The Hero of the People: A Historical Romance of Love, Liberty and Loyalty

CHAPTER XX
WITHOUT HUSBAND – WITHOUT LOVER

THE Queen was wrong for Charny did not go to his wife’s house. He went to the Royal Post to have horses put to his own carriage. But while waiting, he wrote a farewell to Andrea which the servant who took his horses home, carried to her.

She was still dwelling over it, having kissed it with profound feeling, when Weber arrived. Her answer to him was simply that she would conform to her Majesty’s orders. And she proceeded to the palace without dread as without impatience.

But it was not so with the Queen. Feverish, she had welcomed Count Provence coming to see how Favras had been received, and she committed the King more deeply than he had pledged himself.

Provence went away delighted, thinking that the King would be removed, thanks to the money he had borrowed from the Genoese banker Zannone, and to Favras and his Hectors. Then he stood a chance of becoming Regent of the realm, perhaps foreseeing that he would yet be King as Louis XVIII.

If the forced departure of the King failed, he would take to flight with what was left of the loan, and join his brothers in Italy.

On his leaving, the Queen went to Princess Lamballe, on whom she made it a habit to pour her woes or her joys in the absence of her other favorites, Andrea or the Polignacs.

Poor martyr! who dares grope in the darkness of alcoves to learn if this friendship were pure or criminal, when inexorable History was coming with feet red-shod in blood, to tell the price you paid for it?

Then she went to dinner for an hour, where both chief guests were absent in thought, the King thinking of Charny’s quest, the Queen of the Favras enterprise.

While the former preferred anything to being helped by the foreigners, the Queen set them first: for of course they were her people. The King was connected with the Germans, but then the Austrians are not German to the Germans.

In the flight she was arranging she saw no such crimes as she was afterwards taxed with: she felt justified in calling in the mailed hand to avenge her for the slights and insults with which she was deluged.

The King, as we have shown him, distrusted kings and princes. He relied on the priests. He approved of all the decrees against nobles and classes but not of the decree against the priests, which he vetoed. For them he risked his greatest dangers. Hence the Pope, unable to make a saint of him, made him a martyr.

Contrary to her habit, the Queen gave little time to her children this day; untrue to her husband in heart, she had no claim on their endearments. Such odd contradictions are known only to woman’s heart.

The Queen retired early to her own rooms, where she shut herself up with Weber as door-ward. She alleged that she had letters to write.

The King little noticed her going, as some minor events engrossed him; the Chief of Police was coming to confer with him.

The Assembly had changed the old form in public documents of “King of France and Navarre” to “King of the French”: and it was debating on the Rights of Man, when it had better be seeing to the Bread Question, more pressing than ever. The arrival of the “Baker” and his family from Versailles had not fed the famished people and the bakeries had strings of customers at their doors.

But the Assemblymen did not have to dance attendance for a loaf, and they had a special baker, one François in Marchepalu Street, who set aside rolls for them out of every baking.

The head of the police was discussing the bread riots with the ruler when Weber ushered Andrea into his mistress’s presence.

Though she expected her, Marie Antoinette started when her visitor was announced.

When they were girls together, at Taverney, they had made a kind of agreement of love and duties exchanged in which the higher personage had always had the advantage.

Nothing annoys rulers so much as senses of obligation, particularly in matters of affection.

While thinking she had reproaches to cast on her friend, the Queen felt under a debt to her.

Andrea was always the same: pure and cool as the diamond but cutting and invulnerable like it, too.

“Be welcome, Andrea, as ever,” said the Queen to this cold, walking ghost.

The countess shivered for she recognized some of the tone the Queen used to speak with when the Dauphiness.

“Needs must I tell your Majesty that she should not have had to send for me without the royal residence, if I had always been spoken to, in that tone?” said the countess.

Nothing could better help the Queen than this opening: she greeted it as facilitating her course.

“Alas, you ought to know that all womankind have not your immutable serenity,” she said; “I, above all, who had to ask your aid so generously accorded – “

“The Queen speaks of a time forgotten by me and I believed gone from her memory.”

“The reply is stern,” said the other: “you might naturally hold me as ungrateful: but what you took for ingratitude was but impotence.”

“I should have the right to accuse you, if ever I had asked you for anything and my wish were opposed,” said the countess, “but how can your Majesty expect me to complain when I have sought nothing?”

