in
multiplying such terrible catastrophes. The name of that author was
Infallible Necessity. Indeed I am quite ready to confess that the
indolent husband of Marie Antoinette had none of those qualities which
make a great king, and I will even add, if you wish it absolutely, that
the solitary fact of being a king is a crime worthy a thousand deaths.
As to Marie Antoinette herself--"the Austrian," _Pere Duchesne_ would
call her--I allow that in history she is not quite so amiable as she
appears in the novels of Alexandra Dumas, and that her near relationship
to the queen Caroline-Marie, whose little suppers at Naples, in company
with Lady Hamilton, one is well acquainted with, gives some excuse for
the calumnies of which she has been the object. Have I said enough to
prevent myself being the recipient, in the event of a Bourbon
restoration, of the most modest pension that ever came out of a royal
treasury? Well, in spite of what I have said, and in spite of what I
think, I repeat, "Do not touch that tomb!" Like the Column Vendome,
which is the symbol of an heroic and terrible epoch in history, the
Chapelle Expiatoire[79] is a souvenir of the old monarchical reign, an
age which was neither devoid of sorrow, nor of honour for France. Can
you not be republican without suppressing history, which was royalist?
The last remains of monarchy repose in peace beneath that gloomy
monument; may it be respected, as we respect the ashes of those who
respected it; and you, breakers of images, profaners of past glory, do
you not fear, in executing your decree, to produce an effect
diametrically opposed to that which you desire? By persecuting kings
even in their last resting-place, are you not afraid to excite the pity,
the regret perhaps, of those whose consciences still hesitate? In the
interest of the Republic, I say, take care! The memory of the dead
stalks forth from open sepulchres!

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 79: This chapel was erected by Louis XVIII. upon the spot
where, during the Revolution of 1793, the remains of Louis XVI, and his
Queen had been obscurely interred.]

LXXVI.

Rejoice, poor housewives, who, on days of poverty, were obliged to carry
to the Mont-de-Piete[80] the discoloured remains of your wedding dress,
or your husband's Sunday coat; rejoice, artisans, who, after a day of
toil, thought your bed so hard since your last mattress was taken to the
Rue des Blancs-Manteaux, to rejoin your last pair of sheets.