CHAPTER III.

THE UNDYING MAN.

It was the more easy for the pretended gunsmith to blend with the crowd

as it was numerous.

It was the advance guard of the procession around the King, Queen and

the Prince Royal, leaving the court suburb at half past one.

In the royal coach were the Queen, her son, her daughter, called Madam

Royale though a child, Count Provence, the King’s brother. Lady

Elizabeth his sister, and the Queen’s favorite lady of the household,

Andrea Taverney Countess of Charny.

In a hundred carriages came the National Assemblymen who had declared

they would henceforth be inseparable from the monarch.

This mob was about a quarter of an hour ahead of the royal party, and

rallied round the two royal guardsmen’s heads as their colors. All

stopped at the Sevres wine saloon. The collection was of tattered and

half-drunken wretches, the scum that comes to the surface whether the

inundation is water or lava.

Suddenly, great stir in the concourse, for they had seen the National

Guards’ bayonets and General Lafayette’s white horse, immediately

preceding the royal coach.

Lafayette was fond of popular gatherings: he really reigned among the

Paris people whose idol he was. But he did not like the lowest orders.

Paris, like Rome, had a grade under the mere mob.

In particular, he did not approve of Lynch Law, and he had done his

utmost to try to save those aristocrats whom the crowd had executed. It

was to hide their trophies and preserve the bloody tokens of victory

that the multitude kept on ahead. But on being encouraged by the trio of

captains waiting at the Sevres saloon, they decided to keep the heads up

and wait for the King, so that he should not be parted from his faithful

guards.

The mob was increased by the country folks flocking to the road from all

quarters to see the cortege go by. A few cheered, adding their uproar to

the howls, hoots and groans of the marching column, but the majority,

stood dull and quiet on both sides of the road.

Did this mean that they were for the Royal Family? No: or at least

unless they belonged to the court party, everybody, even the upper

middle class, suffered more or less from the dreadful famine spreading

over the kingdom. If they did not insult the King and Queen, they

remained hushed, and the silence of an assemblage is often worse than an

insult.

On the other hand the myriads roared with all their lung power: “Hurrah

for Lafayette!” who took off his hat now and then or waved the sword in

his right hand: and “Long live Mirabeau!” who thrust his head out of the

carriage window, where he was one of six, to get a whiff of the air

necessary for his broad chest.

Hence, amid the silence for himself, the unfortunate Louis XVI. heard

applauded that Popularity which he had lost and that Genius which he had

never possessed.

By the King’s right side carriage-window walked a man in a black suit

whose dress pointed him out as one of the Philosophers, as they were

termed, or Revolutionists who worked intellectually for the amelioration

of the monarchy. This was the royal honorary physician, Dr. Honore

Gilbert. The crowd cheered him at times, for he was a hero of their own.

Born a Frenchman, of humble degree, a boy on the estate of the

ultra-royalist Baron Taverney, he had educated himself in democratic

learning. Falling in love with his master’s lovely daughter, Andrea,

since Countess of Charny, he had followed her to court. At Paris he

became favorite pupil of Rousseau, the revolutionist, and this farther

confirmed him in his subversive principles.

But having taken advantage of Andrea while she was powerless under the

influence of a mesmeric sleep, he fled the country. He had deposited in

sure hands the living evidence of his crime, a boy named Emile (In honor

of Rousseau, who wrote a book so called) Sebastian Gilbert, and fled the

country. But at the Azores Islands he came in contact with the young

lady’s brother Philip, who shot him down and believed he left him dead.

But, restored to life by his friend, the Baron Balsamo, otherwise

Cagliostro the Magician he accompanied him to America.

The two formed part of the legion of Frenchmen who helped the revolted

Thirteen Colonies to throw off the British yoke.

Returning to his country he was arrested at Havre and thown into the

Bastile. When that hated prison was stormed by the Parisians led by the

Farmer Billet, he was rescued. He had gone to court to learn who had

caused this arrest, and to his amazement discovered that its author was

the woman whom he had unutterably wronged. Yes, the baron’s daughter had

married the Queen’s favorite, thought by some to be her paramour, Count

George Charny, very rich, very brave and altogether fit to create her a

power in the realm.

