TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE
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Bold text is denoted by =equal signs=.
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LOVE AND LIBERTY.
A THRILLING
NARRATIVE OF THE FRENCH REVOLUTION OF 1792.
BY
ALEXANDER DUMAS.
AUTHOR OF “THE COUNT OF MONTE CRISTO,” “THE THREE GUARDSMEN,” “TWENTY
YEARS AFTER,” “BRAGELONNE; THE SON OF ATHOS,” “THE CHEVALIER,”
“THE MEMOIRS OF A PHYSICIAN,” “ADVENTURES OF A MARQUIS,” “CAMILLE;
OR, THE FATE OF A COQUETTE,” “FORTY-FIVE GUARDSMEN,” “LOUISE
LA VALLIERE,” “COUNTESS OF CHARNY,” “QUEEN’S NECKLACE,”
“THE IRON HAND,” “THE IRON MASK,” “ANDRE DE TAVERNEY,”
“EDMOND DANTES,” “SIX YEARS LATER,” ETC., ETC., ETC.
“MARCH ON! MARCH ON! OH CHILDREN OF THE LAND,
THE DAY, THE HOUR OF GLORY, IS AT HAND!”
PHILADELPHIA:
T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS;
306 CHESTNUT STREET.
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1869, by
T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS,
In the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the United States,
in and for the Eastern District of Pennsylvania.
ALEXANDER DUMAS’ GREAT WORKS.
_COUNT OF MONTE CRISTO_ $1 50
_THE IRON MASK_ 1 00
_LOUISE LA VALLIERE_ 1 00
_ADVENTURES OF MARQUIS_ 1 00
_DIANA OF MERIDOR_ 1 00
_THE THREE GUARDSMEN_ 75
_TWENTY YEARS AFTER_ 75
_BRAGELONNE, SON OF ATHOS_ 75
_CAMILLE, CAMELIA LADY_ 1 50
_MEMOIRS OF A PHYSICIAN_ 1 00
_THE QUEEN’S NECKLACE_ 1 00
_SIX YEARS LATER_ 1 00
_COUNTESS DE CHARNY_ 1 00
_ANDREE DE TAVERNEY_ 1 00
_FORTY-FIVE GUARDSMEN_ 75
_THE IRON HAND_ 75
_THE CHEVALIER_ 1 00
_THE CONSCRIPT_ 1 50
_Above are in paper cover, or in cloth, at $1.75 each._
_EDMOND DANTES_ 75
_THE FALLEN ANGEL_ 75
_FELINA DE CHAMBURE_ 75
_THE HORRORS OF PARIS_ 75
_SKETCHES IN FRANCE_ 75
_ISABEL OF BAVARIA_ 75
_THE CORSICAN BROTHERS_ 50
_THE COUNT OF MORET_ 50
_MAN WITH FIVE WIVES_ 75
_THE TWIN LIEUTENANTS_ 75
_ANNETTE, LADY OF PEARLS_ 50
_MOHICANS OF PARIS_ 50
_GEORGE; OR THE PLANTER OF THE ISLE OF FRANCE_ 50
_THE MARRIAGE VERDICT_ 50
_BURIED ALIVE_ 25
Above books are for sale by all Booksellers. Copies of any or all
of the above books will be sent to any one, to any place, postage
pre-paid, on receipt of their price by the Publishers,
T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS,
306 CHESTNUT STREET, PHILADELPHIA, PA.
CONTENTS.
Prologue.
Chapter Page
I.—HOW M. DUMAS CAME TO WRITE THESE MEMOIRS 23
=A MAN OF THE PEOPLE=.
(RENE BESSON.)
