Historical Tales, Vol. 6 (of 15)

C >> Charles Morris >> Historical Tales, Vol. 6 (of 15)

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The trial came on, as the closing act in this mysterious drama, in which
all Paris had now become intensely interested. The cardinal had
renounced all the privileges of his rank and condition, and accepted the
jurisdiction of Parliament,--perhaps counting on the open enmity between
that body and the court.

The trial revealed a disgraceful business, in which a high dignitary of
the church had permitted himself to be completely gulled by a shameless
woman and the equally shameless Cagliostro, and into which not only the
name but even the virtue of the queen had been dragged. Public opinion
became intense. The hostility to the queen which had long smouldered now
openly declared itself. "It was for her and by her orders that the
necklace was bought," said the respectable Parisians. Those who were not
respectable said much worse things. The queen was being made a victim of
these shameless and criminal adventurers.

The trial went on, political feeling being openly displayed in it. The
great houses of Conde and Rohan took sides with the cardinal. Their
representatives might be seen, dressed in mourning, interviewing the
magistrates on their way to the tribunal, pleading with them on behalf
of their relative. The magistrates needed little persuasion. The
Parliament of Paris had long been at sword's point with the crown; now
was its time for revenge; political prejudice blinded the members to
the pure questions of law and justice; the cardinal was acquitted.

Cagliostro was similarly acquitted. He had conducted his own case, and
with a skill that deceived the magistrates and the public alike. Madame
de La Motte alone was convicted. She was sentenced to be whipped,
branded on each shoulder with the letter V (for _voleuse_, "thief"), and
to be imprisoned for life. Her husband, who was in England, was
sentenced in his absence to the galleys for life. A minor participant in
this business, the girl who had personated the queen, escaped
unpunished.

So ended this disgraceful affair. The queen was greatly cast down by the
result. "Condole with me," she said, in a broken voice, to Madame
Campan; "the intriguer who wanted to ruin me, or procure money by using
my name and forging my signature, has just been fully acquitted." But it
was due, she declared, to bribery on the part of some and to political
passion on that of others, with an audacity towards authority which such
people loved to display. The king entered as she was speaking.

"You find the queen in great affliction," he said to Madame Campan; "she
has much reason to be. But what then? They would not see in this
business anything save a prince of the Church and the Prince of Rohan,
whereas it is only the case of a man in want of money, and a mere trick
for raising cash, wherein the cardinal has been swindled in his turn.
Nothing is easier to understand, and it needs no Alexander to cut this
Gordian knot."

Cardinal Rohan was exiled to his abbey of Chaise-Dieu, guilty in the
king's opinion, a dupe in the judgment of history, evidently a credulous
profligate who had mistaken his vocation. The queen was the true victim
of the whole affair. It doubled the hostility of the people to her, and
had its share in that final sentence which brought her head to the
block.

_THE FALL OF THE BASTILLE._

"To the Bastille! to the Bastille!" was the cry. Paris surged with an
ungovernable mob. Month by month, week by week, day by day, since the
meeting of the States-General,--called into being chiefly to provide
money for the king and kept in being to provide government for the
people,--the revolutionary feeling had grown, alike among the delegates
and among the citizens. Now the population of Paris was aroused, the
unruly element of the city was in the streets, their wrath directed
against the prison-fortress, the bulwark of feudalism, the stronghold of
oppression, the infamous keeper of the dark secrets of the kings of
France. The people had always feared, always hated it, and now against
its sullen walls was directed the torrent of their wrath.

The surging throng besieged the Hotel de Ville, demanding arms. Gaining
no satisfaction there, they rushed to the Invalides, where they knew
that arms were stored. The governor wished to parley. "He asks for time
to make us lose ours!" cried a voice in the crowd. A rush was made, the
iron gates gave way, the cellar-doors were forced open, and in a short
time thirty thousand guns were distributed among the people.

Minute by minute the tumult increased. Messengers came with threatening
tidings. "The troops are marching to attack the Faubourgs; Paris is
about to be put to fire and sword; the cannon of the Bastille are about
to open fire upon us," were the startling cries. The people grew wild
with rage.

This scene was the first of those frightful outbreaks of mob violence
of which Paris was in the coming years to see so many. It was the 14th
of July, 1789. As yet no man dreamed of the horrors which the near
future was to bring forth. The Third Estate was at war with the king,
and fancied itself the power in France. But beneath it, unseen by it,
almost undreamed of by it, was rousing from sleep the wild beast of
popular fury and revenge. Centuries of oppression were about to be
repaid by years of a wild carnival of slaughter.

