PARIS IN 1792.
On the third of September, 1792, about eleven o'clock in the morning, a
tall, stalwart man, with an energetic face and sunburned hands, and
accompanied by a young woman, might have been seen approaching the
Barriere du Trone. Both were clad in the garb worn by the peasantry of
southern France. The young woman wore the costume of a Provençale
peasant girl, and carried upon her arm a short, dark cloak, which she
used as a protection against the cool night air, but which she did not
require now in the heat of the day. The man wore a suit of black
fustian, a foxskin cap, blue stockings and heavy shoes. The expression
of weariness imprinted upon their features and the dust that covered
their garments proved that their journey had been long. As they neared
the gateway, the man, who was carrying a heavy valise in his hand,
paused to take breath. His companion followed his example, and, as they
seated themselves by the roadside, she cast an anxious glance at the
city.
"Do you think they will allow us to pass?" she murmured, frightened
already at the thought of being subjected to the examination of the
soldiers who guarded the gate.
"Are not our passports all right?" demanded her companion. "If we
wished to leave Paris it would be quite another matter; but as we merely
desire to enter the city, there will be no difficulty. Have no fears,
Mademoiselle; they will not detain us long at the gate."
"Coursegol, stop calling me Mademoiselle. Call me your daughter. If you
do not acquire the habit of doing so, you will forget some day and then
all will be discovered."
"I know my rôle, and I shall play it to perfection when we are before
strangers, but, when we are alone, I cannot forget that I am only your
servant."
"Not my servant; but my friend, my father. Have you not always felt for
me the same affection and solicitude you would have entertained for your
own daughter?"
Coursegol responded only by a look; but this look proved that Dolores
had spoken the truth and that the paternal love, of which he had given
abundant proofs in the early part of this history, had suffered no
diminution.
"If you had only been willing to listen to me," he remarked, after a few
moment's silence, "we should have remained in the village where the
coach stopped. There we could have awaited a more propitious opportunity
to reach our journey's end."
"I was too eager to reach the city. It seems to me that, in approaching
Paris, I am nearing Philip and Antoinette. If they are still living, we
shall certainly find them in Paris."
"Oh! they are living; I am sure of it; but is it not likely that they
have emigrated? In that case, why should we remain in a city that is so
full of danger for us?"
"We can lead a quiet and retired life there! No one will know us and we
shall have better facilities for obtaining news in Paris than in a
village. My heart tells me that we are not far from our friends."
"God grant it, my child," responded Coursegol; "and if, as I hope,
Bridoul has not forgotten his friend of former days, we shall soon be
safe in his house."
"Are you not sure of his friendship?" inquired Dolores, anxiously.
"Can we place implicit confidence in any one as times are now?" returned
Coursegol. "Bridoul was my comrade in the army. He loved me, and he was
devoted to Monsieur Philip, our captain. But to-day the remembrance of
such a friendship is a crime. It must be forgotten; and fear sometimes
renders the bravest hearts cowardly and timorous. Still, I do not
believe Bridoul has changed. But we shall soon know. Now, let us go on,
my dear daughter, and show no anxiety if they question us at the gate."
"Have no fear, father," replied Dolores, with a smile.
Coursegol picked up his valise, and boldly approached the gate. Dolores
followed him, striving to quiet the throbbings of her heart; she was
more troubled in mind now than she had been during the whole of the long
journey. As they were passing through the gateway, a sentinel stopped
them and made them enter a small house occupied by the detachment of the
National Guard, which was deputized to watch over the safety of Paris
from this point. The post was commanded by a young lieutenant, a mere
boy with a beardless face. On seeing a beautiful girl enter, followed by
an aged man, he rose, and turning to his soldiers:
"What is the meaning of this?" he inquired.
"I wish to enter the city, lieutenant," volunteered Coursegol, without
waiting to be questioned.
"Enter Paris! You have chosen a nice time! There are many people in it
who would be only too glad to make their escape. Who is this citoyenne?"
added the officer, pointing to Dolores.
"That is my daughter."
"Be seated, citoyenne," said the lieutenant, politely offering Dolores
his own chair.
She accepted it, and the examination continued.
"From whence do you come?"
"From Beaucaire."
"Afoot?"
"No, citizen; we left the coach at Montgeron. The driver had no other
passengers, and, when he heard of the troubles in Paris, he declared he
would wait there until they were over. His coach was loaded with
merchandise, and he feared it would be taken from him."
"Does he take patriots for bandits?" exclaimed the officer, angrily. "If
I am on guard here when his coach enters the city, he will receive the
lesson he deserves. You said you had passports, I think?"
"Here they are!"
The officer took the papers that Coursegol handed him and examined them
carefully.
"These papers were drawn up two years ago," said he. "Where have you
spent these years?"
