TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE

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Many minor changes to the text are noted at the [end of the book.]

LOVE AND LIBERTY.

A THRILLING

NARRATIVE OF THE FRENCH REVOLUTION OF 1792.

BY

ALEXANDER DUMAS.

AUTHOR OF “THE COUNT OF MONTE CRISTO,” “THE THREE GUARDSMEN,” “TWENTY
YEARS AFTER,” “BRAGELONNE; THE SON OF ATHOS,” “THE CHEVALIER,”
“THE MEMOIRS OF A PHYSICIAN,” “ADVENTURES OF A MARQUIS,” “CAMILLE;
OR, THE FATE OF A COQUETTE,” “FORTY-FIVE GUARDSMEN,” “LOUISE
LA VALLIERE,” “COUNTESS OF CHARNY,” “QUEEN’S NECKLACE,”
“THE IRON HAND,” “THE IRON MASK,” “ANDRE DE TAVERNEY,”
“EDMOND DANTES,” “SIX YEARS LATER,” ETC., ETC., ETC.

“March on! march on! Oh children of the land,

The day, the hour of glory, is at hand!”

PHILADELPHIA:

T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS;

306 CHESTNUT STREET.

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1869, by

T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS,

In the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the United States,
in and for the Eastern District of Pennsylvania.

ALEXANDER DUMAS’ GREAT WORKS.

Above books are for sale by all Booksellers. Copies of any or all of the above books will be sent to any one, to any place, postage pre-paid, on receipt of their price by the Publishers,

T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS,
306 Chestnut Street, Philadelphia, Pa.

CONTENTS.

Prologue.

LOVE AND LIBERTY.

Prologue.

CHAPTER I.
HOW M. DUMAS CAME TO WRITE THESE MEMOIRS.

Of all the remarkably interesting events connected with the French Revolution, perhaps the one most worthy of notice is the flight of Louis XVI, and his capture at Varennes.

At the time when I determined to take the trip of which I will give you some details, and which put me in possession of the memoirs I am about to publish—that is to say, about the 19th of June, 1856—I had read almost all that had been written concerning the above-mentioned flight.

I wish to start from Châlons, because from the fact of the King being recognized there, came the train of events which ended at Varennes on the evening of his arrest.

The capture of Louis at Varennes was the culminating point of royalty. For although it took seven hundred and four years to arrive at Varennes, it took but nineteen months to descend from Varennes to the Place de la Revolution.

It is not because the heads of three persons, who were in the carriage that took royalty to the precipice, fell on the scaffold, that we mark out the event as the greatest in the French Revolution, and, indeed, in the whole history of France. No! It is because the arrest of the King in the little town of Varennes, unknown on the 22nd of June, and on the morrow fatally immortalized, was the source of the political convulsions which have since occurred.

My resolution to go to Varennes once taken, I started from Paris on the 19th of June, 1856, and on the 20th of the same month, at one o’clock next morning, I arrived at Châlons.

I was, as you know, in search of details actually seen by eye-witnesses. I soon discovered two old men who could give me the necessary information. One was a Monsieur Ricaise, at Châlons—one of the postilions who drove the King; the other, Monsieur Mathieu, notary, at St. Menehould, who had seen the horses changed at the moment that Drouet recognized the King.

But it was especially necessary to discover some one at Varennes who remembered some incidents connected with the affair; because at Varennes occurred the most dramatic part of the whole catastrophe.

I first asked a keeper of the records whether he knew any one who had seen the King, and assisted to arrest him?

He mentioned Colonel Réné Besson.

I asked him to give me his address.

“I will do better,” said he,—“I will take you to him.”

At the very moment that we entered by the Rue de l’Horloge, that place where Louis XVI was arrested, which, singularly enough, has the shape of the axe of the guillotine, my guide put his hand on my shoulder.

“Eh!” said he; “here is the very man we want.”

And he showed me, at the corner of the Place Latry and the Rue de la Basse, a fine old man, warming himself in the rays of the sun, and sitting in a large arm-chair before his door.

It was Colonel Réné Besson.

We drew near to him.

Imagining that we had some business with him, he arranged himself more comfortably in his chair, and waited an explanation.

“Ah, ah! is it you, Monsieur Leduc?” said he.

“Yes, Colonel, it is I; and in good company, too, as you may see,” my companion replied.

“Colonel, I call on you in right of being the son of one of your old companions in arms; for you took a part in the Egyptian campaign, under General Desaix?”

