Marie Antoinette and Her Son

by L. Mühlbach

CHAPTER XXIII.

THE SEPARATION.

Slowly and heavily the hours of the next day rolled on. Where was Toulan? Why did he not come? The queen waited for him the whole of that long, dreadful day in feverish expectation. She listened to every sound, to every approaching step, to every voice that echoed in the corridor. At noon Toulan had purposed to come to take his post as guard. At six, when the time of lighting the lamps should arrive, the disguises were to be put on. At seven the carefully and skilfully-planned flight was to be made.

The clock in the tower of the Temple had already struck four. Toulan had not yet come, and the guards of the day had not yet been relieved. They had had a little leisure at noon for dinner, and during the interim Simon and Tison were on guard, and had kept the queen on the rack with their mockery and their abusive words. In order to avoid the language and the looks of these men, she had fled into the children's room, to whom the princess, in her trustful calmness and unshaken equanimity, was assigning them lessons. Marie Antoinette wanted to find protection here from the dreadful anxiety that tortured her, as well as from the ribald jests and scurrility of her keepers. But Mistress Tison was there, standing near the glass window, gazing in with a malicious grin, and working in her wonted, quick way upon the long stocking, and knitting, knitting, so that you could hear the needles click together.

The queen could not give way to a word or a look. That would have created suspicion, and would, perhaps, have caused an examination to be made. She had to bear all in silence, she had to appear indifferent and calm; she had to give pleasant answers to the dauphin's innocent questions, and even compel a smile to her lips when the child, reading in her looks, by the instinct of love, her great excitement, tried to cheer her up with pleasant words.

It struck five, and still Toulan did not come. A chill crept over her heart, and in the horror which filled her she first became conscious how much love of life still survived in her, and how intensely she had hoped to find a possibility of escape.

Only one last hour of hope left! If it should strike six, and he should not come, all would be lost! The doors of her prison would be closed forever—never opening again excepting to allow Marie Antoinette to pass to the guillotine.

Mistress Tison had gone, and her cold, mocking face was no longer visible behind the glass door. The guards in the anteroom had also gone, and had closed the doors behind them. The queen was, therefore, safe from being watched at least! She could fall upon her knees, she could raise her hands to God and wrestle with Him in speechless prayer for pity and deliverance. She could call her children to herself, and press them to her heart, and whisper to them that they must be composed if they should see something strange, and not wonder if they should have to put on clothing that they were not accustomed to.

"Mamma," asked the dauphin, in a whisper, "are we going to Varennes again?"

The queen shuddered in her inmost soul at this question, and hid her quivering face on the faithful breast of the princess.

"Oh, sister, I am suffocating with anxiety," she said. "I feel that this hour is to decide the lives of us all, and it seems to me as if Death were already stretching out his cold hand toward me. We are lost, and my son, my unhappy son, will never wear any other than the martyr's crown, and—"

The queen was silent, for just then the tower-clock began to strike, slowly, peacefully, the hour of six! The critical moment! The lamplight must come now! If it were Toulan, they might be saved. Some unforeseen occurrence might have prevented his coming before; he might have borrowed the suit of the bribed lamplighter in order to come to them. There was hope still—one last, pale ray of hope!

Steps upon the corridor! Voices that are audible!

The queen, breathless, with both hands laid upon her heart, which was one instant still, and then beat with redoubled rapidity, listened with strained attention to the opening of the door of the anteroom. Princess Elizabeth approached her, and laid her hand on the queen's shoulder. The two children, terrified by some cause which they could not comprehend, clung to the hand and the body of their mother, and gazed anxiously at the door.

The steps came nearer, the voices became louder. The door of the anteroom is opened—and there is the lamp-lighter. But it is not Toulan—no, not Toulan! It is the man who comes every day, and the two children, are with him as usual.

A heavy sigh escaped from the lips of the queen, and, throwing her arms around the dauphin with a convulsive motion, she murmured:

"My son, oh, my dear son! May God take my life if He will but spare thine!"

Where was Toulan? Where had he been all this dreadful day? "Where was Fidele the brave, the indefatigable?

