Books: The Reign Of Terror

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The Assembly, in which the moderates had still a powerful voice,
had protested against the assumption of authority by the council of
the Commune sitting at the Hotel de Ville. But the Assembly lacked
firmness, the Commune every day gained in power. Already warrants
of arrest were prepared against the Girondists, the early leaders
of the movement.

Too restless to remain in the Assembly, Victor and Harry again
took their steps to the Hotel de Ville. Just as they arrived there
twenty-four persons, of whom twenty-two were priests, were brought
out from the prison of the Maine by a party of Marseillais, who
shouted,

"To the Abbaye!" These ruffians pushed the prisoners into coaches
standing at the door, shouting: "You will not arrive at the prison;
the people are waiting to tear you in pieces." But the people looked
on silently in sullen apathy.

"You see them," the Marseillais shouted. "There they are. You are
about to march to Verdun. They only wait for your departure to
butcher your wives and children."

Still the crowd did not move. The great mass of the people had no
share in the bloody deeds of the Revolution; these were the work of
a few score of violent men, backed by the refuse of the population.
A few shouts were raised here and there of, "Down with the priests!"
But more of the crowd joined in the shouts which Victor and Harry
lustily raised of, "Shame, down with the Marseillais!" Victor would
have pressed forward to attack the Marseillais had not Harry held
his arm tightly, exclaiming in his ear:

"Restrain yourself, Victor. Think of the lives that depend upon
ours. The mob will not follow you. You can do nothing yourself.
Come, get out of the crowd."

So saying he dragged Victor away. It was well that they could not
see what was taking place in the coaches, or Victor's fury would
have been ungovernable, for several of the ruffians had drawn their
swords and were hacking furiously at their prisoners.

"We will follow them," Harry said, when he and Victor had made
their way out of the crowd; "but you must remember, Victor, that,
come what may, you must keep cool. You would only throw away your
life uselessly; for Marie's sake you must keep calm. Your life
belongs to her, and you have no right to throw it away."

"You are right, Henri," Victor said gloomily; "but how can one look
on and see men inciting others to massacre? What is going to take
place? We must follow them."

"I am ready to follow them," Harry said; "but you must not go
unless you are firmly resolved to restrain your feelings whatever
may happen. You can do no possible good, and will only involve
yourself in the destruction of others."

"You may trust me," the young count said; "I will be calm for
Marie's sake."

Harry had his doubts as to his friend's power of self-control, but
he was anxious to see what was taking place, and they joined the
throng that followed the coaches. But they were now in the rear,
and could see nothing that was taking place before them. When the
carriages reached the Abbaye the prisoners alighted. Some of them
were at once cut down by the Marseillais, the rest fled into the
hall, where one of the committees was sitting. Its members, however,
did nothing to protect them, and looked on while all save two were
massacred unresistingly. Then the Marseillais came out brandishing
their bloody weapons and shouting, "The good work has begun; down
with the priests! Down with the enemies of the people!"

The better class of people in the crowd assembled at the Hotel de
Ville had not followed the procession to the Abbaye. They had been
horror-struck at the words and actions of the Marseillais, and
felt that this was the beginning of the fulfilment of the rumours
of the last few days.

The murder of the first prisoner was indeed the signal for every
man of thought or feeling and of heart to draw back from the
Revolution. Thousands of earnest men who had at first thought that
the hour of life and liberty commenced with the meeting of the
States-General, and who had gone heart and soul with that body in
its early struggles for power, had long since shrunk back appalled
at the new tyranny which had sprung into existence.

