CHAPTER XVI.
THE WIDOW.
During the slaying of the last of his adherents, what was the monarchdoing? Being hungry, he called for his dinner.
Bread and wine, cold fowl, and meat, and fruit were brought him. He setto eating as if he were at a hunting-party, without noticing how he wasstared at.
Among the eyes fixed on him was a pair burning because tears would notcome. They were the queen's. It seemed to her that she could stay thereforever, with her feet in her beloved's blood, living like a flower onthe grave, with no nourishment but such as death affords.
She had suffered much lately, but never so as to see the king eating,for the position of affairs was serious enough to take away a man'sappetite.
The Assembly, rather than protect him, had need of protection foritself. It was threatened by a formidable multitude roaring for thedethronement, and they obeyed by a decree. It proposed a NationalConvention, the head of the executive power being temporarily suspendedfrom his functions. The Civil List was not to be paid. The king andfamily were to remain with the Assembly until order was restored; thenthey were to be placed in the Luxembourg Palace. Vergniaud told thedeposed sovereign that it was the only way to save his neck.
This decree was proclaimed by torch-light that night.
The lights at the Tuileries fell on the ghastly scenes of thesearchers and the mourners among the dead. Three thousand five hundredinsurgents--to omit two hundred thieves shot by the rioters--hadperished. This supposes as many wounded at the least. As the tumbrelsrolled with the corpses to the working quarters, a chorus of curseswent up against the king, the queen, their foreign _camerilla_, thenobles who had counseled them. Some swore revenge, and they had it inthe coming massacres; others took up weapons and ran to the palace tovent their spite on the dead Swiss; others again crowded round theAssembly and the abbey where were prisoners, shouting "Vengeance."
The Tuileries presented an awful sight: smoking and bloody, desertedby all except the military posts which watched lest, under pretense offinding their dead, pillagers robbed the poor royal residence with itsbroken doors and smashed windows.
The post under the great clock, the main stairs, was commanded by ayoung captain of the National Guard, who was no doubt inspired by deeppity by the disaster, if one might judge by the expression of hiscountenance as each cart-load of dead was removed.
But the dreadful events did not seem to affect him a whit more thanthey had the deposed king. For, about eleven at night, he was busy insatisfying a monstrous appetite at the expense of a quartern loaf heldunder his left arm, while his knife-armed right hand unceasingly slicedoff hunks of goodly size, which he inserted into a mouth opening tosuit the dimensions of the piece.
Leaning against a vestibule pillar, he was watching the silentprocession go by, like shades of mothers, wives and daughters, in theglare of torches set up here and there; they were asking of the extinctcrater for the remains of their dear ones.
Suddenly the young officer started at the sight of one veiled phantom.
"It is the Countess of Charny," he muttered.
The shadow passed without seeing or hearing him.
The captain beckoned to his lieutenant.
"Desire," he said to him, on coming up, "yonder goes a poor lady ofDoctor Gilbert's acquaintance, who is no doubt looking for her husbandamong the dead. I think of following her, in case she should need helpand advice. I leave the command to you; keep good guard for both of us."
"Hang me if Doctor Gilbert's acquaintance has not a deucedlyaristocratic bearing," remarked Lieutenant Desire Maniquet.
"Because she is an aristocrat--she is a countess," replied the officer.
"Go along; I will look out."
The Countess of Charny had already turned the first corner of thestairs, when the captain, detaching himself from his men, began tofollow her at the respectful distance of fifteen paces. He was notmistaken. Poor Andrea was looking for her husband, not with the anxiousthrill of doubt, but with the dull conviction of despair.
When Charny had been aroused in the midst of his joy and happiness bythe echo of deeds in Paris, he had come, pale but resolute, to say tohis wife:
"Dear Andrea, the King of France runs the risk of his life, and needsall his defenders. What ought I do?"
"Go where duty calls you, my dear George," she had replied, "and diefor the king if you must."
"But how about you?" he asked.
"Do not be uneasy about me," she said. "As I live but in you, God mayallow that we shall die together."
That settled all between those great hearts; they did not exchange aword further. When the post-horses came to the door, they set out, andwere in town in five hours.
That same evening, we have seen Charny present himself for duty in hisnaval uniform at the same time that Dr. Gilbert was going to send forhim.
Since that hour we know that he never quitted the queen.
Andrea had remained alone, shut in, praying; for a space sheentertained the idea of imitating her husband, and claiming herstation beside the queen, as he had beside the king; but she had notthe courage.
The day of the ninth passed for her in anguish, but without anythingpositive. At nine in the morning next day she heard the cannon; it isneedless to say that each echo of the war-like thunder thrilled her tothe inmost fiber of her heart. The firing died out about two o'clock.
