Marie Antoinette and Her Son Part 25

Bailly went with pain to General Lafayette. "We must pacify them, or you, general, must prevent them by force!" "It is impossible,"

replied Lafayette. "How could we use force against defenceless women? Not one of my soldiers would obey my commands, for these women are the wives, the mothers, the sisters of my soldiers! They have no other weapons than their tongues with which to storm the heart of the queen! How could we conquer them with weapons of steel?

We must let them go! But we must take precautions that the king and the queen do not fall into danger."

"That will be all the more necessary, general, as the women will certainly be accompanied by armed crowds of men, and excitement and confusion will accompany them all the way to Versailles. Make haste, general, to defend Versailles. The columns of women are already in motion, and, as I have said to you, they will be accompanied by armed men!"

"It would not be well for me to take my soldiers to Versailles,"

said Lafayette, shaking his head. "You know, M. De Bailly, to what follies the reactionaries of Versailles have already led the royal family. All Paris speaks of nothing else than of the holiday which the king and queen have given to the royal troops, the regiment of Flanders, which they have summoned to Versailles. The king and the queen, with the dauphin, were present. The tri-colored c.o.c.kade was trodden under foot, and the people were arrayed in white ribbons.

Royalist songs were sang, the National Guard was bitterly talked of, and an oath was given to the king and queen that commands would only be received of them. My soldiers are exasperated, and many of my officers have desired of me to-day that we should repair to Versailles and attack the regiment of Flanders and decimate them. It is, therefore, perilous to take these exasperated National Guards to Versailles."

"And yet something must be done for the protection of the king,"

said Bailly; "believe me, these raging troops of women are more dangerous than the exasperated National Guards. Come, General Lafayette, we will go to the city hall, and summon the magistracy and the leaders of the National Guard, to take counsel of them."

An hour later the drums beat through all the streets of Paris, for in the city hall the resolve had been taken that the National Guard of Paris, under the lead of General Lafayette, should repair to Versailles to protect the royal family against the attacks of the people, but at the same time to protect the National a.s.sembly against the attacks of the royalist troops.

But long before the troops were in motion, and had really begun their march to Versailles, the troops of women were already on their way. Soldiers of the National Guard and armed men from the people accompanied the women, and secured among them a certain military discipline. They marched in ten separate columns, every one of which consisted of more than a thousand women.

Each column was preceded by some soldiers of the National Guard, with weapons on their shoulders, who, of their own free will, had undertaken to be the leaders. On both sides of each column marched the armed men from the people, in order to inspire the women with courage when they grew tired, but at the same time to compel those who were weary of the long journey, or sick of the whole undertaking, and who wanted to return to Paris, to come back into the ranks and complete what they had begun, and carry the work of revolution still further. "On to Versailles!"

All was quiet in Versailles that day. No one suspected the horrors which it was to bring forth. The king had gone with some of his gentlemen to Meudon to hunt: the queen had gone to Trianon alone-- all alone!

No one of her friends was now at her side, she had lost them all. No one was there to share the misery of the queen of all who had shared her happiness. The d.u.c.h.ess de Polignac, the princesses of the royal house, the cheery brother of the king, Count d'Artois, the Count de Coigny, Lords Besenval and Lauzun, where are they all now, the friends, the suppliants of former days? Far, far away in distant lands, flown from the misfortune that, with its dark wings sinking, was hovering lower and lower over Versailles, and darkening with its uncanny shadows this Trianon which had once been so cheerful and bright. All now is desolate and still! The mill rattles no more, the open window is swung to and fro by the wind, and the miller no more looks out with his good-natured, laughing face; the miller of Trianon is no longer the king, and the burdens and cares of his realm have bowed his head. The school-house, too, is desolate, and the learned master no longer writes his satires and jokes upon the great black-board in the school-room. He now writes libels and pamphlets, but they are now directed against the queen, against the former mistress of Trianon. And there is the fish-pond, along whose sh.o.r.es the sheep used to pasture, where the courtly company, transformed into shepherds and shepherdesses, used to lie on the gra.s.s, singing songs, arranging tableaux, and listening to the songs which the band played behind the thicket. All now is silent. No joyous tone now breaks the melancholy stillness which fills the shady pathways of the grove where Marie Antoinette, the mistress of Trianon, now walks with bended head and heart-broken spirit; only the recollection of the past resounds as an echo in her inner ear, and revives the cheerful strains which long have been silent.

