THE FIFTH OF OCTOBER, 1789.
The morning dawned--a windy October morning, surrounding the sun
with thick clouds; so the daylight came late to Paris, as if fearing
to see what had taken place on the streets and squares. The national
guard, summoned together by the alarm-signal of drum-beats and the
clangor of trumpets and horns, collected in the gray morning light,
for a fearful rumor had been spread through Paris the evening
before, and one has whispered to another that tomorrow had been
appointed by the clubs and by the agitators for a second act in the
revolution, and the people are too quiet, they must be roused to new
deeds.
"The people are too quiet," that was the watchword of the 4th of
October, in all the clubs, and it was Marat who had carried it.
On the platform of the Club de Cordeliers, the cry was raised loudly
and hoarsely: "Paris is in danger of folding its hands in its lap,
praying and going to sleep. They must wake out of this state of
lethargy, else the hateful, tyrannical monarchy will revive, and
draw the nightcap so far over the ears of the sleeping capital, that
it will stick as if covered with pitch, and suffer itself to relapse
into bondage. We must awaken Paris, my friends; Paris must not
sleep."
And on the night of the 4th of October, Paris had not slept, for the
agitators had kept it awake. The watch-cry had been: "The bakers
must not bake to-night! Paris must to-morrow morning be without
bread, that the people may open their eyes again and awake. The
bakers must not bake to-night!"
All the clubs had caught up their watch-cry, and their emissaries
had spread it through the whole city, that all the bakers should be
informed that whoever should "open his store in the morning, or give
any other answer than this: 'There is no more meal in Paris; we have
not been able to bake!' will be regarded as a traitor to the
national cause, and as such, will be punished. Be on your guard!"
The bakers had been intimidated by this threat, and had not baked.
When Paris awoke on the morning of the 5th of October, it was
without bread. People lacked their most indispensable article of
food.
At the outset, the women, who received these dreadful tidings at the
bake-shops, returned dumb with horror to their families, to announce
to their households and their hungry children: "There is no bread
to-day! The supply of flour is exhausted! We must starve! There is
no more bread to be had!"
And from the dark abode of the poor, the sad cry sounded out into
the narrow and dirty streets and all the squares, "Paris contains no
bread! Paris must starve!"
The women, the children uttered these cries in wild tones of
despair. The men repeated the words with clinched fists and with
threatening looks: "Paris contains no more bread! Paris must
starve!"
"And do you know why Paris must starve?" croaked out a voice into
the ears of the people who were crowding each other in wild
confusion on the Place de Carrousel.
"Do you know who is the cause of all this misery and want?"
"Tell us, if you know!" cried a rough man's voice.
"Yes, yes, tell us!" shouted other voices. "We want to know!"
"I will tell you," answered the first, in rasping tones; and now
upon the stones, which indicated where the carriage-road crossed the
square, a little, shrunken, broad-shouldered figure, with an
unnaturally large head, and ugly, crafty face, could be seen.
"Marat!" cried some man in the crowd. "Marat!" yelled the cobbler
Simon, who had been since August the friend and admirer of Marat,
and was to be seen everywhere at his side. "Listen, friends, listen!
Marat is going to speak to us; he will tell us how it happens that
Paris has bread no more, and that we shall all have to starve
together! Marat is going to speak!"
"Silence, silence!" scattered men commanded here and there.
"Silence!" ejaculated a gigantic woman, with broad, defiant face,
around which her black hair hung in dishevelled masses, and which
was gathered up in partly-secured knots under her white cap. With
her broad shoulders and her robust arms she forced her way through
the crowd, directing her course toward the place where Marat
was standing, and near him Simon the cobbler, on whose broad
shoulders, as upon a desk, Marat was resting one hand.
"Silence!" cried the giantess. "Marat, the people's friend, is going
to speak! Let us listen, for it will certainly do us good. Marat is
clever and wise, and loves the people!"
Marat's green, blazing eyes fixed themselves upon the gigantic form
of the woman; he shrank back as if an electrical spark had touched
him, and with a wonderful expression of mingled triumph and joy.
"Come nearer, goodwife!" he exclaimed; "let me press your hand, and
bring all the excellent, industrious, well-minded women of Paris to
take Marat, the patriot, by the hand!"
The woman strode to the place where Marat was standing and reached
him her hand. No one in the crowd noticed that this hand of unwonted
delicacy and whiteness did not seem to comport well with the dress
of a vender of vegetables from the market; no one noticed that on
one of the tapering fingers a jewel of no ordinary size glistened.
Marat was the only one to notice it, and while pressing the offered
hand of the woman in his bony fist, he stooped down and whispered in
her ear:
"Monseigneur, take this jewelled ring off, and do not press forward
too much, you might be identified!"
