The Countess of Charny; or, The Execution of King Louis XVI

They mentioned nobody by name, but all knew who was meant.

Every cannon-report had an echo in the heart of the palace. Those were the king's rooms where the queen and the rest of the family were gathered. They kept together all day, from feeling that their fate was decided this time, so grand and solemn. They did not separate until midnight, when the last cannon was fired.

On the following night Mme. Campan was aroused; she had slept in the queen's bedroom since a fellow had been caught there with a knife, who might have been a murderer.

"Is your majesty ill?" she asked, hearing a moan.

"I am always in pain, Campan, but I trust to have it over soon now. Yes," and she held out her pale hand in the moonbeam, making it seem all the whiter, "in a month this same moonlight will see us free and disengaged from our chains."

"Oh, you have accepted Lafayette's offers," said the lady, "and you will flee?"

"Lafayette's help? Thank God, no," said the queen, with repugnance there was no mistaking; "no, but in a month, my nephew, Francis, will be in Paris."

"Is your majesty quite sure?" asked the royal governess, alarmed.

"Yes, all is settled," returned the sovereign; "alliance is made between Austria and Prussia, two powers who will march upon Paris in combination. We have the route of the French princes and their allied armies, and we can surely say that on such and such a day they will be here or there."

"But do you not fear – "

"Murder?" The queen finished the phrase. "I know that might befall; but they may hold us as hostages for their necks when vengeance impends. However, nothing venture, nothing win."

"And when do the allied sovereigns expect to be in Paris?" inquired Mme. Campan.

"Between the fifteenth and twentieth of August," was the reply.

"God grant it!" said the lady.

But the prayer was not granted; or, if heard, Heaven sent France the succor she had not dreamed of – the Marseillaise Hymn of Liberty.

CHAPTER VII.

THE MEN FROM MARSEILLES

We have said that Barbaroux had written to a friend in the south to send him five hundred men willing to die.

Who was the man who could write such lines? and what influence had he over his friends?

Charles Barbaroux was a very handsome young man of barely twenty-five, who was reproached for his beauty, and considered by Mme. Roland as frivolous and too generally amorous. On the contrary, he loved his country alone, or must have loved her best, for he died for her.

Son of a hardy sea-faring man, he was a poet and orator when quite young – at the breaking out of trouble in his native town during the election of Mirabeau. He was then appointed secretary to the Marseilles town board. Riots at Arles drew him into them; but the seething caldron of Paris claimed him; the immense furnace which needed perfume, the huge crucible hissing for purest metal.

He was Roland's correspondent at the south, and Mme. Roland had pictured from his regular, precise, and wise letters, a man of forty, with his head bald from much thinking, and his forehead wrinkled with vigils. The reality of her dream was a young man, gay, merry, light, fond of her sex, the type of the rich and brilliant generation flourishing in '92, to be cut down in '93.

It was in this head, esteemed too frivolous by Mme. Roland, that the first thought of the tenth of August was conceived, perhaps.

The storm was in the air, but the clouds were tossing about in all directions for Barbaroux to give them a direction and pile them up over the Tuileries.

When nobody had a settled plan, he wrote for five hundred determined men.

The true ruler of France was the man who could write for such men and be sure of their coming.

Rebecqui chose them himself out of the revolutionists who had fought in the last two years' popular affrays, in Avignon and the other fiery towns; they were used to blood; they did not know what fatigue was by name.

On the appointed day they set out on the two hundred league tramp, as if it were a day's strolling. Why not? They were hardy seamen, rugged peasants, sunburned by the African simoom or the mountain gale, with hands callous from the spade or tough with tar.

Wherever they passed along they were hailed as brigands.

In a halt they received the words and music of Rouget de l'Isle's "Hymn to Liberty," sent as a viaticum by Barbaroux to shorten the road. The lips of the Marseilles men made it change in character, while the words were altered by their new emphasis. The song of brotherhood became one of death and extermination – forever "the Marseillaise."

Barbaroux had planned to head with the Marseilles men some forty thousand volunteers Santerre was to have ready to meet them, overwhelm the City Hall and the House, and then storm the palace. But Santerre went to greet them with only two hundred men, not liking to let the strangers have the glory of such a rush.

