La Vendée

  CHAPTER II.

  ROBESPIERRE'S LOVE.

  Eleanor Duplay was not a beautiful young woman, nor was there anythingabout her which marked her as being superior to those of her own stationof life; but her countenance was modest and intelligent, and her heartwas sincere; such as she was she had won the affection of him, who was,certainly, at this time the most powerful man in France. She was aboutfive-and-twenty years of age; was the eldest of four sisters, and hadpassed her quiet existence in assisting her mother in her household, andin doing for her father so much of his work as was fitting for a woman'shand. Till Robespierre had become an inmate of her father's house, shehad not paid more than ordinary attention to the politics of thetroubled days in which she lived; but she had caught the infection fromhim, as the whole family had done. She had listened to his words asthough they fell from inspired lips: the pseudo-philosophical dogmas,which are to us both repulsive and ridiculous, were to her invaluabletruths, begotten by reason, and capable of regenerating herfellow-creatures. Robespierre was to her, what her Saviour should havebeen; and he rewarded her devotion, by choosing her as the partner ofhis greatness.

  Robespierre's affection was not that of an impassioned lover; he did notshow it by warm caresses or fervid vows; but yet he made her, whom hehad chosen, understand that she was to him dearer than any other woman;and Eleanor was prouder of her affianced husband, than though thehandsomest youth of Paris was at her feet.

  As she entered his chamber, he was thinking partly of her, and he wasnot sorry to be thus interrupted. She carried a candle in one hand, andin the other a bouquet of fresh flowers, which she quietly laid amonghis papers. Robespierre either had, or affected a taste for flowers,and, as long as they were to be gotten, he was seldom seen without them,either in his hand or on his coat.

  "I thought you would want a light, M. Robespierre," said she, for thoughshe hoped to be closely connected with him, she seldom ventured on thefamiliarity of calling him by his Christian name. Had she been a man,her democratic principle would have taught her to discontinue thearistocratic Monsieur; but, even in 1793, the accustomed courtesy ofthat obnoxious word was allowed to woman's lips. "I thought you wouldwant a light, or I would not have interrupted you at your work."

  "Thanks, Eleanor: I was not at work, though; my brain, my eyes, andhands were all tired. I have been sitting idle for, I believe, this halfhour."

  "Your eyes and hands may have been at rest," said she, sitting down atthe end of the table, "but it is seldom that your thoughts are not atwork."

  "It is one of the high privileges of man, that though his body needsrepose, the faculties of his mind need never be entirely dormant. I knowthat I have reasoned in my sleep as lucidly as I have ever done awake;and though, when awake, I have forgotten what has passed through mymind, the work of my brain has not been lost: the same ideas haverecurred to me again, and though in the recurrence, I cannot rememberwhen I have before employed myself with arranging them, still they cometo me as old friends, with whom I am well acquainted. The mind willseldom complain of too much labour, if the body be not injured byindulgence or disease."

  "But too much labour will bring on disease," said Eleanor, in a tonewhich plainly showed the sincerity of the anxiety which she expressed."We never get a walk with you now; do you know that it is months sincewe were in the Champs Elysees together; it was in May, and this isOctober now."

  "Affairs must be greatly altered, Eleanor; many things which are nowundone must be completed, before we walk again for our pleasure: a truepatriot can no longer walk the streets of Paris in safety, whiletraitors can come and go in security, with their treason blazoned ontheir foreheads."

  "And yet do not many traitors expiate their crimes daily?"

  "Many are condemned and die; but I fear not always those who have mostdeserved death. Much blood has been shed, and it has partly been incompliance with my counsel. I would that the vengeance of the Republicmight now stay its hand, if it could be so, with safety to the people.I am sick of the unchanging sentences of the judges, and the verdictsof juries who are determined to convict. I doubt not that those who arebrought before them are traitors or aristocrats--at any rate, they arenot at heart republicans, and if so, they have deserved death; but Ishould be better pleased, if now and then a victim was spared." Hepaused for a while, and then added, "The blood of traitors is verysickening; but there are those Eleanor, in whose nostrils it has a sweetsavour: there are butchers of the human kind, who revel in the horridshambles, in which they are of necessity employed. Such men are to meaccursed--their breath reeks of human blood."

