I GO TO MAKE CAPTIVES AND AM TAKEN CAPTIVE MYSELF.
Our National Guard was at first a curious sight.
The first rank were armed with guns; the second with scythes; the
third with clubs, and so on.
Later on, the armorers made some pikes for those who had no guns.
But however the guard was armed, there is no doubt but that it was
filled with enthusiasm.
Not a man, had he received the order, would have hesitated to march
on Paris.
What was most remarkable, with regard to this corps, was the manner
in which the battalions seemed, as it were, to spring from the earth.
Liberty was as yet quite young; and yet she had only to strike with
her foot on the ground, to raise this deadly harvest of men.
It was in the sainted year of 1789 that all France became soldiers.
After the 14th July, every Frenchman was born with teeth ready to
bite a cartridge.
Villages and towns joined in one compact; and that was, to mutually
help each other when necessary.
One day, we saw arrive, by way of Clermont, the people of Verdun;
and, by way of Paris, the people of St. Menehould.
They had heard that a band of robbers had issued from the Forest of
Argonne, set fire to Islettes, and plundered the village.
A hundred men from Clermont, under the command of M. Mathieu, and
two hundred from St. Menehould, under M. Drouet, had therefore set
out, to render what assistance they might in the extermination of the
brigands, of whom they had as yet not seen a trace.
They made merry, therefore, instead of fighting, and in the place of
the rattle of musketry, was heard the more peaceful song.
Eight days afterwards, a man passed on horseback, going from Clermont
to St. Menehould, and crying out, “The brigands are marching on
Varennes! Help! help!”
The man disappeared from view—none knew him. No matter, all leaped
up; the drum beat the rappel; fifty men put themselves under the
direction of Bertrand; and, without inquiring the number of the
enemy, marched to Varennes. Needless to say, I was one of them.
From the height of the hill of Veuvilly, we saw a great cloud of
dust, about half a league ahead of us.
They were the men of Clermont, who, having started about half an hour
before us, were about half a league ahead.
At that sight, all elevated their hats on the ends of their muskets
or pikes, and shouted “Vive la nation!”
That cry had almost completely taken the place of “Vive le Roi!”
We arrived at Varennes, which we expected to find in flames, with the
streets running blood. From the height of the hill, which descends to
the Rue des Réligieuses, we had a good view of the town.
All was quiet.
The people of Clermont, when they first arrived, were taken for the
brigands, whom they were expecting every moment.
When they recognised them, there was a general embracing, and crying
“Vive la nation!”
Then we arrived, in our turn; and two hours afterwards, the men of
Montfalcon, De Bousance, and De Vouziez. The latter had marched eight
leagues in five hours.
They bivouacked in the Place de Latry, and the Place de Grand
Monarque.
They then laid out tables for a public repast, where, after an
ancient custom, each one chose his companions, and found his own
dinner.
I had one visit to pay in Varennes—a place to which I seldom came,
and where I only knew two persons, M. Guillaume and M. Billaud.
I remembered me of one of the two master workmen who had priced my
carpentry work for M. Drouet; and who said that if I had no work to
do, and would accept it of him, he could always find me plenty.
His name was Father Gerbaut.
I asked his address. He lived in the Rue de la Basse Cour. The houses
were not numbered at that period. On the left, descending to the
Place Latry, next door to a large grocer’s, his house was situated.
I called. He was out; but expected home every moment.
I was received by his daughter, a charming girl, a little younger
than myself—that is to say, about sixteen or seventeen years of age.
She asked me to wait till her father returned, or to give her my name
if I feared becoming weary of staying with her.
Of course, I rejected with scorn the idea that any one could become
wearied in the presence of one so gracious and charming.
It was the first time in my life that I had ever addressed a
compliment to a female.
Indeed, it was the first time that I had been in conversation with a
girl at all.
Up to this time, I had scarcely given women a moment’s consideration.
Directly I told my name to the young girl, her face, which had before
been amiable, brightened into a look of friendship.
“I know you,” said she; “you worked for M. Drouet; my father has
mentioned you to his workmen, more than once, as an example to be
followed. Do stay; he will be glad to see you.”
On looking around me, I perceived a harpsichord.
“You are a musician, I perceive, mademoiselle.”
“Oh, Monsieur Réné, you must not call me that. The organist of St.
Gengoulf has given me a few lessons; and, as he says I have some
voice, I practise singing to amuse myself.”
