AUGUST TENTH, 1792
Lisle and his mother had finished their déjeuner in the great dining
room of the Paris house. The tall, gilded clock in the entrance hall had
just struck twelve. All through the meal the cannons in the Carrousel,
the inner court of the Tuileries palace, less than a mile away, had
thundered outside. The glass chandelier above the table had shaken until
its chains, jangling together, made a sound like music in the dim, vast
room. The amber-colored velvet curtains at the windows were drawn
closely together and the room was lighted by four candles in gold
candlesticks on the table.
Lisle piled his nutshells in a heap on his plate. He had something to
tell his mother and he did not know how to go about it. There was a dish
of fruit on the table, as well as a carved bowl full of nuts and a
carafe of wine and one of water, and even a bowl of flowers, a few red
roses which Henri had picked that morning from the vine by the coach
house. The comtesse leaned forward and picked one from the white bowl
and held it to her face. Then she said what she had been thinking all
through the meal:
“Nothing would matter if only you had gone with the others, Lisle. Why
did I let you stay!”
“Because you knew that I would not go!” Lisle answered.
She looked at him and he returned her look steadily.
“I’m not a child any longer. I’m fifteen and a half and the head of the
house,” he went on. “I’ve stayed to see Paris now. I want to see what
happens.”
The comtesse put both hands over her eyes and sat that way for a moment.
It was as though she would shut out all the confusion and worry of the
past weeks and months, especially of the last two days.
Within twenty-four hours five of the men servants had left without a
word. Some of them left because they were frightened, for it was
beginning to be thought not so good a thing to be a servant in a great
house. It was not the loss of her servants that mattered so much. It was
the fact that they were her enemies, and that, with the exception of
those who had gone to Pigeon Valley, there was only one remaining whom
she could trust—and that was Henri, one of the footmen.
“Pardon, Madame, you asked for fresh news from the Tuileries. It is
going hard with the Swiss guards. They made a brave stand but they are
losing badly, Madame. They cannot resist the people, above all the
Marseillais!”
It was Henri who spoke. They had not heard him cross the great room.
“The Marseillais are fighting well?” It was Lisle who put the question.
“Like tigers, Monsieur Lisle,” the servant answered. He was a little,
dark man. His voice shook as he spoke and his face was white above his
red and gold livery.
“The royal family—they are safe?” Madame Saint Frère twisted her
lace-bordered handkerchief between her long, white hands as she asked
the question, but her voice did not tremble.
“Henri cannot know what is going on inside the palace or the Carrousel,
maman. He can only glean wild rumors from the crowds in the side
streets,” Lisle said a little contemptuously.
“Pardon, Monsieur Lisle, but a runner came through and shouted news at
the Town Hall. The royal family have taken refuge in the riding school
with the National Assembly. They went through the gardens.”
Henri waited, and, as the two did not question him again, he left the
room as quietly as he had entered it.
The comtesse reread a note that lay beside her plate. It was from
Monsieur Laurent, Lisle’s tutor, and it stated in polite terms that he
had left that morning for England, having had a sudden opportunity to
get away. His departure seemed unbearable to the comtesse. Now that
Laurent had gone, there were no other men that she could count on at
all. She had a brother who was an invalid and some cousins who were
preparing to fight with the Royalists but they were not in Paris at the
moment. The Comte de Soigné was away fighting. It seemed as though every
kind of protection had left her. Things were happening so suddenly, one
after another, and although one could not believe that there could be
any real danger for any of her family, she would have given much, as she
said, to have had her only son safe at Pigeon Valley.
“Promise me, Lisle, that you will not go out into the garden,” she said.
“I cannot promise that, maman. I’ll not be cooped up in the house. You
are fretting about that stupid Laurent. I for one am glad he is gone. I
never want to see his smirking face again.” Lisle leaned forward and
spoke earnestly. “You must trust yourself to me, maman. I told you the
girls should be sent at once to the country, and you see that I was
right. Whatever happens at the Tuileries, it is only a question of time
until the Austrian army comes and our own royalist armies are ready.”
Lisle looked so earnestly at his mother and spoke so confidently that
the comtesse smiled in spite of herself and returned his look with one
of pride.