On the morning of the day appointed for the flight, he left his house, taking a solemn leave of his Marguerite. At this parting hour he told her for the first time that he was going to enter upon the great and exalted undertaking of freeing the queen and her children, or of dying for them. His true, brave young wife had suppressed her tears and her sighs to give him her blessing, and to tell him that she would pray for him, and that if he should perish in the service of the queen, she would die too, in order to be united with him above.

Toulan kissed the beaming eyes of his Marguerite with deep fooling, thanked her for her true-hearted resignation, and told her that he had never loved her so much as in this hour when he was leaving her to meet his death, it might be, in the service of another lady.

"At this hour of parting," he said, "I will give you the dearest and most sacred thing that I possess. Take this little gold smelling- bottle. The queen gave it to me, and upon the bit of paper that lies within it Marie Antoinette wrote with her own hand, 'Remembrancer for Fidele.'

Fiddle is the title of honor which my queen has given me for the little service which I have been able to do for her. I leave this little gift for you as that which, next to your love, is the most sacred and precious thing to me on earth. If I die, preserve it for our son, and give it to him on the day when he reaches his majority. Tell him of the time when I made this bequest to him, in the hope that he would make himself worthy of it, and live and die as a brave son of his country, a faithful subject and servant of his king, who, God willing, will be the son of Marie Antoinette. Tell him of his father; say to him that I dearly loved you and him, but that I had devoted my life to the service of the queen, and that I gave it freely and gladly, in conformity with my oath. I have not told you about these things before, dear Marguerite—not because I doubted your fidelity, but because I did not want you to have to bear the dreadful burden of expectation, and because I did not want to trouble your noble soul with these things. And now I only tell you this much: I am going away to try to save the queen. If I succeed, I shall come back for a moment this evening at ten o'clock. If I remain away, if you hear nothing from me during the whole night, then—"

"Then what?" asked Marguerite, throwing her arms around him, and looking into his face anxiously. "Say, what then?"

"Then I shall have died," he said, softly, "and our child will be an orphan! Do not weep, Marguerite! Be strong and brave, show a cheerful face to our neighbors, our friends, and the spies! But observe every thing! Listen to every thing! Keep the outer door open all the time, that I may be able to slip in at any moment. Have the little secret door in my room open too, and the passageway down into the cellar always free, that I may slip down there if need be. Be ready to receive me at any time, to hide me, and, it may possibly be, others who may come with me!"

"I shall expect you day and night," she whispered, "so long as I live!"

"And now, Marguerite," he said, pressing her tenderly to his heart, "one last kiss! Let me kiss your eyes, your beautiful dear eyes, which have always glanced with looks of love, and which have always given me new inspiration. Farewell, my dear wife, and God bless you for your love and fidelity!"

"Do not go, my precious one! Come once more to the cradle of our boy and give him a parting kiss!"

"No, Marguerite, that would unman me, and to-day I must be strong and master of myself. Farewell, I am going to the Temple!"

And, without looking at his wife again, he hurried out into the street, and turned his steps toward his destination. But just as he was turning the very next corner Lepitre met him, pale, and displaying great excitement in his face.

"Thank God!" he said, "thank God that I have found you. I wanted to hasten to you. We must flee directly—all is discovered. Immediate flight alone can save us!"

"What is discovered?" asked Toulan. "Speak, Lepitre, what is discovered?"

"For God's sake, let us not be standing here on the streets!" ejaculated Lepitre. "They have certainly sent out the constables to arrest us. Let us go into this house here, it contains a passage through to the next street. Now, listen! We are reported. Simon's wife has carried our names to the Committee of Public Safety as suspicious persons. Tison's wife has given out that the queen and her sister-in-law have won us both over, and that through our means she is kept informed about every thing that happens. The carpet- manufacturer, Arnault, has just been publicly denouncing us both, saying that Simon's wife has reported to him that we both have conducted conversation with the prisoners in low tones of voice, and have thereby been the means of conveying some kind of cheering information to the queen. [Footnote: Literally reproduced here.—See Concourt, "Histoire de Marie Antoinette," p. 290.] On that, our names were stricken from the list of official guards at the Temple, and we are excluded from the new ward committee that is forming to- day."

"And is that all?" asked Toulan, calmly. "Is that all the bad news that you bring? Then the projected flight is not discovered, is it? Nothing positive is known against us? Nothing more is known than the silly and unfounded denunciations of two old women?"