The Bastille was the visible emblem of that oppression. It was an armed
fortress threatening Paris. The cannon on its walls frowned defiance to
the people. Momentarily the wrath of the multitude grew stronger. The
electors of the Third Estate sent a message to Delaunay, governor of the
Bastille, asking him to withdraw the cannons, the sight of which
infuriated the people, and promising, if he would do this, to restrain
the mob.

The advice was wise; the governor was not. The messengers were long
absent; the electors grew uneasy; the tumult in the street increased. At
length the deputation returned, bringing word that the governor pledged
himself not to fire on the people, unless forced to do so in
self-defence. This message the electors communicated to the crowd
around the Hotel de Ville, hoping that it would satisfy them. Their
words were interrupted by a startling sound, the roar of a cannon,--even
while they were reporting the governor's evasive message the cannon of
the Bastille were roaring defiance to the people of Paris! An attack had
been made by the people on the fortress and this was the governor's
response.

That shot was fatal to Delaunay. The citizens heard it with rage.
"Treason!" was the cry. "To the Bastille! to the Bastille!" again rose
the shout. Surging onward in an irresistible mass, the furious crowd
poured through the streets, and soon surrounded the towering walls of
the detested prison-fortress. A few bold men had already cut the chains
of the first drawbridge, and let it fall. Across it rushed the multitude
to attack the second bridge.

The fortress was feebly garrisoned, having but thirty Swiss soldiers and
eighty invalids for its defence. But its walls were massive; it was well
provided; it had resisted many attacks in the past; this disorderly and
badly-armed mass seemed likely to beat in vain against those century-old
bulwarks and towers. Yet there come times in which indignation grows
strong, even with bare hands, oppression waxes weak behind its walls of
might, and this was one of those times.

A chance shot was fired from the crowd; the soldiers answered with a
volley; several men were wounded; other shots came from the people; the
governor gave orders to fire the cannon; the struggle had begun.

It proved a short one. Companies of the National Guard were brought up
to restrain the mob,--the soldiers broke from their ranks and joined it.
Two of their sub-officers, Elie and Hullin by name, put themselves at
the head of the furious crowd and led the people to the assault on the
fortress. The fire of the garrison swept through their dense ranks; many
of them fell; one hundred and fifty were killed or wounded; but now
several pieces of cannon were dragged up by hand and their threatening
muzzles turned against the gates.

The assault was progressing; Delaunay waited for succor which did not
arrive; the small garrison could not withstand that mighty mob; in the
excitement of the moment the governor attempted to blow up the powder
magazine, and would have done so had not one of his attendants held his
arms by force.

And now deputations arrived from the electors, two of them in
succession, demanding that the fortress should be given up to the
citizen guard. Delaunay proposed to capitulate, saying that he would
yield if he and his men were allowed to march out with arms and honor.
The proposition was received with shouts of sarcastic laughter.

"Life and safety are all we can promise you," answered Elie. "This I
engage on the word of an officer."

Delaunay at this ordered the second drawbridge to be lowered and the
gates to be opened. In poured the mass, precipitating themselves in fury
upon that hated fortress, rushing madly through all its halls and
passages, breaking its cell-doors with hammer blows, releasing captives
some of whom had been held there in hopeless misery for half a lifetime,
unearthing secrets which added to their revengeful rage.

Elie and Hullin had promised the governor his life. They miscalculated
their power over their savage followers. Before they had gone far they
were fighting hand to hand with the multitude for the safety of their
prisoner. At the Place de Greve, Hullin seized the governor in his
strong arms and covered his bare head with a hat, with the hope of
concealing his features from the people. In a moment more he was hurled
down and trodden under foot, and on struggling to his feet saw the head
of Delaunay carried on a pike. The major and lieutenant were similarly
massacred. Flesselles, the mayor of Paris, shared their fate. The other
prisoners were saved by the soldiers, who surrounded and protected them
from the fury of the mob.

The fall of the Bastille was celebrated by two processions that moved
through the streets; one blood-stained and horrible, carrying the heads
of the victims on pikes; the other triumphant and pathetic, bearing on
their shoulders the prisoners released from its cells. Of these, two had
been incarcerated so long that they were imbecile, and no one could
tell whence they came. On the pathway of this procession flowers and
ribbons were scattered. The spectators looked on with silent horror at
the other.