  Eleanor shuddered as she listened to him: but it was not the thought ofall the blood, which he whom she loved had shed, which made her shudder:she had no idea that Robespierre was a sanguinary man: she sympathizedwith the weakness of humanity which he confessed, and loved him for thekindness of his heart--and he was not a hypocrite in his protestation;he believed that there was nothing in common between himself and thewretches who crowded round the last sufferings of the victims whom hehad caused to ascend the scaffold. He little thought that, in a fewyears, he would be looked upon as the sole author of the barbarities ofwhich he now complained.

  It was seldom that Robespierre had spoken so openly to Eleanor Duplayof his inmost thoughts. She was flattered and gratified to think he hadthought her worthy of his confidence, that he had chosen her to listento the secrets of his heart, and she felt that, if she had influencewith him, it would become her as a woman to use it on behalf of thosewhom it might be in his power to save from a fearful death.

  "And are there many more who must die?" said she. "When I hear thewheels of that horrid cart, as it carries the poor creatures who havebeen condemned, on their last journey, my heart, too, sickens within me.Will these horrid executions go on much longer?"

  "There are still thousands upon thousands of men in France, who wouldsooner be the slaves of a King, than draw the breath of liberty,"answered he.

  "But they can be taught the duties and feelings of men, cannot they?They think, and feel now only as they have been brought up to think andfeel."

  "Had they not been too stubborn to learn, they have had a lesson writtenin letters of blood, which would have long since convinced them--if itbe necessary, it must be repeated I for one will not shrink from myduty. No though I should sink beneath the horrid task which it imposeson me."

  They both then sat silent for a while; though Robespierre had venturedto express to the girl, whom he knew to be so entirely devoted to him,a feeling somewhat akin to that of pity for his victims, he could notbear that even she should appear to throw a shadow of an imputation onthe propriety and justness of his measures, although she only did so byrepeating and appealing to the kindly expressions which had fallen fromhimself. He had become so used to the unmeasured praise of those amongwhom he lived, so painfully suspicious of those who, in the remotestdegree, disapproved of any of his words or deeds, so confident ofhimself, so distrustful of all others, that even what she had said waspainful to him, and though he himself hardly knew why, yet he felt thathe was displeased with her. Eleanor, however, was altogether unconsciousof having irritated his sore feelings; and relying on the kind tone ofwhat he had said, and the confident manner in which he had spoken toher, she determined to obey the dictates of her heart, and intercede formercy for her fellow-creatures. Poor girl! she did not know the dangerof coming near the lion's prey.

  She had heard much of the Vendeans, and though those who had spoken inher hearing of the doings of the royalist rebels were not likely to saymuch to excite sympathy on their behalf still she had learnt that theywere true to each other, faithful to their leaders, generous to theirenemies, and brave in battle. The awful punishment to be inflicted onthe doomed district had also been partially discussed in her hearing;and though the Republic had no more enthusiastic daughter than herself,her woman's heart could not endure the idea that even the innocentchildren of a large province should be condemned to slaughter for theirfathers' want of
patriotism. What work so fitting for the woman whom aruler of the people had chosen for a wife, as to implore the sternmagistrate to temper justice with mercy? In what way could she use herinfluence so sweetly as to ask for the lives of women and children?

  And yet she felt afraid to make her innocent request. Robespierre hadnever yet been offended with her. Though he had given her counsel onalmost every subject, he had never yet spoken to her one word ofdisapprobation still she knew that he had inspired her with fear. Shemade some attempts to begin the subject, which he did not notice, forhe was still brooding over the unpleasant sensation which her words hadoccasioned; but at last she gathered courage, and said:

  "The soldiers of the Republic have at last overcome the rebels of LaVendee--have they not, M. Robespierre?"

  "It is not enough to conquer traitors," answered he, "they must becrushed, before the country can be safe from their treachery."

  "Their treason must be crushed, I know."

  "Crimes between man and man can be atoned for by minor punishments:crimes between citizens and their country can only be properly avengedby death. You may teach the murderer or the thief the iniquity of hisfault; and when he has learnt to hate the deed he has committed, he maybe pardoned. It is not so with traitors. Though the truest child ofFrance should spend his life in the attempt, he would not be able toinspire one aristocrat with a spark of patriotism."

  "Must every royalist in La Vendee perish then?" said Eleanor.

  Robespierre did not answer her immediately, but leaning his elbow on thetable, he rested his forehead on his hand, so as nearly to conceal hisface. Eleanor thought that he was meditating on her question; andremembering that he had declared that he should be pleased if now andthen a victim might be spared, again commenced her difficult task ofurging him to mercy.

