by Eugène Sue
Even Barrel Mirabeau was taken aback at this diatribe. “God’s death, Sir Abbot,” he cried with horror, “do you take us for gallows-tenders?”
“To make of us mowers of heads!” cried the Count of Plouernel. “’Tis insanity!”
“What exquisite fastidiousness!” retorted Morlet.
“You must have clean lost your senses, Abbot,” returned Plouernel. “To dare to propose such a role to us — to make hyenas out of us!”
“We sons of the Church,” answered the Abbot, “shall then assume the role ourselves, if it is so repugnant to you, gentlemen of the nobility. You fear to soil your lace cuffs and silk stockings with mire and blood; we of the clergy, less dainty, and arrayed in coarser garb, are free from any such false delicacy. We shall roll up our cuffs to the elbow, and perform our duty. We shall save you, then, my worthy gentlemen, with or without your aid; that will be an account to be settled afterwards between us.”
“The priest has been vomited forth from hell,” thought Victoria, to herself. “He is a demon incarnate.”
“We shall know how to save the monarchy, Sir Abbot,” replied the Count of Plouernel to his friend Morlet, “even without the need of you folks of the Church; have no worry on that score. You forget that it was our sword which established the monarchy in Gaul and revived the Catholic Church, fourteen centuries ago, without the aid of the cassocks of that time.”
“Fine words — but empty,” answered the Abbot. “If you are indeed so determined to draw the sword, Monsieur Count, will you then please tell me why, this very day, you resigned into the hands of the King the command of your regiment? Your boast comes at a poor season.”
“You well know why, Monsieur Abbot,” the Count retorted. “My regiment grew uncontrollable. The evil, however, dates far back. The first symptoms of insubordination in the French Guards showed themselves two years ago. A sergeant named Maurice” — Victoria shuddered— “had the insolence to pass me without saluting; and after I took off his cap with a stroke of my cane, he had the audacity to raise his hand against his colonel. I handed the mutineer over to the scourges till he dropped dead. That is how I avenge my honor.”
As Monsieur Plouernel thus told the story of Sergeant Maurice, Victoria was unable to control herself. Her features contracted, and she fixed on Plouernel a look of menace. Then a sudden flush overspread her features. None of this was lost upon the Abbot. “What is this mystery?” he pondered. “The Marchioness casts an implacable look at the Count, then she blushes — she who till now has been as pale as marble. What can there have been between this Italian Marchioness and this sergeant in the French Guards, now two years dead?”
At that moment the steward again entered the banquet hall and approached the Count of Plouernel.
“What news, Robert?” asked the latter.
“Terrible, my lord!”
“My Robert is not an optimist,” explained Plouernel to the company. “In what does this terrible news consist?”
“The barriers of the Throne and St. Marcel are on fire. Everywhere the tocsin is clanging. The people of the districts are gathering in the churches.”
“Behold the sway of our holy religion over the populace — they pray before the altars,” cried the Cardinal briskly.
“Alas, my lord, it is not to pray, at all, that the rebels are swarming into the churches, but to listen to haranguers, and among others a comedian by the name of Collot D’Herbois, who preaches insurrection. They trample the sacred vessels under foot, spit on the host, and tear down the priestly ornaments.”
“Profanation! Sacrilege!” exclaimed the Cardinal, suddenly modifying his ideas on the sway of his faith over the people.
“One of our men,” continued the steward, “saw them putting up bills which the rabble read by the light of their torches. One of the placards read: ‘For sale, because of death, the business of Grand Master of Ceremonies. Inquire of the widow Brezé.’”
“Ah, poor Baked one,” sang out the Marquis, making a hideous pun on the unfortunate officer’s name, “you are cooked! All they have to do now is to eat you!”
“On other placards were written in large letters, ‘Names of the Traitors to the Nation: Louis Capet — Marie Antoinette — Provence — Artois — Conti — Bourbon — Polignac — Breteuil — Foulon’ — and others.”
