It was the 21st of July, 1794 (2d Thermidor, year II.); I was on my way
to the Luxembourg at half past seven o'clock in the evening, to carry
to Madame de Noailles a bundle containing some wearing apparel. When I
reached the lower end of the Rue de Tournon, I saw in front of the door
of that prison a great mob of men and women, which made me feel very
anxious. I deposited my bundle in a shop on that street where a young
woman stayed who was the friend of Madame la Duchesse d'Ayen's
waiting-woman, and went on toward the prison.
When I came among the crowd I had no difficulty in discovering what was
going on, particularly when I saw a great open wagon with benches
fastened along the sides. I knew at once that it was there to receive
the prisoners who were to be transferred to the Conciergerie to be
beheaded the next day; this thought made me shiver. I had a
presentiment that the ladies in whom I was interested would be among
the victims. I was anxious to see the prisoners taken away, and
approached the door as nearly as I possibly could. A turnkey came out,
and perceiving me said, 'Go away; they are coming.'
I did not go away. I thought it would be the last time I should ever
see those ladies, and this sad thought rooted me to the spot. The
turnkey went in again. A little while after the door opened and the
prisoners appeared, preceded by two gendarmes. Madame la Vicomtesse de
Noailles was the first of the ladies to come out. She passed very near
me, took my hand and pressed it affectionately. The gendarme who walked
beside her assisted her to get into the wagon. Madame d'Ayen and Madame
la Maréchale got in immediately after her. One of the gendarmes had
seen Madame de Noailles give me her hand. Then five or six other ladies
got in and as many men as it would hold. I moved away and tried to
conceal myself in the crowd. Madame de Noailles still saw me, however,
for the wagon had not yet started. As it would not hold all the
prisoners, about fifteen of them followed on foot, escorted by
gendarmes. While all the preparations for this transfer were being
made, Madame de Noailles, who again recognized me, clasped her hands,
made me a sign to pray and that she was praying. A moment afterward she
lifted her head, and pointing with one finger to heaven she gave me her
blessing. The crowd wondered to whom her gestures were addressed; and I
gazed as others did, trying to act just as though they were not
addressed to me. Madame de Noailles apprised her mother that I was near
the wagon. Madame d'Ayen bowed and kissed her hand to me several times.
I could not take any notice of this; such gestures alone would have
been more than sufficient to compromise me.
At last, after half an hour spent in preparation, the wagon started and
went down the Rue de Condé. I followed it as far as the Conciergerie.
About midway this street, in a part of it which is very narrow, I could
almost touch at the same time both the houses at the side and the
wagon. Madame de Noailles, who never lost sight of me, gave me her
blessing three times,--one for each of her children. I continued to
follow the wagon as I would have followed the funeral procession of
persons whose death was to plunge so many families into such terrible
grief.
As I was crossing the Pont Neuf, the wagon being not far off and just
turning round the Quai des Lunettes, a gendarme called out behind me,
'I arrest you; I know you.' I did not give him a chance to arrest me
but ran along the Quai des Lunettes. The gendarme followed me; I ran
down the Rue de Harlay, which crosses the Island of the Palace. The
gendarme was far behind me crying, 'Stop him!' It was eight
o'clock,--just the hour when the workmen were leaving their shops. They
thought I was a prisoner escaping; several tried to stop me, but I kept
them off with my cane. On reaching the Quai des Orfèvres I fell, and
was seized by two workmen; the gendarme over-took me, and I made no
further effort to escape. A man came up who said he was a justice of
the peace, and inquired of the gendarme why he had arrested me. The
gendarme replied that I was intriguing with the prisoners. I thought it
useless to attempt to defend myself. As the gendarme was taking me to
the prefecture of police, I saw some distance off Madame de Noailles
and the other prisoners going into the prison of the Conciergerie.
