A CARNIVAL OF BLOOD
September the third dawned heavy with murky clouds, out of which climbed
a sun all red, like a ball of fire. The mists of the autumn morning
caught the tinge, but no omens could add to the tense foreboding which
wrapt the city. It needed no signs in the sky to prophesy a day of
terror.
At La Force a crowded court-yard held those of the prisoners who had
escaped the previous day's massacre. They had been driven from their
cells at dawn, and, after an hour or two of strained anticipation, had
gathered into their accustomed coteries. Mme de Lamballe, who had heard
the mob howling for her blood, sat placidly beautiful. Now and then she
spoke to a friend, but for the most part she kept her eyes on the tiny
copy of _The Imitation of Christ_ which was found in her blood-stained
clothes later on in that frightful day. Others, less devout, or less
alarmed, were gossipping, chattering, even laughing, or playing cards,
as if La Force were Versailles, and the hands on the clock of Time had
never moved for the last four years.
Mme de Maille was gone. Her hacked corpse still lay in its pool of
blood, her dead eyes stared unburied at the lowering sky; but Mme de
Montargis sat in her old place, her attendant Vicomte at her side. If
her face was pale the rouge hid it, and at least her smile was as ready,
her voice as careless, as ever. Bault, the gaoler, stared as he passed
her.
"These aristocrats!" he muttered; "any honest woman would be half-dead
of fright after yesterday, and what to-day will bring, Heaven knows! I
myself, mille diables! I myself, I shake, my hand trembles, I am in the
devil's own sweat,--and there she sits, that light woman, and laughs!"
As he passed into his own room, his wife caught him by the arm----
"Jean, Jean, mon Dieu, Jean! They are coming back!" He strained his
ears, listening, gripping his wife, as she gripped him.
"It is true," he murmured hoarsely.
A sullen, heavy drone burdened the air. It was like the sound of the
rising tide on a day of storm,--far off, but nearer, every moment
nearer, nearer, until it drowned the thumping of the frightened pulses
which beat so loudly at his ears. A buzz as of infernal bees,--its
component parts, laughter of hell, audible lust of cruelty, just
retribution clamorous, and the cry of innocent blood shed long ago. All
this, blent with the howl of the beast who scents blood, made up a sound
so awful, that it was small wonder that the sweat dripped heavily from
the brow of Bault, the gaoler, or that his wife clung to his arm,
praying him to think of their children.
To his honour be it said that he risked his life, and more than his
life, to save some two hundred of his prisoners, but for the rest--their
doom was sealed.
It had been written long ago, in letters of cumulative anguish, when the
father of Mme de Montargis had torn that shrieking peasant bride from
her husband's side on their marriage-day, when her grandfather hanged at
his gates the starving wretches who clamoured over-loudly for release
from the gabelle,--hardly a noble family in France but had some such
record at their backs, signs in an alphabet that was to spell "The
Terror." At the hands of the fathers was sown the seed of hate, and the
doom of the reaping came fast upon their children.
King Mob was at his revels, but he must needs play a ghastly comedy with
the victims. There should be a trial for each, a really side-splitting
affair. "A table, Bault," and up with the judges, three of them,
wrapped in a drunken dignity, a chair apiece, a bonnet rouge on each
august head; and prisoner after prisoner hurried up, and interrogated.
A look was enough for some, a word too much for others. Here and there
a lucky answer drew applause, and won a life, but for the most part came
the sentence, "A l'Abbaye,"--and straightway off went the condemned to
the inviolable cloisters of death.
Mme de Montargis came up trippingly upon the Vicomte de Selincourt's
arm. Their names were enough--both stank in the nostrils of the crowd.
There was a shout of "Austrians, Austrian spies! take them away, take
them out!"
"To the Abbaye," bawled the reverend judges, and Madame made them a
little curtsey. This was better than she expected.
"I thank you, Messieurs," she murmured; and then to the Vicomte: "Mon
ami, we are in luck. The Abbaye can hardly be more incommodious than La
Force."
"Quelle comedie!" responded Selincourt, with a shrug, and with that the
door before them opened.