“Maman, I don’t trust Henri,” Lisle continued, speaking softly. “He does
not really mean us harm, I think, but he is from Provence and the
Marseillais are from Provence. They are proving themselves to be brave
soldiers. Henri, once he is in the crowd, will be heart and soul with
them. You will see!”
As Lisle spoke the tapestry at the far door swayed back and Henri came
into the room.
“Madame la Comtesse de Soigné is here to see Madame,” he said.
Lisle walked with his mother to the salon door, but did not go inside.
As Henri opened the door, Lisle saw his mother’s friend cross the room
and come toward her. Rosanne stood near the door and made a curtsy as
his mother entered. Lisle waited until Henri had left the hall and then
went through the marble vestibule, opened the great, grilled door, which
was the front entrance, and went outside. Gonfleur was waiting by the
door. Lisle went up to the old man.
“Gonfleur,” he said to him, “you are the only one I can trust. There is
not one of our servants who is true to us, now that Neville has gone.”
Gonfleur bowed and answered: “I am only an old man, Monsieur Lisle, but
there is nothing I would not do for the family. Madame de Soigné knows
that well. She is in trouble, is Madame la Comtesse.” He did not say
more, so Lisle turned away and went inside to the great drawing-room.
His mother and Madame de Soigné were sitting on a velvet chaise longue
at one end of the room and talking earnestly. Long mirrors reached to
the ceiling on each side of the room. The rose carpet was of velvet and
sank under Lisle’s feet as he crossed over to his mother. There were
gilded tables and chairs and carved cabinets filled with jeweled
trinkets. The hangings at the long windows were of rose brocade.
Lisle came up to the chaise longue and bowed ceremoniously to the
comtesse and to Rosanne, who stood close to her mother. Madame de Soigné
was to leave Paris at once, they told him. She had just had word that
her husband, who was with the Royalists, had been wounded and she could
not stay away from him another hour. Gonfleur would accompany her and
Madame Saint Frère was to keep Rosanne safe with her. The Comte de
Soigné was in a hospital near Valmy.
“It would have been well, Madame, had you allowed Rosanne to accompany
my sisters and the others to Les Vignes.” Lisle spoke coldly; but when
the comtesse answered, with tears in her eyes, that she had not dreamed
of all that twenty-four hours would bring forth, he said simply, “I will
care for Rosanne as though she were my little sister.” Then he went out
of the room.
There was no one in the great hall, and going into an anteroom he took
down his black velvet cape and cap and went out through the great
entrance door, closing it after him. He ran quickly down the marble
steps, and, after standing a moment uncertainly on the corner, turned to
the right and walked toward the Champs Élysées.
It was a strange walk, the first one he had ever taken alone in the
city. He had always been accompanied by his tutor or a servant. Boys of
noble birth did not go out unattended. It was the strangest day that he
had ever known. A wild exhileration seized him and he began to run. He
had felt this way before when he had ridden to the hounds, when he had
run at top speed across the fields at Les Vignes, but to-day it was as
though he had never really known emotion. The thunder of the cannonading
at the Tuileries pounded through the great avenue. As he came nearer a
black sea of people loomed before him. The deafening roar of the guns,
the screams of the wounded, the wild shouting from thousands of throats
mingled, making a hurricane of sound. He stopped suddenly, a little
bewildered, and seeing there would be no chance of going farther on the
avenue he turned off and round down a side street, slackening his steps
as he came to the rue Royale.
Here the noise was greater, but although the street was filled with
people, some leaning out of the windows of shops, others shouting from
the roof tops, he was able to make his way for some rods. No one noticed
him. He was only a drop in a mighty ocean, only one among millions that
tenth day of August, 1792!
There was a noisy crowd of excited onlookers on top of a coach just
beside him and the owner of the coach, a prosperous spinner, who had
drunk deeply of Rhenish wine, was the noisiest of them all. He caught
sight of Lisle, who was wedged in between a group of taller people, and
cried out to him:
“Come up and see the show, my fine fellow!”
It was the first time that any one in all the wild city had spoken to
him. He jumped up on to the coach and stood there with the spinner and
his family. The next instant he forgot everything but the sight before
his eyes.
There was a group of people close to the cart. One could hear their
rough voices and harsh cries above the seething roar of the battle in
the great square beyond. Their scarlet caps gleamed in the relentless
August sunshine. They held on to the sides of the cart, screaming, “Vive
la nation!” and throwing their arms about each other in a sort of
frenzy. It was such as they who were to make a part of the mob that was
soon to govern Paris.
