The king's heart failed him, and at ten o'clock at night he signed the Declaration of Rights.

Mounier at once returned to the hall of the Assembly, expecting to find the delegates there, but they had been so incommoded by the women, who had intruded everywhere, that the Assembly had been adjourned, and the mob of women had been left in possession of the hall; one female occupied the president's chair, but she surrendered it to Mounier on his appearing. He sent immediately to the municipal officers to request them to summon the delegates by roll of drum.

Whilst this was being executed, he announced to the people that the king had accepted the articles of the constitution. The announcement elicited applause, and then the women asked, simply enough, if this acceptation would make bread more plentiful and cheaper. The president, ascertaining that many of these poor creatures had eaten nothing all day, sent round to the bakers' shops, and all the food that he could collect, wine, brandy, sausages, bread, was collected at the table, and was by him distributed among the famished multitude.

The great hall then presented the appearance of a huge eating-house. During this feast a message was transmitted to Mounier, announcing the approach of Lafayette and his army of Parisian guards. Mounier at once commissioned M. Goui-d'Arci to hasten to meet the general, and report to him the acceptation by the king of the Declaration of Rights.

As soon as it was known at the Château that the Parisian militia were on their way, orders were issued that the body-guard should quit the court of the Ministers and betake themselves to the terrace before the queen's apartments; by this means it was hoped that a collision would be avoided. During the absence of the Duke de Guiche, who had gone to the royal apartment for orders, but could get none, though he waited till two o'clock in the morning, the Marquis de Vilaines took the command. He transferred the squadron to the Tapis-Vert, leaving some videttes on the terraces. The Count d'Estaing came to him there, and assured him that it would be quite impossible for the guards to re-enter their hôtel before day-break, as the streets were in a tumult of excitement on the approach of Lafayette's soldiers. Acting on this advice, he withdrew his guards to Trianon for the rest of the night.

Lafayette, immediately on his arrival, which took place at midnight, went to the hall of the National Assembly, but finding it crowded with women, and the Assembly not sitting, he betook himself to the palace, which he found full of people waiting his arrival with anxiety, and endeavouring to read on his countenance whether his dispositions were hostile or pacific.

In the Œil-de-Bœuf, one of the courtiers said, 'There goes Cromwell;' to which Lafayette replied aptly, 'Sir, Cromwell would not have entered alone.'

He was perfectly calm, his cheeks fresh through encountering the wind, and his fair hair wet with rain. He entered the royal cabinet accompanied only by two commissioners of the Paris municipality. He informed the king of all that had taken place, and of the arrival of his army, and received the order for the national guard under him to occupy the posts which had formerly been held by the French guard; the body-guard and the Swiss were to retain the posts usually confided to them. He returned to the head of his column, to provide for the execution of this order, and the national guards thereupon took possession of the posts confided to them; the rest dispersed over the town in search of shelter. The men were worn out with their long and toilsome march, drenched with rain, and soiled with mud. They found an asylum in the churches of S. Louis, Notre-Dame, and the convent of the Recollects. One battalion invaded the deserted barracks of the body-guard, and quartered themselves comfortably therein.

It was three o'clock in the morning before every arrangement was complete. The Parisian national guardsmen were at their posts, and patrolled the streets, or reposed. The rabble of men and women had fallen asleep in the hall of the Assembly, in the barrack of the French guard, and in the taverns. Calm seemed to have been restored, and Lafayette then visited the Count of Luxembourg and the Marquis d'Aguesseau, to warn them that a battalion of his militia having taken possession of the hôtel of the body-guard, it would be impossible for the latter to return to it without running the risk of a fight.

The count at once sent a messenger in disguise to Trianon, with a recommendation to the Marquis de Vilaines to leave Versailles; he accordingly mounted his soldiers, and they retreated to S. Leger.

Lafayette, having again made the circuit of the town, and finding all quiet, went to the Hôtel de Noailles, and flung himself on a bed to snatch a few hours of rest, after having spent seventeen consecutive hours with every faculty strained to its utmost.

But what had Nicholas done? We left him sallying forth at night-fall into the streets in quest of his half-sister and stepmother.

Nicholas went direct to the Swiss guard-house, on the right side of the court of the Ministers, but found it impossible to enter the grating before the court. There was, however, a door opening into the building from the back street, and at this he applied, and asked to see his father. He was immediately admitted, and found, to his surprise, Madame Deschwanden and Madeleine sitting beside the fire drying their clothes. The former was talking in the most animated manner to a score of Swiss guardsmen, who laughed and joked with her, whilst the corporal looked on, and listened good-humouredly.

'But I won't go,' said madame, stamping on the ground; 'no human power shall persuade me to leave France for your detestable land of lakes and perpetual snows.'

'Now, wife,' said the corporal, 'what has been your object in coming here to Versailles?'

