The woman Tison, struck as by a thunderbolt at what had occurred, and totally abandoned by those who had escorted her,—for there is something revolting even in an involuntary crime, and it certainly amounts to a great crime when a mother condemns her own daughter to an ignominious death, were it even from excess of zealous patriotism,—the woman, we say, after remaining for some time in a state of insensibility, at length raised her head, looked wildly around, and finding herself deserted and alone, uttered a loud cry, and rushed toward the door.
At this door a few idlers more curious than the rest still remained congregated together, who dispersed when they beheld her, and pointing with their fingers, said one to another,—
"Do you see that woman? It is she who denounced her daughter."
The wretched woman uttered a cry of despair, and rushed toward the Temple. But when she was a third of the way through Rue Michel le Comte, a man placed himself in front of her, impeding her progress, and concealing his face in his mantle.
"Are you content," said he, "now you have killed your child?"
[Pg 241]
"Killed my child!" cried the poor mother,—"killed my child! no, no, it is not possible!"
"It is so, notwithstanding, for your daughter has been arrested."
"And where have they taken her?"
"To the Conciergerie; from there she will be sent to the Revolutionary Tribunal, and you know what becomes of those who are sent there."
"Stand aside," said the woman Tison, "and let me pass."
"Where are you going?"
"To the Conciergerie."
"What are you going there for?"
"To see her again."
"They will not allow you to enter."
"They will permit me to lie at the door, to live there, to sleep there. I will remain there till she comes out, and then at least I shall see her once more."
"Suppose some one promised to restore you your child?"
"What do you say?"
"I ask you, supposing a man were to promise to give you back your child, would you do what that man required of you in return?"
"Anything for my child! anything for my Héloïse!" cried the woman, wringing her hands in despair,—"Anything! anything! anything!"
"Listen," said the unknown. "It is God who now punishes you."
"And for what?"
"For the tortures you have inflicted so mercilessly on a poor mother as unhappy as yourself."
"Of whom do you speak! What do you mean?"
"You have often driven the unhappy prisoner to the[Pg 242] very verge of that despair where you are yourself at this moment, by your revelations and brutalities. God now punishes you for all this by conducting this daughter, whom you love so much, to the scaffold."
"You said there was some man who could save her. Where is that man; what does he want; what does he demand?"
"This man requires that you cease to persecute the queen; that you ask her pardon for the outrages already committed against her; and that if at any time you perceive that this woman, who is also a weeping, despairing mother, by any unforeseen circumstance, or by some miracle from Heaven, is upon the point of saving herself, instead of opposing her flight, you do all in your power to aid and abet it."
"Listen, Citizen," said the woman Tison. "You are the man,—is it not so?"
"Well."
"It is you who promise to save my child?"
The unknown remained silent.
"Will you engage to do it? Will you promise; will you swear it? Answer me."
"All that a man can do to save a woman, I will do to save your daughter."
"He cannot save her!" cried the woman, uttering piercing cries,—"he cannot save her! When he promised me he lied."
"Do what you can for the queen, and I will do all in my power for your daughter."
"What care I for the queen? She is a mother who has a daughter. But if they come to cutting off heads, it will not be her daughter's they will cut off, but her own. They may cut my throat so that they spare my child. They may lead me to the guillotine, so that they[Pg 243] do not harm a hair of her head, and I will go there singing,—
"Ah! ça ira, ça ira, ça ira,
Les aristocrates à la lanterne...."
And she commenced singing in a frightful voice, then suddenly stopped short, and burst into a fit of frenzied laughter.
The man in the mantle himself appeared alarmed at this burst of madness, and retreated a step or two from her.
"Ah! you shall not escape me thus," said the woman Tison, in despair, and retaining her hold of his mantle; "you shall not at one moment come and say to a mother, 'Do this, and I will rescue your child,' and afterward say, 'Perhaps.' Will you save her?"
"Yes."
"When?"
"The day she is conducted from the Conciergerie to the scaffold."
"But why wait—why not to-night? this evening—this moment, even?"
"Because I cannot do so."
"Ah! you know you cannot; you well know you cannot!" cried the woman Tison; "but as for me, I can."
"What can you do?"
"I can persecute the prisoner, as you call her; I can watch the queen, as you term her, aristocrat that you are! and I can enter the prison any hour of the day or night. All this will I do. And as to her escaping, we shall see. Yes, we shall very well see—since they will not save my daughter—if that woman will escape. Head for head. Do you like that? Madame Veto has been queen; that I know. Héloïse Tison is only a poor girl; that I know. But under the guillotine we are all equal."
[Pg 244]
"Well, be it so," said the man in the mantle. "But you perform your part, and I will fulfil mine."
"Swear!"
"I swear it."
"By what do you swear?"
"Anything you choose."
"Have you a daughter?"
"No."
"Well, then," said the woman, in a disappointed tone, "by what then will you swear?"