“That is intended to point out these names to the fury of the populace!” gasped the Viscount of Mirabeau.
“The rumor runs through Paris that to-morrow the people will rise in arms and march on Versailles.”
“So much the better,” exclaimed the Viscount. “They will be cut to pieces, this rabble. Cannoniers — to your pieces — fire!”
“Go on, tell us what you know,” said Plouernel to his steward Robert. “Is that all?”
“Alas no, my lord. This miserable populace in arms surrounds and threatens the City Hall. The old Board of Aldermen is dissolved, and is replaced by a new revolutionary committee, which has taken the power into its own hands.”
“Are the names of this committee known?” asked the Count.
“Yes, my lord. From the City Hall windows they threw to the rioting people lists with the names. Here is one which our emissary got hold of:— ‘President of the permanent committee, Monsieur Flesselles, ex-Provost of the merchants’—”
“Oh, well,” laughed the Duke, “if the other members of the committee are revolutionists of that stamp, we can sleep in peace. Flesselles is in our employ.”
“Finish reading your paper,” ordered the Count.
“‘The said committee, in session assembled, decrees: Article I — A city militia shall immediately be organized in each district, composed of licensed business men. Article II — The cockade of this militia shall be blue and red, the city colors.’”
“Is that all? Finish reporting,” said Plouernel, seeing the steward pause.
“One of our spies, on entering the neighborhood of the Palais Royal, heard threats hurled against his Majesty Louis XVI, and especially against her Majesty, the Queen. Everyone looks for terrible events to-morrow, my lord.”
Seeing he had nothing more to report, Plouernel allowed the steward to depart, first ordering him to come back with any fresher information.
“Now gentlemen,” Victoria began when the steward had withdrawn from the room, “the gravity of the situation takes foremost place. There is no longer room for deliberation — there must be action. Time is pressing. Count, has the court foreseen that the agitation in Paris would drive the malcontents to open revolt? Is it prepared to combat the uprising?”
“Everything has been anticipated, madam,” answered Plouernel. “Measures are on foot to repulse the rebels. This very morning I received word as to the plans of the court.”
“Why then do you allow us to wander into objectless suppositions and discussions?” asked the Cardinal.
“I was commanded to exercise the utmost discretion in the matter of the court’s projects. But in view of the information which my steward has just brought in on the popular frenzy in Paris, and on the assaults which the discontented element is meditating, I hold it my duty to inform you of the plans laid down.”
Drawing a note from his pocket, the Count continued, reading:
“Monsieur the Marshal Broglie is appointed commander-in-chief. He said this morning to the Queen: ‘Madam, with the fifty thousand men at my command I pledge myself to bring to their senses both the luminaries of the National Assembly and the mob of imbeciles which hearkens to them. The gun and the cannon will drive back under earth these insolent tribunes, and absolute power will again assume the place which the spirit of republicanism now disputes with it.’
“Monsieur the Marshal Broglie is invested with full military powers. Bezenval is placed in command of Paris, De Launay holds the Bastille and threatens with his artillery the suburb of St. Antoine; the garrison of that fortress has for several days been secretly increased, and ammunition worked in. The Bastille is the key to Paris, inasmuch as it
commands the respect of the most dangerous suburbs, and can annihilate them with its guns.
“The last regiments recalled from the provinces by the Marshal will arrive to-night on the outskirts of Versailles and will powerfully re-enforce the Swiss and the foreign regiments. An imposing array of artillery and a large troop of cavalry will complete this corps of the army. Thus united, the troops will move, day after to-morrow, July the 15th, to the invasion of the National Assembly, which will have been allowed to convene. The Assembly will be surrounded by the German regiments, and the ring-leaders of the Third Estate forthwith arrested.”