"I be identified!" answered the woman, turning pale. "I do not
understand you, Doctor Marat!"
"But I do," whispered Marat, still more softly, for he saw that
Simon's little sparkling eyes were turned toward the woman with a
look of curiosity. "I understand the Duke Philip d'Orleans very
well. He wants to rouse up the people, but he is unwilling to
compromise his name or his title. And that may be a very good thing.
But you are not to disown yourself before Marat, for Marat is your
very good friend, and will keep your secret honorably."
"What are you whispering about?" shouted Simon. "Why do you not
speak to the people? You were going to tell us why Paris has no
bread, and who is to blame that we must all starve."
"Yes, yes, that is what you were going to tell us!" was shouted on
all sides. "We want to know it."
"Tell us, tell us!" cried the giantess. "Give me your hand once
more, that I may press it in the name of all the women of Paris!"
Marat with an assuring smile reached his great, bony hand to the
woman, who held it in both of her own for a moment, and then
retreated and was lost in the crowd.
But in Marat's hand now blazed the jewelled ring which had a moment
before adorned the large, soft hand of the woman. He, perhaps, did
not know it himself; he paid no attention to it, but turned all his
thoughts to the people who now filled the immense square, and hemmed
him in with thousands upon thousands of blazing eyes.
"You want to know why you have no bread?" snarled he. "You ask why
you starve? Well, my friends and brothers, the answer is an easy one
to give. The baker of France has shut up his storehouse because the
baker's wife has told him to do so, because she hates the people and
wants them to starve! But she does not intend to starve, and so she
has called the baker and the little apprentices to Versailles, where
are her storehouses, guarded by her paid soldiers. What does it
concern her if the people of Paris are miserably perishing? She has
an abundance of bread, for the baker must always keep his store open
for her, and her son eats cake, while your children are starving!
You must always keep demanding that the baker, the baker's wife, and
the whole brood come to Paris and live in your midst, and then you
will see how they keep their flour, and you will then compel them to
give you of their superfluous supplies."
"Yes, we will make her come!" cried Simon the cobbler, with a coarse
laugh. "Up, brothers, up! We must compel the baker and his wife to
open the flour-store to us!"
"Let us go to Versailles!" roared the great woman, who had posted
herself among a group of fishwives. "Come, my friends, let us go to
Versailles, and we will tell the baker's wife that our children have
no bread, while she is giving her apprentices cakes. We will demand
of her that she give our children bread, and if she refuses it, we
will compel her to come with her baker and her whole brood to Paris
and starve with us! Come, let us go to Versailles!"
"Yes, yes, let us go to Versailles!" was the hideous cry which
echoed across the square; "the baker's wife shall give us bread!"
"She keeps the keys to the stores!" howled Marat, "she prevents the
baker opening them."
"She shall give us the keys!" yelled the great woman.
"All the mothers and all the women of Paris must go to Versailles to
the baker's wife!"
"All mothers, all women to Versailles!" resounded in a thousand-
voiced chorus over the square, and then through the streets, and
then into the houses.
And all the mothers and wives caught up these thundering cries,
which came to them like unseen voices from the air, commissioning
them to engage in a noble, an exalted mission, calling to them to
save Paris and procure bread for their children.
"To Versailles, to Versailles! All mothers and women to Versailles!"
Who was able to resist obeying this command, which no one had given,
which was heard by no single ear, yet was intelligible to every
heart--who could resist it?
The men had stormed the Bastile, the women must storm the heart of
the baker's wife in Versailles, till it yield and give to the
children of the poor the bread for which they hunger.
"Up, to Versailles! All wives and mothers!"
The cry sweeps like a hurricane through the streets, and everywhere
finds an echo in the maddened, panic-stricken, despairing, raging
hearts of the women who see their children hunger, and suffer hunger
themselves.
"The baker's wife feeds her apprentices with cakes, and we have not
a crumb of bread to give to our poor little ones!"
In whole crowds the women dashed into the largest squares, where
were the men who fomented the revolution, Marat, Danton, Santerre,
Chaumette, and all the rest, the speakers at the clubs; there they
are, giving their counsels to the maddened women, and spurring them
on!
"Do not be afraid, do not be turned aside! Go to Versailles, brave
women! Save your children, your husbands, from death by starvation!
Compel the baker's wife to give bread to you and for us all! And if
she conceals it from you, storm her palace with violence; there will
be men there to help you. Only be brave and undismayed, God will go
with mothers who are bringing bread to their children, and your
husbands will protect you!"
They were brave and undismayed, the wives and mothers of Paris. In
broad streams they rushed on; they broke over every thing which was
in their way; they drew all the women into their seething ranks. "To
Versailles! To Versailles!"