I was put into a dungeon where there was a small window, which admitted
only a few rays of light. I took advantage of this to destroy some
papers which would have been sufficient to compromise me. Fortunately I
preserved my _carte de sûreté_, which I had only had a few days. I had
just torn up and destroyed the papers, part of which I swallowed, when
the door opened and showed me a jailer, who ordered me in menacing
tones to follow him. After having led me through some dark corridors he
shut me in a very small dungeon, secured by an iron door, through which
no light could penetrate. This dungeon was circular in form and
extremely small. There was a stone bench against the wall. As I entered
I had seen by the light of the lamp carried by the jailer something on
the floor which sparkled. When the dungeon door was closed on me I was
in total darkness. I felt around to find out what had occasioned the
flashes of light to which I have referred. I found that they proceeded
from some bits of glass which were on the edge of a very small opening
made in the wall. I seated myself on the stone bench and began to
reflect on my situation, on that of Mesdames de Noailles, whom I had
just seen for the last time, and on that of their poor children, who
were waiting for me before going to their evening meal. Then I realized
all the horrors of my situation. And when I thought of all that was to
take place the next day, I fell on my knees and prayed to God with all
the fervour of which I was capable. I implored him to accept the
sacrifice of my life in expiation of my sins; for I expected to perish
the next day. But what would become of those three children? What
terrible grief it would be to their mother and grandmother to see me
condemned with them! 'My God,' I prayed, 'have mercy on the children,
have mercy on their mothers, and have mercy on me!'
I was utterly overcome by these sad reflections when the door opened
with a loud noise. I rose suddenly, not knowing what might be going to
happen. There was the jailer again, with his lantern, and an officer of
the gendarmerie was with him. 'Have you your _carte_?' said the latter
to me. I answered that I had. 'Give it to me.' 'Will you allow me,'
said I, as I handed it to him, 'to tell you what took place, and why I
am here?' 'Yes, you may tell me.' I related in a few words how I had
happened by chance to be in front of the prison of the Luxembourg when
the prisoners who were to be taken to the Conciergerie came out; that
one of them, as she passed very near me, recognized me and pressed my
hand, but that she did not speak a single word to me, nor did I to her;
and that this was all that passed. After listening to me attentively he
went away, and took my _carte_ with him; but he had me put into more
comfortable quarters.
My anxiety increased when I saw that he had carried off my _carte_, for
it contained my address; and I was sure that they would go immediately
to the Hôtel Noailles-Mouchy, on the Rue de l'Université, where my
pupils Alfred and Alexis were. 'They will search all over the Hôtel,'
said I to myself. 'They will find the whole of my correspondence with
Madame de Noailles during her imprisonment; and as there are many
things in those letters which are covertly expressed, they will be sure
to find in them all sorts of intrigues relative to the conspiracy of
the Luxembourg, about which the Republicans and Revolutionary judges
are already making so much noise.' It is true that I had taken great
care to conceal this correspondence. I had confided to Alexis the
secret of the place where I had locked it up, and had charged him to
put it out of sight if he should see the commissioners or any strangers
coming to the Hôtel. We occupied the apartment of their father, the
Vicomte de Noailles, the windows of which looked out into the street,
in front of the main entrance. Though this thought somewhat reassured
me, my anxiety continued, and the more so as the officer did not
return, and it was now very late. I no longer doubted that he had been
to pay a visit to the Hôtel Mouchy. 'But even if he should find
nothing,' said I to myself, 'can any one ever escape who has once
fallen into their hands?'
Such was the state of my anxiety when the officer returned and said
these few words which I shall never forget. 'Here is your _carte_. Now
go; and another time do not come so near.' I did not wait for him to
say anything more. I took my _carte_, my cane, and the other things
which had not been left with me were returned, and I was free!
I experienced a feeling of delight at being liberated contrary to my
expectation; but this sweet content was only momentary. I thought of
Mesdames de Noailles, whom I had left as it were in the ante-chamber of
death. I could think of nothing else; at least they would not suffer
the pain of seeing me share their fate on the morrow, and of thinking
that their children were left without any one to care for them.
'Religion will come to their aid,' I thought; 'but what a struggle they
will have to go through.' I gave thanks to God, and implored him to
come to their help in this moment so full of horror to human creatures;
and still praying as I went, I reached the Hôtel Mouchy. It was eleven
o'clock. The children had not gone to bed; they were waiting for me.