"My daughter has been ill and we were obliged to stop at numerous places
on the way. We made long sojourns at Dijon and at Montereau; but you
will notice, citizen, the passports bear the endorsement of the
authorities of those towns."
"So I perceive. Very well, you will be taken before the Commissioners
and if your papers prove all right, as I believe they are, you will be
allowed to remain in the city."
The young lieutenant turned away to give an order to one of his
soldiers; then suddenly he approached Coursegol and said kindly, in a
low voice:
"You seem to be worthy people, and I should be very sorry if any
misfortune happened to you. Paris is not a safe abode just now.
Yesterday they began to put the prisoners to death, and, perhaps, you
and your daughter would do well to wait until the fury of the populace
is appeased."
"But we belong to the people," replied Coursegol. "We have nothing to
fear; moreover, I know a good patriot who will be responsible for us if
necessary: Citizen Bridoul, who keeps a wine-shop on the Rue Antoine."
"At the sign of the Bonnet Rouge?" cried the officer.
"The very same," replied Coursegol, boldly, though until now he had been
ignorant of the sign which distinguished his friend Bridoul's
establishment.
"Bridoul is a true patriot. Thanks to him, you will incur no risk! You
will now be conducted to the Commissioners."
"Many thanks for your kindness, lieutenant," said Coursegol.
And taking Dolores' arm in his, he followed the soldier who was to
conduct them to the municipal authorities. There, they underwent a fresh
examination, and Coursegol responded as before. As people who desired to
enter Paris at such a time could hardly be regarded with suspicion,
Coursegol and Dolores were walking freely about the streets of the city
a few moments later, surprised and alarmed at the sights that met their
eyes at every turn. The last witnesses of the grand revolutionary drama
are disappearing every day. Age has bowed their heads, blanched their
locks and enfeebled their memories. Soon there will remain none of those
whose testimony might aid the historian of that stormy time in his
search after truth; but among the few who still survive and who in the
year 1792 were old enough to see and understand and remember, there are
none upon whom the recollection of those terrible days in September is
not indelibly imprinted. Since the tenth of August, Paris had been
delivered up to frenzy and bloodshed. The arrest of the royal family,
the rivalry between the Commune and the Convention, the bitter debates
at the clubs and the uprising of the volunteers were more than enough to
throw the great city into a state of excitement, disorder and terror.
Business was paralyzed; the stores were for the most part closed; the
aristocratic portions of the city deserted; emigration had deprived
France of thousands of her citizens; the streets were filled with a
fierce, ragged crowd; the luxury upon which the artisan depended for a
livelihood was proscribed; famine was knocking at the gates; gold had
disappeared; places of amusement were broken up; the gardens and the
galleries of the Palais-Royal alone remained--the only rendezvous
accessible to those who, even while looking forward to death,
frantically desired to enjoy the little of life that remained. Such was
the aspect of affairs in Paris.
With the last days of August came the news of the capture of Longwy by
the Prussians, the siege of Terdun, and the warlike preparations of
Russia and Germany. This was more than enough to excite the terror of
the Parisians and to arouse their anger against those whom they called
aristocrats and whom they accused of complicity with the enemies of the
nation.
On the 29th of August, by the order of the Commune, the gates were
closed. It was impossible to enter Paris without a passport endorsed by
examiners appointed for the purpose. No one was allowed to leave the
city on any pretext whatever. The Parisians were virtually prisoners.
Every house, every apartment was visited by inspectors. Rich and poor
were alike compelled to submit. Every suspicious article was seized, and
the man in whose dwelling it was discovered was arrested. The inspectors
performed their tasks with unnecessary harshness, ruthlessly destroying
any valuable object upon which they could lay their hands. They rapped
upon the walls to see if they contained any secret hiding-place; they
pierced the mattresses with their swords and poignards. After these
visits thousands of citizens were arrested and conducted to the Hotel
de Ville, where many were detained for thirty hours without food,
awaiting their turn to appear before the members of the Commune. After
their examination some were released; others were thrown into the
prisons, which were soon crowded to such a degree that there was not
room for a single newcomer by the first of September. If room could not
be found, room must be made; and the following day, the second of
September, twenty-four prisoners, chiefly priests, were led before the
mayor, adjudged guilty of treason, crowded into fiacres and taken to the
Abbaye, where they were executed immediately on their arrival.
After this, their first taste of blood, the executioners hastened to the
Châtelet and to the Conciergerie, where they wrought horrors that the
pen refuses to describe, sentencing to death the innocent and the guilty
without giving them any opportunity to defend themselves. Night did not
appease the fury of the butchers. On the third of September they killed
again at the Abbaye, at the Force and at the Bernardins prisons; and on
the fourth they continued their work of death at La Salpêtriere and
Bicêtre.
For three days the tocsin sounded. Bands of sans-culottes and
tricoteuses, thirsting for blood, traversed the streets, uttering cries
of death; and no one seemed to think of checking their sanguinary fury.