It was to no avail that De Bailly, the mayor of Paris, encountered
the women on the street, and urged them with pressing words to
return to their families and their work, and assured them that the
bakers had already opened their shops, and had been ordered to bake
bread. It was in vain that the general of the National Guard,
Lafayette, had a discussion with the women, and tried to show them
how vain and useless was their action.
Louder and louder grew the commanding cry, "To Versailles! We will
bring the baker and his wife to Paris! To Versailles!"
The crowds of women grew more and more dense, and still mightier was
the shout, "To Versailles!"
Bailly went with pain to General Lafayette. "We must pacify them, or
you, general, must prevent them by force!" "It is impossible,"
replied Lafayette. "How could we use force against defenceless
women? Not one of my soldiers would obey my commands, for these
women are the wives, the mothers, the sisters of my soldiers! They
have no other weapons than their tongues with which to storm the
heart of the queen! How could we conquer them with weapons of steel?
We must let them go! But we must take precautions that the king and
the queen do not fall into danger."
"That will be all the more necessary, general, as the women will
certainly be accompanied by armed crowds of men, and excitement and
confusion will accompany them all the way to Versailles. Make haste,
general, to defend Versailles. The columns of women are already in
motion, and, as I have said to you, they will be accompanied by
armed men!"
"It would not be well for me to take my soldiers to Versailles,"
said Lafayette, shaking his head. "You know, M. De Bailly, to what
follies the reactionaries of Versailles have already led the royal
family. All Paris speaks of nothing else than of the holiday which
the king and queen have given to the royal troops, the regiment of
Flanders, which they have summoned to Versailles. The king and the
queen, with the dauphin, were present. The tri-colored cockade was
trodden under foot, and the people were arrayed in white ribbons.
Royalist songs were sang, the National Guard was bitterly talked of,
and an oath was given to the king and queen that commands would only
be received of them. My soldiers are exasperated, and many of my
officers have desired of me to-day that we should repair to
Versailles and attack the regiment of Flanders and decimate them. It
is, therefore, perilous to take these exasperated National Guards to
Versailles."
"And yet something must be done for the protection of the king,"
said Bailly; "believe me, these raging troops of women are more
dangerous than the exasperated National Guards. Come, General
Lafayette, we will go to the city hall, and summon the magistracy
and the leaders of the National Guard, to take counsel of them."
An hour later the drums beat through all the streets of Paris, for
in the city hall the resolve had been taken that the National Guard
of Paris, under the lead of General Lafayette, should repair to
Versailles to protect the royal family against the attacks of the
people, but at the same time to protect the National Assembly
against the attacks of the royalist troops.
But long before the troops were in motion, and had really begun
their march to Versailles, the troops of women were already on their
way. Soldiers of the National Guard and armed men from the people
accompanied the women, and secured among them a certain military
discipline. They marched in ten separate columns, every one of which
consisted of more than a thousand women.
Each column was preceded by some soldiers of the National Guard,
with weapons on their shoulders, who, of their own free will, had
undertaken to be the leaders. On both sides of each column marched
the armed men from the people, in order to inspire the women with
courage when they grew tired, but at the same time to compel those
who were weary of the long journey, or sick of the whole
undertaking, and who wanted to return to Paris, to come back into
the ranks and complete what they had begun, and carry the work of
revolution still further. "On to Versailles!"
All was quiet in Versailles that day. No one suspected the horrors
which it was to bring forth. The king had gone with some of his
gentlemen to Meudon to hunt: the queen had gone to Trianon alone--
all alone!
No one of her friends was now at her side, she had lost them all. No
one was there to share the misery of the queen of all who had shared
her happiness. The Duchess de Polignac, the princesses of the royal
house, the cheery brother of the king, Count d'Artois, the Count de
Coigny, Lords Besenval and Lauzun, where are they all now, the
friends, the suppliants of former days? Far, far away in distant
lands, flown from the misfortune that, with its dark wings sinking,
was hovering lower and lower over Versailles, and darkening with its
uncanny shadows this Trianon which had once been so cheerful and
bright. All now is desolate and still! The mill rattles no more, the
open window is swung to and fro by the wind, and the miller no more
looks out with his good-natured, laughing face; the miller of
Trianon is no longer the king, and the burdens and cares of his
realm have bowed his head. The school-house, too, is desolate, and
the learned master no longer writes his satires and jokes upon the
great black-board in the school-room. He now writes libels and
pamphlets, but they are now directed against the queen, against the
former mistress of Trianon. And there is the fish-pond, along whose
shores the sheep used to pasture, where the courtly company,
transformed into shepherds and shepherdesses, used to lie on the
grass, singing songs, arranging tableaux, and listening to the songs
which the band played behind the thicket. All now is silent. No
joyous tone now breaks the melancholy stillness which fills the
shady pathways of the grove where Marie Antoinette, the mistress of
Trianon, now walks with bended head and heart-broken spirit; only
the recollection of the past resounds as an echo in her inner ear,
and revives the cheerful strains which long have been silent.
