The Countess Ida a tale of Berlin |
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| 25. | CHAPTER XXIV. |
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 | CHAPTER XXIV. The Countess Ida |  |
25. CHAPTER XXIV.
It was on the fifth of August, in the year 1792, that
Claude entered Paris. James had left him at the
frontier, and expressed his determination to remain at
Nymeguen during his sojourn in France, with a supply
of money to be sent in case of need, though he
presaged the most fearful difficulties and perils from
his present undertaking. The best arrangements
which his cool head and great experience in matters
connected with the Continent—for he had been many
years a courier, and spoke the French and German as
well as the English—the best arrangements he could
make were speedily agreed upon between them. A
man was employed—a trusty and perfectly confidential
Frenchman, by name Adolphe, long known to
James—to remain with him at Nymeguen, that, in case
of need, he might be the messenger between them.
An ample remuneration was offered him should he
be successful in his task. Of his fidelity there was no
doubt. Some plain clothes, such as were worn by the
most violent republicans of France, were procured for
Claude; and it was determined—for his accent would
have scarcely betrayed the foreigner—that he should
pass for a Frenchman at any risk, and one fully infected
with the revolutionary views. The address of a
man perfectly known to Adolphe, resident in Paris,
who could be applied to in emergency, and who could
probably supply what money was desired, was also
a complete French Jacobin in costume, ready to meet
any peril, our young adventurer set forth on his search
after Carolan and Ida, determined never to abandon the
pursuit while the smallest possibility remained of rendering
them service.
He entered Paris in the morning. The day was fair,
and imparted a singular beauty to the picturesque
streets and tall houses of this celebrated metropolis.
His first step was to visit Count la Tour, to whom he
had a particular letter of introduction in Berlin, as one
likely to know something of the now mysterious fate of
Carolan and his daughter. On his way to the residence
of this person, he was struck with the singular
aspect of the town. This great city always awakens
the attention of the newly-arrived by its striking forms,
its streets, its dense, crowded lines of high houses, its
salient points and angles—here steeped in sunshine,
there merged in heavy shadow. Amid the heavy,
grotesque, interminable masses through which the narrow
streets open on every side, in lines straight, circular,
serpentine, accustomed for some days to silent hills,
open plains, and green and tranquil woods, Claude, although
perfectly acquainted with Paris, felt himself a
little bewildered. But it was the character of the population
that now filled the streets which made his heart
tremble for the fate of those in whom he was deeply
interested. It was far different from that which usually
imparted an air of gayety and enjoyment to the
most charming metropolis in the world. Hordes of
ruffians were seen lurking around, and bands of women
half clothed, having on their countenances the marks
of debauchery and evil passions. These debased creatures
had an air of insolence which betrayed how
weak was the usual municipal authority, and how secure
they felt themselves in the exercise of whatever
dissoluteness or misdemeanours they might choose to
be guilty of. They shouted, hooted, whooped, and communicated
with each other by all kinds of uncouth
to Claude, that some convulsion either had happened
or was about to take place, for the population presented
that appearance observable when any violent shock
passes over a large town, causing a kind of chymical
separation of the constituent parts of society—the reputable
classes disappearing to the shelter of their own
houses, while the profligate and abandoned appear
from their dark lurking-places in the light of day.
These ruffians wore filthy jackets, large coarse trousers,
and red flannel caps. Many were equipped with
girdles furnished with pistols, dirks, and enormous
knives. He saw, with a new horror, that this rude costume,
by its general adoption, was not an accidental
dress, but a kind of uniform, assumed for, he shuddered
to conjecture what dreadful enterprise. Never before
had he beheld a collection of such hideous and formidable
beings, and their manner was as ominous as their
appearance. Some stalked by him with scowling and
ferocious countenances. Some wore that kind of smile
which a ruffian wears when he feels that he may perpetrate
with impunity the worst of crimes. Of these
not a few appeared to act the part of guides and leaders,
whispering about the mob, giving sometimes weapons,
and sometimes drink and money. The under
fiends of the revolution were here doing their work.
Making his way through these crowds, and not unfrequently
regarded with a scrutiny which would have
made most men quail, sometimes rudely addressed with
a rough jest or a rough slap on the back, he reached
the house of the Count de la Tour—the friend of Carolan.
“I wish to see Monsieur le Comte de la Tour,” said
Claude to the porter.
“If you mean the Citizen La Tour,” was the surly
reply, “you'll find him up stairs.”