“Yes, sir, I did,” answered he.

“The fact of being the son of an old companion in arms,” I continued, “and of bearing the name of the conqueror of Murad Bey, induced me to take the liberty of calling on you, and asking for information on certain points. To commence. Were you at the battle of Valmy?”

“I was with my regiment six days before, on the 2nd of September; and I just missed leaving my bones at La Force, in trying to rescue a woman—a princess, I should say.”

“The Princess Lamballe?”

“Exactly so.”

“At this period, I was living then, in the Rue Saint Honoré with the carpenter, Duplay.”

“You have seen Robespierre, then?”

“Just as I have you. It was I who made the table on which he wrote the greater part of his speeches.”

“And Danton?”

“Danton? It was he who enrolled me on the 2nd of September. But I knew Danton, as you say, and Camilles Desmoulins, Saint Just, and afterwards, later on, the Duke D’Enghien, and even Marshal Ney.”

“You have seen the Duke D’Enghien?”

“I was secretary to the Minister of War who sentenced him.”

“And also Marshal Ney?”

“It was he who made me lieutenant-colonel in the retreat from Moscow.”

“I will never leave you, Colonel; I will be your secretary, and we will write your memoirs.”

“You are too late,” said he, laughing; “my memoirs are already three-fourths finished.”

“What? Do you mean to say you have written——”

“Oh, simply to amuse myself: and there is my secretary. Hush!”

At this moment the door opened, and a beautiful girl of seventeen or eighteen came towards us.

“Is that your secretary?” I asked.

“Yes; Marie, my dear little granddaughter. Bow to Monsieur. You ought to, after the sleepless nights you have passed through thinking of him.”

“I?” said the girl, blushing. “I do not know the gentleman!”

“But you know ‘Monte Christo’ and the ‘Three Musketeers?’”

“Monsieur Dumas! Is it possible?” cried she.

“Yes, Monsieur Dumas. You see that you know him.”

“Oh, sir, I am so glad to see you!”

“You will be my accomplice, then, against the Colonel?”

“Against my grandfather?”

“Yes. He has written some memoirs.”

“I know that. It is I who write from his dictation.”

“Ah! they are worth reading.”

“Oh, grandpapa, Monsieur Dumas says that your memoirs are worth reading!”

“If he wishes to read them, I shall not hinder him,” said the Colonel.

“Will you really permit me, sir?”

“If I refused you, I should be attaching too much importance to them.”

“Colonel, I am like the gamin of Paris of Monsieur Vanderburch—I should like to embrace you.”

“Embrace my secretary; that will give more pleasure to both of you.”

I looked at Marie and she blushed as red as a cherry.

“Mademoiselle!” I said, imploringly.

She held up her cheeks to me.

I took her hands in mine, and looked at her intently.

“Has Mademoiselle,” I asked the Colonel, “a page in your memoirs?”

“The last—a white page. But Marie has something to tell me. What is it, my child?”

“That supper is ready, grandpapa.”

“You hear. Have you an appetite?”

“Unfortunately, I have just dined.”

“I should have liked to clink glasses with you.”

“Will you allow me to breakfast with you to-morrow, instead? You see, I am taking a liberty with you already. Mademoiselle can give me the memoirs this evening. I will read them to-night, and return them to-morrow.”

“What! read them to-night? How many pages are there, Marie?”

“Seven or eight hundred, grandfather,” replied the young girl.

“Seven or eight hundred pages! If you will permit me, I will copy them.”

Well, the Colonel allowed me to copy from his manuscript all that had reference to the arrest of the King at Varennes; and when he died, left me sole possessor of his memoirs.

Colonel Réné Besson has been gathered to his fathers three months since, at the good old age of eighty-seven. He died, on a beautiful sunlit afternoon, when the mellow tints of autumn were melting into the snowy wreaths of winter. Peace be with him.

Eight days after his death, I received the manuscript, with a letter from Marie, who has become one of the most charming girls I ever met with.

The manuscript I now publish, is that of Colonel Réné de Besson; and I give it the title that was chosen by him.

(Signed) Alexandre Dumas.

A MAN OF THE PEOPLE.

(RENE BESSON.)

CHAPTER I.
CONCERNING HIS PARENTAGE AND EARLY YOUTH.

I was born in the village of Islettes, on the banks of a little river called the Biesme, in the Forest of Argonne, situated between St. Menehould and Clermont, on the 14th of July, in the year 1775.

