THE OLD MONSIEUR’S STORY.
“Lieutenant, they want I should ask you for a story.”
“They” are the dozen or more of lads and lasses who, in the pleasant summer twilights, have frequently been seen, as now, gathered before the house where the blind soldier lives. The sparrows soon learn to know that door or window where they are welcome, and where crumbs are scattered for them. They flock about it, fearless, chirping cheerily, and make themselves at home there. Thus these stone steps leading up to the porch have become a favorite resort of the youngsters of the neighborhood; for here they may meet unmolested, and chatter and laugh to their hearts’ content; here crumbs, in the shape of stories, are now and then thrown out for bait; and partly they may be drawn hither by the presence of the amused listener to their random talk; tacitly understanding that to him, who is denied the sight of their bright young faces, the sound of their clear young voices is doubly sweet. But he is not the only one who is entertained. Sometimes one of his older friends will join the merry group—often the venerable Frenchman who resides across the street. It so happens that he approaches just now, as Harry is making that time-worn request—“a story”; and the other says, “I think that is Monsieur, coming? Perhaps he will tell us one.”
“Yes, now, grandpapa,” coaxes Marie, “tell us about Gabrielle.”
“Bien,” and he accepts the proffered arm-chair; “I will tell, then, the story of Gabrielle.
“Without doubt, my dear children, some of you have heard of that event in the history of France which is termed the Revolution? I do not speak of those more recent troubles which have distracted my native land, but of that memorable Revolution which blackened the closing years of the last century—a period at which you gaze as upon a sky filled with the darkness of clouds, and the threatening thunder, and the fierce lightning-flashes.
“Ah, my children, you are happy to be of a nation which has not that wild and horrible dream to remember. And here I will say to you, I, that you are truly fortunate to live in a land most free, where there is less of oppression than in any other; where one can say what he will, do what he will. If but he keep the laws he is secure. He may be of whatever party he chooses. Nobody is going to harm him. He may, if so ill-disposed, say whatever désagréables he please of those who believe not as he. He will not be obliged to fly and to take refuge among strangers, as I myself, long time ago, for that, in company with others, I preferred a king to an emperor, and was not sufficiently secret about it. Deserving, indeed, of gratitude are they who, defending this beautiful country, have preserved to it peace and freedom.
“Alas! if poor France had not been for so long burdened with oppressions, this Revolution could not have occurred. That was the reaction, the recoil. Let me illustrate. I will remove from my pocket-book this band elastic which confines it. I stretch it with my two hands to its full length. With one hand I release it. It flies back. Ugh! it makes me wince. (That is a very homely illustration, is it not?) Now for a long time the nations of Europe had been engaged in wars in which France took a leading part. It requires money to conduct wars. To procure it the people are taxed. Also, there was no court so gay and luxurious as that of France. To support this luxury and splendor required money. Still again taxes. When taxes are great the cost of living is increased. Thus while there was feasting and revelry in palaces, in hovels there was famine and misery. The little ones moaned and sobbed for bread, and there was no bread to give them. The people were full of wrath at this state of affairs. Force was required to keep them in subjection. Now there came to the throne a good and merciful king, who in peaceful times would have been much revered. But, in this situation, great wisdom as well as justice was needful. From his unsteady grasp the reins of government slipped, as you have seen the elastic slip from mine. Behold the recoil—most terrible!—which destroyed the king, the queen, and all who believed in the royalist cause. The people who had so long suffered might now take revenge. They who had yearned for liberty were filled with hope. Their land was to be free, like that one beyond the ocean.
“Alas! the despotism which had been called a monarchy was succeeded by a despotism far worse, which was called a republic. This was truly the Reign of Terror. The guillotine was never idle. ‘Madame Guillotine,’ it was entitled—that deadly machine invented for those days, when victims were so numerous it was necessary that they be dispatched in the swiftest manner possible. This cruel slaughter was chiefly confined to the metropolis, to Paris, until here a province and there a city, disapproving of their deeds, refused submission to the party in power—the Jacobins. Armies were sent to subdue them. The city of Lyons made the resistance most notable. Thousands of royalists, fleeing for their lives, had taken shelter there, and were zealous in the defense. They hoped by this resistance to inspire other towns, and perhaps all France, to arise and check the course of this Revolution—this monster, ever thirsting for blood. Alas! it was impossible. Besieged by the republican troops, all supplies prevented, for lack of food and ammunition the city was at length obliged to surrender, after a brave and desperate struggle. For any who had taken up arms against the republic there was now no safety but in flight. Flight was nearly useless. They were pursued, captured. The country was searched for leagues around. Within the city, paid informers were everywhere seeking whom they might report as guilty. For the head of a priest or noble the price was doubled. The prisons were filled, crowded. Madame Guillotine could not work sufficiently fast. The Reign of Terror had now begun in Lyons also.
“I must not pain you, dear children, with a recital of the horrors of those days.