“Mademoiselle,” said I, “can you believe that I have never heard the
sound of a harpsichord, or any song, but that of the washerwomen,
as they beat their linen? Will you sing something for me as well as
yourself, and I shall be completely happy?”
“With the greatest pleasure,” she replied.
And rising up, she crossed over to the harpsichord; and, after a
simple prelude, she sang—
“How sad to me the day
When thou art far away!”
Every one knows that pretty romance, the “Devin de Village.”
But it had never seemed so charming to me as when issuing from the
lips of my pretty songstress.
Mademoiselle Gerbaut had sang very simply, but with that coquetry
so natural to women. Her face was variable; and as she sang without
accompaniment, leaning slightly back in her chair, her half-closed
eyes gave a somewhat sentimental expression to the rest of her face.
Her mouth was beautifully formed, she spoke almost without any
perceptible movement of the lips, and you saw, at the first glance,
that what she said was neither artificial nor constrained.
I was delighted with her. I said nothing, but my looks spoke more
than words could have done.
“Mademoiselle,” said I, not being able, in my enthusiasm, to think of
anything else, “have you read ‘Emile?’”
“No, monsieur,” she replied; “but my mother has read it, and that is
why I am named Sophie.”
“You are named Sophie!” cried I, seizing her hand, and pressing it to
my heart; “now I am completely happy!”
She looked at me with an astonished smile.
“And why are you so happy because my name is Sophie?” said she.
“Because now I can look upon you as a sister more than a stranger.
Oh, Sophie—dear Sophie!”
Sophie regarded me with a more astonished expression of face than
ever; and I know not what she might have said, had not M. Gerbaut
made his appearance at that moment.
“Ah! is that you, Réné?” said he; “you are, indeed, welcome. I asked
the news from your friends on the Place there, and when they told me
that you were at Varennes, I knew you would not go without calling to
see me.”
“Yes, M. Gerbaut,” I answered, going up to him, and shaking his hand;
“but I did not expect to find what I have found.”
“And, pray, what have you found?”
“Mademoiselle Sophie, who has been kind enough to sing me an air from
the ‘Devin de Village de M. Rousseau.’”
“Ah, indeed! She did not require much persuasion, did she?”
“Only great men, or great fools, require to be asked twice,” said
Sophie, laughing; “and as I am not a genius or a ——-”
Here she paused, while a sweet smile played over her lips.
“Fool,” continued M. Gerbaut, “you sang to him.”
“Did I do wrong, father?”
“Certainly not. As long as you sing to your equals, and without
affectation, well and good. You know what I mean?”
Sophie bent her eyes, blushing.
“We must change our quarters, I think,” said Father Gerbaut, half
smiling, half serious.
“Wherefore?” said I, breaking into the conversation.
“Because we are just opposite to the ‘Hotel de Bras d’Or,’ where
many handsome young gentlemen put up, and who are fond of music as a
vehicle for making love.”
“Oh, father!” murmured Sophie; “say not so!”
“What would you have?” cried M. Gerbaut. “They are no friends of mine
who would bring trouble into peaceful families. When I understood
that the princes and great lords had left the country, I had hoped
that these gentlemen would have gone in their train. But no; they
stay to make love to our wives and daughters, and to conspire against
the nation. But this is not the time to speak of that. This is a
_fête_ day for Varennes. I must pay a visit to the cellar and larder.
After dinner we will have a dance. Will you be Sophie’s partner?”
said M. Gerbaut to me.
“I should be only too happy,” cried I; “but perhaps Mdlle. Sophie
does not think a young apprentice worthy of offering her his arm?”
“Oh, M. Réné!” said the young girl; “you listen to my father, and
then do me a grievous wrong, without any foundation for it.”
Sophie and myself bounded down the staircase, and in a moment found
ourselves under a bright sun in the street, as I could not help
thinking, like two butterflies emerged from a chrysalis state.
Whilst I had been waiting at M. Gerbaut’s, and whilst I had been
listening to Sophie’s song, the streets of Varennes had undergone a
great change.
The city was holding high holiday, with which, however, was mingled a
certain degree of solemnity.
All the houses were hung with tapestry; and outside the doors tables
were laid, covered with flowers, at which the inhabitants of the
houses were seated, eating, waited upon by their servants, if they
had any; if not, by themselves.