Let us give them the credit of their qualities. That open door gave
straight into hell,--an inferno of tossing pikes which dripped with
blood, dripped to a pavement red and slippery as a shambles, whilst a
hoarse, wild-beast roar, full of oaths, and lust, and savage violence,
broke upon their ears.
If Mme de Montargis hesitated, it was for the hundredth part of a second
only. Then she raised her scent-ball carelessly to her nostrils, and
the hand that held it did not shake.
"Tiens, mon ami," she said, "your comedy becomes tragedy. I never
thought it my role, but it seems le bon Dieu thinks otherwise"; and with
that she stepped daintily out on to the reeking cobble-stones. One is
glad to think that the first pike-thrust was well aimed, and that it was
an unconscious form that went down to the mire and blood below.
The beautiful Lamballe was just behind. They say she knew she was going
to her death. There is a tale of a dream--God! what a dream!--an
augury, what not? Heaven knows no great degree of prescience was
required. She turned very pale, her eyes on her book until the last
moment, when she slipped it into her pocket, with one of those
unconscious movements dictated by a brain too numb to work otherwise
than by habit. She met the horror with dilated eyes,--eyes that glazed
to a faint before death struck her. Nature was merciful, and death a
boon, for over her corpse began a carnival of lust and blood so hideous
that imagination staggers at it, and history veils it in shuddering
generalities. No need to dwell upon its details.
What concerns us is that, having her head upon a pike, and the mutilated
body trailing by the heels, the whole mad mob set off to the Temple, to
show Marie Antoinette her friend, and to serve the Queen as they had
served the Princess.
It was between twelve and one in the day that news of what was passing
came to the Temple. It was the fat Butin who brought it. He came in on
the Council panting, gasping, dripping with the moisture of heat and
fear. All his broad, scarlet face was drawn, and his lips, under the
bristling moustache, were pale--a thing very strange and arresting. It
was plain that he had news of the first importance, but it was some time
before he could speak. When his voice came it was all out of key, and
his whole portly body quivered with the effort to control it.
"Hell is out, Citizens!" were his first connected words. Then--"Oh! they
are mad, they are mad, and they are just behind me. Close the gates
quickly, or they 'll be through!"
A bewildered group emitted Dangeau.
"What has happened, Citizen?" he asked steadily. "A riot? Like
yesterday?"
"Like yesterday? No, ma foi, Citizen! Yesterday was child's play, a
mere nothing; to-day they murder every one, and when they have murdered
they tear in pieces. They have assassinated the Lamballe, and they are
coming here for Capet's wife!"
"How many?" asked Dangeau sharply.
"How do I know!" and fat Butin wrung his hands. "The streets are full
of them, leaping, and howling, and shouting like devils. Does the
Citizen suppose I stayed to count them?--I, the father of a family!"
The Citizen supposed nothing so unlikely; in fact, his questions asked,
he was not thinking of Butin at all. His brain was working quickly,
clearly. Already he saw his course marked out, and, as a consequence,
he assumed that command of the situation which is always ceded to the
man who sees his way before him whilst his fellows walk befogged.
He sat at the table and wrote two notes, despatching one to the
President of the Legislative Council and the other to the General
Council of the Commune.
Then he announced their contents, speaking briefly and with complete
assurance.
"I have written asking for six members of the Assembly and six of the
Council, popular men who will assist us to control the mob. We shall,
of course, defend the prisoners with our lives if necessary, but there
must be no fighting unless as a last recourse. Where is the captain of
the Guard?"
The officer came forward, saluting.
"You have--how many men?"
"Four hundred, Citizen."
"You can answer for them--their discipline, their nerve?"
"With my life!"
"Very well, attend to your instructions. Both sides of the great gates
are to be opened."
"Opened, Citizen?" stammered the captain, whilst a murmur of
dissatisfaction ran through the room.
Dangeau's brows made a dangerous straight line.
"Opened," he repeated emphatically. "Between the outer and inner doors
you will draw up a double line of your steadiest men--unarmed."
It was only the officer's look which protested this time, but it quailed
before Dangeau's glance of steel.
"You will place a strong guard beyond, out of sight. These men will be
fully armed. All corridors, passages, and courts leading to the Tower
will be held in sufficient force, but not a man is to make so much as a
threatening gesture without orders. You will be so good as to carry out
these instructions without delay. I shall join you at the gate."