A prey to a truly remarkable panic, when we consider the relatively
small number of assassins, the terrified citizens remained shut up in
their houses. The National Assembly seemed powerless to arrest the
horrors of these tragical hours; the Commune seemed to favor them.
Of all those days that inspire us with such horror, even now, after the
lapse of nearly a century, the darkest was that which witnessed the
execution of the Princesse de Lamballe, who perished for no other crime
than that of love for the queen. Beheaded, and thrown at first upon a
pile of corpses, her body was afterwards despoiled of its clothing and
exposed to the view of an infamous mob. One of the bandits dared to
separate from this poor body, defiled with mud, and later by the hands
of its murderers, the lovely head that had surmounted it; others,
dividing it with a brutality that nothing could soften, quarrelled over
the bleeding fragments. Then began a frightful massacre. Like wild
beasts, bearing these spoils of the head as trophies of victory, the
band of assassins rushed down the Rue de Sicile to carry terror to the
heart of Paris.
It was nearly noon when Coursegol and Dolores, having passed the
Bastile, entered the Rue Saint Antoine to find a dense crowd of men,
women and ragged children yelling at one another and singing coarse
songs. Some of the National Guard were among the throng; and they were
stopped every few moments by the people to shout: "Vive la Nation!" the
patriotic cry that lent courage to the hearts of the soldiers of the
Republic nobly fighting for the defence of our frontiers, but which had
been caught up and was incessantly vociferated by the ruffians who
inaugurated the Reign of Terror. All carriages that attempted to pass
through this moving crowd were stopped, and their occupants were obliged
to prove their patriotism by mingling their acclamations with those of
the mob. The audacity and brutality of the sans-culottes knew no bounds.
Woe to him who allowed his face to betray his sentiments, even for a
moment! Terror, pity, sadness, these were crimes to be cruelly expiated.
Coursegol had hesitated to enter the Rue Saint Antoine. He feared to
come in contact with this excited multitude, but the more alarming the
great city which she saw for the first time appeared to Dolores, the
more anxious she was to find shelter at Bridoul's house. But Bridoul's
house was in the Rue Saint Antoine; and, to reach it, it was absolutely
necessary to make their way through the crowd, or to wait until it had
dispersed. But when would it disperse? Was it not dangerous to remain
much longer without an asylum and a protector? This thought terrified
Dolores, and, longing to reach her place of destination, she urged
Coursegol to proceed.
At first, they advanced without much difficulty, following the throng
that seemed to be wending its way in the same direction as themselves;
but when they had passed the Palais-Royal, they were obliged to slacken
their pace, and soon to stop entirely. The crowd formed an impassable
barrier against which they were pressed so closely by those behind that
Dolores was nearly suffocated, and Coursegol, to protect her, placed her
before him, extending his arms to keep off the excited throng.
In the midst of the tumult which we have attempted to describe,
Coursegol was troubled, not so much by the impatience of Dolores as by
the doubts that beset him when he thought of Bridoul. He had not seen
the latter for three years. He only knew that his comrade, on quitting
the army, had purchased a wine merchant's establishment; but, on hearing
that his former friend sold his merchandise at the sign of the Bonnet
Rouge, he asked himself in alarm if he would not find, instead of a
friend, a rabid patriot who would refuse to come to the aid of the
ex-servant of a Marquis. These reflections had made him silent and
anxious until now; but, finding his progress checked by the crowd, the
thought of inquiring the cause of this excitement occurred to him.
Addressing a man who was standing a few steps from him, and who, judging
from his impassive features, seemed not to share the emotions of which
he was a witness, Coursegol inquired:
"What is going on, my friend?"
"What is going on!" replied the stranger, not without bitterness. "They
are carrying the head of the Princesse de Lamballe through the streets
of Paris!"
Coursegol could not repress a movement of horror and of pity. On several
occasions, when he had accompanied Philip to the house of the Duke de
Penthieore, he had seen the Princess who had befriended his young
master. At the same time, the thought that Dolores might be obliged to
witness such a horrible exhibition frightened him, and he resolved to
find some way to spare the girl the shameful spectacle that the eager
crowd was awaiting. Suddenly Dolores, who had been standing on the same
spot for some time, discovered that the soil beneath her feet had become
wet and slippery, and, turning to Coursegol, she said:
"I am standing in water."
Coursegol drew back and forced the crowd to give way a trifle, so
Dolores could have a little more standing-room. Thanks to his exertions,
she could breathe once more; but, chancing to look down upon the ground,
she uttered an exclamation of consternation.
"Blood! It is blood!" she exclaimed, in horror.
Coursegol's eyes followed hers. She was not mistaken. She was standing
in a pool of blood, and not far off lay a body that the crowd had
trampled upon only a few moments before.
"But where are we?" murmured the terrified Coursegol.