I.—CONCERNING HIS PARENTAGE AND HIS EARLY YOUTH 27
II.—THE FIRST SEEDS OF A POLITICAL FAITH 32
III.—A STRANGER OF INFLUENCE TURNS UP 34
IV.—I EDUCATE MYSELF FOR CONTINGENCIES 39
V.—I BREAK WITH THE ARISTOCRACY 41
VI.—THE NATION AND THE BASTILLE.—VERDICT FOR THE FORMER 44
VII.—CONCERNING THE BASTILLE 48
VIII.—THE DUKE D’ENGHIEN’S LAST DAY’S SPORT 51
IX.—I GO TO MAKE CAPTIVES AND AM TAKEN CAPTIVE MYSELF 56
X.—TOUCHING MADEMOISELLE SOPHIE 66
XI.—WHAT “BROTHERHOOD” MEANT 70
XII.—WHAT PASSED IN THE FOREST 75
XIII.—THE PEOPLE IN COUNCIL 79
XIV.—MY NEW PARISIAN FRIENDS 83
XV.—I GO TO THE JACOBINS’ CLUB 88
XVI.—PARIS BEFORE THE REVOLUTION 93
XVII.—I ATTEND A MEETING AT THE CORDELIERS 96
XVIII.—THE FEMALE ELEMENT IN POLITICS 102
XIX.—THE FIELD OF THE FEDERATION 106
XX.—I GO BACK AGAIN 110
XXI.—I EXCHANGE MY GUN FOR THE PLANE 115
XXII.—MY NEW LIFE UNDER SOPHIE’S FATHER 117
XXIII.—THE ARRIVAL OF THE DRAGOONS 122
XXIV.—THE NIGHT OF THE 21ST OF AUGUST, 1791 128
XXV.—THE TRAGEDY OF ROYALTY BEGINS 134
XXVI.—WHAT HAPPENED AT PARIS BEFORE THE DEPARTURE 145
XXVII.—HOW THEY SET OUT 148
XXVIII.—THE ROAD 155
XXIX.—STILL IN FLIGHT 166
XXX.—WHAT HAPPENED IN THE GROCER’S LITTLE SHOP 175
XXXI.—THE RETURN OF ROYALTY IN ARREST 180
XXXII.—WHAT M. DE BOUILLE DID IN THE MEANTIME 187
XXXIII.—AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE TURNS UP 189
XXXIV.—THE CRITICS CRITICISED 195
XXXV.—IS LOVE ETERNAL 196
XXXVI.—BARNAVE AND PETION 202
XXXVII.—PARIS 206
XXXVIII.—I RESUME MY ORIGINAL PROFESSION 212
XXXIX.—TOUCHING THE PRINCESS LAMBALLE 219
XL.—THE TIDE RISES 224
XLI.—CONCERNING THE BILL OF FORFEITURE 229
XLII.—WHAT TOOK PLACE BETWEEN THE HAIRDRESSER AND THE
INVALID 234
XLIII.—THE RED FLAG 239
XLIV.—THE MASSACRE OF THE CHAMP DE MARS 245
XLV.—ROBESPIERRE PAYS A VISIT TO M. DUPLAY 249
XLVI.—INSTALLATION 254
XLVII.—A BREAK 259
XLVIII.—THE THREAT IS LOUDER 265
XLIX.—THE KING QUITS THE TUILERIES 274
L.—THE MASSACRES OF SEPTEMBER 281
LI.—THE KING’S TRIAL PROCEEDED WITH 297
LII.—NEAR THE BLOCK 307
LIII.—THE SACRIFICE OF BLOOD 315
LIV.—EXECUTION OF LOUIS XVI 323
LV.—WHAT FOLLOWS 327
LVI.—THE REIGN OF TERROR 330
LVII.—WHOLESALE MASSACRE 336
LVIII.—MARIE ANTOINETTE 346
LIX.—MARIE ANTOINETTE FINDS PEACE AT LAST 349
LX.—THE TWENTY-TWO 356
LXI.—THE RED FLAG 360
LXII.—THE BLOOD OF WOMEN 365
LXIII.—ROBESPIERRE FALLS 370
LOVE AND LIBERTY.
