"Take him away!" exclaimed Billot, "take away Monsieur Gilbert's son, and lead him into all this turmoil,—expose him to receiving some unhappy blow! Oh! no, indeed!"
"Do you see, Sebastien," said the principal, "do you see, you furious fellow, that even your friends will have nothing to do with you? For, in short, these gentlemen appear to be your friends. Come, gentlemen, come, my young pupils, come, my children," cried the poor principal, "obey me—obey me, I command you—obey me, I entreat you."
"Oro obtestorque," said Pitou.
"Sir," said young Gilbert, with a firmness that was extraordinary in a youth of his age, "retain my comrades, if such be your pleasure; but as to me, do you understand me, I will go out."
He made a movement towards the gate; the professor caught him by the arm.
But he, shaking his fine auburn curls upon his pallid forehead,—
"Sir," said he, "beware what you are doing. I am not in the same position as your other pupils. My father has been arrested, imprisoned; my father is in the power of the tyrants."
"In the power of the tyrants!" exclaimed Billot; "speak, my child; what is it that you mean?"
"Yes, yes," cried several of the scholars, "Sebastien is right; his father has been arrested; and since the people have opened the prisons, he wishes they should open his father's prison too."
"Oh, oh!" said the farmer, shaking the bars of the gate with his herculean arms, " they have arrested Doctor Gilbert, have they? By Heaven! my little Catherine, then, was right!"
"Yes, sir," continued young Gilbert, "they have arrested my father, and that is why I wish to get out, why I wish to take a musket, why I wish to fight until I have liberated my dear father."
And these words were accompanied and encouraged by a hundred furious voices, crying in every key:—
"Arms! arms! let us have arms!"
On hearing these cries, the crowd which had collected in the street, animated in its turn by an heroic ardor, rushed towards the gate to give liberty to the collegians.
The principal threw himself upon his knees between his scholars and the invaders, and held out his arms with a supplicating gesture.
"Oh, my friends! my friends!" cried he, "respect my children!"
"Do we not respect them?" said a French Guard. "I believe we do, indeed. They are fine boys, and they will do their exercise admirably."
"My friends! my friends! These children are a sacred deposit which their parents have confided to me; I am responsible for them; their parents calculate upon me; for them I would sacrifice my life; but, in the name of Heaven! do not take away these children!"
Hootings, proceeding from the street, that is to say, from the hindmost ranks of the crowd, replied to these piteous supplications.
Billot rushed forward, opposing the French Guards, the crowd, the scholars themselves:—
"He is right, it is a sacred trust; let men fight, let men get themselves killed, but let children live; they are seed for the future."
A disapproving murmur followed these words.
"Who is it that murmurs?" cried Billot; "assuredly, it cannot be a father. I who am now speaking to you, had two men killed in my arms; their blood is upon my shirt. See this!"
And he showed his shirt and waistcoat all begrimed with blood, and with a dignified movement which electrified the crowd.
"Yesterday," continued Billot, "I fought at the Palais Royal; and at the Tuileries, and this lad also fought there, but this lad has neither father nor mother; moreover, he is almost a man."
And he pointed to Pitou, who looked proudly around him.
"To-day," continued Billot, "I shall fight again; but let no one say to me, 'The Parisians were not strong enough to contend against the foreign soldiers, and they called children to their aid.'"
"Yes, yes," resounded on every side, proceeding from women in the crowd, and several of the soldiers; "he is right, children: go into the college; go into the college."
"Oh, thanks, thanks, sir!" murmured the principal of the college, endeavoring to catch hold of Billot's hand through the bars of the gate.
"And, above all, take special care of Sebastien; keep him safe," said the latter.
"Keep me! I say, on the contrary, that I will not be kept here," cried the boy, livid with anger, and struggling with the college servants, who were dragging him away.
"Let me in," said Billot. "I will engage to quiet him."
The crowd made way for him to pass; the farmer dragged Pitou after him, and entered the courtyard of the college.
Already three or four of the French Guards, and about ten men, placed themselves as sentinels at the gate, and prevented the egress of the young insurgents.
Billot went straight up to young Sebastien, and taking between his huge and horny palms the small white hands of the child—
"Sebastien," he said, "do you not recognize me?"
"No."
"I am old Billot, your father's farmer."
"I know you now, sir."
"And this lad," rejoined Billot, pointing to his companion, "do you know him?"
"Ange Pitou," said the boy.
"Yes, Sebastien; it is I—it is I."
And Pitou, weeping with joy, threw his arms round the neck of his foster-brother and former schoolfellow.
"Well," said the boy, whose brow still remained scowling, "what is now to be done?"
"What?" cried Billot. "Why, if they have taken your father from you, I will restore him to you. Do you understand?"
"You?"
"Yes, I—I, and all those who are out yonder with me. What the devil! Yesterday, we had to deal with the Austrians, and we saw their cartridge-boxes."
"In proof of which, I have one of them," said Pitou.
"Shall we not release his father?" cried Billot, addressing the crowd.
"Yes! yes!" roared the crowd. "We will release him."
Sebastien shook his head.
"My father is in the Bastille," said he in a despairing tone.
