The month of May had commenced. A bright clear day expanded the lungs tired of inhaling the icy fogs of winter, and the rays of the sun, warm and exhilarating, shone upon the black walls of the Temple. At the wicket of the interior, which separated the tower from the gardens, the soldiers of the post were smoking and laughing. But, notwithstanding the beauty of the day, and the offer made to the prisoners to descend and walk in the garden, the three females refused to do so; as, since the execution of her husband, the queen had obstinately secluded herself in her chamber, not wishing to pass the door of the apartment lately occupied by the king on the second story. When by any chance she took the air, since the fatal occurrence of the 21st of January, she did so on the platform of the tower, where even the battlements were inclosed with shutters.
The National Guards on duty, who knew the three females had received permission to go out, waited in vain all day, expecting them to turn the authority to some account. Toward five o'clock a man descended, and approached the sergeant in command of the post.
"Ah! ah! is that you, Father Tison?" said the sergeant, who appeared to be a right merry fellow.
"Yes, it is I, Citizen; I bring you, on the part of the municipal Maurice Lindey, your friend, who is now upstairs, this permission, granted by the Council of the Temple to my daughter, to pay a visit to her mother this evening."
"And you are going out just as your daughter is coming in? Unnatural father!" said the sergeant.
"I am going much against my inclination, Citizen Sergeant. I also hoped to see my poor child, whom I have not seen for two months, and to embrace her this evening. I am going out now. This service, this damned service, compels me to go out. It is necessary I should go to the Commune to make my report. A fiacre is waiting for me at the door, with two gendarmes, and it is exactly the time when my poor Sophie will arrive."
"Unhappy parent!" said the sergeant.
"And, Citizen Sergeant, when my child comes to see her poor mother, who is dying to see her, you will allow her to pass?"
"The order is correct," replied the sergeant, whom the reader has no doubt recognized as our friend Lorin; "so I have nothing to say against it; when your daughter comes, she may pass."
"Thanks, brave Thermopyle! thanks," said Tison; and he went out to make his report to the Commune, murmuring, "My poor wife, how happy she will be!"
"Do you know, Sergeant," said one of the National Guard, seeing Tison depart, and overhearing the last words,--"do you know there is something in these things that makes my blood run cold?"
"What things, Citizen Devaux?" demanded Lorin.
"Why," replied the compassionate National Guard, "to see this man, with his surly face and heart of stone, this pitiless guardian of the queen, go out with his eyes full of tears, partly of joy, partly of grief, thinking that his wife will see his daughter, and he shall not. It does not do to reflect upon it too much, Sergeant; it is really grievous."
"Doubtless that is why he does not reflect upon it himself, this man who goes out with tears in his eyes, as you term it."
"Upon what should he reflect?"
"That it is three months since this woman he so brutally uses has seen her child. He does not think of her grief, only of his own; that is all. It is true this woman was queen," continued the sergeant, in an ironical tone rather difficult of comprehension; "and one is not obliged to feel the same respect for a queen as for the wife of a journeyman."
"Notwithstanding, all this is very sad," said Devaux.
"Sad, but necessary," said Lorin. "The best way then, is, as you say, not to think of it," and he began to sing--
"Where the branches met On a rocky stone There I found Nicette, Seated all alone."
Lorin was in the midst of his pastoral ditty, when suddenly a loud noise was heard from the left side of the post, composed of oaths, menaces, and tears.
"What is that?" demanded Devaux.
"It sounded like the voice of a child," said Lorin, listening.
"In fact," said the National Guard, "it is a poor little one they are beating. Truly they ought only to send here those who have no children."
"Will you sing?" said a hoarse and drunken voice.
And the voice sung in example--
"Madame Veto promised That all our heads should fall--"
"No," said the child, "I will not sing."
"Will you sing?"
And the voice recommenced--
"Madame Veto promised--"
"No! no!" said the child. "No, no, no!"
"Ah! little beggar," said the hoarse voice; and the noise of a lash whirring through the air was distinctly heard. The infant screamed with agony.