Gilbert had a sincere pity for royalty under a cloud. He was known to

the King as the author of certain articles on the way to steer the Ship

of State, and his offer to serve him was gladly accepted.

The mob cheered at the remarkable shaking up of the sands in Time’s box

by which the revolutionary advocate, fresh from the Bastile dungeons,

should walk at the side of the King’s coach to shield his life from the

assassin. No mere touch of rhetoric, for on the royal visit to Paris

lately a bullet had cut a button off the doctor’s coat and slain a woman

in the throng: this graceful gentlemen in black was then a better

safeguard than the soldiers whose heads were now garnishing the pikes

there in advance.

Queen Marie Antoinette looked with wonder at this doctor, whose stoicism

she could not understand, while to it the American manner of forced

quiet added more sternness. Without love or devotion for his sovereigns,

he carried out what he considered duty towards them, as ready to die for

them as those who had the qualities of the loyalist he lacked.

On both sides of the royal coach tramped men and women, in mud six

inches deep, while amid the ribbons and rags, the Fishmarket women and

porters of the Paris Markets swarmed round waves more compact than the

rest of the human sea. These clumps were cannon or ammunition wagons, on

which sat women singing at the top of their voices. An old song which

had been applied to King Louis XV.'s mistress Jeanne Dubarry, and was

now altered to suit Marie Antoinette and the situation of affairs, was

their choice. They roared:

“The Baker’s wife has got the cash, which costs her very little.”

They also kept reiterating: “We shall not want for bread any more, as we

have got the Baker, the Baker’s Wife and the Baker’s Little Boy along.”

The Queen seemed to listen to it all without understanding. Between her

knees she held her son, who looked at the multitude as frightened

princes stare when appalled.

The King watched with a dull and heavy eye. He had little sleep in the

night; he had not made a good breakfast though usually a hearty eater;

he had no time to have his hair dressed and his beard had grown long.

His linen was limp and roughened, too--all things to his disadvantage.

Alas, Louis was not the man for emergencies, and this was a period of

emergencies. He bent his head when they came: save once when he held his

chin up--it was when he walked upon the scaffold.

Lady Elizabeth was the angel of sweetness and resignation placed by

heaven beside those doomed creatures to console the King during the

Queen’s absence; and the Queen after the King’s death.

Count Provence, here as everywhere, had the squinting glance of a false

man; he knew that he ran no present danger; he was the popular member of

the family--no one knew why--perhaps because he remained in France when his

brother Artois fled.

Could the King have read his heart, he might not have felt any gratitude

to him for what he pledged in the way of devotion.

Countess Andrea seemed of marble. She had recognized the man she most

hated in the King’s new confidential adviser, and one whom the Queen

seemed bound to win to her side. Like a statue, the stir round her

seemed not to affect her, and she looked in attire as trim as if fresh

from a band-box. One thought was alive within her, fierce and

luminous--love for some unknown--perchance her husband, or hate for

Gilbert--at whom she darted lightnings involuntarily whenever their

glances crossed. But she felt that she might not defy his with impunity,

for he was a pupil of Balsamo Cagliostro, the arch-mesmerist, and might

sway her with the same art.

A hundred paces on the other side of the little drinking saloon, the

royal train stopped. All along the line the clamor doubled.

The Queen bent out of the window and as the movement looked like a bow

to the crowd, there was a long murmur. She called Dr. Gilbert.

He went up to the window: as he had kept his hat off all the way, he

had no need to bare his head in respect. His attitude showed he was

entirely under her orders.

“What are your people shouting and singing?” she requested to know.

The Queen’s form of putting the question showed that she had been

ruminating it for some time. He sighed as much as to say, it is the same

old story.

“Alas, my lady,” he proceeded with profound melancholy, “those you call

my people, were yours in former times, and it is less than twenty years

ago when Lord Brissac, a delightful courtier whom I look in vain for

here, showed you the same people shouting for the Dauphin under the City

Hall windows and said: ‘You behold twenty thousand admirers there.'”

The Queen bit her lips from the impossibility of catching this man in

want of a repartee or of respect.

“That is true--it only proves that the many-headed change,” she said.

Gilbert bowed this time, without retort.

“I asked you a question, doctor,” persisted the lady, with the obstinacy

she had for even disagreeable matters.

