The room into which Maître Marc was now shown had been recently built;
the plastered walls were damp, and the wainscot showed the fibre of
its wood under the slight coating of paint that covered it. In this
room, lying on a bedstead of common pine roughly put together, he saw
a woman, and in that woman he recognized her Royal Highness the
Duchesse de Berry.
Maître Marc's attention fixed itself wholly upon her. The sheets of
the miserable bed were of the finest lawn, and this luxury of white
and exquisite linen was the only thing about her which testified in
any degree to her station in the world. A shawl with red and green
checkers formed her counterpane. A paltry fireplace of plaster, with a
small wooden mantel, warmed the apartment, the only furniture of which
was a table covered with papers, on which were a pair of pistols, and
two chairs, where lay the garments of a peasant-lad and a brown wig.
The chair with the wig stood near the table, that with the clothes was
near the bed.
The princess wore on her head one of those woollen _coifs_ distinctive
of the Vendéan peasant-women, the ends of which fell on her shoulders.
By the light of two wax candles, placed on the shabby rosewood
night-table (a relic, evidently, of some castle furniture), the
duchess was looking through her correspondence. A large number of
letters, placed on this table and held in place by a second pair of
pistols, which served as a paper-weight, were still unopened.
Madame appeared to be awaiting the new-comer impatiently, for as soon
as she saw him she leaned half out of her bed and stretched her two
hands toward him. He took them, kissed them respectfully, and the
duchess felt a tear from the eyes of her faithful partisan on the hand
he kept longest in his own.
"Tears!" she said. "You do not bring me bad news, monsieur, surely?"
"They come from my heart, Madame," replied Maître Marc. "They express
my devotion and the deep regret I feel in seeing you so isolated, so
lost in this lonely Vendéan farmhouse,--you, whom I have seen--"
He stopped, for the tears choked his voice. The duchess took up his
unfinished phrase.
"At the Tuileries, you mean, on the steps of a throne. Well, my good
friend, I was far worse guarded and less well served there than I am
here. Here I am guarded and served by a fidelity which shows itself in
devotion, there I was served by the self-interest that calculates. But
come, to business; it makes me uneasy to observe that you are
delaying. Give me the news from Paris at once! Is it good news?"
"Pray believe, Madame," said Maître Marc, "I entreat you to believe in
my deep regret at being forced to advise prudence,--I, a man of
enthusiasm!"
"Ah! ah!" exclaimed the duchess. "While my friends in La Vendée are
being killed for my sake, the friends in Paris are prudent, are they?
You see I have good reason for telling you I am better served and
guarded here than I ever was at the Tuileries."
"Better guarded, yes, Madame; better served, no! There are moments
when prudence is the very genius of success."
"But, monsieur," said the duchess, impatiently, "I am as well informed
on the state of Paris as you can be, and I know that a revolution is
imminent."
"Madame," replied the lawyer, in a firm, sonorous voice, "we have
lived for a year and a half in the midst of riots and tumults, and
none of them have yet been able to rise to the level of revolution."
"Louis-Philippe is unpopular."
"Granted; but that does not mean that Henri V. is popular."
"Henri V! Henri V! My son is not Henri V., monsieur; he is Henri IV.
the Second."
"As for that, Madame, may I be allowed to say that he is still too
young to enable us to be sure of his true name and nature. The more we
are devoted to our leader the more we owe him the truth."
"The truth! yes, yes. I ask for it; I want it. But what is the truth?"
"Madame it is this. Unfortunately, the memories of a people are lost
when their horizon is narrow. The French people--I mean that material,
brute force which makes convulsions and sometimes (when inspired from
above) revolutions--has two great recollections that take the place of
all others. One goes back forty-three years, the other seventeen
years. The first is the taking of the Bastille; in other words the
victory of the people over royalty,--a victory that bestowed the
tricolor banner upon the nation. The second memory is the double
restoration of 1814 and 1815; the victory of royalty over the
masses,--a victory which imposed the white banner on the nation.
Madame, in great national movements all is symbolic. The tricolor flag
is liberty to the people; it bears inscribed upon its pennant the
thought, 'By token of this flag we conquer.' The white flag is the
banner of despotism; it bears upon its double face the sign, 'By token
of this flag we are conquered.'"
"Monsieur!"
"You asked for the truth, Madame; let me, therefore, tell it to you."
"Yes, but after you have told it you will allow me to reply."
