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.

M. de Calone resigned. He could not make both ends meet.

The next Prime Minister was Brienne, a Queen’s favorite; and, when he fell, Paris was illuminated from the Bastille to the Cour de la Reine.

M. de Necker reigned in his stead. He was a Genevese banker, and a financier of the first force; but even he failed to see a way out of the royal bankruptcy; and it was whispered that he was going to ask the nation what it thought of matters—France was to speak.

This was the great news at my uncle’s dinner-table that day, and our three guests were very merry over it, and pledged fidelity to each other however these events might turn out.

And they kept their word.

CHAPTER V.
I BREAK WITH THE ARISTOCRACY.

Next morning I set out for St. Menehould, to see about M. Drouet’s job. He told me what he wanted, and that he should require the new furniture I was to make him to be of good, well-seasoned oak. In order that I might set about it the more easily, he paid me one hundred francs in advance; and with this prodigious sum in my pocket, I went off to select the necessary timber, when whom should I meet but Bertrand. The old soldier informed me that M. Drouet had spoken to him about giving me fencing lessons, and I arranged with him, on the spot, when I was to take them. In fact, I began that very day.

I remember well how my hand trembled with pleasure, when I grasped the foil for the first time. At the end of an hour, I knew the five parades, and could disengage decently.

“That will do for to-day,” cried my master, more tired than I was myself.

I recollected something.

“Monsieur Bertrand,” said I; “I shall perhaps not be able to pay you till the end of the month.”

“Oh, that’s all settled. Monsieur Drouet has paid me a month in advance. He said that he owed you money.”

I felt a glow of emotion at this new proof of my good friend’s generosity.

As I was crossing a field on my way home, I met the surveyor, M. Mathieu. My good genius had preceded me there, too: the surveyor was quite ready to impart to me the mysteries of the chain and level.

Leaving him, I went home in great glee, took my gun, and sallied forth to slaughter partridges for my Latin master. I was fortunate enough to knock over a brace of birds and a hare, which I sent the same night to the Abbé Fortin.

Next day, as I was planing away with great zeal, the Abbé himself stood before me.

“Well, my boy, you have sent me some game, and you must now help me to eat it. Dinner at two, and I shall be glad to see your uncle, if he will come with you.”

“Oh, Monsieur l’Abbé, it is too much honor!”

“At two o’clock, mind. Marguerite, the housekeeper, does not like to be kept waiting.”

So saying, the worthy Curé left me.

My uncle, I found, would not be at home till the evening, so, at the hour appointed, I found myself alone, tapping at the Abbé’s door, and dressed out in all my Sunday splendor.

The Curé opened it himself.

“Ah, monsieur, I am so sorry to trouble you!”

“Trouble? Nonsense! Only Marguerite cannot be at the door and at her kitchen stove at the same time. Talking of which, she tells me we will not have dinner till three. Now, what do you say to a first Latin lesson, as my friend Drouet tells me that you wish to learn that language.”

I was only too glad to acquiesce; and, before dinner was served, I understood that there were five declensions in the Roman tongue.

During the simple repast which followed, I surveyed the Abbé’s furniture with a critical eye, and a mental resolve to do it all up for him again.

Then, after having arranged about my future hours with my kind preceptor, I returned home, one step further up the ladder of progress. That very evening, we were apprised of a visit of the Count de Dampierre, the Viscount de Malmy, and some other young nobles.

Hitherto, I had been in the habit of accompanying them, dressed in regular keeper’s costume; but now I stuck steadily to my carpentry work.

“Holloa, Réné!” said M. de Dampierre; “don’t you go with us to-day?”

“No, Monsieur le Comte,” I replied; “I have a lesson in mathematics to-day.”

“What?” he exclaimed, with surprise. “Do you study mathematics?”

“Yes, and history and Latin, also.”

“And is all this necessary in our days for a game-keeper?”

“I am not going to be one.”

“What then?”

“I mean to be a carpenter, like ‘Emile.’”

“I don’t know him.”

“No? It is the ‘Emile’ of Monsieur Jean Jacques Rousseau that I mean; but if the nation wants me, I shall be a soldier.”

“What do you mean by nation?”

“I mean our country—France.”

“We call that the kingdom, do we not?”

“Yes, Monsieur le Comte; but some think it high time that we should call it a nation.”

“Then the mathematics are to teach you military engineering?”

“Yes; every officer should know how to draw a plan.”

“Officer! But before you can be an officer, you must be an aristocrat.”

“At present, yes; but by the time I am ready, there may be changes in the system.”

“You heard that, Malmy,” said M. de Dampierre, turning to the Viscount.

“Yes!” replied the other, shrugging his shoulders.

“And what do you think of it all?” asked M. de Dampierre.

“I think that the class to which he belongs are losing their heads altogether.”

I planed away vigorously, and affected not to hear. By-and-bye they strolled off to the forest, laughing, whilst I got ready to go to M. Mathieu, for my first lesson in engineering.

CHAPTER VI.
THE NATION AND THE BASTILLE.—VERDICT FOR THE FORMER.

At the end of the fifteenth day the Abbé Fortin had his furniture retouched, and when three months had expired I had finished the carpentry work for M. Drouet.

The work was estimated at five hundred francs, the materials alone costing a hundred and twenty; so that I received three hundred and eighty, with the compliments of my two masters on the excellency of my workmanship.

Whilst I was still engaged on the completion of the order, M. Drouet advanced me five hundred francs, to enable me to buy the wood, and at the same time, to take my lessons in the use of implements of warfare, and purchase useful books.

The warrant expected from M. Necker, for the convocation of the Etats Généraux, had appeared. For the first time, a great nation, or a great kingdom, as M. Dampierre said, admitted all its members to political rights.

No sooner had the warrant appeared (which can be translated in these words:—“All will assemble to elect; all will write their grievances in the books given to them for that purpose”) than all France thrilled, as it were, with an electric shock, and the people leapt from darkness into light.

That cry, treasured up for two centuries, becomes stronger and stronger every day. They complain that the year 1788 was barren; that the winter was bitterly cold; that the famine in the following spring was terrible.

They went to the municipality of St. Menehould, to write in the books; and my capital penmanship procured me the office of secretary.

Afterwards, they went to election. MM. Drouet, Guillaume, and Billaud exercised enormous influence.

M. Dampierre was balloted with a poor parish priest. The priest prevailed over him.

The event deceived all. The Etats, which ought to have opened on the 27th of April, were adjourned to the 4th of May.

The Court was frightened, and delayed the matter as long as it could.

All France had its eyes turned to Paris. Every hour brought forth unexpected events.

On the 5th of May, the opening of the Etats, in the procession from Versailles, the King was applauded, and the Queen hissed.

On the 8th of May, the three classes were changed into two—the one formed of the third class, the other of the nobility and clergy.

On the 18th of June, the assembly hall was closed by order of the King.

On the 22nd of June, the oath of Jeu-de-Pauvre was taken.

This oath was the declaration of war from the third Etat against the nobility and clergy. It was the first menace direct from the people against the throne.

All in a moment, these comparatively small events ceased, and a portentous calm intervened, so to speak, as if the minor combatants held their weapons to intently watch the issue of the combat between their superiors.

On the 12th of July, M. Drouet started for Paris.

It was the day of the dismissal of Necker—it was the day when Camille Desmoulins, jumping on a table in a café, drew his sword, and crying, “To arms!” placed the leaf of a tree in his hat.

We had no news of M. Drouet up to the 15th.

On the morning of the 15th, MM. Dampierre and De Valmy went out hunting, to which sport were invited two or three of their friends from Clermont and Varennes; among others, a certain Chevalier de Courtemont, whom we shall come across later on.

It was evident that the hunt was but a secondary affair, and that the real object was to meet and hear the news from Paris.

M. Dampierre had heard, on the 13th, that Paris was on fire, and the Court at Versailles guarded by German troops,—Benzenval commanding, under the old Marshal de Broglie.

The theatres were shut. The dismissal of Necker had, to a certain extent, paralyzed the public mind. Statues of him and of the Duke of Orleans were covered with crape, and paraded through the streets of Paris.

The procession, armed with sticks, swords, and pistols, after having passed through the streets Saint Martin and Saint Honoré, arrived at the Place Vendome.

There one division stopped, and having dispersed the people, destroyed the bust of the Prince and the Duke of Orleans, and put to death a French guard who disdained to fly.

That was not all.

M. de Bezenval had put a detachment of Swiss and four pieces of cannon in battery on the Champs Elysées, the crowd retired to the Tuileries, and the Prince de Lambese, a German, charged upon them with his cavalry, inoffensive though they were, and was the first to enter, on horseback, the gardens of the Tuileries. A barricade stopped him. From the back of that barricade, stones and bottles were thrown at him. He perceived that a group of men were shutting the gate, to take him prisoner. He ordered a retreat, and, in flying, crushed one man under his steed, and severely wounded another with a blow from his sabre.

The crowd now entered the armorers’ shops, and ransacked them.

The cannons were mounted on the Bastille, which was reinforced by another detachment of Swiss.

They knew nothing more on the night of the 13th, nor on the next day.

M. Dampierre ordered that if news came in the day, it was to be delivered to my uncle.

At four o’clock the sport finished, and they returned to the house. A dinner, prepared as usual, awaited them.

The companions remained at table, visibly preoccupied; the conversation was nothing but conjectures. They spoke in strong terms of the National Assembly. They wished to have been in the place of M. Brézé, of M. de Bezenval, of M. de Lambese; they were sure that they could have done better than they did.

The Queen was too good, not to have commanded the Swiss to exterminate the wretches.

At six o’clock, M. Dampierre’s servant brought a despatch. It was dated the morning of the 14th.