"For God's sake, do not use such idle words as these!" replied Lepitre. "We are suspected, our names are stricken from the ward list. Is not that itself a charge against us? And are not those who come under suspicion always condemned? Do not laugh, Toulan, and shake your head!

Believe me, we are lost if we do not flee; if we do not leave Paris on the spot and conceal ourselves somewhere. I am firmly resolved on this, and in an hour I shall have started, disguised as a sans- culotte. Follow my example, my friend. Do not throw away your life foolhardily. Follow me!"

"No," said Toulan, "I shall stay. I have sworn to devote my life to the service of the queen, and I shall fulfil my oath so long as breath remains in my body. I must not go away from here so long as there is a possibility of assisting her. If flight is impracticable to-day, it may be effected at some more favorable time, and I must hold myself in readiness for it."

"But they will take you, I tell you," said Lepitre, with a downcast air. "You will do no good to the queen, and only bring yourself to harm."

"Oh, nonsense! they will not catch me so soon," said Toulan, confidently. "Fortune always favors the bold, and I will show you that I am brave. Go, my friend, save yourself, and may God give you long life and a contented heart! Farewell, and be careful that they do not discover you!"

"You are angry with me, Toulan," said Lepitre. "You consider me cowardly. But I tell you, you are foolhardy, and your folly will plunge you into destruction."

"I am not angry with you, Lepitre, and you shall not be with me. Every one must do as best he can, and as his heart and his head dictate to him. One is not the better for this, and another the worse. Farewell, my friend! Take care for your own safety, for it is well that some faithful ones should still remain to serve the queen, and I know that you will serve her when she needs your help."

"Then give me your hand in parting, my friend. And if at last you come to the conclusion to flee, come to Normandy, and in the village of Lerne, near Dieppe, you will find me, and my father will receive you, and you shall be treated as if you were my brother."

"Thanks, my friend, thanks! One last shake of the hand. There! Now you are away, and I remain here."

Toulan went out into the street, walked along with a cheerful face, and repaired at once to the hall where the Committee of Safety were sitting.

"Citizens and brothers," he said, in aloud, bold voice, "I have just been informed that I have been brought under suspicion and denounced. Friends have warned me to betake to flight. But I am no coward, I have no bad conscience, and therefore do not fly, but come here and ask you is this true? Is it possible that you regard me as no patriot, and as a traitor?"

"Yes," answered President Hobart, with a harsh, hard voice, "you are under suspicion, and we mistrust you. This shameful seducer, this she-wolf Marie Antoinette has cast her foxy eyes upon you, and would doubtless succeed if you are often with her. We have therefore once for all taken your name from the list of the official guards in the Temple, and you will no longer be exposed to the wiles of the Austrian woman. But besides this, as the second denunciation has been made against you to-day, and as it is asserted that you are in relations with aristocrats and suspected persons, we have considered it expedient, in view of the common safety, to issue a warrant for your apprehension. An officer has just gone with two soldiers to your house, to arrest you and bring you hither. You have simply anticipated the course of law by surrendering yourself. Officer, soldiers, here!"

The persons summoned appeared, and put Toulan under arrest, preparatory to taking him to prison.

"It is well," said Toulan, with a noble calmness. "I know that the time will come when you will regret having so abused a true patriot; and I hope, for the peace of your consciences, that there will be a time then to undo the evil which you are doing to me to-day, and that my head will then be on my shoulders, that my lips may be able to testify to you what my heart now dictates, that I forgive you! You are in error about me, yet I know that you are acting not out of enmity to me, but for the weal of the country, and out of love for the great, united republic. As the true and tenderly loving son of this noble, exalted mother, I forgive you for giving ear to my unrighteous accusers, and, even if you shed my innocent blood, my dying wish will be a blessing on the republic."

"Those are noble and excellent words," said Hobart, coldly. "But if deeds speak in antagonism to words, we cannot let the latter beguile us out of our sense, but we must give heed to justice."