“Yes, and I answer since your Majesty insists. They are singing that the

Baker’s Wife has plenty of money which it gave her no trouble to get.

You are aware that they style your Majesty the Baker’s Wife?”

“Just as they called me Lady Deficit before. Is there any connection

between the nicknames?”

“So much also as the finances are concerned. They mean by your money

being easily come by that you had complaisant treasurers such as Calonne

in particular, who gave you whatever you asked; the people therefore

assume that you got your money readily for the asking.”

The Queen’s hand was clenched on the red velvet carriage-window ledge.

“So much for what they are singing. Now, for what they bellow out?”

“They say that they shall no longer want for bread since they have the

Baker, the Baker’s Wife and the Baker’s Son among them.”

“I expect you to make this second piece of insolence clear.”

“You would see that they are not so much to blame as you fancy if you

were to look to the intention and not weigh the words of the people.

Wrongly or rightfully, the masses believe that a great Grain Trust is

carried on at Versailles. This prevents flour from coming freely into

the capital. Who feeds the Paris poor? the Baker. Towards whom does the

working man and his wife hold out their supplicating hands when their

children cry for food? the baker and the baker’s wife. Who do they pray

to after the Sender of the harvest? the lady of the estate--that is, the

loaf-giver, as the name is derived. Are not you three the loaf-givers

for the country, the King, yourself and this august child? Do not be

astonished at the mighty, blessed name the people give you, but thank

them for cherishing the hope that as soon as the King, the Queen and

their son are in the midst of the famished thousands, they will no

longer be in want.”

For an instant the royal lady closed her eyes, and she made the movement

of swallowing as though to keep down her hatred as well as bitter saliva

which scorched her throat.

“So we ought to thank these howlers for their songs and nick-names upon

us?”

“Yes, and most sincerely: the song is but an expression of their good

humor as the shouts are of their expectations. The whole explains their

desire.”

“So they want Lafayette and Mirabeau to live long?”

“Yes,” returned Gilbert, seeing that the Queen had clearly heard the

cries, “for those two leaders, separated by the gulf over which you

hang, may, united, save the monarchy.”

“Do you mean that the monarchy has sunk so low that it can be picked up

by those two?” queried the lady.

He was going to make some kind of reply when a burst of voices, in

dread, with atrocious peals of laughter and a great swaying of the

gathering, driving Gilbert closer to the vehicle, announced that he

would be needed in defense of the Queen by speech or action. It was the

two head-carriers, who, after having made Leonard barb and curl the

hair, wanted to have the fun of presenting them to Marie Antoinette--as

other roughs, or perhaps the same--had presented the dead heads of sons

to their fathers.

The crowd yelled with horror and fell away as these ghastly things came

up.

“In heaven’s name, do not look to the right,” cried Gilbert.

The Queen was no woman to obey such an injunction without a peep to see

the reason. So her first movement was to turn her gaze in the forbidden

direction and she uttered a scream of fright. But, all of a sudden, as

she tore her sight from this horrible spectacle as if they were Gorgon

heads, they became fixed as though they met another view even more

awful, from which she could not detach it.

This Medusa’s head was the stranger’s who had been drinking and chatting

with Locksmith Gamain in the wine-store: with folded arms, he was

leaning against a tree.

The Queen’s hand left the window cushion, and resting on Gilbert’s

shoulder, he felt her clench her nails into its flesh. He turned to see

her pale, with fixed eyes and quivering, blanched lips.

He would have ascribed the emotion to the two death’s heads but for her

not looking at either. The gaze was in another direction, traveling

visually in which he descried the object and he emitted a cry of amaze.

“Cagliostro!” both uttered at the same time.

The man at the tree clearly saw the Queen, but all he did was beckon for

Gilbert to come to him.

At this point of time the carriages started on once more. By a natural

and mechanical impulse the Queen gave Gilbert an outward push to prevent

his being run over by the wheel. It looked as though she urged him

towards the summoner. Anyhow, he was not sufficiently master of himself

not to obey the mandate. Motionless, he let the party proceed; then,

following the mock gunsmith who merely looked back to be sure he was

followed, he entered behind him a little lane going uphill to Bellevue,

where they disappeared behind a wall at the same time as the procession

went out of sight in a declivity of the hills, as though plunging into

an abyss.