'To carry off the king to Paris,' answered she, sharply.

'What! whether he like it or not?'

'To be sure. We know best what is to his interest.'

'Very well, madame,' said the corporal, roguishly. 'Do to others as you would be done by. I am going to treat you precisely as you want to treat the king. To-morrow is my last day of service. To-morrow I reckon on obtaining my discharge. After to-morrow, as soon as possible, I intend to transport you from Paris to Lucerne, whether you approve or not; for I know best what is to your interest.'

This sally was greeted by the soldiers with applause.

'My faith!' exclaimed Madame Deschwanden, not at all taken aback, 'the cases are totally different; but that is what you Alpine bears can never perceive. In the case of his majesty, it is the ladies who insist, and he is too gallant to refuse our wishes. Whoever heard—unless he were a German—of a man dragging a woman after him into a wilderness against her will? Hah! Nicholas, my boy, what brings you here?'

'I have come in search of you and Gabrielle,—Madeleine, I mean?'

'Where is Gabrielle?' asked his sister, looking up.

'She is in safe keeping,' answered the lad; 'and, if you and my mother wish for shelter, you can have it in the same house.'

'That entirely depends,' said madame; 'we are exceedingly comfortable here.'

'But the house is that of a curé, and when I told him that you and Madeleine were out, he insisted on my inviting you to partake of his hospitality.'

'A curé, did you say, Nicholas?'

'Yes, mother.'

'Mon Dieu! To think of my leaving the society of soldiers for that of priests! I am much obliged to him, but scarlet coats are a more cheerful sight than black cassocks. Do you think I am going to put my head into the lion's mouth? I have plenty of naughty little things on my conscience, but I don't want to precipitate myself into a confessional to-night. Thank you, Nicholas; I prefer to remain here, where I can have a good laugh, I am too wet and cold to endure the cold water and freezing to which a curé would subject me. In Lent, yes—not now.'

Madame's determination was received by the soldiers with satisfaction.

'You are all priest-bitten,' said madame; 'that is the mischief of you Swiss. There was once a spider called the Tarantula, and there was at the same time another spider called Curatus, and these two went forth a scamper one day, and the former entered France and bit the people here, and set them all dancing; and the other spider crawled over the Alps, and spun his web in Switzerland, and nibbled at the good folk there, and made them all conscientious. Mon Dieu! what it is to be conscientious!'

The soldiers laughed heartily.

'Madeleine,' said Nicholas, 'will you come to Gabrielle?'

'No,' said the girl, 'I shall remain with my mother; at any rate, at present. What street are you in?'

'We are immediately opposite the opening into the Rue des Recollets, in the Rue du Vieux Versailles, with M. le Curé Lindet lodging in the house of the widow Maupied.'

'I shall see you to-morrow, Nicholas,' said the corporal. 'I will take good care of these two madcaps. You know that to-morrow my time of service is out. I shall be on duty early in the morning at the grand staircase, and that is the last office I shall perform for his gracious majesty. Then, huzza! we shall be off to the brave Switzerland, to the mountains and lakes! to the land of Werner Stauffacher, Erni of Melchthal, and Walter Fürst.'

'Never!' cried madame.

'We shall see,' said the corporal.

'We shall see,' said madame; 'a woman has a will of her own, and it is a stubborn one.'

'Good night!' said Nicholas.

At five in the morning, before daylight, a crowd was already prowling about the streets, and crossing the Place d'Armes, armed with pikes, spits, and scythes. Seeing some of the obnoxious body-guard as sentinels at the iron gates, they forced the national guards to fire on them; the latter obeyed, taking care not to hit them.

Fires were burning in the open square, and men and women were treading on one another to warm their hands and dry their clothes at the blaze. A hunchback on a tall horse was trotting up and down and haranguing the people. A very handsome man, with long black hair and beard, dressed in the costume of a Greek slave, with bare arms and legs and throat, gesticulated, put himself into postures, and recited scraps of poetry.

To understand what followed, certain particulars must be explained. The guard of the castle had been refused to Lafayette, and he had been given only the outer posts. Those of greater importance were confided to the Swiss and to the body-guard. These latter had received an order to retire, but they had been recalled when it was ascertained that their squadron had left Versailles, and were retained in the posts they had occupied the day before. During the 5th, all the iron gates of the Château had been shut and guarded by sentinels, so that the people had been unable to penetrate within the walls. It was otherwise on the morning of the 6th.

When the French guard had attended on the king, they had been charged with the custody of the railing in face of the grand court of entrance, and of the gates opening into the gardens. To facilitate their service, the gates of the Princes' court had been wont to be left open, so that they might pass through into the park to relieve the sentinels. When it was decided that the national guard should resume the posts formerly occupied by the French guard, the gates of the courts of the Ministers and of the Princes were opened as of old.

