The Countess of Charny; or, The Execution of King Louis XVI

Like the other searchers, Andrea took a torch and looked at body after body. Thus she made her way to the royal rooms. Pitou still followed her.

Here, as in the other rooms, she sought in vain; she paused, undecided whither to turn. Seeing her embarrassment, the soldier went up to her.

"Alas, I suspect what your ladyship is seeking!" he said.

"Captain Pitou?" Andrea exclaimed.

"At your service."

"Yes, yes, I have great need of you," she said. Going to him, she took both his hands, and continued: "Do you know what has become of the Count of Charny?"

"I do not, my lady; but I can help you to look for him."

"There is one person who can tell us whether he is dead or alive, and where he is in either case," observed Andrea.

"Who is that, my lady?" queried the peasant.

"The queen," muttered Andrea.

"Do you know where she is?" inquired Pitou.

"I believe she is in the House, and I have still the hope that my Lord Charny is with her."

"Why, yes, yes," said Pitou, snatching at the hope for the mourner's sake; "would you like to go into the House?"

"But they may refuse me admission."

"I'll undertake to get the doors to open."

"Come, then."

Andrea flung the flambeau from her at the risk of setting fire to the place, for what mattered the Tuileries to her in such desperation? so deep that she could not find tears.

From having lived in the palace as the queen's attendant, she knew all the ways, and she led them back by short cuts to the grand entrance where Maniquet was on the lookout.

"How is your countess getting on?" he inquired.

"She hopes to find her lord in the House, where we are going. As we may find him," he added, in a low voice, "but dead, send me four stout lads to the Feuillants' gate, whom I may rely on to defend the body of an aristocrat as well as though a good patriot's."

"All right; go ahead with your countess; I will send the men."

Andrea was waiting at the garden end, where a sentry was posted; but as that was done by Pitou, he naturally let his captain pass.

The palace gardens were lighted by lamps set mostly on the statue pedestals. As it was almost as warm as in the heat of the day, and the slight breeze barely ruffled the leaves, the lamp-flames rose straight, like spear-heads, and lighted up the corpses strewn under the trees.

But Andrea felt so convinced that she should find her husband where the queen had taken refuge, that she walked on, without looking to either right or left. Thus they reached the Feuillants' gate.

The royal family had been gone an hour, and were in the record office, for the time. To reach them, there were two obstacles to pass: the guards and the royal attendants.

Pitou, as commanding the Tuileries, had the password, and could therefore conduct the lady up to the line of gentlemen.

The former favorite of the queen had but to use her name to take the next step.

On entering the little room reserved for her, the queen had thrown herself on the bed, and bit the pillow amid sobs and tears.

Certainly, one who had lost a throne and liberty, and perhaps would lose her life, had lost enough for no one to chaffer about the degree of her despair, and not to seek behind her deep abasement if some keener sorrow still did not draw these tears from her eyes and sobs from her bosom.

Owing to the respect inspired by this supreme grief, she had been left alone at the first.

She heard the room door open, but as it might be that from the king's, she did not turn; though she heard steps approaching her pillow, she did not lift her head from it.

But suddenly she sprung up, as though a serpent had stung her.

A well-known voice had simply uttered the single word, "Madame."

"Andrea?" cried Marie Antoinette, rising on her elbow. "What do you want?"

"I want the answer God demanded of Cain when He said, 'What have you done with your brother'?"

"With this difference," returned the queen, "That Cain had killed his brother; whereas I – so gladly – would give not only my existence, but ten lives, to save his dear one."

Andrea staggered; a cold sweat burst out on her forehead, and her teeth chattered.

"Then he was killed?" she faltered, making a great effort.

"Do you think I am wailing for my crown?" demanded the fallen majesty, looking hard at her. "Do you believe that if this blood were mine" – here she showed her dyed foot – "I should not have washed it off?"

Andrea became lividly pale.

"Then you know where his body is?" she said.

"I could take you to it, if I were allowed to go forth," said the prisoner.

Andrea went out at the door by which Pitou was waiting.

"Captain," she said, "one of my friends, a lady of the queen's, offers to take me where the count's body is. May she go out with me?"

"On condition that you bring her back whence she came," said the officer.

"That will do."

"Comrade," said Pitou to his sentry, "one of the queen's women wants to go out to help us find the body of a brave officer of whom this lady is the widow. I will answer for her with my head."

"That is good enough for me, captain," was the reply.

The anteroom door opened and the queen appeared, but she had a veil wound round her head. They went down the stairs, the queen leading.

After a twenty-seven hours' session, the House had adjourned, and the immense hall, where so much noise and so many events had been compressed, was dumb, void, and somber as a sepulcher.