MARGUERITE COMFORTS HER FATHER.
While his eyes were shrouded, and his head bowed low in utter dejection,
a young girl darkened the moonlight which streamed into the dungeon, and
settled down by the old man with such delicate stillness, that he was
not conscious of her approach until her hand was laid on his shoulder.
“What is it that troubles you, father?”
Her voice was sympathetic and full of sadness. He heard it and all the
gentle sweetness of his nature flowed back upon his wounded soul. The
very touch of a kind, good woman stilled the wrath which a bad one had
enkindled there.
The old man took both hands from his face, and pointed downward at his
poor, little friend, upon which the moonlight was lying.
“Look there, Therese!”
“Oh! how cruel, how hard I,” cried the girl, taking the little animal in
her hands. “Dead, poor little marmousette—is it dead?”
“Yes, it is dead; a woman killed it,” said the old man, with a thrill of
the old anger in his voice.
“A woman? No, no! What woman?”
“One of those who call themselves women of France. They have hunted me
down like wolves, hoping to make my sorrows the instruments of their
vengeance.”
“Oh! I understand,” said the girl, mournfully. “It was one of those
women who pointed poor Doudel out, as he stood guard upon the tower,
when the Bastille was assaulted. The mob had seized upon me, but I would
not cry out, from fear that he would come down to rescue me, and thus
expose himself; but she saw the agony in his face, and pointed the
carbine upon him. I saw it, and flung up my arms to warn him; but at
that very moment he fell, with a crash, to the pavement. Oh it was
fearful!”
These words left Marguerite’s lips with a cry of despair that found a
weird echo in the ruins. Then she fell into shuddering sobs that died
out at last, and only murmured,
“Never will the face of that woman leave my memory. It was that of a
beautiful fiend.”
“Alas!” said the old man. “How much innocent blood was shed that I and a
few others might be set free.”
“Poor Doudel was not to blame. He put no man in prison; but only did a
guard’s duty. Why did the mob murder him?”
“It was for me that your friend lost his life.”
“Then let us thank our blessed Lady that he did not die in vain,”
answered the gentle girl.
The old man did not answer, his head was bowed down, his hands moved
restlessly. No subject could take him long from a remembrance of the
desolation of his loss.
All at once the young girl uttered a little cry.
“Oh, my father! have some hope.”
The old man started.
“Hope! hope! What for?”
“It is warm! Yes, yes! It moves!”
“What, what? Ah! it would be so cruel to deceive me!”
“Look, look! its pretty eyes are open.”
“Oh, my God! is this true?”
“It is trying to stand up in my palm. Poor little thing, how it
quivers.”
“Let me look—let me touch it!” cried the old man, trembling with
eagerness. “My pet! my life! my little darling!”
The old man’s voice broke into tears. He held out his hands, but they
shook so that the mouse fell back when it attempted to climb them.
Marguerite caressed it against her cheek; then laid it softly into the
outstretched palm of the old prisoner, answering back his smile when he
hid the creature under his beard.
“There, you see our Lady has not altogether forsaken us,” said the girl,
drawing a basket from under her shawl. “I was sure that you would be
here, and I brought something for both you and marmousette to eat. Poor,
little thing—does it tremble yet?”
“Yes; but I think it is not so badly hurt.”
“Dreadfully frightened, I dare say,” answered Marguerite, “and all its
little breath knocked out against the stones. I saw that odious woman
pass, and hid myself in the ruins. I saw her face—that face. It was the
woman who pointed the carbine at Doudel. But we will think of her no
more. You will go home with me now, papa.”
“Not yet—not to her—that woman who calls herself Therese; as if I did
not know. She will drag me again into the clubs and along the streets
that men may gaze on my white hair, and curse their king. I will not go;
they shall not force me to harm him. Therese! Therese! do you understand
that I think the king a good man?”
Marguerite flung her arms around the old prisoner.
“I did not expect to hear you say that, my father, because you have been
so cruelly treated; but I love the king, and the queen, too. Yes, if
they tear me to pieces, I will love her to the end.”