At the fish-pond all is still, no flocks grazing on the shore, no
picturesque groups, no songs. The spinning-wheel no longer whirls,
the hand of the queen no longer turns the spindle; she has learned
to hold the sceptre and the pen, and to weave public policy, and not
a net of linen. The trees with their variegated autumn foliage are
reflected in the dark water of the pond; some weeping-willows droop
with their tapering branches down to the water, and a few swans come
slowly sailing across with their necks raised in their majestic
fashion. As they saw the figure on the shore, they expanded their
wings and sailed quicker on, to pick up the crumbs which the white
hands of the queen used to throw to them.
But these hands have to-day no gifts for the solitary, forgotten
swans. All the dear, pleasant customs of the past are forgotten,
they have all ceased.
Yet the swans have not forgotten her; they sail unquietly hither and
thither along the shore of the pond, they toss up their slender
necks, and then plunge their red beaks down into the dark water
seeking for the grateful bits which were not there. But when they
saw that they were disappointed, they poured forth their peculiarly
mournful song and slowly sailed away down the lakelet into the
obscurity of the distance, letting their complaining notes be heard
from time to time.
"They are singing the swan's song of my happiness," whispered the
queen, looking with tearful eyes at the beautiful creatures. "They
too turn away from me, and now I am alone, all alone."
She had spoken this loudly, and her quivering voice wakened the echo
which had been artistically contrived there, to repeat cheery words
and merry laughter.
"Alone!" sounded back from the walls of the Marlborough Tower at the
end of the fish-pond. "Alone!" whispered the water stirred with the
swans. "Alone!" was the rustling cry of the bushes. "Alone!" was
heard in the heart of the queen, and she sank down upon the grass,
covered her face with her hands, and wept aloud. All at once there
was a cry in the distance, "The queen, where is the queen? "
Marie Antoinette sprang up and dried her eyes. No one should see
that she had wept. Tears belong only to solitude, but she has no
longer even solitude. The voice comes nearer and nearer, and Marie
Antoinette follows the sound. She knows that she is going to meet a
new misfortune. People have not come to Trianon to bring her tidings
of joy; they have come to tell her that destruction awaits her in
Versailles, and the queen is to give audience to it.
A man came with hurried step from the thicket down the winding
footpath. Marie Antoinette looked at him with eager, sharp eye. Who
is he, this herald of misfortune? No one of the court servants, no
one of the gentry.
He wears the simple garments of a citizen, a man of the people, of
that Third Estate which has prepared for the poor queen so much
trouble and sorrow.
He had perhaps read her question in her face, for, as he now sank
breathless at her feet, his lips murmured: "Forgive me, your
majesty, forgive me that I disturb you. I am Toulan, your most
devoted servant, and it is Madame de Campan who sends me."
"Toulan, yes, I recognize you now," said the queen, hastily. "It was
you, was it not, who brought me the sad news of the acquittal of
Rohan?"
"It appears, your majesty, that a cruel misfortune has always chosen
me to be the bearer of evil tidings to my exalted queen. And to-day
I come only with such."
"What is it?" cried the queen, eagerly. "Has any thing happened to
my husband? Are my children threatened? Speak quickly, say no or
yes. Let me know the whole truth at once. Is the king dead? Are my
children in danger?"
"No, your majesty."
"No," cried the queen, breathing a breath of relief. "I thank you,
air. You see that you accused Fate falsely, for you have brought me
good tidings. And yet again I thank you, for, I remember, I have
much to thank you for. It was you who raised your voice in the
National Assembly, and voted for the inviolability of the queen. It
was not your fault, and believe me not mine either, that your voice
was alone, that no one joined you. The king has been declared
inviolable, but not the queen, and now I am to be attacked, am I
not? Tell me what is it? Why does my faithful Campan send you to
me?"
"Your majesty, to conjure you to come to Versailles."
"What has happened there?"
"Nothing as yet, your majesty, but--I was early this morning in
Paris, and what I saw there determined me to come hither at once, to
bring the news and warn your majesty."
"What is it? Why do you hesitate? Speak out freely."
"Your majesty, all Paris is in motion, all Paris is marching upon
Versailles!"
"What do you mean by that?" asked Marie Antoinette, passionately.
"What does Paris want? Does it mean to threaten the National
Assembly? Explain yourself, for you see I do not understand you."
"Your majesty, the people of Paris hunger. The bakers have made no
bread, for they assert that there is no more meal. The enemies of
the realm have taken advantage of the excitement to stir up the
masses and even the women. The people are hungry; the people are
coming to Versailles to ask the king for bread. Ten thousand women
are on the road to Versailles, accompanied by armed bodies of men."