On the night of the 13th the people had forced the doors of the Invalides, and had taken thirty thousand muskets. They had also forced the doors of the Arsenal with sledge-hammers, and had taken seven or eight tons of powder. That powder had been distributed under the lamp-lights. Each man bearing a musket received fifty cartridges.

The Court had ordered all the foreign regiments, useful to royalty, to be at hand, if wanted.

M. de Launay, the Governor of the Bastille, who knew his unpopularity, and upon whom they could count, because of that unpopularity, had pledged himself to blow the Bastille into the air, along with half Paris, before he would surrender.

This news the companions thought good, as it promised a desperate resistance.

On the other hand, who were the people who menaced royalty? Men ignorant of the use of fire-arms, undisciplined, and without leaders, who would retreat at the first cannon-shot, and fly at the first charge.

How could that rabble hold out against practised soldiers, who feared not death, but disgrace?

On mastering the despatch, M. Dampierre told each guest to fill his glass; then, lifting his own, “To the victory of the King, and the extermination of the rebels!” he cried. “Drink with me, gentlemen.”

“To the victory of the King, and the extermination of the rebels!” cried all, with one voice.

But before they had time to put the glasses to their lips, a furious gallop, coming from the direction of Paris, was heard; and, shouting with joy, a horseman, with a tricolor in his hat, shot past like a whirlwind, crying to M. Dampierre and his friends these words—not less terrible than those that Belshazzar read, in letters of fire, on the wall,—“The Bastille is taken! Long live the people!”

The horseman was Jean Baptiste Drouet, who was riding at full speed to announce to his friends at Varennes the news of the victory that the people had obtained over their King.

This news which he proclaimed in every city and in every village that he passed, brightened his route with a flash vivid as lightning.

CHAPTER VII.
CONCERNING THE BASTILLE.

All France gave one cry of joy when the news arrived that the Bastille was taken.

All the world knew the Bastille—that prison which has given its name to others.

From one end of France to the other, all shook hands, congratulating each other on the event.

And, strange to say, the Bastille was taken by those who had never entered it—in fact, it was a place of imprisonment for nobles only.

One would have thought, from the fact of their attacking it, that it was a place which they themselves had to dread.

Ah! it was a horrible den. You were not dead there; but what was worse, you were forgotten.

Your father, wife, or brother dared not speak of you, for fear they should be sent there likewise.

Once there, you no longer had a name, but a number. You died, and they buried you under a false name.

No; the King did not deprive you of your head; he was too good for that; he only forgot you.

Instead of dying in a moment, you suffered unutterable tortures for perhaps thirty years.

In the reign of Louis XVI all the rigors of prisons were softened, with the exception of the Bastille, the discipline of which was harsher than ever. In former reigns they had barred the windows; but now they also stopped the promenades in the gardens.

It is true that Louis XVI did not actually do this himself but he suffered it to be done, which is all the same.

Louis XVI did not himself shut up the garden. No; it was De Launay, who was as unpopular as he well could be.

At the Bastille all bought the places that they occupied, from the Governor down to the gaolers. Every situation was worth having, except that of the prisoners.

The Governor had sixty thousand livres salary. He made a hundred and twenty thousand by his plunders.

We have already spoken of the garden of the Bastille open to the prisoners. It was but a little plot of ground, planted, as it were, upon a bastion.

A gardener offered a hundred francs a year for it; and this scoundrel, who was wringing from the pitiful allowances of the prisoners the sum of a hundred and twenty thousand francs per annum, actually, for the sake of this paltry sum, deprived the poor wretches under his rule of the breath of air that made life supportable, of the sole gleam of life that intervened ’twixt them and the tomb.

He well knew that he would never survive the capture of the Bastille—this man of iron, who had a Bastille in place of a heart.

The Governor’s hundred and thirty-five barrels of powder were placed in a vault, situated in the centre of the fortress. The Bastille blown into the air would astound Paris in its ascent, and utterly destroy it in its stupendous fall. This he knew. When the prison was entered by the people, he clapped a torch to the touch-string. An Invalide seized his arms; two sous-officers crossed bayonets across his breast. He snatched a knife from his belt; they took it out of his hands.

Then he demanded to be allowed to march out with the honors of war.

This demand met with a positive refusal.

At last, he would be satisfied were he allowed to depart with life alone.

Two of the conquerors of the Bastille—Hullin and Elie—promised this in the name of all.

He begged them to conduct him to the Hotel de Ville, where he had some shadow of authority.

In the meantime, whilst the people were dashing themselves against the granite and the oak, and demolishing the two stone slaves that supported the clock, and breaking open the dungeons, with the intention of liberating the prisoners confined therein, Hullin and Elie took away De Launay, hiding him as much as possible by placing themselves in front of him.

But when he arrived at the gates, the Governor was recognised. He had no hat; Hullin, fearless of consequences, gave him his own.

Turning into the Rue St. Antoine, one who had taken part in the combat, recognised the prisoner.

Farther on, came some who had not yet been engaged in the siege, and who, as a matter of course, were more bloodthirsty now that the danger was over. They wished to massacre the prisoners. De Launay remained alive through the protection of Hullin and Elie.

Elie, less powerful than Hullin, was carried away by the crowd, amongst whom he was lost sight of.

At the Arcade St. Jean, Hullin himself lost sight of De Launay, but by a superhuman effort he separated the crowd, and regained him. He dragged him to some adjacent steps, but in the effort fell. Twice did he again raise himself, only to fall again. At the third time, De Launay had disappeared. He looked for him on all sides, and at last recognised his head fixed on the extremity of a pike, and borne above the crowd.

That head Hullin would have saved, had it been possible, at the risk of his own.

During this time, the mob had released the prisoners in the Bastille.

There were nine.

Two or three, on seeing the door open, cried out that the people had come to slay them, and prepared to defend themselves with chairs, but the intruders cried out in a loud voice, “Free! Free!”

One could not understand it, and fell suffocating, pressing his heart with his two hands.

Another stood speechless, with his eyes fixed on space; a venerable man was he, with a white beard descending to his breast. They took him for a spectre.

The conquerors told him that he was free.

He understood them not.

“How is Louis the Fifteenth?” asked he.

“He has been dead fifteen years.”

“How long had he been in the Bastille?” they asked him.

“I know nothing about it,” he replied.

“Who are you?”

“I am the Elder-born of Space.”

He was mad.

Under the staircase, in a sort of tomb, they found two skeletons. Who were they? No one knew. The workmen took them away, and buried them in the Cemetery of St. Paul.

All the world wished to see the Bastille. They showed Latude’s ladder, that immense work of patience and of genius.

For a month the old place was not emptied.

They heard sighs. A report ran about that there were hidden dungeons known only to the Government, in which the unhappy prisoners were suffered to die of hunger.

The architect of the city, Citizen Palloy, was ordered to pull down the old fortress. Of the best stones, he made eighty-six models of the Bastille, which he sent to eighty-six different departments.

With the others, he built the Pont de la Revolution, on which the head of Louis XVI was exposed after execution.

CHAPTER VIII.
THE DUKE D’ENGHIEN’S LAST DAY’S SPORT.

For a long time, reports of hidden dungeons and forgotten prisoners agitated Paris. Paris had had a mountain on its breast, and could not accustom itself to the deliverance from it.

To pity succeeded fear. Had they really escaped from that calamity with which De Launay had threatened them? They reported that there were underground passages from the Bastille to Vincennes; and that in those passages the powder was concealed just under the Faubourg St. Antoine, which would one day blow up from one end to the other.

These fears had a good effect. They, for a time, dissipated the feeling of famine which was gradually creeping over Paris.

Foulon said, “The French have no bread; why should they not eat hay? My horses eat it.”

True or not, he expiated this sneer with his life, and they carried his head about with a mouthful of hay stuffed between his teeth.

But, alas! it seemed that the French people had nothing to do but to eat what Foulon recommended.

From Paris, the fear of famine was dispersed among the provinces.

“Foulon,” said all, “had predicted it.”

They must mow all France.

All said that his ghost appeared to execute the menace.

Then report went about that bands of robbers had been seen mowing the green wheat.

The municipality of Soissons wrote to the Assembly a letter full of fears. “The robbers had cut,” they said, “all the wheat for miles around, and were now marching on the city.”

Soissons demanded help.

The Assembly sent a thousand men, who searched on all sides, twelve miles a-day. They could not find the robbers.

No matter, ten, twenty, a hundred people had seen them.

In the midst of this disputed news, other transpired which was but too true.

A certain lord having heard that De Launay had wished to blow up the Bastille, resolved, if it were in his power, to complete that which the Governor had been unable to do.

He announced that, in honor of the taking of the Bastille, he would give a grand entertainment, to which all were invited—workmen, artisans, tradesmen, countrymen, soldiers, women, old men, and children.

In this time of famine, when all lived on an ounce or two of bread per diem, a good dinner was a public service. Everybody—about 5,000 persons, that is to say—rushed to the fête. In the midst of it, an explosion was heard, and the surrounding plain was covered with dissevered limbs.

The gentleman, whose name was Mennay de Quincy, escaped to Switzerland, and avoided punishment.

Later on, he returned; and, as he was a member of Parliament, he was arraigned before it, and acquitted.

But the breach between the nobles and the people was now opened. The poor Count de Haus, who was incapable of committing such a crime, was accused of abetting M. de Quincy.

Some days afterwards, being at Neuville le Pont, he was insulted by the people, who proceeded to extremities; and he had but just time to spring on his horse, and gallop off to a place of safety.

Fear had now seized upon us, as well as every one else.

On the 18th of July, four days after the taking of the Bastille, the Prince Condé, the Duke d’Enghien, M. Vaudrevil, and M. de Broglie were announced.