I never had the happiness to experience a mother’s love; she survived but a few days after my birth. My father, who was a poor carpenter, out-stayed her loss but five years.

At five years of age, therefore, I was an orphan, without a friend in the world.

I am wrong and ungrateful to say that. I had one—my uncle, my mother’s brother, who had the post of keeper in the Forest of Argonne. His wife, on my mother’s death, supplied her place; and he, on the death of my father, found me bread.

My father died so poor, that all had to be sold to pay his little debts, with the exception of his box of carpenter’s tools, which had been taken to Father Descharmes (that was my uncle’s name), and placed out of sight in a little room belonging to me.

The Forest of Argonne was Government property, and was preserved for the pleasure of the nobles attendant on the Court; but that did not hinder the young people of the environs from coming secretly with the keepers, to enjoy a little sport with the deer and the hares.

There was one, who took part in these hunting parties, whom I knew well—Jean Baptiste Drouet, son of a postmaster at St. Menehould; also William, a friend of his; and one Billaut, who afterwards took the name of his native place, and called himself Billaut Varennes.

All three were to acquire a certain celebrity in the middle of those revolutionary movements, still hidden in the future.

Certain young noblemen, by very special favor received privileges of game denied to the outer world.

Amongst the number of those young nobles, was M. de Dampierre, the Count de Mannes, and the Viscount de Malmy.

The former was at this time a man of about forty-five years, the latter not over twenty.

I select these out of the number, because they will play leading parts in the events I am about to describe.

Even when I was quite a child, I learned the difference that subsisted in their characters.

Every now and then, on hearing that a herd of wild boars had been seen in the forest, or that the snowstorm had driven out the wolves, a courier would arrive from Paris, and announce “The gentlemen of the Court.”

Then it was that the fun took place.

If it were summer, a tent was pitched, in which the gentlemen took their meals.

If it were winter, they stopped at St. Menehould, and put up at the “Hotel de Metz,” making a rendezvous with the keepers at daybreak at a likely spot for wild boars or wolves. When there, the dogs were unleashed, and the sport commenced.

When they went, away, they would leave twenty or twenty-five louis to be divided among the keepers.

In general, these nobles of the Court were exceedingly polite towards the underlings. Twice the Prince de Condé and his son, the Duke D’Enghien came.

On such occasions, being, as it were, high holiday, I would follow the sportsmen. Once when the Duke D’Enghien lost his way, I put him right, and he offered me a louis. I refused it. (I was only nine years old.)

He looked at me with astonishment, and asked my name.

“Réné Besson. I am the nephew of Father Descharmes,” I replied.

“Good, my boy,” said he; “I won’t forget thee!”

Two years afterwards the Prince came back. I was then eleven, and thought that he must have lost all remembrance of me.

But he had not; and he came to me.

“Ah, art thou not Réné Besson?” he said. “Nephew of Father Descharmes?”

“Yes, Prince.”

“Then here is something for thee,” said he, giving me a gun. “And this is for thy uncle,” he continued, handing me a folded paper.

This paper contained the appointment of my uncle to the vacant post of chief huntsman.

As for the gun, it was a beautiful weapon, and I have carefully kept it through my career, in memory of the unfortunate Prince who gave it.

In the meantime I was growing up. I had learned to read and write indifferently well; and whilst my uncle was busy in his vocation, I used to occupy myself with carpentry, a calling for which I evinced much aptitude and taste.

I was now twelve years of age. I knew every inch of the Forest of Argonne, and I was as good a shot as any of the keepers, and my sole ambition was to take my uncle’s place when he resigned, which he intended to do in four or five years.

There was a place, however, left vacant by the resignation of a keeper, which I thought would just suit me for the time; and I determined to solicit the patronage of the Duke D’Enghien.

Time passed on, and we arrived at the opening of the year 1788.

For five years we had not seen M. Drouet, for, after a quarrel with his father, he had enlisted in the Queen’s Dragoons.

One fine morning, however, we heard from his friend William that Father Drouet had become reconciled to him, and had resigned to him his situation of postmaster.

One day, we saw a dragoon stop in front of our house, get off his horse, fasten his bridle to a ring, and then come tramping up to the door.

“Well, Father Descharmes,” said the soldier, “haven’t you a glass of wine in the house for an old friend?”

My uncle looked at him amazed.

