The voice, the power of Charny, exercised on himself and others, animated Damas and the guardsmen, who resumed all their energy, and at once they drove the National Guards from the room.

  Then the queen saw how useful such a man would have been in the carriage, had not etiquette demanded that Madame de Tourzel should have been his substitute.

  Charny looked around to see that none but the queen’s faithful servitors were present, and, approaching, said, “Madame, I have seventy hussars at the gates, and can rely on them. What orders do you give?”

  “Tell me first, dear Charny,” said the queen in German, “what has happened?”

  The count made a gesture, which told the queen that De Maiden, who was there, also spoke German.

  “Alas!” said the queen, “we did not see you, and thought you dead.”

  “Unfortunately, madame,” said Charny, “I am not dead, but,” and he spoke in deep sadness, “my poor brother is.” He could not restrain a tear; but he added, in a low tone, “My time will come.”

  “Charny! Charny! I ask what is the matter? Why did you leave me thus?” asked the queen; adding, in German, “You treated us badly, especially ourselves.”

  Charny bowed.

  “I fancied,” he said, “that my brother had told you why.”

  “Yes, I know; you pursued that wretch Drouet, and we at once saw trouble in the fact.”

  “I did meet with a great misfortune. In spite of every effort, I could not overtake him in time. A returning postilion told him that your majesty’s carriage, which he had intended to follow to Verdun, had gone to Varennes, and he then went in the wood of Argonne. I followed, and sought twice to shoot him, but the weapons were not loaded. I did not get my horse at St. Menehould, but used Dandoins’ instead. Ah, madame! about all this there was fatality. I followed him through the forest, but did not know the roads, while he was familiar with every by-path. The darkness became every hour more intense, and as long as I could see him or hear him I followed. At last light and the sound of his horse’s heels passed away, and I found myself lost in the darkness of the forest. Madame, I am a man — you know me; I do not weep now, but then I wept tears of rage.”

  The queen gave him her hand.

  Charny bowed, and touched it with the tip of his lips.

  “No one replied to my cries. I wandered all night, and at dawn I was at Genes, on the road from Varennes to Dun. Had you escaped Drouet, as he had me? But that was impossible: you had passed Varennes, and it was useless to go for you thither. Not far from the city I met M. Deslon and a hundred hussars. He was uneasy, but had no news except that not long before, he had seen MM. de Bouille and de Raigecourt flying across the bridge to tell the general what had gone on. I told M. Deslon all; I besought him to come with me, with his hussars, which he did at once, leaving only thirty to guard the bridge over the Meuse. In half an hour we were at Varennes, and have come the whole distance, four leagues, in one hour. I wished to begin the attack at once, to charge everything, even if we found barricade on barricade. At Varennes, however, we found some so high that it would have been madness to seek to pass them. I then tried to parley. There was an advance of the National Guards thrown out, and I asked leave to join my hussars with those who were in the city. This was refused. I then asked to send to the king for orders, and as they would have refused this, as they did the first request, I leaped my horse over the first barricade and also the second. Guided by the noise, I galloped up, and reached the square just when your majesty had left the balcony. Now,” said Charny, “I await your majesty’s orders.”

  The queen clasped Charny’s hand in her own.

  She then turned to the king, who seemed plunged into a perfect state of torpor.

  “Sire,” said she, “have you heard what our faithful friend, the Count de Charny, has said?”

  The king did not reply.

  The queen then arose and went to him.

  “Sire,” said she, “there is no time to be lost, for unfortunately we have already lost too much. M. de Charny has seventy safe men, and asks for orders.”

  The king shook his head.

  “Sire, for heaven’s sake give your orders!”

  Charny looked imploringly while the queen besought him.

  “My orders!” said the king. “I have none to give. I am a prisoner. Do all you can.”

  “Very well,” said the queen, “that is all we ask.”

  She took Charny aside. “You have a carte-blanche,” said she. “Do as the king told you — all you can.” She then said, in a low tone: “Be quick, however; act with vigour, or we are lost.”

  “Very well, madame. Let me confer for a moment with these gentlemen, and what we decide on will be done at once.”

  De Choiseul came in. He had in his hand a bundle of papers wrapped up in a bloody handkerchief. He said nothing, but gave them to Charny.

  The count at once understood that they were the papers found upon his brother. He took the bloody inheritance in his hand and kissed it. The queen could not but sob. Charny did not change, but placed the relics on his heart.

  “Gentlemen,” said he, “will you aid me in the last effort I shall make?”

  “We are ready to sacrifice our lives,” said all.

  “Think you twelve men are yet faithful?”

  “Here stand nine, at least.”

  “Well, I have sixty or seventy hussars. While I attack the barricades in front, do you make a diversion in the rear. I will then force the barricades, and with our united forces we shall be able to carry off the king.”

  In reply, the young men gave Charny their hands.

  He then turned to the queen and said, “Madame, in an hour I shall be dead or your majesty free.”

  “Count,” said the queen, “say not so. Liberty would be too dear.”

  Olivier bowed a reiteration of his promise, and without paying any attention to the fresh rumours and clamours which broke out, advanced to the door.