Their arrival astonished my uncle, as it was not the hunting season; the wood being very thick, the shooting was difficult.

The Prince de Condé replied that he only wished to hunt a stag, the King having commanded him, in the possibility of a war, to examine into the condition of the defences of Verdun.

The courier was ordered to procure horses from Clermont, and to command the two carriages punctually at five o’clock.

So, taking this view of the matter, there was nothing extraordinary in it at all.

The Princes, mindful of the sport they had had, were determined to enjoy another day of it, although it was not the proper season; but they could surely do as they liked.

The Duke d’Enghien commanded me to accompany them.

I said good-bye to my books for the day, took the gun which the Duke had given me, and followed them.

The Prince was then eighteen years of age—not much older than I was. It was probably on account of the similarity of our ages, that I was favored by so much of his notice.

I remarked that, though courteous as usual, he was profoundly sorrowful.

He asked me what progress I was making in my education.

I told him. When I mentioned M. Drouet, he asked if he were not the postmaster at St. Menehould.

On my response in the affirmative, “A hot Republican, if I mistake not?” he said.

I replied that, through him, this part of the country had been apprized of the capture of the Bastille.

He asked me some questions about the general disposition of the country—as much of the nobles as of the lower classes.

I told him that the love of the people for their King was great, and that they equally hated the nobles, which was true.

He covered his face with his handkerchief, and sighed.

I looked at him with astonishment.

“Pardon me, Duke,” said I; “but I heard the Prince de Condé say that he was going to inspect the fortifications of Verdun, in case of war.”

He looked at me to see what I was driving at.

“Excuse my question, Duke,” said I, “but do you think it probable that we shall have war?”

“Very probable,” said he, looking at me in his turn. “But why that question?”

“Because, in that event, your Grace, I shall not have lost my time.”

“What would you do if there were war?”

“If France be menaced, every one capable of bearing a musket should fly to its defence.”

He looked at my gun. It was the one which he had given me.

“So you can not only carry a gun, but you know how to use it.”

“In fact, your Grace,” said I, laughing, “thanks to your noble gift, I am such a capital shot, that if I had a Prussian or Austrian at the end of it, I fancy they would pass an uncomfortable quarter of an hour.”

“You think so?”

“I am certain of it. A Prussian or an Austrian would be bigger than that pigeon you see there.”

And I pointed to one perched about three hundred paces off, on the dry branch of a tree.

“You are mad,” said the Prince. “That bird is three times out of range.”

“Certainly, your Grace, for shot; but not for ball?”

“Your gun is loaded, then, with ball?”

“Yes, your Grace; I seldom use anything else.”

“What are you doing, Henri?” the Prince de Condé said, as he appeared in view.

“Nothing, father,” replied the Duke; “I am only saying a few words to this boy here.”

He then bade me farewell, saying that he hoped I would always “think of him kindly.” And waving his hand, he resumed his seat by his father’s side, and disappeared.

I stood almost heart-broken on the spot where the Prince addressed his last words to me.

One would have thought that I had a presentiment of the awful circumstances under which I should meet him again.

All the towns had organized national guards, after the example of Paris. Châlons had set the example; St. Menehould had followed it. M. Drouet was captain. He came to ask Bertrand to be his lieutenant, and to see how many men he could recruit at Islettes.

It was the report of bandits having been seen about which induced them to organize the National Guard.

In eight days, all France was armed. Each day the National Assembly gave audiences to ten couriers. It had at its disposal a million of men.

Drouet and Bertrand took a stroll in the village of Islettes.

They enrolled twenty men.

The keepers of the Forest of Argonne enlisted themselves and formed that part of the brigade of which Father Descharmes was chief.

I wished to be one of M. Bertrand’s detachment, consequently in M. Drouet’s company.

He accompanied me as far as Father Descharmes’ cottage, and asked me about the visit of the evening before.

He also asked if the Princes had not returned.

“No; because they have gone to Verdun,” said I.

“Why did they not send to hire their horses from my place?”

“Because they preferred to have them from Clermont.”

“Hum!” said M. Jean Baptiste. “Do you know who they were who accompanied the Duke d’Enghien and the Prince de Condé?”

“I heard them mention M. Vandreul and M. Broglie.”

“Exactly,” said he. “Réné, they come not to inspect Verdun. They have abandoned the King, and quitted France. They have gone to intrigue with strangers.”

Then I remembered the sadness of the Duke d’Enghien; and I called to mind his peculiar look, when I said that an Austrian or Prussian were easier to shoot than a pigeon. I also remembered his last words before leaving—“I hope that you will always think of me with kindness.”

Poor Prince! He had left France, and that was the cause of his sorrow.

“Would that all would follow his example,” murmured M. Drouet, “from the first to the last! But,” continued he, grinding his teeth, “I fancy that if the King or Queen were to try that move, they would not escape so easily.”

CHAPTER IX.
I GO TO MAKE CAPTIVES AND AM TAKEN CAPTIVE MYSELF.

Our National Guard was at first a curious sight.

The first rank were armed with guns; the second with scythes; the third with clubs, and so on.

Later on, the armorers made some pikes for those who had no guns.

But however the guard was armed, there is no doubt but that it was filled with enthusiasm.

Not a man, had he received the order, would have hesitated to march on Paris.

What was most remarkable, with regard to this corps, was the manner in which the battalions seemed, as it were, to spring from the earth. Liberty was as yet quite young; and yet she had only to strike with her foot on the ground, to raise this deadly harvest of men.

It was in the sainted year of 1789 that all France became soldiers. After the 14th July, every Frenchman was born with teeth ready to bite a cartridge.

Villages and towns joined in one compact; and that was, to mutually help each other when necessary.

One day, we saw arrive, by way of Clermont, the people of Verdun; and, by way of Paris, the people of St. Menehould.

They had heard that a band of robbers had issued from the Forest of Argonne, set fire to Islettes, and plundered the village.

A hundred men from Clermont, under the command of M. Mathieu, and two hundred from St. Menehould, under M. Drouet, had therefore set out, to render what assistance they might in the extermination of the brigands, of whom they had as yet not seen a trace.

They made merry, therefore, instead of fighting, and in the place of the rattle of musketry, was heard the more peaceful song.

Eight days afterwards, a man passed on horseback, going from Clermont to St. Menehould, and crying out, “The brigands are marching on Varennes! Help! help!”

The man disappeared from view—none knew him. No matter, all leaped up; the drum beat the rappel; fifty men put themselves under the direction of Bertrand; and, without inquiring the number of the enemy, marched to Varennes. Needless to say, I was one of them.

From the height of the hill of Veuvilly, we saw a great cloud of dust, about half a league ahead of us.

They were the men of Clermont, who, having started about half an hour before us, were about half a league ahead.

At that sight, all elevated their hats on the ends of their muskets or pikes, and shouted “Vive la nation!”

That cry had almost completely taken the place of “Vive le Roi!”

We arrived at Varennes, which we expected to find in flames, with the streets running blood. From the height of the hill, which descends to the Rue des Réligieuses, we had a good view of the town.

All was quiet.

The people of Clermont, when they first arrived, were taken for the brigands, whom they were expecting every moment.

When they recognised them, there was a general embracing, and crying “Vive la nation!”

Then we arrived, in our turn; and two hours afterwards, the men of Montfalcon, De Bousance, and De Vouziez. The latter had marched eight leagues in five hours.

They bivouacked in the Place de Latry, and the Place de Grand Monarque.

They then laid out tables for a public repast, where, after an ancient custom, each one chose his companions, and found his own dinner.

I had one visit to pay in Varennes—a place to which I seldom came, and where I only knew two persons, M. Guillaume and M. Billaud.

I remembered me of one of the two master workmen who had priced my carpentry work for M. Drouet; and who said that if I had no work to do, and would accept it of him, he could always find me plenty.

His name was Father Gerbaut.

I asked his address. He lived in the Rue de la Basse Cour. The houses were not numbered at that period. On the left, descending to the Place Latry, next door to a large grocer’s, his house was situated.

I called. He was out; but expected home every moment.

I was received by his daughter, a charming girl, a little younger than myself—that is to say, about sixteen or seventeen years of age.

She asked me to wait till her father returned, or to give her my name if I feared becoming weary of staying with her.

Of course, I rejected with scorn the idea that any one could become wearied in the presence of one so gracious and charming.

It was the first time in my life that I had ever addressed a compliment to a female.

Indeed, it was the first time that I had been in conversation with a girl at all.

Up to this time, I had scarcely given women a moment’s consideration.

Directly I told my name to the young girl, her face, which had before been amiable, brightened into a look of friendship.

“I know you,” said she; “you worked for M. Drouet; my father has mentioned you to his workmen, more than once, as an example to be followed. Do stay; he will be glad to see you.”

On looking around me, I perceived a harpsichord.

“You are a musician, I perceive, mademoiselle.”

“Oh, Monsieur Réné, you must not call me that. The organist of St. Gengoulf has given me a few lessons; and, as he says I have some voice, I practise singing to amuse myself.”

“Mademoiselle,” said I, “can you believe that I have never heard the sound of a harpsichord, or any song, but that of the washerwomen, as they beat their linen? Will you sing something for me as well as yourself, and I shall be completely happy?”

“With the greatest pleasure,” she replied.

And rising up, she crossed over to the harpsichord; and, after a simple prelude, she sang—

“How sad to me the day

When thou art far away!”

Every one knows that pretty romance, the “Devin de Village.”

But it had never seemed so charming to me as when issuing from the lips of my pretty songstress.