Prologue.
CHAPTER I.
HOW M. DUMAS CAME TO WRITE THESE MEMOIRS.
Of all the remarkably interesting events connected with the French
Revolution, perhaps the one most worthy of notice is the flight of
Louis XVI, and his capture at Varennes.
At the time when I determined to take the trip of which I will give
you some details, and which put me in possession of the memoirs I am
about to publish—that is to say, about the 19th of June, 1856—I had
read almost all that had been written concerning the above-mentioned
flight.
I wish to start from Châlons, because from the fact of the King being
recognized there, came the train of events which ended at Varennes on
the evening of his arrest.
The capture of Louis at Varennes was the culminating point of
royalty. For although it took seven hundred and four years to arrive
at Varennes, it took but nineteen months to descend from Varennes to
the Place de la Revolution.
It is not because the heads of three persons, who were in the
carriage that took royalty to the precipice, fell on the scaffold,
that we mark out the event as the greatest in the French Revolution,
and, indeed, in the whole history of France. No! It is because the
arrest of the King in the little town of Varennes, unknown on the
22nd of June, and on the morrow fatally immortalized, was the source
of the political convulsions which have since occurred.
My resolution to go to Varennes once taken, I started from Paris on
the 19th of June, 1856, and on the 20th of the same month, at one
o’clock next morning, I arrived at Châlons.
I was, as you know, in search of details actually seen by
eye-witnesses. I soon discovered two old men who could give me the
necessary information. One was a Monsieur Ricaise, at Châlons—one
of the postilions who drove the King; the other, Monsieur Mathieu,
notary, at St. Menehould, who had seen the horses changed at the
moment that Drouet recognized the King.
But it was especially necessary to discover some one at Varennes
who remembered some incidents connected with the affair; because at
Varennes occurred the most dramatic part of the whole catastrophe.
I first asked a keeper of the records whether he knew any one who had
seen the King, and assisted to arrest him?
He mentioned Colonel Réné Besson.
I asked him to give me his address.
“I will do better,” said he,—“I will take you to him.”
At the very moment that we entered by the Rue de l’Horloge, that
place where Louis XVI was arrested, which, singularly enough, has
the shape of the axe of the guillotine, my guide put his hand on my
shoulder.
“Eh!” said he; “here is the very man we want.”
And he showed me, at the corner of the Place Latry and the Rue de la
Basse, a fine old man, warming himself in the rays of the sun, and
sitting in a large arm-chair before his door.
It was Colonel Réné Besson.
We drew near to him.
Imagining that we had some business with him, he arranged himself
more comfortably in his chair, and waited an explanation.
“Ah, ah! is it you, Monsieur Leduc?” said he.
“Yes, Colonel, it is I; and in good company, too, as you may see,” my
companion replied.
“Colonel, I call on you in right of being the son of one of your old
companions in arms; for you took a part in the Egyptian campaign,
under General Desaix?”
“Yes, sir, I did,” answered he.
“The fact of being the son of an old companion in arms,” I continued,
“and of bearing the name of the conqueror of Murad Bey, induced me
to take the liberty of calling on you, and asking for information on
certain points. To commence. Were you at the battle of Valmy?”
“I was with my regiment six days before, on the 2nd of September; and
I just missed leaving my bones at La Force, in trying to rescue a
woman—a princess, I should say.”
“The Princess Lamballe?”
“Exactly so.”
“At this period, I was living then, in the Rue Saint Honoré with the
carpenter, Duplay.”
“You have seen Robespierre, then?”
“Just as I have you. It was I who made the table on which he wrote
the greater part of his speeches.”
“And Danton?”
“Danton? It was he who enrolled me on the 2nd of September. But I
knew Danton, as you say, and Camilles Desmoulins, Saint Just, and
afterwards, later on, the Duke D’Enghien, and even Marshal Ney.”