They asked me a great many questions, and told me that they had been
very much frightened when I did not return. I told them that I had had
a great many things to attend to which had caused me most unwillingly
to delay; that I had been very much occupied; that I could not tell
them then all that had happened to me because it was too late, but that
I would tell them all about it the next day. We then said our prayers
together and went to bed. 'At least,' said I to myself, 'they shall
pass this night in peace; the next will be cruel and bitter enough.'
The next day (the 22d of July), while the children were still asleep, I
went very early to the Rue des Sts. Pères, to see Père Brun, to tell
him that the Mesdames de Noailles were at the Conciergerie to be tried,
and would very probably be condemned to death that very day, and to beg
him to keep the promise he had made me, which was to try to meet them
as they passed from the prison to the extreme end of the Faubourg St.
Antoine, as this was the only consolation they could now have in this
world. He promised me he would not fail to be there. Whenever he could,
this good priest exercised this act of charity toward the victims. He
would accompany them, praying as he went, to the foot of the scaffold,
and there give them the last absolution. After the deed was done he
would return to his house, still praying, but with an aching heart.
Father Brun was a father of the Oratory. We had lived together at
Juilly, where we had charge of the Pensioners called _Minimes_, because
they were the youngest and the smallest. He was for a short time the
curate of the parish of Juilly. Madame la Vicomtesse de Noailles, whose
children, Alexis and Alfred, were in our hall, had corresponded with
him for almost a year. She had great confidence in him, and he deserved
it on account of his piety and his tender care of her children.
I returned to the Hôtel Mouchy. It was almost six o'clock. I awakened
the children, and told them that we were going to see their sister
Euphémie at St. Mandé, which pleased them very much. They never
suspected the terrible tidings I had to tell them till we came to the
end of our walk.[13]
-----
Footnote 13:
A copy of this account was sent, May 21, 1850, to Madame la Marquise
de Vérac by Monsieur Gérin, Monsieur Grelet's testamentary executor,
and was declared by him to agree in every respect with the original
from the hand of Monsieur Grelet.
NARRATIVE OF AN EYE-WITNESS OF
THE AFFAIR OF JULY 22, 1794.
(M. CARRICHON, Priest.)
Madame la Maréchale de Noailles, her daughter-in-law, the Duchesse
d'Ayen, and her granddaughter, the Vicomtesse de Noailles, were
detained in their Hôtel from the month of September, 1793, until April,
1794. I knew the first by sight, and was better acquainted with the
other two, whom I was accustomed to visit once a week.
The Terror was increasing, with its attendant crimes, and the victims
were becoming more numerous. One day when we were speaking of this, and
were exhorting each other to prepare to be among their number, I said
to them with a sort of presentiment, 'If you go to the guillotine, and
God gives me the strength, I will accompany you.' They took me at my
word, adding with eagerness, 'Do you promise it?' I hesitated a moment.
'Yes,' I replied, 'and that you may be certain to recognize me I will
wear a dark blue coat and a red waistcoat.'
After that they often reminded me of my promise. In the month of April,
the week after Easter, I believe, they were conducted to the
Luxembourg. I often received news of them through Monsieur Grelet, who
with such delicate faithfulness rendered many services to them and to
their children.
My promise was frequently recalled. On the 26th or 27th, a Thursday or
a Friday, he came and begged me to render to the Maréchal de Mouchy and
his wife the service which I had promised to them.
I went to the Palace and succeeded in making my way into the courtyard;
I then had them under my eyes, and quite near me, for more than a
quarter of an hour. Monsieur and Madame de Mouchy, whom I had seen at
their house only once, and whom I knew better than they knew me, could
not recognize me. By inspiration, and with the aid of God, I did what I
could for them. The Maréchal's conduct was singularly edifying; he
prayed aloud with great fervour. The evening before, on leaving the
Luxembourg, he had said to those who regarded him with interest: 'At
seventeen I went up to the assault for my king; at seventy-eight I go
to the scaffold for my God; my friends, I am not unhappy.'
I avoid details which would lead me on to endless length. That day I
believed it to be useless to attempt anything; and, indeed, I did not
feel myself able to go and accompany them to the guillotine. I was much
disturbed by this on account of the special promise made to their
relatives, whom their death plunged into affliction. They were
incarcerated in the same prison, and had done much to console the
Maréchal de Mouchy and his wife.
