by Eugène Sue
“Ah, count also on my co-operation, my dear John,” exclaimed Madam Desmarais, her eyes filling with tears. “I now understand the grandeur, the usefulness, the holiness of the task which you impose upon yourself for the benefit of your apprentices and workmen. You seek to educate them; you charge yourself with the molding of their characters!”
Gertrude, entering at that moment, said to the young workman:
“Monsieur Desmarais knows that you are here, Monsieur Lebrenn. He asks you to wait for him. He will be in directly.”
“Mother,” said Charlotte sadly, “grievous as is the dissimulation, I believe there is every necessity for us not to inform father as yet of our resolve to live apart from him after my wedding.”
“I am not of your opinion, my dear Charlotte,” objected John, whose candidness would have suffered under the reticence. “At any rate, we have time to consider the matter. But it is necessary to decide, before Monsieur Desmarais comes in on how to convey to Monsieur Hubert the proposal I made to you, dear mother.”
“Dear John,” replied Madam Desmarais, “I have a secure means of communication with him. But should my letter indeed be intercepted, and your name be found in it, do you not fear to be compromised?”
“Should they seize your letter, it will not injure me in the slightest. The attempt I make is loyal. I accept proudly the responsibility attached to it, the same as, this very morning, I took upon myself the responsibility, still more serious on the face of it, of giving an Emigrant who had sought refuge with me the means, not of escaping justice — my duty would not permit that — but of leaving our house. Thanks to me, the ex-Count of Plouernel was able, without molestation, to gain a safe retreat.”
“That great seigneur who once so shamefully outraged my husband?” cried Madam Desmarais in surprise.
“Monsieur Plouernel,” Charlotte asked, “the descendant of that ancient family of warrior Franks which has done so much injury to your plebeian stock?”
“Precisely. By a strange fatality, he picked a fight with me last night. I thought I had killed him, but he was only stunned. This morning when Monsieur Plouernel had sufficiently regained his senses and strength, I conducted him to the threshold of our house. The porter, recognizing my voice, opened the street door to the Emigrant. Now let the justice of men be done; I can not denounce an enemy defeated and wounded.”
At this moment advocate Desmarais stepped into the parlor, cordially tendering his hand to Lebrenn, and saying:
“Good day, my dear friend, my worthy pupil.” Then passing to the young artisan a paper he held in his hand, the lawyer added: “Read that aloud, my dear John.”
Charlotte’s betrothed read as follows:
“Citizen colleague:
“I announce to you the marriage of my daughter, Charlotte Desmarais, to Citizen John Lebrenn, the iron worker.
“The vows of the two as husband and wife will be received by the municipal officer of the Section of the Pikes, on the day that the head of Louis Capet the tyrant falls on the scaffold.
“Fraternal greetings,
“BRUTUS DESMARAIS.
“December 12, year One of the
Republic one and indivisible.”
“That is a copy of the circular letter I have just addressed to my colleagues of the Convention, to invite them to your wedding with my daughter. What do you say to the phrasing of my missive, and especially to the time chosen for your wedding?”
“My God!” thought Madam Desmarais with a shudder, “the fate of Louis XVI aroused my husband’s pity, and still he chooses the day of that prince’s execution to marry our daughter upon. What abominable hypocrisy!” And Madam Desmarais left the parlor.
“You ask me, Citizen Desmarais, what I think of your letter of invitation, and of the time set for my union with Charlotte; I reply to you, in all sincerity, that I extremely regret that you chose the day of the execution of Louis XVI for our marriage.”
“And I, father, hold with John.”
“I suspect you, my daughter, of being a little royalist,” replied the lawyer in a bitter-sweet tone; “and as to you, my dear pupil, I did not believe it necessary to remind you that the day a King’s head falls into the basket is a festive day, a day of joy for all good patriots.”
“Citizen Desmarais, did I sit in the Convention I would have voted for the death of Louis XVI, as a perjurer and a conspirer against the nation. But the day when the glaive of the law strikes the last of the Kings will not be a day of joy for the Republic.”
“And what will it be, then, O my pupil? A day of mourning, perhaps?”
“For good patriots there will be neither joy nor mourning, Citizen Desmarais. It will be a day of deep and sober thought. Louis XVI is not a man, but a principle, representing the oldest monarchy in Europe. In striking Louis XVI, it is royalty that is beheaded. It is not a head that will fall to the scaffold, but a crown.”
“My faith, my dear pupil, you have indeed out-reasoned your master. The death of the tyrant, in fact, causes patriots more than the delirium of joy, it causes a religious meditation, as you have so aptly said. But what is done is done. I sent off my circular this morning to all our friends in the Mountain; I can not now change the date of your marriage.”
“Father,” said Charlotte gravely, “John and I have awaited for years the day that would consummate our hopes; we would gladly consent to postpone still further the day that is to unite us, in order not to coincide with that of the death of the King, guilty though he be.”
“Enough on that subject, my daughter, time presses. You, my pupil, will come to the notary’s with me, if you please, to settle the terms of your marriage contract. Thence we shall hie us to the Convention, where I shall present you to my colleagues of the Mountain as my future son-in-law.”