“You have seen the Duke D’Enghien?”
“I was secretary to the Minister of War who sentenced him.”
“And also Marshal Ney?”
“It was he who made me lieutenant-colonel in the retreat from Moscow.”
“I will never leave you, Colonel; I will be your secretary, and we
will write your memoirs.”
“You are too late,” said he, laughing; “my memoirs are already
three-fourths finished.”
“What? Do you mean to say you have written——”
“Oh, simply to amuse myself: and there is my secretary. Hush!”
At this moment the door opened, and a beautiful girl of seventeen or
eighteen came towards us.
“Is that your secretary?” I asked.
“Yes; Marie, my dear little granddaughter. Bow to Monsieur. You ought
to, after the sleepless nights you have passed through thinking of
him.”
“I?” said the girl, blushing. “I do not know the gentleman!”
“But you know ‘Monte Christo’ and the ‘Three Musketeers?’”
“Monsieur Dumas! Is it possible?” cried she.
“Yes, Monsieur Dumas. You see that you know him.”
“Oh, sir, I am so glad to see you!”
“You will be my accomplice, then, against the Colonel?”
“Against my grandfather?”
“Yes. He has written some memoirs.”
“I know that. It is I who write from his dictation.”
“Ah! they are worth reading.”
“Oh, grandpapa, Monsieur Dumas says that your memoirs are worth
reading!”
“If he wishes to read them, I shall not hinder him,” said the Colonel.
“Will you really permit me, sir?”
“If I refused you, I should be attaching too much importance to them.”
“Colonel, I am like the gamin of Paris of Monsieur Vanderburch—I
should like to embrace you.”
“Embrace my secretary; that will give more pleasure to both of you.”
I looked at Marie and she blushed as red as a cherry.
“Mademoiselle!” I said, imploringly.
She held up her cheeks to me.
I took her hands in mine, and looked at her intently.
“Has Mademoiselle,” I asked the Colonel, “a page in your memoirs?”
“The last—a white page. But Marie has something to tell me. What is
it, my child?”
“That supper is ready, grandpapa.”
“You hear. Have you an appetite?”
“Unfortunately, I have just dined.”
“I should have liked to clink glasses with you.”
“Will you allow me to breakfast with you to-morrow, instead? You see,
I am taking a liberty with you already. Mademoiselle can give me the
memoirs this evening. I will read them to-night, and return them
to-morrow.”
“What! read them to-night? How many pages are there, Marie?”
“Seven or eight hundred, grandfather,” replied the young girl.
“Seven or eight hundred pages! If you will permit me, I will copy
them.”
Well, the Colonel allowed me to copy from his manuscript all that had
reference to the arrest of the King at Varennes; and when he died,
left me sole possessor of his memoirs.
Colonel Réné Besson has been gathered to his fathers three months
since, at the good old age of eighty-seven. He died, on a beautiful
sunlit afternoon, when the mellow tints of autumn were melting into
the snowy wreaths of winter. Peace be with him.
Eight days after his death, I received the manuscript, with a letter
from Marie, who has become one of the most charming girls I ever met
with.
The manuscript I now publish, is that of Colonel Réné de Besson; and
I give it the title that was chosen by him.
(Signed) ALEXANDRE DUMAS.
A MAN OF THE PEOPLE.
(RENE BESSON.)
CHAPTER I.
CONCERNING HIS PARENTAGE AND EARLY YOUTH.
I was born in the village of Islettes, on the banks of a little river
called the Biesme, in the Forest of Argonne, situated between St.
Menehould and Clermont, on the 14th of July, in the year 1775.
I never had the happiness to experience a mother’s love; she survived
but a few days after my birth. My father, who was a poor carpenter,
out-stayed her loss but five years.
At five years of age, therefore, I was an orphan, without a friend in
the world.