"Let us hasten, sir, I must go to my children," said the queen, and
with quick steps she went forward. Not a glance back, not a word of
farewell to the loved plantation of Trianon, and yet it is the last
time that Marie Antoinette is to look upon it. She will never return
hither, she turns her back forever upon Trianon.
With flying steps she hurries on; Toulan does not venture to address
her, and she has perhaps entirely forgotten his presence. She does
not know that a faithful one is near her; she only knows that her
children are in Versailles, and that she must go to them to protect
them, and to the king too, to die with him, if it must be.
When they were not far from the great mall of the park at
Versailles, the Count de St. Priest came running, and his frightened
looks and pale face confirmed the news that Mr. Toulan had brought.
"Your majesty," cried the count, breathless, "I took the liberty of
looking for your majesty at Trianon. Bad news has arrived."
"I know it," answered the queen, calmly. "Ten thousand women are
marching upon Versailles, Mr. Toulan has informed me, and you see I
am coming to receive the women."
All at once she stood still and turned to Toulan, who was walking
behind her like the faithful servant of his mistress.
"Sir," said she, "I thank you, and I know that I may reckon upon
you. I am sure that to-day as always you have thought upon our
welfare, and that you will remain mindful of the oath of fidelity
which you once gave me. Farewell! Do you go to the National
Assembly. I will go to the palace, and may we each do our duty." She
saluted Toulan with a gentle inclination of her head and with
beaming looks of gratitude in her beautiful eyes, and then hurried
on up the grand mall to the palace.
In Versailles all was confusion and consternation. Every one had
lost his senses. Every one asked, and no one answered, for the only
one who could answer, the king, was not there. He had not yet
returned from the hunt in Meudon.
But the queen was there, and with a grand calmness and matchless
grasp of mind she undertook the duties of the king. First, she sent
the chief equerry, the Marquis de Cubieres, to meet the king and
cause him to hasten home at once. She intrusted Count St. Priest,
minister of the interior, with a division of the guards in the inner
court of the palace. She inspired the timid women with hope. She
smiled at her children, who, timid and anxious at the confusion
which surrounded them, fled to the queen for refuge, and clung to
her.
Darker and darker grew the reports that came meanwhile to the
palace. They were the storm-birds, so to speak, that precede the
tempest. They announced the near approach of the people of Paris, of
the women, who were no longer unarmed, and who had been joined by
thousands of the National Guard, who, in order to give the train of
women a more imposing appearance, had brought two cannon with them,
and who, armed with knives and guns, pikes and axes, and singing
wild war-songs, were marching on as the escort of the women.
The queen heard all without alarm, without fear. She commanded the
women, who stood around her weeping and wringing their hands, to
withdraw to their own apartments, and protect the dauphin and the
princess, to lock the doors behind them and to admit no one--no one,
excepting herself. She took leave of the children with a kiss, and
bade them be fearless and untroubled. She did not look at them as
the women took them away. She breathed firmly as the doors closed
behind them.
"Now I have courage to bear every thing," she said to St. Priest.
"My children are in safety! Would only that the king were here!"
At the same instant the door opened and the king entered. Marie
Antoinette hastened to meet him, threw herself with a cry of joy
into his arms, and rested her head, which had before been erect with
courage, heavily on his shoulder.
"Oh, sire, my dear sire! thank God that you are here. Now I fear
nothing more! You will not suffer us to perish in misery! You will
breathe courage into these despairing ones, and tell the
inexperienced what they have to do. Sire, Paris is marching against
us, but with us there are God and France. You will defend the honor
of France and your crown against the rebels?"
The king answered confusedly, and as if in a yielding frame of mind.
"We must first hear what the people want," he said; "we must not
approach them threateningly, we must first discuss matters with
them."
"Sire," answered the queen, in amazement, "to discuss with the
rebels now is to imply that they are in the right, and you will not,
you cannot do that!"
"I will consult with my advisers," said the king, pointing at the
ministers, who, summoned by St. Priest, were then entering the room.
But what a consultation was that! Every one made propositions, and
yet no one knew what to do. No one would take the responsibility of
the matter upon himself, and yet every one felt that the danger
increased every minute. But what to do? That was the question which
no one was able to answer, and before which the king was mute. Not
so the queen, however.
"Sire!" cried she, with glowing cheeks, "sire, you have to save the
realm, and to defend it from revolution. The contest is here, and we
cannot withdraw from it. Call your guards, put yourself at their
head, and allow me to remain at your side. We ought not to yield to
revolution, and if we cannot control it, we should suffer it to
enter the palace of the kings of France only over our dead bodies.
Sire, we must either live as kings, or know how to die as kings!"
But Louis replied to this burst of noble valor in a brave woman's
soul, only with holding back and timidity. Plans were made and cast
aside. They went on deliberating till the wild yells of the people
were heard even within the palace.