Far at the end of the Place du Carrousel grenadiers, pikemen, and
gendarmes lay dead and dying. Floating mists of smoke drifted with the
sudden, freakish changing of the wind, and through it all the battle cry
of “Death or Liberty” floated back to the watching thousands in the
Champs Élysées gardens and in the surrounding streets.
“The Marseillais have the Cour Royale!” was the word passed from lip to
lip, and then the cry of “Vive la Nation” swelled like the storm tide of
a sea.
“The Swiss have given way! The Swiss can no longer stand!”
This last cry roused Lisle as he stood on the spinner’s cart, and the
meaning of it caught his heart. The gallant Swiss guard who had fought,
like the brave fellows that they were, to guard the palace and the royal
family—the Swiss were vanquished!
“The men of the Faubourg de Gloire have the Cour des Princes! Hurrah for
the Faubourg de Gloire!” Again a mighty roar shook the very roofs of the
houses.
Another court of the palace had fallen!
The sun caught the bronze of the cannons in the square and they flashed
like scarlet fire through the iron-grey smoke clouds.
“The men of the Faubourg Saint-Marceau have taken over the Cour des
Suisses!”
The last court of the Tuileries was in the hands of the people.
Lisle stood still in the sunshine watching the end of all that had made
up his life. He was too young and inexperienced to realize very much
beyond the things that he had always known, quiet cherishing of old
traditions handed down, riches, beauty, unthinking narrowness. His king
and queen were in hiding in the back confines of the Tuileries. The
great palace itself was given over to the people who had taken it with
bayonet and gun. The roar of the cannons and of the thousands of voices
meant a good-by to the old ways. Lisle stood there like a statue, his
hands clenched at his sides, tears stinging his eyelids, his gold hair
ablaze in the sun. Then, suddenly, almost without knowing it, he raised
his voice and cried with all his might:
“God save King Louis!”
He had hardly cried the last word before he was seized from the cart and
half dragged, half carried at a swift pace down a side street off the
rue Royale, opposite which the cart had been standing. His captor turned
a corner swiftly, and then another, and puffing and gasping for breath,
he finally pushed Lisle under a gabled doorway where they could not be
seen from the street. Lisle’s blue eyes flashed fire into quiet brown
ones. His captor was a short, fat man in a snuff-colored cloak and wide
hat. He had a round, kindly face and, in spite of the situation, he was
smiling.
“Take your hand off me. You are not to touch me!”
Lisle was so angry that he spoke with difficulty and his companion was
so blown that he could only puff and pant. He looked furtively around
the arched doorway of the deserted shop.
“I was quick and no one shall say tha’ Humphrey Trail canna run when the
devil is close,” he said, as though to himself. Still holding Lisle
firmly by the arm, he turned and smiled at him again, in no way
disturbed by the boy’s haughty face and flashing eyes.
“Not so fast, my young gentleman, not so fast.” As he spoke Humphrey
Trail pushed Lisle back a little farther into the shadow. His hold was
gentle but firm. “Tha hast a rare bright face. I’d not thought tha’d
sell tha life so easy there on the cart. Hast tha no sense that tha
calls 'Long live the king’ with them beside tha that would cut tha
throat?”
Lisle tugged at Humphrey’s arm with both hands. He was still so angry
that he could scarcely speak. After a moment he called out again, “God
save King Louis,” and smiled mockingly at Humphrey Trail.
His captor seemed in no way put out by the cry, for the side street was
deserted and there was no one to see or hear them.
“Tha would do well to stop tha foolishness and listen to sense. Tha
cannot help tha king by tha shouting. Hark to me, lad, and ponder well
what I say. This is the greatest day that France has ever known. Mark
me, lad, this is a day of brave deeds and clean fighting. Days will come
so black that the country will never lose its shame o’ them; but to-day
the Marseillais have fought for the love o’ nation, and they have fought
well.” Humphrey still held Lisle as he spoke but loosened his grasp when
Lisle said:
“There is no need to hold me, for I shall not run away from you. There
is no harm in you, except that you are meddlesome. You say the
Marseillais fought bravely. Well, the Swiss guards fought better! Even
our servant, Henri, who is from Provence, spoke of their bravery!” There
was a choke in Lisle’s voice, though he tried to swallow it. It did not
escape Humphrey Trail. [Illustration: Humphrey Trail] “Not so fast
again, young lad. I but meddled, as tha calls it, to save tha life!” he
said, and, meeting Lisle’s flashing eyes with his kindly ones, he
smiled.