  "They talk of shedding the blood of innocent children--of destroyingpeasant women, who can only think and feel as their husbands bid them.You will not allow that this should be done, will you?"

  "Is the life of a woman more precious to her than that of a man? It isa false sentiment which teaches us to spare the iniquities of womenbecause of their sex. Their weakness entitles them to our protection,their beauty begets our love; but neither their weakness or their beautyshould be accepted as an excuse for their crimes."

  "But poor innocent babes--it is not possible that they should havecommitted crimes."

  "In the religion of Christ it is declared, that the sins of the fathersshall be visited on the children, to the third and fourth generation.The priests who made these laws, and handed them down to their flocks,as the very words of their God, had closely studied human nature. I donot believe that an Almighty Creator condescended to engrave on stone,with his own finger, these words, as they would feign that he did do;but the law is not the less true; the children must expatiate, to thethird and fourth generation, the sins of their fathers. Nature, whichis all benignant, wills that it should be so."

  "If this be so, will not nature work out her own law. Will it not bepunishment enough that so many women should lose their husbands; so manychildren their fathers? You, I know, are averse to shedding blood; youwould spare life whenever your sense of duty would allow you to do so.Try what clemency will do in La Vendee. Try whether kindness will notput a stop to the bitterness of their enmity. Do, dearest, for my sake."

  It is possible that Eleanor had never before spoken to her lover inlanguage so tender; it is also probable that she had never before askedof him any request, in which ought of a political nature was concerned.Be that as it may, as soon as she had finished speaking, her face becamesuffused with scarlet, as though she had said something of which she wasashamed. One would think that there was nothing in the term ofendearment which she had used which could have displeased a betrothedhusband; nothing in the petition she, had made which could have angereda political friend. Robespierre, however, soon showed that he wasdispleased and angered; nay, worse still, that his black, unmanlysuspicion was aroused. To his disordered brain it seemed that Eleanorwas practising on him her woman's wiles for some unworthy purpose, andthat treason lurked in her show of humanity and affection. He believedthat she, who had always believed in him, loved him, almost worshippedhim, had become in an instant false and designing.

  He looked her steadily in the face a moment or two before he answered,and she did not bear calmly the fierce glance of his eye; she saw atonce that she had angered him, and, in spite of her love, she could notbut know how dark and terrible was his anger.

  "Who has set you on to talk to me of this?" he said slowly, stillkeeping his eyes fixed on hers.

  "Set me on, M. Robespierre! what do you mean? Who should have set meon?"

  "There are hundreds, I grieve to say, ready to do so. Some of them aredaily near you. I should have thought, though, that with you I mighthave been safe."

  "Safe with me! And do you doubt it now--do you doubt that you are safewith me?" and as she spoke, she laid her hand upon his arm, andattempted to appeal to his affection. He gently withdrew his arm fromher grasp, and again concealed his face with his hand. "As I stand herealive before you," continued she, speaking with a more assured voicethan she had hitherto used, "I have not whispered a word to man or womanupon this subject, but yourself."

  Eleanor had risen from her chair when her companion first expressed hissuspicion, and she was now standing; but Robespierre remained seated,still shading his eyes with his hand, as though he had nothing furtherto say to her, and would wish to be alone. She, however, felt that shecould not leave him without some further explanation on her part, someretraction on his; but she knew not how to set about it. The mosteloquent men in France had found it difficult to explain anything toRobespierre's satisfaction. No one had yet been able to make him retractthe word which he had spoken.

  "Say that you believe me, M. Robespierre," said she; "for mercy's sake,say that you do not doubt me! Do you not know that I would always obeyyou, that your words are always to me the words of truth? I have donewrong, I doubt not, in speaking to you of public matters. I beg yourpardon, and promise that I will not so transgress again; but before Ileave you, tell me that you do not distrust my fidelity."

  "I would still wish to hope, Eleanor, that you are truly anxious for thewelfare of your country, and the safety of your friend," said he, still,however, without looking up.

  "Indeed I am, most anxious; anxious above all things for your welfareand safety. I should think little of my life, could I give it to promotethe one, or secure the other."

  "Tell me then, I conjure you, who are they who have desired you to begfor the lives of these Vendean rebels," and as he spoke, he leapt fromhis chair, and putting his hand upon her shoulder, looked sternly intoher face.

  "As God is my judge--"

  "Bah! if neither love of your country or of me, nor yet fear of thepunishment due to traitors, will keep you true," (and he slightly shookher with his hand, as he slowly uttered the last fearful words), "thejudgment of God will not have much effect upon you."