"That is the one only thing that I ask," cried Toulan, brightly. "Let justice be done, my brothers, and I shall very soon he free, and shall come out from an investigation like a spotless lamb. I make no resistance. Come, my friends, take me to prison! I only ask for permission to be escorted first to my house, to procure a few articles of clothing to use during my imprisonment. But I urge pressingly that my articles may be sealed up in my presence. For when the man of the house is not at home, it fares badly with the safety of his property, and I shall be able to feel at ease only when the seal of the republic is upon my possessions. I beg you therefore to allow my paper and valuables to be sealed in my presence. You will thus be sure that my wife and my friends have not removed any thing which might be used against me, and my innocence will shine out the more clearly. I beg you therefore to comply with my wish."

The members of the committee consulted with one another in low tones, and the chairman then announced to Toulan that his wish would be complied with, and that an escort of soldiers might accompany him to his house, to allow him to procure linen and clothing, and to seal his effects and papers in their presence.

Toulan thanked them with cheerful looks, and went out into the street between the two guards. As they were on the way to his house, he talked easily with them, laughed and joked; but in his own thoughts he said to himself, "You are lost! hopelessly lost, if you do not escape now. You are the prey of the guillotine, if the gates of the prison once close upon you; therefore escape, escape or die." While he was thus laughing and talking with the soldiers, and meanwhile thinking such solemn thoughts, his sharp black eyes were glancing in all directions, looking for a friend who might assist him out of his trouble. And fortune sent him such a friend!—Ricard, Ionian's most trusted counsellor, the abettor of his plans. Toulan called him with an animated face, and in loud tones told him that he had been denounced, and therefore arrested; and that he was only allowed to go to his house to procure some clothing.

"Come along, Ricard," he said. "They are going to put my effects under seal, and you have some papers and books on my writing-table. Come along, and take possession of your own things, so that they may not be sealed up as mine."

Ricard nodded assent, and a significant look told Toulan that his friend understood him, and that his meaning was, that Ricard should take possession of papers that might bring Toulan under suspicion. Continuing their walk, they spoke of indifferent matters, and at last reached Toulan's house. Marguerite met them with calm bearing. She knew that every cry, every expression of anxiety and trouble, would only imperil the condition of her husband, and her love gave her power to master herself.

"Ah! are you there, husband?" she said, with a smile, how hard to her no one knew. "You are bringing a great deal of company."

"Yes, Marguerite," said Toulan, with a smile, "and I am going to keep on with this pleasant company to prison."

"Oh!" she cried, laughing, "that is a good joke! Toulan, the best of patriots, in prison! Come, you ought not to joke about serious matters."

"It is no joke," said one of the guards, solemnly. "Citizen Toulan is arrested, and is here only to procure some articles of clothing, and have his effects put under seal."

"And to give back to his friend Ricard the books and papers that belong to him," said Toulan. "Come, let us go into my study, friends."

"There are my books and papers," cried Ricard, as they went into the next room. He sprang forward to the writing-table, seized all the papers lying upon it, and tried to thrust them into his coat-pocket. But the two soldiers checked him, and undertook to resist his movement. Ricard protested, a loud exchange of words took place—in which Marguerite had her share—insisting that all the papers on the table belonged to Ricard, and she should like to see the man who could have the impudence to prevent his taking them.

Louder and louder grew the contention; and when Ricard was endeavoring again to put the papers into his pocket, the two soldiers rushed at him to prevent it. Marguerite tried to come to his assistance, and in the effort, overthrew a little table which stood in the middle of the room, on which was a water-bottle and some glasses. The table came down, a rattle of broken glass followed, and amid the noise and outcries, the controversy and violence, no one paid attention to Toulan; no one saw the little secret door quietly open, and Toulan glide from view.

The soldiers did not notice this movement, but Marguerite and Ricard understood it well, and went on all the more eagerly with their cries and contentions, to give Toulan time to escape by the secret passage.

And they were successful. When the two guards had, after long searching, discovered the secret door through which the escape had been effected, and had rushed down the hidden stairway, not a trace of him was to be seen.

Toulan was free! Unhindered, he hastened to the little attic, which he had, some time before, hired in the house adjacent to the Temple, put on a suit of clothes which he had prepared there, and remained concealed the whole day.

As Marie Antoinette lay sleepless upon her bed in the night that followed this vain attempt at flight, and was torturing herself with anxious doubts whether Fidele had fallen a victim to his devotion, suddenly the tones of a huntsman's horn broke the silence; Marie Antoinette raised herself up and listened. Princess Elizabeth had done the same; and with suspended breath they both listened to the long-drawn and plaintive tones which softly floated in to them on the wings of the night. A smile of satisfaction flitted over their pale, sad faces, and a deep sigh escaped from their heavy hearts.