Each act of usurpation of power by the Jacobins had alienated a
section. The nobles and the clergy, many of whom had at first gone
heartily with the early reformers, had shrunk back appalled when
they saw that religion and monarchy were menaced. The bourgeoisie,
who had made the Revolution, were already to a man against it; the
Girondists, the leaders of the third estate, had fallen away, and
over their heads the axe was already hanging. The Revolution had
no longer a friend in France, save among the lowest, the basest,
and the most ignorant. And now, by the massacres of the 2d of
September, the republic of France was to stand forth in the eyes
of Europe as a blood-stained monster, the enemy, not of kings
only, but of humanity in general. Thus the crowd following the
Marseillais was composed almost entirely of the scum of Paris,
wretches who had long been at war with society, who hated the rich,
hated the priests, hated all above them - men who had suffered
so much that they had become wild beasts, who were the products
of that evil system of society which had now been overthrown. The
greater proportion of them were in the pay of the Commune, for,
two days before, all the unemployed had been enrolled as the army
of the Commune. Thus there was no repetition before the Abbaye of
the cries of shame which had been heard in front of the Maine. The
shouts of the Marseillais were taken up and re-echoed by the mob.
Savage cries, curses, and shouts for vengeance filled the air;
many were armed, and knives and bludgeons, swords and pikes, were
brandished or shaken. Blood had been tasted, and all the savage
instincts were on fire.

"This is horrible, Henri!" Victor de Gisons exclaimed. "I feel as
if I were in a nightmare, not that any nightmare could compare in
terror to this. Look at those hideous faces - faces of men debased
by crime, sodden with drink, degraded below the level of brutes,
exulting in the thought of blood, lusting for murder; and to think
that these creatures are the masters of France. Great Heavens! What
can come of it in the future? What is going to take place now?"

"Organized massacre, I fear, Victor. What seemed incredible,
impossible, is going to take place; there is to be a massacre of
the prisoners."

They had by this time reached the monastery of the Carmelites, now
converted into a prison. Here a large number of priests had been
collected. The Marseillais entered, and the prisoners were called
by name to assemble in the garden.

First the Archbishop ofArles was murdered; then they fell upon the
others and hewed them down. The Bishops of Saintes and Beauvais
were among the slain, and the assassins did not desist until the
last prisoner in the Carmelites had been hacked to pieces. Graves
had already been dug near the Barrier Saint Jacques and carts were
waiting to convey the corpses there, showing how carefully the
preparations for the massacre had been made.

Then the Marseillais returned to the Abbaye, and, with a crowd
of followers, entered the great hall. Here the bailiff Maillard
organized a sort of tribunal of men taken at random from the
crowd. Some of these were paid hirelings of the Commune, some were
terrified workmen or small tradesmen who had, merely from curiosity,
joined the mob. The Swiss officers and soldiers, who were, with the
priests, special objects of hatred to the mob, were first brought
out. They were spared the farce of a trial, they were ordered to
march out through the doors, outside which the Marseillais were
awaiting them. Some hesitated to go out, and cried for mercy.

A young man with head erect was the first to pass through the fatal
doors. He fell in a moment, pierced with pikes. The rest followed
him, and all save two, who were, by some caprice of the mob,
spared, shared his fate. The mob had crowded into the galleries
which surrounded the hall and applauded with ferocious yells the
murder of the soldiers. In the body of the hall a space was kept
clear by the armed followers of the Commune round the judges' table,
and a pathway to the door from the interior of the prison to that
opening into the street.

When the Swiss had been massacred the trial of the other prisoners
commenced. One after another the prisoners were brought out. They
were asked their names and occupations, a few questions followed,
and then the verdict of "Guilty." One after another they were
conducted to the door and there slain. Two or three by the wittiness
of their answers amused the mob and were thereupon acquitted,
the acquittals being greeted by the spectators as heartily as the
sentences of death.

Victor and Harry were in the lowest gallery. They stood back from
the front, but between the heads of those before them they could see
what was going on below. Victor stood immovable, his face as pale
as death. His cap had fallen off, his hair was dank with perspiration,
his eyes had a look of concentrated horror, his body shook with
a spasmodic shuddering. In vain Harry, when he once saw what was
going to take place, urged him in a low whisper to leave. He did
not appear to hear, and even when Harry pulled him by the sleeve
of his blouse he seemed equally unconscious. Harry was greatly
alarmed, and feared that every moment his companion would betray
himself by some terrible out-burst.

After the three or four first prisoners had been disposed of,
a tall and stately man was brought into the hall. A terrible cry,
which sounded loud even above the tumult which reigned, burst from
Victor's lips. He threw himself with the fury of a madman upon those
in front of him, and in a moment would have bounded into the hall
had not Harry brought the heavy stick he carried with all his force
down upon his head. Victor fell like a log under the blow.

"What is it? What is it?" shouted those around.