[Illustration: Portrait of Louis Philippe.]
"Ah, Madame, I should be glad indeed if your reply could convince me."
"Go on."
"You left Paris on the 28th of July, Madame; you did not witness the
fury with which the populace tore down the white flag and trampled on
the fleurs-de-lis."
"The flag of Denain and of Taillebourg! the fleurs-de-lis of
Saint-Louis and of Louis XIV.!"
"Unhappily, Madame, the populace remember only Waterloo; they know
only Louis XVI.,--a defeat and an execution. Well, the great
difficulty I foresee for your son, the descendant of Saint-Louis and
of Louis XIV., is that very flag of Taillebourg and of Denain. If his
Majesty Henri V., or Henry IV. the Second, as you so intelligently
call him, returns to Paris bearing the white banner, he will not pass
the faubourg Saint-Antoine; before he reaches the Bastille he is
dead."
"And if he enters with the tricolor,--what then?"
"Worse still, Madame; he is dishonored."
The duchess bounded in her bed. But at first she was silent; then,
after a pause, she said:--
"Perhaps it is the truth; but it is hard."
"I promised you the whole truth, and I keep my word."
"But, if that is your conviction, monsieur, why do you remain attached
to a party which has no possible chance of success?"
"Because I have sworn allegiance with heart and lips to that white
banner without which, and with which, your son can never return, and I
would rather die than be dishonored."
The duchess was once more silent.
"But," she said presently, "all this that you tell me does not tally
with the information which induced me to come to France."
"No, doubtless it does not, Madame; but you must remember one
thing,--if truth does sometimes reach a reigning prince it is never
told to a dethroned one."
"Permit me to say that in your capacity as a lawyer, monsieur, you may
be suspected of cultivating paradox."
"Paradox, Madame, is one of the many facets of eloquence; only here,
in presence of your Royal Highness, my purpose is not to be eloquent,
but to be true."
"Pardon me, but you said just now that truth was never told to
dethroned princes; either you were mistaken then or you are misleading
me now."
The lawyer bit his lips; he was hoist with his own petard.
"Did I say _never_, Madame?"
"You said _never_."
"Then let us suppose there is an exception, and that I am permitted by
God to be that exception."
"Agreed. And I now ask, why is truth not told to dethroned princes?"
"Because while princes on their thrones may have, at times, men of
satisfied ambition about them, dethroned princes have only inordinate
ambitions to satisfy. No doubt, Madame, you have certain generous
hearts about you who devote themselves to your cause with complete
self-abnegation; but there are, none the less, many others who regard
your return to France solely as a path opened to their private ends,
to their personal reputation, fortune, honor. There are, besides,
dissatisfied men who have lost their position and are craving to
re-conquer it and avenge themselves on those who turned them out of
it. Well, all such persons take a false view of facts; they cannot
perceive the truth of the situation. Their desires become hopes, their
hopes beliefs; they dream incessantly of a revolution which may come
possibly, but most assuredly not when they expect it. They deceive
themselves and they deceive you; they began by lying to themselves,
and now they are lying to you. They are dragging you into the danger
they are rushing into themselves. Hence the error, the fatal error,
into which you are now being hurried, Madame,--an error I implore you
to recognize in presence of the truth which I have, so cruelly
perhaps, unveiled before your eyes."
"In short," said the duchess, all the more impatiently because these
words confirmed those she had heard during the conference at the
château de Souday, "what is it that you have brought in your toga,
Maître Cicero? Is it peace or war? Out with it!"
"As it is proper that we maintain the traditions of constitutional
royalty, I answer your Highness that it is for her, in her capacity as
regent, to decide."
"Yes, indeed; and have my Chambers refuse me subsidies if I do not
decide as they wish. Oh, Maître Marc, I know the fictions of your
constitutional _régime_, the principal feature of which is to do the
work, not of those who speak wisely, but of those who talk the most.
But you must have heard the opinions of my faithful and trusty
adherents as to the present opportunity for a great uprising. What is
that opinion? What is your own opinion? We have talked of truth; truth
is sometimes an awful spectre. No matter; woman as I am, I dare to
evoke it."
"It is because I am convinced there is the stuff of twenty kings in
Madame's head and heart that I have not hesitated to take upon myself
a mission which I feel to be distressing."
"Ah, here we come to the point! Less diplomacy, if you please, Maître
Marc; speak out firmly, as you should to one who is, what I am here, a
soldier."