Meanwhile, the king was at Versailles, in ignorance of what was taking
place at Paris. The courts were full of soldiers, drinking and singing;
wine had been distributed among them; there were courtiers and court
intrigues still; the lowering cloud of ruin had yet scarcely cast a
shadow on the palace. Louis XVI. went to bed and to sleep, in blissful
ignorance of what had taken place. The Duke of Lioncourt entered and had
him awakened, and informed him of the momentous event.

"But that is a revolt!" exclaimed the king, with startled face, sitting
up on his couch.

"No, sire," replied the duke; "it is a revolution!"

That was the true word. It was a revolution. With the taking of the
Bastille the Revolution of France was fairly inaugurated. As for that
detested fortress, its demolition began on the next day, amid the
thunder of cannon and the singing of the _Te Deum_. It had dominated
Paris, and served as a state-prison for four hundred years. Its site was
henceforward to be kept as a monument to liberty.

_THE STORY OF THE SAINTE AMPOULE._

Sad years were they for kings and potentates in France--now a century
ago--when the cup of civilization was turned upside-down and the dregs
rose to the top. For once in the history of mankind the anarchist was
lord--and a frightful use he made of his privileges. Not only living
kings were at a discount, but the very bones of kings were scattered to
the winds, and the sacred oil, the "Sainte Ampoule," which for many
centuries had been used at the coronation of the kings of France, became
an object of detestation, and was treated with the same lack of ceremony
and consideration as the royal family itself.

Thereby hangs a tale. But before telling what desecration came to the
Sainte Ampoule through the impious hands of the new lords of France, it
may be well to trace briefly the earlier history of this precious oil.
Christianity came to France when Clovis, its first king, was baptized.
And although we cannot say much for the Christian virtues of the worthy
king Clovis, we are given to understand that Heaven smiled on his
conversion, for the story goes that a dove came down from the realm of
the blessed, bearing a small vial of holy oil, which was placed in the
hands of St. Remy to be used in anointing the king at his coronation.
Afterwards the saint placed this vial in his own tomb, where it was
after many years discovered by miracle. It is true, St. Remy tells us
none of this. Our authority for it is Hincmar, Archbishop of Rheims, who
flourished four centuries after Clovis and his converter had been
gathered to their fathers. But as Hincmar defied those who doubted the
story of the dove and the vial to prove the contrary, and produced a
vial of oil from the saint's tomb in further proof of his statement, no
reasonable person--at that day--could longer deny it, though the first
mention of it is by a chronicler who lived a century and a half after
the saint.

From the days of Hincmar forward the monarchs of France, at their
coronation, were anointed with this holy oil. And as the dove was said
to have descended at Rheims, and St. Remy was buried there, this became
the city of the coronation. An order of knighthood was founded to take
part in the coronation,--the "Knights of the Sainte Ampoule,"--but the
worthy incumbents held their office for a day only,--that of the
crowning of the king. They were created for that purpose, received the
precious vial from the archbishop, and after the ceremony returned it to
that high dignitary of the church and saw it restored to its
abiding-place. This done, they ceased to exist as knights of the holy
oil, the order dying while the king lived.

But these short-lived chevaliers made the most of their opportunity, and
crowded all the splendor and dignity into their one day that it would
well bear. The sacred vial was kept in the abbey of St. Remy, and from
that place to the cathedral they moved in a stately procession that
almost threw the cortege of the king into the shade. The Grand Prior of
St. Remy bore the vial, in its case or shrine, which hung from his neck
by a golden chain. He rode always on a white horse, being covered by a
magnificent canopy, upheld by the knights of the Sainte Ampoule. The
cathedral reached, the prior placed the vial in the hands of the
archbishop, who pledged himself by a solemn oath to restore it at the
end of the ceremony. And to make this doubly sure a number of barons
were given to the knights as hostages, the restoration of the vial to be
their ransom. The ceremony over, back to the abbey they went, through
streets adorned with rich tapestries, and surrounded by throngs of
admiring lookers-on, to whom the vial was of as much interest as the
king's crown.