“I would say to you, Citizen Desmarais, that I do not intend to interfere in the making of the contract; that shall be drawn up as it pleases you.”
“But you must know, my dear pupil, what dowry I settle upon my daughter!”
“That is a financial question in which I am not in the slightest degree interested.”
“Ah, my children,” returned the lawyer, in sepulchral tones, “what regret I feel at not being able to endow you as I would wish! But I have ruined myself in patriotic gifts. Save for this house and some little properties which amount to almost nothing, there remain to me in all only 850 louis, which I share with you, my children. This dowry is very small, my dear John, after that which you hoped to secure from your father-in-law.”
“The thought of a dower never presented itself to me; be convinced of that, Monsieur Desmarais.”
“I believe you, my dear pupil, expecting no less of your delicacy. But, apart from the 425 louis which I leave to you, you shall be lodged here, without expense to you; for we shall never part, my dear pupil. We shall be but one single family, and we shall also find room for your sister, who has so admirably lived down her past; for I no longer see in her the mistress of Louis XV, but the worthy daughter of the proletaire. And so, my dear John, it is indeed settled that neither you nor your wife shall leave me; I count on it, absolutely; it is for our peace and mutual happiness.”
Charlotte was as indifferent as John to the figure of her dowry; but knowing through her mother that the settlement originally was to have been 120,000 livres, buried in the cellar of the house, the young girl was wounded by the secret calculations of her father, who, she thought (nor was she mistaken), in dowering her so niggardly expected to force John Lebrenn to take up his residence with him.
“I must thank you for your offer, Citizen Desmarais,” answered John, “but I desire but one thing in the world, the hand of Charlotte. That I have obtained. All the rest is in my eyes but a bauble; it concerns me little, and troubles me not at all.”
“Such delicacy does not surprise me, coming from you, my dear John. So you accept the terms of contract, as to the dowry? It is agreed?”
“Perfectly, and without objection.”
<
br /> “In that case, let us at once set about drawing up the marriage articles. The notary awaits us.”
“Adieu, Charlotte. I shall at once see the members of the Committee of General Safety about your uncle,” added John softly to his betrothed.
“Ah, if I had ever hesitated to leave my father’s house,” replied the young girl to her lover in like tones, “this last interview with him would have removed my scruples.”
“Come, my pupil, let us go,” said the lawyer, approaching the young couple. “Adieu, my daughter; tell mother that our dear John will dine here — the betrothal feast!”
“Till we meet again, father,” answered the young girl, with a look of intelligence to John, who, accompanying his future father-in-law, left the house.
CHAPTER XVIII.
THE KING SENTENCED.
IF THERE HAD ever existed any doubt as to the crimes of high treason charged against Louis XVI, the doubt vanished before the crushing proofs furnished against him during his examination. Deseze, Tronchet and Malesherbes, charged with the defense made their main plea on the royal inviolability guaranteed by the Constitution of 1791.
According to the defense of Louis XVI, and, indeed, according to the text of the Constitution itself, the King, even though he violated the Constitution, even though he betrayed the state, even though he led an invasion upon France, and at the head of foreign troops put the country to fire and sword, even then he incurred no penalty other than that of deposition. Such was the brief of the King’s lawyers.
This theory, in which the absurd jostled the monstrous, was not judged worthy of a refutation by the Convention. Capet’s accusers placed the question on a higher plane, by affirming and demonstrating the nullity of the Constitutional pact of 1791. Such was the opinion held by Robespierre, St. Just, Condorcet, Carnot, Danton, several Girondins, and, in fact, the great majority of the house.
In the name of justice, of right, and of reason, Louis XVI richly merited the verdict of guilty.
The sovereignty of the people being permanent, indivisible and inalienable, the Constitution of 1791 was radically null and void, in that it provided for the hereditary alienation of a portion of the people’s rights, in favor of the ex-royal family. The Conventionists of 1793 were no more in love with the Constitution of 1791 than the Constituents of 1791 were with the monarchical, feudal and religious institutions which had weighed like an incubus on France fourteen centuries long.
A nation has the power, but never the right, to alienate its sovereignty, either in whole or in part, by delegating it to a hereditary family. Such an alienation, imposed amid the violence of conquest, borne out of habits of thought, or consented to in a moment of public aberration, binds neither the present generation nor those to come. Accordingly, the Constitution of 1791 being virtually null in fact, Louis Capet could not invoke the protection of that Constitution, which guaranteed the inviolability of the royal person, and limited his punishment to deposition in a few specified cases. Louis XVI was, then, legally brought to trial. By reconquering its full sovereignty on the 10th of August, the nation invested the Convention with the powers necessary for judging the one-time King. His crimes were notorious and flagrant; their penalty was written in the books of the law, equally for all citizens; he must, then, undergo the penalty for his misdeeds.
I, John Lebrenn, add here some further passages from my diary, relating to the trial, judgment and execution of Louis Capet.