“Ah!” said I; “don’t you recognize him, uncle? It is Monsieur Jean Baptiste.”

“Well, I never—so it is!” cried my uncle, coming forward with outstretched hands.

But, stopping for a moment, he added, “I beg your pardon, Monsieur Drouet.”

“Pardon for what?—for remembering a friend? The fault would have been to forget him. Come, shake hands. Are not all Frenchmen brothers?”

“They are; but, at the same time, there are great and small.”

“Good! but, in two or three years, I will say to you, ‘There are neither great nor small. All are children of one mother, and all will have their rights before man, as before heaven.’”

“Ha! Is that the sort of schooling they give you in the Queen’s Dragoons, Monsieur Jean Baptiste?”

“Not only in the Queen’s Dragoons, but in all other regiments, old Nimrod.”

My uncle took three glasses from the cupboard, filled two, and half-filled the other for me.

Drouet took up his glass.

“To the nation!” said he.

“What is that word?” inquired my uncle.

“It is a new one, which I hope will yet gain the rights of the middle classes. That youngster there; what are you going to do with him?”

“Make him my successor.”

Drouet shook his head.

“My good old Descharmes!” said he, “you belong to the past. Better far an independent and honorable position for a man, than to wear a livery which, no matter how gay it is, puts you at the mercy of the first whippersnapper that comes. I thought Réné was a carpenter?”

“So I am, Monsieur Jean Baptiste; but I only play at joiner work.”

“Nay, look you here!” said my uncle, proud to be able to show some of my handiwork. “Here is a wardrobe the youngster has made.”

Drouet went forward, and examined the construction in question with more interest than it deserved.

“Good—very good!” he said. “Go on as you are doing, my boy; and, believe me, it is far better to work for the public, than to be a game-keeper dependent on a prince, liable to be turned away should a wild boar make an unforeseen bolt, or a wolf force the line of beaters.”

“But,” answered I, “you must know that I have a gun, Monsieur Jean Baptiste; and a gun, too, given me by the Duke D’Enghien.”

And saying this, I showed him the cherished weapon, with as much pride as my uncle had displayed in exhibiting my efforts at wardrobe making.

“A pretty gun,” he said, looking at it attentively; “and I see that it bears the royal mark. If you take my advice, you will not hesitate between the plane which your father left you, and a gun which a prince gave you. The carpenter’s plane is the bread-winner that the philosopher of Geneva put into the hands of his favorite pupil; and ever since the day that ‘Emile’ appeared, the plane has been ennobled.”

“What is ‘Emile,’ Monsieur Jean Baptiste?” I asked.

“It is the work of one who teaches that all men are citizens together, and that all citizens are brothers. Keep your gun, Réné, to preserve your country; but also keep your plane to preserve your independence. Be a carpenter to the people at large, my boy; but be no one’s servant, not even if he be a prince. The first opportunity I have, I will send you ‘Emile’ to read.”

So saying, and squeezing the hand of his old friend, M. Jean Baptiste remounted his horse. As I held his stirrup he lifted me gently to his saddle bow, and placed his hand on my head.

“Réné Besson,” he said, with dignity, “in the name of that grand future of liberty, with which France is even now in travail, I baptize thee citizen.”

Then relinquishing me, and striking his spurs into his horse, he disappeared down the forest.

Next day a messenger came from M. Jean Baptiste Drouet, who, faithful to his promise of the night before, sent me a little book, with these words written on the first page—

“To the Citizen Réné Besson, carpenter.”

The little book in question was “Emile.”

CHAPTER II.
THE FIRST SEEDS OF A POLITICAL FAITH.

When I came to examine the book which M. Jean Baptiste had sent me, and the title of which was “Emile, or Education,” I sought out the chapter which had direct reference to my own case.

In the course of my search I came across the following paragraph:—

“It is my positive desire that Emilie should learn a trade. An honest one, at least, you will perhaps say. What means that? Every calling useful to the public is an honest one, is it not? I don’t wish particularly that he should be a carver and gilder, neither do I particularly care that he should be an actor, or a musician. Still, let him adopt any one of those professions, or others resembling them, that he may fancy. I do not wish to fetter his will in anything, only I would rather he was a shoemaker than a poet, and would much prefer him to earn his livelihood by paving-stones than by porcelain.”

I read over and over again, the paragraph which opened up this train of thought; and at last, I understood it.