"My comrade has gone out of his mind," Harry said quietly; "he
has been drinking for some days, and his hatred for the enemies
of France has turned his head. I have been watching him, and had
I not knocked him down he would have thrown himself head-foremost
off the gallery and broken his neck."

The explanation seemed natural, and all were too interested in
what was passing in the hall below to pay further attention to so
trivial an incident. It was well that Harry had caught sight of the
prisoner before Victor did so and was prepared for the out-break,
for it was the Duc de Gisons who had thus been led in to murder.
Harry dragged Victor back against the wall behind and then tried
to lift him.

"I will lend you a hand," a tall man in the dress of a mechanic,
who had been standing next to him, said, and, lifting Victor's body
on to his shoulder, made his way to the top of the stairs, Harry
preceding him and opening a way through the crowd. In another minute
they were in the open air.

"Thank you greatly," Harry said. "I do not know how l should have
managed without your aid. If you put him down here I will try and
bring him round."

"I live not far from here," the man said. "I will take him to my
room. You need not be afraid," he added as Harry hesitated, "I have
got my eyes open, you can trust me."

So saying he made his way through the crowd gathered outside. He
was frequently asked who he was carrying, for the crowd feared lest
any of their prey should escape; but the man's reply, given with
a rough laugh - "It is a lad whose stomach is not strong enough to
bear the sight of blood, and I tell you it is pretty hot in there,"
- satisfied them.

Passing through several streets the man entered a small house and
carried Victor to the attic and laid him on a bed, then he carefully
closed the door and struck a light.

"You struck hard, my friend," he said as he examined Victor's head.
"Ma foi, I should not have liked such a blow myself, but I don't
blame you. You were but just in time to prevent his betraying
himself, and better a hundred times a knock on the head than those
pikes outside the door. I had my eye on him, and felt sure he would
do something rash, and I had intended to choke him, but he was too
quick for me. How came you to be so foolish as to be there?"

"We had friends in the prison, and we thought we might do something
to save them," Harry answered, for he saw that it would be his best
policy to be frank. "It was his father whom they brought out."

"It was rash of you, young sir. A kid might as well try to save his
mother from the tiger who has laid its paw upon her as for you to
try to rescue any one from the clutches of the mob. Mon Dieu! To
think that in the early days I was fool enough to go down to the
Assembly and cheer the deputies; but I have seen my mistake. What
has it brought us? A ruined trade, an empty cupboard, and to be
ruled by the ruffians of the slums instead of the king, the clergy,
and the upper classes. I was a brass-worker, and a good one, though
I say it myself, and earned good wages. Now for the last month
I haven't done a stroke of work. Who wants to buy brass-work when
there are mansions and shops to pillage? And now, what are you
going to do? My wife is out, but she will probably be back soon.
We will attend to this young fellow. She is a good nurse, and I
tell you I think he will need all we can do for him."

"You don't think I have seriously injured him?" Harry said in a
tone of dismay.

"No, no; don't make yourself uneasy. You have stunned him, and
that's all; he will soon get over that. I have seen men get worse
knocks in a drunken row and be at work again in the morning; but
it is different here. I saw his face, and he was pretty nearly mad
when you struck him. I doubt whether he will be in his right senses
when he comes round; but never fear, we will look after him well.
You can stay if you like; but if you want to go you can trust him
to us. I see you can keep your head, and will not run into danger
as he did."

"I do want to go terribly," Harry said, "terribly; and I feel
that I can trust you completely. You have saved his life and mine
already. Now you will not be hurt at what I am going to say. He
is the son of the Duc de Gisons, the last man we saw brought out
to be murdered. We have plenty of money. In a belt round his waist
you will find a hundred louis. Please do not spare them. If you
think he wants a surgeon call him in, and get everything necessary
for your household. While you are nursing him you cannot go out
to work. I do not talk of reward; one cannot reward kindness like
yours; but while you are looking after him you and your wife must
live."

'Agreed!" the man said, shaking Harry by the hand. "You speak
like a man of heart. I will look after him. You need be under no
uneasiness. Should any of my comrades come in I shall say: 'this
is a young workman who got knocked down and hurt in the crowd, and
whom, having nothing better to do, I have brought in here."'