"Listen. I swear by God."
"Bah!" exclaimed the woman Tison, "you know very well they have demolished the old one, and have not yet decided on the new."
"I swear by the tomb of my father."
"Swear not by a tomb, for that is prophetic of evil. Oh, my God! my God! When I think that perhaps in three days I may swear by the tomb of my child also! My daughter! My poor Héloïse!" cried the woman Tison, frantically, till at the sound of her voice, raised to a shrill scream, several windows were opened.
At sight of the opened windows, another man, who seemed to detach himself from the wall, advanced toward the first.
"Nothing can be done with this woman," said the first; "she is mad."
"No; she is a mother," replied the other, and dragged his companion away.
When she saw them leaving her, the woman Tison seemed to come back to herself.
"Where are you going?" cried she. "Are you going to rescue Héloïse? Wait for me then; I will go with you. Wait for me; do wait for me!"
And the poor wretch followed them, screaming, till at[Pg 245] the corner of the nearest street, she lost sight of them altogether; and not knowing which way to turn, she remained for an instant undecided, looking on every side, when seeing in the silence and darkness of the night only a double symbol of death, she uttered a cry of horror and fell on the pavement without sense or motion.
The clock struck ten.
During this time, and while the same hour was resounding from the Temple clock, the queen as usual sat in her chamber, between her daughter and her sister, near a smoky lamp. She was concealed from the sight of the municipals by Madame Royale, who, pretending to embrace her, was reading over again a small billet written on the smallest piece of paper imaginable, and in characters so minute that her eyes, already nearly blinded by her scalding tears, scarcely retained strength to decipher it.
The billet contained the following lines,—
"To-morrow, Tuesday, ask permission to walk in the garden; this will be accorded without objection, as an order has been issued to grant you this favor whenever you think proper to solicit it. After two or three turns, feign to feel fatigued, approach the cabin, and ask the Widow Plumeau to allow you to sit down. Then, in a moment, pretend to feel worse, and faint away. They will then close all the doors that they may be able to render you assistance, and you will remain with Madame Elizabeth and Madame Royale. Immediately the trap-door of the cellar will open. Precipitate yourself, your sister, and daughter through this aperture, and you are all three saved."
"Mon Dieu!" said Madame Royale, "does our evil destiny tire in the pursuit?"
"If this billet should prove only a trap," said Madame Elizabeth.
[Pg 246]
"No, no," said the queen; "these characters have always indicated to me the presence of a mysterious but equally brave and faithful friend."
"Is it the Chevalier?" demanded Madame Royale.
"He himself," replied the queen.
Madame Elizabeth clasped her hands.
"Let us each read the billet again very softly," replied the queen, "so that if one of us forget any particular, another will remember."
They all three re-read the letter, and had just finished so doing, when they heard the door of their chamber turn slowly on its hinges. The two princesses turned round; the queen alone remained stationary, except that by an almost imperceptible movement she raised her hand to her hair and hid the billet in her head-dress. It was a municipal who opened the door.
"What is your business, Monsieur?" demanded Madame Elizabeth and Madame Royale, at the same moment.
"Hum!" said the municipal, "it appears to me that you retire very late to-night?"
"Is there, then," said the queen, with her usual dignity, "a new decree from the Commune, stating the hour at which I am to go to bed?"
"No, Citizen," said the municipal; "but if necessary they will make one."
"In the mean time, Monsieur," said Marie Antoinette, "respect, I do not say the chamber of a queen, but that of a woman."
"Truly," growled the municipal, "these aristocrats always speak as if they were something—"
But in the mean time, subdued by that dignity, haughty in her prosperity, but which three years of suffering had calmed down, he withdrew.
[Pg 247]
An instant afterward the lamp was extinguished, and the three females retired in darkness, as usual.
The next morning at nine o'clock, the queen, having re-read the letter before she arose, in order that she might not misconstrue any of the instructions contained there, tore it into almost invisible fragments. She then hastily finished her toilet, awoke her sister, and entered the chamber of the princess.
A minute afterward she came out, and called the municipals on guard.
"What do you want, Citizeness?" said one of them, appearing at the door, while the other did not even discontinue his breakfast to answer the royal appeal.
"Sir," said Marie Antoinette, "I have just left my daughter's chamber, and find her very ill. Her limbs are pained and swollen for want of exercise; and you know, sir, it is I who have doomed her to this life of inaction. I received permission to walk in the garden, but in descending I had necessarily to pass before the door of the room occupied by my husband in his lifetime. When I made the attempt my heart failed me, and I had not courage to do so, and have since limited my walks to the platform. Now, however, I find this exercise insufficient for my poor child. I therefore entreat you, Citizen Municipal, to request of General Santerre, in my name, the renewal of this privilege."