About half-past five the women, who had been sleeping in the barrack adjoining the Place d'Armes, woke up and issued forth into the square. Finding the gate into the grand court of entrance open, they passed through it, without the sentry of the national guard refusing them admission. On the left was the gate into the court of the Princes, guarded by two soldiers of the same militia corps; the women, probably more from curiosity than any other reason, penetrated into this court, and finding that it gave access to the park, ran out upon the terrace to admire the gardens and the ponds full of statuary.

These explorers were speedily followed by other women, and by the rabble of armed men; and the terrace was soon crowded with them, talking noisily beneath the queen's windows.

Their voices awoke the queen, who rang the bell for her lady-in-waiting, Madame Thibault. This woman looked out of the window, and told her majesty that the noise arose from a number of women who, having been unable to find shelter during the night, were walking about. This reply satisfied the queen, and Madame Thibault returned to her bed.

By this time the grand court was full of the rabble which began to arrive from all sides, and poured through the gates armed with cutlasses, pistols, guns, and pikes, vowing vengeance against the body-guard and the queen.

Major d'Aguesseau at once sent guards into the passage opening out of the court of the Princes into the Cour Royale. But, too few to withstand such a mass of people, they were driven back, and a horde of ruffians precipitated themselves into the Cour Royale, uttering horrible threats and cries of rage. One detachment rushed towards the vestibule leading to the apartments of the queen and the princesses; another flung itself upon the sentinel at the gate of the court, disarmed him, threw him down, and stabbed him with their pikes and sabres. The fellow in the costume of a Greek slave—his name was Jourdain, and he was an artist's model—rushed upon the guard, armed with a hatchet, and, jumping on his breast, chopped at his neck till the head came off and rolled among the feet of the by-standers.

Whilst this horrible scene was being transacted in the court, the band of ruffians who had run to the vestibule, found the door shut in their faces by the sentinels. They then directed their attack upon the marble staircase, which was defended by Corporal Deschwanden and another Swiss. Foremost among them was a militiaman of the guard of Versailles, a diminutive locksmith, bald-headed, with small sunken eyes, and his hands chapped and begrimed. The rioters assailed the Swiss, and by dint of numbers forced them up several steps. The corporal was disarmed and maltreated. The little locksmith, seeing him deprived of his gun and sword, sprang vindictively at him and struck him in the breast with a long knife he held in his hand; then leaving him, hanging over the balustrade bleeding and faint, he ran up the steps screaming and flourishing his knife, and the crowd poured after him to the landing, where several guards were prepared to defend the door into the hall of the king. One of the guards, Miomandre, descended a few steps, and asked the rabble, 'What, my friends! do you love the king, and seek to disturb him in his palace?'

Without answering him, the locksmith seized him by the belt, others caught him by the hair, and they would have flung him down the stairs to the ruffians below, had not his companions rescued him. Too few in number to oppose the crowd, the guard retired into the hall and shut and locked the door. Then the rioters endeavoured to break it open, and succeeded in staving in one of the panels. The soldiers blocked the hole with a wooden chest and kept them out.

Others attacked the door of the hall of the queen's guard, and, bursting it open, precipitated themselves into the room, and catching one of the guard who was unable to escape, cut him down with their swords, and Jourdain, leaping upon him, as he had on the other guard, hacked off his head, tossed it into the air, and caught it again with a shout of laughter. Another guardsman was dragged down by his belt, and drawn along the polished oak floor, through the blood of his comrade, to the head of the grand staircase, where Jourdain clamoured to get at him with his axe. A man struck at him with his pike, but the soldier caught the weapon, and drawing it towards him, by means of it regained his feet; then, with the energy of despair, he disarmed his adversary, and defended himself with the pike against the blows that were rained upon him, till he reached the door of the king's hall, which his comrades opened to receive him; and he was drawn in by one of the guard, whilst another fired in the face of the crowd and shot one man.

Another guardsman, Miomandre, was struck down with the handle of a pike, and one of the assailants, a man in the uniform of a soldier, wrenched from him his gun, and with the butt end struck him a blow which cut his head open and stunned him. Thinking him dead, the ruffian robbed him of his watch, and then deserted him. On his recovery, finding none of the mob near him, he crawled to the door and obtained admission.

The rioters were at that moment engaged in forcing an entrance into the ante-chamber of the queen's apartments. The sister of the queen's chambermaid, Madame Angué, hearing a rapping at the door, half opened it, and seeing four guardsmen covered with blood, shut and locked it again. They continued to rap, and she admitted them. They stationed themselves before the door of the queen's bedroom, and bade Madame Thibault and Madame Angué take their mistress to the king's apartment.

The rest of the guard, driven from the king's hall, betook themselves to the Œil-de-Bœuf, a gallery opening into the private apartments of the king, lighted by an oval window at one end, and having an oval mirror at the other. In this they took up their position, determined that the mob should only enter the cabinet of their sovereign over their bodies.