Mademoiselle Gerbaut had sang very simply, but with that coquetry so natural to women. Her face was variable; and as she sang without accompaniment, leaning slightly back in her chair, her half-closed eyes gave a somewhat sentimental expression to the rest of her face. Her mouth was beautifully formed, she spoke almost without any perceptible movement of the lips, and you saw, at the first glance, that what she said was neither artificial nor constrained.

I was delighted with her. I said nothing, but my looks spoke more than words could have done.

“Mademoiselle,” said I, not being able, in my enthusiasm, to think of anything else, “have you read ‘Emile?’”

“No, monsieur,” she replied; “but my mother has read it, and that is why I am named Sophie.”

“You are named Sophie!” cried I, seizing her hand, and pressing it to my heart; “now I am completely happy!”

She looked at me with an astonished smile.

“And why are you so happy because my name is Sophie?” said she.

“Because now I can look upon you as a sister more than a stranger. Oh, Sophie—dear Sophie!”

Sophie regarded me with a more astonished expression of face than ever; and I know not what she might have said, had not M. Gerbaut made his appearance at that moment.

“Ah! is that you, Réné?” said he; “you are, indeed, welcome. I asked the news from your friends on the Place there, and when they told me that you were at Varennes, I knew you would not go without calling to see me.”

“Yes, M. Gerbaut,” I answered, going up to him, and shaking his hand; “but I did not expect to find what I have found.”

“And, pray, what have you found?”

“Mademoiselle Sophie, who has been kind enough to sing me an air from the ‘Devin de Village de M. Rousseau.’”

“Ah, indeed! She did not require much persuasion, did she?”

“Only great men, or great fools, require to be asked twice,” said Sophie, laughing; “and as I am not a genius or a ——-”

Here she paused, while a sweet smile played over her lips.

“Fool,” continued M. Gerbaut, “you sang to him.”

“Did I do wrong, father?”

“Certainly not. As long as you sing to your equals, and without affectation, well and good. You know what I mean?”

Sophie bent her eyes, blushing.

“We must change our quarters, I think,” said Father Gerbaut, half smiling, half serious.

“Wherefore?” said I, breaking into the conversation.

“Because we are just opposite to the ‘Hotel de Bras d’Or,’ where many handsome young gentlemen put up, and who are fond of music as a vehicle for making love.”

“Oh, father!” murmured Sophie; “say not so!”

“What would you have?” cried M. Gerbaut. “They are no friends of mine who would bring trouble into peaceful families. When I understood that the princes and great lords had left the country, I had hoped that these gentlemen would have gone in their train. But no; they stay to make love to our wives and daughters, and to conspire against the nation. But this is not the time to speak of that. This is a fête day for Varennes. I must pay a visit to the cellar and larder. After dinner we will have a dance. Will you be Sophie’s partner?” said M. Gerbaut to me.

“I should be only too happy,” cried I; “but perhaps Mdlle. Sophie does not think a young apprentice worthy of offering her his arm?”

“Oh, M. Réné!” said the young girl; “you listen to my father, and then do me a grievous wrong, without any foundation for it.”

Sophie and myself bounded down the staircase, and in a moment found ourselves under a bright sun in the street, as I could not help thinking, like two butterflies emerged from a chrysalis state.

Whilst I had been waiting at M. Gerbaut’s, and whilst I had been listening to Sophie’s song, the streets of Varennes had undergone a great change.

The city was holding high holiday, with which, however, was mingled a certain degree of solemnity.

All the houses were hung with tapestry; and outside the doors tables were laid, covered with flowers, at which the inhabitants of the houses were seated, eating, waited upon by their servants, if they had any; if not, by themselves.

As if they wished that the dead should participate in the joy of the living, garlands of green boughs, intermingled with flowers, were suspended from the gates of the cemetery, which stretched from the church to the side of the Rue de l’Horloge. In the middle of the Place was erected a scaffolding, filled with amateur musicians, who wished to promote a dance after dinner. On the front of this temple of Terpsichore was written “Vive le Roi! Vive la nation!” Underneath this, in large letters, was inscribed the word “Fraternité!”

It was, in fact a brotherly rejoicing. Those who there met for the first time were members of one great family, which had existed for centuries, only it ignored the tie which bound one to the other.

But common danger had caused to meet the two ends of the thread, and in their union they found force.

After passing the houses leading to the Place Latry, we arrived at the open space in front of the Rue de l’Horloge, and entered into the midst of the crowd.

There seemed to be collected all the inhabitants of the High Town.

In each street the tables were arranged on the right and left side of the houses; a space in the middle being left for the promenaders. The Rue des Réligieuses, which runs down from the foot of the hill, made a most perfect and picturesque view.

We got mixed up with a lot of other persons, when all of a sudden a crowd of horsemen—young gentlemen, apparently—appeared on the crest of the hill, and, putting their horses at full gallop, dashed into the Rue des Réligieuses. There was a general cry of “Each one for himself!” and we turned to fly; but as we had been in front before, we now naturally found ourselves in the rear.

Thinking but of Sophie, I wished to put her under one of the tables, to be out of the way of danger; but curious to relate, she did not seem to know the peril she was in, and would not stir till it was too late; and I had just time to clasp her in my arms, and throw myself in front of her.

I had scarcely accomplished this, than, on turning round, I discovered myself face to face with a horseman, whose steed was perfectly unmanageable, and turned round and round, threatening us with his hoofs as he did so.

I had but one hope, and that was to preserve Sophie. I caught hold of the horse’s bridle, the cavalier raised his whip, the horse gave a plunge, and, whether through accident or intention, the blow, instead of falling on the horse, struck me on the shoulder.

The shame of being struck, more than the pain of the blow, caused the blood to rise to my head. I seized the horseman by his waist, lifted him from the saddle, the horse bolting away at the moment, upsetting a woman and two or three children in its wild career, and fell with him on the pavement; but, being the more vigorous, I was the uppermost, and soon had him at my mercy, with my knee on his breast.

It was only when his hat fell from his head, that I recognised who my adversary was.

“M. de Malmy!” cried I.

And taking my knee from his breast, and releasing his arms, I stood a little on one side.

“Ah, wretch!” cried he regaining his whip. “Do you know what is the penalty for laying hands on a gentleman?”

“M. le Viscount!” cried Sophie, pale with terror, placing herself, at the same time, between us.

He smiled a grim smile, grinding his teeth as he did so.

“I am determined, mademoiselle. Had he been a gentleman, I would chastise him with a sword; but as he is not, I shall punish him with this whip.”

He raised it.

I looked for something with which to defend myself. At that moment, a man sprang over one of the tables, seized the Marquis with one hand, and possessed himself of the whip with the other.

“Monsieur,” said he, “whips were made for horses and dogs. Réné Besson is a man.”

“A man?” repeated the Viscount, furiously.

“Yes, a man; and one whom you may not insult.”

“Who are you?” asked the Viscount.

“You know me very well, M. de Malmy; but as you ask, I will tell you. I am Jean Baptiste Drouet, postmaster at St. Menehould. I am not of noble birth, I know full well; but for six years have I served my country as a soldier, and that is better than a gentleman who spends his life in eating, drinking, and hunting. This I say for the benefit of you and your friends, and if you want me, you know where to find me.”

Saying these words, Drouet pushed De Malmy aside, and turned to confront two or three other young gentlemen, who, having dismounted, had come to join in the quarrel.

“When we change horses at your post-house, M. Drouet,” said one of these young men, “we do not generally approach, but send our domestics to bear our orders to you.”

“I would much rather deal with your servants than with you, M. de Courtement. They, at least, have not sold their wives or daughters in the Parc au Cerfs.”

The young noble took this as a sarcasm on his birth, with regard to which infamous reports had been bruited about.

He had a hunting-knife in his belt, and suddenly drew it, maddened with anger.

But before the knife could do any mischief, Drouet drew a pistol from his pocket, and presented it full in the face of the Chevalier.

“Monsieur,” said he, “I could shoot you like I would a wild beast; and two hundred people would bear witness that you offered the first insult; but the time has not yet come when all shall have their dues. So go your way in peace, and let the matter stand as it is.”

“Oh, without doubt, that proceeding would suit you wonderfully well,” said M. de Malmy; “but, for the sake of an example, I must proceed otherwise.”

Raising his whip, he advanced on M. Drouet, who, making a spring to one side, jumped on a table, and cried out, in a powerful tone of voice, “Help! To my assistance, men of St. Menehould!”

A hundred voices responded to the cry; a crowd rushed to where we were; and in a moment, the five or six gentlemen were completely in our power.

Each had seized the arms that came nearest to hand—one a pike, another a musket; thus showing by their alacrity, their wish to be of service to their commander. They were informed of the origin of the dispute, and wished nothing better than to fan up the embers of the old quarrel between the nobles and the people.

The young gentlemen saw that it was useless to attempt resistance.

“Murder us!” cried the Viscount; “even as your friends at Paris have murdered De Launay, Foulon, and Berthier.”

“Our friends, as you call them, in Paris, disgraced themselves by laying hands on men who were scarcely good enough to die by the hands of the common executioner. But what would you have? The people have cried for justice, and it has been denied them. Is it, then, wonderful that they should take the law in their own hands when the opportunity presented? But as for you, gentlemen, as you are not gaolers, like De Launay, or extortioners, like Foulon and Berthier, you have not merited death, but simply a little lesson, which I shall have great pleasure in giving you.”

“Give a lesson to us?” cried the young men, mad with rage.

“Yes; but it shall not be harsh or spiteful. This is a day of brotherly fraternity. Are you our brothers? Will you share in our fête? Forget the hard words that have passed between us; or, if you cannot, put them down to the account of that goddess who is aptly called Discord. The tables await you. Sit down among us, and we will give you the place of honor; and the first one who forgets to pay the respect which is due to you, shall be chased from the midst of us, as one unworthy of participating in our reunion. Do you agree with me?” cried Drouet to all who were around.