I am wrong and ungrateful to say that. I had one—my uncle, my
mother’s brother, who had the post of keeper in the Forest of
Argonne. His wife, on my mother’s death, supplied her place; and he,
on the death of my father, found me bread.
My father died so poor, that all had to be sold to pay his little
debts, with the exception of his box of carpenter’s tools, which
had been taken to Father Descharmes (that was my uncle’s name), and
placed out of sight in a little room belonging to me.
The Forest of Argonne was Government property, and was preserved for
the pleasure of the nobles attendant on the Court; but that did not
hinder the young people of the environs from coming secretly with the
keepers, to enjoy a little sport with the deer and the hares.
There was one, who took part in these hunting parties, whom I knew
well—Jean Baptiste Drouet, son of a postmaster at St. Menehould; also
William, a friend of his; and one Billaut, who afterwards took the
name of his native place, and called himself Billaut Varennes.
All three were to acquire a certain celebrity in the middle of those
revolutionary movements, still hidden in the future.
Certain young noblemen, by very special favor received privileges of
game denied to the outer world.
Amongst the number of those young nobles, was M. de Dampierre, the
Count de Mannes, and the Viscount de Malmy.
The former was at this time a man of about forty-five years, the
latter not over twenty.
I select these out of the number, because they will play leading
parts in the events I am about to describe.
Even when I was quite a child, I learned the difference that
subsisted in their characters.
Every now and then, on hearing that a herd of wild boars had been
seen in the forest, or that the snowstorm had driven out the wolves,
a courier would arrive from Paris, and announce “The gentlemen of the
Court.”
Then it was that the fun took place.
If it were summer, a tent was pitched, in which the gentlemen took
their meals.
If it were winter, they stopped at St. Menehould, and put up at the
“Hotel de Metz,” making a rendezvous with the keepers at daybreak at
a likely spot for wild boars or wolves. When there, the dogs were
unleashed, and the sport commenced.
When they went, away, they would leave twenty or twenty-five louis to
be divided among the keepers.
In general, these nobles of the Court were exceedingly polite towards
the underlings. Twice the Prince de Condé and his son, the Duke
D’Enghien came.
On such occasions, being, as it were, high holiday, I would follow
the sportsmen. Once when the Duke D’Enghien lost his way, I put him
right, and he offered me a louis. I refused it. (I was only nine
years old.)
He looked at me with astonishment, and asked my name.
“Réné Besson. I am the nephew of Father Descharmes,” I replied.
“Good, my boy,” said he; “I won’t forget thee!”
Two years afterwards the Prince came back. I was then eleven, and
thought that he must have lost all remembrance of me.
But he had not; and he came to me.
“Ah, art thou not Réné Besson?” he said. “Nephew of Father
Descharmes?”
“Yes, Prince.”
“Then here is something for thee,” said he, giving me a gun. “And
this is for thy uncle,” he continued, handing me a folded paper.
This paper contained the appointment of my uncle to the vacant post
of chief huntsman.
As for the gun, it was a beautiful weapon, and I have carefully kept
it through my career, in memory of the unfortunate Prince who gave it.
In the meantime I was growing up. I had learned to read and write
indifferently well; and whilst my uncle was busy in his vocation, I
used to occupy myself with carpentry, a calling for which I evinced
much aptitude and taste.
I was now twelve years of age. I knew every inch of the Forest of
Argonne, and I was as good a shot as any of the keepers, and my sole
ambition was to take my uncle’s place when he resigned, which he
intended to do in four or five years.
There was a place, however, left vacant by the resignation of a
keeper, which I thought would just suit me for the time; and I
determined to solicit the patronage of the Duke D’Enghien.
Time passed on, and we arrived at the opening of the year 1788.
For five years we had not seen M. Drouet, for, after a quarrel with
his father, he had enlisted in the Queen’s Dragoons.
One fine morning, however, we heard from his friend William that
Father Drouet had become reconciled to him, and had resigned to him
his situation of postmaster.
