CHAPTER XI.

  The Advantage of Having the Deal.

  GILBERT HAD rapidly read the letter put into his hands by Mirabeau, had read it over more slowly a second time, had put it into his waistcoat pocket, and, calling a coach, ordered himself to be driven to the Tuileries.

  At the sight of Gilbert, the queen uttered a cry.

  A part of the coat and ruffles of the doctor had been torn in the struggle which he had maintained in endeavouring to save Francois, and some drops of blood stained his shirt.

  “Madame,” said he, “I crave pardon of your majesty in presenting myself thus before you, but I have already, in spite of myself, made you wait so long, that I was not willing that any further delay should take place.”

  “And this unfortunate one, M. Gilbert Y’

  “He is dead, madame; he has been assassinated, torn in pieces!”

  “Was he in the least guilty?”

  “He was innocent, madame.”

  “Oh! monsieur, see the fruits of your revolution. After having satiated themselves with the grand seigneurs, all functionaries, the guards, see how they turn against each other; but there are, at any rate, means of executing justice on these assassins.”

  “We are silent on that head, madame. But it would be better still to prevent the murders than to punish the murderers.”

  “And how, my God, can that be done? The king and I would ask nothing better.”

  “Madame, all these evils come from a defiance of the people expressed towards the agents of the powers; put at the head of the government men who have the confidence of the people, and nothing of the kind will happen.”

  “Ah! yes! M. de Mirabeau and M. de Lafayette, is it not so?”

  “I had hoped that the queen had sent for me to say that she had persuaded the king not to be hostile to the combination which I had proposed to him.”

  “Doctor, will you tell me seriously that I might to trust myself to a man who caused the 5th and 6th of October, and make peace with an orator who has publicly insulted me at the tribune?”

  “Madame, believe me, it was not M. de Mirabeau who caused the 5th and 6th of October. It was hunger, the high price of grain, and poverty, which commenced the work of the day; but it was an arm mysteriously powerful which did the work of the night. Perhaps, some day, I shall have to defend you from this side, and to struggle with this dark power, which pursues not only you, but all other crowned heads — not only the throne of France, but all the thrones of the earth. As true as I have the honour to lay my life at your majesty’s feet and the king’s, M. de Mirabeau had nothing to do with these terrible days, and he had learnt at the Assembly, even as others did, it might be a little time, perhaps, even before the others, by a note, that the people were marching on Versailles.”

  “Then you believe, II. Gilbert, that this man would consent to become attached to us?”

  “He is quite so, madame; when Mirabeau separates himself from royalty, he is like a horse that prances, and only requires to feel the bridle and spur of its rider to return into its right road.”

  “But being already of the party of the Duke of Orleans, he cannot be a member of every party.”

  “That is your mistake, madame.”

  “Does not M. de Mirabeau belong to the party of the Duke of Orleans?” repeated the queen.

  “He is so little attached to the Duke of Orleans, that when he discovered that that prince had withdrawn to England before the threats of M. de Lafayette, he said, as he crushed the note of M. de Lauzun which announced the duke’s departure, ‘People say that I am one of the party of this man; I would not have him as a lacquey.’“

  “That speaks something in his favour,” said the queen, trying to smile; “and if I could believe that, we could really rely upon him.”

  “Do you wish that I should repeat what he has said to me?”

  “Yes, I shall be glad to hear it.”

  “Here it is, then, word for word. I fixed his words in my memory, since I hoped at some time to have the opportunity of repeating them to your majesty: ‘If you have the means of making yourself heard by the king and queen, persuade them that they and we are lost if the royal family does not leave Paris. I am busied with a plan to enable them to get out. At any rate, you may assure them that they may reckon upon me.’“

  The queen became thoughtful.

  “Then the advice of M. de Mirabeau also is that we should quit Paris?”

  “It was his advice at that time.”

  “‘And he has changed since?”

  “Yes, if I may trust to a note received within the last half hour.”

  “May I see this note?”

  “It is intended for your majesty.”

  And Gilbert drew the paper from his pocket.

  “Your majesty will excuse it,” said he, “but it is on common paper, and was written on the counter of a wine store.”

  “Ah! that does not matter; paper and desk are quite in harmony with the politics of the present period.”

  The queen took the paper and read:

  “The events of to-day have changed the face of things.

  “We can succeed well this deal.

  “The Assembly will be afraid, and will establish martial law.

  “M. de Mirabeau could sustain and carry the measure for establishing martial law.

  “M. de Mirabeau could advocate the giving more power to the executive.

  “M. de Mirabeau could attack M. de Necker upon the revenue and taxes.

  “In place of a Necker ministry, it would be easy to make a Mirabeau one, and Lafayette will back Mirabeau.”

  “But,” said the queen, “this letter is not signed.”

  “Have I not had the honour to inform your majesty that it was Mirabeau himself who placed it in my hand?”

  “What do you think of all this?”

  “My opinion is that Mirabeau is perfectly right, and that the only thing that can save France is the coalition he proposes.”

  “Well, let M. de Mirabeau send through you a list of the ministers he would support, and I will place it before the king.”

