EULALIE LASALLE

A STORY OF THE REIGN OF TERROR

by: Francis A. Durivage (1814-1881)

The following story is reprinted from The Three Brides, Love in a Cottage, and Other Tales. Francis A. Durivage. Boston: Sanborn, 1856.

O, what was love made for if 'twas not for this,

The same amidst sorrow, and transport, and bliss?

--Moore.

The fanaticism of the French revolutionists had reached its height; the excitable population, intoxicated with power, and maddened by the vague dread of the retribution of despair, goaded on by profligate, ferocious, or insane leaders, was plunging into the most revolting and sanguinary excesses. The son of St. Louis had ascended to heaven, the beautiful and unfortunate Marie Antoinette had laid her head upon the block, the baby heir of the throne of the Capets was languishing in the hands of his keepers, and the Girondists, the true friends of republican liberty, were silenced by exile or the scaffold. In short, the Reign of Terror, the memorable sway of Robespierre, hung like a funeral pall upon the land which was fast becoming a vast cemetery. The provincial towns, faithful echoes of the central capital, were repeating the theme of horror with a thousand variations. Each considerable city had its guillotine, and where that instrument of punishment was wanting, the fusillade or the mitraille supplied its place.

At this crisis, Eugene Beauvallon, a young merchant of Toulouse, presented himself one morning in the drawing room of Mademoiselle Eulalie Lasalle, an orphan girl of great beauty and accomplishment, to whom he had long been betrothed, and whom he would ere this have married but for the political troubles of the period. Eulalie was a graceful creature, slenderly and symmetrically formed, with soft blue eyes, and an exceedingly gentle expression, which was indicative of her character. She seemed too fair and fragile to buffet with the storms of life, and ill fitted to endure its troubles, created to be the idol of a drawing room, the fairy queen of a boudoir.

Eugene was a handsome, manly fellow, of great energy and character. The revolution surprised him in the act of making a fortune; the whirlwind had stripped him of most of his property, but had yet left him liberty and life. He had contrived to avoid rendering himself obnoxious to the sansculottes without securing their confidence. The tri-colored cockade which he wore in his hat shielded him from the fatal epithet of aristocrat—a certain passport to the guillotine.

Beauvallon then seated himself beside Eulalie, who was struck with the radiant expression of his countenance, and begged to know the reason of his joyous excitement.

"I have good news to tell you," he said, gayly; "but we are not alone," he added, stopping short, as his eyes rested on the sinister face of an old woman, humbly attired, who was busily engaged in knitting, not far from the lovers.

"O, don't mind poor old Mannette," said Eulalie. "The poor old creature is past hearing thunder. It is a woman, Eugene, I rescued from absolute starvation, and she is so grateful, and seems so desirous of doing something to render herself useful, that I am mortified almost at her sense of the obligation."

"I hope she has not supplanted your pretty femme de chambre, Julie, of whom you threatened to be jealous. My admiration, I hope, has not cost the girl her place."

"O, dear, no! I couldn't part with Julie!" replied Eulalie, laughing gayly. "But come, you must not tantalize me—what has occurred to make you so gay, at a time when every true Frenchman wears a face of mourning?"

"The Marquis de Montmorenci is at liberty."

"At liberty? How happened it that the Revolutionary Tribunal acquitted him?"

"Acquitted him! Eulalie, does the tiger that has once tasted the blood of his prey permit him to escape? Is Robespierre more lenient than the beast of prey? No, Eulalie, he escaped by the aid of a true friend. He fled from Paris, reached Toulouse, and found shelter under my roof!"

The cheek of Eulalie turned ashy pale. "Under your roof!" she faltered. "Do you know the penalty of sheltering a fugitive from justice?"

"It is death upon the scaffold," answered the young merchant, calmly. "But better that a thousand times than the sin of ingratitude; the sin of turning a deaf ear to the claims of humanity."

"My own noble Eugene!" exclaimed the young girl, enthusiastically, pressing her lover's hand. "Every day increases my love, my respect for you, and my sense of my own unworthiness. But you will never have to blush for the inferiority of your wife."

"What do you mean, dearest?" inquired Eugene, with alarm.

"This is no time for marriage," said Eulalie, sadly. "Images of death and violence meet our eyes whichever way they turn. We were born, Eugene, in melancholy times, and our loves are misplaced. We shall meet hereafter; on this earth, I fear, our destinies will never be united."