With ardent eyes, swart visages, and shrill voices, the little band strode through all Paris to the Champs Elysées, singing the thrilling song. They camped there, awaiting the banquet on the morrow.

It took place, but some grenadiers were arrayed close to the spot, a Royalist guard set as a rampart between them and the palace.

They divined they were enemies, and commencing by insults, they went on to exchanging fisticuffs. At the first blood the Marseillaise shouted "To arms!" raided the stacks of muskets, and sent the grenadiers flying with their own bayonets. Luckily, they had the Tuileries at their backs and got over the draw-bridge, finding shelter in the royal apartments. There is a legend that the queen bound up the wounds of one soldier.

The Federals numbered five thousand – Marseilles men, Bretons, and Dauphinois. They were a power, not from their number, but their faith. The spirit of the revolution was in them.

They had fire-arms but no ammunition; they called for cartridges, but none were supplied. Two of them went to the mayor and demanded powder, or they would kill themselves in the office.

Two municipal officers were on duty – Sergent, Danton's man, and Panis, Robespierre's.

Sergent had artistic imagination and a French heart; he felt that the young men spoke with the voice of the country.

"Look out, Panis," he said; "if these youths kill themselves, the blood will fall on our heads."

"But if we deliver the powder without authorization, we risk our necks."

"Never mind. I believe the time has come to risk our necks. In that case, everybody for himself," replied Sergent. "Here goes for mine; you can do as you like."

He signed the delivery note, and Panis put his name to it.

Things were easier now; when the Marseilles men had powder and shot they would not let themselves be butchered without hitting back.

As soon as they were armed, the Assembly received their petition, and allowed them to attend the session. The Assembly was in great fear, so much so as to debate whether it ought not to transfer the meetings to the country. For everybody stood in doubt, feeling the ground to quake underfoot and fearing to be swallowed.

This wavering chafed the southerners. No little disheartened, Barbaroux talked of founding a republic in the south.

He turned to Robespierre, to see if he would help to set the ball rolling. But the Incorruptible's conditions gave him suspicions, and he left him, saying:

"We will no more have a dictator than a king."

CHAPTER VIII.

THE FRIEND IN NEED

The very thing encouraging the Tuileries party was what awed the rebels.

The palace had become a formidable fortress, with a dreadful garrison.

During the night of the fourth of August, the Swiss battalions had been drawn from out of town into the palace. A few companies were left at Gaillon, where the king might take refuge.

Three reliable leaders were beside the queen: Maillardet with his Switzers, Hervilly with the St. Louis Knights and the Constitutional Guard, and Mandat, who, as National Guard commander, promised twenty thousand devoted and resolute fighting men.

On the evening of the eighth a man penetrated the fort; everybody knew him, so that he had no difficulty in passing to the queen's rooms, where they announced "Doctor Gilbert."

"Ah, welcome, welcome, doctor!" said the royal lady, in a feverish voice, "I am happy to see you."

He looked sharply at her, for on the whole of her face was such gladness and satisfaction that it made him shudder. He would sooner have seen her pale and disheartened.

"I fear I have arrived too late," he said.

"It is just the other way, doctor," she replied, with a smile, an expression her lips had almost forgotten how to make; "you come at the right time, and you are welcome. You are going to see what I have long yearned to show you – a king really royal."

"I am afraid, madame, that you are deceiving yourself," he returned, "and that you will exhibit rather the commandant of a fort."

"Perhaps, Doctor Gilbert, we can never come to a closer understanding on the symbolical character of royalty than on other matters. For me a king is not solely a man who may say, 'I do not wish,' but one who can say, 'Thus I will.'"

She alluded to the famous veto which led to this crisis.

"Yes, madame," said Gilbert, "and for your majesty, a king is a ruler who takes revenge."

"Who defends himself," she retorted; "for you know we are openly threatened, and are to be attacked by an armed force. We are assured that five hundred desperadoes from Marseilles, headed by one Barbaroux, took an oath on the ruins of the Bastile, not to go home until they had camped on the ruins of the Tuileries."

