coronation, were anointed with this holy oil. And as the dove was said
to have descended at Rheims, and St. Remy was buried there, this became
the city of the coronation. An order of knighthood was founded to take
part in the coronation,--the "Knights of the Sainte Ampoule,"--but the
worthy incumbents held their office for a day only,--that of the
crowning of the king. They were created for that purpose, received the
precious vial from the archbishop, and after the ceremony returned it to
that high dignitary of the church and saw it restored to its
abiding-place. This done, they ceased to exist as knights of the holy
oil, the order dying while the king lived.
But these short-lived chevaliers made the most of their opportunity, and
crowded all the splendor and dignity into their one day that it would
well bear. The sacred vial was kept in the abbey of St. Remy, and from
that place to the cathedral they moved in a stately procession that
almost threw the cortege of the king into the shade. The Grand Prior of
St. Remy bore the vial, in its case or shrine, which hung from his neck
by a golden chain. He rode always on a white horse, being covered by a
magnificent canopy, upheld by the knights of the Sainte Ampoule. The
cathedral reached, the prior placed the vial in the hands of the
archbishop, who pledged himself by a solemn oath to restore it at the
end of the ceremony. And to make this doubly sure a number of barons
were given to the knights as hostages, the restoration of the vial to be
their ransom. The ceremony over, back to the abbey they went, through
streets adorned with rich tapestries, and surrounded by throngs of
admiring lookers-on, to whom the vial was of as much interest as the
king's crown.
For many centuries this honor came at intervals to the city of Rheims,
and the St. Remy vial figured as an indispensable element of every
kingly coronation. It figured thus in the mission of Joan of Arc, whose
purpose was to drive the English from Orleans and open the way to
Rheims, that the new king might be crowned with the old ceremony. The
holy oil continued to play a leading part in the coronation of the kings
until the reign of Louis XVI. Then came the Revolution, that mighty
overturner of all things sacred and time-honored, and a new chapter was
written in the story of the Sainte Ampoule. It is this chapter which we
have now to give.
The Revolution had gone on, desecrating things sacred and beheading
things royal, through years of terror, and now had arrived the 6th of
October, 1793, a day fatal in the history of the holy oil. On that day
Citizen Rhul, one of the new sovereigns of France, entered the room of
Philippe Hourelle, chief _marguillier_ of the Cathedral of Rheims, and
demanded of him the vial of coronation oil of which he had charge.
Horror seized Monsieur Philippe; but Master Rhul was imperative, and the
guillotine stood in the near perspective. There was nothing to do but to
obey.
"It is not in my care," declared the trembling Philippe. "It is in the
keeping of the curé, Monsieur Seraine. I will instantly apply to him for
it."
"And make haste," said Citizen Rhul. "Bring pomatum and all," thus
irreverently designating the age-thickened oil.
"May I ask what you will do with it?" ventured Philippe.
"Grease the knife of the guillotine, mayhap, that it may the easier slip
through your neck, if you waste any time in your errand."
As may be imagined, Philippe Hourelle lost no time in seeking the curé,
and giving him his startling message. M. Seraine heard him with horror.
Had the desecration of sans-culottisme proceeded so far as this? But an
idea sprang to the quick wit of the curé.
"We can save some of it," he exclaimed.
A minute sufficed to extract a portion of the unguent-like substance.
Then, with a sigh of regret, the curé handed the vial to Philippe, who,
with another sigh of regret, delivered it to Citizen Rhul, who, without
a sigh of regret, carried it to the front of the cathedral, and at the
foot of the statue of Louis XV. hammered the vial to powder, and trod
what remained of the precious ointment under foot until it was
completely mingled with the mud of the street.
"So we put an end to princes and pomatum," said this irascible
republican, with a laugh of triumph, as he ground the remnants of the
vial under his irreverent heel.
Not quite an end to either, as it proved. The portion of the sacred oil
which M. Seraine had saved was divided into two portions, one kept by
himself, the other placed in the care of Philippe Hourelle, to be kept
until the reign of anarchy should come to an end and a king reign again
in France. And had Citizen Rhul dreamed of all that lay in the future
every hair on his democratic head would have stood erect in horror and
dismay.