But by this time the news of the invasion of the palace had reached Lafayette, who sprang from his bed, and, without waiting for his horse, ran into the Place d'Armes to collect his militia. The first to arrive was the detachment of the Parisian militia, who had slept in the church of the Recollects. It came up under the conduct of its commandant, Doctor Gondran, and ranged itself in the marble court, under the windows of the king's apartments. At that moment, the fellow who had been shot by the guards was brought down and placed in a slanting position on the stairs, so that all might see the corpse. Next moment, one of the body-guard was dragged by his collar down the steps, and the mob were about to butcher him with their knives and swords beside the body of the labourer whose head had been split by a bullet, when Dr. Gondran appealed to his soldiers: 'Will you suffer an assassination to take place under your eyes?'

They replied at once that they would not permit it, and, running to the foot of the marble stairs, they rescued the guardsman from the hands of the populace.

The doctor then advanced his troop up the staircase, which was encumbered with ruffians carrying off chairs, mirrors, pictures, and any object worth securing that they had found in the rooms they had forced open. He made them lay down their spoil, and traversing the rooms, he knocked at the door of the Œil-de-Bœuf.

As the guard within did not obey, he exclaimed, 'Come, open to us, body-guard; we have not forgotten that you saved us French guards at Fontenoy.'

The door was thrown open. The king and his brave defenders were saved.

Nicholas had slept soundly on a mat before the fire, and Lindet had made himself a bed on a settle.

In the morning the two men rose refreshed, and the widow Maupied came in to make up the fire, and prepare breakfast.

Gabrielle appeared shortly after, quite recovered from her fright and exhaustion, her cheeks brilliant with colour, and her dress cleansed from the stains of the dirty road.

'So the whole family are here,' said Lindet, good-humouredly, to Nicholas; 'your father, mother, sister, and—Gabrielle.'

'Yes,' answered Nicholas; 'we have got a story in Switzerland of a young man who carried a goose with golden feathers through a town, and a woman ran behind to pluck one of the plumes; but, lo! her fingers stuck to the goose, and she could not detach them; then her mother, indignant at seeing her daughter run through the streets after a young man, rushed up to her, and caught her by the arms to arrest her; but, lo! the mother stuck fast. Then the husband, who was parish clerk, amazed at such an exhibition, ran after his wife and was fast directly. He was followed by the priest; and so they ran, a train of persons after the golden goose, unable to disengage themselves. I think Madeleine started the wild-goose chase in this instance, and my mother ran after her, dragging Gabrielle along with her, and——' he suddenly paused and reddened.

'And you ran after Gabrielle and caught her,' said the curé, laughing.

'You see, monsieur,' said Nicholas, still very red, 'it would not have done for me to have let those three women go into danger without me. What might have happened? Madeleine was nearly hung, and Gabrielle well-nigh strangled, and I dare say my mother was all but trampled upon by the crowd. It was a foolish thing for them to come—it was not Gabrielle's fault; but, as they came, I could not in conscience leave them unprotected. Madame Deschwanden generally knows how to take care of herself, and so, for the matter of that, does Madeleine; but what if they should be separated by the crowd from poor little Gabrielle? The thought frightened me. And very lucky—no! providential, I will say—was it that I did follow. When I saw her—' he nodded to the girl—'in the hands of those frenzied mad women, I vowed a mass to the honour of Bruder Klaus if he would obtain her release, and extend to her his protection.'

'Bruder Klaus,' repeated Lindet, with a puzzled look; 'who was he? or what was he?'

'Bruder Klaus was a hermit, a patriot, and a saint,' began Nicholas, delighted to find a hearer to whom he could recount the history of his patron. 'The holy brother lived a miraculous life without food——'

'Bruder Klaus must wait a moment,' interrupted Lindet; 'here is some one coming for you.'

In fact, Madeleine rushed in, her eyes full of tears, out of breath; she could only articulate, 'Nicholas! quick, your father is dying;' and then, leaning her head on the back of a chair, gasp for air and sob. When she had recovered sufficiently she added, 'The corporal wants to see a priest. M. le Curé, will you follow me?'

'I am ready,' answered Lindet, catching up his hat.

'Come, Gabrielle, come too,' said Madeleine; 'he asked after you.'

'Where is he?' asked Nicholas, his breast heaving convulsedly.

'He is in the gardens,—the park,' answered the girl. 'I found him—he had dragged himself out upon the terrace, and he made me take him out of the way of the crowd to the side of one of the sheets of water, and lay him on the grass.'

She could speak no more, for her tears burst forth anew. 'Dear old corporal!' she said between her sobs, 'he never knew how I reverenced and loved him. I would have followed him over the world.'