  “And your majesty will support it?”

  “I will. Then, in the meanwhile, and as a first proof of his loyalty, let M. de Mirabeau support the proposition for establishing martial law and giving greater power to the executive.”

  “He shall do so. In return, whenever the fall of M. Necker becomes likely, a Mirabeau and Lafayette ministry will not be received unfavourably?” asked Gilbert.

  “By me? No! I am anxious to prove that I am quite willing to sacrifice my private feelings for the good of the state. But you must remember I cannot answer for the king.”

  “Your majesty will authorize me to tell M. de Mirabeau that this list of proposed ministers is asked for by yourself?”

  “I will permit M. Gilbert to use his own discretion as to how far he trusts a man who is our friend to-day and may become our enemy to-morrow.”

  “On this point you may confide in me, madame; only, as the circumstances are of great importance, there is no time to lose; allow me then to proceed to the Assembly, and endeavour to see M. de Mirabeau this very day.”

  The queen made with her hand a sign of acquiescence, and Gilbert then took leave. A quarter of an hour later he was in the Assembly.

  The Assembly was in a very excited state on account of the crime committed at its very gates, and upon a man in some sense a dependent of theirs. The members hurried betwixt the tribune and their seats; betwixt their seats and the corridor. Mirabeau alone remained immovably in his place. He sat with his eyes fixed on the public tribune. His countenance brightened on seeing Gilbert.

  Gilbert made a sign, which he answered by nodding his head.

  Gilbert then tore a leaf from his pocketbook and wrote:

  “Your proposals are received; not by both, but by the one whom both you and I believe has the most power.

  “They wish to have a list of the proposed members to-day.

  “Cause more power to be given to the executive.”

  When he had folded the paper into the form of a letter, and addressed it to M. de Mirabeau, he called an usher and bid him carry it to its destination.

  Mirabeau read it with such an expression of perfect indifference, that his nearest neighbour could not have guessed that the letter which he had just received corresponded exactly with his most ardent wishes; and with the same indifference he traced a few lines upon a sheet of paper lying before him, and, carefully folding the paper, gave it to the usher.

  “Carry this letter,” said he, “to the gentleman who gave you the one you just now brought me.”

  Gilbert eagerly opened the paper.

  It contained a few lines which would have altered the future state of France, perhaps, if its propositions had been fairly carried out.

  “I will address the Assembly, and assist as far as I can in carrying out your views.

  “To-morrow I will send you a memoir on the present crisis, which I hope will be satisfactory.

  “I send you the list of the ministers I propose; but I should be quite willing to alter a few names if you should wish any change.”

  Gilbert tore a new leaf from his pocket-book, and wrote three or four lines, and gave them to the usher, who was not very far off.

  “I am going to our mistress to inform her of what we wish, and to tell her on what conditions you will act; send word to my house, Rue St. Honore, just below L’Assumption, just opposite the cabinet maker’s, Duplay, the result of the sitting as soon as it is terminated.”

  Always anxious for excitement, and to struggle with political feelings, the queen awaited Gilbert’s return with some impatience, especially when listening to the narration of Weber.

  This consisted of the terrible scene whose end Weber had arrived in time to witness.

  Sent for information by the queen, he passed by one end of the bridge of Notre Dame while the other was occupied by the bloody cortege who bore the head of Francois.

  Near the bridge a young woman, pale, frightened, with perspiration standing coldly on her brow, and who, in spite of a tendency to embonpoint already visible, was running at a tolerably quick pace towards the Hotel de Ville, stopped suddenly.

  This head, whose features she could not as yet distinguish, produced upon her, even at that distance, the effect of the Medusa’s head upon the shield of Minerva.

  And as the head approached her, it was easy to see by the expression of her face that she was all but changed into stone.

  When the horrible trophy was not more than twenty paces from her, she uttered a cry, stretched out her hands with a desperate movement, and, as if the earth had fallen beneath her, she sank fainting on to the bridge.

  It was the wife of Francois, already five months enceinte.

  They carried her away without her knowing it. “Oh! my God!” said the queen, “it is a terrible testimony you have sent your servant, to teach her that if she is unhappy, there exist others still more so.”

  Just at this moment Gilbert entered. He did not meet a queen, but a woman, that is to say, a wife, a mother. Her state of feeling could not have been better, and Gilbert, with advice at least, came to offer the means to put an end to these murmurs.

  And the queen, looking into his eye, where tears were gathering, and on his brow, where perspiration stood in big heavy drops, seized Gilbert by the hands, and took from them the papers which they contained.

  But before looking at this paper, important as it was, “Weber,” said she, “if this poor woman is not already dead, I will receive her to-morrow: if she be really enceinte, I will be the godmother of the child.”

  “Ah! madame, madame,” cried Gilbert, “why cannot every Frenchman hear your voice broken with emotion, and see the hot tears run down your cheeks, as I do.”

  The queen started: they were nearly the same words which in a crisis equally critical Charny had addressed to her.

  She cast a hasty glance over the note of Mirabeau, but was too much troubled at this particular time to give an answer.

