THE KING’S work-shop.
The thoughts of her father, in that awful dungeon, took entire
possession of that young girl; all other things became as nothing to
her. Her new occupation, her old friends, only presented themselves to
her mind as aids to the one great object. She would go to the king. She
would obtain freedom for her father, or die at the cruel monarch’s feet.
Marguerite had promised secrecy to Doudel, and could tell her mother
nothing. The great secret preying on her soul, drove her wild. In her
impatience she went to Monsieur Jacques, and besought him to find a way
to the king.
Jacques promised, and fortunately for her, Madame Gosner had fallen ill;
the reaction of great excitement had left her weak as an infant, so weak
that she scarcely knew when Marguerite went away, and left her to the
generous care of Dame Doudel. The next morning, Monsieur Jacques and
Marguerite presented themselves at the guarded entrance of the palace of
Versailles. The man was admitted, for he brought a message to the king,
from a person whom the guard had been ordered to respect. But the poor
girl was sent away, and she went drearily back to The Swan, a public
house kept by a sister of Dame Doudel, to whom Marguerite was consigned
with a kind message.
The palace which Monsieur Jacques entered seemed gloomy to him, in spite
of its regal splendor; for even then the shadow of coming events was
gathering around the vast edifice, which the queen herself forsook
whenever she could get an opportunity, for the freedom and pleasure of
her bijou of a palace in the great park.
Though France was one grand field of excitement, and had already begun
to tremble with the moral earthquake that shook it to the very
foundations, it seemed impossible to convince the court of the awful
danger that threatened it. The very anxieties of her position drove the
queen from the distractions of gayety, the gloom that gathered around
her, made even pleasure tiresome; and it was with an effort that she
flung off the cares of state, which fell heavily, indeed, on a nature so
light, so gay, and so womanly as hers.
Our readers have seen Marie Antoinette years ago, and only for a
moment—the girlish, beautiful, and lovely Dauphiness, burdened with no
care heavier than that imposed by court etiquette, and anxious only
about the day’s amusement. They see her again escaping from the
anxieties that beset St. Cloud and Versailles, striving to bring back
the light-hearted gayeties of her youth in _La Petite Trianon_, which of
all places on earth seemed most likely to accomplish that object.
On the day that Marguerite presented herself at the gates of Versailles,
Marie Antoinette was making one of her rustic sojourns at the little
palace, while the king, glad to escape from cares equally burdensome,
had retreated into the private chamber, in which an anvil and a chest of
tools promised him at least amusement equal to any she could hope for.
It is true that matters of state called for royal attention; that the
cries of a suffering and impatient people ought to have been heard, even
among the click of locks and rasping of files; but it was the fault of
this really good man, that he was always ready to put away troublesome
cares, and permitted others to think for him, save where, with a
stubborn sense of right, he would persist on a given point without
understanding all its relations. Indeed, at this time the burdens of
state were so heavy, that a greater man might have willingly laid them
down, even for the primitive employment which Louis loved so well.
That day Louis the Sixteenth was alone in his work-shop. A furnace was
all aglow in the chimney, and a bench across one of the windows, was
scattered over with tools. To this bench a vise was attached, and a
heavy man, somewhat awkward in his movements, was hard at work there.
His velvet coat, heavy with gold-lace and embroidery, hung across the
back of a chair, and a diamond star on the breast shot out gorgeous rays
of light, whenever a fitful flame from the furnace flashed up and
quivered over it.
No one, to have seen that man working so earnestly at the lock which was
in the fast grip of that vise, would have believed him capable of
exasperating a great nation into such crimes as soon left France lying,
like a monster, saturated with the blood of its own children. His face
was gentle and serious, a little full and heavy, perhaps, but neither
wanting in dignity or character. The lace-ruffles had been loosened at
his wrist, and, with the garment to which they were attached, rolled
back to his elbows, revealing a strong, rounded arm, white as a woman’s,
but which was sprinkled with iron-filings. Indeed, this metallic dust
had fallen over the rich lace on his bosom, and glistened in dark specks
among the powder of his hair. As he worked, the intricacies of the lock
seemed to puzzle him; he unscrewed the vise, and examined its
workmanship with great earnestness. Nothing could be more intelligent or
patient than his face, as he bent over the work-bench. Again and again
he attempted to fit the parts together, but something was wrong about
them, and each attempt proved a failure.