The captain swung away, and Dangeau turned to his colleagues.
"I propose to try to bring the people to reason," he said; "if they will
hear me, I will speak to them. If not--we can only die. The prisoners
are a sacred trust, but to have to use violence in defending them would
be fatal in the extreme, and every means must be taken to obviate the
necessity. Legros, you are a popular man, and you, Meunier; meet the
mob, fraternise with the leaders, promote a feeling of confidence. They
must be led to feel that it is our patriotism which denies them, and not
any sentiment of sympathy with tyrants."
There was a low murmur of applause as Dangeau concluded. He had acted
so rapidly that these slow-thinking bourgeois had scarcely grasped the
necessity for action before his plan was laid before them, finished to
the last detail.
As he left the room, he had a last order to give: "Tell Clery and
Renault to keep the prisoners away from the windows"; and with that was
on his way to the gates.
His instructions were being carried out expeditiously enough. The great
gates stood wide, and he passed towards them through a double row of the
National Guard. A sharp, scrutinising glance appeared to satisfy him.
These were what he wanted--men who could face a mob, unarmed, as coolly
as if they were on parade; men who would obey orders without thought or
question. They stood, a solid embodiment of law and order, discipline,
and decorum.
Dangeau took off his tri-coloured sash, borrowed a couple more, knotted
them together, suspended them across the unbarred entrance, and, having
requisitioned a chair, sat down on it, and awaited the arrival of the
mob.
He had not long to wait.
They came, heralded by a dull, hideous roar: no longer the tiger howl of
the unfleshed beast, but the devilish mirth of the same beast, full fed,
but not yet sated, and of mood wanton as well as murderous. It would
still kill, but with a refinement of cruelty. The pike-thrust was not
enough. It would not suffice them to butcher the Queen,--she must first
kiss the livid lips of their other victim; she must be stripped,
insulted, dragged alive through the Paris streets.
In this new mood they had stopped on their way to the Temple, broken
into the trembling Clermont's shop, and forced that skilful barber to
dress the Princesse de Lamballe's exquisite hair and rouge the bloodless
cheeks.
The hair was piled high, and wreathed with roses; roses bloomed in the
dead cheeks, beneath the lifeless violet of the loveliest eyes in
France. Only the mouth drooped livid, ghastly, drained of delight.
Clermont had done what he could. Even terror could not rob his fingers
of their skill, but, as he muttered to himself, with shaking lips, "Am
I, le bon Dieu, to make the dead live?" Rouge and rose-wreathed hair
made Death more ghastly still, but the mob was satisfied, and tossing
him a diamond buckle for his pains, they swung off again, the head
before them.
It was thus that Dangeau saw them come. For a moment the blood ran
thick and turgid through his brain, the next it cleared, and, though his
heart beat fast, it was with the greatest appearance of calm that he
mounted his improvised rostrum, and held up his hand in a gesture
demanding silence.
The mob swept on unheeding; nearer, nearer, right on without check or
pause, to the fragile ribbon that alone barred their way. Had Dangeau
changed colour, had his eye flickered, or that outstretched arm quivered
ever so little, they would have been on him--over him, and another
massacre would have been written on the stained pages of History.
But Dangeau stood motionless; an unbearable tension held him rigid. His
steady eyes--like steel with the sun on it--fixed the leader of the
mob;--fixed him, held him, stopped him. A bare yard from the gates, the
man who held the head aloft slackened speed, hesitated, and finally came
to a standstill so close to Dangeau that a little of the scented powder
in the Princess's hair fell down and whitened the sleeve of his
outstretched arm. Like sheep, the silly crowd behind checked as their
leader checked, and stopped as he had stopped.
Dangeau and he stood looking at one another. The man was a giant, black
and hairy, stripped to the waist and a-reek with blood. Under a
villainous, low brow his hot, small eyes winked and glared, shifted, and
fell at last before the steadier gaze.
Dangeau turned a little, beckoning with his hand, and there was a
momentary lull in the chorus of shouts, oaths, and obscene songs.
"What do you want?" he shouted.