In truth, not many years had passed before the age of princes came again
to France, and a demand for St. Remy's vial arose, Napoleon was to be
crowned emperor at Notre Dame. Little did this usurper of royalty care
for the holy oil, but there were those around him with more reverence
for the past, men who would have greatly liked to act as knights of the
Sainte Ampoule. But the unguent was not forthcoming, and the emperor was
crowned without its aid.
Then came the end of the imperial dynasty, and the return of the
Bourbons. To them the precious ointment was an important essential of
legitimate kingship. Could St. Remy's vial be found, or had it and its
contents vanished in the whirlpool of the Revolution? That was to be
learned. A worthy magistrate of Rheims, Monsieur de Chevrières, took in
hand the task of discovery. He searched diligently but unsuccessfully,
until one day, in the early months of 1819, when three gentlemen, sons
of Philippe Hourelle, called upon him, and told the story which we have
just transcribed. A portion of the holy oil of coronation, they
declared, had been in their father's care, preserved and transmitted
through M. Seraine's wit and promptitude. Their father was dead, but he
had left it to his widow, who long kept it as a priceless treasure. They
were interrupted at this point in their story by M. de Chevrières.
"This is fortunate," he exclaimed. "She must pass it over to me. Her
name will become historic for her loyal spirit."
"I wish she could," said one of the visitors. "But, alas! it is lost.
Our house was plundered during the invasion, and among other things
taken was this precious relic. It is irretrievably gone."
That seemed to end the matter; but not so, there was more of the
consecration oil in existence than could have been imagined. The visit
of the Hourelles was followed after an interval by a call from a Judge
Lecomte, who brought what he affirmed was a portion of the holy ointment
which had been given him by the widow Hourelle. Unluckily, it was of
microscopic dimensions, far from enough to impart the full flavor of
kingship to his majesty Louis XVIII.
It seemed as if this worthy monarch of the Restoration would have to
wear his crown without anointment, when, fortunately, a new and
interesting item of news was made public. It was declared by a number of
ecclesiastics that the curé, M. Seraine, had given only a part of the
oil to Philippe Hourelle, and had himself kept the remainder. He had
told them so, but, as it proved, not a man of them all knew what he had
done with it. He had died, and the secret with him. Months passed away;
spring vanished; summer came; then new tidings bloomed. A priest of
Berry-au-Bac, M. Bouré by name, sought M. de Chevrières, and gladdened
his heart with the announcement that the missing relic was in his
possession, having been consigned to him by M. Seraine. It was rendered
doubly precious by being wrapped in a portion of the winding sheet of
the blessed St. Remy himself.
Nor was this all. Within a week another portion of the lost treasure was
brought forward. It had been preserved in a manner almost miraculous.
Its possessor was a gentleman named M. Champagne Provotian, who had the
following interesting story to tell. He had, a quarter of a century
before, in 1793, been standing near Citizen Rhul when that scion of the
Revolution destroyed the vial of St. Remy, at the foot of the statue of
Louis XV., in front of the Cathedral of Rheims. When he struck the vial
he did so with such force that fragments of it flew right and left, some
of them falling on the coat-sleeve of the young man beside him, M.
Champagne. These he dexterously concealed from the iconoclastic citizen,
took home, and preserved. He now produced them.
Here were three separate portions of the precious ointment. A commission
was appointed to examine them. They were pronounced genuine, oil and
glass alike. Enough had been saved to crown a king.
"There is nothing now to obstruct the coronation of your Majesty," said
an officer of the court to Louis XVIII.
His majesty laughed incredulously. He was an unbeliever as regarded
legend and a democrat as regarded ceremony, and gave the gentleman to
understand that he was content to reign without being anointed.
"What shall be done with the ointment?" asked the disappointed official.
"Lock it up in the vestry and say no more about it," replied the king.
This was done, and the precious relics were restored to the tomb of St.
Remy, whence they originally came; being placed there in a silver
reliquary lined with white silk, and enclosed in a metal case, with
three locks. And there they lay till 1825, when a new king came to the
throne, in the person of Charles X.