For many centuries this honor came at intervals to the city of Rheims,
and the St. Remy vial figured as an indispensable element of every
kingly coronation. It figured thus in the mission of Joan of Arc, whose
purpose was to drive the English from Orleans and open the way to
Rheims, that the new king might be crowned with the old ceremony. The
holy oil continued to play a leading part in the coronation of the kings
until the reign of Louis XVI. Then came the Revolution, that mighty
overturner of all things sacred and time-honored, and a new chapter was
written in the story of the Sainte Ampoule. It is this chapter which we
have now to give.

The Revolution had gone on, desecrating things sacred and beheading
things royal, through years of terror, and now had arrived the 6th of
October, 1793, a day fatal in the history of the holy oil. On that day
Citizen Rhul, one of the new sovereigns of France, entered the room of
Philippe Hourelle, chief _marguillier_ of the Cathedral of Rheims, and
demanded of him the vial of coronation oil of which he had charge.
Horror seized Monsieur Philippe; but Master Rhul was imperative, and the
guillotine stood in the near perspective. There was nothing to do but to
obey.

"It is not in my care," declared the trembling Philippe. "It is in the
keeping of the cure, Monsieur Seraine. I will instantly apply to him for
it."

"And make haste," said Citizen Rhul. "Bring pomatum and all," thus
irreverently designating the age-thickened oil.

"May I ask what you will do with it?" ventured Philippe.

"Grease the knife of the guillotine, mayhap, that it may the easier slip
through your neck, if you waste any time in your errand."

As may be imagined, Philippe Hourelle lost no time in seeking the cure,
and giving him his startling message. M. Seraine heard him with horror.
Had the desecration of sans-culottisme proceeded so far as this? But an
idea sprang to the quick wit of the cure.

"We can save some of it," he exclaimed.

A minute sufficed to extract a portion of the unguent-like substance.
Then, with a sigh of regret, the cure handed the vial to Philippe, who,
with another sigh of regret, delivered it to Citizen Rhul, who, without
a sigh of regret, carried it to the front of the cathedral, and at the
foot of the statue of Louis XV. hammered the vial to powder, and trod
what remained of the precious ointment under foot until it was
completely mingled with the mud of the street.

"So we put an end to princes and pomatum," said this irascible
republican, with a laugh of triumph, as he ground the remnants of the
vial under his irreverent heel.

Not quite an end to either, as it proved. The portion of the sacred oil
which M. Seraine had saved was divided into two portions, one kept by
himself, the other placed in the care of Philippe Hourelle, to be kept
until the reign of anarchy should come to an end and a king reign again
in France. And had Citizen Rhul dreamed of all that lay in the future
every hair on his democratic head would have stood erect in horror and
dismay.

In truth, not many years had passed before the age of princes came again
to France, and a demand for St. Remy's vial arose, Napoleon was to be
crowned emperor at Notre Dame. Little did this usurper of royalty care
for the holy oil, but there were those around him with more reverence
for the past, men who would have greatly liked to act as knights of the
Sainte Ampoule. But the unguent was not forthcoming, and the emperor was
crowned without its aid.

Then came the end of the imperial dynasty, and the return of the
Bourbons. To them the precious ointment was an important essential of
legitimate kingship. Could St. Remy's vial be found, or had it and its
contents vanished in the whirlpool of the Revolution? That was to be
learned. A worthy magistrate of Rheims, Monsieur de Chevrieres, took in
hand the task of discovery. He searched diligently but unsuccessfully,
until one day, in the early months of 1819, when three gentlemen, sons
of Philippe Hourelle, called upon him, and told the story which we have
just transcribed. A portion of the holy oil of coronation, they
declared, had been in their father's care, preserved and transmitted
through M. Seraine's wit and promptitude. Their father was dead, but he
had left it to his widow, who long kept it as a priceless treasure. They
were interrupted at this point in their story by M. de Chevrieres.

"This is fortunate," he exclaimed. "She must pass it over to me. Her
name will become historic for her loyal spirit."

"I wish she could," said one of the visitors. "But, alas! it is lost.
Our house was plundered during the invasion, and among other things
taken was this precious relic. It is irretrievably gone."

That seemed to end the matter; but not so, there was more of the
consecration oil in existence than could have been imagined. The visit
of the Hourelles was followed after an interval by a call from a Judge
Lecomte, who brought what he affirmed was a portion of the holy ointment
which had been given him by the widow Hourelle. Unluckily, it was of
microscopic dimensions, far from enough to impart the full flavor of
kingship to his majesty Louis XVIII.