The domestic who opened the door of the Citizen
La Tour's apartment eyed the new-comer narrowly
before he admitted him.
Claude requested to speak at once with the count,
and in private.
He was admitted, gave his letter, and related the
object of his visit.
“My friend,” said La Tour, when he had finished,
“have you any idea of the things which are going on
here just now?”
“I see something dreadful is going to happen,” said
Claude, “but I am determined not to turn back.”
The Citizen La Tour looked cautiously around, and
said,
“Excuse my frankness, my young friend; but, in
my opinion, you are as little acquainted with France
as the world. Carolan—Citizen Carolan—we have no
more counts now—is in prison—in the Conciergerie—
whence he will no more escape with his head than you
would if you were to make the slightest inquiry after
him, to say nothing of an attempt to see him.”
“Great Heaven! are you in earnest?”
“As you will be if you stay here another week.
Save him? say you! Save yourself, and that forthwith.
Your design is wild, dangerous, and impossible. What
tie binds you to such a perilous scheme? The man
is an ass of the first water. His head is too empty to
be worth saving. He thrust it, like a fool, into the
lion's jaws. Many a better one is doomed to fall before
this coil is finished.”
“May I ask after his daughter?” demanded Claude.
“Ah—so! there is a girl, I remember.”
“Have you seen her?”
“Yes—a pretty creature! She is with the queen
at the palace. It was managed, I know not how, by
the friends of the royal family, that she should be received
nominally as a compagnon of her majesty till
the danger is over.”
“Then she is safe!” said Claude.
“Sorry to chase that extremely interesting expression
of pleasure,” said La Tour, laughing; “but she
she would be in the meanest hut in France.”
“You cannot mean—” said Claude.
“Yes, I do mean the worst. Where are you
lodged?”
“At the little Hotel de France, in the section du
Theatre Français.”
“Ah—the devil! You are in the very centre of the
Cordeliers. Take my advice, young gentleman; abandon
your hair-brained scheme, and leave your pretty
countess to take care of herself. These are no times
for Quixotic expeditions, and there are as good fish in
the sea as ever came out of it!”
“No, I shall remain; and I am happy to have found
from you the information I desired. Can I by no
means be permitted to see the count, or the young
Countess Carolan?”
“No — impossible! Communication is carefully
guarded. If you are resolved to follow the silly example
of your friend, and wait till they come to truss
you like a fowl, take my advice—it is all I can give
you. In France, at present, there is but one crime. It
is being suspected of opposing the revolution. They
are all mad. The nation is a lunatic. Don't trifle
with it. If you cannot escape from it, humour it.”
“I have faced one lunatic,” said Claude, quietly,
“and I will not shrink from another. I shall stay.”
“Well, then, live plainly—meanly, if possible—
make no acquaintances—no confidences—say nothing
—burn all letters—write nothing—shout `Vive la Revolution!'
and `à bas le Roi!'—watch every look and
action—don't breathe an opinion—don't even whistle
a tune. Three of my friends, who were to have fled
to-morrow, lie this instant in a dungeon, from which
they will never escape alive, because a parrot in the
house in which they lived cried `Vive le Roi!'[1]
Beware
of any expressions of sympathy—any impulses of
beneath, around, and above you. Distrust everybody
— your landlord — your friend — your servant. The
whole town are spies; and if you see my head to-mororow
morning carried by your window on a pike, don't
frown, or murmur, or even start. Let no one know
who you are. Become a beggar in attire and a Jacobin
in deportment.”
“Are things indeed so desperate?” said Claude,
greatly alarmed for the success of his enterprise.
“You cannot escape,” continued La Tour, “but by
seeming to abet the revolution. Shout for the nation!
and the republic! Down with the veto! Down with
the Austrian! Vive Danton! Vive Petion! Vive
Santerre!”
A hoarse shout from the street here broke upon
their interview.
“Let us see what this is,” said La Tour.
They walked to the window. Cries of “à la lanterne!
à la lanterne!” were now audible, and were
mingled with the heavy tramping of a thousand feet.
The mob were dragging to a lamp just opposite an
unhappy young man, livid with terror, by a rope around
his neck. He struggled, strove to kneel, and screamed,
but his voice was drowned in shouts. He was
thrust to the fatal spot, and the cord thrown over the
crosspiece.
“Let us save him!” cried Claude. “This is horrible!”
and he was about to throw up the window.
La Tour drew him forcibly back.