Then, observing that the traveller, taking off his cravat, was tearing
it apart in search of a paper.
"Give it me! give it me!" she cried; "I can do that quicker than you."
The letter was written in cipher.
"I should lose time in making it out," said the duchess; "read it to
me. It must be easy to you, who probably know what is in it."
Maître Marc took the paper from her hand and read, without hesitating,
the following letter:--
"Those persons in whom an honorable confidence has been reposed cannot
refrain from testifying their regret at unwise councils which have
brought about the present crisis. Those councils were given, no doubt,
by zealous men; but those men little understand the actual state of
things, or the condition of the public mind.
"They deceive themselves if they think there is any possibility of an
uprising in Paris. It would be impossible to find twelve hundred men,
not connected with the police, who would consent to make a riot in the
streets and Guard and the faithful garrison.
"They deceive themselves likewise about La Vendée, just as they
deceived themselves about Marseille and the South. La Vendée, that
land of devotion and sacrifice, is controlled by a numerous army
supported by the population of the cities, which are almost wholly
anti-legitimist; a rising of the peasantry could only end in
devastating the country and in consolidating the present government by
an easy victory.
"It is thought that if the mother of Henri V. be really in France she
should hasten her departure as much as possible, after exhorting all
the Vendéan leaders to keep absolutely quiet. If, instead of
organizing civil war, she appeals for peace, she would have the double
glory of doing a grand and courageous deed and of preventing the
effusion of French blood.
"The true friends of Legitimacy, who have not been informed of present
intentions, and not consulted on the perilous risks which are being
taken, and who have known nothing of acts until they were
accomplished, desire to place the responsibility of those acts on the
persons who have advised and promoted them. They disclaim either honor
or blame for whatever result of fortune may be the upshot."
During the reading of this communication Madame was a prey to the
keenest agitation. Her face, habitually pale, was flushed; her
trembling hand pushed back the woollen cap she wore, and was thrust
through and through her hair. She did not utter a word or interrupt
the reader in any way, but it was evident that her calm preceded a
tempest. In order to divert it, Maître Marc said, as he folded the
letter and gave it to her:--
"I did not write that letter, Madame."
"No," replied the duchess, unable to restrain herself any longer; "but
he who brought it was capable of writing it."
Maître Marc felt sure that he should gain nothing in dealing with that
eager, impressionable nature if he lowered his head. He therefore drew
himself up to his full height.
"Yes," he said; "and he blushes for a moment's weakness. And he now
declares to your Royal Highness that while he does not approve of
certain expressions in the letter he shares the sentiment that
dictated it."
"Sentiment!" cried the duchess. "Call it selfishness; call it caution,
that comes very near to--"
"Cowardice, you mean, Madame. Yes, that heart is cowardly, indeed,
that leaves all and comes to share a situation it never counselled.
Yes, the man is selfish who stands here and says, 'You asked for the
truth, Madame, and here it is; but if it pleases your Royal Highness
to advance to a death as useless as it is certain I shall march beside
you.'"
The duchess was silent for a few moments; then she resumed, more
gently:--
"I appreciate your devotion, monsieur, but you do not understand the
temper of La Vendée; you derive your information from those who oppose
the movement."
"So be it. Let us suppose that which is not; let us suppose that La
Vendée will surround you with battalions and spare neither blood nor
sacrifices for the cause; nevertheless La Vendée is not France."
"Having told me that the people of Paris hate the fleur-de-lis and
despise the white flag, do you now want me to believe that all France
shares those feelings of the Parisian populace?"
"Alas! Madame, France is logical; it is we who are pursuing chimeras
in dreaming of an alliance between the divine right of kings and
popular sovereignty,--two things which howl and rend each other when
coupled. The divine right leads fatally and inevitably to absolutism,
and France will no longer submit to absolutism."
"Absolutism! absolutism! a fine word to frighten children!"
"No, it is not a fine word; it is a terrible one. Perhaps we are
nearer to the thing itself than we think; but I grieve to say to you,
Madame, that I do not believe that God reserves to your royal son the
dangerous honor of muzzling the popular lion."
"Why not, monsieur?"
"Because it is he whom that lion most distrusts. The moment it sees
him approaching in the distance, the lion shakes his mane, sharpens
his teeth and claws, and will suffer him to come nearer only for the
purpose of springing upon him. No one could be the grandson of Louis
XVI. with impunity, Madame."
"Then, according to you, the Bourbon dynasty has seen its last days."