How much might I say of all the many departures which preceded or
followed that of the 22d of July!--departures, peaceful or wretched,
according to the dispositions of those who departed. Terribly sad they
were, even when the known character and all external signs denoted
Christian resignation and a Christian death, but exceedingly
distressing when the contrary was the case, and when the condemned
appeared, as it were, to pass from a hell in this world to that of the
other world.
On the 22d of July, which was Tuesday, I was at my house between eight
and ten o'clock in the morning. I was just on the point of going out
when I heard a knock on my door; I opened it and saw the children of
the house of Noailles and their tutor. The children had the gayety
natural to their age,--gayety which was to be changed to sadness by the
losses they were about to undergo, and the fear of experiencing still
others. They were going to walk.
The tutor, sad and melancholy, was pale and troubled. 'Let us go into
your chamber,' said he, 'and leave the children in your study.' We went
into the chamber; he cast himself into a chair. 'It is all over, my
friend; the ladies are before the Revolutionary tribunal. I have come
to summon you to keep your word. I am to take the children to
Vincennes, and there see little Euphémie. In the park I will prepare
the poor children for their terrible loss.'
Prepared as I was myself for this dreadful blow, I was overwhelmed. The
frightful situation of the mothers, of the children, of their worthy
tutor, this gayety to be followed by such depth of sorrow, the little
sister, Euphémie, then about four years old,--all this arose before my
imagination.
I recovered myself; and after some inquiries, replies, and other sad
details, I said, 'I will now change my dress. What an errand! Pray to
God that he may give me the strength to execute it.'
We arose and went out into the study, where we found the children
amusing themselves innocently, gay and contented as could be. The sight
of them, the thought of their ignorance, and of what they were about to
learn, the interview with their sister which would follow, and that
which we had just gone through, made the contrast more striking, and
afflicted the heart.
Left alone after their departure, I felt myself overwhelmed and
wearied. 'My God,' I cried, 'have pity upon them and upon me!' I
changed my clothes and went upon certain errands, carrying in my heart
a crushing weight.
I went to the palace between one o'clock and two, and tried to enter;
it was impossible. I got some news from one who was coming out of the
Court. I still doubted the reality of what he told me. The illusion of
hope was finally destroyed by what he went on to say, and I could no
longer have any doubts.
I renewed my walk. It took me to the Faubourg St. Antoine, and with
what thoughts, what inward agitation, what secret fear, all joined to a
violent headache!
I consulted a person in whom I had confidence. She encouraged me in the
name of God. I took a little coffee at her house, and felt my head
improved. I returned to the palace with slow steps, pensive and
irresolute, dreading to reach the fatal spot, and hoping that I might
not find those who summoned me there.
I arrived before five o'clock. Nothing indicated the departure of the
prisoners. I went sadly up the steps of the Sainte-Chapelle; I walked
in and around the great hall, I sat down, I rose again, I spoke to no
one. I concealed within me the sorrow which was preying upon me. From
time to time I cast a sad glance toward the courtyard, to see if any
preparations for the procession were being made.
My continual thought was, 'In two hours, in one hour, they will be no
more.' I cannot express how this idea, which has afflicted me all my
life in the too frequent and distressing occasions in which it has been
recalled, afflicted me at that time. With so dreadful a cause of
waiting, never did an hour appear to me at once so long and so short as
that which I passed from five o'clock to six, by reason of the various
thoughts which agitated me, and which rapidly drove my mind from the
illusions of a vain hope to fears unhappily only too real.
Finally, by the noise which came to my ears, I judged that the prison
doors were about to be opened. I went down and took a position near the
gate, as for a fortnight it had no longer been possible to obtain
entrance into the courtyard.
The first cart was filled and came toward where I stood. It contained
eight ladies who seemed in a very edifying frame of mind; they were
unknown to me. The ninth and last, to whom I was very near, was the
Maréchale de Noailles. The absence of her daughter-in-law and
granddaughter gave me one last faint ray of hope. But alas! they
immediately entered the second cart. Madame de Noailles was dressed in
white, which she had not ceased wearing since the death of her
father-in-law and mother-in-law, the Maréchal de Mouchy and his wife.