Were the people defeated, or the victors? she questioned, and was toldthat the people had won the day.
What had become of Charny in this terrible fray? She was sure that hehad taken a leading part. On making inquiries again, she was told thatthe Swiss were slain, but most of the noblemen had got away.
But the night passed without his coming. In August, night comes late.
Not till ten o'clock did Andrea lose hope, when she drew a veil overher face and went out.
All along the road she met clusters of women wringing their hands andbands of men howling for revenge. She passed among them, protectedby the grief of one and the rage of the other; besides, they wereman-hunting that night, and not for women.
The women of both parties were weeping.
Arriving on the Carrousel, Andrea heard the proclamation that therulers were deposed and safe under the wing of the Assembly, which wasall she understood.
Seeing some carts go by, she asked what they carried, and was told thedead from the palace yards. Only the dead were being removed; the turnof the wounded would come later.
She thought that Charny would have fallen at the door of the rooms ofthe king or the queen, so she entered the palace. It was at the momentwhen Pitou, commanding the main entrance as the captain, saw, and,recognizing her, followed.
It is not possible to give an idea of the devastation in the Tuileries.
Blood poured out of the rooms and spouted like cascades down thestairs. In some of the chambers the bodies yet lay.
Like the other searchers, Andrea took a torch and looked at body afterbody. Thus she made her way to the royal rooms. Pitou still followedher.
Here, as in the other rooms, she sought in vain; she paused, undecidedwhither to turn. Seeing her embarrassment, the soldier went up to her.
"Alas, I suspect what your ladyship is seeking!" he said.
"Captain Pitou?" Andrea exclaimed.
"At your service."
"Yes, yes, I have great need of you," she said. Going to him, she tookboth his hands, and continued: "Do you know what has become of theCount of Charny?"
"I do not, my lady; but I can help you to look for him."
"There is one person who can tell us whether he is dead or alive, andwhere he is in either case," observed Andrea.
"Who is that, my lady?" queried the peasant.
"The queen," muttered Andrea.
"Do you know where she is?" inquired Pitou.
"I believe she is in the House, and I have still the hope that my LordCharny is with her."
"Why, yes, yes," said Pitou, snatching at the hope for the mou
rner'ssake; "would you like to go into the House?"
"But they may refuse me admission."
"I'll undertake to get the doors to open."
"Come, then."
Andrea flung the flambeau from her at the risk of setting fire to theplace, for what mattered the Tuileries to her in such desperation? sodeep that she could not find tears.
From having lived in the palace as the queen's attendant, she knew allthe ways, and she led them back by short cuts to the grand entrancewhere Maniquet was on the lookout.
"How is your countess getting on?" he inquired.
"She hopes to find her lord in the House, where we are going. As we mayfind him," he added, in a low voice, "but dead, send me four stout ladsto the Feuillants' gate, whom I may rely on to defend the body of anaristocrat as well as though a good patriot's."
"All right; go ahead with your countess; I will send the men."
Andrea was waiting at the garden end, where a sentry was posted; but asthat was done by Pitou, he naturally let his captain pass.
The palace gardens were lighted by lamps set mostly on the statuepedestals. As it was almost as warm as in the heat of the day, and theslight breeze barely ruffled the leaves, the lamp-flames rose straight,like spear-heads, and lighted up the corpses strewn under the trees.
But Andrea felt so convinced that she should find her husband where thequeen had taken refuge, that she walked on, without looking to eitherright or left. Thus they reached the Feuillants' gate.
The royal family had been gone an hour, and were in the record office,for the time. To reach them, there were two obstacles to pass: theguards and the royal attendants.
Pitou, as commanding the Tuileries, had the password, and couldtherefore conduct the lady up to the line of gentlemen.
The former favorite of the queen had but to use her name to take thenext step.
On entering the little room reserved for her, the queen had thrownherself on the bed, and bit the pillow amid sobs and tears.
Certainly, one who had lost a throne and liberty, and perhaps wouldlose her life, had lost enough for no one to chaffer about the degreeof her despair, and not to seek behind her deep abasement if somekeener sorrow still did not draw these tears from her eyes and sobsfrom her bosom.
Owing to the respect inspired by this supreme grief, she had been leftalone at the first.
She heard the room door open, but as it might be that from the king's,she did not turn; though she heard steps approaching her pillow, shedid not lift her head from it.
But suddenly she sprung up, as though a serpent had stung her.
A well-known voice had simply uttered the single word, "Madame."