The man to whom he had previously spoken drew a little nearer and said:
"You are, perhaps, a hundred paces from the prison where they executed
the prisoners scarcely an hour ago."
Then, drawing still nearer, so that no one save Coursegol could hear
him, he added:
"Advise that young girl not to cry out again as she did just now. If
some of these fanatics had heard her, she would have fared badly!"
At that very moment, the crowd resumed its march. The man disappeared.
When Coursegol, agitated by these horrors which were so new to him,
turned again to speak to Dolores, he saw that she had fainted in his
arms. The poor man glanced despairingly about him. Suddenly his eyes
fell upon a sign hanging over a shop on the opposite side of the street.
This sign represented a red Phrygian cap upon a white ground, and above
it was written in large red letters: "Le Bonnet Rouge." For a quarter of
an hour he had been standing directly opposite Bridoul's establishment.
He uttered a cry of joy, lifted Dolores in his strong arms, and, in a
stentorian voice, exclaimed:
"Make way! Make way, good citizens! My daughter has fainted!"
The Provençale costume worn by Dolores deceived the persons who would
otherwise have impeded Coursegol's progress.
"He is from Marseilles," some one cried.
Just at that time the Marseillais were heroes in the eyes of all good
patriots. The unusual height of Coursegol strengthened the illusion.
"Yes," remarked another, "he is one of the Marseillais who have come to
the aid of the Parisians."
The crowd opened before him. He soon reached the shop over which hung
the sign of the "Bonnet Rouge" and entered it. There were but few
customers in the large saloon. He placed Dolores in a chair, ran to the
counter, seized a glass of water, returned to the girl and bathed her
forehead and temples. In a moment she opened her eyes.
"My dear child, are you better?" he asked.
"Yes, yes, my good Coursegol," replied Dolores. Then she added: "Yes,
father, but I was terribly frightened."
"The citoyenne was crushed in the crowd!" said a voice behind Coursegol.
He turned and saw a woman who was still young. Suddenly he recollected
that Bridoul was married.
"Are you not Citoyenne Bridoul?" he asked.
"Certainly, Cornelia Bridoul."
"Where is your husband?"
"Here he is."
Bridoul appeared. He had followed his wife in order to see the young
Provençale who had been brought into his shop.
"Do you know me?" inquired Coursegol.
"Can it be Coursegol?"
"Yes; I am your brother-in-law; this young girl is your niece. We have
just arrived from Beaucaire. I will explain everything by and by."
Bridoul cast a hasty glance around him. No one was observing them. The
few who had been sitting at the table had risen and gone to the door,
attracted there by the increasing tumult without.
"Take the young lady into the back room," Bridoul whispered to his wife.
"There will be a crowd here in a moment."
The latter made haste to obey. It was time. In another moment Dolores
would have been obliged to witness an even more horrible spectacle than
that upon which her eyes had rested a short while before. The shop was
suddenly taken by storm. Several men with repulsive faces, long hair
and cruel eyes, and whose clothing was thickly spattered with blood,
entered the saloon, followed by a yelling crowd. People mounted on
chairs and tables to obtain a look at them. They were the city
executioners. They ordered wine which Bridoul hastened to place before
them. One carried in his hand the newly decapitated head of a woman,
whose fair hair was twined round his bare arm. Before drinking his wine
he placed the head upon the counter. Coursegol closed his eyes to shut
out the ghastly sight. He had recognized the features of the Princesse
de Lamballe. When the men had finished their wine, one said:
"Now we will have the hair of this citoyenne dressed so that Marie
Antoinette will recognize her."
And addressing Bridoul, he added:
"Is there any hair-dresser in this neighborhood?"
"About a hundred paces from here, on the Place de la Bastille," replied
Bridoul.
"On! on!" shouted the executioners.
And taking the head of the unfortunate Princess they departed,
accompanied by the crowd that had followed them from the prison. A few
moments later the saloon was empty. Bridoul hastened into the back room.
Coursegol followed him. Fortunately the two women had not seen what had
occurred, and, thanks to Cornelia Bridoul's friendly offices, Dolores
had regained her composure.
"First of all, are you classed among the suspected characters?" the wine
merchant inquired of Coursegol. "Are you trying to escape from your
pursuers? Must I conceal you?"
"No," replied Coursegol "We have come to Paris in the hope of finding
Monsieur Philip."
"Our old captain?"
"The same," answered Coursegol, at once recounting the events with which
the reader is already familiar. When the recital was ended, Bridoul
spoke in his turn.
"I am willing to swear that the captain is not in Paris. If he were, he,
like all the rest of the nobles, would have been in great danger; and in
peril, he would certainly have thought of his old soldier, Bridoul, for
he knows he can rely upon my devotion."
"Ah! you have not changed!" cried Coursegol, pressing his friend's hand.