“Shall I tell you that it is just this indifference which shocks me; yes, you seem a supernatural being brought from another sphere in some whirlwind, and thrown among us like the crystal aerolites. One is daunted by her weakness beside the never-weakening; but in the end assurance returns, for supreme indulgence must be in perfection: it is the purest source in which to lave the soul, and in profound grief, one sends for the superhuman being for consolation, though her blame is dreaded.”

“Alas, if your Majesty sends for me for this, I fear the expectation will be disappointed.”

“Andrea, you forget in what awful plight you upheld me and comforted me,” said the Queen.

Her hearer turned visibly paler. Seeing her totter and close her eyes from losing strength, the Queen moved to support her but she resisted and stood steady.

“If your Majesty had pity on your faithful servant, you would spare her memories which she had almost banished from her: she is a poor comforter who seeks comfort from nobody, not even heaven, from doubt that even heaven hath power to console certain sorrows.”

“Then you have others to tell of than what you have entrusted to me? the time has come for you to explain, and that is why I sent for you. You love Count Charny?”

“I do,” replied Andrea.

“Oh!” groaned the Queen like a wounded lioness. “I thought as much. How long since?”

“Since I first laid eyes on him.”

Marie Antoinette recoiled from this statue which confessed it was animated by a spirit.

“And yet you said nothing?”

“You perceived it, because you loved him.”

“No; but you mean that you loved him more than I, because you perceived my love. If I see it now, it is because he loves me no longer say?” and she clutched her arm.

Andrea replied not by word, or sign.

“This is enough to drive one mad,” cried the royal lady. “Why not kill me outright by telling me that he loves me not.”

“Count Charny’s love or indifference to other women than his wife are secrets of Count Charny. They are not for me to reveal,” observed Andrea.

“His secrets? I dare say he has made you his bosom friend, indeed,” sneered the Queen with bitterness.

“The count has never spoken to me of his love or indifference towards your Majesty.”

“Not even this morning?” She fixed a soul penetrative glance upon her.

“Not even this morning. He announced his departure to me by letter.”

“Ah, he wrote to you?” exclaimed the Queen in a burst which, like King Richard’s cry: “My kingdom for a horse!” implied that she would give her crown for that letter.

Andrea comprehended her absorbing desire but she wished to enjoy her anxiety for a space, like a woman. At last, drawing the letter from her corsage, warm and perfumed, she held it out to her royal mistress. The temptation was too strong, and the latter opened it and read:

“My Lady: I am leaving town on a formal order from the King. I cannot tell even you whither I go, wherefore, or how long I am to stay away: these are matters probably little in import to you, but I ought none the less to wish I were authorized to tell you.

“I had the intention to take farewell of you: but I dared not without your permission – “

The Queen had learnt what she wanted to know, and was about to return the writing, but Andrea bade her read to the end as if she had a claim to command.

“I refused the last mission offered me because, poor madman! I believed that affection retained me in Paris: but I have unfortunately acquired proof to the contrary, and I accept with joy this opportunity to depart from hearts to which I am indifferent.

“If, during this journey, that happens me which befel poor Valence, all my measures are taken for you, my lady, to be the first to know of the misfortune visiting me and the liberty restored to you. Then, only, will you learn what profound admiration was born in my heart from your sublime devotion, so poorly recompensed by her to whom you sacrificed youth, beauty and bliss.

“All I beseech of heaven and you is your according me a remembrance for having too late perceived the treasure he possessed.

“With all the respect in my heart,

“George Oliver de Charny.”

The reader returned the letter to Andrea, and let her hand fall inert by her side, with a sigh.

“Have I betrayed you,” murmured the countess: “have I failed in the faith you put me in, for I made no promises?”

“Forgive me, for I have suffered so much,” faltered Marie.