She appeared about twenty-four years old at the most. Madame d'Ayen, a
lady of forty years, was in a striped _déshabillé_ of blue and white. I
saw them, though at a little distance. Six men also got into the fatal
car and took their places near them. I remarked that the first two took
their stand at a little distance from the others, showing them by this
respectful attention that they desired to leave them more free. From
this I drew good auguries.
Scarcely had they taken their places when the daughter exhibited toward
the mother an eager and tender interest, which was remarked by all the
bystanders. I heard them saying near me, 'Do you see how agitated that
young lady is, and how she talks to the other one?'
I saw that they were looking for me. I seemed to hear all that they
said. 'Mamma, he is not there.'
'Look again.'
'Nothing escapes me, I assure you, Mamma; he is not there.'
They forgot that I had sent word to them of the impossibility of
getting into the courtyard.
The first cart stood near me at least a quarter of an hour. It came
forward first. The second was about to pass, and I stood ready. It
passed, and the ladies did not see me. I went back into the palace,
made a long circuit, and placed myself in a conspicuous position at the
entrance of the Pont au Change. Madame de Noailles looked around on
every side, but passed by without seeing me. I followed them along the
bridge, separated from the crowd, and yet quite near them. Madame de
Noailles, though constantly looking for me, did not perceive me.
Distress was painted upon the face of Madame d'Ayen; her daughter
redoubled her watchfulness but without success. I was tempted to give
up. I had done what I could, I said to myself, and everywhere else the
crowd would be still greater. It was of no use, and I was tired. I was
about to go away, when the sky was covered over, thunder was heard in
the distance, and I resolved to make another trial.
By roundabout ways I arrived before the carts did in the Rue St.
Antoine beyond the Rue de Fourcy, almost opposite the too famous prison
of La Force. Then a violent wind arose. The storm burst; flashes of
lightning and peals of thunder succeeded each other rapidly. The rain
began, and soon fell in torrents. I withdrew to the doorway of a shop
which I still vividly remember, and which I never since then see
without emotion. In an instant the street was cleared; there were no
more people, save at the doors, in the shops, and at the windows. There
was more order in the marching. The horsemen and musketeers advanced
more quickly, and the carts also. They reached the little St. Antoine,
and I was still undecided. The first cart passed before me. A rapid and
almost involuntary movement brought me from the shop door and to the
second cart; and there I was alone, quite near the ladies. Madame de
Noailles, smiling, seemed to say to me, 'Here you are at last; ah, how
comforted we are! We have sought for you eagerly. Mamma, here he is.'
Madame d'Ayen revived. All my irresolution ceased; I felt myself
inspired by the grace of God with extraordinary courage. Though wet
through with perspiration and rain I took no thought of it, but
continued to walk near them. Upon the steps of the College St. Louis I
perceived a friend, full of respect and attachment for them,
endeavouring to render them the same service as that which I was
offering them.[14] His face and attitude showed all that he felt upon
seeing them. I struck my hand upon his shoulder with inexpressible
emotion, and cried to him as I passed by, 'Good evening, my friend.'
At this point there is an open place, and several streets enter into
it. The storm was at its height, and the wind had grown more violent.
The ladies in the first wagon were much disturbed by it, especially the
Maréchale de Noailles; her large cap was thrown back, and showed her
gray hair. They tottered upon their rough plank seats, their hands
being tied behind their backs. Immediately a crowd of men, who were
there in spite of the rain, recognized her, paid attention only to her,
and by their insulting cries increased the tortures which she was
supporting with patience. 'There she is,' they cried, 'the Maréchale
who went in such style, driving in her fine carriage,--there she is in
the cart, just like the others!'
The cries continued; the heavens grew darker and the rain more violent.
We reached the street crossing just in front of the Faubourg St.
Antoine. I went forward, looked around, and said to myself, this is the
best place to afford them what they so much desire. The cart was going
more slowly; I stopped and turned toward them. I made a sign to Madame
de Noailles which she entirely understood: 'Mamma, Monsieur Carrichon
is about to give us absolution.' Immediately they bent their heads with
an air of repentance, contrition, tenderness, hope, and piety.
