“M. de Romoeuf,” said Billot, “you know well enough that their majesties are fatigued — that they ask for delay — because they expect M. de Bouille to arrive. Let, however, their majesties beware, for if they do not come willingly, they will be dragged by force.”

  “Villain!” said Damas, rushing towards Billot with his drawn sword.

  Billot folded his arms. The fact was, there was no necessity for his defending himself. Eight or ten men rushed from the first to the second room, and Damas at once had ten different weapons at his breast.

  The king saw that one word alone was necessary to ensure the death of De Choiseul, Damas, the guardsmen, and the two or three officers and sub-officers with him.

  “Very well!” said he, “put horses to the carriage, and we will go.”

  Madame Brennier, one of the queen’s ladies, shrieked and fainted. The dauphin began to cry.

  “Monsieur!” said the queen to Billot, “you have no children, or you would not be so cruel to a mother.”

  Billot trembled, and, with a bitter smile, said:

  “No, madame, I have none.”

  He then said to the king:

  “There is no need for your order; the horses are already harnessed.”

  “Well, bring them up.”

  “The carriage is at the door.”

  The king went to the window and saw that Billot told the truth. The uproar in the street had drowned the sound of the wheels.

  The people saw the king. A loud cry, or rather menace, arose. The king grew pale.

  De Choiseul approached the queen.

  “What does his majesty order? Myself and my companions had rather die than witness what passes here.”

  “Do you think M. de Charny is safe?” asked the queen in a low but anxious voice.

  “Yes: I am sure of that,” said M. de Choiseul.

  “Then let us go, for heaven’s sake! — though, both on your account and on ours, do not leave us.”

  The king understood the queen’s fears. “M. de Choiseul and M. de Damas accompany us, but I do not see their horses.”

  “True,” said De Romoeuf, “we cannot keep those gentlemen from following the king and queen.”

  “These gentlemen can accompany the king and queen if they can.. Our orders relate to the king and queen, but have no relation to them.”

  “I will not go until these gentlemen have their horses,” said the king, with more firmness than might have been expected from him. “What say you to that?” said Billot, turning to his men. “The king will not go until these gentlemen have their horses.” The men laughed.

  “I will send for them,” said De Romoeuf. Choiseul stepped in front of him, and said: “M. de Romoeuf, do not leave their majesties, Your mission gives you some power over the people, and it will reflect credit on you if not a hair of the heads of their majesties be injured.”

  De Romoeuf paused. Billot shrugged his shoulders. “Very well, I am going,” said he.

  He advanced first. When at the door he turned. “You will follow me, will you not?”

  “Be easy,” said the men, with a burst of laughter which indicated that in case of resistance no pity was to be expected from them.

  They were so irritated, that they certainly would have employed force against the royal family, had any attempt to escape been made.

  Billot did not have the trouble to come upstairs again. One of the men stood at the window, and watched what was going on in the street.

  “All is ready,” said he, “come!” “Come!” said his companions, with an accent which admitted of no discussion.

  The king went first. Then came De Choiseul with the queen. Then came Damas, who gave his arm to Madame Elizabeth. Madame de Tourzel came next with the children, and after them the rest of the faithful group.

  Romoeuf, as the envoy of the National Assembly, was particularly charged with the care of the royal cortege.

  It must, however, be said, that De Romoeuf himself needed looking after. It had been said that he had executed with great gentleness the orders of the Assembly, and that he had covertly, if not openly, favoured the escape of one of the king’s most faithful servants, who had left, it was said, only to summon Bouille to their aid.

  The result was that when at the door, while the conduct of Billot was glorified by all the people, who seemed to recognise him as their chief, Romoeuf heard around him on all sides the words “aristocrat” and “traitor.”

  They got into the carriage in the same order in which they descended the stairway. The guardsmen resumed their places on the seat.

  Just as they came down M. de Valory approached the king.

  “Sire,” said he, “my comrade and myself have come to ask a favour of your majesty.”

  “What is it?” said the king, amazed that he had yet any favour to dispose of.

  “Sire, the favour, since we have no longer the honour of serving you as soldiers, is that we may be near you as servants.”

  “Servants, gentlemen! the thing is impossible!” said the king.

  M. de Valory bowed. “Sire,” said he, “in the situation in which your majesty is, it is our opinion that such a duty would do honour to a prince of the blood; for so much better reason does it do honour to poor gentlemen like ourselves.”

  “Well, gentlemen,” said the king, with tears in his eyes, “remain with us and never leave us.”

  Thus these two young men, making a reality of their livery, and their factitious duties as couriers, resumed their places on the seats.

  “Gentlemen,” said the king, “I wish to go to Montmedy. Postilions, take me thither.”

  A cry, not from a single voice, but from the whole population was heard. It shouted:

  “To Paris!”

  After a moment’s silence, Billot, with his sabre, pointed out the road he wished them to follow, and shouted:

  “To Clermont!”

  The carriage began to move.

  “I call you to witness that violence is used against me,” said the king.

  The unfortunate king, exhausted by this exertion, which exceeded any one he had yet made, sank back in the carriage between the queen and Madame Elizabeth, and the coach rolled on.