"No, I have not changed. As you knew me so will you find me. But, my
good friend, we must be prudent. You did well to come to my house. You
and your daughter must remain here. You are relatives of mine; that is
understood. Later, we can make other arrangements; but this evening I
shall take you to the political club to which I belong. I will introduce
you as my brother-in-law, a brave patriot from the south."
"But what the devil shall I do at the club?" inquired Coursegol.
"What shall you do there? Why, you will howl with the wolves; that is
the only way to save yourself from being eaten by them!"
But Coursegol demurred.
"M. Bridoul is right," urged Dolores, timidly.
"Niece, you are wise to take your uncle's part," remarked Bridoul; "but
you must take care not to call me monsieur. That is more than enough to
send you to prison as times are now."
"Is everything a crime then?" cried Coursegol.
"Everything," answered Bridoul, "and the greatest crime of all would be
to remain at home while all good patriots are listening to the friends
of the people in the political meetings. You will be closely watched,
for we are surrounded by spies; and if any act of yours arouses the
slightest suspicion we shall all go to sleep on the straw in the
Conciergerie or the Abbaye, until we are sent to the block!"
Coursegol uttered a groan.
"Why do you sigh?" asked Bridoul. "All this does not prevent me from
doing a service to such as deserve it. On the contrary, I should be rich
if the number of thousand louis I possess equalled the number of lives I
have saved since the tenth of August!"
"Hush, husband!" said Madame Bridoul, quickly. "What if some one should
hear you!"
"Yes, yes, Cornelia, I will be prudent. Here we are all good patriots,
worthy sans-culottes, ever ready to cry: 'Vive la Nation!'"
As he spoke Bridoul returned to his shop, for several customers were
coming in.
The former dragoon was over forty years of age. He was small of stature,
and in no way resembled one's ideal of a brave cavalier. His short
limbs, his protruding stomach, his enormous arms and his fat hands gave
him, when he was not moving about, the appearance of a penguin in
repose. The large head covered with bushy gray hair, that surmounted
his short body imparted to him really an almost grotesque look; but so
much kindness shone in his eyes, and his voice was so rich and genial
that one instantly divined a brave man beneath this unattractive
exterior and was irresistibly attracted to him. Twenty-five years of his
existence had been spent in the service of the king. He had cheerfully
shed his blood and risked his life, and, thanks to the shrewdness he had
displayed in his dealings with recruiting officers, he was now the
possessor of several thousand francs. This little fortune enabled him to
leave the army and to marry. A pretty shop-girl on the Faubourg du
Roule, whose beautiful eyes, as he, himself, expressed it, had pierced
his heart from end to end, consented, though she was much his junior, to
a union of their destinies. In 1789 the newly married couple purchased
the stock of a wine-shop, over the door of which, after the 10th of
August, they prudently hung the sign of the "Bonnet Rouge."
At heart, Bridoul and his wife were still ardent royalists. They
bitterly deplored the imprisonment of Louis XVI. and his family, but
they were governed by a feeling which soon became general, and under the
empire of which most of the events of this bloody period were
accomplished. They were afraid. It would not do for them to be classed
with suspected persons, so they did not hesitate to violate their
conscience and their heart by openly professing doctrines which they
secretly abhorred, but which gave them the reputation of irreproachable
patriots. Hence the "Bonnet Rouge" soon became the rendezvous of the
Revolutionists of that quarter; and through them Bridoul acquired
information with regard to their plans that enabled him to save the
lives of many citizens. Fear had made him cautious but not cowardly; and
he was fortunate enough to find in his wife a valuable auxiliary whose
resolution, courage and coolness were never failing. After this
explanation, not one will be surprised at the welcome this worthy couple
accorded Dolores and Coursegol. They were ever ready to do good and to
succor the distressed.
The evening after her arrival, Dolores was installed in a chamber over
the shop. Coursegol occupied a small room adjoining this chamber. They
could reach their apartments without passing through the saloon; so
Dolores and Coursegol were not compelled to mingle against their will
with the crowd of customers that filled the wine-shop during the day. It
was decided that they should all take their meals at a common table,
which was to be served in the back shop where Bridoul and his wife
slept. It was also decided that Dolores should lay aside the Provençale
costume which she had worn on her arrival in Paris, and dress like a
daughter of the people. Everything that would be likely to attract
attention must be scrupulously avoided, for the beauty of Dolores had
already awakened too much interest on the part of curious customers.
The following Sunday morning, Dolores, who felt certain that Cornelia
Bridoul was a devout Christian, said to her:
"At what hour do you go to church? I would like to accompany you?"
"To church! For what?" asked Cornelia, evidently surprised.
"To hear mass."
"Would you listen to a mass celebrated by a perjured priest?"
And, as Dolores looked at her in astonishment, Cornelia added:
"The sacred offices are now celebrated only by renegade priests, who
have forsaken the tenets of the church to render allegiance to the
constitution."