Let no one be astonished that my intelligence was so slow. Taken up as I was until I had reached at this time, my fourteenth year, with the usual jog-trot of rustic occupations, my mind had remained in a sort of twilight.

I continued my reading.

“The needle and the sword can never be wielded by the same hand. If I were a king, I would only permit the ell, the wand, and the shears, to women, and to maimed men, equally feeble with the weaker sex. I would forbid callings against health, but not those which are simply laborious, or even dangerous, for those demand at once both strength and courage. Everything considered, the trade which I should like a pupil of mine to adopt of himself would be that of a carpenter.”

“Ah,” said I, “what a good fellow this Monsieur Rosseau is! How I do like him!”

I tackled to my book again.

“Touching a carpenter’s trade, it is a tidy calling: it is useful; you can follow it in the house; it requires both skill and industry; whilst the exercise of taste is not excluded from the articles it turns out.”

So, then, I was precisely in the state recommended by the author of “Emile.”

Not only that, but I did not even require to learn the trade he praised; I knew it already. I read on as follows:—

“Of all states and conditions of life, the most independent is that of a mechanic. A mechanic is dependent upon his work only; he is just so much free as an agricultural laborer is a slave; for the latter can only prepare the field, and leave the product thereof to fate. A foe—a powerful neighbor—a law-suit, can deprive him of his field; in fact, that very field can be made to vex him in a thousand different ways. But, if fate disturbs a mechanic, he gathers his tools together, and, carrying his sturdy arms with him, away he goes.”

At this point, I looked at my own arms, already muscular and well-developed, and I swung them in the air with pride. Evidently the man was right who wrote those lines.

I uttered a cry of joy; and rushing into my little workshop, I hugged severally to my bosom my hammers, my planes, and my chisels. Then, strong with a new strength, I felt irresistibly impelled to rush off at once, and thank M. Jean Baptiste Drouet for lending me the precious book. St. Menehould was exactly three miles away, and it was only eleven o’clock in the morning. I could easily be home again by five or six, and my good uncle would not make himself uneasy at my absence. Besides, I was quite sure that he would approve of my errand.

CHAPTER III.
A STRANGER OF INFLUENCE TURNS UP.

Out I set at once, taking my book with me, to read on the way; and so interesting did I find the adventures of “Emile,” that I found myself near my friend’s house actually without being aware of it.

In the distance I could see M. Jean Baptiste superintending some postilions, who were putting fresh horses to a carriage. He was standing on the threshold of his door.

Running up in a state of great excitement, I cried out, “Monsieur Jean Baptiste, it’s I!”

“Well,” he said, laughing; “I am quite aware of the fact. What do you want, my boy?”

“What do I want? Oh, I want to thank you, and to tell you that I will never be a keeper. The only calling worth following is that of a carpenter, and I mean to be one, Monsieur Drouet.”

The carriage went off.

“So you have been reading ‘Emile?’” he asked, taking me inside.

“Yes; up to here.” And I showed him page 160 of the work.

“Bravo!” said Monsieur Drouet. “But it is not enough to read; you must also understand.”

“Of course, M. Jean Baptiste,” said I. “There are many things that I cannot understand, but I always look to you for an explanation.”

“So you are come expressly for that?”

“No, M. Jean Baptiste. Not expressly for that, but to thank you for your kindness. After my father, who gave me life—after my aunt and my uncle, who have fed me, I owe more to you than to any other person in the world; for has not Rousseau himself said that every man is born twice—first, physically, then intellectually? And it is you who have successfully brought me through this second birth.”

I must pass over that afternoon of familiar intercourse with my mentor and my friend. Suffice it to say, that my new-born resolutions were strengthened, my eyes still more widely opened to my own wants and requirements; and when I set out on my return, I felt that, indeed, a path had been tracked for me across the yet untrodden wilderness of life.

There are few landscapes so pretty in the middle of France as that which presents itself to the eye on arriving at the Forest of Argonne.

This struck me as it had never done before, and I paused involuntarily to gaze at the scene.

At this moment two travellers came towards me, followed by a carriage slowly toiling up the ascent.

One of these strangers particularly attracted my attention. He might be about fifty years of age, of no great stature, but wiry and strongly built. He had a noble head, and his weather-beaten face was lit by the glance of an eagle. Had not the scar of a sabre wound sufficiently indicated his profession, I could have told he was a soldier from the unmistakable way in which he wore his civilian’s suit.