  But just as he advanced his hand to the key, the door opened and admitted a new personage, who was already about to mingle in the complicated intrigue of the drama.

  He was a man of about fifty or fifty-two years of age, with a dark, stern look. His collar was turned back, his neck bare, and his eyes were flushed with fatigue. His dusty apparel showed that some great exertion had urged him to attempt a mad journey. He had a pair of pistols, and a sabre hung to his belt. Panting and almost breathless, when he opened the door, he seemed to be satisfied when he recognised the king and queen. A smile of gratified vengeance passed over his face, and without paying any attention to the minor personages who stood in the back part of the room, he reached forth his hand and said:

  “In the name of the National Assembly, all of you are my prisoners.”

  With a gesture, rapid as thought, M. de Choiseul rushed forward with a cocked pistol, and seemed ready to kill the new-comer, who exceeded in insolence and resolution all they had yet seen.

  By a movement yet more rapid, the queen seized his hand, and said in a low tone: “Do not be too hasty, M. de Choiseul. All the time we gain is gained, for M. de Bouille cannot be far off.”

  “You are right, madame,” said De Choiseul, and he replaced his weapon.

  The queen glanced at Charny, amazed that in this new danger he had not thrown himself forward. Strange though it was, Charny did not wish the new-comer to see him, and, to escape his eye, retired to the darkest corner of the room.

  The queen, however, knew the count, and did not doubt but that, as soon as he was wanted, he would emerge from that recess.

  CHAPTER XXX.

  Another Enemy.

  ALL THIS SCENE of M. de Choiseul menacing the man who spoke in the name of the Assembly passed without his even seeming to remark that he had but narrowly escaped death. He seemed also to be occupied by a far more powerful sentiment than that of fear. There was no mistaking the expression of his face. He had the bearing of the hunter who sees before him the lion and lioness who had devoured his young.

  The word “prisoners,” however, had aroused De Choiseul, and the king had sprung to his feet.

  “Prisoners! prisoners! in the name of the National Assembly. I do not understand you.”

  “It is, however, easy to be understood,” said the man. “In spite of the oath you took not to leave France, you fled in the night, broke your word, betrayed the nation, and insulted the people. The nation has now appealed to arms, the people have risen, and through the mouth of one of the humblest, though not on that account the least powerful, says: ‘Sire, in the name of the people and the National Assembly, you are my prisoner.’“

  In the next room sounds of applause, accompanied by mad bravoes, were heard.

  “Madame,” said De Choiseul, whispering to the queen, “you will not forget that you stopped me. Otherwise you would not be exposed to such an offence.”

  “All this will be nothing,” said she, “if we can but avenge ourselves.”

  “Yes,” said De Choiseul, “but if we do not?”

  The queen uttered a sad and melancholy sigh.

  The hand of Charny passed over De Choiseul’s hand, and touched the queen’s.

  Marie Antoinette turned quickly round.

  “Let that man do and say what he will. I will take charge of him.”

  In the meantime the king, completely overcome with the new blow which had been dealt him, looked with amazement at the sombre personage who, in the name of the nation and the king, spoke so energetically to him. There was also some curiosity mingled with this feeling, for it seemed to Louis XVI., though he could not recall having seen him before, he knew that he had not met him for the first time.

  “What do you want?” said he.

  “Sire, I wish that neither you nor your family should leave France.”

  “And you have doubtless come with thousands of men to oppose my march?” said the king, who put on all his dignity.

  “No, sire; but two have come — myself and the aide-de-camp of Lafayette; I am a mere peasant. The Assembly, however, has published a decree, and confided its execution to me. It will be executed.”

  “Give me the decree,” said the king.

  “It is not in my possession; my companion has been sent by Lafayette and the Assembly to have the orders of the king executed. I am sent by M. Bailly, and also have come, on my own account, to blow out the brains of my companion if he should quail at all.”

  The queen, M. de Damas, and the others who were present, looked on with amazement. They had never seen the people, either oppressed or furious, except asking mercy when being murdered, and now for the first time saw it with folded arms, and heard it demand its rights.

  Louis XVI. at once saw nothing was to be expected from a man of that temper, and wished to have done with him.

  “Well!” said he, “where is your companion?”

  “Here, behind me.”

  As he spoke, he threw open the door, behind which stood a young man in the uniform of an officer of the staff, leaning against a window.

  He also seemed to suffer much; but he suffered from want of strength, not from want of mental power. He wept, and had a paper in his hands.

  It was De Romoeuf, the young aide-de-camp of Lafayette, whom our readers will remember to have seen when Louis de Bouille arrived in Paris.

  De Romoeuf, as may be deemed from the conversation he then had with the young royalist, was a true and sincere patriot; during the dictatorship, however, of Lafayette at the Tuileries, he had been assigned the care of the queen and the charge of her excursions. He had always treated her with a respectful delicacy which had often won the queen’s thanks.

  “Ah, sir!” said the queen, painfully surprised, “is it you?”

  With that painful sigh, which indicated that a power almost invincible was falling, she said:

  “Oh, I never would have believed it.”

  “It is well,” said the other delegate. “It seems that I was right to come.”