She drew Gabrielle after her, the priest followed. Nicholas ran forward in the direction indicated by the girl,—to the large pond or lake called the Pièce aux Suisses, and when Madeleine came up she found Nicholas supporting his head.

'My boy,' said the old corporal, faintly, lying with his head propped against his son's shoulder, 'whilst I have been alone I have had such a beautiful vision. Look yonder!' He pointed to a mass of cloud lit with the brilliant beams of the morning sun, standing crisply against a blue sky. 'It is changed,' continued the Swiss soldier, 'but you may see what has been. There was the Jungfrau, as truly as I have seen it from Interlaken. A little to the right, where you can still distinguish an elevation in the cloud, was the dazzling Silber-horn, with its glacier flashing in the sun. There was the Mönch, and there the precipice of the Eiger. Is it not beautiful still? but the outline is not what it was. God be praised that I have been shown my dear Alps once more. God be praised!'

He folded his hands, and his eyes still watched the cloud mountains gradually changing their forms in the roseate morning light.

'Shall I fetch you a doctor, father?' asked Nicholas, bending over him.

'It is of no use, my boy,' answered the old man; 'I have received my death-wound. I bear no resentment against him who dealt it. God willed that I should obtain my discharge from service this way, with a stroke of the knife instead of with that of a pen. Klaus! have you your flageolet with you?'

'Yes, father,' sobbed the boy.

'Then play me "Herz, mein Herz."'

The young man obeyed, but sadly and imperfectly, for his fingers refused to move correctly. However, the corporal sang to himself, disregardful of the false notes:

'Heart, my heart, why art thou weary,
Why to grief and tears a prey?
Foreign lands are bright and cheery;
Heart, my heart, what ails thee, say?'

And then he went abruptly to the verse—

'I should climb the rugged gorges
To the azure Alpine lake,
Where the snowy peak discharges
Torrents, that the silence break.

'I should see the old brown houses;
At the doors in every place,
Neighbours sitting, children playing,
Greetings in each honest face.'

'Here is the priest, father,' said Nicholas, interrupting the tune, and laying aside his flageolet.

The corporal instinctively put his hand to his brow, as a salute.

Gabrielle burst into tears and threw herself at his side, and put her arms around him. The old man patted her affectionately on the head and kissed her brow; then, raising his eyes to Madeleine, he asked her to take the place of Nicholas, who supported him. The girl readily obeyed, and pressed her stepfather's head to her bosom, whilst she endeavoured to stanch the blood that flowed from his wound with a handkerchief.

'Come here, Nicholas,' said the corporal; 'here, Gabrielle, dear child, look up. I want you to grant me a very great favour, little friend.'

Gabrielle looked earnestly in the weatherbeaten face of the dying man, endeavouring to read his meaning. He smiled at her, and took her hand in his.

'I have often longed, of late, to see the day when my Klaus should lead you to the altar; and I have loved to think how good a little wife you would be to him, and how dear a daughter you would prove to me. Gabrielle, will you allow me the satisfaction of joining your hands before I die?'

She did not answer, but trembled violently, and the tears rolled down her cheeks. The old man, without waiting for a formal reply, took the right hand of Nicholas, and placing it in that of Gabrielle, held them together, saying to the priest, with a grave smile,—'I call you to witness, Father, that I have betrothed these children. May God bless them both! And now leave me alone with the curé for a few moments.'

The young people withdrew, and sat down at the water's edge sorrowfully and silently.

When the priest made them a sign to approach, they returned to take the last kiss. The sun was shining down on the old man and glorifying his face; he held the crucifix between his hands clasped to his breast, and his eyes looked across the water, beyond the wooded hill that formed the horizon to the golden clouds floating in the blue sky, and his lips murmured:

'Heart, my heart, in weary sadness
Breaking far from Fatherland,
Restless, yearning, void of gladness,
Till once more at home I stand.'

Madeleine gently closed his eyes, as his spirit fled.

A few hours later, the king and queen bade farewell to Versailles, which they were destined never to see again, and were escorted by the crowd and by the national guard to Paris, destined to be their prison and their grave.

CHAPTER XL.

In June, 1790, the constitution of the Church of France was re-cast. Its revenues had been seized to pay the debts incurred by Louis XIV and his successors. The cahiers of the third order had asked with unanimity for this. Thus the endowments of the Church saved the country from bankruptcy. But though the third estate had expressed their desires for the confiscation of ecclesiastical property, they had protested their profound attachment for the religion in which they had been brought up. Consequently, the National Assembly undertook the maintenance of the Clergy by the State on certain conditions perfectly just and reasonable.

That those who had fattened on the 'patrimony of the poor' under the old system should revolt against a constitution which cut down their revenues, destroyed their privileges, and restrained their arbitrary exertion of authority, is not surprising.

Monseigneur de Narbonne, whose revenues and benefices had exceeded 80,000 francs, found himself suddenly reduced to live on 30,000 francs, and the bills for the re-furnishing of the palace for the reception of the prince were not yet paid.