"Prophetess of evil!" said Beauvallon, gayly. "Your rosy lips belie your gloomy augury. No, Eulalie, this dark cloud cannot forever overshadow the land—even now I think I can see glimpses of the blue sky. Le bon temps viendra,—the good time is coming,—and then, Eulalie, be sure that I will claim your promised hand."

The conversation of the lovers had been so animated and interesting that they did not notice the moment when old Mannette had glided like a spectre from the apartment.

Beauvallon lingered a while,—"parting is such sweet sorrow,"—and finally reluctantly tore himself from the presence of Eulalie, promising to see her again on the ensuing day, and let her know whatever had transpired in the interim.

As he approached the street in which his store and house were situated, he heard the confused murmur of a multitude, and soon perceived, on turning the corner, that a very large crowd was collected outside his door. There were men and women—many of the former armed with pikes and sabres—the latter, the refuse of the populace, who appeared like birds of evil omen at every scene of violence and tumult.

A hundred voices called out his name as he approached, and menacing gestures were addressed to him by the multitude.

"Citizens," said the merchant, "what is the meaning of all this?"

"You shall know, traitor," shrieked a palsied hag of eighty, whose lurid eyes had already gloated on every public execution that had taken place in Toulouse. "Here is Citizen Dumart of the revolutionary committee—ah, he is a true friend of the people—he is no aristocrat in disguise! Vive le Citoyen Dumart!"

"Long live Citizen Dumart! Down with the aristocrats!" shouted a hundred voices.

The Citizen Dumart was a sallow-faced man, dressed in rusty black, wearing an enormous tri-colored cockade in his three-cornered hat, with a sash of the same color girt around his waist. His bloodshot eyes expressed a mixture of cowardice with ferocity. He was flanked by a couple of pikemen as hideous as the Afrites of Eastern romance.

"Citizen Beauvallon," said he, in a voice whose tremor betrayed his native timidity, "I arrest you in the name of the revolutionary committee of Toulouse. Citizen Beauvallon, it is useless to resist the authority of the representatives of the people; if you have any concealed weapons about you, I advise you to surrender them. You see I stand here protected by the arms of the people."

"I have no weapons," replied Beauvallon. "I have no sinister designs. I know not why I am arrested. Acquaint me with the charge, and confront me with my accusers."

"Seize upon the prisoner!" cried Dumart to his satellites. And he breathed freer when he saw the merchant in the gripe of two muscular ruffians, whose iron hands compressed his wrists as if they were manacles.

"Away with him!" screamed the hag who had spoken before. "Away with him to the revolutionary committee! Down with the aristocrats!"

Followed by the imprecations of the crowd, Beauvallon was conducted to the town house, and in a very few moments was placed at the bar of the revolutionary committee—a body invested with the power of life and death. On his way thither he had found means to speak a word to an acquaintance in the crowd, and to beg him to inform Eulalie of what had happened.

So soon as he had heard the accusation read, and knew that he was charged with the crime of aiding the Marquis de Montmorenci, a fugitive from justice, he felt that his situation was indeed critical; but mingled with his astonishment and dread was a curiosity to learn whence his denunciation could have proceeded—who could have lodged the information against him. He was not long kept in suspense, for the witness brought on the stand to confront him was no other than Mannette, the supposed deaf servant of Eulalie Lasalle, who had overheard his confession of the morning, and hastened to denounce him. Though his sentence was not immediately pronounced, and the decision of his case was deferred till the next day, Beauvallon felt that his doom was sealed.

He was conveyed to a house in the vicinity of the town hall for confinement, as the prisons were all overstocked. His jailer was a man whom the merchant had formerly befriended, and whose heart was not inaccessible to emotions of pity, though he was above bribery, and evidently determined to execute his duty to the letter.

"I have a favor to ask of you, my friend," said the prisoner, slipping a golden louis into his hand.

"If it is one that I can grant without violating my duty," replied the jailer, returning the money to Beauvallon, "I will do so for the sake of old times, but not for gold."

Beauvallon explained that he wished to send a note to Mlle. Lasalle, requesting her to visit him in prison—an interview which would probably be their last, and the jailer undertook readily to see the missive delivered, and to permit the visit. The note having been despatched, Beauvallon sat down to wait for the arrival of his mistress.

The sad hours passed away,—but though he learned from the jailer that his errand had been performed, no Eulalie made her appearance.