“You, suffered,” exclaimed the ex-lady of honor, “do you dare to talk to me of suffering? what has happened me, then? Oh, I shall not say that I suffered, for I would not use the word another did for painting the same idea. I need a new one to sum up all griefs, pangs and pains, – you suffer? but you have not seen the man you loved indifferent to that love, and paying court on his bended knees to another woman! you have not seen your brother, jealous of this other woman whom he adored in silence as a pagan does his goddess, fight with the man you loved! you have not heard this man, wounded it was thought mortally, call out in his delirium for this other woman, whose confidential friend you were: you have not seen this other prowling in the lobbies, where you were wandering to hear the revelations of fever which prove that if a mad passion does not outlive life it may follow one to the grave-brink! you have not seen this beloved one, returning to life by a miracle of nature and science, rising from his couch to fall at the rival’s feet. – I say, rival, and one, from the standard of love being the measure of greatness of ranks. In your despair you have not gone into the nunnery at the age of twenty-five, trying to quiet at the cold crucifix your scorching love: then, one day when you hoped to have damped with tears if not extinguished the flame consuming you, you have not had this rival, once your friend, come to you in the name of the former friendship to ask you to be the wife of this very man whom you had worshipped for three years – for the sake of her salvation as a wife, her royal Majesty endangered – !

“She was to be a wife without a husband, a mere veil thrown between the crowd and another’s happiness, like the shroud between the corpse and the common eye: overruled by the compulsory duty, not by mercy, for jealous love knows no pity – you sacrificed me – you accepted my immense devotion. You did not have to hear the priest ask if you took for helpmate the man who was not to be your husband: you did not feel him pass the ring over your finger as the pledge of eternal love, while it was a vain and meaningless symbol; you did not see your husband quit you at the church door within an hour of the wedding, to be the gallant of your rival! oh, madam, these three years has been of torture!”

The Queen lifted her failing hand to seek the speaker’s but it was shunned.

“I promised nothing, but see what I have done,” said she. “But you promised two things – not to see Count Charny, the more sacred as I had not asked it; and, by writing, to treat me as a sister, also the more sacred as I never solicited it.

“Must I recall the terms of that pledge? I burnt the paper but I remember the words; and thus you wrote:

“'Andrea: You have saved me! my honor and my life are saved by you. In the name of that reputation which costs you so dear, I vow that you may call me sister; do it, and you will not see me blush. I place this writing in your hands as pledge of my gratitude and the dower I owe you. Your heart is the noblest of boons and it will value aright the present I offer.

‘Marie Antoinette.'”

“Forgive me, Andrea, I thought that he loved you.”

“Did you believe it the law of the affections that when one loves a woman less he loves another woman more?”

She had undergone so much that she became cruel in her turn.

“So you too perceive his love falling off?” questioned the Queen dolefully.

Without replying Andrea watched the despairing sovereign and something like a smile was defined on her lips.

“Oh heaven, what must I do to retain this fleeting love? my life that ebbs? Oh, if you know the way, Andrea, my friend and sister, tell me, I supplicate you!” She held out both hands from which the other receded one step.

“How am I to know, who have never loved?”

“Yes, but he may love you. Some day he will come to your arms for forgiveness and to make amends for the past, asking your pardon for all he has made you suffer: suffering is quickly forgotten, God be thanked! in loving arms, pardon is soon granted to the beloved who gave pain.”

“This misfortune coming – and it would be that for both of us, madam, do you forget the secret which I confided in you, how – before I became the wife of Count Charny – I was mother of a son?”

The Queen took breath.

“You mean you will do nothing to bring Charny back to you?” she asked.

“Nothing; no more in the future than in the past.”

“You will not tell him – will not let him suspect that you love him?”

“No, unless he comes to tell me that he loves me.”

“But, if he should – “

“Oh, madam,” interrupted Andrea.

“Yes, you are right, Andrea, my sister and friend; and I am unjust, exacting and cruel. But when all falls away from me, friends, power and fame, I may wish that at least this passion to which I have sacrificed friendship, power and reputation, should be left to me.”

“And, now,” went on the lady of honor, with the glacial coldness she had laid aside only for a moment, when she spoke of the torments she had undergone, “have you anything more to ask me – or fresh orders to transmit?”

“No, nothing, I thank you. I wished to restore you my friendship but you will not accept it. Farewell; at least take my gratitude with you.”

Andrea waved away this second feeling as she had the former, and making a cold and deep reverence, stole forth silently and slowly as a ghost.

“Oh, body of ice, heart of diamond and soul of fire, you are right not to wish either my friendship or my gratitude; for I feel – though the Lord forgive me! that I hate you as I never hated any one – for if he does not love you now, I foresee that he will love you some day.”

She called Weber to ask if Dr. Gilbert was coming next day.

“At ten in the morning.”

