Marie Antoinette and Her Son Part 39

"Madame," replied Mirabeau, "I take the liberty of adding this to what has already been said. The most necessary thing is that the royal court leave Paris for a season!"

"That we flee?" asked Marie Antoinette, hastily. "Not flee, but withdraw," answered Mirabeau. "The exasperated people menace the monarchy, and therefore the threatened crown must for a while be concealed from the people's sight, that they may be brought back to a sense of duty and loyalty. And, therefore, I do not say that the court must flee; I only say it must leave Paris, for Paris is the furnace of the revolution! The royal court must withdraw, as soon as possible, to the very boundaries of France! It must there gather an army, and put it under the command of some faithful general, and with this army march against the riotous capital; and I will be there to smooth the way and open the gates!"

"I thank you, count, I thank you!" cried Marie Antoinette, rising from her seat. "Now, I doubt no more about the future, for my own thoughts coincide with those of our greatest statesmen! I, too, am convinced the court ought to leave Paris--that it must withdraw, in order to escape new humiliations, and that it ought to return only in the splendor of its power, and with an army to put the rebels to flight, and breathe courage into the timid and faithful. Oh! you must tell the king all this; you must show him that our removal from Paris is not only a means of salvation to the crown, but to the people as well. Your words will convince the n.o.blest and best of monarchs; he will follow your counsels, and, thanks to you, not we alone, but the monarchy will be saved! No, go to the work, count! Be active in our behalf; bring your unbounded influence, in favor of the king and queen, to bear upon all spirits, and be sure that we shall be grateful to you so long as we live. Farewell, and remember that my eye will follow all your steps, and that my ears will hear every word which Mirabeau shall speak in the National a.s.sembly."

Mirabeau bowed respectfully. "Madame," said he, "when your exalted mother condescended to favor one of her subjects with an audience, she never dismissed him without permitting the favored one respectfully to kiss her hand."

"It is true," replied Marie Antoinette, with a pleasant smile, "and in this, at least, I can follow the example of my great mother!"

And, with inimitable grace, the queen extended her hand to him.

Mirabeau, enraptured, beside himself at this display of courtesy and favor, dropped upon his knee and pressed his lips to the delicate, white hand of the queen.

"Madame," cried he, with warmth, "this kiss saves the monarchy!"

[Mirabeau's own words.--See "Memoires de Mirabeau," vol iv., p.

208.]

"If you have spoken the truth, sir," said the queen, with a sigh, rising and dismissing him, with a gentle inclination of her head.

With excited and radiant looks, Mirabeau returned to his nephew, who was waiting for him at the gate of the park.

"Oh!" said he, with a breath of relief, laying his hand upon the shoulder of Saillant, "what have I not heard and seen! She is very great, very n.o.ble, and very unhappy, Victor! But," cried he, with a loud, earnest voice, "I will save her--I will save her!" [Footnote: "Marie Antoinette et sa Famille," p 480.]

Mirabeau was in earnest in this purpose; and not because he had been bought over, but because he had been won--carried away with the n.o.ble aspect of the queen--did he become from this time a zealous defender of the monarchy, an eloquent advocate in behalf of Marie Antoinette. But he was not now able to restrain the dashing waves of revolution; he could not even save himself from being engulfed in these raging waves.

Mirabeau knew it well, and made no secret of the peril of his position. On the day when, before the division, he spoke in defence of the monarchy and the royal prerogative, and undertook to decide the question of peace or war--on that day he first announced himself openly for the king, and raised a storm of excitement and disgust in the National a.s.sembly. Still he spoke right bravely in behalf of the crown; and while doing so, he cried, "I know well that it is only a single step from the capitol to the Tarpeian rock!"

Step after step! And these successive steps Mirabeau was soon to take. Petion had not in vain characterized Mirabeau as the most dangerous enemy of the republic. Marat had not a.s.serted, without knowing what he said, that Mirabeau must let all his aristocratic blood flow from his veins, or bleed to death altogether! Not with impunity could Mirabeau encounter the rage of parties, and fling down the gauntlet before them, saying, at the same moment, "He would defend the monarchy against all attacks, from what side soever, and from what part soever of the kingdom they might come."