In a lowered and confidential tone the Count continued:
“The most dangerous of the rebels will be shot at once. A goodly number of them will be thrown into the deepest dungeons of the different State prisons of the kingdom. Finally, the small fry of the Third Estate will be exiled to at least a hundred leagues from Paris. A royal warrant will dissolve the National Assembly and annul its enactments. After which Monsieur Broglie, at the head of his army, will march on Paris, take military possession of it, establish courts-martial which will at once judge and put to death all the chiefs of the sedition, banish the less culpable, and confiscate their goods to the benefit of the royal fisc. Should it resist, Paris will be besieged and treated like a conquered city — three days and three nights of pillage will be granted to the troops. After which, the royal authority will be re-established in full glory.”
“There, gentlemen, that is the plan of campaign of the court.”
Loud acclamations from the company — excepting only the Abbot — greeted the reading of the communication by Monsieur Plouernel.
“This plan seems to me to be at all points excellently expeditious and practical,” said Victoria. “It has every chance of success. Still, has the court foreseen the event of Paris, protected by barricades and defended by determined men, resisting with the force of despair? Has the court foreseen the event of Monsieur Broglie being defeated in his conflict with the people?”
“Madam, that case also is provided for,” answered Plouernel. “The King and the royal family, protected by a powerful force, will leave Versailles and retire to a fortified place on the frontier. The Emperor of Austria, the Kings of Prussia and Sweden, and the majority of the princes of the Germanic Confederation, will be prepared to assist the royal power. Their armies will cross the frontier, and his Majesty, at the head of the arms of the coalition, will return to force an entry into his capital, which will be subjected to terrible chastisement.”
“One and all, we are prepared to shed our blood for the success of this plan,” cried the Viscount of Mirabeau, swelling with enthusiasm. “To battle!”
“Has this plan the approval of the King?” asked Victoria. “Can one count on his resolution?”
“The Queen but awaits the hour of putting it into practice to inform his Majesty of it,” answered the Count. “Nevertheless, the King has already consented to the assembling of a corps of the army at Versailles. That is a first step gained.”
“But if the King should refuse to follow the plan? What course do you then expect to take?” persisted Victoria.
“It will go through without the consent of Louis XVI. If necessary, we shall proceed to depose him. Then Monseigneur the Count of Provence will be declared Lieutenant-General of the kingdom, and the Queen, Regent, with a council of unbending royalists. Then we shall see courts-martial and firing squads in permanence! Volleys unceasing!”
“It is done for royalty if the court dare put its plan, into execution,” muttered Victoria to herself. “To-morrow the Bastille will be taken.” Then, rising, her face glowing with animation, and holding her glass aloft, she called, in her brilliant voice:
“To the death of the Revolution! To the re-establishment of Royalty! To the triumph of the Church! To the Queen!”
And catching her fire, the whole company, with one voice, cried:
“Death to the Revolution!”
“Meet me to-morrow morning at Versailles, gentlemen, in battle,” cried Plouernel.
And all except the Abbot shouted back the reply:
“In battle! We shall all be at Versailles to deal the people its death-blow!”
The sarcastic coolness of the priest sat the Count ill. “Are you stricken dumb, Abbot,” he inquired, “or do you lack confidence in our plan?”
“No, I have not the slightest confidence in your plans,” answered the prelate calmly. “Your party is marching from blusterings to retreats, and on to its final overthrow, which will be that of the monarchy. But we shall be there, we the ‘shaven-heads,’ the ‘priestlets,’ as you dub us; the ‘creatures of the Church,’ ‘hypocrites and Pharisees,’ to repair your blunders, you block-heads, you lily-livers! We of the frock and cassock contemn you!”
This deliverance of the Abbot was followed by a storm of indignant cries from the assembled guests. Threats and menaces rose high.
“By heaven!” shouted Barrel Mirabeau, “if you were not a man of the cloth, Abbot, you would pay dear for your insults!”
“Let him rave,” said the Cardinal, shrugging his shoulders, “let him rave, this hypocrite of the vestry-room, this rat of the Church, this Jesuit!”
“Mademoiselle Guimard awaits his Eminence in her carriage!” called out a lackey, stepping into the room.