"Indeed, I have heard something of the kind," remarked Gilbert.

"Which only makes you laugh?"

"It alarms me for the king and yourself, madame."

"So that you come to propose that we should resign, and place ourselves at the mercy of Messieurs Barbaroux and his Marseilles bullies?"

"I only wish the king could abdicate and guarantee, by the sacrifice of his crown, his life and yours, and the safety of your children."

"Is this the advice you give us, doctor?"

"It is; and I humbly beseech you to follow it."

"Monsieur Gilbert, let me say that you are not consistent in your opinions."

"My opinions are always the same, madame. Devoted to king and country, I wished him to be in accord with the Constitution; from this desire springs the different pieces of counsel which I have submitted."

"What is the one you fit to this juncture?"

"One that you have never had such a good chance to follow. I say, get away."

"Flee?"

"Ah, you well know that it is possible, and never could be carried out with greater facility. You have nearly three thousand men in the palace."

"Nearer five thousand," said the queen, with a smile of satisfaction, "with double to rise at the first signal we give."

"You have no need to give a signal, which may be intercepted; the five thousand will suffice."

"What do you think we ought to do with them?"

"Set yourself in their midst, with the king and your august children; dash out when least expected; at a couple of leagues out, take to horse and ride into Normandy, to Gaillon, where you are looked for."

"You mean, place ourselves under the thumb of General Lafayette?"

"At least, he has proved that he is devoted to you."

"No, sir, no! With my five thousand in hand, and as many more ready to come at the call, I like another course better – to crush this revolt once for all."

"Oh, madame, how right he was who said you were doomed."

"Who was that, sir?"

"A man whose name I dare not repeat to you; but he has spoken three times to you."

"Silence!" said the queen, turning pale; "we will try to give the lie to this prophet of evil."

"Madame, I am very much afraid that you are blinded."

"You think that they will venture to attack us?"

"The public spirit turns to this quarter."

"And they reckon on walking in here as easily as they did in June?"

"This is not a stronghold."

"Nay; but if you will come with me, I will show you that we can hold out some time."

With joy and pride she showed him all the defensive measures of the military engineers and the number of the garrison whom she believed faithful.

"That is a comfort, madame," he said, "but it is not security."

"You frown on everything, let me tell you, doctor."

"Your majesty has taken me round where you like; will you let me take you to your own rooms, now?"

"Willingly, doctor, for I am tired. Give me your arm."

Gilbert bowed to have this high favor, most rarely granted by the sovereign, even to her intimate friends, especially since her misfortune.

When they were in her sitting-room he dropped on one knee to her as she took a seat in an arm-chair.

"Madame," said he, "let me adjure you, in the name of your august husband, your dear ones, your own safety, to make use of the forces about you, to flee and not to fight."

"Sir," was the reply, "since the fourteenth of July, I have been aspiring for the king to have his revenge; I believe the time has come. We will save royalty, or bury ourselves under the ruins of the Tuileries."

"Can nothing turn you from this fatal resolve?"

"Nothing."

She held out her hand to him, half to help him to rise, half to send him away. He kissed her hand respectfully, and rising, said:

"Will your majesty permit me to write a few lines which I regard as so urgent that I do not wish to delay one instant?"

"Do so, sir," she said, pointing to a writing-table, where he sat down and wrote these lines:

"My Lord, – Come! the queen is in danger of death, if a friend does not persuade her to flee, and I believe you are the only one who can have that influence over her."

"May I ask whom you are writing to, without being too curious?" demanded the lady.

"To the Count of Charny, madame," was Gilbert's reply.

"And why do you apply to him?"

"For him to obtain from your majesty what I fail to do."

"Count Charny is too happy to think of his unfortunate friends; he will not come," said the queen.

The door opened, and an usher appeared.

"The Right Honorable, the Count of Charny," he announced, "desiring to learn if he may present his respects to your majesty."

The queen had been pale, and now became corpse-like, as she stammered some unintelligible words.

"Let him enter," said Gilbert; "Heaven hath sent him."

Charny appeared at the door in naval officer's uniform.

"Oh, come in, sir; I was writing for you," said the physician, handing him the note.