"Andrea?" cried Marie Antoinette, rising on her elbow. "What do youwant?"
"I want the answer God demanded of Cain when He said, 'What have youdone with your brother'?"
"With this difference," returned the queen, "That Cain had killed hisbrother; whereas I--so gladly--would give not only my existence, butten lives, to save his dear one."
Andrea staggered; a cold sweat burst out on her forehead, and her teethchattered.
"Then he was killed?" she faltered, making a great effort.
"Do you think I am wailing for my crown?" demanded the fallenmajesty, looking hard at her. "Do you believe that if this blood weremine"--here she showed her dyed foot--"I should not have washed it off?"
Andrea became lividly pale.
"Then you know where his body is?" she said.
"I could take you to it, if I were allowed to go forth," said theprisoner.
Andrea went out at the door by which Pitou was waiting.
"Captain," she said, "one of my friends, a lady of the queen's, offersto take me where the count's body is. May she go out with me?"
"On condition that you bring her back whence she came," said theofficer.
"That will do."
"Comrade," said Pitou to his sentry, "one of the queen's women wants togo out to help us find the body of a brave officer of whom this lady isthe widow. I will answer for her with my head."
"That is good enough for me, captain," was the reply.
The anteroom door opened and the queen appeared, but she had a veilwound round her head. They went down the stairs, the queen leading.
After a twenty-seven hours' session, the House had adjourned, andthe immense hall, where so much noise and so many events had beencompressed, was dumb, void, and somber as a sepulcher.
The queen called for a light. Pitou picked up an extinguished link,lighted it at a lantern, and handed it to her, and she resumed themarch. As they passed the entrance door, the queen pointed to it.
"He was killed there," she said.
Andrea did not reply; she seemed a specter haunting one who had calledher up.
The queen lowered the torch to the floor in the lobby, saying: "Beholdhis blood."
Andrea remained mute.
The conductress went straight to a closet attached to the "Logographe"box, pulled the door open, and said, as she held up the light toillumine the interior:
"Here is his body."
Andrea entered the room, knelt down, and taking the head upon her knee,she said:
"Madame, I thank you; this is all I wanted of you."
"But I have something to ask you--won't you forgive me?"
There fell a short silence, as though Andrea were reflecting.
"Yes," she replied, at length, "for I shall be with him on the morrow."
The queen drew a pair of scissors from her bosom, where they werehidden like a weapon to be used in an extremity.
"Then would you kindly--" She spoke almost supplicatingly, as she heldout the joined blades to the mourner.
Andrea cut a lock of hair from the corpse's brow, and handed it andthe instrument to the other. She caught her hand and kissed it, butAndrea snatched away hers, as though the lips of her royal mistress hadscorched her.
"Ah!" muttered the queen, throwing a last glance on the remains, "whocan tell which of us loved him the most?"
"Oh, my darling George," retorted Andrea, in the same low tone, "Itrust that you at least know now that I loved you the best!"
The queen went back on the way to her prison, leaving Andrea with theremains of her husband, on which a pale moonbeam fell through a smallgrated window, like the gaze of a friend.
Without knowing who she was, Pitou conducted Marie Antoinette, and sawher safely lodged. Relieved of his responsibility toward the soldier onguard, he went out on the terrace to see if the squad he had asked ofManiquet had arrived. The four were waiting.
"Come in," said Pitou.
Using the torch which he had taken from the queen's hands, he led hismen to the room where Andrea was still gazing on her husband's whitebut still handsome face in the moonshine. The torch-light made her lookup.
"What do you want?" she challenged of the Guards, as though she thoughtthey came to rob her of the dead.
"My lady," said Pitou, "we come to carry the body of Count Charny tohis house in Coq-Heron Street."
"Will you swear to me that it is purely for that?" Andrea asked.
Pitou held out his hand over the dead body with a dignity of which hemight be believed incapable.
"Then I owe you apology, and I will pray God," said Andrea, "in my lastmoments, to spare you and yours such woe as He hath afflicted me with."
The four men took up the warrior on their muskets, and Pitou, with hisdrawn sword, placed himself at the head of the funeral party. Andreawalked beside the corpse, holding the cold and rigid hand in her own.They put the body on the countess's bed, when that lady said to theNational Guardsmen:
"Receive the blessings of one who will pray to God for you to-morrowbefore Him. Captain Pitou," she added, "I owe you more than I ever canrepay you. May I rely on you for a final service?"
"Order me, madame."
"Arrange that Doctor Gilbert shall be here at eight o'clock in themorning."
Pitou bowed and went out. Turning his head as he did so, h
e saw Andreakneel at the bed as at an altar.