The 16th of January, 1791, had been fixed by the municipality of Évreux for receiving the constitutional adhesion of the clergy. The bishop had addressed an epistle to the curés of his diocese, in which he resumed all the arguments directed against the civil constitution, and quoted the saying of Esprémesnil: 'It is a constitution unheard-of in the Church, which annihilates all jurisdiction, all ecclesiastical authority, and the Assembly, whence it emanates, can only be compared to the sovereign council of the Jews which crucified Jesus Christ.' He concluded by declaring that, for his part, he would never submit to it, and he bade all his clergy reject it as impious.

Monseigneur de la Ferronnais, Bishop of Lisieux, protested against the execution of the decree, till the opinion of Rome had been taken. He summoned an assembly to concert plans of resistance, and presided over it himself. It was, however, but thinly attended.

These examples and exhortations only touched the minority.

At Évreux, only one incumbent and three young curates refused the oath. The other seven incumbents and all the ecclesiastics exercising public functions, each in his parish, after the high mass, descended to the choir gates, and in a distinct voice pronounced their adhesion, in the presence of the people and the municipal authorities.

At Bernay, all the clergy, even those who, through not exercising ministries salaried by the State, were not required to give in their adhesion, took the oath, and a sermon was preached on the occasion by Lebertre, curé of La Couture. Some days after, the Abbé Deshayes preached to a crowded congregation in favour of the constitution, taking for his text the words of the Gospel, 'Peace be unto you;' and the municipality were so pleased with the discourse that they ordered it to be inscribed in the parish register.

At Andelys, the four perpetual curates took the oath. At Brionne, M. Bordeaux the priest, who had followed the same course, in a sermon defended the new constitution as being, if not faultless, at least an honest attempt to rectify old abuses. At Breteuil, on the contrary, M. Parizot de Durand refused his adhesion, and his two curates followed his example; but two other priests in the same place signed the protestation.

Monseigneur de Narbonne persisting angrily in his refusal, the episcopal seat of the department of Eure became vacant. The election of a fresh bishop was therefore necessary, and, for this purpose, a convocation of the electors was made.

The election was not direct, but in two degrees. The grand electoral college was composed of about six hundred members. Their number, the variety of their social situations, were conditions proper for assuring an independent and intelligent vote. The principle admitted, the election of a bishop,—who, it was required, had served in the diocese for fifteen years,—could be confided with some security to such a reunion of men. It was, however, vitiated by the fact that those most immediately under the authority of the bishop, viz. the clergy, had but a fractional influence in the election. This must be borne in mind when we read of the resignation and apostasy of some of the constitutional bishops during the reign of Terror.

Those who had most power in the electoral college were the men of advanced philosophic opinions, whereas those with deep religious sentiment were nowhere. Consequently, in some instances, those were elected bishops whose attachment to the fundamental doctrines of Christianity had been sapped by the dissolvent philosophy of the 18th century.

The electoral Assembly was convoked for Sunday, Feb. 13. High mass was celebrated in the cathedral by M. de Corval, curé of Petit-Andely, assisted by M. Rever, curé of Couteville. The service concluded, the procureur-général of the department opened the session, and said to the electors:—'We dispense with recalling to you your duties and obligations. We count on your patriotic zeal, and we are assured that in your selection you will be determined by your judgment as to whom is most worthy of confidence and of the esteem of the public.'

The votes were taken, and Thomas Lindet was proclaimed the bishop elect; 238 suffrages were given to him, and 180 to M. Rever.

A courier was immediately despatched to Paris to announce the result to Lindet, who at once posted to Évreux, and arrived there before the Assembly dispersed.

'Sir,' said the mayor to him, 'if the department of Eure had known an ecclesiastic more virtuous than you, it would have preferred him to you.'

On the 15th of February, the roar of cannons, the ringing of the cathedral and the parish-church bells, announced to the people that they had a new bishop,—a representative of the new law, of liberty, justice, and equality. The arrival at the highest ecclesiastical function of a congruist curé who had not been preceptor or confessor to princes, a man without noble birth or fortune to recommend him, was a spectacle proper to excite the enthusiasm of the nascent democracy.

The bishop elect was, however, as yet without canonical confirmation and episcopal consecration.

His institution ought to have been asked of the Archbishop of Rouen, his metropolitan, but the Cardinal de la Rochefoucauld was out of his see, having refused the oath, and was not yet replaced.

This situation could not be prolonged. The presence of the constitutional bishop in Évreux became daily more necessary. The directory of the department of Eure addressed to Lindet an invitation to come and take possession of his diocese as soon as possible, and requested him to demand institution at the hands of any bishops of his choice.