JANUARY 15, 1793. — Having heard the defense submitted by Deseze, one of the attorneys for Louis XVI, the Convention put to a vote this first question:
“Is Louis Capet guilty of conspiracy against liberty and the nation, and of assault on the general safety of the State?”
The Assembly contained seven hundred and forty-nine members.
Six hundred and eighty-three replied:
“Yes, the accused is guilty.”
The roll-call being completed, the president of the Assembly announced the decision:
“In the name of the French people, the National Convention declares Louis Capet guilty of conspiracy against liberty and the nation, and of assault on the general safety of the State.”
The second question was:
“Shall the decision of the National Convention be submitted to ratification by the people?”
The members who voted for ratification by the people were two hundred and eighty-one; those against ratification, four hundred and twenty-three.
The president announced the result of the vote:
“The National Convention declares the judgment rendered on Louis Capet shall not be sent for ratification to the people.”
JANUARY 17, 1793. — To-day and yesterday the sessions of the Convention were permanent, due to the gravity of the situation. The debate turned upon the third question:
“What shall be the penalty imposed on Louis XVI?”
I was present at the sessions wherein the elected Representatives of the people decided the fate of the Frankish monarchy, imposed on Gaul for fourteen centuries. It was not alone the man, the King, that the Convention decapitated — it was the most ancient monarchy in Europe. It was not only the head of Capet that the Republic wished defiantly to cast at the feet of allied Europe; it was the crown of the last of the Kings.
It was eight in the evening. In response to their names as the roll was called the members of the Convention mounted the tribunal one by one, and in the midst of a solemn silence cast their vote.
This evening, Thursday, at eight o’clock, while throughout the spacious hall one might have heard a pin drop, Vergniaud announced the result:
“The Assembly consists of seven hundred and forty-nine members; 15 are absent on committees, 7 because of illness, 1 without cause, censured; and 5 excused; number remaining, seven hundred and twenty-one.
“Required for an absolute majority, three hundred and sixty-one.
“Members voting for death unconditionally, three hundred and eighty-seven.
“Members voting for imprisonment, irons, or conditional death, three hundred and thirty-four.
“In the name of the people and the National Convention, I declare the penalty of death pronounced against Louis Capet.”
January 19, 1793. — The question put by Mailhe, “Shall there be any postponement of Louis XVI’s execution?” was discussed during the sessions of the 17th and 18th. At the end of to-day’s session, the president put the question to a vote:
“Shall the execution of Louis Capet be postponed, yes or no?”
The vote resulted: for postponement, three hundred and ten; against, three hundred and eighty. The postponement was lost. Pale, and with grief impressed upon his features, Vergniaud again ascended the tribunal and in a trembling voice announced:
“The National Convention declares:
“Article first. — Louis Capet, last King of France, is guilty of conspiracy against the liberty of the nation and of assault upon the general safety of the State.
“Article second. — The National Convention declares that Louis Capet shall suffer the penalty of death.
“Article third. — Notice of the decree which condemns Louis Capet to death shall he sent to the Executive Council.
“The Executive Council is charged to notify Louis XVI of the decree during the day, and to have him executed within twenty-four hours.
“The mayors and municipal officers of Paris shall be enjoined to allow Louis Capet liberty to communicate with his family, and to call upon a minister of the denomination he may elect, to attend his last moments.”
At three in the morning of Sunday, January 20, the meeting adjourned; and to cries of “Long live the Nation!” “Long live the Republic!” the multitude poured out of the galleries.
CHAPTER XIX.
EXECUTION.
SUCH WERE THE memorable sessions of the National Assembly of the 15th, 17th, 19th and 20th of January, 1793.
Glory to the men of energy, to the inexorable patriots!
JANUARY 21,
1793. — The execution of Louis Capet took place to-day, Monday, the 21st of January, 1793!
My sister and I were present at the death of Louis. A vast throng filled the Place of the Revolution. The scaffold faced the avenue of the Elysian Fields, a short distance from the spot occupied by the statue of Louis XV.
At ten minutes past ten in the morning, a dull rumor, drawing nearer and nearer, announced the arrival of the condemned. My sister and I were not far from the scaffold, behind a line of Municipal Guards. We beheld a two-horse carriage draw up, accompanied by General Santerre and several officers of his staff. Claude Bernard and James Roux, an ex-priest, the municipal officers charged with guarding Capet, alighted first from the carriage, where Louis remained for two minutes’ space with his confessor. Then, with firm tread, and supported by the executioners, he ascended the steps of the platform. He was clad in grey trousers and a soft white waistcoat; his purpled face betrayed intense excitement. Suddenly he stepped to the edge of the scaffold, and cried to the people:
“Frenchmen, I am innocent—”
At Santerre’s command the roll of drums drowned the rest of the speech. Louis XVI cast a look of rage at the drummers, and cried to them angrily to desist.
The drumming continued. Louis Capet was turned over to Sampson, the executioner-in-chief, and his aides. A few seconds later, the sixty-sixth of these foreign Kings of Gaul had paid the penalty of his crimes, had expiated the wrongs of the monarchy of which he was the last incarnation.
The King’s head, held up to the people by the headsman, was greeted with the shouts of the multitude.
