第108章 REVOLUTION IN THE THEATRE.(3)

And enemies of the queen had taken places for themselves in every part of the great house. They even sat in the boxes of the first rank, on those velvet-cushioned chairs which had formerly been occupied exclusively by the enthusiastic admirers of the court, the ladies and gentlemen of the aristocracy. But now the aristocracy did not dare to sit there. The most of them, friends of the queen, had fled, giving way before her enemies and persecutors; and in the boxes where they once sat, now were the chief members of the National Assembly, together with the leading orators of the clubs, and the societies of Jacobins.

To the box above, where the people had once been accustomed to see Princess Lamballe, the eyes of the public were directed again and again. Marie Antoinette had been compelled to send away this last of her friends to London, to have a conference with Pitt. Instead of the fair locks of the princess, was now to be seen the head of a man, who, resting both arms on the velvet lining of the box, was gazing down with malicious looks into the surging masses of the parterre. This man was Marat, once the veterinary of the Count d'Artois, now the greatest and most formidable orator of the wild Jacobins.

He too had come to see the hated she-wolf, as he had lately called the queen in his "Ami du Peuple," and, to prepare for her a public insult, sat drunk with vanity in the splendid box of the Princess Lamballe; his friends and confidants were in the theatre, among them Santerre the brewer, and Simon the cobbler, often looking up at Marat, waiting for the promised motion which should be his signal for the great demonstration.

At length the time arrived for the opera to begin, and, although the queen had not come, the director of the orchestra did not venture to detain the audience even for a few minutes. He went to his place, took his baton, and gave the sign. The overture began, and all was silent, in parquette and parterre, as well as in the boxes. Every one seemed to be listening only to the music, equally full of sweetness and majesty--only to have ears for the noble rhythm with which Gluck begins his "Alceste."

Suddenly there arose a dull, suppressed sound in parquette, parterre, and boxes, and all heads which had before been directed toward the stage, were now turned backward toward the great royal box. No one paid any more attention to the music, no one noticed that the overture was ended and that the curtain was raised.

Amid the blast of trumpets, the noise of violins and clarionets, the public had heard the light noise of the opening doors, had noticed the entrance of the officers, and this sound had made the Parisians forget even their much-loved music.

There now appeared in the open box-door a woman's form. The queen, followed by Mademoiselle de Bugois, advanced slowly through the great box to the very front. All eyes were directed to her, all looks searched her pale, noble face.

Marie Antoinette felt this, and a smile flitted over her face like the evening glow of a summer's day. With this smile and a deep blush Marie Antoinette bowed and saluted the public.

A loud, unbounded cry of applause resounded through the vast room.

In the parquette and in the boxes hundreds of spectators arose and hailed the queen with a loud, pealing "Vive la reine!" and clapped their hands like pleased children, and looked up to the queen with joyful, beaming countenances.

"Oh, my faith has not deceived!" whispered Marie Antoinette into the ear of her companion. "The good Parisians love me still; they, like me, remember past times, and the old loyalty is awaking in them."

And again she bowed her thanks right and left, and again the house broke out into loud applause. A single, angry glance of Marat's little eyes, peering out from beneath the bushy brows, met the queen.

"Only wait," said Marat, rising from his seat and directing his glances at the parterre. There stood the giant Santerre, and not far from him Simon the cobbler, in the midst of a crowd of savage-looking, defiant fellows, who all looked at their leaders, while they, Santerre and Simon, directed their eyes up to the box of Marat.

The glance of the chief met that of his two friends. A scornful, savage expression swept over Marat's ash-colored, dirty face, and he nodded lightly to his allies. Santerre and Simon returned the nod, and they, turning to their companions, gave the signal by raising the right hand.

Suddenly the applause was overborne by loud whistling and shouting, derisive laughter, and wild curses.

"The civil war has begun!" cried Marat, rubbing his hands together with delight.

The royalists continued to applaud and to shout, "Vive la reine!"

Their opponents tried to silence them by their hisses and whistling.

Marat's face glowed with demoniacal pleasure. He turned to the boxes of the second tier, and nodded smilingly to the men who sat there.

At once they began to cry, "The chorus, the chorus, let them sing, 'Chantons, celebrons notre reine!'"

"Very well," said Marat. "I am a good royalist, for I have trained the people to the cry."

"Sing, sing!" shouted the men to the performers on the stage--"sing the chorus, 'Chantons, celebrons notre reine!'"

And in the boxes, parquette, everywhere was the cry, "Sing the chorus, 'Chantons, celebrons notre reine!'"

"No," roared Santerre, "no, they shall not sing that!"

"No," cried Simon, "we will not hear the monkey-song!"

And hundreds of men in the parterre and the upper rows of boxes echoed the cry, "No, we will not hear the monkey-song!"

"The thing works well!" said Marat. "I hold my people by a thread, and make them gesticulate and spring up and down, like the concealed man in a Punch and Judy show."

The noise went on; the royalists would not cease their applause and their calls for the chorus, "Chantons, celebrons notre reine!" The enemies of the queen did not cease hissing and shouting, "We do not want to hear any thing about the queen; we will not hear the monkey-song!"