.
The first wicket opened, they gained the corridor, which, being dark,
enabled the three captives to conceal their emotions. Before them
frolicked little Jet; but when they arrived at the second,--that is
to say the door from which Marie Antoinette endeavored to turn her
eyes,--the faithful little animal first placed his nose to the ground,
then laid his head upon his paws, and gave utterance to a succession of
plaintive cries which terminated in a prolonged howl.
The queen passed on quickly, not having strength sufficient to recall
her dog, and supported herself against the wall.
After advancing a few steps, her limbs refused their office, and she
felt herself compelled to stop. Her sister and daughter approached her,
and for a few moments the three females remained motionless, forming
a melancholy group, the mother resting her face upon the head of her
daughter, when little Jet rejoined them.
"Well!" cried the voice, "is she coming down or not?"
"We are coming," said the municipal, who had remained standing,
respecting the queen's grief, so great in its simplicity.
"Come," said the queen, and again continued to descend.
When the prisoners had reached the bottom of the winding stair opposite
the last door, under which the sun shed his rays of bright gold, the
rolling of the drum was heard summoning the guard; then a profound
silence, the effect of curiosity, ensued, and the massive door opened,
revolving slowly upon its creaking hinges.
A woman was seated on the ground, or rather on the corner of the stone
contiguous to this door. It was the woman Tison, whom the queen had
not seen for four and twenty hours, and whose absence at supper the
preceding evening and at their morning's meal had excited her surprise.
The queen already saw the light, the trees, the garden, and beyond
the barrier which enclosed the garden her eyes eagerly sought the
little hut of the canteen, where her friends doubtless awaited her;
when, at the sound of footsteps, the woman Tison removed her hands,
and the queen beheld a pale and care-worn face beneath a mass of gray
dishevelled locks.
The change wrought in these few hours was so great that the queen stood
overwhelmed with astonishment.
Then, with the deliberation peculiar to those deficient in reason, the
woman Tison knelt down before the door, impeding the passage of Marie
Antoinette.
"What do you want, my good woman?" demanded the queen.
"He said it was necessary that you should pardon me."
"Who said so?" demanded the queen.
"The man in the mantle," replied the woman Tison.
The queen looked at Madame Elizabeth and her daughter, surprised at
this appeal.
"Go along, go!" said the municipal; "let the Widow Capet pass; she has
permission to walk in the garden."
"I know it," said the old woman; "that is why I came to wait for her
here, since they will not allow me to go up; and as I had to ask her
forgiveness, I was obliged to wait for her coming out, to see her."
"But why then are you not permitted to go up?" demanded the queen.
The woman began to laugh.
"Because they pretend that I am mad," said she.
The queen looked at her and saw indeed that the wild eyes of the
unhappy being reflected a strange light,--that vague light denoting
aberration of intellect.
"Good Heaven!" said she. "Poor woman! what has happened to you?"
"Happened! Do you not know?" said the woman; "but if--You know very
well, since it was on your account she was condemned."
"Who?"
"Héloïse."
"Your daughter?"
"Yes, she, my poor child!"
"Condemned! by whom; how; why?"
"Because she sold a bouquet."
"What bouquet?"
"A bouquet of carnations. She is not a flower-girl, though," continued
the old woman, as if endeavoring to collect her thoughts; "then how
could she sell the bouquet?"
The queen shuddered; an invisible link connected this scene with her
present situation. She understood that the time must not be lost in
useless conversation.
"My good woman," said she, "allow me to pass, I entreat you; you can
tell me all this by-and-by."
"No, now; you must pardon me, and I must assist you to escape, that he
may save my daughter."
The queen turned as pale as death.
"My God!" murmured she, raising her eyes to heaven, then turning toward
the municipal,--
"Sir," said she, "have the kindness to remove this woman; you see that
she is mad."
"Come, come, mother," said the municipal; "decamp!"
But the woman clung to the wall, still reiterating,--
"She must pardon me, that he may save my daughter."
"But who is he?"
"The man in the mantle."
"Sister," said Madame Elizabeth, "try to console her."
"Oh, willingly," said the queen; "I believe, indeed, that will be the
shortest way;" then turning toward the mad woman,--
"What do you desire, good woman?" said she.