Pleading that she was ailing and wearied, she forbade her ladies to disturb her before ten, the only person she intended to see being Gilbert.

CHAPTER XXI
WHAT A CUT-OFF HEAD MAY COUNSEL

WHEN Gilbert appeared before the Queen, she uttered a scream, for his ruffles and part of his coat were torn and drops of blood stained his shirt.

“I ask pardon for presenting myself to your Majesty in this attire,” he said, “but your trusty servant who came to learn why I was late to the appointment, will tell you that he found me in the midst of a mob, trying to save a baker who was done to death for withholding bread. They cut the poor fellow to pieces: and to make matters worse, in parading his head on a pike it was shown to his wife who fell down and alas! has been prematurely confined.”

“Poor woman,” cried the Queen, “if she does not die I will see her to-morrow and, any way, her child shall be maintained out of my private purse.”

“Ah, madam,” exclaimed Gilbert, “why cannot all France see these tears in your eyes and hear these words from your lips!”

But almost instantly the monarch returned to master the woman. She said with a change of tone:

“And are these, sir, the fruits of your revolution? after slaying the great lords, the officials and the soldiery, the people are killing one another; is there no means of dealing out justice to these cutthroats?”

“We will try to do so; but it would be better to prevent the murders than wait and punish the murderers.”

“How? the King and I ask nothing more fervently.”

“All these woes come from the people having lost confidence in those set above them. Nothing of the kind would occur if they were ruled by men with the public confidence.”

“You allude to this Mirabeau and Lafayette?”

“I hoped that your Majesty had sent to tell me that the King was no longer hostile to the Cabinet I proposed.”

“In the first place, doctor,” replied the royal lady, “you fall into a grave error shared with many more, I admit: you think that I have influence over the King. You believe that he follows my inspirations? You mistake: if any body has a sway over him, it is Lady Elizabeth; the proof is that she yesterday sent one of my servitors, Count Charny, on an errand without my knowing whither he goes or what is its aim.”

“Still, if your Majesty will surmount her repugnance to Mirabeau, I can answer for bringing the King round to my views.”

“Is not such repugnance based on a motive, tell me?” counterqueried the lady.

“In politics, there should be neither sympathy nor antipathy; only the meetings of principles and combinations of gains, and I ought to say that gains are surer than principles.”

“Do you believe that this man who has publicly insulted me, would consent to join us?”

“He is entirely yours: when a Mirabeau turns from monarchy, it is like a horse that shies; reminded of his allegiance by whip or spur, he will resume his place in the right road.”

“But he is for the Duke of Orleans?”

“So far from him is he, that on hearing of the duke going over to England when Lafayette threatened him, he said: ‘They say I am in his pay! I would not have him for my lackey.'”

“That reconciles him some with me,” said the lady, trying to smile: “if I could believe he might be relied on – “

“Well?”

“Perhaps I should be nearer him than the King.”

“Madam, I saw him at Versailles when the mob stormed the palace: then he thought the Royal Family ought to flee but I have had a note from him this day.”

He took out a slip of rough paper.

“Excuse the writing – it is on paper found in a wine saloon and written on the counter.”

“Never mind that: it is in keeping with the present style of politics.”

Taking the paper, the Queen read:

“This bread riot changes the face of things. A great deal can be drawn from this cut-off head. The Assembly will be frightened and call for martial law. If there be a Mirabeau-Lafayette Cabinet, Mirabeau will answer for all?”

“It is not signed,” objected the Queen.

“He handed it to me himself. My advice is that he is perfectly right and that this alliance alone can save France.”

“Be it so, let the gentleman put the project on paper and I will lay it before the King, as well as support it.”

“Then I will go to the Assembly and see him. In two hours I shall return.”

The Queen waited in impatience, always fond of plotting and agitation as she was. His answer was that Mirabeau had become the spokesman of the court.

In fact, after a hot discussion, martial law was voted by the Assembly. The crime of treason was to be tried at the Chatelet Royal Court, which meant that royalty still held three fourths of the active power.

Gilbert did not go near the Queen until the cases were tried here which would test the alliance.

The triumph was great to have them tried under the Royal party’s thumb. The first trial was of three men who had killed the baker of the Assemblymen, François; two of whom were hanged on the mere accusation and public notoriety; the third was tried and sent to the gallows likewise.

Two other cases were on the docket.