But that same evening after supper, as Dolores was about retiring to her
chamber, Cornelia, who was sitting with her guest in the room in the
rear of the shop, while Bridoul and Coursegol were closing the saloon,
said to her:
"This morning you were regretting that you could not attend church. I
have been informed that an aged saint, who has found shelter with some
worthy people in the neighborhood, will celebrate mass this evening."
"Oh! let us go!" cried Dolores.
"Very well, you shall go; Coursegol will accompany us; Bridoul will
remain at home and take care of the house."
A few moments later, Dolores, Cornelia and Coursegol, provided with the
pass that all good patriots were obliged to carry if they were in the
streets of Paris after ten o'clock at night, stole out of the wine-shop
and turned their steps toward the Place Royale. The streets which they
traversed, looking back anxiously now and then to make sure that they
were not followed, were dark and almost deserted. It was only
occasionally that they met little groups of two or three persons, who
passed rapidly, as if they distrusted the other passers-by. A policeman
stopped our friends. They displayed their passes, and he allowed them to
pursue their way without further questions. At last, they reached the
Place Royale, and turned into a side street. At a half-open door stood a
man clad in a blouse, and wearing a red cap. Cornelia said a few words
to him in a low tone.
"Pass in," was his response.
He stepped aside. Dolores and Cornelia hastily entered, but Coursegol,
who was to watch in the street, remained outside. The two women ascended
to the fifth floor, and at last reached a door which was guarded as the
one below had been. Cornelia gave the password and they entered. They
traversed several rooms and finally found themselves in a spacious
apartment dimly lighted by two candles. There were no windows, and the
only means of lighting and ventilating the room was a sky-light; but
this was now covered with heavy linen, undoubtedly for the purpose of
concealing what was passing within from any spy who might be seized with
a fancy for a promenade on the roof. At one end of the room, and
separated from it by a thick curtain, was an alcove. There were about
twenty people, mostly women, in the room. Every one stood silent and
motionless, as if awaiting some mysterious event. When the clock struck
eleven, a voice from behind the curtain said: "Close the doors."
The man on guard obeyed and came and took his place with the others, who
with one accord fell upon their knees. At the same instant, the curtains
parted, revealing the interior of the alcove in which stood a lighted
altar surmounted by a cross of dark wood. At the foot of the altar stood
an old white-haired priest, arrayed in sacerdotal robes, and assisted by
two young men who acted as a choir. The service began. Dolores could not
restrain her tears. After a few moments she became calmer and began to
pray. She prayed fervently for Philip, for Antoinette, for all whom she
loved and for herself. The ceremony was short. The priest addressed a
brief exhortation to his audience. The time of pomp and of long sermons
had gone by. At any moment they might be surprised, and the life of
every one present would have been in danger had they been arrested in
that modest room which had become for the nonce the only asylum of the
proscribed Romish Church.
When the service was concluded, the curtains were again drawn and the
worshippers withdrew, not without depositing in a box an offering for
the venerable priest who had officiated. Just as Dolores and Cornelia
were leaving the room, the brave old man passed them. He was arrayed in
the garb of a worthy patriot, and was so effectually disguised that they
would not have recognized him if he had not addressed them. As for the
altar, it had disappeared as if by enchantment.
So, either in this house or in some other, Dolores regularly attended
the offices of her church. Not a Sunday passed that Cornelia did not
conduct her to some mysterious retreat, where a little band of
brave-hearted Christians met to worship together. She was in this way
made familiar with heroic deeds which gave her courage to brave the
dangers that threatened every one in those trying days, and she was thus
initiated into a sort of league, formed without previous intent, for the
purpose of providing a means of escape for those who were in danger of
becoming the victims of the dread and merciless Committee of Public
Safety. It was in this way that she was led to accompany Cornelia one
evening when the latter went to carry food to a nobleman whose life was
in danger, and who was concealed in the neighborhood of the Invalides,
and, on another occasion, to aid in the escape of an old man who had
been condemned to die. The enthusiasm of Dolores was so great that she
often exposed herself to danger imprudently and unnecessarily. She was
proud and happy to assist the Bridouls in their efforts, and she
conceived for them an admiration and an affection which inspired her
with the desire to equal them in their noble work to which they had so
bravely consecrated themselves.
But Coursegol, ignorant of most of the dangers to which Dolores exposed
herself, or who knew of them only when it was too late to blame her for
her temerity, had not lost sight of the motives which had induced him
to accompany the girl on her expedition to Paris.
