IS LOVE ETERNAL?
The route from St. Menehould to Châlons is long and fatiguing—nine
apparently never-ending leagues, traversing flat and arid plains
under a leaden sky, with a sun darting his scorching rays with
reflected lustre on the musket barrels and sword blades.
The royal family arrived at Châlons fatigued, dispirited and worn
out, at ten in the evening.
Half the original followers of the royal escort had thrown themselves
down under hedges and in ditches, unable any longer to proceed.
But the actual escort was as strong on arriving at Châlons as when
leaving St. Menehould, since it was recruited by the National Guard
of every village through which it passed; and the villages were
pretty thickly scattered on the right and left of that road.
The authorities, of whom the Mayor took the lead, conducted the
prisoners to the gate of the Dauphin. I use the word prisoners
advisedly, as the royal family were in fact, at that time, prisoners
of the nation.
Strange coincidence!—the gate through which they passed was the
triumphal arch raised by the French people in commemoration of the
entry of Madame the Dauphine into France.
It still bore the inscription, “_May it stand eternal like our love_.”
The arch, in fact, still stood, but the love which prompted it had
fallen away.
At Châlons, especially, opinion changes.
The bluffness of the national party was lessened. The old town where
Attila lost himself, and which now preserved its trade only in the
wines of Champagne, was inhabited by Royalists of the better class,
and by poor gentlemen. These good people were sorely vexed to see
their unhappy King in such doleful plight.
They expected his arrival; consequently a great supper was prepared.
The King and Queen partook of the meal in public, as they did at
Varennes. A sort of royal drawing-room was held. The ladies bore with
them immense bouquets. The Queen was positively overwhelmed with
flowers.
They determined to start on the morrow, feeling an increase of
confidence on account of the reception they had met with.
Before they set out, mass was celebrated at ten o’clock by M.
Charber, perpetual-curate of Notre Dame. The King was present,
accompanied by the Queen and the royal family; but hardly had the
solemn service commenced, before a disturbance was made.
It was the National Guard of Rheims, who wished the King to set out
at once. The time spent in mass appeared to them wasted, as they had
come solely to gloat over the downfall of monarchy, and the ruin of
their King. They broke open, therefore, the doors of the chapel,
despite the resistance offered to them by the National Guard.
The King and Queen were advised to show themselves at the balcony.
They did so; but the sight of their august persons exasperated, in
place of calming, the turbulence of the excited populace, who shouted
for the royal family to leave their city, and actually drew the
carriages to the door, harnessed the horses, and did, in fact, all
they could do to accelerate the departure of the King.
The King appeared again at the balcony, and pronounced the following
words:—
“Since you oblige me to leave you, I go!”
Although this was a reproach more than anything else, it satisfied
the people.
At eleven exactly, the royal family re-entered their carriage, and
put themselves _en route_.
The heat was dreadfully oppressive. Their journey was made, as it
were, through a blast furnace, and their eyes were incessantly
tormented by a penetrating dust.
I happened to know the situation of a cool spring. I approached the
royal carriage, and demanded respectfully of her Majesty the Queen if
she desired a glass of fresh water, as we were near to some of a most
excellent quality.
“Thank you,” replied the Queen.
“Oh, do have some, mamma—do have some! I am so thirsty!” said the
Dauphin.
“I wish it not; but give me some for my children,” said the Queen.
Madame de Tourzel handed me a silver cup.
“Fill this up for me, also,” said Madame Elizabeth.
She handed me another cup.
In fancy, after a lapse of sixty years, I can still see her angelic
face—still hear that charming voice, whose entreaties were more than
commands.
I leant my gun against the trunk of a tree, rushed to the fountain,
and brought back the two cups filled with the sparkling water, which,
through my rapidity, had not had time to lose its freshness.
The Dauphin and Madame Royale shared one cup between them.
Madame Elizabeth, after offering the other cup to the Queen, who
refused it, drank it herself.
“Oh, what delicious water it is,” cried the Dauphin. “Why does the
world drink aught else?”
“Because they have drinks they like better,” replied the King.
“My son thanks you, sir,” said the Queen.
“I also thank you,” said Madame Elizabeth, with her sweet smile.
I seized my gun, which had been left at the foot of a tree.
“I saw you once run after M. de Dampierre,” said the Queen. “With
what intention?”
“With the hope of saving him, if possible, madame.”
“You have the same opinions, then, as M. de Dampierre,” said the
Queen.
“I agree with him in the respect which he feels towards your enemies.”
“Do you know that you give an ambiguous answer, young man?” said the
King.
“Yes, sire,” I replied.
“Ha, ha!” said he.
Then to the Queen: “The minds of these people are poisoned against
us, from their very childhood.”
“Oh, papa!” cried the Dauphin, “what a beautiful gun he has!”
I was the person referred to. To the Queen and Madame Elizabeth I was
“monsieur,” but to the Dauphin I was simply “he.”
The King looked at my gun.
“It is,” said he, “a gun manufactured at Versailles. Where did you
procure it?”
“The Duc d’Enghien gave it to me, sire.”
“Yes,” said the King, “the Condés have all the benefits on this
side,—‘the department of the Meuse,’ as they call it.”