"Hearing of the danger her majesty was incurring, I came," said the nobleman, bowing.

"Madame, for Heaven's sake, hear and heed what Count Charny says," said Gilbert; "his voice will be that of France."

Respectfully saluting the lord and the royal lady, Gilbert went out, still cherishing a last hope.

CHAPTER IX.

CHARNY ON GUARD

On the night of the ninth of August, the royal family supped as usual; nothing could disturb the king in his meals. But while Princess Elizabeth and Lady Lamballe wept and prayed, the queen prayed without weeping. The king withdrew to go to confession.

At this time the doors opened, and Count Charny walked in, pale, but perfectly calm.

"May I have speech with the king?" he asked, as he bowed.

"At present I am the king," answered Marie Antoinette.

Charny knew this as well as anybody, but he persisted.

"You may go up to the king's rooms, count, but I protest that you will very much disturb him."

"I understand; he is with Mayor Petion."

"The king is with his ghostly counselor," replied the lady, with an indescribable expression.

"Then I must make my report to your majesty as major-general of the castle," said the count.

"Yes, if you will kindly do so."

"I have the honor to set forth the effective strength of our forces. The heavy horse-guards, under Rulhieres and Verdiere, to the number of six hundred, are in battle array on the Louvre grand square; the Paris City foot-guards are barracked in the stables; a hundred and fifty are drawn from them to guard at Toulouse House, at need, the Treasury and the discount and extra cash offices; the Paris Mounted Patrol, only thirty men, are posted in the princes' yard, at the foot of the king's back stairs; two hundred officers and men of the old Life Guards, a hundred young Royalists, as many noblemen, making some four hundred combatants, are in the Bull's-eye Hall and adjoining rooms; two or three hundred National Guards are scattered in the gardens and court-yards; and lastly, fifteen hundred Swiss, the backbone of resistance, are taking position under the grand vestibule and the staircases which they are charged to defend."

"Do not all these measures set you at ease, my lord?" inquired the queen.

"Nothing can set me at ease when your majesty's safety is at stake," returned the count.

"Then your advice is still for flight?"

"My advice, madame, is that you ought, with the king and the royal children, be in the midst of us."

The queen shook her head.

"Your majesty dislikes Lafayette? Be it so. But you have confidence in the Duke of Liancourt, who is in Rouen, in the house of an English gentleman of the name of Canning. The commander of the troops in that province has made them swear allegiance to the king; the Salis-Chamade Swiss regiment is echeloned across the road, and it may be relied on. All is still quiet. Let us get out over the swing-bridge, and reach the Etoille bars, where three hundred of the horse-guards await us. At Versailles, we can readily get together fifteen hundred noblemen. With four thousand, I answer for taking you wherever you like to go."

"I thank you, Lord Charny. I appreciate the devotion which made you leave those dear to you, to offer your services to a foreigner."

"The queen is unjust toward me," replied Charny. "My sovereign's existence is always the most precious of all in my eyes, as duty is always the dearest of virtues."

"Duty – yes, my lord," murmured the queen; "but I believe I understand my own when everybody is bent on doing theirs. It is to maintain royalty grand and noble, and to have it fall worthily, like the ancient gladiators, who studied how to die with grace."

"Is this your majesty's last word?"

"It is – above all, my last desire."

Charny bowed, and as he met Mme. Campan by the door, he said to her:

"Suggest to the princesses that they should put all their valuables in their pockets, as they may have to quit the palace without further warning."

While the governess went to speak to the ladies, he returned to the queen, and said:

"Madame, it is impossible that you should not have some hope beyond the reliance on material forces. Confide in me, for you will please bear in mind that at such a strait, I will have to give an account to the Maker and to man for what will have happened."

"Well, my lord," said the queen, "an agent is to pay Petion two hundred thousand francs, and Danton fifty thousand, for which sums the latter is to stay at home and the other is to come to the palace."

"Are you sure of the go-betweens?"

"You said that Petion had come, which is something toward it."

"Hardly enough; as I understood that he had to be sent for three times."

"The token is, in speaking to the king, he is to touch his right eyebrow with his forefinger – "

"But if not arranged?"