The queen had pronounced these words in a manner at once so mild, yet dignified; had so strenuously avoided all allusions to anything that could wound the feelings of the Republican,—that he who had entered her presence with his head covered, as for the most part was the custom of these men, gradually raised his red cap, and when she had finished, said, bowing respectfully,—
[Pg 248]
"Rest assured, Madame, your request shall be laid before the citizen general."
Then on retiring, as if to convince himself he had yielded to justice rather than weakness. "It is just," said he, "after all; it is only right."
"What is just?" demanded the other municipal.
"That this woman should be permitted to walk in the garden with her child, who is an invalid."
"Bah!" said the other, "when she asks to be allowed to walk from the Temple to the Place de la Révolution, that will be permitted her fast enough."
The queen heard these words, and grew pale, but still drew from them fresh courage for the great attempt she meditated.
The municipal finished his breakfast, and descended. The queen requested permission to take hers in her daughter's room, which was granted.
Madame Royale, to confirm the statement concerning her ill-health, did not quit her bed; the queen and Madame Elizabeth remained near her.
At eleven o'clock Santerre arrived. His coming was, as usual, announced by the drums beating the march, and by the entrance of a fresh battalion and other municipals, who came in their turn to relieve those on guard.
When Santerre had fully reviewed the battalion leaving, and the one about to take its place, and had paraded his large heavy-limbed horse round the court of the Temple, he stood still for a moment. This was for the purpose of receiving any claims, denunciations, or requests.
The municipal, availing himself of this halt, approached him.
"Well, what do you want?" said Santerre, bruskly.
[Pg 249]
"Citizen," said the municipal, "I come to entreat on the part of the queen—"
"Who is the queen?" interrupted Santerre.
"True!" said the municipal, astonished at his own mistake. "What have I said—I must be mad! I came to speak on the part of Madame Veto—"
"All in good time," said Santerre. "Now I understand you, what have you to say to me?"
"The young Veto is ill, it appears, from want of proper air and exercise."
"Well, is it necessary again to bring this before the public? The nation granted her permission to walk in the garden, and she refused it. Good-morning."
"That is exactly it. She regrets this now, and requests you will permit her to do so."
"There is no difficulty about that. You all hear," said Santerre, "that Capet's wife will come down to walk in the garden. Now," addressing the whole battalion, "take care she does not abuse this favor granted her by the nation, by making her escape over the wall; for if that happens I will cut off every one of your heads." A roar of laughter followed this pleasantry of the citizen general. "Now that is settled," said Santerre, "adieu. I am going to the Commune. It appears that they have reunited Roland and Barbaroux, and the question under debate is to deliver them a passport to another world."
It was this intelligence that had put the citizen general in such good humor.
He then galloped away.
The battalion who were removing the guard followed him; then the municipals also gave place to those who had received Santerre's instructions respecting the queen.
One of the municipals went up to Marie Antoinette[Pg 250] and informed her that the general had granted her request.
"Oh!" thought she, looking through the window toward heaven, "does thy wrath abate, Lord? and does thy terrible right hand grow weary of pressing so heavily upon us?"
"Thanks, Monsieur," said she to the municipal, with that fascinating smile which had proved the ruin of Barnave, and turned the heads of so many of his fellowmen,—"thanks!"
Then turning round to her little dog, who leaped after her, walking on his hind-legs, for he well understood from the looks of his mistress that something unusual was about to take place,—
"Come, Jet," said she, "we are going for a walk."
The little animal began to yelp and jump, and after looking at the municipal attentively, comprehending, no doubt, that from this man originated the intelligence which had made his mistress so happy, ran toward him, and wagging his long and silky tail, ventured even to caress him.
This man, who perhaps might be insensible to the prayers of a queen, could not resist the caresses of a little dog.
"If only on account of this little beast, you should go out more frequently, Citizeness Capet. Humanity commands us to take care of every creature."
"At what hour shall we go out, sir?" asked the queen. "Do you not think the sun would do us good?"
"You may go out when you please," said the municipal; "there has been no restriction on the subject. If you like to go out at mid-day, as that is the time they change the sentinels, there will be less bustle in the court."
[Pg 251]
"Then let it be at mid-day," said the queen, pressing her hand to her side to still the beating of her heart.
And she looked at this man, who appeared to her less stern than his associates, and who, perhaps, for kindly yielding to the wishes of the prisoner might fall a sacrifice to the conspiracy which they meditated.
But at the moment when compassion was stealing over the heart of the woman, the soul of the queen was aroused. She thought of the 10th of August and of the corpses of her faithful friends strewed upon the floors of the palace; she recalled to memory the 2d of September, and the head of the Princess Lamballe carried on a pike before her windows; she remembered the 21st of January when her husband died upon the scaffold, the noise of drums drowning his feeble voice; finally, she thought of her son, poor child! whose cries of distress had more than once reached her ears when she had no power to render him help,—and her heart became hardened.
"Alas!" cried she, "misfortune is like the blood of the ancient Hydras,—it teems with crops of future evils!"
[Pg 252]