"Ah! _sacre bleu!_" said Lorin; "it is that rascally Simon beating the little Capet."
Several of the National Guards shrugged their shoulders. Two or three tried to smile. Devaux rose and went out.
"I said truly," murmured he, "that parents should never enter here."
All at once a low door opened, and the royal child, chased by the whip of his guardian made a flying leap into the court, when something hard struck his leg, and fell on the ground behind him.
He stumbled, and fell upon his knee.
"Bring me my last, little monster, or else--"
The child rose and shook his head, in token of refusal.
"Ah! this is it, is it?" cried the same voice. "Wait, you shall see," and the shoemaker Simon rushed from his hut as a wild beast from its den.
"Hallo! hallo!" cried Lorin, frowning. "Where are you going so fast, Master Simon?"
"To chastise this little wolf's cub," said the shoemaker.
"To chastise him, for what?"
"For what?"
"Yes."
"Because the little beggar will neither sing like a good patriot, nor work like a good citizen."
"Well, what have you to do with that?" demanded Lorin. "Did the nation confide Capet to you that you might teach him to sing?"
"And what business have you to interfere, I should like to know, Citizen Sergeant?" said Simon, astonished.
"I interfere, as it becomes every man of feeling to do. It is unworthy of a man to see a child beaten, and to suffer him to be beaten."
"Bah! the son of a tyrant."
"He is a child; and the child has not participated in the crimes of the father. The child is not culpable, and, consequently, ought not to be punished."
"And I tell you he was placed with me to do what I choose with him. I choose that he shall sing 'Madame Veto,' and sing it he shall."
"Contemptible wretch!" said Lorin. "'Madame Veto' is mother to this child. Would you yourself like your child to be made to sing that you were one of the canaille?"
"Me!" cried Simon. "Vile aristocrat of a sergeant!"
"No names," said Lorin. "I am not Capet; and they shall not make me sing by force."
"I will have you arrested, vile _ci-devant_!"
"You!" said Lorin; "you have me arrested! you had better try to arrest a Thermopyle."
"Good, good; he laughs best who laughs last. And now, Capet, pick up my last, and come and finish your shoe, or by thunder!--"
"And I," said Lorin, turning deadly pale, and advancing a step forward, his hands clinched, and his teeth set,-- "I tell you he shall not pick up your last, he shall not make shoes; do you hear, idiot? Oh, yes! you have your big sword there, but I am no more afraid of it than I am of yourself. Just you dare to draw it."
"Ah! _massacre_," roared Simon, turning pale with rage.
At this moment two women entered the court. One of them held a paper in her hand. She addressed herself to the sentinel.
"Sergeant," cried the sentinel, "it is Tison's daughter, who asks to see her mother."
"Let her pass, since the Council of the Temple permit it," said Lorin, who did not wish to leave for a moment, for fear Simon should avail himself of his absence and again beat the child.
The sentinel allowed the two women to pass; but hardly had they ascended four steps on the dark staircase, when they encountered Maurice Lindey, who was descending into the court. It was almost dark, so that he was unable to distinguish their features. Maurice stopped them.
"Who are you, citizens?" said he; "and what do you want?"
"I am Sophie Tison," said one of the women; "I obtained permission to visit my mother, and have come to see her."
"Yes," said Maurice; "but this permission was for yourself only, Citizeness."
"I brought my friend, that there might be two of us in the midst of the soldiers, at least."
"Very good; but your friend cannot go up."
"As you please, Citizen," said Sophie Tison, pressing the hand of her friend, who, close against the wall, seemed paralyzed with surprise and terror.
"Citizen sentinels," said Maurice, raising his voice and addressing the sentinels who were stationed on every landing, "allow the Citizen Tison to pass, but do not permit her friend to pass; she will remain on the staircase. See that she is treated with all due respect."
"Yes, Citizen," replied the sentinels.
"Go up, then," said Maurice.
The two women then passed on; and Maurice, leaping over the remaining five or six steps, advanced rapidly into the court.
"What is all this?" said he to the National Guard; "and what is the cause of this noise? The cries of a child were heard as far as the prisoners' antechamber."