The mob renewed its wild-beast howl.
Dangeau beckoned again.
"Let your leader speak," he called; and as the ruffian with the head was
pleased to second his suggestion, he obtained a second interval in the
storm.
"What do you want?" he asked again, and received this time an answer,
couched in language too explicit to be transcribed, but the substance of
which was that the Capet woman was to kiss her precious friend.
"And then?" Dangeau's speech fell cold and clear as ice upon the heated
words of the demagogue.
"And then, aha! then--" She was to be taught what the people's
vengeance meant. For how many years had they toiled that she might have
her sport? Now she should make sport for them, and then they would tear
her limb from limb, show her traitorous heart to Paris, where she had
lived so wantonly; burn her vile body to ashes.
Again that high, cool voice----
"And then?"
The ruffian scowled, spat viciously, and swore.
"Then, then--a thousand devils! What did the Citizen mean with his 'and
then'? He supposed that they should go home until there was another
tyrant to kill."
"And then--shall I tell you what then?--will you hear me, Dangeau? Some
of you know me," and his eye lit on a wizened creature who danced
horribly about the headless corpse.
"Antoine, have you forgotten the February of two years ago?"
The ghastly object ceased its strange rhythmic movements, stared a
moment, and broke into voluble speech.
"'T is a patriot, this Dangeau, I say it--I whom he saved from prison.
Listen to him. He has good, strong words. Tell us then, Citizen, tell
us what we're to do," and he capered nearer, catching at Dangeau's chair
with fingers horribly smeared.
Silence fell, and, after a very slight pause, Dangeau leaned forward and
began to speak in a low, confidential tone.
"All here are patriots, are they not? Not a traitor amongst you,
citizens all, proved and true. You have struck down the enemies of
France, and now you ask what next?" His voice rose suddenly and
thrilled over the vast concourse.
"Citizens of Paris, the whole world looks to you--the nations of Europe
stand waiting. They look to France because it is the cradle of the new
religion,--the religion of humanity. France, revolted from under the
hand of her tyrants, rises to give the law to all future generations.
With us is the rising sun, whose beams shed liberty, justice, equality;
and on this splendid dawn all eyes are fixed."
"They shall see us crush the tyrants!" bellowed the crowd.
"They shall see it," repeated Dangeau, and the words rang like an oath.
"Europe shall see it, the World shall see it. But, friends, shall we
not give them a spectacle worthy of their attention, read them a lesson
that shall stand on the page of History for ever? Shall we not take a
little time in devising how this lesson may be most plainly taught?
Shall a few patriots,--earnest, sincere, passionately devoted to liberty
it is true, but unauthorised by France, or by the duly delegated
authority of the people,--shall a few weak men, in an outburst of
virtuous indignation putting a tyrant to death, shall this impress the
waiting peoples? Will they not say, 'France did not will it--the people
did not will it--it was the work of a few'? Will they not say this? On
the other side, see--a crowded hall, the hall of the people's delegates.
They judge and they condemn, and Justice draws her sword. In the eye of
the day, in the face of the world, before the whole people, there falls
the tyrant's head. Then would not Europe tremble? Then would not
thrones based on iniquity totter, tyrants fall, and the universal reign
of liberty begin?"
The crowd swayed, hypnotised by the rolling voice, for Dangeau had the
tones that thrill, that stir, that soothe. We do not always understand
the fame of dead-and-gone orators. Their periods leave us cold, their
arguments do not move us, their words seem no more eloquent than
another's; and yet, in their day, these men swept a whirlwind of
emotion, colour, life, conviction, into their hearers' hearts. Theirs
was the gift of temperament and tone. As the inspired musician plays
upon his instrument, so they on theirs,--that oldest and most sensitive
instruments of all, the human heart.
Dangeau's voice pealed out above the throng. He took the biggest words,
the most extravagant phrases, the cheapest catchwords of the day, and
blended them with the magic of his voice to an irresistible spell.
Suddenly he changed his key. The mob was listening, their attention
gained,--he could give them something more than a vague magniloquence.