“Are you mad? Have you already forgotten? A
pretty fellow for a revolution! Save him, indeed!
ha! ha! ha! Leave him to his fate. Bless your
simple heart, this is nothing new! This is of daily—
ha!—hark!”
They listened.
A hoarse and deafening shout, mingled with screams
and peals of laughter, were heard.
“Hark! Poor devil! he's off already! Hark
again!—ah! the bloodhounds!”
“How can he have merited this horrible fate?” exclaimed
Claude.
“Merited? Why, very likely by turning pale, as you
do, at some similar scene! You are but poorly fitted
for your wise scheme if this trifle makes you change
colour. I have seen so much of this sort of thing that
I am quite used to it, and have no other sentiment than
a secret self-congratulation that I am not in the poor
wretch's place—that my turn has not come yet!! ha!
ha! ha!”
“Why don't you escape?” demanded Claude.
“I dare not. Their eye is upon me; and, by-the-way,
I wish you wouldn't come here again. I am
afraid of you. You are so extremely unsophisticated.
That whey-face of yours will get itself into trouble,
and its friends too. I'll call on you at your hotel; and,
if you wish, I can get you a passport to accompany a
division of the army to the frontier; I have that influence
yet; and, once there, you can escape easily.”
“No,” said Claude; “what I have seen only makes
me more determined not to abandon my friends.”
“Well, you're a brave fellow! but—excuse my freedom—you'll
regret the refusal of my offer before a
month. This is no child's play. They're in earnest
—these fellows. As for the king and queen, and all
around them—ah! parbleu!”
“What of them? What can happen to place them
in danger? What have they to fear?”
“Hark—in your ear—” and even La Tour turned
pale as he leaned his head forward and whispered,
“The scaffold, mon cher!”
Claude started, the blood curdling in his veins with
astonishment and horror.
“You are mad!” said he, sternly, “or you are trifling
with my fears.”
“All earth—all heaven can't save them. Don't I
know?—haven't I seen?—am I a fool? par exemple!
And you—you, who can't hear of these things without
turning white behind your ears—what can you do but
like your spirit, though. You're a brave fellow, and,
if you wish, I'll save you by the means I spoke of.”
“What!” said Claude, sadly but firmly, “leave
those I most love to the scaffold? Turn from them
in the last hour of deadly danger? No, sir. If you
can help me to speak with her, or to a place in his
majesty's palace—for I hope this tragedy won't be
witnessed passively by the people of France—I shall
thank you; if not—adieu.”
“You are mad!” said La Tour. “Go your own
way. But shake hands. I never do so now to a friend
without feeling as if one of us was at the foot of the
guillotine. I have an appointment—adieu! May we
meet again! and, egad—who knows!”
Claude left La Tour, scarcely able to reconcile the
heartless levity of his conversation with the real services
he had offered, and at the same time resolving to
adopt such part of his counsel as related to his residence
in Paris. He walked with hasty steps towards
the garden of the Tuileries, resolving the best means
of announcing his presence to Ida, and of taking measures
for the escape of herself and father—a task hopeless
to all but such a lover as he. Such an entire
bouleversement had taken place in society, that he
knew not a single person to whom he could apply
for aid or information. As he advanced he found the
crowds becoming more dense, and a general gloom,
agitation, and ferocity pervaded them. Many a dark
brow and eye met his sight, cast around, some in apprehension,
and some in search of danger. On reaching
the garden of the Tuileries, he saw that a large
mob was collected in front of the royal chateau.
They consisted of the same desperate class of wretches
he had already seen, mingled with the most disgusting-looking
women he had ever beheld; and deep were
the execrations—the obscene jests—the dark threats,
and the facetious shouts which were directed by these
formidable vagabonds at the royal chateau and its unhappy
queen. Here again obscenity appeared a favourite
weapon; and the gross insults directed against a female
figure which appeared a moment at a window, and was
generally believed to be Marie Antoinette, but which
Claude's high beating heart fancied the beloved object
of his search, caused the lady, whoever she might be,
to withdraw immediately.
“Come forth! execrable vulture with your Austrian
beak!” cried a hoarse, deep voice, elevated as of
an orator above all the noises of the crowd, which in
some measure disposed itself to listen. “Your doom
is written! The people—the people are up! That
high head shall be laid low!”
“No, by Brutus!” cried another. “We will raise
it higher than ever pride and insolent ambition reared
it—on a pike! mes enfans!”