  De Romoeuf advanced slowly, with downcast eyes, holding his order in His hand. The king did not, however, permit the young man to present the decree; he advanced rapidly, and took it from his hands. Having read it, he said: “France now has no king!” The man who came in with De Romoeuf said: “I know that well enough.”

  The king and the queen looked around, as if they would question him.

  He said: “Here, madame, is the decree the National Assembly has dared to pass.”

  With a voice trembling with indignation, he read the following words: “The National Assembly orders the Minister of the Interior to send out, at once, couriers to the different departments, with orders to all civil functionaries, and the officers of the National Guard, troops of the line, and the empire, to arrest anyone, whoever he may be, seeking to leave the kingdom, and to prevent all exportation of property, arms, munitions, gold, and silver. In case these couriers overtake the king, or any members of the royal family, or those who have contributed to their escape, the said National Guards and troops of the line are ordered to use every effort to prevent the said escape, and cause the fugitives to cease their journey, and return, to submit themselves to the Legislative Assembly.”

  The queen heard all this with a kind of torpor: when he had finished, she shook her head, as if to arouse herself, and said, “Give it to me!” As she reached forth her hand to receive the fatal decree, she said, “Impossible!”

  While this was going on, the companion of M. de Romoeuf, by a bitter smile, infused confidence into the National Guards and the patriots of Varennes.

  The word “impossible,” pronounced by the queen, had made them uneasy, though they had heard every letter of the decree.

  “Read, madame!” said the king, bitterly; “if you doubt me, read, for it is signed by the President of the National Assembly.”

  “Who dared to write and sign such a document?”

  “A noble, madame,” said the king, “the Marquis de Beauharnais.”

  Is it not a strange thing, proving the mysterious union of the past with the present, that this decree, which arrested the flight of the king, queen, and royal family, emanated from a man who, until then obscure, was about to unite himself in the most brilliant manner to the history of the nineteenth century?

  The queen took the decree, and with wrinkled brows and contracted lips read it again.

  The king then took it and re-read it. Having done so, he threw it on the bed, where, insensible to all that was going on, slept the dauphin and Madame Royale. That document, however, was decisive of their fate.

  When she saw them, the queen could not restrain herself, but sprang up, and crushing the paper, threw it from her. “Take care, sire!” said she, “I will not have this paper sully my children!”

  A loud cry was heard in the ante-chamber, the National Guards sought to enter the room occupied by the royal fugitives. The aide-de-camp of Lafayette uttered a cry of terror — his companion one of rage.

  “Oh!” said the latter between his teeth, “the National Assembly — the nation is insulted! This is well!” Turning towards the crowd, already excited to the very acme of strife, and who stood around, armed with guns, scythes, and sabres, he said: “Here, citizens! here!”

  The latter, to enter the chamber, made a second movement which was but the completion of the first. God only knows what would have resulted from this contest had not Charny, who from the commencement of the scene had said only the few words we have recorded, rushed forward and seized the arm of the unknown National Guard, and said, just as the latter was about to place his hand on his sabre: “A word with you, M. Billot, if you please!”

  “Very well! M. de Charny; I also would speak to you.”

  Advancing towards the door, he said: “Citizens! go for a moment. I have something to say to this officer; be easy, though, for neither the wolf, dam, nor cubs will escape us — I will be answerable for them.”

  As if this man, who was unknown to them, as he was — except to Charny — to king, queen, and all, had a right to give them orders, they withdrew, and left the room free.

  Each one also was anxious to tell his companions what had taken place, and to advise them to be on their guard.

  In the meantime Charny said, in a low tone, to the queen, “M. de Romoeuf, madame, is your friend. Do the best you can with him.” This he rendered the more easy, when he came to the next room, by shutting the door and keeping all, even Billot, from entering it. He stood with his back against it.

  The two men, on finding themselves tete-a-tete, looked at each other a few moments; but the look of the gentleman could not make the democrat lower his eyes — nay, more, it was Billot who first began to speak.

  “M. le Comte has done me the honour to announce that he has something to say to me. I will listen to anything he wishes to say.”

  “Billot!” asked Charny, “how is it that I here find you charged with a mission of vengeance? I had thought you our friend — a friend to the other nobles, and, moreover, a good and faithful subject of the king’s.”

  “I have been a good and faithful subject of the king’s, and I have been not your friend — for such an honour was not reserved for a poor farmer like me — but I have been your bumble servant.”

  “Well!”

  “Well, M. le Comte, you see I am no longer anything of the kind.”

  “I do not understand you, Billot,” replied the count.

  “Why do you wish to understand me, count? Do I ask you the cause of your fidelity to the king, and the reasons for your great devotion to the queen? No; I presume that you have your reasons for acting thus, and that you are an honest and a wise man — that your reasons are good, or at least according to your conscience. I have not your high position in society, M. le Comte; I have not either your knowledge, but yet you know me to be, or have known me to have been, an honest and prudent man, too. Suppose, then, that like you, I have my reasons, equally as good, and equally according to my conscience.”

  “Billot!” said Charny, who was ignorant completely of any motives of hatred the farmer could possibly have against nobility or royalty, “I have known you — and it is not so very long since — very different from what you are to-day.”