Then looking towards me: “Have you ever served princes?”
“Sire,” said I, smiling, “is it necessary to have served princes in
order to receive a present from them?”
The Queen bent her regards upon the King.
“Strange!” said she.
I retreated a pace.
The King beckoned me, but not knowing how to address me, he said, “My
young friend, you say that the Duc d’Enghien gave you that gun?”
“Yes, sire. I understand,” said I, “that the King wishes to know
upon what occasion this gun was presented to me. I was the nephew
of a park-keeper of the Forest of Argonne, whose name was Father
Descharmes. The Duc de Condé and the Duc d’Enghien often hunted in
this forest. The Duc d’Enghien took a fancy to me, and gave me this
gun.”
The King, for a moment, appeared buried in thought.
“Your uncle is still alive?” he then asked.
“Sire, he is dead?”
“Why do you not solicit his place?”
“Because, sire, the keepers wear livery. I am a free man.”
“Children suck in republican ideas, even with their mothers’ milk!”
murmured the King.
He then threw himself back in his carriage.
I know not if the King spoke again; but the carriage at the moment
stopped; and, perchance, with it stopped something of importance.
We had arrived at Port Bassion.
Suddenly was heard a cry: “The commissaires! the commissaires!”
At this moment, a man on horseback dashed up to the door of the
King’s carriage. The King put out his head, to see what had caused
the halt.
“Sire,” said the horseman, “here are three deputies, who wish to
direct the return of your Majesty.”
“Aha!” said the King, “Can you tell me the names of these estimable
gentlemen?”
“Their names, sire, are Citizens Latour-Maubourg, Barnave, and
Pétion.”
The three deputies represented the three different parties of the
Assembly. Latour-Maubourg was Royalist, Barnave was Constitutional,
Pétion was Republican.
The crowd respectfully drew back. Three men approached the royal
carriage, stopped at the door, and saluted the King, who returned
their inclination.
One of them held in his hand a paper, which he read in a loud voice.
It was the decree of the National Assembly.
The man who read it was Pétion.
This decree ordered them to proceed to the King, not only to ensure
his safety, but also as a mark of respect due to royalty, as
represented in the persons of Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette.
The King knew that M. Latour-Maubourg was a Royalist.
He therefore desired that, as two deputies had to sit in the carriage
with him, he would name the two. The Queen expressed the same desire.
M. Latour-Maubourg replied, in a whisper:—
“I accepted the sad mission which introduces me to your Majesty only
in the hopes of being of some service to you. Your Majesty can, then,
count upon me as a faithful follower. But I have not the power of
Barnave, who exercises an enormous influence over the Assembly. He is
vain as an advocate, and will be flattered by having a seat in the
carriage of the King. It is, therefore, needful that he should occupy
a place, and that the Queen should take the opportunity of improving
his acquaintance. I, therefore, beg your Majesties to excuse my
surrendering my seat.”
The Queen bowed her head. She wished to again assume her womanly
properties, and to seduce Barnave, as she had Mirabeau. To be sure,
it was humiliating, but, at the same time, it was a distraction.
Strange contradiction! It was the King who had most repugnance to
Barnave’s occupying a seat in the royal carriage. Barnave, a little
Dauphinois advocate, pride upon his face, his nose perked up in
the air, and his _tout ensemble_ proclaiming insufferable conceit,
took his place. Pétion likewise, his rosy cheeks glowing with
satisfaction, disposed of himself to his perfect content.
Barnave and Pétion, therefore, as we have said, entered the royal
carriage.
Madame de Tourzel had resigned her place, and entered, with M.
Latour-Maubourg, the carriage set apart for the attendants.
Pétion at once proclaimed his discourtesy by claiming, as
representative of the National Assembly, a seat with his face to the
horses. The King and Queen made a sign to Madame Elizabeth, who at
once changed places with him.
At last, all inside the royal carriage were satisfactorily arranged.
On the back seat were the King, Pétion, the Queen; and on the front,
Madame Elizabeth, face to face with Pétion, Madame Royale and the
Dauphin face to face and knee to knee with the Queen, who was
opposite, also, to Barnave.
At the first glance the Queen fancied that Barnave was dry, cold, and
wicked.
Barnave had hoped to take the place of Mirabeau at the Assembly. He
had succeeded in part; could not the Queen confer the rest?
Why not?
Had she not, at St. Cloud, given a secret interview to Mirabeau? Why
should not he, Barnave, be accorded a similar favor.
But then, public rumor spread abroad that one of the three gentlemen
on the box of the carriage, “M. Fersen,” was the accepted lover of
the Queen.
Strange thing! As I have told you the good self-opinion of Barnave,
he was yet jealous of M. de Fersen.
With the admirable shrewdness of women, the Queen discovered this
before a quarter of an hour had elapsed.
She managed to get the three guards, named respectively MM. de
Malden, de Valory, and de Moustier.
No Fersen!
Barnave breathed, smiled, and became positively charming.
Barnave was young, handsome, polished, of fascinating manners, and
felt great commiseration for the unfortunate royal party.
In place of the Queen seducing Barnave, Barnave almost seduced the
Queen.