The queen, pale and yet calm, had withdrawn to the adjoining
apartment. There she leaned against the door and listened to the
words of the ministers, and to the new reports which were all the
time coming in from the streets.
The crowd had reached Versailles, and was streaming through the
streets of the city in the direction of the palace. The National
Guard of Versailles had fraternized with the Parisians. Some
scattered soldiers of the royal guard had been threatened and
insulted, and even dragged from their horses!
The queen heard all, and heard besides the consultation of the king
and his ministers--still coming to no decisive results, doubting and
hesitating, while the fearful crisis was advancing from the street.
Already musket-shots were heard on the great square in front of the
palace, wild cries, and loud, harsh voices. Marie Antoinette left
her place at the door and hurried to the window, where a view could
be had of the whole square. She saw the dark dust-cloud which hung
over the road to Paris; she saw the unridden horses, running in
advance of the crowd, their riders, members of the royal guard,
having been killed; she heard the raging discords, which surged up
to the palace like a wave driven by the wind; she saw this black,
dreadful wave sweep along the Paris road, roaring as it went.
What a fearful mass! Howling, shrieking women, with loosened hair,
and with menacing gestures, extended their naked arms toward the
palace defiantly, their eyes naming, their mouths overflowing with
curses. Wild men's figures, with torn blouses, the sleeves rolled up
over dusty and dirty arms, and bearing pikes, knives, and guns, here
and there members of the National Guard marching with them arm in
arm, pressed on toward the palace. Sometimes shrieks and yells,
sometimes coarse peals of laughter, or threatening cries, issued
from the confused crowd. Nearer and nearer surged the dreadful wave
of destruction to the royal palace. Now it has reached it. Maddened
fists pounded upon the iron gates before the inner court, and
threatening voices demanded entrance: hundreds and hundreds of women
shrieked with wild gestures:
"We want to come in! We want to speak with the baker! We will eat
the queen's guts if we cannot get any thing else to eat!"
And thousands upon thousands of women's voices repeated--"Yes, we
will eat the queen's guts, if we get nothing else to eat!"
Marie Antoinette withdrew from the window; her bearing was grave and
defiant, a laugh of scorn played over her proudly-drawn-up upper-
lip, her head was erect, her step decisive, dignified.
She went again to the king and his ministers. "Sire," said she, "the
people are here. It is now too late to supplicate them, as you
wanted to do. Nothing remains for you except to defend yourself, and
to save the crown for your son the dauphin, even if it falls from
your own head."
"It remains for us," answered the king, gravely, "to bring the
people back to a sense of duty. They are deceived about us. They are
excited. We will try to conciliate them, and to show them our
fatherly interest in them."
The queen stared in amazement at the pleasant, smiling face of the
king; then, with a loud cry of pain, which escaped from her breast
like the last gasp of a dying man, she turned around, and went up to
the Prince de Luxemburg, the captain of the guard, who just then
entered the hall.
"Do you come to tell us that the people have taken the palace?"
cried the queen, with an angry burst from her very soul.
"Madame," answered the prince, "had that been the case, I should not
have been here alive. Only over my body will the rabble enter the
palace."
"Ah," muttered Marie Antoinette to herself, "there are men in
Versailles yet, there are brave men yet to defend us!"
"What news do you bring, captain?" asked the king, stepping up.
"Sire, I am come to receive your commands," answered the prince,
bowing respectfully. "This mob of shameless shrews is growing more
maddened, more shameless every moment. Thousands and thousands of
arms are trying the gates, and guns are fired with steady aim at the
guards. I beg your majesty to empower me to repel this attack of mad
women!"
"What an idea, captain!" cried Louis, shrugging his shoulders.
"Order to attack a company of women! You are joking, prince!"
[Footnote: The king's own words.--See Weber, "Memoires," vol. t, p.
433.]
And the king turned to Count de la Marck, who was entering the room.
"You come with new news. What is it, count?"
"Sire, the women are most desirous of speaking with your majesty,
and presenting their grievances."
"I will hear them," cried the king, eagerly. "Tell the women to
choose six of their number and bring them into my cabinet. I will go
there myself."
"Sire, you are going to give audience to revolution," cried Marie
Antoinette, seizing the arm of the king, who was on the point of
leaving the room. "I conjure you, my husband, do not be overpowered
by your magnanimous heart! Let not the majesty of the realm be
defiled by the raging hands of these furies! Remain here. Oh, sire,
if my prayers, my wishes have any power with you, remain here! Send
a minister to treat with these women in your name. But do not
confront their impudence with the dignity of the crown. Sire, to
give them audience is to give audience to revolution; and from the
hour when it takes place, revolution has gained the victory over the
kingly authority! Do not go, oh do not go!"