"She forsakes me!" he muttered bitterly. "The wounded deer is abandoned by the herd, and an unfortunate man is shunned by his fellows. Well, the dream was pleasant while it lasted—the regret of awakening can scarce be tedious—a few hours, and all the incidents of this transitory life will be forgotten. But Eulalie—whom I loved better than my life itself—it is hard to die without one word from thee."

When on the following day Beauvallon was again taken before the revolutionary committee, he looked anxiously around the court room to see if he could discover the face of Eulalie among the spectators, many of whom were women. But he was disappointed. Her absence convinced him that she had abandoned him, and wholly absorbed by this reflection, he paid no attention to the formula of his trial. He was condemned to death, the sentence to be executed on the following day.

"Mr. President," said he, rising, "I thank you, and I have merely one favor to ask. Anticipate the time of punishment—let it be to-day instead of to-morrow—let me go hence to the scaffold."

"Your request is reasonable," replied the president, in a bland voice, "and if circumstances permitted, it would afford me the greatest pleasure to grant it. But the guillotine requires repair, and will not be in a condition to perform its functions until to-morrow, at which time, Citizen Beauvallon, at the hour of ten, A.M., you will have ceased to exist. Good night, and pleasant dreams!"

This sally was received with roars of applause, and the unhappy prisoner was reconducted to the place of confinement.

That night was a sleepless one. Beauvallon's arrest, his speedy trial and condemnation, the desertion of Eulalie, had followed each other with such stunning rapidity, that, until now, he had hardly time to reflect upon the dismal chain of circumstances—now they pressed upon his attention, and crowded his mind to overflowing. At midnight, as he lay tossing on his bed, upon which he had thrown himself without undressing, he thought he heard a confused noise in the apartment of the next house adjoining his. The noise increased. He placed his hand upon the wall, and felt it jar under successive shocks. Suddenly a current of air blew in upon him, and at the same time a faint ray of light streamed through an opening in the partition.

"Courage!" said a soft voice. "The opening enlarges. Now, Julie!"

Julie! Beauvallon was sure he heard the name, and yet uncertain whether or not he was dreaming.

"Julie!" he exclaimed, cautiously.

"Yes, monsieur—it is Julie—sure enough," answered a pleasant voice.

"Then you, at least, have not forgotten me."

"No one who has once known you can ever forget you. Courage! you will soon be free. Aid us if you can."

"Then you are not alone?"

"Have patience, and you will see."

His own exertions, added to those of his friends without, soon enabled the prisoner to force his way into the next house; but there disappointment awaited him. Two soldiers in the uniform of the gensdarmerie stood before him.

"On ne passe par ici,—you can't pass here,"—said one.

"What cruel mockery is this?" cried Beauvallon. "Is it not enough that I am condemned to death, but you must subject me to an atrocious pleasantry? This is refinement of cruelty."

"It seems that our disguise is perfect, Julie," said the soldier who had not yet spoken. "Eugene does not know his best friends."

In an instant the speaker was folded in the arms of Beauvallon. It was Eulalie herself, as bewitchingly beautiful in her uniform as in the habiliments of her sex. She hurriedly explained that the moment she heard of Eugene's arrest, she prepared to meet the worst contingency. She had already converted her money into cash. Learning the place of his imprisonment, she had hired, through the agency of another person, the adjoining house, which happened to be unoccupied. The task of making an aperture in the partition was an easy one—the difficulty of passing through the city was greater. The idea of military disguises then occurred. Julie and herself had already equipped themselves, and they were provided with a uniform for Beauvallon.

Secured by this costume, the three fugitives ventured forth. In the great square of the city, workmen were busily employed in repairing the hideous engine of death, and Beauvallon passed, not without a shudder, beneath the very shadow of the guillotine, to which he had been doomed.

Seated on the cold ground, beneath the fatal apparatus, was an old woman muttering to herself.

"Good evening, citizens," said she. "We shall have a fine day for the show to-morrow. Look how the bonny stars are winking and blinking on the gay knife blade they've been sharpening. It will be darker and redder when the clock strikes ten again. Down with the aristocrats!"

The fugitives needed no more to quicken their steps. They reached the frontiers in safety, and beyond the Rhine, in the hospitable land of Germany, the lovers were united; nor did they return to France till the star of Robespierre had set in blood, and the master mind of Napoleon had placed its impress on the destinies of France.