"Thank God! he is saved," whispered Marie Antoinette.

"Is not that the melody that was to tell us that our friend is in the neighborhood?"

"Yes, sister, that is the one! So long as we hear this signal, we shall know that Toulan is living still, and that he is near us."

And in the following weeks the prisoners of the Temple often had the sad consolation of hearing the tones of Toulan's horn; but he never came to them again, he never appeared in the anteroom to keep guard over the imprisoned queen. Toulan did not flee! He had the courage to remain in Paris; he was constantly hoping that an occasion might arise to help the queen escape; he was constantly putting himself in connection with friends for this object, and making plans for the flight of the royal captives.

But exactly what Toulan hoped for stood as a threatening phantom before the eyes of the Convention—the flight of the prisoners in the Temple. They feared the queen even behind those thick walls, behind the four iron doors that closed upon her prison! They feared still more this poor child of seven years, this little king without crown and without throne, the son of him who had been executed. The Committee of Safety knew that people were talking about the little king in the Temple, and that touching anecdotes about him were in circulation. A bold, reckless fellow had appeared who called himself a prophet, and had loudly announced upon the streets and squares, that the lilies would bloom again, and that the sons of Brutus would fall beneath the hand of the little king whose throne was in the Temple. They had, it is true, arrested the prophet and dragged him to the guillotine, but his prophecies had found an echo here and there, and an interest in the little prince had been awakened in the people. The noble and enthusiastic men known as the Girondists were deeply solicitous about the young royal martyr, and the application of this expression to the little dauphin, made in the earnest and impassioned speeches before the Convention, melted all hearers to tears and called out a deep sympathy.

The Convention saw the danger, and at once resolved to be free from it. On the 1st of July 1793, that body issued a decree with the following purport: "The Committee of Public Safety ordains that the son of Capet be separated from his mother, and be delivered to an instructor, whom the general director of the communes shall appoint."

The queen had no suspicion of this. Now that Toulan was no longer there, no news came to her of what transpired beyond the prison, and Fidele's horn-signals were the only sounds of the outer world that reached her ear.

The evening of the 3d of July had come. The little prince had gone to bed, and had already sunk into a deep sleep. His bed had no curtains, but Marie Antoinette had with careful hands fastened a shawl to the wall, and spread it out over the bed in such a manner that the glare of the light did not fall upon the closed eyes of the child and disturb him in his peaceful slumbers. It was ten o'clock in the evening, and the ladies had that day waited unwontedly long before going to bed. The queen and Princess Elizabeth were busied in mending the clothing of the family, and Princess Theresa, sitting between the two, had been reading to them some chapters out of the Historical Dictionary. At the wish of the queen, she had now taken a religious book, Passion Week, and was reading some hymns and prayers out of it.

Suddenly, the quick steps of several men were heard in the corridor. The bolts flew back, the doors were opened, and six officials came in.

"We are come," cried one of them, with a brutal voice, "to announce to you the order of the committee, that the son of Capet be separated from his mother and his family."

At these words the queen rose, pale with horror "They are going to take my child from me!" she cried. "No, no, that is not possible. Gentlemen, the authorities cannot think of separating me from my son. He is still so young and weak, he needs my care."

"The committee has come to this determination," answered the official, "the Convention has confirmed it, and we shall carry it into execution directly."

"I cannot allow it," cried Marie Antoinette in desperation. "In the name of Heaven, I conjure you not to be so cruel!"

Elizabeth and Theresa mingled their tears with those of the mother. All three had placed themselves before the bed of the dauphin; they clung to it, they folded their hands, they sobbed; the most touching cries, the most humble prayers trembled on their lips, but the guards were not at all moved.

"What is all this whining for?" they said. "No one is going to kill your child; give him to us of your own free will, or we shall have to take him by force."

They strode up to the bed. Marie Antoinette placed herself with extended arms before it, and held the curtain firmly; it however detached itself from the wall and fell upon the face of the dauphin. He awoke, saw what was going on, and threw himself with loud shrieks into the arms of the queen. "Mamma, dear Mamma, do not leave me!" She pressed him trembling to her bosom, quieted him, and defended him against the cruel hands that were reached out for him.