"I have given my word," answered Louis, gently. "I have sent word to
the women that I would receive them, and they shall not say that the
first time they set foot in the palace of their king, they were
deceived by him. And see, there comes the count to take me!"
And the king followed with hasty step Count de la Marck, who just
then appeared at the door.
Six women of wild demeanor, with dusty, dirty clothes, their hair
streaming out from their round white caps, were assembled in the
cabinet of the king, and stared at him with defiant eyes as he
entered. But his gentle demeanor and pleasant voice appeared to
surprise them; and Louise Chably, the speaker, who had selected the
women, found only timid, modest words, with which to paint to the
king the misfortune, the need, and the pitiable condition of the
people, and with which to entreat his pity and assistance.
"Ah, my children," answered the king with a sigh, "only believe me,
it is not my fault that you are miserable, and I am still more
unhappy than you. I will give directions to Corbeil and D'Estampes,
the controllers of the grain-stores, to give out all that they can
spare. If my commands had always been obeyed, it would be better
with us all! If I could do every thing, could see to it that my
commands were everywhere carried into effect, you would not be
unhappy; and you must confess, at least, that your king loves you as
a father his children, and that nothing lies so closely at his heart
as your welfare. Go, my children, and tell your friends to prove
worthy of the love of their king, and to return peaceably to Paris."
[Footnote: The king's own words.--See. A. de Beauchesne, "Louis
XVI.. sa Vie, son Agonie, "etc., vol. i., p. 43.]
"Long live the king! Long live our father!" cried the touched and
pacified women, as trembling and with tears in their eyes, they left
the royal cabinet, in order to go to the women below, and announce
to them what the king had said.
But the royal words found no response among the excited masses. "We
are hungry, we want bread," shouted the women. "We are not going to
live on words any more. The king shall give us bread, and then we
shall see it proved that he loves us like a father; then we will go
back to Paris. If the baker believes that he can satisfy us with
words and fine speeches, he is mistaken."
"If he has no bread, he shall give us his wife to eat!" roared a man
with a pike in his hand and a red cap on his head. "The baker's wife
has eaten up all our bread, and it is no more than fair that we
should eat her up now."
"Give us the heart of the queen," was now the cry, "give us the
heart of the queen!"
Marie Antoinette heard the words, but she appeared not to be
alarmed. With dignity and composure, she cast a look at the
ministers and gentlemen, who, pale and speechless, had gathered
around the royal couple.
"I know that this crowd has come from Paris to demand my head! I
learned of my mother not to fear death, and I shall meet it with
courage and steadfastness." [Footnote: The words of the queen.--See
"Histoire de Marie Antoinette," p. 194.]
And firmly and fearlessly Marie Antoinette remained all this
dreadful evening, which was now beginning to overshadow Versailles.
Outside of the palace raged the uproar; revolutionary songs were
sung; veiled forms, the leaders of the revolution, stole around, and
fired the people with new rage against the baker and the baker's
wife. Torches were lighted to see by, and the blood-red glare shone
into the faces there, and tended to exasperate them still more. What
dances were executed by the women, with torches in their hands! and
the men roared in accompaniment, ridiculing the king and threatening
the queen with death.
At times the torches threw their flickering glare into the windows
of the palace, where were the ministers and servants of the king, in
silent horror. Among all those counsellor of the king, there was at
this time but one Man, Marie Antoinette! She alone preserved her
steadfastness and discretion; she spoke to every one friendly,
inspiriting words. She roused up the timid; at times she even
attempted to bring the king to some decisive action, and yet she did
not complain when she found herself unable to do so.
Once her face lighted up in hope and joy. That was when a company of
deputies, headed by Toulan, entered the hall, to offer their
services to the royal couple, and to ask permission to be allowed to
remain around the king and queen.
But scarcely had this request been granted, when both the
secretaries of the president of the National Assembly entered,
warning the members, in the name of the president, to return at once
to the hall and to take part in the night session which was to be
held.
"They call our last friends away from us," murmured the queen, "for
they want us to be entirely defenceless!"
All at once the cries on the square below were more violent and
loud; musket-shots were heard; at the intervals between rose the
thousand-voiced clamor, and at one time the thunder of a cannon.
There was a rush of horses, and clash of arms, more musket-shots,
and then the cry of the wounded.
The king had withdrawn to hold a last consultation with his
ministers and a few faithful friends. At this fearful noise, this
sound of weapons, this shout of victory, his first thought was of
the queen. He rose quickly and entered the hall.
No one was there; the red glare of the torches was thrown from below
into the deserted room, and showed upon the wall wondrous shadows of
contorted human figures, with clinched fists and with raised and
threatening arms.
