THE TWO BILLETS.
From this time the registrar of the Minister of War worked every
evening indefatigably in his colleague's office, while Madame Durand
dictated from the registers previously prepared, which Durand copied
with avidity.
Durand strictly examined everything, while appearing to notice nothing.
He had remarked that every evening, at nine o'clock, a basket of
provisions, carried by either Richard or his wife, was placed at the
door.
The instant the registrar said to the gendarme, "I am going, Citizen,"
one of the guards, either Gilbert or Duchesne, came out, took the
basket, and carried it to Marie Antoinette.
During three consecutive evenings, when Durand had remained rather
later at his post, the basket also was left untouched, since it was
only when opening the door to say adieu to the registrar that the
gendarme took in the basket containing the provisions, which a quarter
of an hour afterward was returned empty to the same place by one of the
two guards.
On the evening of the fourth day, it was the beginning of October, when
after the ordinary sitting the registrar of the Palace had withdrawn,
and Durand, or rather Dixmer, remained alone with his wife; he laid
down his pen, looked around and listened as if his very life was at
stake; he then rose hastily, and running noiselessly toward the door of
the wicket, raised the cloth which covered the contents of the basket,
and in the new bread destined for the prisoner inserted a small silver
case.
Pale and trembling with that emotion which even men of the strongest
organization feel when they have done an act of the most vital
importance, the moment for which has been long planned and patiently
awaited, he quickly regained his seat, and sank down overpowered,
placing one hand on his forehead, the other on his heart.
Geneviève regarded him in silence; indeed, since the day her husband
had taken her from Maurice, she had never spoken till he addressed her
first. But this time she first broke silence.
"Is it to be this evening?" she inquired.
"No; to-morrow," replied Dixmer.
He then rose, and having again looked and listened, closed the
registers, and approaching the wicket, knocked at the door.
"What now?" said Gilbert.
"Citizen," said he, "I am going."
"Well," said the gendarme, from the end of the cell, "good-night."
"Good-night, Citizen Gilbert."
Durand heard the grinding of the bolts, and knew that the gendarme was
opening the door. He went out.
In the passage leading from the apartment of Father Richard to the
court, he jostled against a turnkey dressed in a bear-skin bonnet, and
dangling a heavy bunch of keys.
Dixmer was much alarmed. Perhaps this man, brutal as the generality of
his species, was about to interrogate him, to watch him, and perhaps to
recognize him. He drew his hat over his eyes, while Geneviève concealed
herself, as she best could, in the folds of her cloak. But he was
mistaken.
"Pardon!" said the turnkey only, although he was the man who had been
nearly overthrown.
Dixmer trembled at the sound of that sweet soft voice. But the turnkey
was doubtless pressed for time; he glided into the passage, opened
Richard's door, and disappeared. Dixmer continued his road, leading
Geneviève.
"It is strange," said he, when outside and the gate had closed behind
them, and the freshening breeze had cooled his fevered brow.
"Oh, yes, 'tis very strange!" murmured Geneviève.
In former times they would have communicated to each other the cause
of their astonishment, but Dixmer now confined his thoughts to his
own breast, and combated them as an hallucination; while Geneviève
contented herself, on turning the corner of the Pont-au-Change, with
casting a last look at the dark and gloomy Palace, where something like
the phantom of a lost friend awoke in her memory many sweet and bitter
remembrances.
They both reached La Grève without having exchanged a single word.
During this time the Gendarme Gilbert had brought in the basket of
provisions intended for the queen. It contained some fruit, a cold
chicken, a bottle of white wine, a carafe of water, and half a loaf.
Having first raised the napkin, and ascertained that everything was
arranged as usual, he opened the screen.
"Citizeness," said he, "here is your supper."
Marie Antoinette divided the bread; but as her fingers pressed it, they
came in contact with the silver. In an instant she comprehended that
the bread contained something unusual.
When she looked around her the guard had already disappeared.
The queen remained for an instant motionless, calculating his retiring
footsteps. When she felt certain he was seated by his comrade, and
not till then, she drew the case from its place of concealment. It
contained a billet, which she opened, and read as follows:--
"Madame, be ready to-morrow at the hour when you receive this billet,
as to-morrow at this hour a female will be introduced into your
Majesty's prison. This female will exchange dresses with you, and you
will then quit the Conciergerie on the arm of one of your most devoted
servants.
"Do not be alarmed at any noise that passes in the first compartment;
let neither cries nor groans deter you, only attire yourself quickly
in the dress and mantle of the female who comes to take your Majesty's
place."
"This is devotion!" murmured the queen. "Thank God, I am not, as it is
said, an object of execration to all!"
She then re-read the billet, when the second paragraph attracted her
attention,--"Let neither cries nor groans deter you."
"Oh! that means they will sacrifice my two guards. Poor men, who have
evinced so much kindness and pity toward me! Oh, never!--never!"
She tore off the blank portion of the letter, and having neither pen
nor ink, pricked on the paper the following words,--
I neither can nor will accept the sacrifice of any one's life in
exchange for my own.
M.A.
She then replaced the paper in the case, which she concealed in the
other half of the broken bread.
This operation was just completed when ten o'clock struck; and the
queen, holding the piece of bread in her hand, sadly counted the
strokes which vibrated slowly and distantly, when she heard at one of
the windows opening upon the court termed the women's court a grating
sound, like that produced by a diamond dividing the glass. This noise
was followed by a slight knock upon the window, which was several
times repeated, with the intention of concealing the cough of a man.
Then at the corner of the pane a small roll of paper appeared, which
glided slowly down and fell on the inside of the wall. The queen then
heard the sound of keys jingling and clashing against each other, and
receding footsteps on the pavement.
She was aware that the window had been perforated at this corner, and
that through this aperture the departing individual had conveyed a
paper which was doubtless a billet. It was now lying on the ground. The
queen fixed her eyes upon it, listening if either of her guards was
approaching, but heard them conversing in a low tone as they usually
did, as if by a tacit agreement not to annoy her with their voices.
Then she rose softly, holding her breath, and secured the paper. Some
minute and hard substance slipped from it, which, falling on the
bricks, sounded like metal. It was the most exquisite file that could
be imagined,--more of the jewel than the tool,--one of those steel
springs, with which the most feeble and uninitiated hand could, in a
quarter of an hour, divide a bar of iron. The paper said:--
"Madame, to-morrow, at half-past nine, a man will be conversing with
the gendarmes who guard you, through the window of the women's court.
During this time your Majesty will saw the third bar of your window,
going from the left to the right. Cut slanting. A quarter of an hour
will suffice for your Majesty; and then be prepared to escape through
the window. This advice reaches you from one of your most devoted and
faithful subjects; one who has consecrated his life to your Majesty's
service, and would be happy also to sacrifice it for you."
"Oh!" murmured the queen, "it must be a snare. But no; this writing
appears familiar to me,--it is the same as at the Temple. It is--it
must be that of the Chevalier de Maison-Rouge! God is perhaps willing
that I should escape."
And the queen fell on her knees, and took refuge in prayer, the only
balm and consolation undenied to the unfortunate prisoner.