THE CART.
Immediately after having obtained this permission from the curé of
Saint Landry, Maison-Rouge withdrew into a cabinet, the door of which,
being half opened, he had recognized as the priest's dressing-room.
There his long beard and mustachios speedily disappeared under the
stroke of the razor; and then only he was fully aware of his frightful
pallor and altered appearance. It was terrible to behold. He re-entered
perfectly calm, and seemed to have forgotten that notwithstanding the
absence of his beard and mustachios, he might still probably be known
at the Conciergerie. He followed the abbé, whom, during his momentary
absence, two officials were seeking; and with the cool audacity which
disarms suspicion, entered the iron gate at this time opening into
the court of the Palace. He was, like the Abbé Girard, dressed in
black,--sacerdotal habits at that period being abolished.
In the register-office they found about fifty persons assembled;
some employed about the prison, some deputies, some commissaries,
all waiting in the expectation of seeing the queen pass; there might
be some mandataries and many idlers. Maison-Rouge's heart beat so
violently when he found himself opposite the wicket that he heard not
even the parley that ensued between the abbé, the gendarmes, and the
porter. Only a man with a pair of scissors in his hand and a piece of
stuff newly cut pushed against Maison-Rouge upon the threshold. He
turned round and recognized the executioner.
"What do you want, Citizen?" demanded Sanson.
The Chevalier endeavored to repress the shudder which, in spite of
himself, ran through his veins.
"You see, Citizen Sanson," replied the Chevalier, "that I accompany the
curé of Saint Landry."
"Oh, very well!" said the executioner, drawing himself on one side, and
giving orders to his assistant.
During this time Maison-Rouge had passed into the interior of the
office, and from there into the compartment inhabited by the two
gendarmes.
These men were overcome by contending emotions. Proud and haughty as
she had been to others, she had ever been gentle and condescending to
them. They seemed more like her servants than her guards.
In his present position the Chevalier could not obtain a view of the
queen,--the screen was closed. It had been opened to give entrance to
the curé, but directly closed behind him. When the Chevalier entered,
the conversation had already commenced.
"Sir," said the queen, in a clear and firm voice, "since you have sworn
allegiance to the Republic--in whose name they have condemned me to
death--I have no confidence in you. We do not even worship the same
God!"
"Madame," said Girard, struck by this disdainful profession of faith,
"a Christian about to die should dismiss all hatred from her heart, and
ought not to repulse her God, under whatever form he may be presented
to her."
Maison-Rouge advanced a step to open the screen, hoping that when she
saw him, and knew what brought him, she would change her opinion in
regard to the curé; but the gendarmes detected the movement.
"But," said Maison-Rouge, "I am the acolyte of the curé--"
"Then, since she refuses the curé," said Duchesne, "she does not
require you."
"But still, perhaps she may accept me," said he, raising his voice;
"it is impossible she would refuse me." But Marie Antoinette was too
much engrossed by the sentiment which agitated her either to hear or
recognize the Chevalier's voice.
"Go, sir!" continued she; "leave me!" addressing Girard; "since at this
time we in France live under the régime of liberty, I claim the right
to die according to my own fashion."
Girard offered some resistance.
"Leave me, sir!" said she. "I desire you to leave me."
Girard endeavored to speak.
"I will not hear you; leave me!" said she, with the gesture of Marie
Thérèse.
Girard went out.
Maison-Rouge essayed to gain a glimpse of her through the opening in
the screen; but the prisoner had turned her back. The executioner's
assistant crossed before the curé; he came in holding a cord in his
hand. The two gendarmes pushed the Chevalier toward the door; amazed,
despairing, and utterly bewildered, before he had been able to utter
a cry or make the slightest movement to effect his purpose, he found
himself with the curé in the corridor of the turnkey. This corridor
brought them again into the register-office, where the news of the
queen's refusal had already circulated, and where the Austrian pride of
Marie Antoinette was to some the pretext of the coarsest invectives,
and to others the subject of secret admiration.
"Go!" said Richard to the abbé, "return home, since she repulses you,
and let her die as she likes."
"Well, she is in the right," said Richard's wife, "and I would act in
the same way."
"Then you would do wrong, Madame," said the curé.
"Be silent," said the keeper, opening his eyes very wide; "what does it
concern you? Go, Abbé, go!"
"No," said Girard, "no; I will, notwithstanding all, accompany her; one
word, only one word, if she will listen, might bring her back to duty;
besides, I am sent by the order of the Commune, and I must discharge my
office."
"Send back your sexton, then," brutally observed the adjutant-major,
commandant of the armed forces. He was a former actor at the Comédie
Française, named Grammont. The eyes of the Chevalier flashed lightning,
as he mechanically thrust his hand into his breast, where Girard knew
he had the poniard. He checked him with a suppliant look.
"Spare my life," said he, in a low voice; "you see that your cause is
ruined; do not destroy yourself with her. I will mention you to her on
the route; I swear to you I will tell her you risked your life that you
might see her once more on earth."
These words calmed the effervescence of the young man, and the ordinary
reaction taking place, he sank into a state of quiescence. This man of
heroic mind, of marvellous power, had arrived at the termination of
both strength and will, and glided irresolute, or rather exhausted and
vanquished, into a state of torpor that might have been imagined to be
the precursor of death.