The king walked hastily through the fearfully illuminated hall,
called for the queen with a loud voice, burst into the cabinet, then
into her sleeping-room, but no Marie Antoinette was to be found--no
one gave reply to the anxious call of the king.
More dreadful grew the wild shrieks and howls, the curses and
maledictions which came in from without.
The king sprang up the little staircase which led to the rooms of
the children, and dashed through the antechamber, where the door was
open that led to the dauphin's sleeping-room.
And here Louis stood still, and looked with a breath of relief at
the group which met his tearful eyes. The dauphin was lying in his
bed fast asleep, with a smile on his face. Marie Antoinette stood
erect before the bed in an attitude of proud composure.
"Marie," said the king, deeply moved--"Marie, I was looking for
you."
The queen slowly turned her head toward him and pointed at the
sleeping prince.
"Sire," answered she calmly, "I was at my post." [Footnote: This
conversation, as well as this whole scene, is historical.--See
Beauchesne's "Louis XVII.," vol. i.]
Louis, overcome by the sublimity of a mother's love, hastened to his
wife and locked her in his arms.
"Remain with me, Marie," he said. "Do not leave me. Breathe your
courage and your decision into me."
The queen sighed and sadly shook her head. She had not a word of
reproach; she did not say that she no longer believed in the courage
and decision of the king, but she had no longer any hope.
But the doors of the room now opened. Through one came the maids of
the queen and the governess of the dauphin; through the other, some
gentlemen of the court, to call the king back into the audience-
hall.
After the first panic, every one had come back to consciousness
again, and all vied in devoting themselves to the king and the
queen. The gentlemen brought word that something new had occurred,
and that this was the cause of the dreadful tumult below upon the
square. The National Guard of Paris had arrived; they had
fraternized with the National Guard of Versailles, and with the
people; they had been received by the women with shouts of applause,
and by the men with a volley of musket-shots in salutation. General
Lafayette had entered the palace to offer his services to the king,
and he now asked for an audience.
"Come, madame," said Louis quickly, cheered up, "let us receive the
general. You see that things are not so bad with us as you think. We
have faithful servants yet to hasten to our assistance."
The queen made no reply. Quietly she followed the king into the
hall, in which Lafayette, surrounded by the ministers and gentlemen,
was standing. On the entrance of the royal couple, the general
advanced to meet them with a reverential salutation.
"Sire," said Lafayette, with cheerful confidence--" sire, I have
come to protect your majesties and the National Assembly against all
those who shall venture to threaten you."
"Are you assured of the fidelity and trustworthiness of your
troops?" asked the queen, whose flaming eyes rested upon Lafayette's
countenance as if she wanted to read his utmost thoughts.
But these eyes did not confuse the cheerful calmness of the general.
"I know, madame, that I can rely upon the fidelity of my soldiers,"
answered he, confidently. "They are devoted to me to the death, and
as I shall command them, they will watch over the security of the
king and queen, and keep all injury from them."
The queen detected the touch of scorn in these loud-sounding words,
but she pretended to believe them. At last she really did believe
them, for Lafayette repeated emphatically that from this time
nothing more was to be feared for the royal family, and that all
danger was past. The guard should be chosen this night from his own
troops; the Paris National Guard should restore peace again in
Versailles, and keep an eye upon the crowds which had encamped upon
the great square before the palace.
Lafayette promised well for his army, for the howling, shrieking
women, for the cursing, raging men.
And the king was satisfied with these assurances of General
Lafayette, and so, too, was Marie Antoinette at last.
Louis ordered the garde du corps to march to Rambouillet, and
reserved only the necessary sentinels in the palace. In the
immediate neighborhood the soldiers of Lafayette were stationed. The
general once more made the rounds, and then, as if every thing was
in a position of the greatest security, he went into the palace to
spend the night there, and in peaceful slumbers to refresh himself
for the labors of the day.
The king, too, had retired to his apartments, and the valets who had
assisted his majesty to undress had not left the sleeping-room, when
the loud, uniform breathing which issued from the silken curtains of
the bed told them that the king had already fallen asleep. The
queen, too, had gone to rest, and while laying her wearied and heavy
head upon the cushions, she tenderly besought both her maids to lie
down too. All was quiet now in the dark palace of Versailles. The
king and the queen slept.
But through the dark, deserted halls which that day had witnessed so
much pain and anxiety, resounded now the clang of the raging,
howling voices which came up from the square, and hurled their
curses against the queen.
In the palace of Versailles they were asleep, but without, before
the palace, Uproar and Hate kept guard, and with wild thoughts of
murder stalked around the palace of the Kings of France.
How soon were these thoughts to become fact! Sleep, Marie
Antoinette, sleep! One last hour of peace and security!
One last hour! Before the morning dawns Hate will awaken thee, and
Murder's terrible voice will resound through the halls of the Kings
of France!