"Frenchmen!" he said earnestly, "do we oppose you with arms? Do we
threaten, do we resist you? No, for I am most certain that there is not
a man among you who would be turned from his purpose by fear,--Frenchmen
do not feel so mean a sentiment,--but is there a Frenchman here who is
not always ready to listen to the sacred dictates of reason? Hear me
then."
Somewhere inside Dangeau's brain a little mocking devil laughed, but the
crowd applauded,--a fine appetite for flattery characterises the monster
Demos,--it was pleased, and through its thousand mouths it clamorously
demanded more.
"I stand here to make that appeal to your reason, which I am assured
cannot fail. First, I would point out to you that these prisoners are
not only prisoners of ours, but hostages of France. Look at our
frontiers: England threatens from the sea, Austria and Spain from the
south; but their hands are tied, Citizens, their hands are tied. They
can threaten and bluster, but they dare take no steps which would lead
to the sacrifice of the tyrant and his brood. Wait a little, my
friends; wait a little until our brave Dumouriez has won us a battle or
two, and then the day of justice may dawn."
He paused a moment, and, gauging his audience, cried quickly:
"Vive Dumouriez! Vive l'armee!"
Half a dozen voices echoed him at first, but in a minute the cry was
taken up on the outskirts of the crowd, and came rolling to the front in
a storm of cheers.
Dangeau let it have its course, then motioned for silence, and got it.
"France owes much to Dumouriez," he said. "We are a nation of soldiers,
and we can appreciate his work. Let us support him, then, and do nothing
to embarrass him in his absence. Let him first drive the invaders of
France back across her insulted frontiers, and then--" He was
interrupted by a howl of applause, but he got the word again directly.
"Citizens of Paris," he called, "your good name is in your own keeping.
They are some who would be glad to see it lost. There are some, I will
name no names, who are jealous of the pre-eminence of our beautiful
Paris. They would be glad of an excuse for moving the seat of
government. I name no names, I make no accusations, but I know what I
know."
"Name them, name them!--down with the traitors!" shouted the mob.
"They are those who bid you destroy the prisoners," returned Dangeau
boldly. "They are those who urge you to lay violent hands on a trust
which is sacred, because we have received it from the hands of the
people. They are those who wish to represent you to the world as
incapable of governing, blind with passion. Shall this be said?"
A shout of denial went up.
"Citizens of Paris, you have elected us your representatives. You have
reposed in us this sacred trust. If we abuse it, you have your remedy.
The Nation which elected can degrade; the men who have placed in us
their confidence can withdraw that confidence; but whilst we hold it, we
will deserve it, and will die in its defence."
The crowd shook with applause, but there were dissenting voices. One or
two of the leaders showed dark, ominous faces; the huge man with the
head scowled deepest, he seemed about to speak, and eyed Dangeau's chair
as if he contemplated annexing it.
None knew better than Dangeau how fickle a thing is a crowd's verdict,
or how easily it might yet turn against him. He laid his hand on the
grimy shoulder beside him.
"To show the confidence that we repose in you, I suggest that this
citizen, and five of his colleagues, shall be admitted into the garden;
you shall march round the Tower if you will, and it will be seen that it
is only your own patriotism and self-control that safeguards the
prisoners, and not any force opposed to you."
This proposal aroused great enthusiasm. Dangeau, who was fully aware of
the risks he ran in making it, hastily whispered to two of the
Commissioners sent him in response to his appeal to the Commune, bidding
them remain at the gate and keep the mob in a good temper, whilst he
himself accompanied the ringleaders.
It was a strange and horrifying procession that took its way through
palace rooms which had looked upon many scenes of vice but none so awful
as this.
Dangeau, a guard or two, six filthy, reeking creatures, drawn from the
lowest slums, steeped in wickedness as in blood; the exquisite head,
lovely to the last, set on a dripping pike; the white, insulted body,
stripped to the dust and mire of Paris; the frightful odour of gore
diffused by all, made up a total effect of horror unparalleled in any
age.