These sallies were received with tumultuous approbation.
When the noises had subsided, the first speaker,
who had raised himself on some object answering
as a stage, began, in the same deep and powerful voice,
to address the crowd. His speech was couched in a
wild, declamatory language, and a part of it ran in this
fashion:
“The good work goes well, my friends!” he said.
“The people are up and doing. The tyrants tremble.
Their feet shall be no more on your neck!”
A shout of triumph from the auditory here interrupted
him. Claude regarded this new advocate of
national rights with interest. His appearance obviously
announced an extraordinary person. He was of a
gigantic stature, a heavy, burly, and ferocious countenance,
a voice of singular depth and power, and altogether
a striking representative and leader of a rabble,
who apparently knew him, and regarded his wild and
reckless style of eloquence with great admiration.
“People of France!” continued the orator, “your
oppressors are about to fly from you. The public functionaries
are abandoning the country. They are frightened.
What for? To excite all Europe against her. To
come back and bathe these streets and gardens with
your blood. Let no more traitors pass the frontier.
Punish the thought of emigration with death! Crush
the spirit—the power of opposition. Let us decapitate
all who hate our glorious revolution—all who,
from their birth, education, character, or position, are
likely to oppose it. They who are not for, are against
us. Let him die who ever speaks of mercy. Let the
word be the signal of death, or it will render the bold
bolder, and the strong stronger. This is a struggle
between two powers, wherein one or the other must
be exterminated. We must destroy our destroyers,
or be destroyed ourselves. The king, Louis Capet,
is leaguing with foreign courts. He wishes to inundate
France with foreign troops. Will you have Austrian
and Prussian bayonets at your doors and at your
throats? Let us speak to the king—to his ministers
—to Europe—to mankind, with firmness and with decision.
The revolution or death! We have drawn
the sword, let us cast away the scabbard. We have tried
all means to redress our rights. We have tried persuasion—threats—entreaties—demands.
We have tried
reason — we have tried submission — we have tried
peace. It was all in vain. And now we are up, and
hurrah for war! for death! It is but once in a thousand
years that a great people rise together to vindicate the
dignity of the human race. When they do so, there
is but one means—war! war! war! War against external,
and yet more against internal foes. War
with the sword and dagger—with the pike and cannon
—with the lanterne and the guillotine—for the hour
has come!”
His voice broke into a hoarse shriek, which was
caught up and echoed by the momentarily increasing
crowd with a phrensy and delight.
“The cabinet of Vienna,” continued the speaker,
“have fifty thousand men in the Low Countries—six
are despatched from Bohemia. France is threatened
with the fate of Poland. A Prussian army is at this
instant upon her sacred territory, marching towards
Paris—towards your homes, your wives, your children!”
Claude's heart sunk in his bosom as he heard this
high prophet of wo, and beheld the fearful power with
which he lashed the passions of his auditors.
“Who is the cause of this?” continued the speaker.
“Behold yonder building! There lies the cause of
all your oppressions. But for that, there would be
bread and pleasures enough for all. The king—the
queen—their family—their household! They are all
joining with foreign foes to trample you into the dust.
There is a great—great deed to be done! We must
put our heel upon the vipers. The kings of Europe
threaten us. Let us hold up to them, in answer, the
head of a king!!!”
It is impossible to paint the frantic and fierce delight
with which this discourse was received by its terrible
auditory. The orator beheld their delirium with
a placid, good-humoured face and a gratified smile.
His gestures were calm and almost dignified. He
would have proceeded farther, but at this moment a
company of the National Guard were observed to issue
from a wing of the chateau, and to make their way at
a rapid step towards the crowd. The commanding
officer's voice could not be heard, but he motioned with
his sword and addressed those within hearing, forming
his company into three divisions, so as to present a
formidable front of bristling muskets, which threatened
to shower death upon the furious but imperfectly
armed mob, who at first showed signs of determined
resistance.
“Not yet,” said the deep voice of the speaker, before
he descended from his chair. “Go to your
homes! Not yet, mes enfans! The hour is approaching,
but it is not quite arrived.'
Partly influenced by this caution, but probably in a
much greater degree by the nearer sight of the troops,
who, at the command of their officer, made ready and
presented their muskets, the throngs opened and parted
in every direction, dispersing into the adjoining
streets and squares. They were followed by the soldiers,
and cries of “Back! back! Fools! coquins!
nigeauds! back!” and frequent blows with the flat
blades of their swords hastened their retreat and added
to the general confusion.