"And what then?" cried Billot.
"The Bastille cannot be taken," replied the child.
"Then what was it you wished to do, if such is your conviction?"
"I wished to go to the open space before the castle. There will be fighting there, and my father might have seen me through the bars of his window."
"Impossible!"
"Impossible? And why should I not do so? One day, when I was walking out with all the boys here, I saw the head of a prisoner. If I could have seen my father as I saw that prisoner, I should have recognized him, and I would have called out to him, 'Do not be unhappy, Father, I love you!'"
"And if the soldiers of the Bastille should have killed you?"
"Well, then, they would have killed me under the eyes of my father."
"The death of all the devils!" exclaimed Billot. "You are a wicked lad to think of getting yourself killed in your father's sight, and make him die of grief, in a cage,—he who has only you in the world, he who loves you so tenderly Decidedly, you have a bad heart, Gilbert."
And the farmer pushed the boy from him.
"Yes, yes; a wicked heart!" howled Pitou, bursting into tears.
Sebastien did not reply.
And, while he was meditating in gloomy silence, Billot was admiring his beautifully pale face, his flashing eyes, his ironical expressive mouth, his well-shaped nose, and his strongly developed chin, all of which gave testimony at once of his nobility of soul and nobility of race.
"You say that your father is in the Bastille," said the farmer, at length breaking the silence.
"Yes."
"And for what?"
"Because my father is the friend of Lafayette and Washington; because my father has fought with his sword for the independence of America, and with his pen for the liberty of France; because my father is well known in both worlds as the detester of tyranny; because he has called down curses on the Bastille, in which so many have suffered; therefore have they sent him there!"
"And
when was this?"
"Six days ago."
"And where did they arrest him?"
"At Havre, where he had just landed."
"How do you know all this?"
"I have received a letter from him."
"Dated from Havre?"
"Yes."
"And it was at Havre itself that he was arrested?"
"It was at Lillebonne."
"Come now, child, do not feel angry with me, but give me all the particulars that you know. I swear to you that I will either leave my bones on the Place de la Bastille, or you shall see your father again."
Sebastien looked at the farmer, and seeing that he spoke from his heart, his angry feelings subsided.
"Well, then," said he, "at Lillebonne he had time to write in a book, with a pencil, these words:—
SEBASTIEN,—I have been arrested, and they are taking me to the Bastille. Be patient, hope, and study diligently.
LILLEBONNE, July 7, 1789.
P.S.—I am arrested in the cause of Liberty. I have a son in the College Louis-le-Grand, at Paris. The person who shall find this book is entreated, in the name of humanity, to get it conveyed to my son. His name is Sebastien Gilbert.
"And this book?" inquired Billot, palpitating with emotion.
"He put a piece of gold into this book, tied a cord round it, and threw it out of the window."
"And—"
"The curate of the place found it, and chose from among his parishioners a robust young man, to whom he said:—
"'Leave twelve francs with your family, who are without bread, and with the other twelve go to Paris; carry this book to a poor boy whose father has just been arrested because he has too great a love for the people.'
"The young man arrived here at noon yesterday, and delivered to me my father's book. And this is the way I learned how my father had been arrested."
"Come, come," cried Billot, "this reconciles me somewhat to the priests. Unfortunately they are not all like this one. And this worthy young man,—what has become of him?"
"He set off to return home last night. He hoped to carry back with him to his family five francs out of the twelve he had brought with him."
"Admirable! admirable!" exclaimed Pitou, weeping for joy. "Oh, the people have good feelings! Go on, Gilbert."
"Why, now you know all."
"Yes."
"You promised me, if I would tell you all, that you would bring back my father to me. I have told you all; now remember your promise."
"I told you that I would save him, or I should be killed in the attempt. That is true. And now, show me the book," said Billot.
"Here it is," said the boy, taking from his pocket a volume of the "Contrat Social."
"And where is your father's writing?"
"Here," replied the boy, pointing to what the doctor had written.
The farmer kissed the written characters.
"And now," said he, "tranquillize yourself. I am going to seek your father in the Bastille."
"Unhappy man!" cried the principal of the college, seizing Billot's hands; "how can you obtain access to a prisoner of State?"
"Zounds! by taking the Bastille!"
Some of the French Guards began to laugh. In a few moments the laugh had become general.
"Why," said Billot, casting around him a glance flashing with anger, " what then is in the Bastille, if you please?"
"Stone," said a soldier.
"Iron," said another.
"And fire," said a third. "Take care, my worthy man: you may burn your fingers."
"Yes, yes; you may burn yourself," reiterated the crowd, with horror.
"Ah! Parisians," shouted the farmer, "you have pickaxes, and you are afraid of stone! Ah! you have lead, and you fear iron! You have gunpowder, and you are afraid of fire! Parisians!—cowards! Parisians!—poltroons! Parisians!—machines for slavery! A thousand demons!—where is the man of heart who will go with me and Pitou to take the king's Bastille? My name is Billot, a farmer of the Isle de France. Forward!"
Billot had raised himself to the very climax of audacity.
The crowd, rendered enthusiastic by his address, and trembling with excitement, pressed around him, crying, "To the Bastille!"