“That is a brave, good girl. I love them; I pity them—but what can we
do? You, a young girl, and I an old man, broken down in body, and
confused in brain. What can we do but give them love and pity?”
“This we can do; it may not be much, because the lives of a young girl
and an old man are of little value where the great of the earth are
swept down and trampled under foot; but we can pray for them, watch for
them, and give up our poor lives, if that will do any good. I will tell
you a secret, my father. There was a time when this mob of coarse women
and cruel men almost made me one of them, because of the awful wrong
that has been done to you; but I had seen the king, and knew better than
they did, how little right we had to condemn him. The queen had taken me
in her arms; wept and pleaded for me. How could I turn against them?
There might have been deception, but not there!—my heart always told me
that.”
“That is well, that is very well, my Therese. Listen now, I also have a
secret; I have spoken with the king.”
“You, my father? It could not have been on that awful day when they
dragged us to Versailles with the mob?”
The old man laughed a gentle, childish laugh.
“No, no; I escaped them. You could not, but I did. Their cries deafened
me. They were not women but demons, so I fled from them; most of all
from _her_.”
“I saw it, father, and strove to follow, but the crowd hemmed me in and
dragged me onward. Women frantic to hurl themselves and their troubles
against the queen, forced me to obey them. Oh, it was fearful! How the
rain fell—how the mud flew—how the women howled!
“In the midst of the storm we reached Versailles. Some of the leaders,
fierce, handsome women, followed my mother into the assembly. The great
mob poured in after them, clamoring for bread, for they were half
famished. They demanded a sight of the baker and his wife.”
“The baker and his wife,” repeated the prisoner, wondering.
“By these names they insulted the king and queen,” said Marguerite, “as
if they could help the barrenness of the earth.
“The Jacobins would have forced an entrance for them; but more moderate
men strove to quiet the mob. Twelve women were selected from the crowd,
deputed to lay their grievances before the king.
“Count Mirabeau insisted that I should go with these women and speak for
them, because of my youth and innocence, he said; because of my father’s
wrongs, the women cried out. My mother commanded me and I went.
“These women, so audacious among the enemies of the king, trembled to
approach him. With his mild, earnest eyes upon them—they were struck
dumb. That was perhaps why a young girl, who had no evil purpose to
conceal, was selected when these people were called upon to test their
courage.
“We went. Out of the bosom of that seething mob, we entered the grand
stillness of the palace. King Louis was ready to receive us. The
deputation of women crowded into the saloon, sullen and dumb; the
presence of that good man appalled them. They pushed me forward,
whispering that I had a sweet voice and persuasive ways. I approached
the king with reverence; my friend had died for him, I, too, could have
died for him then and there. I longed to tell him so; longed to fall
down at his feet and embrace his knees, imploring of him only one
thing—bread for the hungry people in exchange for my father’s
sufferings.
“The king recognized me, and a look of trouble came into his benign
face. He held out his hand, saying in a low voice which was heard only
by myself,
“‘Poor child, it was not the king who withheld your father from you.’
“I forgot all that the women had said to me; one cry arose to my
lips—bread! bread! With that cry I fainted and fell at the king’s feet.
He lifted me up with many kind words, which I heard as if they came back
to me in a dream. Then I whispered, ‘Sire, my father never blamed you,
neither do I. I came to ask bread for these poor, starving people, in
his name!’
“The king listened and understood all I wished to say. When I looked up,
his eyes were full of tears. He kissed me here upon the cheek. No man on
this earth shall ever take that kiss from my face—it was the
consecration of a vow that I made then and there.”
The old prisoner became greatly excited as he listened; his eyes
kindled, his lips began to quiver, and he spoke with energy.
“It was this man! It was the daughter of my old mistress, the Empress of
Austria, they would have assaulted through me. Listen, little one.
“I have seen the daughter of my old mistress, Maria Theresa.”
“The Queen of France, do you mean that?” said Marguerite astonished.