"If he should recover his senses before I come back," Harry said,
"please do not let him know it was I who struck him. He will
be well-nigh heart-broken that he could not share the fate of his
father. Let him think that he was knocked down by some one in the
crowd."

"All right! That is easily managed," the man said. "Jacques Medart
is no fool. Now you had best be off, for I see you are on thorns,
and leave me to bathe his head. If you shouldn't come back you can
depend upon it I will look after him till he is able to go about
again."

CHAPTER VIII Marie Arrested

On leaving Victor in the care of the man who had so providentially
came to his aid, Harry hurried down the street towards the Abbaye,
then he stopped to think - should he return there or make his way
to the Bicetre. He could not tell whether his friends had, like
the Duc de Gisons, been removed to the Abbaye. If they had been
so, it was clearly impossible for him to aid them in any way. They
might already have fallen. The crowd was too great for him to regain
the gallery, and even there could only witness, without power to
avert, their murder. Were they still at the Bicetre he might do
something. Perhaps the assassins had not yet arrived there.

It was now nine o'clock in the evening. The streets were almost
deserted. The respectable inhabitants all remained within their
houses, trembling at the horrors, of which reports had circulated
during the afternoon. At first there had been hopes that the Assembly
would take steps to put a stop to the massacre, but the Assembly
did nothing. Danton and the ministers were absent. The cannon's
roar and the tocsin sounded perpetually. There was no secret as to
what was going on. The Commune had the insolence to send commissioners
to the bar of the Assembly to state that the people wished to break
open the doors of the prisons, and this when two hundred priests
had already been butchered at the Carmelites.

A deputation indeed went to the Abbaye to try to persuade the murderers
to desist; but their voices were drowned in the tumultuous cries.
The Commune of Paris openly directed the massacre. Billaud-Varennes
went backwards and forwards to superintend the execution of his
orders, and promised the executioners twenty-four francs a day.
The receipt for the payment of this blood-money still exists.

On arriving in front of the Bicetre Harry found all was silent
there, and with a faint feeling of hope that the massacre would not
extend beyond the Abbaye, he again turned his steps in that direction.

The bloody work was still going on, and Harry wandered away into
the quiet streets to avoid hearing the shrieks of the victims and
the yells of the crowd. A sudden thought struck him, and he went
along until he saw a woman come out of a house. He ran up to her.

"Madam," he said, "I have the most urgent need of a bonnet and
shawl. Will you sell me those you have on? The shops are all shut,
or I would not trouble you. You have only to name your price, and
I will pay you."

The woman was surprised at this proposition, but seeing that a good
bargain was to be made she asked twice the cost of the articles
when new, and this Harry paid her without question.

Wrapping the shawl and bonnet into a bundle, he retraced his steps,
and sat down on some doorsteps within a distance of the Abbaye
which would enable him to observe any general movement of the crowd
in front of the prison. At one o'clock in the morning there was a
stir, and the body of men with pikes moved down the street.

"They are going to La Force," he said, after following them for some
distance. "Oh, if I had but two or three hundred English soldiers
here we would make mincemeat of these murderers!"

Harry did not enter La Force, where the scenes that were taking
place at the Abbaye - for, in spite of the speed with which the mock
trials were hurried through, these massacres were not yet finished
there, so great was the number of prisoners - were repeated.

At La Force many ladies were imprisoned, among them the Princess de
Lamballe. They shared the fate of the male prisoners, being hewn
to pieces by sabres. The head of the princess was cut off and stuck
upon a pike, and was carried in triumph under the windows of the
Temple, where the king and queen were confined, and was held up to
the bars of the room they occupied for them to see. Marie Antoinette,
fearless for herself, fainted at the terrible sight of the pale
head of her friend.

Harry remained at a little distance from La Force, tramping
restlessly up and down, half-mad with rage and horror, and at his
powerlessness to interfere in any way with the proceedings of the
wretches who were carrying on the work of murder. At last, about
eight o'clock in the morning, a boy ran by.

"They have finished with them at the Abbaye," he said with fiendish
glee. "They are going from there to the Bicetre."

