"What will you do with them, then?" asked one of the electors.
"What will I do with them?" said Bailly. Why, I will give them to you, or I will throw them into some ditch at the foot of a tree."
"Take good care not to do that!" cried the elector, completely horrified. "Do you not know that these keys re the same which the city of Paris offered to Henry IV. after the siege? They are very precious; they are inestimable antiquities."
"You are right," rejoined Bailly; "the keys offered to Henry IV., the conqueror of Paris, and which are now to be offered to Louis XVI., heh? Why, I declare, now," said the worthy mayor to himself, "this would be a capital antithesis in my speech."
And instantly he took a pencil and wrote above the speech he had prepared the following exordium:—
"Sire, I present to your Majesty the keys of the good city of Paris. They are the same which were offered to Henry IV. He had re-conquered his people; to-day the people have re-conquered their king."
The phrase was well turned, and it was also true. It implanted itself in the memories of the Parisians; and all the speeches, all the works of Bailly, this only survived.
As to Louis XVI., he approved it by an affirmative d, but coloring deeply at the same time; for he felt epigrammatic irony which it conveyed, although concealed beneath a semblance of respect and oratorical flourishes.
"Oh! Marie Antoinette," murmured Louis XVI. to self, "would not allow herself to be deceived by this tended veneration of Monsieur Bailly, and would reply a very different manner from that which I am about to do to the untoward astronomer."
And these reflections were the cause why Louis XVI., who had paid too much attention to the commencement of the speech, did not listen at all to the conclusion of it, nor to that of the president of the electors, Monsieur Delavigne, of which he heard neither the beginning nor the end.
However, the addresses being concluded, the king, fearing not to appear sufficiently delighted with their efforts to say that which was agreeable to him, replied in a very noble tone, and without making any allusion to what the orators had said, that the homage of the city of Paris and of the electors was exceedingly gratifying to him.
After which he gave orders for the procession to move on towards the Hôtel de Ville.
But before it recommended its march, he dismissed his body-guard, wishing to respond by a gracious confidence to the half-politeness which had been evinced to him by the municipality through their organs, the president of the electors and Monsieur Bailly.
Being thus alone, amid the enormous mass of National Guards and spectators, the carriage advanced more rapidly.
Gilbert and his companion Billot still retained their posts on the right of the carriage.
At the moment when they were crossing the Place Louis XV., the report of a gun was heard, fired from the opposite side of the Seine; and a white smoke arose, like a veil of incense, towards the blue sky, where it as suddenly vanished.
As if the report of this musket-shot had found an echo within his breast, Gilbert had felt himself struck, as by a violent blow. For a second his breath failed him, and he hastily pressed his hand to his heart, where he felt a sudden and severe pain.
At the same instant a cry of distress was heard around the royal carriage; a woman had fallen to the ground, shot through the right shoulder.
One of the buttons of Gilbert's coat, a large steel button, cut diamond-fashion, as they were worn at the period, had just been struck diagonally by that same ball.
It had performed the office of a breastplate, and the ball had glanced off from it; this had caused the painful shock which Gilbert had experienced.
Part of his waistcoat and his frill had been torn off by the ball.
This ball, on glancing from the button, had killed the unfortunate woman, who was instantly removed from the spot, bleeding profusely.
The king had heard the shot, but had seen nothing.
He leaned towards Gilbert, and smiling, said:—
"They are burning gunpowder yonder, to do me honor."
"Yes, Sire," replied Gilbert.
But he was careful not to mention to his Majesty the nature of the ovation which they were offering to aim.
In his own mind, however, he acknowledged that the queen had some reason for the apprehensions she had expressed, since, but for him standing immediately before, and closing the carriage-door, as it were, hermetically, that ball, which had glanced off from his steel button, would have gone straight to the king's breast.
And now from what hand had proceeded this so well-aimed shot?
No one then wished to inquire, so that it will never now be known.
Billot, pale from what he had just seen, his eyes incessantly attracted to the rent made in Gilbert's coat, waistcoat, and frill, excited Pitou to shout as loudly as he could, "Long live the Father of the French!"
The event of the day was so great that this episode was quickly forgotten.
At last Louis XVI. arrived in front of the Hôtel de Ville, after having been saluted on the Pont Neuf by a discharge of cannon, which, at all events, were not loaded with ball.
Upon the facade of the Hôtel de Ville was an inscription, in large letters, black in the daylight, but which, when it was dark, were to form a brilliant transparency. This inscription was the result of the ingenious lucubrations of the municipal authorities.
The inscription was as follows:—
TO LOUIS XVI., FATHER OF THE FRENCH, AND KING OF A FREE PEOPLE.
Another antithesis, much more important than the one contained in Monsieur Bailly's speech, and which elicited shouts of admiration from all the Parisians assembled in the square.
The inscription attracted the attention of Billot.
But as Billot could not read, he made Pitou read the inscription to him.
Billot made him read it a second time, as if he had not understood it perfectly at first.
Then, when Pitou had repeated the phrase, without varying in a single word:—
"Is it that?" cried he,—"is it that?"