His companion, younger and stouter, was likewise a soldier; but evidently not of the same standing.

These two men halted a moment near me, less to look at the landscape than to continue an animated conversation, in which the elder sustained the principal part.

“Yes, my dear Thévenot,” he said; “I will never give in on this point. If ever France is invaded by Montmedy and Verdun, it is here that we must meet the enemy; with 20,000 soldiers I’ll engage to stop a foe 80,000 strong. The Forest of Argonne is the Thermopylæ of France.”

“That is to say. General,” replied the other, who looked like his aide-de-camp, “if the two or three roads through the forest could be defended as easily as this one; for it is quite evident that a couple of batteries with six guns each would make this defile impracticable.”

“There are only two roads,” returned the General; “the one we are now pursuing, leading to Islettes; and the other, the Grand Prés road. Both these routes conjoin at Verdun.”

“I thought there was a third—namely, the Chéne-Populeux road.”

“I don’t think that road leads through the forest at all; but I will ask our driver.”

The General did so.

The bumpkin only shook his head.

“I only know,” he said, “the road I’m accustomed to travel, and that’s not it. Beyond that, I can’t tell you anything; but,” he added, nodding towards me, “if you want to know all about this part of the country, why, there’s the nephew of Father Descharmes, who knows it all blindfold. Hilloa, boy! come and speak to these gentlemen!”

I approached, cap in hand, for the look of the elder traveller inspired me with respect.

“Friend,” said the General, seeing that I waited till he spoke to me; “we want to know where the Chéne-Populeux road leads from, and if it takes you through the forest, or round by the outskirts?”

“It leads from Stenay, monsieur, takes round by the forest, and opens upon Voneg, at the River Aisne.”

“Ah, now we have it, Thévenot; but as, so far as I can remember, the Chéne-Populeux road is only a narrow defile, I still hold my original opinion.”

“Will you get in now, gentlemen?” asked the postilion. “My horses are well breathed by this time.”

“Thank you, my young friend,” said the General, waving his hand towards me. But just as he had his foot on the step the distant sound of an alarm-bell, violently rung, came through the stillness.

“What is that?” cried the General.

“A fire at the village of Islettes,” said I. “Look! you can see the smoke above the trees!”

And, without any further speculation, off I ran towards the village. The General called after me, but I did not stop to listen.

However, before I had gone a hundred yards, the carriage rattled past me at a gallop. The General, evidently moved by a humane motive, was hastening, like myself, towards the scene of the catastrophe, where I soon arrived.

All the village was astir, and I found the General and his companion had taken command of the rustics, just as they would of an army on the field of battle.

The fire had broken out in the workshop of a cart-wright. The fiery element had attacked an adjacent shed full of wood, and threatened to reduce the neighboring house to ashes.

Now, at Islettes, fire-engines were unknown, and I need scarcely say that handing along little buckets of water from the river was by no means an effectual remedy.

“We must cut off the fire!” shouted the General.

“But how?” returned the peasants.

“I want somebody,” cried the General, “who will get up upon the roof of that shed, and cut away the principal support. The post will fall, and carry the roof with it.”

“Oh, yes!” said a voice; “and the somebody in question will go down with the roof!”

“Very likely!” acquiesced the General, calmly; “but the fire will be smothered, and the rest of the village saved.”

At that moment, a certain passage from “Emile” flashed across my mind.

“Give me an axe!” I cried. As I spoke, I saw one leaning against a house near which I was standing.

I laid down my “Emile” and a dictionary which M. Jean Baptiste had given me; seized the axe, and rushed into the house adjacent to the shed. Already its inmates were carrying out all their little property, expecting every instant that their cottage would be in flames.

Up the little wooden stairs I rushed, and scrambled out on the roof through a sort of trap-door.

It was my first experience upon roofs; but as I had been accustomed to climbing trees up to any height, a promenade on the thatch was only child’s play.

Below, all was hushed in anxiety. I could only hear the peculiar billow-like sounds of the flames, and the fall of the burning fragments as they gave way under the fire.

Presently I found myself in a dense atmosphere of smoke and sparks. I was nearly stifled; but I knew that all eyes and hearts were fixed upon me, and that gave me strength to succeed or to die, as it might be.

Supporting myself by the chimney, I commenced to cut away a hole round about the roof-tree.

I was strong of my age, and could wield with dexterity the axe—that instrument of my adopted calling; but though at every blow the upright beam trembled—on the other hand, the advancing flame seemed to increase in volume.