Now, for the last time, the old ceremony was revived, the knights of the
Sainte Ampoule being created, and their office duly performed. With such
dignity as he could assume and such grandeur as he could display,
Charles entered the choir of the cathedral and advanced to the grand
altar, at whose foot he knelt. On rising, he was led to the centre of
the sanctuary, and took his seat in a throne-like chair, placed there to
receive him. In a semi-circle round him stood a richly-dressed group of
nobles and courtiers.
Then came forward in stately procession the chevaliers of the Sainte
Ampoule, bearing the minute remnants of that sacred oil which was
claimed to have been first used in the anointing of Clovis, thirteen
hundred years before. An imposing group of churchmen stood ready to
receive the ointment, including three prelates, an archbishop, and two
bishops. These dignitaries carried the precious relic to the high altar,
consecrated it, and anointed the king with a solemn ceremony highly
edifying to the observers, and greatly gratifying to the vanity of the
new monarch.
It cannot be said that this ceremonious proceeding appealed to the
people of France. It was the nineteenth century, and the Revolution lay
between the new and the old age. All men of wit laughed at the pompous
affair, and five years afterwards the people of Paris dispensed with
Charles X. as their king, despite the flavor of coronation that hung
about him. The dynasty of the Bourbons was at an end, and the knights of
the Saint Ampoule had been created for the last time.
In conclusion, there is a story connected with the coronation ceremony
which may be of interest. Legend or history tells us that at one time
the English took the city of Rheims, plundered it, and, as part of their
plunder, carried off the Saint Ampoule, which their desecrating hands
had stolen from the tomb of St. Remy. The people of the suburb of Chène
la Populeux pursued the invaders, fell upon them and recovered this
precious treasure. From that time, in memory of their deed, the
inhabitants of Chène claimed the right to walk in the procession of the
Sainte Ampoule, and to fall heir to the horse ridden by the Grand Prior.
This horse was furnished by the government, and was claimed by the prior
as the property of the abbey, in recompense for his services. He denied
the claim of the people of Chène, said that their story was a fable, and
that at the best they were but low-born rogues. As a result of all this,
hot blood existed between the rival claimants to the white horse of the
coronation.
At the crowning of Louis XIV. the monks and the people of Chène came to
blows, in support of their respective claims. The villagers pulled the
prior from his horse, pummelled the monks who came to his aid, thrashed
the knights out of every semblance of dignity, tore the canopy into
shreds, and led off the white horse in triumph. Law followed blows; the
cost of a dozen horses was wasted on the lawyers; in the end the monks
won, and the people of Chène had to restore the four-footed prize to the
prior.
At the subsequent coronations of Louis XV. and Louis XVI. they renewed
their claim, and violence was again threatened. The trouble was overcome
by special decrees, which prohibited the people of Chène from meddling
with the claim of the prior. By the time of the coronation of Charles
X., all such mediæval folly was at an end, and the stately old ceremony
had become a matter of popular ridicule.
The story of the Sainte Ampoule is not without its interest in showing
the growth of ideas. At the end of the ninth century, a bishop could
gravely state, and a nation unquestionably accept his statement, that a
dove had flown down from heaven bearing a vial of holy oil for the
anointment of its kings. At the end of the nineteenth century the same
nation has lost its last vestige of reverence for the "divinity which
doth hedge a king," and has no longer any use for divinely-commissioned
potentates or heaven-sent ointments.
_THE FLIGHT OF THE KING._
At midnight of the 22d of June, 1791, a heavy and lumbering carriage
rolled slowly into the town of Varennes, situated in the department of
Meuse, in northeastern France. It had set out from Paris at an early
hour of the preceding day, and had now left that turbulent capital more
than a hundred and fifty miles behind it, pursuing a direct route
towards the nearest frontier of the kingdom.
There were in this clumsy vehicle several plainly-dressed ladies, a man
attired as a servant, and a half-grown boy. They all seemed in the best
of spirits, and felicitated themselves on having come so far without
question or obstruction. As they neared Varennes, however, an alarming
sound was borne on the midnight air to their ears,--that of a clanging
bell, ringing quickly, as if in alarm. They entered the town and drove
to the post-house.
"Let us have horses at once," was the demand of the outriders; "we must
go forward without delay."
"There are no horses ready," was the reply. "Have you your passports?"