Lisle held out his hand. “I believe you, Humphrey Trail, and I thank
you. Know that I am grateful.”
Humphrey shook Lisle’s hand warmly.
“Th’art no fool that tha remembered my name from my sayin’ it that once.
Tha speaks English as well and maybe better than I who was born on a
Yorkshire moor,” he said.
Lisle looked at him curiously. “You come from England—from Yorkshire!
Why are you here?”
“I’d many a bit o’ gold coin saved from my shearin’ and sheep sellin’. I
wanted to see things about the world, to go to foreign parts where there
wasn’t just milkin’ and farmin’. I wanted to see a bit o’ life, and I am
seein’ it and likely to see more.” Humphrey laughed as he spoke and
Lisle laughed, too. All anger toward his rescuer had gone, although he
still resented being thought stupid for having shouted for the king, and
being carried off by this funny, fat farmer in such an unceremonious
way.
Humphrey Trail caught hold of his arm and said:
“Haste tha home, young lad. Keep within tha doors for a spell o’ days
till things settle a bit. If it please tha, I’ll see tha to tha door!”
“Thank you, Humphrey Trail, I have no fear of being on the streets. I
can go my way quite well alone. I cannot promise you to stay within
doors but, though I shall always shout for my king, I will not forget
your advice entirely.” Lisle held out his hand and the farmer shook it
again warmly, saying:
“Good-by to thee, lad.”
He watched Lisle as he walked on down the narrow street and he muttered
to himself, “Th’ lad, th’ proud, odd lad!”
Toward the end of the narrow lanelike street Lisle paused, hesitated,
turned back a step or two, paused again, and then went straight on
without looking back. Humphrey noticed the action. The boy had something
he wanted to say to him.
“Th’ lad would ask a favor o’ me but his pride put it by him. He wants a
friend and there maybe is no one else.” As this thought came to him,
Humphrey Trail threw the cape of his coat about his shoulder and walked
rapidly in the direction Lisle had taken. He never lost sight of him.
Lisle walked straight ahead and did not once look back. He had lost his
velvet cap in the affair of the cart and he walked on hatless, unafraid,
his hair, a sweep of blazing gold, tied at the back of his neck with a
flaring black bow. Humphrey’s heart almost failed him as he watched
Lisle. It was well indeed for the boy that this tenth of August was not
a day for any one person. It was a day of great issues and the time had
not yet come for individuals! It was a day of wild excitement, of
gallantry and courage! Humphrey Trail had spoken rightly when he had
said that it would be the bravest and the best day of all. Those who
guarded the Royal family in the Tuileries had fought like the chivalrous
knights that they were. There were never more valorous soldiers than the
red-coated Swiss guards who held their places for the king until they
could no longer stand. On the other side, there were never cleaner,
braver men than those gay, unfearing men of the Marseillais battalion,
who had marched for weeks, through every kind of weather, to fight for
liberty in Paris, and who died singing their beloved Marseillaise with
their last breath,
“L’amour sacrée de la patrie!”
Lisle reached his home in safety and, turning in at the iron gates, ran
up the marble steps and pulled a silk rope at the side of the grilled
iron door. He heard the bell clang through the great house. The door was
opened at once by Henri, who gazed at him with a white face and gasped
out:
“Monsieur Lisle, Madame, your mother, is beside herself in fear for
you!”
When Humphrey saw the great doors close after Lisle he turned and walked
rapidly away. He knew where the lad lived and he would not forget the
house.
Lisle was met at the door of the first salon by his mother, who caught
him by both shoulders, raising a pale, frightened face to his.
“You have been out alone in all this rabble, you who are only a child.”
She caught her breath with a sob as she spoke.
“I have been out, but I am not a child, maman, and I have made a friend
all by myself, without any help from the family.” Lisle smiled at his
mother. “I have made a friend in Paris to-day, and his name is such an
odd one, maman. It is Humphrey Trail!”