Claude did not join this rabble in their flight, but
remained, and was presently overtaken by a small
company.
“Have you a mind to a bullet for your supper,
young man,” said the officer, “that you do not follow
your companions?”
“They are not my companions, sir,” said Claude;
“my friends lie within yonder walls; and I'll make it
worth your trouble if you'll help me to gain entrance
into the chateau.”
“How now, fool!” said the officer; “you must be
mad, or worse, to think of such a thing; and if you
wish not rather to take up your abode in less elegant
lodgings, you'll keep away from this part of the town.
Back! monsieur. Back! I say!”
“I protest! I entreat! I will will give you any sum
to carry a letter for me,” said Claude. “It is to a
lady—one of the—”
“Back!” said the officer; “he is mad or an assassin.”
And, indeed, the earnestness and agitation of
Claude's looks and gestures went far to sanction this
opinion, which soon received a still stronger confirmation.
The orator of the day, lurking behind a tree, was
identified by a soldier as he who had just addressed
the crowd. Two men were despatched to seize him.
When they returned, all present seemed to recognise
the person of the speaker.
“What, George!” said the officer, with an expression
of deep indignation, “is it you again at this
work? Shame upon you. I have a mind to—to—”
“To what?” said the giant, calmly.
“To drag you to the dungeon which you and such
as you deserve.”
“And where have you walls thick enough to keep
out those who would come to seek me?” demanded the
stranger.
“Parbleu!” said the young soldier, reddening with
anger, “do you threaten one of his majesty's officers?”
“Yes, threaten and defy him!” replied the stranger,
sternly, and yet with a certain dignity.
“Had I my will, I would put you in such a cell as
would baffle all the bloodhounds who come at your
call to get you out!” said the soldier. “It would be
only by the hand of the executioner that I would have
that rebellious head of yours shown to the people—as
one day it will be, if I have any skill in prophecy.”
“Dog of a hireling!” said the stranger, fiercely,
“do you know that not only your head, but your master's,
shall one day—”
He was interrupted by a cry of fury from the soldiers;
and the officer, himself apparently suffering rage
for an instant to get the better of reason, with a deep
execration, gave the word of command to his men, who
scarcely waited for it; they levelled their muskets at
the stranger, who, as if appalled at the consequences
of his words, turned pale, and exhibited other signs of
trepidation. The officer was in the act of pronouncing
the word “Fire!” when Claude, with an irresistible
impulse to save at any risk the shedding of human
blood in cold cruelty, stepped actually before the levelled
muskets, and entreated the amazed soldier to
forbear.
“For the love of Heaven, sir,” said he, “as you
value the lives of the king and royal family, do not fire!
One drop of blood at this moment will destroy the
blood.”
“Eh! parbleu!” cried the officer, regarding this
bold intrusion with irrepressible astonishment; “are
you seeking a grave, that you put yourself before loaded
muskets in that way? Had I but breathed a word,
you would have been by this time in company with
Cæsar. Is yon nigeaud your father, that you think his
life worth so much more than your own?”
“No, I do not know him,” replied Claude; “but I
think your position requires prudence, and no blood
should be spilled on the king's side. It would raze
Paris to the ground.”
“Well, well, you may be right! but, sacré diable!
you're a bold ganache! Adieu, monsieur! and a word
of advice. When next you meet a line of muskets
levelled at a scélérat like this, after the words `make
ready' and `take aim' have been uttered, don't be too
ready to step before them. Every officer may not be
as cool as I, and they might fire—eh! Ha! ha! ha!
par Dieu! that's capital! Allons, messieurs!”
The troops now drew together again, and, being
formed into a single company by the principal officer,
were wheeled round and marched back towards the
chateau.
“Bold friend!” said the Herculean stranger, drawing
near, “you have saved my life. I may, perhaps,
one day reciprocate the favour. Who are you?”
“My name can be of little interest to you, monsieur,”
said Claude, coolly.
“Possibly! but it may be different with mine, in
regard to yourself, young man. Therefore please to
remember it, and, when you need aid—as doubtless
you will, for the times are somewhat unsettled, and I
think your tongue smacks of an accent not loved in
Paris—call on me, and be assured I will not fail you.
You have saved the life of Danton. I am to be heard
of at the Jacobin. Au revoir! mon cher.”
The stranger turned on his heel and walked hastily
away.
| CHAPTER XXIV. The Countess Ida | |