Both the accused prisoners were on the court side, the contractor Augeard and Inspector General Pierre Victor Benzenval, of the Swiss Guards.

Augeard was suspected of supplying the funds for the Queen’s camerailla to pay the troops gathered in July to fight the Parisians: the contractor was not much known and the people bore him no grudge so that he was acquitted without protest.

It was not so with Benzenval, who was notorious. He had commanded the Swiss regiments during the riots and the week of the attack on the Bastile. It was remembered that he had charged the crowds, who wanted to pay him out.

But the most precious orders had been sent out by the King and the court; under no pretext must Benzenval be punished. It took at least this two-fold protection to save him. He had acknowledged himself guilty by taking to flight after the Bastile fell: caught half way to the frontier, he had been brought back to the capital.

Nevertheless he was acquitted.

Amid the hooting, angry crowd, leaving the court, was a man, dressed like a plain storekeeper who familiarly laid his hand on the shoulder of a gentleman dressed better than he, and said:

“Well, what does Dr. Gilbert think of these acquittals?”

The other started, but recognized the speaker by sight as well as by the voice, and replied:

“The Master! – you ought to be asked that, not me, for you know all, present, past and future!”

“Well, I should say: The third prisoner will catch it severely, even though he be innocent.”

“Why should the innocent, if coming next, be wrongfully punished?” inquired the doctor.

“For the simple reason that in this world the good pay for the bad,” returned the Chief of the Invisibles with the irony natural to him.

“Good-bye, Master,” said Gilbert, offering his hand; “for I have business.”

“With whom? Mirabeau, Lafayette or the Queen?”

Gilbert stopped and eyed Cagliostro uneasily.

“Let me tell you that you ofttimes frighten me,” he said.

“On the contrary, I want to encourage you,” said the magician. “Am I not your friend? You may be sure of that: I will afford you a proof if you will come with me home. I will give you such hidden particulars of this negociation which you believe secret, that you who fancy you are managing it, will confess ignorance of it.”

“Listen,” said Gilbert; “perhaps you are jesting with me by one of those marvellous funds of information familiar to you; but no matter! circumstances amid which we are treading are so grave that I would accept enlightenment though from Old Harry himself. I am following you therefore whithersoever you lead me.”

“Be easy, it will not be far and to a place not unknown to you; only let me hail this passing hack; the dress I came out in did not allow me to use my carriage and horses.”

They got into the hackneycoach which came on at a sign.

“Where am I to drive you, master?” inquired the Jehu, to Cagliostro as though, somehow, he saw that he was the leader of the pair, though the more plainly dressed.

“Where you know,” answered the Chief, making a masonic sign, “The Temple.”

The driver looked at the Grand Copt with amazement.

“Excuse me, Thou Supreme, I did not know you,” he said, replying with another sign.

“It is not thus with me,” replied Cagliostro, with a firm and lofty voice, “innumerable as are those whom the uninitiated eyes see not, I know all from the topmost to the lowest of those who bring the bricks and hew the stones.”

The coachman shut the door, got upon the box, and took the carriage at a gallop to St. Claude Street. The carriage was stopped and the door opened with a zeal which testified to the man’s respect.

Cagliostro motioned for Gilbert to alight first and as he descended, he said to the jarvey:

“Any news?”

“Yes, Master,” said the knight of the whip, “and I should have made my report this evening if I had not the luck to meet you.”

“Speak.”

“My news is not for outsiders.”

“Oh, the bystander is not an outsider,” returned Cagliostro, smiling.

But Gilbert moved off a little, though he could not help glancing and listening partially. He saw a smile on the hearers’s face as the man told his story. He caught the name of Favras and Count Provence, before the report was over, when the magician took out a goldpiece and offered it.

“The Master knows that it is forbidden to receive pay for giving information,” he objected.

“I am not paying for your report, it is plain, but for your bringing us,” said the conspirator.

“That I can accept. Thank you,” he said, taking the coin, “I need not work any more to-day.”

He drove away, leaving Gilbert amazed at what he had witnessed, and he crossed the threshold reeling like a tipsy man.

He knew this house from having traversed it years ago under impressive circumstances; little was changed in it, even to the same servant Fritz, only he had aged sixteen years.

Ushered into a sitting room, the count bade his guest take a seat.

“I am entirely yours, doctor,” said he.