As if they wished that the dead should participate in the joy of the
living, garlands of green boughs, intermingled with flowers, were
suspended from the gates of the cemetery, which stretched from the
church to the side of the Rue de l’Horloge. In the middle of the
Place was erected a scaffolding, filled with amateur musicians, who
wished to promote a dance after dinner. On the front of this temple
of Terpsichore was written “Vive le Roi! Vive la nation!” Underneath
this, in large letters, was inscribed the word “Fraternité!”
It was, in fact a brotherly rejoicing. Those who there met for the
first time were members of one great family, which had existed for
centuries, only it ignored the tie which bound one to the other.
But common danger had caused to meet the two ends of the thread, and
in their union they found force.
After passing the houses leading to the Place Latry, we arrived at
the open space in front of the Rue de l’Horloge, and entered into the
midst of the crowd.
There seemed to be collected all the inhabitants of the High Town.
In each street the tables were arranged on the right and left side of
the houses; a space in the middle being left for the promenaders. The
Rue des Réligieuses, which runs down from the foot of the hill, made
a most perfect and picturesque view.
We got mixed up with a lot of other persons, when all of a sudden a
crowd of horsemen—young gentlemen, apparently—appeared on the crest
of the hill, and, putting their horses at full gallop, dashed into
the Rue des Réligieuses. There was a general cry of “Each one for
himself!” and we turned to fly; but as we had been in front before,
we now naturally found ourselves in the rear.
Thinking but of Sophie, I wished to put her under one of the tables,
to be out of the way of danger; but curious to relate, she did not
seem to know the peril she was in, and would not stir till it was too
late; and I had just time to clasp her in my arms, and throw myself
in front of her.
I had scarcely accomplished this, than, on turning round, I
discovered myself face to face with a horseman, whose steed was
perfectly unmanageable, and turned round and round, threatening us
with his hoofs as he did so.
I had but one hope, and that was to preserve Sophie. I caught hold of
the horse’s bridle, the cavalier raised his whip, the horse gave a
plunge, and, whether through accident or intention, the blow, instead
of falling on the horse, struck me on the shoulder.
The shame of being struck, more than the pain of the blow, caused the
blood to rise to my head. I seized the horseman by his waist, lifted
him from the saddle, the horse bolting away at the moment, upsetting
a woman and two or three children in its wild career, and fell
with him on the pavement; but, being the more vigorous, I was the
uppermost, and soon had him at my mercy, with my knee on his breast.
It was only when his hat fell from his head, that I recognised who my
adversary was.
“M. de Malmy!” cried I.
And taking my knee from his breast, and releasing his arms, I stood a
little on one side.
“Ah, wretch!” cried he regaining his whip. “Do you know what is the
penalty for laying hands on a gentleman?”
“M. le Viscount!” cried Sophie, pale with terror, placing herself, at
the same time, between us.
He smiled a grim smile, grinding his teeth as he did so.
“I am determined, mademoiselle. Had he been a gentleman, I would
chastise him with a sword; but as he is not, I shall punish him with
this whip.”
He raised it.
I looked for something with which to defend myself. At that moment, a
man sprang over one of the tables, seized the Marquis with one hand,
and possessed himself of the whip with the other.
“Monsieur,” said he, “whips were made for horses and dogs. Réné
Besson is a man.”
“A man?” repeated the Viscount, furiously.
“Yes, a man; and one whom you may not insult.”
“Who are you?” asked the Viscount.
“You know me very well, M. de Malmy; but as you ask, I will tell you.
I am Jean Baptiste Drouet, postmaster at St. Menehould. I am not of
noble birth, I know full well; but for six years have I served my
country as a soldier, and that is better than a gentleman who spends
his life in eating, drinking, and hunting. This I say for the benefit
of you and your friends, and if you want me, you know where to find
me.”
Saying these words, Drouet pushed De Malmy aside, and turned to
confront two or three other young gentlemen, who, having dismounted,
had come to join in the quarrel.
“When we change horses at your post-house, M. Drouet,” said one
of these young men, “we do not generally approach, but send our
domestics to bear our orders to you.”
“I would much rather deal with your servants than with you, M. de
Courtement. They, at least, have not sold their wives or daughters in
the Parc au Cerfs.”
The young noble took this as a sarcasm on his birth, with regard to
which infamous reports had been bruited about.
He had a hunting-knife in his belt, and suddenly drew it, maddened
with anger.
But before the knife could do any mischief, Drouet drew a pistol from
his pocket, and presented it full in the face of the Chevalier.