I raised my hand, and, though with covered head, pronounced the entire
formula of absolution, and the words which follow it, very distinctly,
and with the deepest earnestness. They joined in this more perfectly
than ever. I can never forget the holy picture, worthy of the pencil of
Raphael, of that moment when, for them, all was balm and consolation.
Immediately the storm relaxed and the rain diminished. It was as if
they had come only to insure the success of what my friends and I had
so ardently desired. I blessed God for it, and they did the same. Their
appearance showed contentment, security, and cheerfulness.
As we advanced into the Faubourg the eager crowds fell back upon the
two sides of the street. They insulted the first ladies, especially the
Maréchale; nothing was said to the other two. Sometimes I preceded and
sometimes I accompanied the wagons. After passing the Abbey de St.
Antoine I met a young man whom I had formerly known; he was a priest
whom I had some reason to suspect, and his presence annoyed me. I was
afraid of being recognized, but happily I was not; he turned aside, and
I did not see him again.
Finally, we arrived at the fatal spot; what went on within me cannot be
described. What a moment! What a separation, what grief for the
husbands, the children, the sisters, the relatives and friends who
should survive them in this vale of tears! 'I see them,' I thought,
'still full of health; they would have been so useful to their
families, and in a moment I shall see them no more. How heart-rending
it is! But what a great comfort to us to see them so resigned!'
The scaffold appears; the carts come to a stop; the guards surround
them; I shudder. A more numerous circle of spectators now is about us;
most of them laugh, and are amused at this heart-breaking spectacle.
Imagine how terrible a situation it was for me, to be in the midst of
such a crowd with my mind agitated by thoughts so different.
While the executioner and his two attendants were assisting the ladies
who were in the first cart to descend, Madame de Noailles's eyes
wandered around in search of me. At last she saw me. And now there was
a repetition of that first ravishing view I had of her. Her expressive
eyes, so sweet, so animated, so heavenly, glanced first up to heaven
and then down to earth, and finally were fixed so intently upon me that
it might have caused me to be remarked if my neighbours had been more
attentive. I pulled my hat down over my eyes, but not so as to prevent
my seeing her. I seemed to hear her say, 'Our sacrifice is made. We
leave our dear ones; but God in his mercy calls us. Our faith is firm.
We shall not forget them when we are in his presence. We give you our
thanks, and send our tenderest farewells to them. Jesus Christ, who
died for us, is our strength. We die in his arms. Farewell! God grant
we may all meet again in heaven. Farewell!'
It is impossible to give any idea of her saintly, earnest gestures;
there was about her an eloquence so touching that those around me said,
'Ah, see that young woman! How resigned she is! See how she raises her
eyes to heaven! See how she is praying! But what good will that do
her?' Then on reflection: 'Oh, those wicked parsons!' Having said their
last farewells they all descended from the wagon.
I was no longer conscious of anything, being at once heart-broken,
grieved, and yet comforted. How I thanked God that I had not delayed
giving them absolution till this moment! If I had waited till just as
they were mounting the scaffold we could not have been so united in the
presence of God to ask and receive this great blessing as we had been
in the other place; and that also was the most undisturbed moment of
the whole route.
I leave the spot where I had been standing. I pass round to the
opposite side while the others are getting out of the wagon. I find
myself in front of the wooden stairway by which they were to mount the
scaffold, and against which a tall, rather fat old man with white hair
and a kindly face was leaning. He looked like a farmer. Near him was a
very resigned-looking woman whom I did not know; next came the
Maréchale de Noailles, just opposite me, dressed in black taffeta. She
had not yet laid aside mourning for the Maréchal. She was seated on a
block of wood or stone which happened to be there, her large eyes
fixed. I did not forget to pray for her as I had done for so many
others, and especially for the Maréchal and Maréchale de Mouchy. All
the others were ranged in two lines on the side facing the Faubourg St.
Antoine.