The leaders of the republican factions knew very well how to estimate the power of Mirabeau; they knew very well that Mirabeau was able to fit together the fragments of the crown which he had helped to break. And, to prevent his doing this, they knew that he must be buried beneath these fragments.

Soon after his interview with the queen--after his dissenting speech in behalf of the prerogative of the king--Mirabeau began to fail in health. His enemies said that it was only the result of over- exertion, and a cold which he had brought on by drinking a gla.s.s of cold water during a speech, in the National a.s.sembly. His friends whispered about a deadly poison which had been mingled with this gla.s.s of water, in order to rid themselves of this powerful and dangerous opponent.

Mirabeau believed this; and the increasing torpor of his limbs, the pains which he felt in his bowels, appeared to him to be the sure indications of poison given him by his enemies.

The lion, who had been willing to crouch at the foot of the throne for the purpose of guarding it, was now nothing but a poor, sick man, whose voice was lost, and whose power was extinguished. For a season he sought to contend against the malady which was lurking in his body; but one day, in the midst of a speech which he was making in behalf of the queen, he sank in a fainting-fit, and was carried unconsciously to his dwelling. After long efforts on the part of his physician, the celebrated Cabanis, Mirabeau opened his eyes.

Consciousness was restored, but with it a fixed premonition of his approaching death.

"I am dying!" he said, softly. "I am bearing in my heart the funeral c.r.a.pe of the monarchy. These raging partisans want to pluck it out, deride it, and fasten it to their own foreheads. And this compels them to break my heart, and this they have done!" [Footnote: Mirabeau's own words.--See "Memoires sur Mirabeau," vol. iv.,. p.

296.]

Yes, they had broken it--this great strong heart, in which the funeral c.r.a.pe of monarchy lay. At first the physician and his friends hoped that it might be possible to overcome his malady, but Mirabeau was not flattered by any such hope; he felt that the pains which were racking his body would end only with death.

After one especially painful and distressing night, Mirabeau had his physician Cabanis and his friend Count de la Marck summoned to his bed, and extended to them both his hands. "My friends," he said to them with gentle voice and with peaceful face, "my friends, I am going to die to-day. When one has been brought to that pa.s.s, there is only one thing that remains to be done: to be perfumed, tastefully dressed, and surrounded with flowers, so as to fall agreeably into that last sleep from which there is no waking. So, call my servants! I must be shaved, dressed, and nicely arrayed. The window must be opened, that the warm air may stream in, and then flowers must be brought. I want to die in the sunshine and flowers."

[Footnote: Mirabeau's words.--See "Memoires sur Mirabeau," vol. iv., p. 298.]

His friends did not venture to oppose his last wish. The gladiator wanted to make his last toilet and be elaborately arrayed in order to fall in the arena of life as a hero falls, and even in death to excite the wonder and the applause of the public.

All Paris was in this last scene the public of this gladiator; all Paris had, in these last days of his battle for life, only one thought, "How is it with Mirabeau? Will he compel the dreadful enemy Death to retire from before him, or will he fall as the prey of Death?" This question was written on all faces, repeated in all houses and in all hearts. Every one wanted to receive an answer from that still house, with its closely-drawn curtains, where Mirabeau lived. All the streets which led thither were, during the last three days before his death, filled with a dense ma.s.s of men, and no carriage was permitted to drive through the neighborhood, lest it should disturb Mirabeau. The theatres were closed, and, without any consultation together, the merchants shut their stores as they do on great days of national fasting or thanksgiving.

On the morning of the fourth day, before life had begun to move in the streets of Paris, and before the houses were opened, a cry was heard in the great highways of the city, ringing up into all the houses, and entering all the agitated hearts that heard it: "Flowers, bring flowers! Mirabeau wants flowers! Bring roses and violets for Mirabeau! Mirabeau wants to die amid flowers!"