“Yes! yes!” replied all, with one voice, with the exception of the young nobles, who still continued silent.

“What if we refuse?” at last said one of them.

“If you refuse,” said Drouet, “go to the ‘Bras d’Or,’ or the ‘Grand Monarque;’ eat and drink as you like—you are free; but disturb not our enjoyment. Am I not right, my friends?” continued Drouet, for the second time addressing the crowd.

The applause was as loud as before.

“And if we do not promise to leave you in quiet enjoyment of your fête—what then?” asked another of the young nobles.

“As, by that act, you will prove that you are not good citizens, and that you are desirous of breaking the public peace, we shall ask you to leave the town quietly; and; if you refuse, we will expel you by force.”

“Bravo! bravo!” cried all.

M. de Malmy interrogated his companions with his eyes; and as he saw the same expression in all theirs, “Messieurs,” said he, “I regret that, in the name of my friend and myself, I must refuse the great honor that you offer us. I regret, also, that we cannot pledge our word not to interrupt the fête, as we are not sufficient philosophers to avoid breaking our promise; so—as we have no further business to detain us in town—we ask your permission to make our most respectful adieu, and to go and seek our pleasure elsewhere.”

“As you wish, M. le Viscount,” said M. Drouet. “You are free to go.” Then, assuming the tone of command which sat so well on him, he said, “Allow these gentlemen to pass, and preserve complete silence; the one who passes a remark, will have to answer for it to me.”

Not a sound could be heard.

In the midst of this oppressive silence, the young nobles remounted their horses, and returned by the way that they had arrived.

No word was spoken, no movement made; but the people followed the little party with their eyes until they finally disappeared from view on turning into the road leading to Clermont.

Then a voice was heard, calm, but commanding in its tones. It was Drouet’s.

“Lieutenant Bertrand,” said he, “place sentinels at the gates and see that the young nobles do not re-enter the town, during the continuance of the fête.”

Then, turning to the crowd, “Am I not right, my friends?” said he.

“Vive M. Drouet! Vive la nation!” cried the people, with one voice.

A few cries of “Down with the nobles!” were heard, but they had no response. In fact, Drouet turned to whence those cries proceeded, and made a gesture of disapprobation.

The fête then continued as happily as if nothing had happened.

CHAPTER X.
TOUCHING MADEMOISELLE SOPHIE.

I have said how much my encounter with De Malmy seemed to affect my companion, but that might have been accounted for in three ways. First, her fear for herself; second, her fear for me; and lastly, perhaps, her fear for my adversary.

I had not forgotten what Father Gerbaut had said with regard to his daughter’s looking higher than her position warranted, and to the attention which she drew from the young gentlemen who put up at the “Bras d’Or,” some of whom were, no doubt, those with whom we had been in contest.

I had naturally followed, with my eyes, the little cavalcade, until it finally disappeared.

On withdrawing my looks from it, I perceived that Sophie was half fainting. I offered her my arm, which she took, trembling at the same time all over.

“Oh, M. Réné,” said she, “I was so frightened! How glad I am that it ended as it did!”

For whom was she frightened? and for whose sake was she so glad that all was over?

Was it for our sakes, or for that of the young lords?

I did not like to ask her.

M. Drouet walked along the Place with us. We passed under the arch, and entered the Rue de la Basse Cour. Billaud lived some distance away, and Guillaume almost in the country; so those three young men went to the “Hotel du Bras d’Or,” and although the brothers Leblanc wished to give them a dinner for nothing, they insisted on paying for everything that they had.

The table at which they dined was on the other side of the street, just opposite to ours.

The clock of St. Gengoulf gave the signal for dinner.

The two first toasts proposed were “The King!” and “The nation!” They then drank another “To the health of those who, believing them to be in danger, had flown to their succor.”

Sophie ate but little, in spite of my remonstrances. Now and then, her father broke out into violent abuse against the young nobles, and I saw the tears trembling on her eyelashes every time that he did so.

We crossed the bridge thrown over the River Aire. Two streams of promenaders were continually passing—the one set mounting up, the other coming down. The Place du Grand Monarque was splendidly illuminated. The tables were not in any one’s way, being, for the most part, piled in front of the door of the church.

The Place du Grand Monarque being smoother and better paved than the Place Latry and, besides, not having the dispiriting influence of a cemetery, was chosen for the ball room.

The signal for the dance was given by a joyous peal from the church bells, to which violins and clarionets replied, and a quadrille was speedily formed.

My partner took my arm for the second dance, but suddenly complaining of illness, she implored me to take her home.

I was not an experienced dancer, but under Sophie’s tuition I got on so well, that I tried all I could to dissuade her from retiring; but she said, with a sad smile, “Do not ask me to remain, Réné,” and so I was obliged to comply with her request.

I gave her my arm, and we retraced our steps to the house.

M. Gerbaut had heard all about the fracas in the Rue des Réligieuses, and was very well pleased that we had given the young gentlemen a lesson.

Sophie, who had her arm in mine, heard all that he said to me, with downcast eyes, and gave no sign of approbation or otherwise, but I felt her shudder under her father’s words.

As I was leaving, “Mademoiselle,” said I, “I go back to-morrow, with my friends, probably before you awake; so permit me to say good-bye this evening, and to tell you before M. Gerbaut, what pleasure I feel in having made your acquaintance.”

“And I, M. Réné,” said she, “like you as a friend, and am well disposed to love you as a brother.”

“Very well, my children,” said Father Gerbaut, “embrace each other and say good-bye.”

Sophie turned to me both cheeks, which I kissed with a feeling of ineffable pleasure.

She then retired to her own room; I followed her with my eyes to the door, when she turned, and gave me a parting glance, and a parting smile.

“She is a good girl, after all,” said her father.

“A good girl, M. Gerbaut? Say, rather, an angel!”

“Angels are not so common as all that, my boy. But,” continued he, leading me along the corridor, and opening a door, “here is your room, not only for to-night, but for ever, if you will enter into my service. You shall have board and lodging, and twenty-five crowns a month. Do you hear me?”

I shook him by the hand, and thanked him for his kindness. He then wished me to come down stairs again, to drink a glass to the health of the nation. But I pleaded fatigue, and want of sleep, and entered my chamber.

The real reason why I did not comply with his offer, was that I wished to be alone.

I shut the door, for I was afraid that any one might come and look for me. But there was no fear of that. Every one was so busy enjoying himself, that they had no time to think of aught else.

I threw myself on the bed, and thought of Sophie.

M. Drouet had given me a sincere liking for intellectual existence, but Sophie awakened in me another kind of existence, that of love; and I felt, for the first time, that indescribable, but pleasurable sensation, which predicts the dawning of that passion.

A new future opened before me. This was the scene. A happy, though, perhaps, a humble home, with a careful and a beloved wife. I could see myself, at set of sun, walking by the river’s side, her heart beating against mine. I could fancy delaying under the tall trees, to hear the blackbird’s song. In a word, this dream of the future was that twofold life which, till then, had never engaged my boyish thoughts. Now, I seemed to have taken one step into this fairyland; and, although I trembled still, I would fain go on.

What, then, prevented me, I asked myself, from making this dream a reality? Why did I not at once close with M. Gerbaut’s offer? It was because my heart misgave me. I thought of Sophie’s evident leaning towards men of a higher class; I reflected that, to her, I must be a mere boy. And I groaned in spirit that I was not half a dozen years older.

At daybreak, the reveillé was beaten. My comrade had passed the night on the Place and in the streets, dancing and drinking. I jumped from my couch, and, having hastily dressed myself, crept on tip-toe to the door of Sophie’s chamber, wishing to say adieu, even if only through the key-hole.

I had trodden as lightly as possible, scarcely hearing my own footsteps; and how great was my astonishment on seeing the door open a little way, and a hand put out.

It was easy to see, through the crevice from which the hand was protruded, that Sophie had not retired to rest at all; or, if she had, that she had not undressed herself.

I seized the hand, and pressed it to my lips.

She withdrew it, leaving, at the same time, a little billet in mine, and quickly closed the door.

I could scarcely believe my eyes. I approached a window, and, by the light of early dawn, read these words:—

“I have no friends, Réné. Be one to me. I am very unhappy!”

I pressed, with one hand, the billet to my heart, and, with the other extended towards her chamber, I swore to accept and prove myself worthy of the friendship so mysteriously offered.

Then, perceiving that all was quiet in her room, I went down stairs, took my gun, and, throwing one parting glance at her window, passed into the street.

The curtain drew back, giving me a glimpse of her face. She nodded, throwing me a sad smile, and the curtain was replaced before the window.

Small as the time was that I had for observation, I could not help thinking that her eyes were reddened with weeping.

There was nothing wonderful in that. Had she not told me, in her letter, that she was very unhappy?

There was a mystery, which, no doubt, thought I, time will clear up.

I walked rapidly down the street, in the direction of the Place, knowing that, if I did not make a vigorous effort, I should never be able to tear myself away from the vicinity of the house.

The men of Clermont, D’Islettes, and St. Menehould—in fact, all who followed the same route—were collected in one group. They drank one last toast, shook hands for the last time, and separated.

Father Gerbaut conducted us as far as the top of the Hill des Réligieuses, and there renewed the offers that he had previously made to me.

I reached Father Descharmes’ cottage, and, for the first time, found it lonely, and my room wretched.

On the morrow, I re-commenced my usual routine of life; and though I had the same wish to make progress in my studies, still there was a dreary blank in my heart, which they could not fill.

CHAPTER XI.
WHAT “BROTHERHOOD” MEANT.

I have told you all that took place up to this time.

My life continued the same as ever, with the exception of a dreary feeling about the heart.