The papers were presented and taken to M. Sausse, the public officer of
the commune, a timid little shop-keeper, sadly incompetent to deal with
any matter that needed bold decision. He cast his eye over the
passports, which shook in his trembling hand. Yet they appeared to be
all right, being made out in the name of Baron Korf, the man in the
carriage being named as a valet de chambre to the baron.
But the disturbed little commune officer knew better than that. A young
man named Drouet, son of the postmaster at St. Menehould, had, a
half-hour or so before, ridden at furious speed into the town, giving
startling information to such of the citizens as he found awake. There
quickly followed that ringing of the alarm-bell which had pealed trouble
into the ears of the approaching travellers.
M. Sausse approached the carriage, and bowed with the deepest respect
before the seeming servant within.
"Will you not enter my house?" he asked. "There is a rumor abroad that
we are so fortunate as to have our king in our midst. If you remain in
the carriage, while the municipal authorities are in council, your
Majesty might be exposed to insult."
The secret was out; it was the king of France who was thus masquerading
in the dress of a lackey and speeding with all haste towards the
frontier. The town was alarmed: a group of armed men stood at the
shopkeeper's door as the traveller entered; some of them told him rudely
that they knew him to be the king.
"If you recognize him," sharply answered the lady who followed, "speak
to him with the respect you owe your king."
It was Marie Antoinette, though her dress was rather that of a
waiting-maid than a queen. The ladies who followed her were Madame
Elizabeth, the princess, and the governess of the royal children. The
boy was the dauphin of France.
This flight had been undertaken under the management of General Bouillé,
who had done all in his power to make it successful, by stationing
relays of soldiers along the road, procuring passports, and other
necessary details. But those intrusted with its execution had, aside
from keeping the project a secret, clumsily managed its details. The
carriage procured was of great size, and loaded like a furniture van
with luggage. There was a day's delay in the start. Even the setting out
was awkwardly managed; the queen leaving the palace on foot, losing her
way, and keeping her companions perilously waiting. The detachments of
troops on the road were sure to attract attention. Careful precautions
for the defeat of the enterprise seemed to have been taken.
Yet all went well until St. Menehould was reached, though the king was
recognized by more than one person on the road. "We passed through the
large town of Châlons-sur-Marne," wrote the young princess, "where we
were quite recognized. Many people praised God at seeing the king, and
made vows for his escape."
All France had not yet reached the republican virulence of Paris. "All
goes well, François," said the queen in a glad tone to Valory, her
courier. "If we were to have been stopped, it would have taken place
already."
At St. Menehould, however, they found the people in a different temper.
The king was recognized, and though his carriage was not stopped, a
detachment of dragoons, who had followed him at a distance, was not
suffered to proceed, the people cutting the girths of the horses. Young
Drouet, of whom we have already spoken, sprang on horseback and rode
hurriedly on towards Varennes, preceding the carriage.
The soldiers who had been posted at Varennes were in no condition to
assist the king. The son of Marquis Bouillé, who had accompanied the
royal party, found them helplessly intoxicated, and rode off at full
speed to inform his father of the alarming condition of affairs.
Meanwhile, the king, who had taken refuge in the shop of the grocer
Sausse, awaited the municipal authorities in no small perturbation of
spirits. They presented themselves at length before him, bowing with
great show of respect, and humbly asking his orders.
"Have the horses put to my carriage without delay," he said, with no
further attempt at concealment, "that I may start for Montmédy."
They continued respectful, but were provided with various reasons why
they could not obey: the horses were at a distance; those in the stables
were not in condition to travel; pretext after pretext was advanced for
delay. In truth, no pretext was needed; the adjoining street was filled
with armed revolutionists, and in no case would the carriage have been
suffered to proceed.
As daybreak approached a detachment of dragoons rode into the town. They
were those who had been posted near Châlons, and who had ridden on
towards Montmédy after the king's passage. Missing him, they had
returned. Choiseul, their commander, pushed through the people and
entered the shop.
"You are environed here," he said to the king. "We are not strong enough
to take the carriage through; but if you will mount on horseback we can
force a passage through the crowd."
"If I were alone I should try it," said Louis. "I cannot do it as
matters stand. I am waiting for daylight; they do not refuse to let me
go on; moreover, M. de Bouillé will soon be here."