Thomas Lindet hastened to obey. He was consecrated on the 6th of March, 1791, in the chapel of the Oratoire, at Paris, along with the Bishops of Beauvais, Châteauroux, and Moulins, by Gobel, Bishop of Lydda, and the Bishops of Quimper and Dax, who had subscribed to the constitution. A few days after he joined in consecrating the Bishop of the Seine-Inférieure, in the cathedral of Rouen, and was himself afterwards confirmed by the new metropolitan.

On Sunday, March 27, Thomas Lindet was solemnly installed in the beautiful cathedral of Évreux, before a vast congregation. After vespers a Te Deum was sung as an act of thanksgiving for the convalescence of the king, and the same day he despatched a circular round the diocese, to announce his intention of making a pastoral visitation.

He left the cathedral, when the service was concluded, by the private door into the palace gardens. It was the same door through which he had passed the night that he had been locked in the minster.

But his mind did not revert to the past: it was occupied with the future. He had taken his place at the helm of the vessel, and he foresaw breakers ahead, and felt that the gale was rising from every point of the compass. He was not sanguine. On the contrary, he was dispirited; his elevation to the episcopal throne did not jump with his wishes, for Lindet was not personally ambitious.

He was resolved to do his best, to work the diocese thoroughly, and to set an example of simplicity of life and devotion to the causes nearest his heart—Liberty and Catholicism. But, at the same time, he owned to himself, that if he found resistance among the clergy and laity, his heart might fail him. He was impetuous, but he had not the gift of patient endurance. That he would find some opposition to his claims was certain, but it could be overcome by conciliatory conduct and by diligent discharge of his duties, unless—and there rose before him a prospect which made him quake—unless the pope should pronounce against the Constitutional Church.

As this prospect arose to dismay him, he encountered the ex-bishop, De Narbonne-Lara. Both were in episcopal purple, with pectoral cross and cape; Lindet wore as well a lace surplice.

'I have expected to meet you,' said the ex-bishop. 'Indeed, I have waited here on purpose.'

'Monseigneur,' said Lindet, 'I am glad of the opportunity of speaking to you, that I may give expression to my regret that you should have felt yourself unable to take the constitutional oath, and thus have forced me into incurring responsibilities which I tremble to feel upon my shoulders.'

'This is nonsense,' said De Narbonne; 'you have courted it. You curés have been driving matters on to this point for the purpose of stepping on our necks into our thrones.'

'I beg your pardon,' answered Lindet; 'you are altogether mistaken; we had no ambition except for the Church, for ourselves individually none,—none whatever. For myself, I may assure you, my Lord, I had neither the wish nor the expectation of being a bishop, least of all of taking your place.'

'You a bishop!' exclaimed De Narbonne, his red face flaming with passion. 'Do you call yourself a bishop? Pshaw! who will accept you as their prelate?'

Lindet, determined not to resent the insolence of the ex-bishop, replied with moderation: 'You cannot be unaware, Monseigneur, that the vast majority of the clergy in this diocese have signed the Constitution.'

'Wait a bit,' said De Narbonne, threateningly; 'when his holiness speaks, they will be of another mind.'

'Are you sure that the holy father will refuse to recognise the Constitutional Church? Why should he? We hold the Catholic faith; we have the same orders, sacraments, and ritual. There is absolutely no divergence on any religious point between the Church of the old régime and the Church now. The only point on which a difference has arisen has been a political question,—a political one only.'

'Be the point what it may, he will anathematise you.'

'Then,' answered Lindet, 'alas for religion! At present, the Church has advanced, haltingly, I admit; for that, the like of you are responsible; but it has advanced with the tide that is setting in, and, what is more, it can control and direct that tide, and no other power but the Church can, at the present time, do that. Everything is in flux except the faith, and that will be the rallying-point. We shall, may be, have a republic, but it will be a Christian republic. If the holy father were to throw the apple of discord among us now, if he were to break into two factions the Church of France, by forbidding the faithful to accept our ministrations, then he will unchain the hell-dogs, and roll France in blood. My Lord! it is your own doing that this see has become vacant; it is through no influence exerted by me, that I have been elected your successor. The times are threatening. I shall have to bear on my shoulders the burden of this diocese in a period of extraordinary excitement. I pray you give me your episcopal blessing for the work. If ever you see your way towards accepting the Constitution, I will vacate the see at once. I pray your fatherly blessing.' He bent on one knee.

'No,' said De Narbonne, sulkily; 'my blessing you shall never have. My advice I give you, as you once gave me yours. I warn you that shortly all you constitutional bishops will be anathematised by Rome, all the priests will be ordered, on pain of excommunication, to abstain from acknowledging you, and the faithful will be forbidden to accept the ministrations of bishops and priests who have taken this accursed oath, at the risk of damning their souls eternally.'

'My God!' exclaimed Lindet.

'Yes, such will be the action of the holy see.'