The events that took place in Paris had no direct effect upon me. I heard them as one might hear the echo of a distant thunder-clap.

In this way we heard of the abolition of titles, on the 1st of August; of the suppression of tithes; of the recognition of religious liberty; of the orgie of the gardes du corps; of the insult offered to the national cockade; of the days of the 5th and 6th of October; of the return of the King and Queen to Paris; of the plots and intrigues of the Court; of the prosecution of Bezenval and Favras; and of the publication of the Red Book by the assembly.

The Red Book revealed all.

The King, who had, on the 12th of February, sworn friendship to the Constitution, not only was in direct correspondence with the exiles, but went to Trêves, a military post, where his stables were situated, and which was in charge of Prince Lambese, the very man who had charged on the people in the garden of the Tuileries, on the 12th of July, and wounded an old man with his sabre, and trodden the helpless under foot.

The same kind of thing went on at Versailles. The King had a Minister of Foreign Affairs; uniforms were made for the gardes du corps, and sent to Trêves; horses were bought in England for the accommodation of the King’s household; and the only grumble that Louis XVI made, when he paid the bills, was, that, at least, they might have bought the horses in France.

The Comte D’Artois, the Prince Condé, and the other exiles, received enormous pensions.

They had not then been able to find what became of the sixty millions.

But now the Red Book pointed out where they had gone.

If, up to this moment, there had been any hesitation on the minds of the people, that hesitation now disappeared.

They knew where was their enemy.

The enemy was the exiles, and their ally, the King, who pensioned them.

This was the reason why the Assembly struck a decisive blow, and put up for sale, at one time, ecclesiastical benefices to the tune of four hundred millions. Paris alone bought two hundred millions’ worth.

All the municipalities followed that example. They bought a great number, and then sold them, one by one. In a word, they wished to expropriate the clergy, and they did not hesitate to do it.

There is something miraculous in this, and which does not appear in the history of any other country.

And that is, the spontaneous organization of France by itself. The Assembly was only a secretary. France did the deed; the Assembly registered it.

Before that, the division of old France into provinces was abolished; the boundaries had been already changed; there were no longer Provençals, Bretons, Alsaciens, Picards, or French.

The Champ de Mars was Mount Tabor, transfigured by the sun of June.

Valence gave, on the 29th of November, 1789, the example of the first federation; and each strove to follow the example given by the zealous Dauphin, our vanguard against the great enemy, the Savoyard King.

From anterior ages, the eldest man has always presided, whether noble or not. His age makes his right—his white locks his crown.

Rouen searched for an old Chevalier of Malta, eighty-five years of age, to preside at its federation.

In St. Audeol, there were two old men, respectively ninety-three and ninety-four years of age, the one a noble, and the other a plebeian—the one a colonel, the other a laborer. These two embraced at the altar, and the spectators embraced each other, crying, “There is no longer an aristocracy, no longer a working-class—there are only Frenchmen!”

At Lous le Lauheur, a citizen, whose name is forgotten, gave this toast:—

“To all men, equally to our enemies: let us swear to love and protect them.”

Open the book of royalty, and see if you can find a sentiment equal to that inscribed on the first page of the book of the people.

From all places, provincial and isolated, one cry arose:— “To Paris! To Paris! To Paris!”

As this cry burst from the throat of France, Royalists and Jacobins trembled. The Jacobins said, “The King, with his smile, and the Queen, with her white lips, will fascinate the credulous people from the provinces, and will cause them to turn against us, and the revolution will be at an end.”

The Royalists said, “To bring these provincials, already ripe for tumult, to Paris, the centre of agitation, is but bringing oil to feed the lamp of revolution. Who can say what will be the effect of this immense concourse, and what fearful events may come to pass through the incursions of two hundred and fifty thousand souls, from all quarters of France, into Paris?”

But the impulse was given, and the movement could not be stayed.

France wished, with that powerful will which nothing could arrest, to know itself.

The corporation of Paris demanded of the Assembly the general federation.

The Assembly, pretending to accord to their wish, named the 14th of July, the anniversary of the taking of the Bastille.

The news was propagated among all the provinces of the kingdom; but as they feared so great an assemblage in Paris, and wished to put all possible obstacles in their way, all expenses were put down to the charge of the localities.

All our department clubbed together. I was comparatively rich, having in my possession three or four hundred crowns, gained by my own labor, and saved by my own economy.

Father Descharmes had offered to give me what sum I wanted; but I refused to accept anything.

For some time, the poor old man had been declining in health. He had served princes all his life, and now missed them. One thing greatly perplexed him, and that was, whether France had the right to act as it was acting?

They had offered him a deputyship to the federation; but he shook his head, saying, “I am too old; Réné will go in my place.”

Afterwards, he had a long conversation with M. Drouet, in the course of which he gave him some papers, which he sorted with care, put in his portfolio, and took to St. Menehould.

On the eve of departure, a carriage drove up to the door of my uncle’s cottage; and, to my astonishment, I saw Sophie and her father alight from it.

I rushed out with a cry of joy, but suddenly stopped myself.

What would Sophie—what would her father think?

Father Gerbaut smiled. Sophie made a step in advance, and gave me her hand.

“Well, how is old Nimrod getting on?” said Father Gerbaut to my uncle, who had just come out of his room.

“As well as can be expected at my age, M. Gerbaut. It is necessary for the violet to blossom in spring, and the beech-tree to put forth its buds in May. He is just sixteen and a half years old. When I was at that age, I already had a sweetheart.”

I felt myself blushing to the very tips of my ears.

“Ah! I never had but one love. But where are you going to in this fashion?” asked my uncle; “for I cannot think that you came all this way on purpose to pay me a visit.”

“No, my old friend; though I am delighted to see you. I am on my way to St. Menehould, to put a few little affairs of mine in order. I have been appointed a member of the Federation, and I do not know how long we may be compelled to stay in Paris.”

“What a pity that you have not got a third seat in your carriage. I also have business at St. Menehould, and I would have asked you to give me a lift.”

“Good!” said M. Gerbaut; “all can be arranged. Sophie does not much care to go to St. Menehould. Do you, Sophie?”

“I only care to go, so as to be with you, father.”

“Well, then, stay here with Réné. You can stroll, in the wood, like two lovers, and we, like two old fogies as we are, will go and look after our affairs. If Réné were a young nobleman, I should not place so much trust in him; but he is a good lad, a clever workman, and an honest man, and as I would trust him with a purse, so will I trust him with my child.”

I looked joyfully at Sophie, but she showed neither pleasure nor sorrow; she seemed to be exactly of her father’s opinion, that we might be trusted together.

M. Gerbaut and Father Descharmes got into the vehicle, and drove off in the direction of the village of Islettes.

CHAPTER XII.
WHAT PASSED IN THE FOREST.

For some time I followed the carriage with my eyes, for I feared to look at Sophie, as I could not help thinking that the expression of her face would decide my future happiness or misery.

After a time I made up my mind; I turned round.

Sophie had a smile on her lips, but it seemed as if the rest of her face was overshadowed with sadness.

I offered her my arm, which she took.

“What would you like to do?” I asked her. “Would you rather stay here, or take a stroll in the wood?”

“Take me under the shadow of yon great trees, M. Réné. In my little chamber at Varennes I stifle for want of air.”

“It is singular, Mdlle. Sophie, that I always believed that you preferred the town to the country.”

“I prefer nothing. I live, that is all.”

She heaved a sigh.

The conversation fell.

I threw a side glance at Sophie. She appeared fatigued and in pain.

“You look pale,” said I; “and although you do not prefer the country to the town, I fancy it does you more good.”

She shrugged her shoulders, by way of reply.

“Perhaps,” said she.

I turned towards my uncle’s cottage, all covered with ivy and creepers, surrounded by flowers and shadowed by the branches of chestnuts and beech-trees.

It was beautiful, seen half in light and half in shadow. A cat was sleeping comfortably on the window-sill; two dogs were playing in front of the door; and a black-headed linnet was singing in its cage.

It was a beautiful picture of contented country life.

“Look, Mdlle. Sophie,” said I drawing her attention to the scene. “Would a little place like that, with a man who had the honor of being beloved by you, suffice for your ambition?”

“Who told you that I had ambition, Réné?”

“I ask you, do you think that you could be happy under those circumstances?”

She looked at me.

“You see, then, that I am now miserable?”

“You told me so in a letter, when I was staying at Varennes, eight months ago.”

“And have you not forgotten what I wrote to you so long as eight months ago?”

I drew a little portfolio from my pocket, and out of it I took a little scrap of paper, on which was written, in her hand—

“I have no friend, Réné; will you be one? I am very unhappy.”

“If the paper is a little crumpled,” said I, “it is because a day has never passed without my reading it.”

“Then how is it that I have never seen you since that morning, Réné?”

“For what purpose? Since you wrote to me you cannot have doubted me.”

“You have a good heart, Réné, and I did not wish to see you to get that opinion from you.”

“That is well. If you had had need of me, you had but to write, and I should have been with you in a moment. At first, day after day, I hoped for a letter. Oh, if I had received one!—had it been only the one word ‘Come!’—with what joy would I have flown to your side! But such happiness was not for me. Days, weeks, months passed away, and I remained alone with my sorrow, without ever being called away to offer you a consolation.”

She looked at me with an expression of affectionate tenderness.

“Ah, Réné, I should have liked to have seen you; but not hearing from you, I thought that you had forgotten me.”

“Oh, Mdlle. Sophie!” I cried; “I am not sufficiently happy or unhappy for that.”

“In truth, my dear Réné,” said she, trying to smile, “you have quite the air of a hero of romance.”

“As I have never read a romance, I scarcely know what that is.”