This cry awoke slumbering Paris the 2d of April, 1791, and, as it resounded through the streets, windows and doors opened, and hundreds, thousands of men hastened from all directions toward Mirabeau's house, carrying nosegays, bouquets, whole baskets of flowers. One seemed to be transferred from cool, frosty spring weather to the warm, fragrant days of summer; all the greenhouses, all the chambers poured out their floral treasures to prepare one last summer day for the dying tribune of the people. His whole house was filled with flowers and with fragrance. The hall, the staircase, the antechamber, and the drawing-room were overflowing with flowers; and there in the middle of the drawing-room lay Mirabeau upon a lounge, carefully dressed, shaved and powdered, as if for a royal festival. The most beautiful of the flowers, the fairest exotics surrounded his couch, and bent their variegated petals down to the pale, death-stricken gladiator, who still had power to summon a smile to his lips, and with one last look of affection to bid farewell to his weeping friends--farewell to the flowers and the sunlight!

On his lofty brow, on his smiling lips, there was written, after Death had claimed him, after the gladiator had fallen, "The dying one greets you!"

The day of his death was the day of his last triumph; and the flowers that all Paris sent to him, were to Mirabeau the parting word of love and admiration!

Four times daily the king had sent to inquire after Mirabeau's welfare, and when at noon, on the 2d of April, Count de la Marck brought the tidings of his death, the king turned pale. "Disaster is hovering over us," he said, sadly, "Death too arrays himself on the side of our enemies!"

Marie Antoinette was also very deeply moved by the tidings. "He wanted to save us, and therefore must die! The burden was too heavy, the pillar has broken under the weight; the temple will plunge down and bury us beneath its ruins, if we do not hasten to save ourselves! Mirabeau's bequest was his counsel to speedy and secret flight! We must follow his advice, we must remove from Paris. May the spirit of Mirabeau enlighten the heart of the king, that he may be willing to do what is necessary,--that he may be willing to leave Paris!"

CHAPTER XVIII.

REVOLUTION IN THE THEATRE.

All Paris was again in commotion, fear, and uproar. The furies of the revolution, the market-women, went howling again through the streets on the 20th of June, 1791, uttering their horrid curses upon the king and the Austrian woman, and hurling their savage words and dirty songs against Madame Veto, against la chienne d'Autriche.

Around the Tuileries stood in immense ma.s.ses the corps of the National Guard, with grave and threatening mien, and with difficulty holding back the people, who were filling the whole broad square in front of the palace, and who could only with great effort be prevented from breaking through those strong cordons of guards who held both ends of the street leading to the Tuileries, and kept at least the middle of the way free and open.

It was a way for the king, the queen, and the royal family, who were to reenter Paris that day. Lafayette had, at the order of the National a.s.sembly, gone with some regiments of the guard to Varennes, to conduct the king back to the capital. Thousands upon thousands had hurried out after him in order to observe this return of the representatives of monarchy, and to take part in this funeral procession!

For it was a funeral of the monarchy which was celebrated that day; and this great, heavy carriage, surrounded by soldiers, and the ribald, mocking populace--this great carriage, which now drove along the streets leading to the Tuileries, amid the thunder of cannon, and the peals of bells from towers, was the funeral car of monarchy.

The king, the queen, the royal children, the sister of the king, Madame Tourzel, and the two deputies whom the National a.s.sembly had sent to Varennes to accompany the royal family, Petion and Barnave, were in this carriage.

They had tried to follow the advice of the dying Mirabean, and to save themselves from the revolution. That was the offence of this king and this queen, who were now brought back in triumph to the Tuileries, the palace of kings, and from that time a royal prison.

Tri-colored banners waved from all roofs and from all windows; placards were displayed everywhere, bearing in immense letters the words: "Whoever applauds the king shall be scourged; whover insults him shall be hanged!"