Sebastien endeavored to cling to Billot, but the latter gently pushed him back.
"Child," said he, "what is the last word your father wrote to you?"
"Work," replied Sebastien.
"Well, then, work here. We are going to work down yonder; only our work is called destroying and killing."
The young man did not utter a word in reply. He hid his face with both hands, without even pressing the hand of Pitou, who embraced him; and he fell into such violent convulsions that he was immediately carried into the infirmary attached to the college.
"To the Bastille!" cried Billot.
"To the Bastille!" cried Pitou.
"To the Bastille!" shouted the crowd.
And they immediately commenced their march towards the Bastille.
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Chapter XIII
The King is so good! the Queen is so good!
AND now we request our readers to allow us to give them an insight into the principal political events that have occurred since the period at which, in a previous publication, we abandoned the court of France.
Those who know the history of that period, or those whom dry, plain history may alarm, may skip this chapter, and pass on to the next one, which connects exactly with Chapter XII.; the one we are now writing being intended for those very precise and exacting spirits who are determined to be informed on every point.
During the last year or two something unheard of, unknown, something emanating from the past and looking towards the future, was threatening and growling in the air.
It was the Revolution.
Voltaire had raised himself for a moment, while in his last agony, and, leaning upon his elbow in his death-bed, he had seen shining, even amidst the darkness in which he was about to sleep forever, the brilliant lightning of this dawn.
When Anne of Austria assumed the regency of France, says Cardinal de Retz, there was but one saying in every mouth,—"The queen is so good!"
One day Madame de Pompadour's physician, Quesnoy, who had an apartment in her house, saw Louis XV. coming in. A feeling altogether unconnected with respect agitated him so much that he trembled and turned pale.
"What is the matter with you?" said Madame de Hausset to him.
"The matter is," replied Quesnoy, "that every time I see the king I say to myself, 'There is a man who, if he should feel so inclined, can have my head cut off.'"
"Oh, there's no danger of that," rejoined Madame de Hausset. "The king is so good!"
It is with these two phrases—"The king is so good!" "The queen is so good!"—that the French Revolution was effected.
When Louis XV. died, France breathed again. The country was delivered at the same moment from the king, the Pompadours, the Dubarrys, and the Parc aux Cerfs.
The pleasures of Louis XV. had cost the nation very dear. In them alone were expended three millions of livres a year.
Fortunately, after him came a king who was young, moral, philanthropic, almost philosophical.
A king who, like the Émile of Jean Jacques Rousseau, had studied a trade, or rather, we should say, three trades.
He was a locksmith, a watchmaker, and a mechanician.
Being alarmed at the abyss over which he was suspended, the king began by refusing all favors that were asked of him. The courtiers trembled. Fortunately, there was one circumstance which reassured them,—it was not the king who refused, but Turgot,—it was, that the queen was not yet in reality a queen, and consequently could not have that influence to-day which she might acquire to-morrow.
At last, towards the year 1777, she acquired that influence which had been so long desired. The queen became a mother. The king, who was already so good a king, so good a husband, could now also prove himself a good father.
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How could anything be now refused to her who had given an heir to the crown?
And, besides, that was not all; the king was also a good brother. The anecdote is well known of Beaumarchais being sacrificed to the Count de Provence; and yet the king did not like the Count de Provence, who was a pedant.
But, to make up for this, he was very fond of his younger brother, the Count d'Artois, the type of French wit, elegance, and nobleness.
He loved him so much that if he sometimes refused the queen any favor she might have asked of him, the Count d'Artois had only to add his solicitations to those of the queen, and the king had no longer the firmness to refuse.
It was, in fact, the reign of amiable men. Monsieur de Calonne, one of the most amiable men in the world, was comptroller-general. It was Calonne who said to the queen,—
"Madame, if it is possible, it is done; and if it is impossible, it shall be done."
From the very day on which this charming reply was circulated in all the drawing-rooms of Paris and Versailles, the Red Book, which every one had thought closed forever, was reopened.
The queen buys Saint Cloud.
The king buys Rambouillet.
It is no longer the king who has lady favorites, it is the queen. Mesdames Diana and Jules de Polignac cost as much to France as La Pompadour and La Dubarry.
The queen is so good!
A reduction is proposed in the salaries of the high officers of the court. Some of them make up their minds to it. But one of the most habitual frequenters of the palace obstinately refuses to submit to this reduction; it is Monsieur de Coigny. He meets the king in one of the corridors, a terrible scene occurs, the king runs away, and in the evening says laughingly,—
"Upon my word, I believe if I had not yielded, Coigny would have beaten me."
The king is so good!
And then the fate of a kingdom sometimes depends upon a very trivial circumstance; the spur of a page, for instance.
Louis XV. dies; who is to succeed Monsieur d'Aiguillon?
The king, Louis XVI., is for Machaut. Machaut is one of the ministers who had sustained the already tottering throne. Mesdames, that is to say, the king's aunts, are for Monsieur de Maurepas, who is so amusing, and who writes such pretty songs. He wrote three volumes of them at Pontchartrain, which he called his memoirs.