"I wish you to pardon me all the suffering I have caused you by my
unjust behavior; all the accusations I have made against you; and trust
that when you see the man in the mantle, you will command him to save
my daughter; for he will do all that you desire."
"I do not know whom you mean by the man in the mantle," said the queen;
"but if all that is necessary to your peace of mind is to obtain my
pardon for the offences you imagine you have committed against me, I
freely forgive you, my poor woman, from the depths of my heart, and
trust only that any one I may have offended will as sincerely pardon
me."
"Oh!" cried the woman Tison, with an indescribable accent of joy, "he
will save my child, since you have forgiven me. Your hand, Madame! your
hand--"
The queen astonished, and at a loss to comprehend the meaning,
presented her hand to the woman, who seized it, and ardently pressed it
to her lips.
At this moment the hoarse voice of a hawker was heard in the Rue de
Temple.
"Here," cried he, "is the judgment and decree condemning Héloïse Tison
to the penalty of death for the crime of conspiracy!"
Scarcely had these words reached the ears of the woman Tison, than
rising from her knees, with an air of dogged resolution, she extended
her arms to impede the passage of the queen.
"O God!" cried the queen, who had not lost one word of the hawker's
terrible cry.
"Condemned to death!" cried the mother; "my child condemned!--my
Héloïse lost! He has not then saved her, and now he cannot save her!
Too late! too late!"
"Poor woman," said the queen, "believe me, I feel for you."
"You!" said she, looking at her fiercely with her blood-shot eyes. "You
pity me? Never! never!"
"You are mistaken. I pity you from my heart; but do pray allow me to
pass."
The woman burst into a hoarse laugh.
"Let you pass? No, no! I would have assisted you to escape, because
he promised if I did so and asked your forgiveness he would rescue my
daughter; but since she is condemned to death you shall not escape."
"Gentlemen!" cried the queen, "help! Do you not see that this woman is
mad?"
"No, I am not mad; I know well what I am saying!" cried the woman.
"It is the truth,--there was a conspiracy, and Simon discovered all.
It was my poor daughter who sold the bouquet. She confessed it before
the Revolutionary Tribunal--A bouquet of carnations--They had papers
concealed in them."
"Madame," exclaimed the queen, "in the name of Heaven!"
The voice of the crier was again heard, repeating,--
"This is the judgment and decree condemning the girl Héloïse Tison to
the punishment of death for the crime of conspiracy!"
"Do you hear it?" screamed the lunatic, around whom the National Guards
had now gathered; "do you hear? Condemned to death; it is you who have
killed my daughter--you, Austrian, you!"
"Gentlemen," said the queen, "for pity's sake, if you will not release
me from this poor mad creature, allow me at least to return to my
apartments. I cannot support the reproaches of this woman; unjust
though they are, they crush my heart," and she turned away, sighing
deeply.
"Yes, yes; weep, hypocrite!" cried the maddened wretch; "your bouquet
cost her dear--She might have known it. Thus it is with all those who
serve you. You bring misery, Austrian, everywhere! Your friends are
dead,--your husband and your defenders have all perished,--and now they
will sacrifice my unhappy child! When will your turn come, that no more
may die for you?" And the miserable creature accompanied these last
words with threatening gestures.
"Unhappy woman!" observed Madame Elizabeth, venturing to speak, "do you
forget that she whom you address is the queen?"
"The queen!" repeated the maniac, whose madness every moment increased,
"if she is the queen, let her defend my poor girl from the hangmen
who seek her life--Let her show mercy to my poor Héloïse!--Kings show
mercy--Render me back my child, and I will acknowledge you as queen.
Till then, you are only a woman, and a woman who brings misery upon
all, and kills all--"
"Oh, have pity, Madame!" cried Marie Antoinette; "you see my tears and
distress," and she again made an attempt to pass, no longer from any
hope of escape, but to free herself from this cruel attack.
"You shall not pass!" roared the old woman. "You want to escape, Madame
Veto--I know it all, the man in the mantle told me; you want to go
and rejoin the Prussians. But you shall not escape," continued she,
clasping the robe of the queen; "I will prevent you. _À la lanterne_,
Madame Veto! To arms, citizens! let us march--"
And with her arms wrestling, her grizzled locks dishevelled and hanging
over her haggard countenance, her eyes blood-shot, the unfortunate
creature fell to the ground, in her fall tearing the robe she still
held in her hand.