“Yes, the Queen of France. Some one told me that she wore my Egyptian
ring on her finger. That ring holds my soul, my brain—your destiny. To
her it is a curse, to me everything. I went in search of it. You all
thought I was lost. No, no, I was waiting and watching for her to come
forth from her palace.
“A lady did come forth at last. I thought she might bear a message from
me to the queen, and followed her. This lady was proud, thoughtful, and
imperious, and I approached her timidly; still there was a look that
brought back the fair young princess whom I saw once standing side by
side with my imperial mistress,—young, slender, beautiful, with eyes
soft and bright as a pretty child’s. Ah, how well I remember them both!
They tell me the empress is dead; but her daughter, the lovely girl that
came to France, her destiny is yet to be accomplished. Ah me!”
The old man broke off here, and fell to shuddering. A wild, mournful
look came to his face, and it was some minutes before he spoke again.
“I spoke to the lady and she listened kindly. All at; once she lifted
her hand; the scarabee ring was upon it. Then I knew it was the queen,
and uttered a cry that frightened her, and she fled from me. I followed,
pleading for my ring, entreating her to listen. But she only fled from
me all the faster, carrying the curse on and on.
“Then I saw the king. He came to me in the calm of the moonlight, and we
talked together in the stillness of the hushed leaves. He knows all that
I have suffered, and pities the poor man no will of his ever harmed. He
gave me a place to sleep in. He came to me in the morning and deigned to
explain that the governor of this prison deceived him as you were
deceived. He thought truly that I was dead.”
“I knew it, I was sure of it,” cried Marguerite, with enthusiasm; “both
the king and queen were blameless.”
“It was for that I fled hither from the mob,” said the old man. “These
women meant to set me up before the Assembly and call for vengeance in
my name, but I defeated them.”
“It was then that you came back here. Oh father, you little know how we
have mourned and sought for you, day and night.”
“Yes, I found the ruins and slept here the next night.—Slept soundly for
the first time since the mob carried me away. Then I began searching for
my poor little friend. It was in vain that I called for him; in vain
that I stretched forth my hands in the darkness, and listened for some
faint sound of his approach. Oh! that was desolation!
“Still, I dared not quit the ruin. I was afraid that the mob would force
me into their evil work again. I understood then that my presence in the
clubs, my harmless walks in the streets, every word I spoke, was a spear
leveled at the heart of the king—a man who was guiltless as a babe where
I was concerned—a man who loves his people and deserves their love. Here
I hide myself and keep safe from doing harm. It is my own home; here I
can sleep tranquilly; boards are too soft, I want the hard rock.
“More than one morning came, and I had not tasted food. I should not
have cared for that had my pretty friend been with me; but I had called
him so often, searched for him so long, that hope gave out. It was worse
than a prison now, he had left me and the light came into my cell. This
was indeed solitude. Then I thought of you, Therese, and wondered if you
would not come to me.”
“And I am here. It was I that thought of the ruins, I, who have found
you sitting here alone and half-famished,” exclaimed Marguerite. “But I
have brought you plenty of food. There will be enough for the
marmousette as well; poor little fellow! He came back at last to comfort
you.”
“Yes. I awoke in the night and found him nestled in my bosom. Let him
have a crumb first, I can wait.”
The girl opened her basket, and drew forth some bread and a flask of
pure water. The old man crumbled some of the bread into his hand and
tempted the pet-mouse with it; but the poor little thing had been too
severely hurt, and, instead of eating, closed its eyes, and lay down in
the palm out of which the prisoner had made a nest for him.
“To-morrow,” said the girl, answering the startled look of the old man,
“to-morrow I will bring white bread, then it will eat. But you are
hungry, take some of the bread.”
“I cannot, I cannot,” cried the old man. “When he eats I will.”
The mouse seemed to understand these words; its tiny limbs moved, its
little head was uplifted, and when Marguerite held the crumbs toward
him, he crept forward and began to nibble them.
Then, with tears of thankfulness rolling down his cheeks, the old man
fell to eating also.