In vain, all in vain! The men of the republic have no compassion on the grief of a mother! "By free will or by force he must go with us."

"Then promise me at least that he shall remain in the tower of the
Temple, that I may see him every day."

"We have nothing to promise you, we have no account at all to give you. Parbleu, how can you take on and howl so, merely because your child is taken from you? Our children have to do more than that. They have every day to have their heads split open with the balls of the enemies that you have set upon them."

"My son is still too young to be able to serve his country," said the queen, gently, "but I hope that if God permits it, he will some day be proud to devote his life to Him."

Meanwhile the two princesses, urged on by the officials, had clothed the gasping, sobbing boy. The queen now saw that no more hope remained. She sank upon a chair, and summoning all her strength, she called the dauphin to herself, laid her hands upon his shoulders, and pale, immovable, with widely-opened eyes, whose burning lids were cooled by no tear, she gazed upon the quivering face of the boy, who had fixed his great blue eyes, swimming with tears, upon the countenance of his mother.

"My child," said the queen, solemnly, "we must part. Remember your duties when I am no more with you to remind you of them. Never forget the good God who is proving you, and your mother who is praying for you. Be good and patient, and your Father in heaven will bless you."

She bent over, and with her cold lips pressed a kiss upon the forehead of her son, then gently pushed him toward the turnkey. But the boy sprang back to her again, clung to her with his arms, and would not go.

"My son, we must obey. God wills it so." A loud, savage laugh was heard. Shuddering, the queen turned around. There at the open door stood Simon, and with him his wife, their hard features turned maliciously toward the pale queen. The woman stretched out her brown, bare arms to the child, grasped him, and pushed him before her to the door.

"Is she to have him?" shrieked Marie Antoinette. "Is my son to remain with this woman?"

"Yes," said Simon, with a grinning smile, as he put himself, with his arms akimbo, before the queen—" yes, with this woman and with me, her husband, little Capet is to remain, and I tell you he shall receive a royal education. We shall teach him to forget the past, and only to remember that he is a child of the one and indivisible republic. If he does not come to it, he must be brought to it, and my old cobbler's straps will be good helpers in this matter."

He nodded at Marie Antoinette with a fiendish smile, and then followed the officials, who had already gone out. The doors were closed again, the bolts drawn, and within the chamber reigned the stillness of death. The two women put their arms around one another, kneeled upon the floor and prayed.

From this day on, Marie Antoinette had no hope more; her heart was broken. Whole days long she sat fixed and immovable, without paying any regard to the tender words of her sister-in-law and the caresses of her daughter, without working, reading, or busying herself in any way. Formerly she had helped to put the rooms in order, and mend the clothes and linen; now she let the two princesses do this alone and serve her.

Only for a few hours each day did her countenance lighten at all, and the power of motion return to this pale, marble figure. Those were the hours when she waited for her son, as he went with Simon every day to the upper story and the platform of the tower. She would then put her head to the door and listen to every step and all the words that he directed to the turnkey as he passed by.

Soon she discovered a means of seeing him. There was a little crack on the floor of the platform on which the boy walked. The world revolved for the queen only around this little crack, and the instant in which she could see her boy.

At times, too, a compassionate guard who had to inspect the prison brought her tidings of her son, told her that he was well, that he had learned to play ball, and that by his friendly nature he won every one's love. Then Marie Antoinette's countenance would lighten, a smile would play over her features and linger on her pale lips as long as they were speaking of her boy. But oh! soon there came other tidings about the unhappy child. His wailing tones, Simon's threats, and his wife's abusive words penetrated even the queen's apartments, and filled her with the anguish of despair. And yet it was not the worst to hear him cry, and to know that the son of the queen was treated ill; it was still more dreadful to hear him sing with a loud voice, accompanied by the laugh and the bravoes of Simon and his wife, revolutionary and obscene songs—to know that not only his body but his soul was doomed to destruction.

At first the queen, on hearing these dreadful songs, broke out into lamentations, cries, and loud threats against those who were destroying the soul of her child. Then a gradual paralysis crept over her heart, and when, on the 3d of August, she was taken from the Temple to the prison, the pale lips of the queen merely whispered,

"Thank God, I shall not have to hear him sing any more!"