“The devil! The devil!” muttered his Eminence the Cardinal as he rose to go. “I clean forgot my Guimard in the midst of my political cares. Well, I must go to face the anger of my tigress!”
The banquet broke up. The guests left the table, and gathered in little groups before parting, still carrying on the discussion of the evening. Only Abbot Morlet stood apart, and as he let his sardonic glance travel from group to group, he muttered to himself grimly:
“Simpleton courtiers! Imbecile cavaliers! Stupid prelates! Go to your Oeil-de-Boeuf! Go to Versailles — go! To-morrow the dregs of the populace will have felled their first head. The appetite for killing comes by killing. As to that foreign Marchioness, of whom it is well to have one’s doubts, if it becomes advisable to get rid of her, her handsome head with its black hair will look well on the end of a pike some of these days. So let’s be off. I must prepare that bully of a Lehiron, the old usher of the parish of St. Medard, to call together to-night his band of rascals, ready for anything. And then to get ready my disguise and that of my god-son, little Rodin!”
CHAPTER VIII.
IN THE HALL OF THE PORTRAITS.
HALF AN HOUR later none of that brilliant company remained in the home of the Count of Plouernel save the Count himself, and Victoria Lebrenn. The two were in the Hall of the Portraits, in contemplation of which the beautiful Marchioness seemed lost. Struck with her long silence, and seeing her gaze riveted upon the pictures, the Count approached her, saying in a surprised and passionate voice:
“Do you know, Madam Marchioness, that I shall end by becoming jealous of my ancestors? For several minutes they alone have been happy enough to draw your attention.”
“True, Count. I was reflecting on the glory of your race. Proud was I, for your sake, of your illustrious origin.”
“Ah, Victoria, such words! But allow me to tell you, my radiant Marchioness, how I love you. Every day I feel my mad passion grow. By my honor as a gentleman, you could have led me on to treason as easily as you have confirmed me in the path of loyalty which I now tread. You have so mastered me that to possess your love I would have betrayed my King, and forever stained my escutcheon.” Then, casting himself on his knees before the Marchioness, the Count continued in a trembling voice, “Is that not yet sufficient, Victoria?”
At the moment that the Count of Plouernel had seized and was covering with kisses the hand of Victoria, a loud knock was heard at the door of the salon.
“Rise, Count,” said Victoria, quickly. “It is one of your men.”
Robert the steward entered precipitately, bearing in one hand a tray on which lay a despatch. He said to his master:
; “A courier from Versailles brought this despatch for my lord. The courier reached the house only with the greatest difficulty. To escape arrest by the people in the streets he was forced to leave his horse some distance from the barrier, and to throw off his royal livery.”
“You may go,” replied Monsieur Plouernel, as he took the message.
He tore open the envelope and made haste to read the contents of the missive, while Victoria followed him with curiosity burning in her eyes, and said in her most winning voice as she drew close to him, “News of importance, no doubt, my dear Gaston? You seem much moved by it.”
“Read, Marchioness, for I have no secrets from you,” answered Plouernel, handing the despatch to Victoria. “Judge of the extreme urgency of my information!”
The young woman eagerly grasped the letter, cast her eyes over it, and then said, with a silvery laugh: “But it is in cipher. Give me the key. I cannot read it — without your help.”
“True — pardon my distraction,” replied the Count, and he read as follows, translating the cipher as he went:
“To-day’s events in Paris, and the news from the country, are of such nature that our measures must be pushed forward to execution. Repair to Versailles at once. Let not one of our friends be missing. It will probably be done to-morrow.
“Versailles, seven o’clock in the evening.”
“And it is now past midnight!” exclaimed Victoria, “You should have received the message at least two or three hours ago. Whence the delay? Must it be laid to negligence, or treachery? Both suppositions are possible.”
“You forget, Marchioness, that the messenger was compelled to use great precautions to enter Paris, and that his precautions in themselves, were quite capable of causing the delay. So that it is neither false play nor carelessness — no one is guilty.”