“A hero of romance, Réné,” said Sophie, smiling at the experimental lesson in literature she was trying to give me, “is a man who loves without hope.”

“That is good. Then am I a hero of romance. By the bye, what are these heroes supposed to do?”

“Everything impossible, in order to touch the heart of the woman they vainly love.”

“Then I am ready to do so; but, if commanded by you, I should know not impossibility.”

“Do not put your life in danger, Réné,” said Sophie. “Sighing for that would not benefit either of us.”

Now it was her turn to stop, and, having turned the corner of the road, she pointed out to me my uncle’s house under a different aspect, but still how beautiful!

“You just now asked me, Réné, if that house, in company with a man whom I loved, would not satisfy my ambition? Well, Réné, in my turn, I adjure you, in the name of that friendship that I have avowed towards you, wish for nothing more than that calm and peaceful existence that Providence has placed in your way. Follow the example of your uncle, who, for eighty years, has lived in peace with himself and with all mankind, without seeking to better his condition, and without ever wishing for a larger house, or a greater extent of land. In fact, this forest before us—is it not his? Do not its trees give him shelter? Do not the birds which inhabit it sing for his gratification, and do not the animals that make it their home serve for his food? In name, it belongs to the King; but, in reality, it is his. Réné, find a woman who loves you; that, I am sure, will not be difficult. My father tells me that you are one of the best carpenters that he knows. Ask the consent of your uncle—he will not refuse it; and live, as he has done, on the little spot where the happiest years of your life have passed away.”

In my turn, I shook my head.

“You will not?” said Sophie. “What, then, do you intend to do?”

“Mademoiselle Sophie,” said I, “I purpose being a man.”

“Has not your uncle been also a man, Réné?”

“Yes; but a man useless to his country. The times in which he lived, and the times in which we live, are different. The tranquillity which existed in his generation is not permitted in this.”

“You are ambitious, Réné?” asked Sophie.

“It is not ambition, mademoiselle; it is obedience to the designs of heaven. There are times when every man, great or small, carries his mission in himself. What, then? He must keep that mission till it is fulfilled. Who knows but that even I, insignificant as I am, have one? You have already drawn me from the crowd of my equals, because you condescended to take my arm. It was not all that I could have wished. Oh, Sophie, I ask you, here, under the shelter of these great trees, the most sacred temple that I know of, will you promise to be mine? Will you give me all the love that you can, and the happiest day of my life will be that on which I can prove my devotion to you! Oh, Sophie, give me hope!”

“I believe you, Réné; in fact, from the first moment I saw you, I never doubted you. Ah! why were you not always with me, to support me with your arm when I stumbled, and with your heart when I doubted? I have called on you many times, Réné.”

“Can this be true, Mademoiselle Sophie?” cried I, filled with joy.

“Yes,” said she, “but do not misunderstand me. I do not love you. I never shall love you, Réné,” continued she, looking me full in the face. “I feel instinctively that I have need of your friendship. Why I should implore it, how it can be useful to me, I know not; but still I feel sure I shall have recourse to it some day; and if you are away from me, Réné, on that day, whose help shall I implore? If you are near to me, I can rely on you; can I not? Again I say to you, as I wrote once before, I am truly unhappy.”

She took her arm from mine, hid her face in her hand, and I could see by the heaving of her bosom that she was weeping.

“Mademoiselle Sophie!” said I.

“Leave me, my friend—leave me. I do not like to weep before you, and I feel that I must weep.”

And, with one hand, she made me a sign to go.

I obeyed.

She sat down by the side of a little brook, which fell into the Brésme, and taking off her hat, which she placed by her side, began to pluck flowers, and throw them into the water.

Sixty years have passed since that day, and I fancy that I can still see the poor child with her golden hair floating in the breeze, the tears coursing down her cheeks, throwing the flowers into the current of the Brésme, which would carry them to the Aisne, the Aisne to the Oise, the Oise to the Seine, and the Seine to the sea.

After about an hour had passed, she got up silently, came towards me, and smilingly took my arm.

We retraced our steps to my uncle’s house.

We had scarcely arrived, when we heard the sound of wheels. It was Father Gerbaut’s carriage.

Sophie, who had not spoken one word all the way home, seized my hand.

“Réné,” she said, “do not forget that you have given me your word; I trust you.”

“Mademoiselle Sophie,” said I, pressing her hand to my heart, “one call alone can be stronger than yours—that of my country.”

M. Gerbaut stayed about an hour to rest his horse, and then, with Sophie, mounted into his vehicle.

The poor girl waved her hand. Father Gerbaut cried “Farewell!” and the carriage disappeared behind a clump of trees, which hid the road to Meuvilly.

I returned to where Sophie had been sitting down; I picked up the flowers she had let fall, and placed them in my little portfolio, together with the letter which she had written to me at Varennes, and in which she had poured forth all her soul.

CHAPTER XIII.
THE PEOPLE IN COUNCIL.

On the morrow, the ninth of July, ’90, we were en route at daybreak, drums beating in front of us, to assist in the celebration of the grand fête of the general federation.

Father Descharmes embraced me, with an expression of sorrow which wounded me to the heart.

“Perhaps you youngsters are in the right,” said he, “and we old men are in the wrong. But what will you, my child. One cannot give up in two days the creed of sixty years.”

“I know not what may come of all this, but I hope that my eyes will be closed in death before it does come.”

“But uncle,” said I, “although it would be a great treat to me to go to Paris and see the fête, still, if you wish it, I will not go.”

“No, my boy, go; and heaven grant that I may live to see your return, and that we may meet again in this world.”

I embraced him as I wept, for I loved him dearly.

Had he not fed and clothed me and brought me up, and watched the infant become, under his roof a man?

“Bring my arm-chair to the door,” said he; “I do not wish to lose the last glimpse of the setting sun.”

I obeyed. Leaning on my shoulder he reached the door, and sitting down in the chair, took my hand, and kissed me, saying “Go!”

I departed, returning in time to see this good old servitor of royalty die. With kingcraft he suffered, and with its death he died.

When I lost sight of him, it seemed as if I had left him for ever, and I felt half inclined to return at once, never to leave him; but the temptation of seeing Paris was too much for me, and in another moment we were in sight of the houses of Islettes.

A surprise awaited me there.

The inhabitants, not wishing to be separated from their Curé, had put him into a little carriage drawn by a horse, and the good priest, his eyes overflowing with tears, was bidding farewell to Mademoiselle Marguerite, who wept on the steps in front of the door of the Presbytery.

In those days, a journey of forty leagues was no small matter, and the poor girl believed that the good Abbé Fortin had departed for ever.

We continued our route, the drums beating, and the carriage rolling ahead of us. Some of our party pressed on in front, to form an escort of honor for the worthy priest.

We found M. Drouet awaiting us at the head of the deputation, on the Place of St. Menehould.

Amongst the deputation, was an old soldier of the Seven Years War, who had served under Marshal Saxe, and who was present at the battle of Fontenoy; and a sailor, who was in active service at the time of the birth of the Bailli de Suffren. Both, living ruins of an ancient regime, wished to witness the dawn of a new era.

M. Drouet had placed a carriage at their service, but they would not use it. It therefore proceeded empty in the midst of the cortêge, in the front rank of which the two veterans marched with heads erect—a benediction, as it were, bestowed by the dead era on the age which was just about to dawn.

All the high roads of France were filled with processions like ours, all hastening to one great focus—Paris.

Never since the Crusade had so great a number, of their own will, bent their steps in one direction.

All along the road, deputations came to greet the travellers.

They offered hospitality to the old men and priests. It was impossible to provide for all, so the main body bivouacked in the open air.

Great fires were lighted, at which every one prepared his simple meal. There was no lack of wine in a country which particularly cultivated grapes.

On the morrow, at daybreak, all started at beat of drum. When the noise of the drum ceased, all joined in the chorus of the Ça ira of ’90, which has nothing in common with the menacing and bloodthirsty Ça ira of ’93.

This song kept up the energies of those men on the march, who were toiling along under a hot July sun, to the end of the journey. It supported those laborers who were making the arena, so to speak, where great deeds were to be done.

We have said that it was with an unwilling heart that the Assembly decreed the federation—that it was with an unwilling heart that the city had sent its workmen to the Champ de Mars, to prepare for that great and solemn reunion. The time approached—the work did not proceed. What happened?

All Paris rose, and proceeded to the Champ de Mars carrying various implements of labor—one a pickaxe another a shovel, and so on.

And not only did the people—not only did the bourgeoisie do this, but old men and children, lords and laborers, ladies of rank and women of shame, actors and actresses, priests and soldiers,—all joined in the work, which did not even close when night fell like a shroud over the city of Paris.

The invalids, who could not work on account of their being maimed, held the torches, to lighten them at their labors.

Begun in the morning of the 9th of July, this stupendous work was completed in the night of the 13th, two hours before sunrise.

We arrived on the 12th, in the evening.

Paris was crowded; but, strange to say, the hotel keepers and letters of lodgings, instead of raising their prices, lowered them considerably. This spoke well for the disposition of Paris towards us.

Truly this was not the federation of France, but the fraternal greeting of the world.

A Prussian Baron—Jean Baptiste de Clootz, better known by the name of Anacharsis—presented himself before the National Assembly with twenty men of different nations—Russians, Poles, men of the north, men of the west, men of the east, and men of the south,—all habited in the costume of their country. He came to ask permission for them to appear at the federation of the Champ de Mars, as they wished to represent the federation of the world.

Later on, this same Anacharsis Clootz wished to give twelve thousand francs, to make war against royalty.

One may imagine my astonishment on finding myself in Paris, on the Boulevards, gazing at the ruins of the Bastille.