"Undoubtedly," replied Pitou.
"The municipality has written that the king is a king of a free people?"
"Yes, Father Billot."
"Well, then," exclaimed Billot, "since the nation is free, it has the right to offer its cockade to the king."
And with one bound, rushing before the king, who was then alighting from his carriage at the front steps of the Hôtel de Ville:—
"Sire," said he, "you saw on the Pont Neuf that the Henry IV. in bronze wore the national cockade."
"Well?" cried the king.
"Well, Sire, if Henry IV. wears the national cockade, you can wear it too."
"Certainly," said Louis XVI. much embarrassed; "and if I had one—"
"Well," cried Billot, in a louder tone, and raising his hand, "in the name of the people I offer you this one in the place of yours; accept it."
Bailly intervened.
The king was pale. He began to see the progressive encroachment. He looked at Bailly as if to ask his opinion.
"Sire," said the latter, "it is the distinctive sign of every Frenchman."
"In that case I accept it," said the king, taking the cockade from Billot's hands.
And putting aside his own white cockade, he placed the tricolored one in his hat.
An immense triumphant hurrah was echoed from the great crowd upon the square.
Gilbert turned away his head, much grieved.
He considered that the people were encroaching too rapidly, and that the king did not resist sufficiently.
"Long live the king!" cried Billot, who thus gave the signal for a second round of applause.
"The king is dead," murmured Gilbert; "there is no longer a king in France."
An arch of steel had been formed, by a thousand swords held up, from the place at which the king had alighted from his carriage, to the door of the hall in which the municipal authorities were waiting to receive him.
He pass
ed beneath this arch, and disappeared in the gloomy passages of the Hôtel de Ville.
"That is not a triumphal arch," said Gilbert, "but the Caudine Forks."
Then, with a sigh:—
"Ah! what will the queen say to this?"
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Chapter VIII
Showing what was taking place at Versailles while the King was listening to the Speeches of the Municipality
IN the interior of the Hôtel de Ville the king received the most flattering welcome; he was styled the Restorer of Liberty.
Being invited to speak,—for the thirst for speeches became every day more intense,—and wishing, in short, to ascertain the feelings of all present, the king placed his hand upon his heart, and said:—
"Gentlemen, you may always calculate on my affection."
While he was thus listening in the Hôtel de Ville to the communications from the government,—for from that day a real government was constituted in France, besides that of the throne and the National Assembly,-the people outside the building were admiring the beautiful horses, the gilt carriage, the lackeys, and the coachman of his Majesty.
Pitou, since the entry of the king into the Hôtel de Ville, had, thanks to a louis given by Father Billot, amused himself in making a goodly quantity of cockades of red and blue ribbons, which he had purchased with the louis, and with these, which were of all sizes, he had decorated the horses' ears, the harness, and the whole equipage.
On seeing this, the imitative people had literally metamorphosed the king's carriage into a cockade-shop.
The coachman and the footmen were profusely ornamented with them.
They had, moreover, slipped some dozens of them into the carriage itself.
However, it must be said that Monsieur de Lafayette, who had remained on horseback, had endeavored to restrain these honest propagators of the national colors, but had not been able to succeed.
And therefore, when the king came out:—
"Oh, oh!" cried he, on seeing this strange bedizenment of his equipage.
Then, with his hand he made a sign to Monsieur de Lafayette to approach him.
Monsieur de Lafayette respectfully advanced, lowering his sword as he came near the king.
"Monsieur de Lafayette," said the king to him, "I was looking for you to say to you that I confirm your appointment to the command of the National Guards."
And Louis XVI. got into his carriage amid a universal acclamation.
As to Gilbert, tranquillized henceforward as to the personal safety of the king, he had remained in the hall with Bailly and the electors.
The speechifying had not yet terminated.
However, on hearing the loud hurrahs which saluted the departure of the king, he approached a window, to cast a last glance on the square, and to observe the conduct of his two country friends.
They were both, or at least they appeared to be, still on the best terms with the king.
Suddenly Gilbert perceived a horseman advancing rapidly along the Quay Pelletier, covered with dust, and obliging the crowd, which was still docile and respectful, to open its ranks and let him pass.
The people, who were good and complaisant on this great day, smiled while repeating:—
"One of the king's officers!—one of the king's officers!"
And cries of "Long live the king!" saluted the officer as he passed on, and women patted his horse's neck, which was white with foam.
This officer at last managed to reach the king's carriage, and arrived there at the moment when a servant was closing the door of it.
"What! is it you, Charny?" cried Louis XVI.
And then, in a lower tone:—
"How are they all out yonder?" he inquired.
Then, in a whisper:—
"The queen?"
"Very anxious, Sire," replied the officer, who had thrust his head completely into the carriage-window.
"Do you return to Versailles?"
"Yes, Sire."
"Well, then, tell our friends they have no cause for uneasiness. All has gone off marvellously well."
Charny bowed, raised his head, and perceived Monsieur de Lafayette, who made a friendly sign to him.
Charny went to him, and Lafayette shook hands with him; and the crowd, seeing this, almost carried both officer and horse as far as the quay, where, thanks to the vigilant orders given to the National Guards, a line was formed to facilitate the king's departure.