One day, we saw a dragoon stop in front of our house, get off his
horse, fasten his bridle to a ring, and then come tramping up to the
door.
“Well, Father Descharmes,” said the soldier, “haven’t you a glass of
wine in the house for an old friend?”
My uncle looked at him amazed.
“Ah!” said I; “don’t you recognize him, uncle? It is Monsieur Jean
Baptiste.”
“Well, I never—so it is!” cried my uncle, coming forward with
outstretched hands.
But, stopping for a moment, he added, “I beg your pardon, Monsieur
Drouet.”
“Pardon for what?—for remembering a friend? The fault would have been
to forget him. Come, shake hands. Are not all Frenchmen brothers?”
“They are; but, at the same time, there are great and small.”
“Good! but, in two or three years, I will say to you, ‘There are
neither great nor small. All are children of one mother, and all will
have their rights before man, as before heaven.’”
“Ha! Is that the sort of schooling they give you in the Queen’s
Dragoons, Monsieur Jean Baptiste?”
“Not only in the Queen’s Dragoons, but in all other regiments, old
Nimrod.”
My uncle took three glasses from the cupboard, filled two, and
half-filled the other for me.
Drouet took up his glass.
“To the nation!” said he.
“What is that word?” inquired my uncle.
“It is a new one, which I hope will yet gain the rights of the
middle classes. That youngster there; what are you going to do with
him?”
“Make him my successor.”
Drouet shook his head.
“My good old Descharmes!” said he, “you belong to the past. Better
far an independent and honorable position for a man, than to wear a
livery which, no matter how gay it is, puts you at the mercy of the
first whippersnapper that comes. I thought Réné was a carpenter?”
“So I am, Monsieur Jean Baptiste; but I only play at joiner work.”
“Nay, look you here!” said my uncle, proud to be able to show some of
my handiwork. “Here is a wardrobe the youngster has made.”
Drouet went forward, and examined the construction in question with
more interest than it deserved.
“Good—very good!” he said. “Go on as you are doing, my boy; and,
believe me, it is far better to work for the public, than to be a
game-keeper dependent on a prince, liable to be turned away should
a wild boar make an unforeseen bolt, or a wolf force the line of
beaters.”
“But,” answered I, “you must know that I have a gun, Monsieur Jean
Baptiste; and a gun, too, given me by the Duke D’Enghien.”
And saying this, I showed him the cherished weapon, with as much
pride as my uncle had displayed in exhibiting my efforts at wardrobe
making.
“A pretty gun,” he said, looking at it attentively; “and I see that
it bears the royal mark. If you take my advice, you will not hesitate
between the plane which your father left you, and a gun which a
prince gave you. The carpenter’s plane is the bread-winner that the
philosopher of Geneva put into the hands of his favorite pupil;
and ever since the day that ‘Emile’ appeared, the plane has been
ennobled.”
“What is ‘Emile,’ Monsieur Jean Baptiste?” I asked.
“It is the work of one who teaches that all men are citizens
together, and that all citizens are brothers. Keep your gun, Réné,
to preserve your country; but also keep your plane to preserve your
independence. Be a carpenter to the people at large, my boy; but be
no one’s servant, not even if he be a prince. The first opportunity I
have, I will send you ‘Emile’ to read.”
So saying, and squeezing the hand of his old friend, M. Jean Baptiste
remounted his horse. As I held his stirrup he lifted me gently to his
saddle bow, and placed his hand on my head.
“Réné Besson,” he said, with dignity, “in the name of that grand
future of liberty, with which France is even now in travail, I
baptize thee citizen.”
Then relinquishing me, and striking his spurs into his horse, he
disappeared down the forest.
Next day a messenger came from M. Jean Baptiste Drouet, who, faithful
to his promise of the night before, sent me a little book, with these
words written on the first page—
“To the Citizen Réné Besson, carpenter.”
The little book in question was “Emile.”