There was, in a word, a battle between me and the flame, and I felt proud to have an element for my foe. All at once, the gable-end fell in with a terrible crash; the other supports of the roof being weakened by my blows, gave way, and the roof itself fell, smothering, beneath the raging flames. I flung the axe away from me, and held on like grim death to my chimney. A whirlwind of smoke and fire blotted me from the crowd below, and, half suffocated as I was, I could still hear and understand their murmur of pain and anxiety.

The crisis was over. With one last effort I struggled to my trap-door, and in another moment—I know not how—found myself safe and sound in the open air.

Friendly arms embraced me, and looking up, I saw it was the General, who held in one hand my precious books. “My boy,” he said, “you are brave, and you read Rousseau: therefore I do not offer you a reward. But you will be a true man, and I embrace you.”

And again he pressed me in his arms.

By this time, my uncle, and, indeed, all the village, were at my side; and whilst I was receiving their congratulations, the General and his friend had departed. No one knew who they were.

This was an important day in my life; for I had learnt to understand what was conveyed in that most beautiful of all human words—self-devotion.

CHAPTER IV.
I EDUCATE MYSELF FOR CONTINGENCIES.

Next day I laid up for myself a course of study—physical and intellectual. In the morning I read and studied my books; during the day I worked at my carpentry; towards evening I indulged in shooting, in gymnastics, and sports of that nature; and at night I again returned to my books. I improved every day.

About a week after the events of the last chapter, M. Drouet, and two friends came to my uncle’s.

M. Drouet and his friends shook me by the hand. He asked me how I was getting on, and I told him all, regretting at the same time that I had no money to buy books, or get instruction in Latin.

“No money!” said Jean Baptiste. “Who hinders you from making it?”

“Making it?” I answered. “But how?”

“With your plane, of course.”

“But, Monsieur Drouet, I have no customers.”

“I will find them for you.”

“Where?”

“To begin with, the postmaster of St. Menehould, Jean Baptiste Drouet by name. The fact is, I require a quantity of carpentry work done in my house, and you must undertake it.”

“I am not good enough workman for that, Monsieur Drouet.”

“But if I find you good enough?”

“Then I would not like to take your money.”

“Nonsense! I must get somebody to do it, so that is settled. Now, about the Latin. I will find you a teacher—Monsieur Fortin, the Curé of Islettes.”

“How will I pay him?”

“I don’t think that he would take your money.”

“But I take yours, Monsieur Drouet.”

“Ah, that is different. Government does not pay me to make wash-hand-stands, but it does pay Abbé Fortin to instruct his flock morally and intellectually.”

“I should like to offer him something.”

“Exactly—not as a right, but as a graceful act of courtesy; and as I know the Father Fortin does not despise the good things of this life, you can shoot him a hare occasionally, or knock him up a cupboard, to keep his preserves in.”

“A thousand thanks, Monsieur Jean!”

“Listen! I have it in my mind’s eye that you will be a soldier—at all events, the education necessary for an officer will not be thrown away. For six francs a month, Bertrand, of Islettes, the old soldier, will teach you fencing; and, for a trifle more, Mathieu, the land surveyor, at Clermont, will show you how to draw a plan. As for horsemanship, I will give you the run of my stable; so, there you are, with your life-time all mapped out. Now, let us to the forest.”

At dinner that day, the conversation turned upon politics, and particularly on the unpopularity of Marie Antoinette, the Queen. All this was Greek to me, till M. Jean Baptiste explained the situation of affairs.

Marie Antoinette, it appeared, daughter of the Austrian, Marie Therèse, and ancient enemy of France, had been accepted by the French people as a harbinger of union and of peace. Very different, however, had been her influence.

In a word, Marie Therèse hoped that Louis XVI would some day aid her to get back the provinces wrested from her by Prussia.

Until 1778, Marie Antoinette did not meddle with affairs of state. Up to that time, Turgot was the ruling spirit; but, at last, he had to succumb to that famous De Calone, who used to reply thus to the demands of the Queen: “Madame, if it is possible, it is already done; if it is impossible, it will be done.”

Misrule went on. The King, despite his impoverished treasury, bought St. Cloud; the Queen, whilst her people were starving, purchased Rambouillet, and lavished millions of francs which were not her own upon her immediate favorites. Scandal arose; and when scandal gets into everybody’s mouth, it is worse than truth.