  At seven o’clock in the evening, a valet without livery placed the following letter in Gilbert’s hands:

  “The sitting has been a warm one.

  “Martial law is carried.

  “Bugot and Robespierre wished to have a still higher court at law.

  “I have caused it to be decreed that lese-nation (a new word which we have created) shall be judged by the royal privilege of Chatelet.

  “I rely with confidence for the safety of France on the royal power, and three quarters of the Assembly will support it.

  “To-day is the 21st of October. I hope,. even as it is, that royalty has made some progress since the 6th instant.

  “Vale et me ama.”

  The note was not signed, but it was in the same handwriting as the one which referred to the ministerial changes, and that of the morning. It was truly the writing of Mirabeau.

  Although one can easily understand all that Mirabeau had gained, and all that the royal family had consequently lost, we must inform our readers what the Chatelet really was.

  One of its first judgments became the object of one of the most terrible scenes which occurred in the Greve in the year 1790; a scene which, since it is not foreign to our subject, we shall find best to weave into our narrative.

  Le Chatelet had been of great historical importance in history, ever since the thirteenth century, and both as a tribunal and court had exercised great influences over the mighty ones during the five centuries succeeding the good King Louis IX. — another king who was a builder, if ever there was one. He built Notre Dame. He founded the hospitals De la Trinite, De Saint Catherine, and De Saint Nicholas, near the Louvre. Ho paved the streets of Paris. He had, in truth, a great bank to run to for all these expenses — the Jews, to wit. In 1189 he was tinctured with the follies of the time.

  The folly of the time was the wish to take Jerusalem from the guardianship of the Soldan. He joined Richard Coeur de Lion, and started for the holy places. But before he went, in order that the good Parisians should not lose their time, and never dream in their leisure moments of revolting against him, as at his instigation they had revolted more than once, he left them a plan, and bid them execute it after his departure.

  He left them a programme, and bid them build one of those thick walls of the twelfth century, ornamented with towers.

  This wall was the third which surrounded Paris.

  It contained, within its bounds, a number of small hamlets, which were destined, eventually, to become a portion of the great whole.

  These hamlets and villages, however poor and small they might be, possessed each their justice seigneuriale. All these justice seigneuriales contradicting each other, from time to time, caused great confusion in this strange capital. There was, it seems, at the time a certain seigneur of Vincennes, who, having apparently more to complain of these contradictions than any of the others, determined to put an end to them.

  This seigneur was Louis IX.

  And it is easy to understand that when Louis IX. distributed justice under the oak, now become proverbial, he did it as a seigneur, not as a king.

  He ordered, however, as king, that all the causes determined by these petty juges seigneurales should, by appeal, be brought before the Chatelet of Paris. The jurisdiction of the Chatelet, consequently, was all powerful.

  The Chatelet was then the supreme court of justice, until the parliament took upon itself to determine even the appeals of the Chatelet. But the Assembly was about to suspend these parliaments.

  “We have buried them in a very lively fashion,” said Lameth, in returning from the sitting.

  And in place of parliament, upon the suggestion of Mirabeau, they were about to restore the privileges of the Chatelet, and with increased powers.

  This was a great triumph for royalty, since the crime of lese nation would be brought before its own court.

  The first crime that the Chatelet had to take cognisance of was the one which we are going to narrate.

  The very day of the promulgation of the law authorizing the power of the Chatelet, two assassins of the unhappy Francois were hung in the Greve without any other trial than l’accusation and the notoriety of the crime.

  Two cases remained for judgment — that of the farmer general, Augeard, and that of the inspector-general of the Suisses, Pierre Victor de Bezenval.

  These were two men devoted to the court, and for this reason they hastened to transfer their causes to the Chatelet.

  Augeard was accused of having furnished the funds with which the Camarilla of the queen paid, in July, the troops assembled in the Champ-de-Mars. The Chatelet acquitted him without much scandal.

  Bezenval’s name could not have been more popular — the wrong way. He it was who had commanded the Suisses at Reveillon, the Bastille, and the Champ-de-Mars. The people remembered these three circumstances, and were not indisposed to take their revenge.

  Very precise orders were given to the court at Chatelet: under any pretence, the king and queen wished M. de Bezenval to escape condemnation.

  He knew there was only this double protection to save him. As he entered the hall he was saluted, almost unanimously, with cries for his death. “Bezenval a la lanterne!” “Bezenval to the gallows!’’ was bellowed forth from all sides.

  With great trouble silence was obtained.

  One of the spectators profited by it. “I demand!” cried he, in a loud strong voice, “that he be out into thirteen pieces, and a piece sent to each canton.”

  But in spite of the charges brought against him, and the animosity of the audience, Bezenval was acquitted.

  Indignant at this double acquittal, one of the spectators wrote four verses on a piece of paper, which he rolled into a ball and sent to the president.

  The stanza was signed. This was not all; the president turned in order to seek out the author. The author, seated on the end of a bench, solicited by his gesture the attention of the president. But before him, the countenance of the president fell. He did not dare to have him arrested. The author was Camille Desmoulins.