Drouet pointed it out to me, afterwards, the patriotic workmen on the Champ de Mars. I rushed to join them; and, seizing a spade, was speedily hard at work.

My fellow-workman appeared to be an artizan of about fifty years of age. He gave orders to a boy about my age, who was close at hand.

On seeing the ardor with which I worked, he asked me who I was, and whence I came.

I told him that my name was Réné Besson; that I came from the new department of the Meuse; and that I was apprenticed to a carpenter, by trade.

When he heard this, he held out his hand, a smile illuminating his austere visage.

“Take that, boy,” said he. “If you are an apprentice, I am a master; and here are two lads, about your age, who live with me, to learn their trade. If you have nothing better to do, come and sup with me to-night—you shall be made welcome.”

I shook hands with him, and accepted his kind offer. The French, at the dawn of the Revolution, were a nation of brothers.

As the clock struck five, we threw down our tools, gave ourselves a wash in the Seine; after which we crossed over to the other side of the river, and entered the Rue St. Honoré.

The master and I had walked side by side all the way, the two apprentices following behind.

He asked me some questions about our department, what political opinions we had, and whether I knew any one in Paris.

I answered all his questions with becoming modesty.

My companion stopped at the commencement of the Rue St. Honoré, on the left-hand side, opposite a church, which I discovered later on to be the Church of Assumption.

“We have arrived,” said he; “I will go first, to show you the way.”

He passed down a passage, at the extremity of which I perceived a light.

I involuntarily raised my head, and read on the façade of the house these three words:

“Duplay, Master Carpenter.”

I entered—the apprentices followed me.

CHAPTER XIV.
MY NEW PARISIAN FRIENDS.

The carpenter, Duplay, in contact with whom fortune had brought me, had, at that period—that is to say, on the 12th of July, 1790,—the celebrity of having given shelter to a notorious revolutionist, which celebrity afterwards was attached to his name, his family, and his house.

He was a good patriot, and attended constantly at the Jacobin Club which was held in the neighborhood, and where almost all his evenings were passed, applauding the speeches of a little advocate of Arras, who, though ridiculed in the National Assembly, was appreciated in the Rue St. Honoré. The name of this little advocate was Robespierre.

When we arrived, we found the table laid for supper, through the forethought of his two daughters, Estelle and Cornelie. Their old grandmother was seated in an arm-chair, and Madame Duplay was in the kitchen, devoting all her attention to the forthcoming meal.

I was introduced to the two young ladies, both very charming girls. Estelle was a blonde, with beautiful blue eyes, and a figure wonderfully symmetrical, and flexible as a reed.

Cornelie was a brunette, with eyes black as sloes, and a stately and majestic contour.

Estelle dropped her eyes, as she curtseyed.

Cornelie smiled, and looked me full in the face.

Neither, however, paid much attention to me after the first salutation. I was younger than the youngest of them—that is to say, in their eyes, almost a child.

As to the apprentices, one appeared to be about eighteen, and the other a month or two older than I.

The elder was called Jacques Dinant. I don’t know what has since become of him. The other was Félicién Herda, afterwards a celebrity in the Revolution.

This latter was a young man—fair, of a light complexion—a regular child of Paris—irritable, and as nervous as a woman. The nickname which his comrades gave him, as his irritability was always dragging him into controversy, and as he used always to say “No” to every theory, was “Citizen Veto.”

Need I say that the veto was the prerogative of the King, and that it was through his wrong use of this privilege on two occasions that he alienated his people.

Madame Duplay appeared from the kitchen, with the first course. I was presented to her; but she paid even less attention to me than her two daughters had done.

She was about thirty-eight or forty years of age, and must, at one time, have been beautiful, but with those coarse and too matured charms common to the lower orders of the people.

She shared all the patriotic opinions of her husband, and was, like him, an ardent admirer of Robespierre.

There was a discussion during supper concerning the relative merits of the Jacobin leaders, in which the apprentices took part as equals of their master.

I fancied, somehow, that Félicién Herda regarded me with an evil eye. As the stranger, I had the seat of honor next to Mademoiselle Cornelie; and I think he must have looked upon it as an encroachment on his privileges.

Although well read in antiquity, I was profoundly ignorant of modern politics, and this gained me the pity of M. Duplay.

I knew the name of the famous Club of Jacobins, where Monsieur passed his patriotic evenings, but of all else I was ignorant.

From that bed of aristocratic Jacobins of ’89, one could not foretell the springing up of the terrible and popular Jacobins of ’93.

Robespierre alone appeared, but he began to assume that pale and impassible visage which was never forgotten, if once seen.

Duplay promised to take me to the Jacobins, and to show me him who was known among them by the title of an “honest man.”

Robespierre had, as yet, but on two occasions spoken; and he had obtained the name of the “Timon of public affairs.”

I know not if it was the view of Robespierre, whom I saw that night for the first time, that engraved the words on my mind, but I know this—that, in sixty years, I have not forgotten one word of his biography, or one lineament of his face.

I feel that I could draw his portrait now, as life-like as when he appeared first to me, on the platform, preparing to address us; and, from that time to the end, I was his most devoted admirer.

Robespierre was born in 1758, in that old, sombre, ecclesiastical and judicial town of Arras, capital of Artois, a province of France only 150 years, and where may yet be seen the ruins of the immense palace of its King-Bishop.

His father, an advocate of the council of the province, lived in Rue de Rapporteur. The young Maximilian was born there, that name being given him in honor of the last conqueror of the city.

Notwithstanding his hard work, the advocate was poor; but a wife, older than himself, helped to alleviate their poverty. She died. He thought the burden too heavy to bear alone, so, one morning, he decamped, and was no more seen in Arras.

They spoke of suicide, but nothing was proved.

The house was shut up, the four children abandoned. The eldest, Maximilian, was eleven; after him, came his brother, whom they called “young Robespierre;” after him, two sisters, one of whom, called Charlotte de Robespierre, has left some rare and curious memoirs. The other sister died three or four years after the disappearance of her father.

What with the death of his mother, and the absence of his father, there was enough to render the boy serious and unhappy. The friends who assisted the family asked the powerful Abbé of St. Vaast, who possessed a third of the town, and who had the disposal of many bursarships at the college of Louis-le-Grand, to give one to young Maximilian. The charitable Abbé complied with their desire.

He started alone for Paris, with a letter of recommendation to a prebendary, who died almost at the same time as the young bursar entered the college.

It was in that ancient building that the young pupil grew pale, sickly, and envenomed, like a flower deprived of the sun; away from home, away from his friends, separated from all who loved him, and from all who could have brought a glow to his cheeks, or imparted happiness to his withered soul.

It was there that he met Camille Desmoulins, an ecclesiastical bursar like himself, and Danton, a paying pupil.

The sole friendship of his boyhood was formed with these two. How lightly that friendship weighed in the balance we know, when he believed that the moment had come to sacrifice it on the shrine of his country.

Two things militated against the firm continuance of this friendship; the one, the gaiety of Camille Desmoulins; and the other, the immorality of Danton, who paid no attention to the reproaches of his fellow-student.

Robespierre paid for his bursarship with laurel crowns. He left with the reputation of being a sound scholar—a reputation which gained him few friends and little honor. He afterwards studied with a procureur, entitled himself to practise, and returned to Arras a middling lawyer, but a stern politician, and having learnt to smile with the lips while the heart was filled with gall.

His younger brother took his place at college, while Maximilian, through the kindness of the Abbé de St. Vaast, was nominated a member of the criminal tribunal.

One of the first cases that he had to judge was that of an assassin. The crime was not only patent, but avowed. It fell to Robespierre to pronounce sentence of death.

The next day he sent in his resignation, not wishing to be put to a like test again.

That is how it was that he became an advocate. His philanthropy made him the defender, in place of the condemner of men. Duplay pretended to know, from certain sources, that Robespierre had never undertaken to defend a cause that was not just; but even were it just, he had to uphold it against all. He examined the cause of the peasants who brought a complaint against the Bishop of Arras, found it just, pleaded against his benefactor, and gained the day.

This rectitude, although it had no material influence on his fortunes, increased greatly his reputation. The province sent him to the Etats Généraux, where he had for his adversaries all the nobility and clergy of his native State.

For adversaries—we say too much. The priest and nobles thought too little of him to regard him in such a light.

This contempt, which had followed Maximilian to college, pursued him with greater violence now that he had attained a seat in the National Assembly.

He was poor and they knew it. They ridiculed his poverty; he thought it an honor. Having nothing, receiving nothing, but his salary as a member of the Assembly, a third of which went to his sister, he still lived. When the Assembly put on mourning for the death of Franklin, Robespierre, too poor to purchase a suit of black, borrowed a coat for four francs, which, being too long for him, excited, throughout the time of mourning, the irrepressible mirth of the Assembly. The only consolation left him among all this ridicule was, that no one doubted his honesty.

“Had I not confidence,” said he, in one of his speeches, “I should be one of the most wretched men in the world.”

Yet, notwithstanding this, the man was not popular. Some few, indeed, through a species of instinct, saw that he was capable of great things, and among these were Duplay, his wife, and his two daughters.

All these details were given me during supper with the persistence of conviction. It was, therefore, with the liveliest satisfaction that I hailed M. Duplay’s offer to take me to the Jacobins’ Club, and looked forward with curiosity to see him whom they called honest, and afterwards stamped incorruptible.

CHAPTER XV.
I GO TO THE JACOBINS’ CLUB.

At nine o’clock, we left the house, and walked up the Rue St. Honoré towards the Palais Royal.

A current of people pointed the way, stopping at the little door of the Jacobin convent, which exists to this day.

I knew not that this was the place where the aristocratic and literary assembly held their meetings until told so by Duplay.