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

The Commune resolved to part the king from his family.

Clery had an inkling of the intention, but he could not get at the exact date until a general searching of the prisoners on the twenty-ninth of September gave him a hint. That night, indeed, they took away the king into rooms in the great tower which were wet with plaster and paint and the smell was unbearable.

But the king lay down to sleep without complaining, while the valet passed the night on a chair.

When he was going out to attend to the prince, whose attendant he strictly was, the guard stopped him, saying:

"You are no longer to have communications with the other prisoners; the king is not to see his children any more."

As they omitted to bring special food for the servant, the king broke his bread with him, weeping while the man sobbed.

When the workmen came to finish the rooms, the town officer who superintended them came up to the king with some pity, and said:

"Citizen, I have seen your family at breakfast, and I undertake to say that all were in health."

The king's heart ached at this kind feeling.

He thanked the man, and begged him to transmit the report of his health to his dear ones. He asked for some books, and as the man could not read, he accompanied Clery down into the other rooms to let him select the reading matter. Clery was only too glad, as this gave an opportunity of seeing the queen. He could not say more than a few words, on account of the soldiers being present.

The queen could not hold out any longer, and she besought to let them all have a meal in company.

The municipal officers weakened, and allowed this until further orders. One of them wept, and Simon said:

"Hang me if these confounded women will not get the water-works running in my eyes. But," he added, addressing the queen, "you did not do any weeping when you shot down the people on the tenth of August."

"Ah!" said the queen; "the people have been much misled about our feelings toward them. If you knew us better, you would be sorry, like this gentleman."

So the dinner was served in the old place; it was a feast, for they gained so much in one day, they thought. They gained everything, for nothing more was heard of the Commune's new regulation; the king continued to see his family daily, and to take his meals with them.

One of these days, when he went in, he found the queen sweeping up the dauphin's room, who was unwell. He stopped on the sill, let his head sink on his breast, and sighed:

"Ah, my lady, this is sorry work for a Queen of France, and if they could see from Vienna what you are doing here! Who would have thought that, in uniting you to my fate, I should ever bring you so low?"

"Do you reckon it as nothing," replied Marie Antoinette, "this glory of being the wife of the best and most persecuted of men?"

This was spoken without an idea there were hearers; but all such sayings were picked up and diffused to embroider with gold the dark legend of the martyr king.

CHAPTER XXV.

MASTER GAMAIN TURNS UP

One morning, while these events were occurring at the temple, a man wearing a red shirt and cap to match, leaning on a crutch to help him to hobble along, called on the Home Secretary, Roland. The minister was most accessible; but even a republican official was forced to have ushers in his ante-chamber, as went on in monarchical governments.

"What do you want?" challenged the servant of the man on the crutch.

"I want to speak with the Citizen Minister," replied the cripple.

Since a fortnight, the titles of citizen and citizeness had officially replaced all others.

"You will have to show a letter of audience," replied the domestic.

"Halloo! I thought that was all very fine fun in the days when the tyrant ruled, but folks ought to be equals under the Republic, or at least not so aristocratic."

This remark set the servant thinking.

"I can tell you that it is no joke," continued the man in red, "to drag all the way from Versailles to do the Secretary of State a service and not to get a squint of him."

"Oh, you come to do Citizen Roland a service, do you?"

"To show up a conspiracy."

"Pooh! we are up to our ears in conspiracies. If that is all you came from Versailles for, I suggest you get back."

"I don't mind; but your minister will be deuced sorry for not seeing me."

"It is the rule. Write to him and get a letter of audience; then you will get on swimmingly."

"Hang me if it is not harder to get a word in to Minister Roland than to his majesty Louis XVI. that was."

"What do you know about that?"

"Lord help your ignorance, young man; there was a time when I saw the king whenever I pleased; my name would tell you that."

"What is your name? Are you King Frederick William or the Emperor Francis?"

"No; I am not a tyrant or a slave-driver – no aristo – but just Nicholas Claude Gamain, master of the masters of my trade of locksmithery. Did you never hear of Master Gamain who taught the craft to old Capet?"

The footman looked questioningly at his fellows, who nodded.

"Then it is another pair of shoes. Write your name on a sheet of paper, and I will send it in to the Home Secretary."

"Write? It is all very easy to say write, but I was no dabster at the pen before these villains tried to poison me; and it is far worse now. Just look how they doubled me up with arsenic."

He showed his twisted legs, deviated spine, and hand curled up like a claw.

"What! did they serve you out thus, poor old chap?"

"They did. And that is what I have come to show the Citizen Minister, along with other matters. As I hear they are getting up the indictment against old Capet, what I have to tell must not be lost for the nation."

Five minutes afterward, the locksmith was shown into the official's presence.

The master locksmith had never, at the height of his fortune and in the best of health, worn a captivating appearance; but the malady to which he was a prey, articular rheumatism in plain, while twisting his limbs and disfiguring his features, had not added to his embellishments. The outcome was that never had an honest man faced a more ruffianly looking rogue than Roland when left alone with Gamain.

The minister's first feeling was of repugnance; but seeing how he trembled from head to foot, pity for a fellow-man, always supposing that a wretch like Gamain is a fellow to a Roland, led him to use as his first words:

"Take a seat, citizen; you seem in pain."

"I should rather think I am in pain," replied Gamain, dropping on a chair; "and I have been so ever since the Austrian poisoned me."