To the last day of Dangeau's life it remained a recurrent nightmare. He
was young, he had lived a clean, honest life, he had respected women,
nourished his soul on ideals, and now----
At the time he felt nothing,--neither disgust nor horror, nausea nor
shame. It was afterwards that two things contended for possession of
his being--sheer physical sickness, and a torment of outraged
sensibility. He had vowed himself to the service of Humanity, and he had
seen Humanity desecrate its own altar, offering upon it a shameful and
bloody sacrifice. Just now it was fortunate that feeling was in
abeyance, and that it was the brain in Dangeau, and not the conscience,
that held sway. All of him, except that lucid brain, lay torpid,
stunned, asleep; but in its cells thought flashed on thought, seizing
here an impulse, there an instinct, bending them to the will, absorbing
them in its designs.
All the way the butchers talked. One of them fancied himself a wit.
Fortunately for posterity his jests have not been preserved. Another
gave a detailed and succinct account of every person murdered by him. A
third sang filthy songs. Dangeau's brain ordered him not to offend
these bestial companions, and in obedience to it he nodded, questioned,
appeared to commend.
Arrived at the garden, the whole company took up the chorus of the song,
and began to march round the Tower, holding the head aloft and calling
on the Queen to come and look at it.
Those of the workmen who still remained at their posts came gaping
forward--some of them joined the tune; the excitement rose, and cries of
"The Austrian, the Austrian; give us the Austrian!" began to be heard.
Within there was a dead silence. The little group of prisoners were
huddled together at the farther side of the room. Mme Elizabeth held
her rosary, and her pale lips moved incessantly. One of the
Commissioners, Renault, a strong, heavy-featured man, stood impassively
by the window watching the progress of events, whilst Clery, his eager
young face flushed with excitement, was trying to keep up a conversation
with the Princesses in order to prevent the terrifying voices from
without reaching their ears. Although no one could be ignorant of what
was passing, they seconded his attempts bravely. Marie Antoinette was
the most successful. She preserved that social instinct which covers
under an airy web the grimmest and most evident facts. Death was such a
fact,--vastly impolite, entirely to be ignored; and so the Queen
conversed smilingly, even whilst the mother's eye rested in anguish upon
her children.
Suddenly even her composure was shattered.
There was a loud shout of "Come out, Austrian! Look, Austrian!" and a
shape appeared at the window--a head, omen of imminent tragedy. That
head had shared the Queen's pillow, those drawn lips had smiled for her,
those heavy lids closed over eyes whose beauty to her had been the
lovely, frank affection which beamed from them. Thus, in this fearful
shape, came the intimation of that friendship's close.
Clery sprang up with a cry of "Don't look!" but he was too late. With a
hoarse sound, half cry, half strained release of breath too frantically
held, the Queen shrank back.
In that moment her face went grey and hollow, her death-mask showed
prophetic, but after that one movement, that one cry, she sat quite
still and made no sound. Mme Royale had fainted, and Elizabeth knelt
beside her shuddering and weeping.
Renault's great shoulders blocked the window, and even as he pressed
forward the head was withdrawn.
Down below a second crisis was being fought through. Dangeau began to
feel the strain of that scene by the Temple gates; his nervous energy
was diminished, and the dreadful six were straining at the leash. They
howled for the Austrian, they bellowed forth threats, they vociferated.
One of them caught Dangeau by the shoulder and levelled a red pike at
his head; but for a moment the steely composure of the eyes held him,
and the next a friendly hand struck down the weapon.
"It is Dangeau, our Dangeau, the people's friend!" shouted his rescuer,
a powerful workman. "I am of his section," and he squeezed him in a
grimy embrace.
Dangeau, released, sprang on a heap of rubble, and made his final
effort.
"He, mes braves!" he cried, "it is growing late; half Paris knows your
deeds, it is true, but how many are still ignorant? Will you let
darkness overtake you with your trophies yet undisplayed? Away, let the
other quarters hear of your triumphs. Vaunt them before the Palais
Royal, and let the Tuileries, so often defiled by the Tyrant's presence,
be purified now by these relics, evidence of the people's power!"
As he ceased, his words were taken up by all present.
"To the Palais Royal! To the Tuileries!" they howled.
Dangeau, not only saved, but a hero,--so fickle a thing is the mood of
the sovereign people,--was cheered, embraced, carried across the
court-yard, and with difficulty permitted to remain behind; whilst the
whole mob, singing, shouting, and dancing, took its frenzied course
towards the royal palaces.