He did not recognize the danger of delay. The crowd in the streets was
increasing; the bridge was barricaded; the authorities had sent a
messenger in haste to Paris to tell what had happened and ask orders
from the National Assembly.
"Tell M. de Bouillé that I am a prisoner," said the king to Captain
Deslon, the commander of a detachment, who had just reached him. "I
suspect that he cannot do anything for me, but I desire him to do what
he can."
The queen meanwhile was urgently entreating Madame Sausse to use her
influence with her husband and procure an order for the king's release.
She found the good woman by no means inclined to favor her.
"You are thinking of the king," she said; "I am thinking of M. Sausse;
each is for her own husband."
By this time the throng in the streets was growing impatient and
violent. "To Paris! to Paris!" shouted the people. The king grew
frightened. Bouillé had failed to appear. There was no indication of his
approach. The excitement grew momentarily greater.
During this anxious interval two officers rode rapidly up on the road
from Paris, and presented themselves before the king. They were
aides-de-camp of General Lafayette, commander of the National Guard. One
of them, Romeuf by name, handed Louis a decree of the assembly ordering
pursuit and return of the king. It cited an act which forbade any public
functionary to remove himself more than twenty leagues from his post.
"I never sanctioned that," cried the king, angrily, flinging the paper
on the bed where the dauphin lay.
The queen snatched it up hastily, exclaiming that the bed of her
children should not be soiled by such a document.
"Madame," said Romeuf, warningly, "do you wish that other eyes than mine
should witness your anger?"
The queen blushed, and recovered with an effort the composure which she
had suffered herself to lose.
A messenger now arrived from Bouillé bringing word that the detachments
he had posted were moving towards Varennes, and that he himself was on
the way thither. But the tumult in the streets had grown hour by hour;
the people were becoming furious at the delay; it seemed certain that
the arrival of the troops would be the signal for a battle with the
armed populace, who had strongly barricaded the town. Utterly
disheartened, the king gave orders for the carriage; he had decided to
return to Paris.
An hour afterwards Bouillé, breathless from a long and hurried ride,
arrived within sight of Varennes. Its barricades met his eyes. He was
told that the king had set out on his return an hour before. The game
was up; Louis had lost his last hope of escape; the loyal general took
the road for Stenay, and that same evening crossed the French frontier.
The king's carriage made its way back to Paris through a throng that
lined the roads, and which became dense when the city was reached. The
National Guards held their arms reversed; none of the spectators
uncovered their heads; the flight of the king had put an end to his
authority and to the respect of the people. It was a sad procession that
slowly made its way, in the evening light, along the boulevards towards
the Tuileries. When the king and queen entered the palace the doors
were closed behind them, and armed guards stationed to prevent egress.
The palace had become a prison; Louis XVI. had ceased to reign; the
National Assembly was now the governing power in France.
What followed a few words may tell. In the succeeding year the Reign of
Terror began, and Louis was taken from the Tuileries to the Temple, a
true prison. In December he was tried for treason and condemned to
death, and on January 21, 1793, his head fell under the knife of the
guillotine. In October of the same year his unhappy queen shared his
fate.
_THE END OF THE TERROR._
No period of equal length in the whole era of history yields us such a
succession of exciting and startling events as those few years between
the convening of the States-General in France and the rise of Napoleon
to power, and particularly that portion of the Revolution known as the
Reign of Terror. A volume of thrilling stories might have been made from
its incidents alone; but it would have been a volume so full of tales of
blood and woe, of misery and massacre, of the dominance of those
wild-beast passions which civilization seeks to subdue in man, that we
may well be spared the telling. As with the fall of the Bastille began
the long dominion of the populace, so with the fall of Robespierre it
ended, and civil order returned to unhappy France. We have told the
story of the one; we shall conclude with that of the other.
Three men dominated the Terror,--Danton, Marat, and Robespierre; the
first named best deserving the title of man, for he possessed certain
qualities of manliness not shown by his brutal colleagues. As Lamartine
says, "Nothing was wanting to make Danton a great man except virtue." He
had too much manliness, as it seems, for the purposes of Robespierre,
and was brought by him to the guillotine on April 5, 1794.