At the fish-pond all is still, no flocks grazing on the sh.o.r.e, no picturesque groups, no songs. The spinning-wheel no longer whirls, the hand of the queen no longer turns the spindle; she has learned to hold the sceptre and the pen, and to weave public policy, and not a net of linen. The trees with their variegated autumn foliage are reflected in the dark water of the pond; some weeping-willows droop with their tapering branches down to the water, and a few swans come slowly sailing across with their necks raised in their majestic fashion. As they saw the figure on the sh.o.r.e, they expanded their wings and sailed quicker on, to pick up the crumbs which the white hands of the queen used to throw to them.

But these hands have to-day no gifts for the solitary, forgotten swans. All the dear, pleasant customs of the past are forgotten, they have all ceased.

Yet the swans have not forgotten her; they sail unquietly hither and thither along the sh.o.r.e of the pond, they toss up their slender necks, and then plunge their red beaks down into the dark water seeking for the grateful bits which were not there. But when they saw that they were disappointed, they poured forth their peculiarly mournful song and slowly sailed away down the lakelet into the obscurity of the distance, letting their complaining notes be heard from time to time.

"They are singing the swan's song of my happiness," whispered the queen, looking with tearful eyes at the beautiful creatures. "They too turn away from me, and now I am alone, all alone."

She had spoken this loudly, and her quivering voice wakened the echo which had been artistically contrived there, to repeat cheery words and merry laughter.

"Alone!" sounded back from the walls of the Marlborough Tower at the end of the fish-pond. "Alone!" whispered the water stirred with the swans. "Alone!" was the rustling cry of the bushes. "Alone!" was heard in the heart of the queen, and she sank down upon the gra.s.s, covered her face with her hands, and wept aloud. All at once there was a cry in the distance, "The queen, where is the queen? "

Marie Antoinette sprang up and dried her eyes. No one should see that she had wept. Tears belong only to solitude, but she has no longer even solitude. The voice comes nearer and nearer, and Marie Antoinette follows the sound. She knows that she is going to meet a new misfortune. People have not come to Trianon to bring her tidings of joy; they have come to tell her that destruction awaits her in Versailles, and the queen is to give audience to it.

A man came with hurried step from the thicket down the winding footpath. Marie Antoinette looked at him with eager, sharp eye. Who is he, this herald of misfortune? No one of the court servants, no one of the gentry.

He wears the simple garments of a citizen, a man of the people, of that Third Estate which has prepared for the poor queen so much trouble and sorrow.

He had perhaps read her question in her face, for, as he now sank breathless at her feet, his lips murmured: "Forgive me, your majesty, forgive me that I disturb you. I am Toulan, your most devoted servant, and it is Madame de Campan who sends me."

"Toulan, yes, I recognize you now," said the queen, hastily. "It was you, was it not, who brought me the sad news of the acquittal of Rohan?"

"It appears, your majesty, that a cruel misfortune has always chosen me to be the bearer of evil tidings to my exalted queen. And to-day I come only with such."

"What is it?" cried the queen, eagerly. "Has any thing happened to my husband? Are my children threatened? Speak quickly, say no or yes. Let me know the whole truth at once. Is the king dead? Are my children in danger?"

"No, your majesty."

"No," cried the queen, breathing a breath of relief. "I thank you, air. You see that you accused Fate falsely, for you have brought me good tidings. And yet again I thank you, for, I remember, I have much to thank you for. It was you who raised your voice in the National a.s.sembly, and voted for the inviolability of the queen. It was not your fault, and believe me not mine either, that your voice was alone, that no one joined you. The king has been declared inviolable, but not the queen, and now I am to be attacked, am I not? Tell me what is it? Why does my faithful Campan send you to me?"

"Your majesty, to conjure you to come to Versailles."

"What has happened there?"

"Nothing as yet, your majesty, but--I was early this morning in Paris, and what I saw there determined me to come hither at once, to bring the news and warn your majesty."

"What is it? Why do you hesitate? Speak out freely."