"He will be our prisoner, and I have given the most positive orders that he is not to be let quit the palace."

The ringing of a bell was heard.

"What is that?" inquired the queen.

"The general alarm," rejoined Charny.

The princesses rose in alarm.

"What is the matter?" exclaimed the queen. "The tocsin is always the trumpet of rebellion."

"Madame," said Charny, more affected by the sinister sound than the queen, "I had better go and learn whether the alarm means anything grave."

"But we shall see you again?" asked she, quickly.

"I came to take your majesty's orders, and I shall not leave you until you are out of danger."

Bowing, he went out. The queen stood pensive for a space, murmuring: "I suppose we had better see if the king has got through confessing."

While she was going out, Princess Elizabeth took some garments off a sofa in order to lie down with more comfort; from her fichu she removed a cornelian brooch, which she showed to Mme. Campan; the engraved stone had a bunch of lilies and the motto: "Forget offenses, forgive injuries."

"I fear that this will have little influence over our enemies," she remarked; "but it ought not be the less dear to us."

As she was finishing the words, a gunshot was heard in the yard.

The ladies screamed.

"There goes the first shot," said Lady Elizabeth. "Alas! it will not be the last."

Mayor Petion had come into the palace under the following circumstances. He arrived about half past ten. He was not made to wait, as had happened before, but was told that the king was ready to see him; but to arrive, he had to walk through a double row of Swiss guards, National Guards, and those volunteer royalists called Knights of the Dagger. Still, as they knew he had been sent for, they merely cast the epithets of "traitor" and "Judas" in his face as he went up the stairs.

Petion smiled as he went in at the door of the room, for here the king had given him the lie on the twentieth of June; he was going to have ample revenge.

The king was impatiently awaiting.

"Ah! so you have come, Mayor Petion?" he said. "What is the good word from Paris?"

Petion furnished the account of the state of matters – or, at least, an account.

"Have you nothing more to tell me?" demanded the ruler.

"No," replied Petion, wondering why the other stared at him. Louis watched for the signal that the mayor had accepted the bribe.

It was clear that the king had been cheated; some swindler had pocketed the money. The queen came in as the question was put to Petion.

"How does our friend stand?" she whispered.

"He has not made any sign," rejoined the king.

"Then he is our prisoner," said she.

"Can I retire?" inquired the mayor.

"For God's sake, do not let him go!" interposed the queen.

"Not yet, sir; I have something yet to say to you," responded the king, raising his voice. "Pray step into this closet."

This implied to those in the inner room that Petion was intrusted to them, and was not to be allowed to go.

Those in the room understood perfectly, and surrounded Petion, who felt that he was a prisoner. He was the thirtieth in a room where there was not elbow-room for four.

"Why, gentlemen, we are smothering here," he said; "I propose a change of air."

It was a sentiment all agreed with, and they followed him out of the first door he opened, and down into the walled-in garden, where he was as much confined as in the closet. To kill time, he picked up a pebble or two and tossed them over the walls.

While he was playing thus, and chatting with Roederer, attorney of the province, the message came twice that the king wanted to see him.

"No," replied Petion; "it is too hot quarters up there. I remember the closet, and I have no eagerness to be in it again. Besides, I have an appointment with somebody on the Feuillants' Quay."

He went on playing at clearing the wall with stones.

"With whom have you an appointment?" asked Roederer.

At this instant the Assembly door on the Feuillants' Quay opened.

"I fancy this is just what I was waiting for," remarked the mayor.

"Order to let Mayor Petion pass forth," said a voice; "the Assembly demands his presence at the bar of the House, to give an account of the state of the city."

"Just the thing," muttered Petion. "Here I am," he replied, in a loud voice; "I am ready to respond to the quips of my enemies."

The National Guards, imagining that Petion was to be berated, let him out.

It was nearly three in the morning; the day was breaking. A singular thing, the aurora was the hue of blood.

CHAPTER X.

BILLET AND PITOU

On being called by the king, Petion had foreseen that he might more easily get into the palace than out, so he went up to a hard-faced man marred by a scar on the brow.