The younger man forgot his present curiosity in the memories evoked by this room. Cagliostro looked at him like Mephistopheles regarding Faust in his brown studies.

“This room seems to set you thinking, doctor,” he said audibly.

“It does, of the obligations I am under to you.”

“Pooh, bubbles!”

“Really, you are a strange man,” said Gilbert, speaking as much to himself as to the other, “and if reason allowed me to put faith in what we learn from legends, I should be inclined to take you for a magician.”

“This am I for the world, Gilbert: but not for you. I have never tried to dazzle you with jugglery. You know I have always let you see the bottom of the well and if you have seen Truth come up not so scantily clothed as the painters represent her, it is because I am a Sicilian and cannot help decorating my lady-love.”

“It was here, count, that you gave me a large sum of money that I might be rich in offering my hand to Andrea de Taverney, with the same ease as I might give a penny to a beggar.”

“You forget the most extraordinary part of it: the beggar brought back the sum, except for a couple of coins which he spent for clothes.”

“He was honest but you were generous.”

“Who tells you that it was not more easy for him who handled millions to give a hundred thousand crowns than for him who was penniless to bring back so large a sum as that was to him? Besides, all depends on the man’s state of mind. I was under the blow of the loss of the only woman I ever loved – my darling wife was murdered, and I believe you might have had my life for the asking.”

“Do you feel grief, and experience it like other men,” inquired Gilbert, eyeing him with marked astonishment.

“You speak of memories this room gives you,” sighed the other. “Were I to tell you – your hair would whiten – but let it pass; leave those events in their grave. Let us speak of time present, and of that to-come if you like.”

“Count, you returned to realism just now; again you turn to pretence, for you speak of the future with the voice of a conjurer asserting the power to read indecipherable hieroglyphics.”

“You forget that having more means at my beck and call than other men, I see more clearly and farther than they. You shall see that the pretence is but a veil – solid are the facts beneath. Come, doctor, how is your Fusion Cabinet getting on? the Mirabeau-Lafayette Ministry?”

“It is in the skies; you are trying to learn the facts by pretending to know more than the rumors.”

“I see that you are doubt incarnate, or wish not to see what you do not doubt. After telling you of things you do know I must tell of those beyond your ken. Well, you have recommended Mirabeau to the King as the only man who can save the monarchy. He will fail – all will fail, for the monarchy is doomed. You know that I will not have it saved. You have achieved your end; the two rulers will welcome your advocate: and you flatter yourself that the royal conversion is due to your irrefutable logic and irresistible arguments.”

Gilbert could not help biting his lip on hearing this ironical tone.

“Have you invented a stethoscope by which you can read the heart of kings? pass the wonderful instrument on to me, count: only an enemy of mankind would want to keep it to himself alone.”

“I told you I keep nothing back from you, dear doctor. You shall have my telescope and may look as you please through the small end which diminishes or the other which magnifies. The Queen gave way for two reasons: first, she met a great sorrow the night before and she must have some mental distraction; next, she is a woman and having heard Mirabeau spoken of as a tiger, she wants to see him and try to tame him. She thinks: ‘It will be fine revenge to bring him to lick my feet: if some good follows for France and the crown, so much the better.’ But you understand, this idea is quite secondary.”

“You are building on hypothesis and I want facts.”

“I see you refuse my glass and I must come back to material things: such as can be seen with the naked eye, Mirabeau’s debts, for instance.”

“What a chance you have to exhibit your generosity, by paying his debts as you once did Cardinal Rohan’s.”

“Do not reproach me with that speculation, it was one of my greatest successes. The Queen’s Necklace was a pretty affair, I think, and ruined the Queen in the general eye. At the same price I would pay Mirabeau’s debts. But you know that he is not looking to me for that, but to the future Generalissimo, Lafayette, who will make him caper for a beggarly fifty thousand francs, which he will not get any more than the dog gets the cake for which he has danced.

“Poor Mirabeau, how all these fools and conceited dunces make your genius pay for the follies of your youth! Yet all this is providential and heaven is obliged to proceed by human methods. All these politicians and wirepullers blame him for some virtue which is not theirs, and yet, if he dies to-morrow, the masses will award him an apotheosis, and all these pigmies, over whom he stands head and shoulders, will follow as mourners and howl: ‘Woe to France which has lost her greatest orator – woe to royalty which has lost its supporter!'”