  "True!" said the poor girl, almost confounded with her horror at thecharge against her, amid the violence of the man. "True! Oh! Sir, formercy's sake, tell me what it is of which you accuse me--tell me whatit is that I have done. No man has spoken of you behind your back wordswhich you might not yourself have heard. No man has desired me to askyou to spare the rebels. No man has even dared to hint to me, that Ishould do or say ought in opposition to you."

  "Some woman has done it then," said he.

  "My God! that you should think so foully of me! No, Sir, neither man,nor woman, nor child. You said that, were it possible, you would wishthat the hand of the executioner might be stayed. It was your own wordsthat set me on to say what I did. I did not dream that I shoulddisplease you. Tell me, M. Robespierre, tell me that you are not angrywith me, and I will forget it all."

  "Forget it all. Yes, things trivial and of no concern are longremembered, but matters on which depend the life and death of those weought to love, are soon forgotte
n if they are unpleasant. No, Eleanor,do not forget it all. Do not forget this--remember that I never have,and never will, allow my feelings as a private man to influence myconduct as a public functionary. I have many duties to perform; dutieswhich are arduous, disagreeable, and dangerous, but difficult as theyare, I believe that I am able to perform them. I do not wish for advice,and I will not permit interference. Now go down, Eleanor; our friendsare below, I heard their steps a while since, as they came in. I havebut a few words to write, and I will join you."

  "But you will tell me before I go that we are friends again," said thepoor girl, now weeping. "You will say that you do not distrust me."

  "I do not believe that you meant evil to me, but you were indiscreet.Let that be sufficient now, and bear this in mind, Eleanor--you know theplace you hold in my affections, but were you still nearer to me thanyou are; were you already my wife, and the mother of my children, Iwould not stand between you and the punishment you would deserve, if youwere untrue to your country."

  After hearing this energetic warning, Eleanor Duplay left her lover'sroom, firmly believing that she had greatly sinned in speaking as shehad done, but conscious, at any rate, of having intended no evil, eitherto him or to the unfortunate country respecting which he expressed soconstant a solicitude.

  As soon as she was gone, he again took up the papers which he hadwritten, and re-read them with great care. In the letter to the twoCommissioners he underscored the passages which most forcibly urged themto energy in their work of destruction, and added a word here and therewhich showed more clearly his intention that mercy should be shown tonone. He then turned to his letter to his brother. In that he said thatEleanor's conduct had been a source of great comfort to him, and thathe blamed himself for still feeling any reserve with her. He now erasedthe passage, and wrote in its stead, "even with Eleanor Duplay I havesome reserve, and I feel that I cannot throw it off with safety!" andhaving done this, he, laboriously copied, for the second time, the longletter which he had written.

  When he had finished his task, he left his own chamber, and went downinto a room below, in which the family were in the habit of assemblingin the evening, and meeting such of Robespierre's friends as he wishedto have admitted. The cabinet-maker, and his wife and daughters,together with his son and nephew, who assisted him in his workshop, werealways there; and few evenings passed without the attendance of some ofhis more intimate friends. They were, at first, merely in the habit ofreturning with him from the Jacobins' club, but after a while theirprivate meetings became so necessary to them, that they assembled atDuplay's on those nights also on which the Jacobins did not meet.

  When Robespierre entered the humble salon, Lebas, St. Just, and Couthonwere there; three men who were constant to him to the last, and diedwith him when he died. As far as we can judge of their characters, theywere none of them naturally bad men. They were not men prone to lust orplunder; they betrayed no friends; they sought in their political viewsno private ends; they even frequently used the power with which theywere invested to save the lives of multitudes for whose blood theinfuriate mob were eager. Lebas and St. Just were constant to the girlsthey loved, and Couthon, who was an object of pity as a cripple, washappy in the affection of a young wife whom he adored; and yet thesewere the men who assisted Robespierre in organizing the Reign of Terror,and with him share the infamy of the deeds which were then committed.They were all of them young when they died. They were men of education,and a certain elevation, of spirit. Men who were able to sacrifice thepleasures of youth to the hard work of high political duties. Bloodcould not have been, was not, acceptable to them; yet under how greata load of infamy do their names now lie buried!

  "We thought you were going to seclude yourself tonight," said Lebas,"and we were regretting it."

  "What have you done with Eleanor," said Madame Duplay, "that she doesnot come down to us?"