At last he sat down and wiped the perspiration from his face, to all
appearance resigned to his defeat. He was evidently a man to suffer, to
endure, but not to trample obstacles under foot. As he sat pondering
thoughtfully over the disjointed lock, a servant came to the door. The
king shook the iron-dust from his hands, and turned toward his coat,
evidently a little ashamed of his undress.
“Sire,” said the man, decorously looking downward, that he might not see
what his master wished unobserved, “a man has just come from Paris, who
says that De Witt is taken ill, and sends him to ask your majesty’s
pleasure. He brings a written recommendation, which states that he is
trustworthy, and master of his craft. Shall I send him back, or is it
the royal pleasure that he should be received?”
The king looked at his disjointed lock, hesitated, and at last gave
orders that the mechanic from Paris should be sent up.
When the door was closed, Louis began to arrange his dress with true
regal pride. He would rather have been found at a disadvantage by a
prince of the blood, than discovered wanting in any appendage of royalty
by this strange mechanic. Directly the work-room door was opened again,
and a short, stout, and almost uncouth man, presented himself before the
king. He had evidently been conducted to the room by some private
entrance, for his hat was left outside, and some attempt had,
undoubtedly, been made to render his rude toilet presentable since his
entrance into the chateau.
Rude and strange as this man appeared, he was neither awkward nor
abashed, but approached the work-bench, and leaning one hand upon it,
waited to be addressed. There was something manly, and indicative of
strength, in this attitude, which took the king by surprise; for the
moment he realized that he was in the presence of one of the people.
“De Witt sent you, and vouches for your faithfulness,” said Louis, more
embarrassed than his visitor; for at times he was rather ashamed of his
passion for mechanics.
The locksmith bowed, and his eyes turned on the lock which had been
taken apart, but all the genius of the king had failed to put it
together again.
“You see that I have only the power to do mischief,” said Louis, smiling
pleasantly.
“So the people of France have been bold enough to say,” was the prompt
answer.
Louis frowned at this bold reply; but directly his brow cleared, and he
looked earnestly into the man’s face, as if questioning that instead of
his words.
“The people of France know but little of their king,” he said, gravely;
“but let us to our work.”
The man again bent his head, and took up the disjointed lock, which was,
in fact, a new invention, full of complications.
“Yes,” he said, “this is after De Witt’s plan. I have seen it before;
but here is something I do not understand.”
“Ah!” said Louis, coloring a little, “that is my own improvement.”
The locksmith smiled, examined the new complication well, and nodded his
head in approval.
“This is really an improvement—but it fits ill; a free use of the file,
and a screw here, will make the thing perfect.”
The man reached out his hand for a file; but Louis had already flung off
his coat again, and was fastening a bolt into the vise.
“Give me the file, I see what is lacking,” he said, eagerly. “So you
like the improvement. De Witt may not be of your opinion. He is not
willing that the king should be considered so good a craftsman as
himself. This lock is for the queen’s chamber. I shall present it to her
myself when it is complete.”
“It will be safe and strong,” said the workman; “delicate, too, for the
metal is of the best. I put one upon a dungeon of the Bastille after the
same pattern, lacking the royal improvement; but that was of ponderous
iron, which is by this time thick with rust.”
The king started as the Bastille was so suddenly mentioned, and, holding
his file in suspense, looked steadily at his strange instructor.
“You have been in the Bastille, then?”
“Yes, sire; more than once.”
“And you have been in the dungeons?”
“Almost every one of them.”
“And what did you see there?”
“Souls in torment—some of them innocent.”
“You are a bold man,” said Louis, after a brief pause.
“Because I am a true one!”
“And so our commissioners should be; but they give no such report.”
“There it is,” cried the locksmith, with sudden warmth. “There is no one
to report the wrongs of the people. The ministers are deaf to them; the
king hears them when their cries have been smothered by
commissioners—owned by these men. Ah, sire! if you could once go among
your subjects, see and hear them as I do, France might yet be saved.”