What they had aimed to do, as the reader doubtless recollects, was to
find Philip de Chamondrin and Antoinette de Mirandol, who had both been
missing since the death of the Marquis and the destruction of the
château. Though Bridoul persisted in declaring that his former captain
was not in Paris, Coursegol was not discouraged. For three months he
pursued an unremitting search. He found several men who, like himself,
had formed a part of M. de Chamondrin's company. He succeeded in
effecting an entrance to the houses of some of the friends whom his
master had visited during his sojourn in Paris. He frequented public
places. He might have been seen, by turn, in the Jacobin Club, in the
galleries of the Convention, at the Palais Égalité, in every place where
he would be likely to find any trace of Philip; but nowhere could he
discover the slightest clew to his whereabouts. Every evening on his
return home, after a day of laborious search, he was obliged to admit
his want of success to Dolores. She listened sadly, then shook her head
and said:
"Bridoul is right. Philip and Antoinette have left the country; we shall
never see them again. After all, it is, perhaps, for the best, since
they are in safety."
But, even while she thus attempted to console herself, Dolores could not
conceal the intense sorrow and disappointment that filled her heart,
and which were caused, not so much by the absence of her friends as by
the mystery that enshrouded their fate. If it be misery to be separated
from those we love, how much greater is that misery when we know nothing
concerning their fate, and do not even know whether they are dead or
alive! Dolores loved Antoinette with all a sister's tenderness, and
Philip, with a much deeper and far more absorbing passion, although she
had voluntarily sacrificed her hopes and forced herself to see in him
only a brother. She had paid for the satisfaction of knowing that he was
happy and prosperous with all that made life desirable; and this
uncertainty was hard to bear.
"Come, come, my child, do not weep," Coursegol would say at times like
these. "We shall soon discover what has become of them."
"They are in England or in Germany," added Bridoul, "probably quite as
much distressed about you as you are about them. You will see them again
some day. Until then, have patience."
More than four months had passed when it was suddenly announced that the
king, who had been a prisoner in the Temple for some time, was to be
brought to trial. It was also rumored that a number of noblemen had
eluded the vigilance of the authorities and had entered Paris resolved
upon a desperate attempt to save him at the very last moment.
Coursegol's hope revived. He felt certain that Philip would not hesitate
to hazard his life in such an enterprise if he were still alive; and it
was in the hope of meeting him that he attended the trial of the
unfortunate monarch, and that, on the twentieth day of January, he
accompanied Bridoul to the very steps of the guillotine. The king was
beheaded; no attempt was made to rescue him. Then Coursegol decided upon
a step which he had been contemplating for some little time.
It will be remembered that Philip on his first arrival in Paris, had
been attached to the household of the Duke de Penthieore, into which he
had been introduced by the efforts of the Chevalier de Florian. The duke
was the only member of the royal family who had remained in France
unmolested. He owed this fortunate exemption of which the history of
that epoch offers no similar example, to his many virtues and especially
to his well known benevolence. Since the death of his daughter-in-law,
the Princess de Lamballe, whom he had been unable to save from the hands
of the executioners, he had lived with his daughter, the Duchess of
Orleans at the Château de Bisy, in Vernon. He was living there, not as a
proscribed man but as a prince, ill, broken-hearted at the death of his
relatives, almost dying, surrounded by his friends and protected from
the fury of the Revolutionists by the veneration of the inhabitants of
Vernon, who had displayed their reverence by planting with great pomp,
in front of the good duke's château, a tree of liberty crowned with this
inscription: "A Tribute to Virtue;" and who evinced it still more
strongly a little later by sending a deputation to his death-bed to
implore him before his departure from earth, to bless the humble
village in which his last days had been spent.
One morning, Coursegol, having obtained a passport through Bridoul,
started for Vernon. This village is situated a few leagues from Paris on
the road to Normandy. Coursegol, who in his double rôle of peasant and
soldier was accustomed to walking, made the journey afoot, which enabled
him to see with his own eyes the misery that was then prevailing in the
provinces as well as in Paris. It was horrible. On every side he saw
only barren and devastated fields, and ragged, starving villagers,
trembling with fear. The revolution which had promised these poor
wretches deliverance and comfort, had as yet brought them only
misfortunes.
Coursegol reached Vernon that evening, spent the night at an inn, and
the next morning at sunrise, repaired to the duke's château. That good
old man had long been in the habit of receiving all who desired to speak
with him, so it was easy for Coursegol to obtain an interview. He was
ushered into a hall where several persons were already waiting, and
through which the duke was obliged to pass on his way to attend morning
services in the chapel.
At ten o'clock, the duke appeared. Coursegol, who had not seen him for
several years, found him greatly changed. But the face surrounded by
white floating locks had not lost the benign expression which had always
characterized it; and he displayed the same simplicity of manner that
had always endeared him to the poor and humble. When he entered the
hall, the people who had been waiting for him, advanced to meet him.
They were mostly noblemen who owed their lives to his influence, and
who, thanks to him, were allowed to remain in France unmolested. He
listened to them with an abstracted air, glancing to the right and left
while they offered him their homage. Suddenly he perceived Coursegol who
was standing at a little distance awaiting his turn. He stepped toward
him and said:
"What do you desire, my friend?"