They had wished to escape, these unhappy ones, who are now brought back from Varennes, where they were identified and detained. Now they were returning, no longer the masters, but the prisoners of the French nation! The National a.s.sembly had pa.s.sed a decree, whose first article was: "The king is temporarily set aside from the functions of royalty;" and whose second and third articles were, "that so soon as the king and his family shall be brought back to the Tuileries, a provisional watch shall be set over him, as well as over the queen and the dauphin, which, under the command of the general-in-chief of the National Guard of Paris, shall be responsible for their safety and for their detention."

The king and the queen returned to Paris as prisoners, and Lafayette was their jailer. The master of France, the many-headed King of the French nation, was the National a.s.sembly.

Sad, dreadful days of humiliation, of resignation, of perils and anxieties, now followed for the royal family, the prisoners of the Tuileries, who were watched day and night by spying eyes, and whose doors must remain open day and night, in order that officers on guard might look without hindrance into the apartments in which the prisoners of the French nation lived.

During the first week after the sad return, the spirit of the queen seemed to be broken, her energies to be impaired forever. She had no more hope, no more fear; she threw out no new plans for escaping, she neither worked nor wrote. She only sat still and sad for hours, and before her eyes pa.s.sed the dreadful pictures of the time just gone by, presenting themselves with dreadful vividness, and in the recollection anguishing her spirit. She recalled the excitement and anxiety of the day which preceded the flight. She saw herself, as with trembling hands she put on the garments of one of her waiting- maids, and then disguised the dauphin in girl's clothes; she heard the boy asking anew, with his pleasant smile: "Are we going to play theatre, mamma queen?" Then she saw herself on the street alone, waiting without any protection or company for the carriage which was to take her up, after taking up at another place the king and the two children. She recalled the drive in the dark night, the heat in the close, heavy carriage, the dreadful alarm when suddenly, after a twelve hours' drive, the carriage broke, and all dismounted to climb the hill to the village which lay before them, and where they had to wait till the carriage could be repaired. Then the journey on, the delay in Varennea, the cry, "They are recognized." Then the confusion, the march, the anguish of the hours following, and finally that last hour of hope when, in the poor chamber of the shopkeeper Sauce, his wife standing near the bed on which the little prince slept, she conjured his wife to save the king and find him a hiding-place. Then she heard again before her ears the woman's hard voice answering her:

"Madame, it cannot be; I love my husband, too, and I also have children, but my husband were lost if I saved yours." Then she heard afresh the cries, the march; saw the arrival of the Paris regiments and the deputies whom the National a.s.sembly sent to conduct the royal refugees back to Paris. Then she recalled the drive back, crowded into the carriage with the deputies, and the ribald populace roaring around. As she thought of all these things, a shudder ran through the form of the unhappy queen, and tears streamed unrestrainedly from her eyes.

But gradually she gained her composure and spirit, and even the daily humiliation and trials which she encountered awakened in her the fire and defiance of her earlier days.

The king and the queen were, after their return from Varennes, the prisoners of their own people, and the Tuileries formed the prison in which with never-sleeping cruelty the people watched their royal captives.

The chiefs of the battalions const.i.tuting the National Guard took turns in sentry duty over the royal couple. They had received the rigid order to constantly watch the royal family, and not to leave them for a moment alone. Even the sleeping-room of the queen was not closed to the espionage of the guards; the door to the drawing-room close by had always to be open, and in this drawing-room was the officer of the guard. Even in the night, while the queen lay in her bed, this door remained open, and the officer, sitting in an arm- chair directly opposite to the door, kept his eyes directed to the bed in which the queen sought to sleep, and wrestled with the pains and fear which she was too proud to show to her persecutors. The queen had stooped to make but one request; she had asked that at least in the morning, when she arose and dressed, she might close the doors of her sleeping-room, and they had been magnanimous enough to comply with her wish.[Footnote: "Histoire de Marie Antoinette,"