It seemed as if this worthy monarch of the Restoration would have to
wear his crown without anointment, when, fortunately, a new and
interesting item of news was made public. It was declared by a number of
ecclesiastics that the cure, M. Seraine, had given only a part of the
oil to Philippe Hourelle, and had himself kept the remainder. He had
told them so, but, as it proved, not a man of them all knew what he had
done with it. He had died, and the secret with him. Months passed away;
spring vanished; summer came; then new tidings bloomed. A priest of
Berry-au-Bac, M. Boure by name, sought M. de Chevrieres, and gladdened
his heart with the announcement that the missing relic was in his
possession, having been consigned to him by M. Seraine. It was rendered
doubly precious by being wrapped in a portion of the winding sheet of
the blessed St. Remy himself.

Nor was this all. Within a week another portion of the lost treasure was
brought forward. It had been preserved in a manner almost miraculous.
Its possessor was a gentleman named M. Champagne Provotian, who had the
following interesting story to tell. He had, a quarter of a century
before, in 1793, been standing near Citizen Rhul when that scion of the
Revolution destroyed the vial of St. Remy, at the foot of the statue of
Louis XV., in front of the Cathedral of Rheims. When he struck the vial
he did so with such force that fragments of it flew right and left, some
of them falling on the coat-sleeve of the young man beside him, M.
Champagne. These he dexterously concealed from the iconoclastic citizen,
took home, and preserved. He now produced them.

Here were three separate portions of the precious ointment. A commission
was appointed to examine them. They were pronounced genuine, oil and
glass alike. Enough had been saved to crown a king.

"There is nothing now to obstruct the coronation of your Majesty," said
an officer of the court to Louis XVIII.

His majesty laughed incredulously. He was an unbeliever as regarded
legend and a democrat as regarded ceremony, and gave the gentleman to
understand that he was content to reign without being anointed.

"What shall be done with the ointment?" asked the disappointed official.

"Lock it up in the vestry and say no more about it," replied the king.

This was done, and the precious relics were restored to the tomb of St.
Remy, whence they originally came; being placed there in a silver
reliquary lined with white silk, and enclosed in a metal case, with
three locks. And there they lay till 1825, when a new king came to the
throne, in the person of Charles X.

Now, for the last time, the old ceremony was revived, the knights of the
Sainte Ampoule being created, and their office duly performed. With such
dignity as he could assume and such grandeur as he could display,
Charles entered the choir of the cathedral and advanced to the grand
altar, at whose foot he knelt. On rising, he was led to the centre of
the sanctuary, and took his seat in a throne-like chair, placed there to
receive him. In a semi-circle round him stood a richly-dressed group of
nobles and courtiers.

Then came forward in stately procession the chevaliers of the Sainte
Ampoule, bearing the minute remnants of that sacred oil which was
claimed to have been first used in the anointing of Clovis, thirteen
hundred years before. An imposing group of churchmen stood ready to
receive the ointment, including three prelates, an archbishop, and two
bishops. These dignitaries carried the precious relic to the high altar,
consecrated it, and anointed the king with a solemn ceremony highly
edifying to the observers, and greatly gratifying to the vanity of the
new monarch.

It cannot be said that this ceremonious proceeding appealed to the
people of France. It was the nineteenth century, and the Revolution lay
between the new and the old age. All men of wit laughed at the pompous
affair, and five years afterwards the people of Paris dispensed with
Charles X. as their king, despite the flavor of coronation that hung
about him. The dynasty of the Bourbons was at an end, and the knights of
the Saint Ampoule had been created for the last time.

In conclusion, there is a story connected with the coronation ceremony
which may be of interest. Legend or history tells us that at one time
the English took the city of Rheims, plundered it, and, as part of their
plunder, carried off the Saint Ampoule, which their desecrating hands
had stolen from the tomb of St. Remy. The people of the suburb of Chene
la Populeux pursued the invaders, fell upon them and recovered this
precious treasure. From that time, in memory of their deed, the
inhabitants of Chene claimed the right to walk in the procession of the
Sainte Ampoule, and to fall heir to the horse ridden by the Grand Prior.
This horse was furnished by the government, and was claimed by the prior
as the property of the abbey, in recompense for his services. He denied
the claim of the people of Chene, said that their story was a fable, and
that at the best they were but low-born rogues. As a result of all this,
hot blood existed between the rival claimants to the white horse of the
coronation.

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