CHAPTER I.
TWO UNKNOWN LADIES.
The winter of 1784, that monster which devoured half France, we couldnot see, although he growled at the doors, while at the house of M. deRichelieu, shut in as we were in that warm and comfortable dining-room.
A little frost on the windows seems but the luxury of nature added tothat of man. Winter has its diamonds, its powder, and its silveryembroidery for the rich man wrapped in his furs, and packed in hiscarriage, or snug among the wadding and velvet of a well-warmed room.Hoar-frost is a beauty, ice a change of decoration by the greatest ofartists, which the rich admire through their windows. He who is warm canadmire the withered trees, and find a somber charm in the sight of thesnow-covered plain. He who, after a day without suffering, when millionsof his fellow-creatures are enduring dreadful privations, throws himselfon his bed of down, between his fine and well-aired sheets, may find outthat all is for the best in this best of all possible worlds.
But he who is hungry sees none of these beauties of nature; he who iscold hates the sky without a sun, and consequently without a smile forsuch unfortunates. Now, at the time at which we write, that is, aboutthe middle of the month of April, three hundred thousand miserablebeings, dying from cold and hunger, groaned in Paris alone--in thatParis where, in spite of the boast that scarcely another city containedso many rich people, nothing had been prepared to prevent the poor fromperishing of cold and wretchedness.
For the last four months, the same leaden sky had driven the poor fromthe villages into the town, as it sent the wolves from the woods intothe villages.
No more bread. No more wood.
No more bread for those who felt this cold--no more wood to cook it. Allthe provisions which had been collected, Paris had devoured in a month.The Provost, short-sighted and incapable, did not know how to procurefor Paris, which was under his care, the wood which might have beencollected in the neighborhood. When it froze, he said the frostprevented the horses from bringing it; if it thawed, he pleaded want ofhorses and conveyances. Louis XVI., ever good and humane, always readyto attend to the physical wants of his people, although he overlookedtheir social ones, began by contributing a sum of 200,000 francs forhorses and carts, and insisting on their immediate use. Still the demandcontinued greater than the supply. At first no one was allowed to carryaway from the public timber-yard more than a cart-load of wood; thenthey were limited to half this quantity. Soon the long strings of peoplemight be seen waiting outside the doors, as they were afterwards seen atthe bakers' shops. The king gave away the whole of his private income incharity. He procured 3,000,000 francs by a grant and applied it to therelief of the sufferers, declaring that every other need must give waybefore that of cold and famine. The queen, on her part, gave 500 louisfrom her purse. The convents, the hospitals, and the public buildingswere thrown open as places of asylum for the poor, who came in crowdsfor the sake of the fires that were kept there. They kept hoping for athaw, but heaven seemed inflexible. Every evening the samecopper-colored sky disappointed their hopes; and the stars shone brightand clear as funeral torches through the long, cold nights, whichhardened again and again the snow which fell during the day. All daylong, thousands of workmen, with spades and shovels, cleared away thesnow from before the houses; so that on each side of the streets,already too narrow for the traffic, rose a high, thick wall, blocking upthe way. Soon these masses of snow and ice became so large that theshops were obscured by them, and they were obliged to allow it to remainwhere it fell. Paris could do no more. She gave in, and allowed thewinter to do its worst. December, January, February, and March passedthus, although now and then a few days' thaw changed the streets, whosesewers were blocked up, into running streams. Horses were drowned, andcarriages destroyed, in the streets, some of which could only betraversed in boats. Paris, faithful to its character, sang through thisdestruction by the thaw as it had done through that by famine.Processions were made to the markets to see the fisherwomen servingtheir customers with immense leathern boots on, inside which theirtrousers were pushed, and with their petticoats tucked round theirwaists, all laughing, gesticulating, and splashing each other as theystood in the water. These thaws, however, were but transitory; the frostreturned, harder and more obstinate than ever, and recourse was had tosledges, pushed along by skaters, or drawn by roughshod horses along thecauseways, which were like polished mirrors. The Seine, frozen many feetdeep, was become the rendezvous for all idlers, who assembled there toskate or slide, until, warmed by exercise, they ran to the nearest fire,lest the perspiration should freeze upon them. All trembled for the timewhen, the water communications being stopped, and the roads impassable,provisions could no longer be sent in, and began to fear that Pariswould perish from want. The king, in this extremity, called a council.They decided to implore all bishops, abbes, and monks to leave Paris andretire to their dioceses or convents; and all those magistrates andofficials who, preferring the opera to their duties, had crowded toParis, to return to their homes; for all these people used largequantities of wood in their hotels, and consumed no small amount offood. There were still the country gentlemen, who were also to beentreated to leave. But M. Lenoir, lieutenant of police, observed to theking that, as none of these people were criminals, and could nottherefore be compelled to leave Paris in a day, they would probably beso long thinking about it, that the thaw would come before theirdeparture, which would then be more hurtful than useful. All this careand pity of the king and queen, however, excited the ingeniousgratitude of the people, who raised monuments to them, as ephemeral asthe feelings which prompted them. Obelisks and pillars of snow and ice,engraved with their names, were to be seen all over Paris. At the end ofMarch the thaw began, but by fits and starts, constant returns of frostprolonging the miseries of the people. Indeed, in the beginning of Aprilit appeared to set in harder than ever, and the half-thawed streets,frozen again, became so slippery and dangerous, that nothing was seenbut broken limbs and accidents of all kinds. The snow prevented thecarriages from being heard, and the police had enough to do, from thereckless driving of the aristocracy, to preserve from the wheels thosewho were spared by cold and hunger.