'Then,' said Lindet, vehemently, 'if that be the conduct of the successor of S. Peter, it is high time that his supremacy should be modified into a primacy; lest at some future occasion, relying on powers he has assumed, he use them to wreck the Church. We have just upset the principle of absolute monarchy in the field of politics, we must overthrow the same principle in the domain of religion.'

He turned from the ex-bishop, and entering the palace, shut himself into the library and wrote a letter to the pope, imploring him to use caution, and not, on a point of trifling consequence—the disendowment of the Church—to wreck Christianity in the whirlpool of the Revolution.

It need hardly be said that his letter remained unanswered, and that the prognostications of the ex-bishop were verified.

CHAPTER XLI.

In 1816, just twenty-seven years after Corporal Deschwanden's death, as related in the last chapter but one, on a still summer evening, a little party sat in the veranda of a brown timber-built house at Kreutzmatt above Lucerne. The veranda was simply one of three open galleries overgrown with vine-branches, common to Swiss houses in the Four Cantons. Against this gallery, over the door, leading into the house from the garden, was a painting, of no high type of art, representing a tall man with dark hair, and a face of deadly pallor, the eyes sunk and red with weeping; habited in a snuff-coloured garb, with loose sleeves and no collar, holding in one hand a staff. Under this painting was written in German characters, 'Heiliger Bruder Klaus, bitte für uns.' Looking from the veranda, the eye swept across the goodly city of Lucerne, its quaint watchtowers capped with red tiles, and the twin taper spires of S. Leger; across the still blue lake, unruffled, like a gigantic mirror, to Pilatus, its serrated crest flushed with red evening light, crisply cutting the evening sky. To the right was the rolling green country stretching towards the setting sun; but to the left, above the water, towered the glistening peaks of the Engelberg Alps, their glaciers blazing in the last fires of day.

In the gallery are five persons: one an aged woman with white hair, and a grey countenance. Her face is expressive only of childish good-humour. It is Madame Berthier; she sits in this gallery every fine day, and looks at the lake and the mountains and laughs. She has lost her memory almost completely, every trace of her old bitterness is gone. On her lap is a little girl of three years old, dark-haired, black-eyed, the image of Gabrielle; and madame fondles her, plays with her, calls her Mädel, which is the short, we suppose, for Madeleine, and kisses her oftener than the child altogether likes.

Gabrielle is there, a middle-aged woman, with a plain gold ring on the third finger of the left hand, spinning diligently. She is dressed like a Swiss peasantess, with white sleeves and a black bodice, her hair elaborately plaited behind and fastened with a silver spoon.

Leaning against the balcony is Nicholas, grown rather stout, playing a flageolet to a little boy in a brown suit of very stiff cloth, jacket, waistcoat, breeches, all one colour, and all old-mannish, wearing a brown knitted cap on his head;—a little boy with very large dreamy blue eyes and a shock of light flaxen hair, his head thrust through a large rosary, like a necklace, holding his hands behind his back, and singing lustily with a clear sweet voice—

'Heart, my heart, why art thou weary,
Why to grief and tears a prey?
Foreign lands are bright and cheery;
Heart, my heart, what ails thee, say?'

Coming along the path from Lucerne, with his long black shadow going before him, is an old man, very thin, wearing a long grey coat, with snow-white hair.

He comes to the gate of the garden, halts there, looks up inquiringly at the gallery, sees the painting of Bruder Klaus, nods his head, as if acknowledging that this accords with directions that have been given him, opens the wicket and enters the garden.

Nicholas at once, turning to his wife, says, 'Gabrielle, here comes a stranger. Who can he be?'

Directly they hear the tap of the old man at their door, and both Nicholas and his wife run down stairs to answer it. The door is at once opened, and their eyes rest on the thin stranger. His face is wrinkled and worn, the cheeks sunk, the complexion pale, the eyes bright, restless, and intelligent. He raises his right hand, and Madame Nicholas at once observes its delicacy and the beauty of the fingers.

The stranger does not speak, but looks attentively at Gabrielle, whilst a sad smile flickers about his thin lips. She raises her eyes to his, and all at once recognition flashes into them, her countenance lights up, and she falls into his arms with the cry of—'It is M. Lindet!'

When the first greetings were over, Gabrielle's question was: 'How is everything now at Bernay, at dear old Bernay, which I shall never see again?'

'Do you want to see it?'

'I do not know; perhaps it would be too painful, and I am so happy here.'

'I have come,' said Lindet, 'to ask you, Gabrielle, to shelter me for a while under your roof, in my time of need, as once I sheltered you. I am exiled from France, now that the royal family has been restored.'

'Shelter you!' exclaimed Gabrielle; 'of course I will, with joy and love, and Nicholas will never weary of serving you to the best of his abilities; I have told him what you did for me, and he has learned to love your name.'

THE END.