  CHAPTER XXXIII.

  The Journey of Sorrow.

  THE ROYAL FAMILY continued on to Paris, making what we may call the journey of sorrow.

  They advanced slowly, for the horses could not walk but as fast as the escort, which was in chief composed of men armed with scythes, forks, guns, sabres, pikes and flails, the whole number being completed by an indefinite number of women and children. The women lifted their children above their heads to show them the king who was being brought back by force to his capital, and whom none had ever expected to see so situated.

  They reached Clermont without seeing, though the distance was four leagues, any diminution in the terrible escort, those of the men who composed it whose occupations called them homeward being replaced by others in the environs, who wished to enjoy a spectacle with which others had been satisfied.

  Among all the captives of this travelling prison, two were most exposed to the anger of the crowd, and more completely the butts of its menaces — these were the unfortunate guardsmen on the box. Every moment, and this was one way to strike at the royal family, their persons having been declared by the National Assembly invincible, at every moment bayonets were directed against their breasts, or some scythe, which might well have been that of death, was elevated above their heads, or else some lance glided like a serpent between the intervals to prick them, and was brought back quick as lightning to gratify its master, by showing by its point that it had not been misdirected.

  All at once they saw, with surprise, a man bare-headed, without a hat, without arms and with his dress all mud-stained, pierce the crowd, after having simply spoken respectfully to the king and queen, rush towards the box of the carriage, and take his place between the guardsmen.

  The queen uttered a cry of joy. She had recognised Charny.

  They reached St. Menehould at about two in the afternoon. The loss of sleep during the night of their departure, and the excitement they had gone through, had its effect on all, especially on the dauphin, who, at that place, had a violent fever. The king ordered a halt.

  Perhaps of all the cities on the road St. Menehould was the one most excited against the unfortunate family of prisoners. No attention was paid to the king’s order, which was superseded by one from Billot to put horses to the carriage. He was obeyed.

  The passage through the city was cruel. The enthusiasm excited by the appearance of Drouet, to whom the apprehension of the prisoners was due, would have been a terrible lesson to Louis XVI. and Marie Antoinette, if kings could learn anything; but in these cries they only saw a blind fury, and in these patriots anxious to save France they only saw rebels.

  At the entrance into St. Menehould, the crowd, like an inundation, covered the whole plain, and could not cross the narrow street.

  It burst around the two sides of the city, following the exterior contour; but as they only stopped at St. Menehould long enough to change the horses, at the other side of the city it crowded around the carriages more orderly than ever.

  The king had fancied, and this idea, perhaps, alone had excited him to adopt a wrong course, that the people of Paris alone were enraged, and had relied on the provinces. He had not only alienated the country, but it was perfectly pitiless towards him. The country people had terrified De Choiseul at the bridge of Someville, had imprisoned Dandoins at St. Menehould, had tired on Damas at Clermont, and had killed Isidor beneath the king’s eyes. All protested against his flight, even the priest whom the Count de Bouille had kicked into the dust.

  They reached Chalons at a late hour. The carriage drove into the court-yard of the intendant, where preparations had been ordered by a courier.

  The court-yard was filled by the National Guard of the city, and by spectators.

  At the door where the tumultuous cortege had paused, cries had ceased, and a kind of murmur of compassion was heard when the royal family left the carriage. They found a supper as sumptuous as possible, and served with an elegance which astonished them. Servants were in attendance, but Charny claimed the privilege for himself and the guardsmen to wait at table. Such a humiliation, which to-day would seem strange, was an excuse for Charny not to lose sight of the king and to be prepared for any conjuncture. The queen understood, though she had not even looked towards him, nor thanked him with her hand, eyes, or mouth.

  Charny knew the state of feeling in every village. Now, Chalons was an old commercial town, with a population of bourgeoisie, land-holders, and nobles. It was aristocratic.

  The result was, that while at the table their host, the intendant of the department, bowed to the queen, who, expecting nothing favourable, looked anxiously at him.

  “Madame,” said he, “the young girls of Chalons wish to offer your majesty flowers.” The queen, in surprise, looked towards Madame Elizabeth and the king.

  “Flowers?” said she.

  “Madame,” said the intendant, “if the hour be inconvenient and badly chosen, I will order that they be not admitted.”

  “No, no! do not say so! Girls — flowers — let them come!”

  The intendant withdrew, and a moment after, twelve girls, of from fourteen to sixteen years of age, the most beautiful that could be found, passed the ante-chamber and stopped at the door.

  “Come in! come in, my children!” said the queen, extending her arms to them.

  One of the young girls, the interpreter, not only of her companions, but of their parents and the city, had committed to memory an address. She was about to repeat it, but when the queen offered her arms, and she saw the emotion of the royal family, she could but weep, and utter these words, which came from her lips in the deepest distress:

  “Ah, your majesty, what a misfortune!”

  The queen took the bouquet, and kissed the young girl.

  Charny whispered in the king’s ear:

  “Perhaps, your majesty, this city may be turned to advantage. Perhaps all is not lost, and with your leave given, I will descend, and will report to you what I have seen and perhaps done.”