Coursegol bowed profoundly.
"Monseigneur," he replied, "I am the servant of the Marquis Philip de
Chamondrin, who once had the honor to belong to your household."
"Chamondrin! I remember him perfectly; a brave young man for whom my
poor Lamballe obtained a commission as captain of dragoons. I had news
of him quite recently."
"News of him!" exclaimed Coursegol, joyfully. "Ah! Monseigneur, where is
he? How is he?"
"Are you anxious to know?" inquired the duke.
"Your highness shall judge."
And Coursegol briefly recounted the events that had separated him from
Philip, and told the duke how Dolores and himself had come to Paris in
the hope of finding him. His recital must have been both eloquent and
pathetic, for when it was concluded tears stood in the eyes of the
listeners.
"Ah! What anxiety the young girl must have suffered!" exclaimed the
prince; "but I can reassure her. Yes; I recently received a letter from
the Marquis de Chamondrin. It shall be given to you and you shall carry
it to his sister. She will be indebted to me for a few hours of
happiness. My dear Miromesnil," added the duke, addressing an old man
who was standing near, "will you look in my correspondence of the month
of October for a letter bearing the signature of Chamondrin? When you
find it, give it to this worthy man."
Coursegol began to stammer out his thanks, but, without heeding them,
the duke came still nearer and said, in a low voice:
"Does Mademoiselle de Chamondrin require aid of any sort?"
"No, monseigneur," replied Coursegol.
"Do not forget that I am ready to come to her assistance whenever it is
necessary; and assure her of my sincere sympathy."
Having uttered these words, the kind-hearted prince passed on, leaning
upon the arm of a nobleman connected with his household. Coursegol,
elated by the certainty that Philip was alive, could scarcely restrain
his impatience; but he waited for the promised letter, which would prove
to Dolores that those she loved were still on earth. In a few moments M.
de Miromesnil returned. He held the precious letter in his hand and gave
it to Coursegol, who hastily perused it. It was dated in London, and had
been addressed to the duke soon after the death of Madame de Lamballe.
It contained no allusion to Mademoiselle de Mirandol, and Philip said
but little about himself; still was it not an unspeakable relief to him
to feel that he was alive and to know in what country he was sojourning.
Eager to place this letter in the hands of Dolores, Coursegol started
for home immediately; but, instead of returning as he came, he took
passage in the diligence that plied between Rouen and Paris; and that
same evening, after so many months of dreary waiting, he was able to
relieve the anxiety that Dolores had felt regarding her brother's fate.
The girl's joy was intense, and she devoutly thanked God who had revived
her faith and hope just as she was beginning to despair. If Coursegol
had listened to her, they would have started for London without delay,
so eager was she to rejoin Philip and Antoinette whom she supposed
married. But Coursegol convinced her of the absolute impossibility of
this journey. They could reach the sea only by passing through the
greatest dangers.
"Besides," added Coursegol, "what does this letter prove? That M. Philip
is safe and well, of course; but it does not prove that he is still in
London."
"Coursegol is right!" remarked Bridoul. "Before you think of starting,
you must write to M. Philip."
"But can letters pass the frontier more easily than persons?" asked
Dolores.
"Oh, I will take care of all that. If you wish to write, I know a
gentleman who is going to England and who will take charge of your
letter."
"Then I will write," said Dolores, with a sigh. "I would have preferred
to go myself, but since that is impossible----"
She paused, resolved to wait in patience.
Coursegol breathed freely again. He feared she would persist in her
determination to go, and that he would be obliged to tell her that their
resources were nearly exhausted and would not suffice to meet the costs
of such a long and difficult journey, every step of which would demand a
lavish expenditure of money.
Since the destruction of Chamondrin, Dolores had been entirely dependent
upon Coursegol's bounty. The latter had possessed quite a snug little
fortune, inherited from his parents; but a sojourn of fifteen months at
Beaucaire and more than a year's income expended on the journey to Paris
had made great inroads in his little capital. Fortunately, on arriving
in Paris, the generous hospitality of the Bridouls had spared him the
necessity of drawing upon the remnant of his fortune. This amounted now
to about twelve hundred francs. Still, he felt that he could not remain
much longer under the roof of these worthy people without trespassing
upon their kindness and generosity, for they firmly refused to accept
any remuneration; and Coursegol was anxiously wondering how he could
support Dolores when this money was exhausted. He confided his anxiety
to Bridoul; but the latter, instead of sharing it, showed him that such
a sum was equivalent to a fortune in times like those.
"Twelve hundred francs!" said he. "Why that is more than enough for the
establishment of a lucrative business or for speculation in assignats
which, with prudence, would yield you a fortune."
It was good advice. Gold and silver were becoming scarce; and assignats
were subject to daily fluctuations that afforded one an excellent
opportunity to realize handsome profits, if one had a little money on
hand and knew how to employ it to advantage.