Harry with difficulty repressed his desire to slay the urchin, and
hurried away to reach the prison of Bicetre before the band from the
Abbaye arrived there. Unfortunately he came down by a side street
upon them when they were within a few hundred yards of the prison.
His great hope was that he might succeed in penetrating with the
Marseillais and find the marquise, and aid her in making her way
through the mob in the disguise he had purchased.

But here, as at the other prisons, there was a method in the work
of murder. The agents of the Commune took possession of the hall
at the entrance and permitted none to pass farther into the prison,
the warders and officials bringing down the prisoners in batches,
and so handing them over for slaughter. In vain Harry tried to
penetrate into the inner part of the prison. He was roughly repulsed
by the men guarding the door; and at last, finding that nothing
could be done, he forced his way out again into the open air, and
hurrying away for some distance, threw himself on the ground and
burst into a passion of tears.

After a time he rose and made his way back to the house where he
had left Victor de Gisons. He found him in a state of delirium,
acting over and over again the scene in the Abbaye, cursing the
judge and executioners, and crying out he would die with his father.

"What does the doctor think of him?" he asked the woman who was
sitting by Victor's bed.

"He did not say much," the woman replied. "He shook his head, and
said there had been a terrible mental shock, and that he could not
answer either for his life or reason. There was nothing to do but
to be patient, to keep his head bandaged with wet cloths, and to
give him water from time to time. Do not be afraid, sir; we will
watch over him carefully."

"I would stay here if I could," Harry said; "but I have others
I must see about. I have the terrible news to break to some young
ladies of the murder of their father and mother."

"Poor things! Poor things!" the woman said, shaking her head. "It
is terrible! My husband was telling me what he saw; and a neighbour
came in just now and said it was the same thing at all the other
prisons. The priest, too - our priest at the little church at the
corner of the street, where I used to go in every morning to pray
on my way to market - he was dragged away ten days ago to the
Carmelites, and now he is a saint in heaven. How is it, sir, that
God allows such things to be?"

"We cannot tell," Harry said sadly. "As for myself, I can hardly
believe it, though I saw it. They say there are over four thousand
people in the prisons, and they will all be murdered. Such a thing
was never heard of. I can hardly believe that I am not in a dream
now."

"You look almost like one dead yourself," the woman said pityingly.
"I have made a bouillon for Jacques' breakfast and mine. It is
just ready. Do take a mouthful before you go out. That and a piece
of bread and a cup of red wine will do you good."

Harry was on the point of refusing; but he felt that he was utterly
worn and exhausted, and that he must keep up his strength. Her
husband, therefore, took her place by Victor's bedside in readiness
to hold him down should he try to get up in his ravings, while
the good woman ladled out a basin of the broth and placed it with
a piece of bread and some wine on the table. Harry forced himself
to drink it, and when he rose from the table he already felt the
benefit of the meal.

"Thank you very much," he said. "I feel stronger now; but how I
am to tell the story I do not know. But I must make quite certain
before I go to these poor girls that their parents were killed.
Three or four were spared at the Abbaye. Possibly it may have been
the same thing at the Bicetre."

So Harry went back and waited outside the prison until the bloody
work was over; but found on questioning those who came out when
all was done that the thirst for blood had increased with killing,
and that all the prisoners found in the Bicetre had been put to
death.

"Ma foi!" the man whom he was speaking to said; "but these accursed
aristocrats have courage. Men and women were alike; there was not
one of them but faced the judges bravely and went to their death
as calmly as if to dinner. There was a marquis and his wife - the
Marquis de St. Caux they called him. They brought them out together.
They were asked whether they had anything to say why they should
not be punished for their crimes against France. The marquis laughed
aloud.

"'Crimes!' he said. 'Do you think a Marquis de St. Caux is going
to plead for his life to a band of murderers and assassins? Come,
my love.'

"He just gave her one kiss, and then took her hand as if they were
going to walk a minuet together, and then led her down between the
lines of guards with his head erect and a smile of scorn on his
face. She did not smile, but her step never faltered. I watched
her closely. She was very pale, and she did not look proud, but
she walked as calmly and steadily as her husband till they reached
the door where the pikemen were awaiting them, and then it was
over in a minute, and they died without a cry or a groan. They are
wretches, the aristocrats. They have fattened on the life-blood of
the people; but they know how to die, these people."

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