The queen, terrified, but freed at last from the maniac, was flying
to the side of the garden, when all at once a terrible cry resounded,
mingled with loud barking, and accompanied with a strange uproar,
arousing the National Guards from their stupor, who, attracted by the
uproar, immediately surrounded Marie Antoinette.
"To arms! to arms! Treason!" shouted a man, whom from his voice the
queen recognized as the shoemaker Simon.
Near this man, who, sword in hand, guarded the threshold of the cabin,
little Jet was barking furiously.
"To arms! every one to his post!" cried Simon; "we are betrayed. Compel
the Austrian to turn back. To arms! to arms!"
An officer ran up, when Simon spoke to him, pointing with enraged
gestures to the interior of the hut. The officer in his turn then cried
"To arms!"
"Jet! Jet!" called the queen, advancing some steps.
But the dog only continued to bark more furiously.
The National Guard ran to arms, and rushed toward the hut, while the
municipals took possession of the queen, her daughter, and sister, and
compelled them to re-enter the wicket, which they closed behind them.
"Prepare your arms!" cried the municipals to the sentinels. And the
sound of firearms being made ready for action was heard.
"It is there! it is there!" cried Simon, "under the trap. I saw it
move, I am certain of it. Besides, the Austrian's dog, a good little
animal who was not in the plot, barked at the conspirators, who are no
doubt still in the cellar. Hold! he barks again."
Indeed, Jet, instigated by Simon's cries and shouts, began to bark
again more strenuously than before.
The officer seized the ring of the trap, but seeing he was unable to
raise it, two of the gendarmes went to his assistance, but without the
slightest success.
"You perceive they hold the trap-door from below. Fire through the
trap-door, my friends, fire!" said Simon.
"Oh!" cried Madame Plumeau, "you will break my bottles."
"Fire!" repeated Simon, "fire!"
"Be silent, brawler!" said the officer, "bring some hatchets, and open
the planks. Now let a platoon make ready, and fire into the trap-door
the instant an opening is made." The groaning of planks and a sudden
jerk informed the National Guards that some movement was taking place
in the interior. Directly afterward they heard a motion under ground,
like an iron portcullis being closed.
"Courage!" cried the officer to the sappers, who worked indefatigably.
The hatchets severed the planks. Twenty guns were lowered in the
direction of the opening, which enlarged every moment.
But through the aperture no one could be seen.
The officer lighted a torch and threw it into the cave. It was empty.
They then raised the trap-door, which now offered no resistance.
"Follow me!" said the officer, bravely leaping down the steps.
"Forward! forward!" cried the National Guards, following the example of
their officer.
"Ah! Madame Plumeau," said Simon, "you lend your cellar to aristocrats!"
The wall was broken down; the humid soil had been trampled by numerous
feet; and a conduit of three feet wide and five feet high, like the
branch of a trench, plunged in the direction of Rue de la Corderie.
The officer ventured into this opening, resolved to follow these
aristocrats into the bowels of the earth; but when he had advanced
three or four steps he found all farther progress impeded by an iron
grating.
"Halt!" cried he, to those who were closely pressing behind him; "we
can proceed no farther until this portcullis is removed."
"Well," said the municipal, who having placed the prisoners in security
anxiously awaited the news,--"well, what have you discovered?"
"_Parbleu!_" said the officer, reappearing, "it was doubtless a
conspiracy; the aristocrats wanted to carry off the queen during her
walk, and she was probably in collusion with them."
"Plague take it!" cried the municipal, "send some one for the Citizen
Santerre, and inform the Commune!"
"Soldiers," said the officer, "remain in this cellar, and if any one
presents himself, kill him!"
And the officer, having given this order, ascended the winding stair to
make his report.
"Ah! ah!" said Simon, rubbing his hands, "ah! ah! will they still say
I am a fool? Brave Jet! Jet is a famous patriot; Jet has saved the
Republic. Come here, Jet, come!"
And the brute who had coaxed the poor little dog, the moment he
approached him, raised his foot and kicked him to a distance of several
feet.
"I like you, Jet," said he; "ah, you will cut your mistress's throat!
Come here, Jet, come!"
But this time instead of obeying him, Jet ran away howling, on the road
toward the keep.