  “Go,” said the king, “but be prudent. Did anything happen to you, I should never be consoled. Two deaths in one family, alas! are more than enough.”

  “Sire, my life, like the lives of my brothers, is your own!”

  He left; but as he did so he wiped away a tear.

  The presence of the royal family alone retained the apparent calmness of this firm-hearted man, and made him seem so much a stoic. “Poor Isidor!” said he. He placed his hand on his breast to see if he had still in his pocket the papers which De Choiseul had found on his brother, and which he purposed to read, at the first quiet moment, religiously, as if they had been a will.

  Behind the young girls, whom Madame Royale kissed like sisters, were the parents, almost all of whom were bourgeois or nobles. They came humbly and timidly to salute their sovereign.

  In about half an hour Charny returned.

  Tim queen had seen him go out and return, and her eye could not possibly read the reasons.

  “Well?” asked the king, leaning towards Charny.

  “All, sire, is well. The National Guard offers, to-morrow, to escort your majesty to Montmedy.”

  “Then you have decided on something?”

  “Yes, sire — with the principal men. Tomorrow, before leaving, the king will ask to hear mass, and they cannot refuse permission. It is a festival day. The king will find his carriage at the door of the church, and will enter it. Vivats will be heard, and the king will then order the carriage to be driven to Montmedy.”

  “It is well,” said Louis XVI., “and if the state of things does not change, all will be as you say; only do you and your companions go to sleep, for you will additionally need it to-morrow,”

  The reception of the young girls and their parents was not prolonged, and the king and royal family retired at nine o’clock.

  When they retired, the sentinel at the door recalled to them that they were yet prisoners.

  An hour afterwards, having been relieved, the sentinel asked leave to speak to the chief of the escort, Billot.

  He was supping in the street with the men who had come from the different villages on the route, and sought to induce them to remain until morning.

  The majority of these men had seen what they wished — that is, the king — and each wished to keep the approaching holiday (Fete Dieu) in his own village. Billot sought to retain them, for he was uneasy at the feeling displayed by the aristocratic city.

  They replied: “If we do not return tomorrow, who will make preparations for the festivals, and place hangings before our houses?”

  The sentinel surprised him in the midst of this conversation. They talked together in au animated manner. Billot sent for Drouet. The same whispered conversation was continued. Billot and Drouet then went together to the post-house, the master of which was a friend to the latter. Two horses were at once saddled, and ten minutes after, Billot galloped towards Rheims, and Drouet to Vitry-le-Francais.

  Day came, and not more than six hundred men remained of the escort. Those who did remain were the most furious, or the meanest. They had slept in the street on bales of straw, which had been brought to them, and when morning came, they saw half a dozen men in uniform enter the intendancy, and immediately after leave in haste.

  There was a station of the Guards of Villeroy in Chalons, and about a dozen of those gentlemen were in the city. They came for orders to Charny.

  Charny bade them put on their uniforms and be at the church when the king should leave it. They went to prepare themselves.

  As we have said, some of the peasants who the previous evening had escorted the king had not retired at night because they were worn out: in the morning, however, they began to reckon up the leagues. Some were ten, others fifteen from home. Two or three hundred set out, in spite of the persuasion of their comrades.

  Now they might rely on at least an equal number of National Guards devoted to the king, leaving out the officers, who were to be united into a kind of sacred battalion, ready to set an example of exposure to all dangers.

  At six in the morning, the inhabitants who were most zealous were out and in the courtyard of the intendancy. Charny and the guardsmen were with them. The king arose at seven, and said that he wished to attend mass. Nothing seemed to oppose the accomplishment of the wish.

  The king seemed pleased; Charny, though, shook his head. Though he did not know Dronet, he knew Billot.

  All seemed favourable, however. The streets were crowded, but it was easy to see that the population sympathised with the king. While the blinds of the room of the king and queen were closed, the crowd, not to disturb them, had moved about quietly and calmly, lifting up its hands to heaven, and the four or five hundred peasants of the escort, who would not return home, were scarcely observable in its masses.

  As soon, though, as the blinds of the royal chambers were opened, cries of “Vive le roi!” and “Vive la reine!” were uttered so energetically, that the king and queen appeared at the balcony.

  The cries were then unanimous, and for a last time the captive sovereigns seemed condemned to disappointment.

  “Well,” said Louis XVI. to Marie Antoinette, “all goes well.”

  She lifted her eyes to heaven, but made no reply.

  Just then the ringing of the clock was heard. Charny tapped lightly at the door.

  “Very well,” said the king; “I am ready.”

  Charny glanced at the king, who seemed calm, and almost firm. He had suffered so much, that by suffering he seemed to have lost his irresolution.

  The carriage was at the door. The king and queen were surrounded by a crowd at, least as considerable as that of the previous evening. Instead, however, of insults, it demanded no favour but a word, a glance, or permission to touch the apparel of the king, or leave to kiss the queen’s hand.

  The three officers got on the box; the driver was ordered to proceed to the church, and did not hesitate. Who was to give a counter-order? — the chiefs were absent. Charny looked round, and saw neither Drouet nor Billot. They reached the church.