"Yes, I believe," said he, "it should be thus: the cross for Jesus, the
scaffold for her,--gods and kings drink deep of the chalice presented
to them by men." This thought produced resignation; and now, totally
prostrated, he allowed himself to be pushed without offering any
resistance, except an occasional involuntary groan, to the outer gate,
passive as Ophelia when, devoted to death, she found herself borne away
by the remorseless waves.
At the bottom of the gates and at the doors of the Conciergerie, a
crowd was assembled, which unless once seen it was impossible to
describe. Impatience ruled every passion; and each passion spoke its
own language; and these combined formed an immense and prolonged
uproar, as if the whole noise and the entire population of Paris were
on this occasion concentrated in the quarter of the Palais de Justice.
In front of this crowd the whole army was encamped, with guns intended
to guard the procession, and also to secure the privilege of those who
came to witness the last act of the tragedy.
It would have been vain to attempt to pierce this deep rampart,
increasing gradually, since the condemnation of the queen was now known
not only at Paris, but by the patriots of the faubourgs.
Maison-Rouge, expelled from the Conciergerie, naturally found himself
in the first rank among the soldiers, who instantly demanded who he
was. He replied, "he was the vicar of the Abbé Girard, but having bound
himself by the same oath, he, like the curé, had been dismissed and
refused by the queen;" on which the soldiers, in their turn, pushed
him into the first row of spectators, where he was again compelled to
repeat what he had previously told them.
Then the cry arose, "He has just left!" "He has seen her!" "What did
she say?" "What did she do?" "Is she as haughty as usual?" "Is she cast
down?" "Does she weep?" The Chevalier replied to all these questions
in a feeble but sweet and affable tone; as if this voice was the last
manifestation of life suspended on his lips. His answer was couched
in the language of truth and simplicity. It contained an eulogium on
the firmness of Marie Antoinette; and that which he recounted with the
simplicity and faith of an evangelist cast sorrow and remorse over many
hearts.
When he spoke of the little dauphin, and of Madame Royale; of this
queen without a throne; of this wife without a husband; this mother
bereft of her children; this woman alone and abandoned, without a
friend, surrounded by executioners,--more than one face here and
there assumed a sad expression, and more than one tear of regret was
clandestinely wiped from eyes a moment before animated by hatred.
The Palace clock struck eleven. All murmuring at this moment ceased.
One hundred thousand human beings counted these strokes, echoed by the
pulsations of their own hearts.
When the last vibration had ceased and died away in the distance, a
loud noise was heard within the gates, and at the same time a cart,
advancing from the side of the Quai aux Fleurs, broke through the
crowd, then the guards, and drew up at the bottom of the steps.
The queen soon appeared at the top of the staircase. Looks expressive
of all kinds of passion were bent upon her; the mob stood in breathless
expectation. The queen's hair was cut short; the greater portion had
turned gray during her captivity, and this shade of silver rendered
still more delicate the mother-of-pearl pallor which at this moment
lent an almost angelic beauty to this daughter of the Cæsars. She
was attired in a white robe, and her hands were fastened behind
her back. When she appeared with the Abbé Girard on her right, who
notwithstanding all opposition would still accompany her, and the
executioner on her left, both dressed in black, there ran throughout
the crowd a murmur, of which God alone, who reads all hearts, could
comprehend and sum up the truth.
A man passed between the executioner and Marie Antoinette; it was
Grammont. He conducted her to the fatal car. The queen recoiled.
"Mount!" cried Grammont.
This word was distinctly heard by all. Emotion held every breath
suspended on the lips of the spectators. A blush suffused the face of
the queen, mounting even to the roots of her hair, but it immediately
disappeared, and her face resumed its former death-like hue.
"Why a car for me," said she, "when the king had a carriage to convey
him to the scaffold?"
The Abbé Girard advanced, and addressed a few words to her in a low
tone; doubtless he condemned this last utterance of royal pride. The
queen remained silent, but tottered so much that Sanson held out his
arms to support her; but she recovered her self-possession before he
could touch her. She then descended the staircase, while the assistants
placed a foot-board behind the car. The queen entered first; the abbé
followed her.
When the car was in motion it caused a great movement in the
assemblage; and the soldiers at the same time, ignorant of its cause,
united their efforts to push back the crowd, and consequently, a
large space was cleared between the people and the vehicle of death,
when suddenly a mournful howling was heard. The queen started, and
instantly rose, looking around her. She then saw her little dog, which
had been lost for two months, and which, unable to follow her into
the Conciergerie, regardless of kicks, blows, and thrusts, now rushed
toward the car; but almost directly poor Jet, emaciated, starving, and
bruised, disappeared under the horses' feet. The queen followed him
with her eyes; she could not speak, for her voice was drowned in the
noise; she could not point her finger toward him, for her hands were
tied; and had she been able to do either, who would have regarded her?
Having closed her eyes for an instant, she soon revived. He was in the
arms of a pale young man, who, standing on a cannon, was conspicuous
above the crowd, and whose natural stature seemed enlarged from the
unspeakable elevation of the sentiments with which he was animated,
while he saluted the queen and pointed to heaven. Marie Antoinette
looked upward and smiled sweetly.
The Chevalier uttered a groan, as if this smile had broken his heart;
and as the fatal car turned toward the Pont-au-Change, he fell back
among the crowd, and disappeared.