THE OLD NOBLEMAN MAKES CONCESSIONS.
Mirabeau looked at his father in amazement a moment, then he turned upon
his heel and walked the room with quick, heavy strides, gnawing his
under lip and working his fingers with nervous energy, as if the
thoughts in his bosom were crowding upon him almost to suffocation. At
last he stopped, and stood before his father again; his eyes, burning
with restless fire, and his face pale, as if the struggle of a moment
had drank up all its color.
“And if I did, there would be no frank reception of my homage. That
haughty queen would throw it back with such scorn as only a beautiful
woman can use in crushing the man who might have worshipped her. Were I
to follow your advice, and offer to wield the mighty power, which it
were folly to say I do not possess, in favor of the court; were I to
defend it with my eloquence; sustain it with my pen; cast myself in the
breach between royalty and its foes; what reward should I have?—the
covert scorn of this royal beauty, the distrust of the king; a defection
of the people, for a time, at least, perhaps an entire loss of
popularity, which alone enables me to be of service anywhere.”
“But you would be doing right, my son.”
There was tenderness and persuasion in the old man’s voice that touched
the mercurial nature of his son. He no longer paced the floor, like a
caged panther, but went close to his father, and answered him with an
earnestness so deep, and evidently so sincere, that the old man, for the
first time in his life, was thrilled with a sentiment of respect for his
wayward son.
“But I am not sure that it is right. These good people of Paris are
beginning to feel that humanity has been trampled down too long; that a
king is invested with the purple for some higher purpose than
self-indulgence. If I attempt to lead the people to the feet of Louis
the Sixteenth, he must meet them half-way.”
“Louis the Sixteenth is a just king.”
“But he is surrounded by unjust courtiers, influenced by a wife trained
in the Austrian school of statesmanship. No real truth will ever be
permitted to reach him while a cordon of churchmen and noble leeches is
drawn closer and closer around him every day. Nothing but a moral
earthquake can root out the traditions of royal prerogatives and noble
privileges which have chained the people down till the shackles are
eaten through with age and rust, and it only wants a vigorous blow to
dash them asunder. When the king is made to understand this, his good
heart may bring him in real sympathy with the people.”
“You do not understand Louis,” said the father, after a moment of
breathless silence, for Mirabeau had spoken with an outburst of feeling
that astonished the old man. “No king ever lived who felt more kindly
towards his subjects.”
“But Louis must do something more than feel; he must act in his own
person fearlessly, independently. The people love him, no matter how
deeply they hate his nobles; he can never convince them that his heart
is in the right place while the Bastille is crowded full of groaning
humanity, that their malice may be appeased; while the prisons all over
France are choked up by victims that are yet suffering injustice done
them by the old king and his parasites. I tell you, sir, these evils
must be redressed, or the people will rise up in their wrath and learn
what strength lies in multitudes.”
“But who would dare to speak such language to the King of France!” said
the old man, half-frightened by his son’s impetuosity. “In the very
thought there is something like treason.”
“I dare,” answered Mirabeau, proudly. “Why not; there are hard truths
that must be accepted, sooner or later, either from the lips of such
friends to France as I am, or at the point of the bayonet.”
“The point of the bayonet, and against the king.”
“Father, do not remain wilfully blind, for, as surely as you and I live,
it will come to that unless the king arouses himself to the peril which
threatens him, and asserts his own authority.”
“But who will dare to tell him this?”
“Some one must, or the people of France will enlighten him with a roar
of thunder. If you love him, and have sufficient courage—”
The old man drew himself up with a sudden impulse of pride.
“The men of our house have been supposed to possess sufficient bravery
for any occasion that might present itself. Convince me that these harsh
truths should be spoken to the king, and I shall not shrink from the
task.”
“Then say this: King Louis, the days of despotism are at an end; the
people have learned to think, and neither superstition nor all the
traditions of power made manifest, in your prisons, your armies, or in
the force of ancient usages can perpetuate the bondage in which they
have been held. In order to make them loyal, make them free. Ask the
nobility and the clergy to take their feet from the necks of the
working-men; they want work, bread for their children, freedom from
oppressive taxation; in short, they ask the king to acknowledge their
manhood, for this they will surround his throne with a power stronger
than the nobility which has undermined all its foundations ever gave.”
Mirabeau was going on with increasing vehemence, when the door was
opened by a servant, and Monsieur Jacques stood in the passage. The
count held out his hands in cordial good-fellowship, that surprised the
fastidious parent; who looked upon the good Jacques as little better
than a servant; and had other prejudices against him; for in all the
contests and troubles that had arisen between the son and father,
Jacques had resolutely adhered to his foster-brother.
“Well, what news, good brother? for I take it you have been gathering
something from the people, since the business that I sent you about has
been so entirely neglected,” said Mirabeau, good-humoredly.
“Forgive me,” answered Jacques, bending low before the elder noble; “if
I was unable to obey your wishes at the moment, it was from a reason
that you will approve, and which I trust no one here will condemn. Count
Mirabeau, I have seen the king.”
“You, Jacques? Has his majesty been out hunting again, and wheeled his
horse, rather than trample you under his hoofs?”
“You will not believe me, but I have been at Versailles, and have talked
with the king in his own work-shop.”
“In his own work-shop?” exclaimed the old noble, holding up his two
white hands in astonishment.
“Jacques, you are getting crazy?” rejoined Mirabeau.
“Almost,” replied Jacques, excitedly; “for I have not only seen the
king, and uttered stern truths to him, face to face, but I have, so they
tell me, though I can hardly comprehend it, saved the queen’s life.”
“Anything else, Jacques?” cried the count, with a broad laugh. “This is
a noble romance; perhaps you have taken the Bastille with a
toasting-fork.”
“But, I am speaking the truth.”
The father and son looked at each other in questioning amazement; the
man seemed so earnest, and so wounded by the half-scoffing unbelief with
which his assertion had been received, that they began to put some trust
in it.