“Monsieur,” said he, “I could shoot you like I would a wild beast;
and two hundred people would bear witness that you offered the first
insult; but the time has not yet come when all shall have their dues.
So go your way in peace, and let the matter stand as it is.”
“Oh, without doubt, that proceeding would suit you wonderfully well,”
said M. de Malmy; “but, for the sake of an example, I must proceed
otherwise.”
Raising his whip, he advanced on M. Drouet, who, making a spring to
one side, jumped on a table, and cried out, in a powerful tone of
voice, “Help! To my assistance, men of St. Menehould!”
A hundred voices responded to the cry; a crowd rushed to where we
were; and in a moment, the five or six gentlemen were completely in
our power.
Each had seized the arms that came nearest to hand—one a pike,
another a musket; thus showing by their alacrity, their wish to be of
service to their commander. They were informed of the origin of the
dispute, and wished nothing better than to fan up the embers of the
old quarrel between the nobles and the people.
The young gentlemen saw that it was useless to attempt resistance.
“Murder us!” cried the Viscount; “even as your friends at Paris have
murdered De Launay, Foulon, and Berthier.”
“Our friends, as you call them, in Paris, disgraced themselves by
laying hands on men who were scarcely good enough to die by the
hands of the common executioner. But what would you have? The people
have cried for justice, and it has been denied them. Is it, then,
wonderful that they should take the law in their own hands when the
opportunity presented? But as for you, gentlemen, as you are not
gaolers, like De Launay, or extortioners, like Foulon and Berthier,
you have not merited death, but simply a little lesson, which I shall
have great pleasure in giving you.”
“Give a lesson to us?” cried the young men, mad with rage.
“Yes; but it shall not be harsh or spiteful. This is a day of
brotherly fraternity. Are you our brothers? Will you share in our
_fête_? Forget the hard words that have passed between us; or, if you
cannot, put them down to the account of that goddess who is aptly
called Discord. The tables await you. Sit down among us, and we will
give you the place of honor; and the first one who forgets to pay the
respect which is due to you, shall be chased from the midst of us, as
one unworthy of participating in our reunion. Do you agree with me?”
cried Drouet to all who were around.
“Yes! yes!” replied all, with one voice, with the exception of the
young nobles, who still continued silent.
“What if we refuse?” at last said one of them.
“If you refuse,” said Drouet, “go to the ‘Bras d’Or,’ or the ‘Grand
Monarque;’ eat and drink as you like—you are free; but disturb not
our enjoyment. Am I not right, my friends?” continued Drouet, for the
second time addressing the crowd.
The applause was as loud as before.
“And if we do not promise to leave you in quiet enjoyment of your
_fête_—what then?” asked another of the young nobles.
“As, by that act, you will prove that you are not good citizens, and
that you are desirous of breaking the public peace, we shall ask you
to leave the town quietly; and; if you refuse, we will expel you by
force.”
“Bravo! bravo!” cried all.
M. de Malmy interrogated his companions with his eyes; and as he
saw the same expression in all theirs, “Messieurs,” said he, “I
regret that, in the name of my friend and myself, I must refuse
the great honor that you offer us. I regret, also, that we cannot
pledge our word not to interrupt the _fête_, as we are not sufficient
philosophers to avoid breaking our promise; so—as we have no further
business to detain us in town—we ask your permission to make our most
respectful adieu, and to go and seek our pleasure elsewhere.”
“As you wish, M. le Viscount,” said M. Drouet. “You are free to go.”
Then, assuming the tone of command which sat so well on him, he said,
“Allow these gentlemen to pass, and preserve complete silence; the
one who passes a remark, will have to answer for it to me.”
Not a sound could be heard.
In the midst of this oppressive silence, the young nobles remounted
their horses, and returned by the way that they had arrived.
No word was spoken, no movement made; but the people followed the
little party with their eyes until they finally disappeared from view
on turning into the road leading to Clermont.
Then a voice was heard, calm, but commanding in its tones. It was
Drouet’s.
“Lieutenant Bertrand,” said he, “place sentinels at the gates and
see that the young nobles do not re-enter the town, during the
continuance of the _fête_.”
Then, turning to the crowd, “Am I not right, my friends?” said he.
“Vive M. Drouet! Vive la nation!” cried the people, with one voice.
A few cries of “Down with the nobles!” were heard, but they had no
response. In fact, Drouet turned to whence those cries proceeded, and
made a gesture of disapprobation.
The _fête_ then continued as happily as if nothing had happened.