The king ordered that the carriage should move out at a walking pace, till it reached the Place Louis XV. There he found his body-guards, who were awaiting the return of the king, and not without impatience; so that this impatience, in which every one participated, kept on increasing every moment, and the horses were driven on at a pace which increased in rapidity as they advanced upon the road to Versailles.
Gilbert, from the balcony of the window, had fully comprehended the meaning of the arrival of this horseman, although he did not know his person. He readily imagined the anguish which the queen must have suffered, and especially for the last three hours; for during that time he had not been able to despatch a single courier to Versailles, amid the throng by which he was surrounded, without exciting suspicion, or betraying weakness.
He had but a faint idea of all that had been occurring at Versailles.
We shall now return there with our readers, for we do not wish to make them read too long a course of history.
The queen had received the last courier from the king at three o'clock.
Gilbert had found means to despatch a courier just at the moment the king entered the Hôtel de Ville, under the arch formed by the swords of the National Guards.
The Countess de Charny was with the queen. The countess had only just left her bed, which from severe indisposition she had kept since the previous day.
She was still very pale. She had hardly strength to raise her eyes, the heavy lids of which seemed to be constantly falling, weighed down either with grief or shame.
The queen, on perceiving her, smiled, but with that habitual smile which appears, to those familiar with the court, to be stereotyped upon the lips of princes and of kings.
Then, as if overjoyed that her husband was in safety:—
"Good news again!" exclaimed the queen to those who surrounded her; "may the whole day pass off as well!"
"Oh, Madame!" said a courtier, "your Majesty alarms yourself too much. The Parisians know too well the responsibility which weighs upon them."
"But, Madame," said another courtier, who was not so confiding, "is your Majesty well assured as to the authenticity of this intelligence?"
"Oh, yes," replied the queen. "The person who writes to me has engaged, at the hazard of his head, to be responsible for the safety of the king. Moreover, I believe him to be a friend."
"Oh! if he is a friend," rejoined the courtier, bowing, "that is quite another matter."
Madame de Lamballe, who was standing at a little distance, approached.
"It is," said she, "the lately appointed physician, is t not?"
"Yes, Gilbert," unthinkingly replied the queen, without reflecting that she was striking a fearful blow at one who stood close beside her.
"Gilbert!" exclaimed Andrée, starting as if a viper had bit her to the heart; "Gilbert, your Majesty's friend!"
Andrée had turned round with flashing eyes, her Lands clinched with anger and shame, and seemed proudly to accuse the queen, both by her looks and attitude.
"But still," said the queen, hesitating.
"Oh, Madame, Madame!" murmured Andrée, in a tone of the bitterest reproach.
A deathlike silence pervaded the whole room after this mysterious incident.
In the midst of this silence, a light step was heard upon the tesselated floor of the adjoining room.
"Monsieur de Charny!" said the queen, in a half-whisper, as if to warn Andrée to compose herself.
Charny had heard—he had seen all—only he could not comprehend it.
He
remarked the pallid countenance of Andrée, and the embarrassed air of Marie Antoinette.
It would have been a breach of etiquette to question the queen, but Andrée was his wife; he had the right to question her.
He therefore went to her, and in the most friendly tone—
"What is the matter, Madame?" said he.
Andrée made an effort to recover her composure.
"Nothing, Count," she replied.
Charny then turned towards the queen, who, notwithstanding her profound experience in equivocal positions, had ten times essayed to muster up a smile, but could not succeed.
"You appear to doubt the devotedness of this Monsieur Gilbert," said he to Andrée. "Have you any motive for suspecting his fidelity?"
Andrée was silent.
"Speak, Madame; speak!" said Charny, insistingly.
Then, as Andrée still remained mute:—
"Oh, speak, Madame!" cried he. "This delicacy now becomes condemnable. Reflect that on it may depend the safety of our master."
"I do not know, sir, what can be your motive for saying that," replied Andrée.
"You said, and I heard you say it, Madame,—I appeal moreover to the princess,"—and Charny bowed to the Princess de Lamballe, "you exclaimed with an expression of great surprise, 'Gilbert, your Majesty's friend!'"
"'Tis true, you did say that, my dear," said the Princess de Lamballe, with her habitual ingenuousness.
Then, going closer to Andre:—
"If you do know anything, Monsieur de Charny is right."
"For pity's sake, Madame! for pity's sake!" said Andrée, in an imploring tone, but so low that it could not be heard by any one but the princess.
The princess retired a few steps.
"Oh, good Heaven! it was but a trifling matter," said the queen, feeling that should she any longer delay to interfere, she would be betraying her trust. "The countess was expressing her apprehensions, which doubtless were but vague. She had said that it was difficult for a man who had taken part in the American Revolution, one who is the friend of Monsieur de Lafayette, to be our friend."
"Yes, vague," mechanically repeated Andrée,—"very vague."
"A fear of a similar nature to one which had been expressed by one of the gentlemen present before the countess had expressed hers," rejoined Marie Antoinette.
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