It was about a week after the dinner given by M. de Richelieu that fourelegant sledges entered Paris, gliding over the frozen snow whichcovered the Cours la Reine and the extremity of the boulevards. Fromthence they found it more difficult to proceed, for the sun and thetraffic had begun to change the snow and ice into a wet mass of dirt.
In the foremost sledge were two men in brown riding coats with doublecapes. They were drawn by a black horse, and turned from time to time,as if to watch the sledge that followed them, and which contained twoladies so enveloped in furs that it was impossible to see their faces.It might even have been difficult to distinguish their sex, had it notbeen for the height of their coiffure, crowning which was a small hatwith a plume of feathers. From the colossal edifice of this coiffure,all mingled with ribbons and jewels, escaped occasionally a cloud ofwhite powder, as when a gust of wind shakes the snow from the trees.
These two ladies, seated side by side, were conversing so earnestly asscarcely to see the numerous spectators who watched their progress alongthe boulevards. One of them taller and more majestic than the other, andholding up before her face a finely-embroidered cambric handkerchief,carried her head erect and stately, in spite of the wind which sweptacross their sledge.
It had just struck five by the clock of the church St. Croix d'Antin andnight was beginning to descend upon Paris, and with the night the bittercold. They had just reached the Porte St. Denis, when the lady of whomwe have spoken made a sign to the men in front, who thereupon quickenedthe pace of their horse, and soon disappeared among the evening mists,which were fast thickening around the colossal structure of the Bastile.
This signal she then repeated to the other two sledges, which alsovanished along the Rue St. Denis. Meanwhile, the one in which she sat,having arrived at the Boulevard de Menilmontant, stopped.
In this place
few people were to be seen; night had dispersed them.Besides, in this out-of-the-way quarter, not many citizens would trustthemselves without torches and an escort, since winter had sharpened thewants of three or four thousand beggars who were easily changed intorobbers.
The lady touched with her finger the shoulder of the coachman who wasdriving her, and said, "Weber, how long will it take you to bring thecabriolet you know where?"
"Madame wishes me to bring the cabriolet?" asked the coachman, with astrong German accent.
"Yes, I shall return by the streets; and as they are still more muddythan the boulevard, we should not get on in the sledge; besides, I beginto feel the cold. Do not you, petite?" said she, turning to the otherlady.
"Yes, madame."
"Then, Weber, we will have the cabriolet."
"Very well, madame."
"What is the time, petite?"
The young lady looked at her watch, which, however, she could hardlysee, as it was growing dark, and said, "A quarter to six, madame."
"Then at a quarter to seven, Weber."
Saying these words, the lady leaped lightly from the sledge, followedby her friend, and walked away quickly; while the coachman murmured,with a kind of respectful despair, sufficiently loud for his mistress tohear, "Oh, mein Gott! what imprudence."
The two ladies laughed, drew their cloaks closer round them, and wenttramping along through the snow, with their little feet.
"You have good eyes, Andree," said the lady who seemed the elder of thetwo, although she could not have been more than thirty or thirty-two;"try to read the name at the corner of that street."
"Rue du Pont-aux-Choux, madame."
"Rue du Pont-aux-Choux! ah, mon Dieu, we must have come wrong. They toldme the second street on the right;--but what a smell of hot bread!"
"That is not astonishing," said her companion, "for here is a baker'sshop."
"Well, let us ask there for the Rue St. Claude," she said, moving to thedoor.
"Oh! do not you go in, madame; allow me," said Andree.
"The Rue St. Claude, my pretty ladies?" said a cheerful voice. "Are youasking for the Rue St. Claude?"
The two ladies turned towards the voice, and saw, leaning against thedoor of the shop, a man who, in spite of the cold, had his chest and hislegs quite bare.
"Oh! a naked man!" cried the young lady, half hiding behind hercompanion; "are we among savages?"
"Was not that what you asked for?" said the journeyman baker, for suchhe was, who did not understand her movement in the least, and,accustomed to his own costume, never dreamed of its effect upon them.
"Yes, my friend, the Rue St. Claude," said the elder lady, hardly ableto keep from laughing.
"Oh, it is not difficult to find; besides, I will conduct you theremyself;" and, suiting the action to the words, he began to move his longbony legs, which terminated in immense wooden shoes.
"Oh, no!" cried the elder lady, who did not fancy such a guide; "praydo not disturb yourself. Tell us the way, and we shall easily find it."
"First street to the right," said he, drawing back again.
"Thanks," said the ladies, who ran on as fast as they could, that hemight not hear the laughter which they could no longer restrain.