"It is this," said Simon, who, accustomed to the manners of the municipals, believed, on perceiving Maurice, that he came as an ally; "this traitor, this spy, this _ci-devant_, this aristocrat, prevents me from belaboring Capet," and he shook his fist at Lorin.
"Yes, by Heaven, I did prevent it," said Lorin, drawing his sword; "and if you again call me _ci-devant_, aristocrat, or traitor, I will run my sword through your body."
"A threat!" cried Simon; "guard! guard!"
"I am the guard," said Lorin; "so you had better not call; for if I come to you, I will exterminate you."
"Come here, Citizen Municipal, come here," said Simon, now seriously alarmed at Lorin's threats.
"The sergeant is quite right," said the municipal, to whom he had appealed for assistance; "you are a disgrace to the nation, coward, to beat a child."
"And why did he beat him? Do you know the reason, Maurice? Because the child would not sing 'Madame Veto;' because the child would not insult his mother."
"The miserable wretch!" said Maurice.
"And you also?" said Simon. "Am I surrounded by traitors?"
"You villain!" cried the municipal, seizing Simon by the throat, and tearing the last from his hand; "try to prove that Maurice Lindey is a traitor," and he applied the leather strap vigorously to the shoulders of the shoemaker.
"Thanks, sir," said the child, who regarded this scene with the coolness of a Stoic; "but he will revenge himself upon me."
"Come, Capet, come, my child," said Lorin; "if he beats you again, call for help; I will chastise him, the hangman. And now, little Capet, return to your tower."
"Why do you call me Capet, even you who protect me? You know very well that Capet is not my name."
"Not your name!" said Lorin; "what is your name, then?"
"I am called Louis Charles de Bourbon. Capet is the name of one of my ancestors. I know the history of France; my father taught me."
"And you want to teach a child to mend old shoes, to whom a king has taught the history of France?" cried Lorin; "it beats everything."
"You need not be concerned," said Maurice to the child; "I will make my report."
"And I mine," said Simon; "and among other things I shall say that instead of allowing one woman to enter the tower, you permitted two to pass."
At this moment the two women went out from the keep. Maurice ran after them.
"Well, Citizeness," said he, addressing the one by his side, "have you seen your mother?"
Sophie Tison placed herself immediately between the municipal and her companion.
"Yes, Citizen, thank you," said she.
Maurice had wished to see the young girl's friend, or at least to hear her voice, but she was enveloped in her mantle, and seemed determined not to utter a single word. He also thought that she trembled. This appearance of fear excited his suspicion. He reascended the stairs quickly, and through the glass partition saw the queen endeavoring to hide something in her pocket which looked like a billet.
"Ah! ah!" said he, "I have been duped."
He called his colleague.
"Citizen Agricola," said he, "enter Marie Antoinette's room, and do not lose sight of her."
"Heyday!" said the municipal, "is it because--"
"Enter, I tell you, and do not lose sight of her for an instant, a moment, a second."
The municipal entered the queen's apartment.
"Call the woman Tison," said he to one of the National Guard.
Five minutes afterward Tison's wife arrived in high spirits.
"I have seen my daughter," said she.
"Where was that?" demanded Maurice.
"Here, of course, in this antechamber."
"Well; and did not your daughter ask to see the Austrian?"
"No."
"Did she not enter her room?"
"No."
"And during the time you were conversing with your daughter, did no one come out of the prisoners' chamber?"
"How should I know? I was fully occupied with my daughter, whom I had not seen for three months."
"Recollect yourself."
"Ah, yes; I think I remember."
"What?"
"The young girl came out."
"Marie Thérèse?"
"Yes."
"Did she speak to your daughter?"
"No."
"Your daughter gave nothing to her?"
"No."
"Did she pick up nothing from the ground?"
"My daughter?"
"No, the daughter of Marie Antoinette."
"She picked up her pocket-handkerchief."
"Oh, woman! what were you thinking of?" cried Maurice.
And he rushed toward a bell-cord, which he pulled violently. It was an alarm-bell.