I looked around for the ladies; I could only see the mother. Her
attitude was that of devotion,--simple, noble, and resigned. Entirely
occupied with the sacrifice she was about to offer to God through the
merits of the Saviour, his divine son, her eyes were closed; she showed
no anxiety, not even as much as when formerly she had had the privilege
of approaching the sacred table. I shall never forget the impression
she made upon me then. I often picture her to myself in that attitude.
God grant that I may profit by it.
The Maréchale de Noailles was the third to mount the altar of
sacrifice. It was necessary to cut away the upper part of the neck of
her dress so as to expose her throat. I felt as if I could not stand
and see it all; yet I wished to drink the cup to the dregs and keep my
word, if only God would grant me strength to keep my senses in the face
of such a terrible sight.
Six ladies passed on after her. Madame d'Ayen was the tenth. She seemed
to me to look pleased that she was to die before her daughter did, and
the daughter glad to die after her mother. When she mounted the
scaffold the chief executioner pulled off her bonnet. As it was
fastened on by a pin which he did not take out, the pain caused by
having her hair dragged out with it was evident in her countenance.
The mother's life was ended. How I grieved to see that young lady,
looking in her white dress even younger than she really was, sweet and
gentle as a little lamb, led to the slaughter. I felt as though I were
present at the martyrdom of one of those holy young virgins represented
in the pictures of the great masters.
The same thing which occurred in her mother's case happened in
hers,--the same oversight as to the pin, the same pain, the same calm,
the same death! How the red blood flowed down from her head and her
throat!
'Now she is happy!' I cried to myself as I saw her body thrown into the
horrible coffin.
May the all-powerful and all-merciful God grant to their family every
blessing they may desire, and that I ask for my own, and bring us all
together with those who have gone before into that abode where there is
no more Revolution, into that country which shall have, as Saint
Augustine says,--
'Truth for its King,
Charity for its Law,
And Eternity for its Duration'.
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Footnote 14:
This friend whom Father Carrichon met was Father Brun, Priest of the
Oratory, jointly with whom I had charge, at Juilly, of the Hall of
the _Minimes_ (the youngest pupils of the College), among whom were
Messieurs Alexis and Alfred de Noailles. I had informed Monsieur Brun
on the same day as Monsieur Carrichon (July 22, 1794) of our
anxieties and our desires for Mesdames de Noailles. These two friends
met in the Rue de Faubourg St. Antoine, accompanied the victims, gave
them their blessing, and did not withdraw until after the completion
of the final sacrifice.--_Note by Monsieur Grelet_.
LETTER FROM MADAME LA DUCHESSE
DE DURAS, Née NOAILLES,
TO MONSIEUR GRELET.
Be of good courage and He shall strengthen your heart,
all ye that hope in the Lord.--Ps. xxxi. 24.
How much you need to apply these sacred words to yourself in the trying
situation in which Providence has placed you! We have already tested
your courage in a most wonderful way; it will not fail you, because it
rests on the law of God, and in him alone you have put your trust. What
would the father and mother of these unfortunate children feel if you
should abandon them? But what am I saying? They will deserve the
continuation of your tender cares on account of their sweetness and
perfect obedience. I love to believe that they will inherit some of the
virtues of the angel whom we mourn. That lovely mother opened her pure
heart to you; you should inculcate in her children all that she valued,
all that she felt. She regarded you as their brother, and treated you
as such. It is as a sister, and also one who shared her confidence,
that I am now speaking to you; for I am not sure of having an
opportunity of telling you with my lips all I think. If Heaven spares
my life it will be a precious moment to me (who could imagine one more
so?) when I find myself once more with you and them, talking together
of our dear lost ones, and encouraging one another to profit by their
admirable examples. We will say to them, 'Be Christians and you will be
faithful to every duty; study human sciences, because they will help
you to be useful to humanity; but above all, and before everything
else, be good.'
I think it is necessary that they should know perfectly well how to
calculate, etc.
I have given up everything; I have ceased to think of anything earthly,
and keep my mind fixed upon heaven. I must close. I am, perhaps,
speaking to you for the last time. I know not what Providence has in
store for me; but whatever it may be I shall never cease to remember
the debt I owe you, which can only be equalled by my confidence in you.