"Your majesty, all Paris is in motion, all Paris is marching upon Versailles!"

"What do you mean by that?" asked Marie Antoinette, pa.s.sionately.

"What does Paris want? Does it mean to threaten the National a.s.sembly? Explain yourself, for you see I do not understand you."

"Your majesty, the people of Paris hunger. The bakers have made no bread, for they a.s.sert that there is no more meal. The enemies of the realm have taken advantage of the excitement to stir up the ma.s.ses and even the women. The people are hungry; the people are coming to Versailles to ask the king for bread. Ten thousand women are on the road to Versailles, accompanied by armed bodies of men."

"Let us hasten, sir, I must go to my children," said the queen, and with quick steps she went forward. Not a glance back, not a word of farewell to the loved plantation of Trianon, and yet it is the last time that Marie Antoinette is to look upon it. She will never return hither, she turns her back forever upon Trianon.

With flying steps she hurries on; Toulan does not venture to address her, and she has perhaps entirely forgotten his presence. She does not know that a faithful one is near her; she only knows that her children are in Versailles, and that she must go to them to protect them, and to the king too, to die with him, if it must be.

When they were not far from the great mall of the park at Versailles, the Count de St. Priest came running, and his frightened looks and pale face confirmed the news that Mr. Toulan had brought.

"Your majesty," cried the count, breathless, "I took the liberty of looking for your majesty at Trianon. Bad news has arrived."

"I know it," answered the queen, calmly. "Ten thousand women are marching upon Versailles, Mr. Toulan has informed me, and you see I am coming to receive the women."

All at once she stood still and turned to Toulan, who was walking behind her like the faithful servant of his mistress.

"Sir," said she, "I thank you, and I know that I may reckon upon you. I am sure that to-day as always you have thought upon our welfare, and that you will remain mindful of the oath of fidelity which you once gave me. Farewell! Do you go to the National a.s.sembly. I will go to the palace, and may we each do our duty." She saluted Toulan with a gentle inclination of her head and with beaming looks of grat.i.tude in her beautiful eyes, and then hurried on up the grand mall to the palace.

In Versailles all was confusion and consternation. Every one had lost his senses. Every one asked, and no one answered, for the only one who could answer, the king, was not there. He had not yet returned from the hunt in Meudon.

But the queen was there, and with a grand calmness and matchless grasp of mind she undertook the duties of the king. First, she sent the chief equerry, the Marquis de Cubieres, to meet the king and cause him to hasten home at once. She intrusted Count St. Priest, minister of the interior, with a division of the guards in the inner court of the palace. She inspired the timid women with hope. She smiled at her children, who, timid and anxious at the confusion which surrounded them, fled to the queen for refuge, and clung to her.

Darker and darker grew the reports that came meanwhile to the palace. They were the storm-birds, so to speak, that precede the tempest. They announced the near approach of the people of Paris, of the women, who were no longer unarmed, and who had been joined by thousands of the National Guard, who, in order to give the train of women a more imposing appearance, had brought two cannon with them, and who, armed with knives and guns, pikes and axes, and singing wild war-songs, were marching on as the escort of the women.

The queen heard all without alarm, without fear. She commanded the women, who stood around her weeping and wringing their hands, to withdraw to their own apartments, and protect the dauphin and the princess, to lock the doors behind them and to admit no one--no one, excepting herself. She took leave of the children with a kiss, and bade them be fearless and untroubled. She did not look at them as the women took them away. She breathed firmly as the doors closed behind them.

"Now I have courage to bear every thing," she said to St. Priest.

"My children are in safety! Would only that the king were here!"

At the same instant the door opened and the king entered. Marie Antoinette hastened to meet him, threw herself with a cry of joy into his arms, and rested her head, which had before been erect with courage, heavily on his shoulder.

"Oh, sire, my dear sire! thank G.o.d that you are here. Now I fear nothing more! You will not suffer us to perish in misery! You will breathe courage into these despairing ones, and tell the inexperienced what they have to do. Sire, Paris is marching against us, but with us there are G.o.d and France. You will defend the honor of France and your crown against the rebels?"

The king answered confusedly, and as if in a yielding frame of mind.

"We must first hear what the people want," he said; "we must not approach them threateningly, we must first discuss matters with them."