  "I thought to have found her here," answered he; "she left me someminutes since. She was not in good spirits, and has probably retired forthe night. Tell me, St. Just, do they talk much of tomorrow's trial?"

  Robespierre alluded to the trial of Marie Antoinette, as the cruelfarce, which was so called, was then to commence. The people were nowthirsty after her blood, and thought themselves wronged in that she hadbeen so long held back from their wrath.

  "They speak of her execution as of a thing of course," said St. Just;"and they are right; her sand has well nigh run itself out. I wish shewere now at her nephew's court."

  "Wish rather that she had never come from thence," said Couthon. "Shehas brought great misfortunes on France. Could she die a thousanddeaths, she could not atone for what she has done. Not that I would haveher die, if it were possible that she could be allowed to live."

  "It is not possible," said Robespierre. "To have been Queen of France,is in itself a crime which it would have been necessary that she shouldexpiate, even had she shown herself mistress of all the virtues whichcould adorn a woman."

  "And she is not possessed of one," said Lebas. "She was beautiful, buther beauty was a stain upon her, for she was voluptuous. She wastalented, but her talents were all turned to evil, for they only enabledher to intrigue against her adopted country. She had the disposal ofwealth, with which she might have commanded the blessings of the poor,and she wasted it in vain frivolities. She was gracious in demeanour,but she kept her smiles for those only who deserved her frowns. She hadunbounded influence over her husband, and she persuaded him tofalsehood, dishonesty, and treachery."

  "Do not deny that she has courage," said St. Just. "She has borne heradversity well, though she could not bear her prosperity."

  "She has courage," said Lebas, "and how has she used it? in fighting anineffectual battle against the country who had received her with openarms. We must all be judged by posterity, but no historian will dare tosay that Marie Antoinette did not deserve the doom which now awaitsher."

  How little are men able to conceive what award posterity will make injudging of their actions, even when they act with pure motives, and onwhat they consider to be high principles; and posterity is often as muchin error in its indiscriminate condemnation of actions, as are theactors in presuming themselves entitled to its praise.

  When years have rolled by, and passions have cooled, the differentmotives and feelings of the persons concerned become known to all, andmankind is enabled to look upon public acts from every side. Not so theactors; they are not only in ignorance of facts, the knowledge of whichis necessary to their judging rightly, but falsehoods dressed in thegarb of facts are studiously brought forward to deceive them, and menthus groping in darkness are forced to form opinions, and to act uponthem.

  Public men are like soldiers fighting in a narrow valley: they seenothing but what is close around them, and that imperfectly, aseverything is in motion. The historian is as the general, who standselevated on the high ground, and, with telescope in hand, sees plainlyall the different movements of the troops. He would be an inconsiderategeneral, who would expect that his officers in action should have hadas clear an idea of what was going on, as he himself had been able toobtain.

  There was no murder perpetrated during the French Revolution, under thepretext of a judicial sentence, which has created more general disgustthan has that of Marie Antoinette. She came as a stranger to thecountry, which on that account owed to her its special protection. Shehad been called to France to be a Queen, and her greatest crime was thatshe would not give up the high station she had been invited to fill. Shehad been a faithful wife to a husband who did not love her till he knewher well, and who was slow in learning anything. She had been a goodmother to the children, who were born, as she believed, to rule thedestinies of France.

  She had clung to a falling cause, with a sense of duty which was asadmirable as her courage, and at last she died with the devoted heroismwhich so well became her mother's daughter. But what we now look on asvirtues, were vices in the eyes of the republicans, who were her judges.Her constancy was stubbornn
ess, and her courage was insolence. Herinnocent mirth was called licentiousness, and the royal splendour whichshe had been taught to maintain, was looked upon as iniquitousextravagance. Nor was this, even in those bloody days, enough to condemnher. Lies of the basest kind were, with care and difficulty, contrivedto debase her character--lies which have now been proved to be so, butwhich were then not only credible, but sure to receive credit from thosewho already believed that all royal blood was, from its nature, capableof every abomination.

  When Lebas so confidently predicated the sentence which posterity wouldpass on the fall of Marie Antoinette, none of his auditors doubted thecorrectness of his prophecy. Posterity, however, more partial to thefrivolities of courts than to the fury of revolutions, has acquitted theQueen, and passed, perhaps, too heavy a sentence on the judges whocondemned her. Till the power of Satan over the world has beendestroyed, and man is able to walk uprightly before his Maker, thevirtues of one generation will be the vices of another.