"God grant that such an idea may never come to me, Madame. What I mean
is that revolutions never go backward; I believe that if they once
come to birth it is best not to stop their development. It is
attempting the impossible; it is like trying to drive a mountain
torrent backward to its source. Either our present revolution will be
fruitful of national good,--in which case, Madame, I know the
patriotism of your feelings too well not to be sure you would accept
it,--or it will be a barren failure, and then the faults of those who
have seized the sovereign power will serve your son far better than
all our efforts could."
"But, in that case, monsieur, things may go on thus to the end of
time."
"Madame, his Majesty Henri V. is a principle, and principles share
with God the privilege of having their kingdom in eternity."
"Therefore, it is your opinion that I ought to renounce my present
hopes, abandon my compromised friends, and three days hence, when they
take up arms, leave them in the lurch and justify the man who tells
them, 'Marie-Caroline, for whom you are ready to fight, for whom you
are ready to die, despairs of her prospects and recoils at fate;
Marie-Caroline is afraid.' Oh, no; never, never, never, monsieur!"
"Your friends will not be able to make you that reproach, Madame, for
they will not take arms, as you suppose, a few days hence."
"Are you ignorant that the day is fixed for the 24th?"
"The order is countermanded."
"Countermanded!" cried the duchess; "when?"
"To-day."
"To-day!" she exclaimed, lifting herself up by her wrists. "By whom?"
"By the man you yourself commanded them to obey."
"The maréchal?"
"The maréchal, following the instructions of the committee in Paris."
"But," cried the duchess, "am I to be of no account?"
"You, Madame!" exclaimed the messenger, falling on one knee and
clasping his hands,--"you are all. That is why we seek your safety; it
is why we will not let you be sacrificed in a useless effort; that is
why we fear to let you risk your popularity by a defeat."
"Monsieur, monsieur," said the duchess, "if Maria Theresa's
counsellors had been as timid as mine she would never have
re-conquered the throne of her son."
"It is, on the contrary, to secure, at a later period, your son's
throne that we now say to you, Madame, 'Leave France; let the people
know you as an angel of peace, not as a demon of war.'"
"Oh! oh!" exclaimed the duchess, pressing her clenched fists to her
eyes; "what humiliation! what cowardice!"
Maître Marc continued as though he did not hear her, or rather as if
his resolution to make known a truth to her mind was so fixed that
nothing could change it.
"All precautions are taken to enable Madame to leave France without
molestation. A vessel is cruising in the bay of Bourgneuf; your
Highness can be on board of her in three hours."
"Oh, noble land of Vendée!" cried the duchess; "could I have believed
you would repulse me, drive me from you,--me who came to you in the
name of your God and your king? Ah! I thought that Paris alone was
unfaithful, ungrateful; but you,--you to whom I come seeking the
recovery of a throne, you deny me so much as a place of burial! Oh,
no, no; I never could have believed it!"
"But you will go, will you not, Madame?" said the messenger, still on
his knees, with clasped hands.
"Yes, I will go," said the duchess. "I will leave France. But remember
this, I shall never return, for I will never come with foreigners.
They are only waiting, as you well know, for the right moment to form
a coalition against Philippe. When that moment comes they will ask me
for my son,--not that they care for him more than they cared for Louis
XVI. in 1792, or Louis XVIII. in 1813, but he can be made the means of
their having a party in Paris. Well, I say to you, no! they shall not
have my son; no! they shall not have him, not for a kingdom! Rather
than that I will fly with him to the mountains of Calabria. I tell
you, monsieur, if he must buy the throne by the cession of a province,
a town, a fortress, a house, a cottage like that I am now in, I swear
as regent and as his mother, that he shall never be king of France.
And now, that is all I have to say to you. Go back to those who sent
you and repeat my words."
Maître Marc rose and bowed to the duchess, expecting that as he left
she would offer one of the two hands she had stretched out to him when
he came; but she was motionless, stern, her fists were closed, her
brows knitted.
"God guard your Highness!" said the messenger, believing it was
useless to stay longer, and thinking, not without reason, that as long
as he was there not a muscle of that generous organization would give
way.
He was not mistaken; but the door was scarcely closed behind him
before Madame, exhausted by the strain, fell back upon her bed and
sobbed aloud:--
"Oh, Bonneville! my poor Bonneville!"