CHAPTER XXVII.
THE PARALLEL TO CHARLES I.
This worthy priest, of English origin, had escaped the Septembermassacres and was hiding out at Choisy, under the name of Essex, as thePrincess Elizabeth knew, and where to find him.
He came to the call, though he believed that he would be killed withinan hour of the dreadful scene.
He was not to quit the prisoner till he quitted the world.
The king was allowed to take farewell of his family in the dining-room,where the glass door allowed the guards still to keep him in sight.They knew the trial had taken place, but not the particulars, withwhich he supplied them. He dwelt particularly on the fact that Petionhad not pressed for the death penalty, and that Gilbert had voted tospare his life.
Heaven owed the poor prisoner some comfort, and it came in the love ofthe queen.
As has been seen in our story, the queen easily let the picturesqueside of life attract her. She had that vivid imagination which makeswomen imprudent even more than disposed; she had been imprudent all herlife in her friendship and in her loving.
Her captivity saved her in a moral point of view; she returned to thepure and holy domestic virtues from which youthful passions had ledher; and as she could do nothing without extravagance, she fell toloving passionately, in his distress, this royal consort whose vulgartraits were all she could see in the days of felicity. In their firstdisasters she saw a dullard, almost cowardly, without impulse orresolution; at the temple she began to see that the wife had not onlymisjudged the husband, but the queen the monarch. She beheld one calmand patient, meek but firm under outrages; all the worldly dryness inher was melted, and turned to the profit of better sentiments.
The same as she had scorned too deeply, she loved too fondly.
"Alas!" the king said to his confessor, "to think that I love so dearlyand am loved so much."
In their last interview, the queen seemed to yield to a feeling akin toremorse. When she found that she could not be alone with her lord, shedrew him into a window recess, where she would have fallen on her kneesat his feet; but he understood that she wanted to ask his forgiveness,so he stayed her and drew his will from his pocket to show her thelines:
"I pray my wife to forgive all the woes I have led her to suffer and the sorrows caused her in the course of our union, as she may be sure that I cherish no ill feeling toward her, if she should think that she had reason to blame herself in any way."
Marie kissed his hands, for while there was full pardon, there wasgreat delicacy, too, in the rest of the phrase.
So this royal Magdalen might die tranquil, late as came her love forher husband, it won her divine and human mercy, and her pardon wasbestowed on earth, not in a mysterious whisper as an indulgence, ofwhich the king felt ashamed, but openly and publicly.
Who would reproach her who went toward posterity with the double crownof the martyr and her husband's forgiveness?
The poignant farewell lasted nearly two hours before the condemned wentout to his priest.
As day began to break, the drums were beaten throughout the town; thebustle and the sound penetrated the old tower and chilled the blood ofthe priest and Clery.
At nine o'clock the noise increased and the doors were loudly flungopen. Santerre came in, followed by town officers and soldiers, whoformed a double row.
The king received the priest's blessing and a prayer for support, andcalled for his hat, as all the others had kept their hats on. Seeingthat Clery had his overcoat ready for fear he would be cold, and theshiver would be taken for that of fright, he said:
"No; nothing but my hat."
He took advantage of the act to shake his hand for the last time.
"Let us go, gentlemen," he said, with the tone of command so rarelyused by him.
In crossing the first yard, he turned two or three times to wave afarewell to his dear ones.
With the priest he stepped into a hack, and the procession started,leaving the queen no hope save for a rescue on the road. That of arespite had already vanished.
She fell into a chair, sobbing: "To think of his going without sayinggood-bye!"
The streets were foggy and deserted, as all citizens were forbidden tobe about unless belonging to the armed militia, and there were no facesup at the windows.
All the prisoner saw was a forest of pikes and bayonets, with a largedrum corps before the party and cavalry around.
The clamor prevented the king talking with the confessor, who read hisprayer-book.
At St. Denis Gate the king lifted his head, for the uproar was markedby a change in the shouts. A dozen young men, sword in hand, rushedthrough the retinue and shouted:
"Rescue! This way, those who would save the king!"
One Baron de Batz, an adventurer, had engaged three thousand bravoesto make this attempt, but only a handful responded when he sounded thesignal-cry. This forlorn hope of royalty, meeting no reply, retreatedand slipped away in the confusion.
The incident was of such slight importance that the carriage did notstop; it was at its journey's end when it did.
One of the three brothers Sanson, the Paris executioners, came to openthe door.
Laying his hand on the abbe's knee, the king said, in the tone of amaster:
"Gentlemen, I recommend this gentleman to you. Take care of him aftermy death, for he has done nobody harm."
He threw off his coat, not to be touched by the headsman. One hada rope to bind his hands, but he said he would not submit to it. Ahand-to-hand fight would rob the victim of all the merit of six months'calmness, courage, and resignation, so the confessor advised him toyield, particularly as one of the Sansons, moved with pity, offered tosubstitute a handkerchief.
He held out his hands resignedly, saying:
"Do as you like. I shall drain the chalice to the dregs."
The scaffold steps were high and slippery, and he had the priest'sarm for support, but on the top step he escaped, so to say, from thespiritual guide, and went to the further end of the platform.
He was flushed in the face, and had never appeared more hale oranimated.
The drums began to beat, but he imposed silence by a look as, with alusty voice, he said:
"I die innocent of all the crimes imputed to me. I forgive the authorsof my death, and I pray God that this blood shall not fall on France."
"Strike up, drums!" roared a voice long believed to be Santerre's, butwas that of Beaufranchet, Count Oyat, illegitimate son of Louis XV.,and a courtesan, the prisoner's natural uncle.
The drums beat, and the king stamped his foot in vain.
"Do your duty!" yelled the pikemen to the executioners, who threwthemselves on the king.
He returned with slow steps under the knife, of which he had designedthe proper shape only a year ago.
He glanced at the priest who was praying at a corner of the scaffold.
Behind the two upright beams a scuffle went on. The tilting flap fellinto place, and the prisoner's head appeared in the ominous gap. Aflash, a dull, chopping sound was heard, and a large jet of bloodspouted forth.
Then, one of the death's-men taking up the head, sprinkled theby-standers with the dripping fluid. At this sight the pikemen whoopedand rushed to dye their weapons in the blood, which they ran to showthe town, with shouts of "Long live the Republic!"
For the first time this cry found no echo, though it had oft thrilledhearers with joy. The Republic had a stain on the brow which nothingever could efface. As a great diplomatist said, it had committed worsethan a crime--a blunder.
Thus died, on the 21st of January, 1793, King Louis XVI. He was agedthirty-nine years. He had reigned eighteen, and was over five months aprisoner. His last wish was not accomplished, for his blood not onlyfell on France, but over the whole of Europe.