The Public Prosecutor of the Terror, Antoine Quentin Fouquier-Tinville
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Ay C ** ^ *oho' .^ 'jv^. -^ ^^ ,j^ ^ / %. ^ ^:</^w** ^^ '^m^.' . • <?> V* » • THE PUBLIC PROSECUTOR OF THE TERROR t_^'7$z^^«>?z^ =.^i^^<s^'x^:^<?Z' t..J%i^t^£6.c&^- ^. : THE PUBLIC PROSECUTOR : : OF THE TERROR : ANTOINE QUENTIN FOUQUIER-TINVILLE TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH OF ALPHONSE DUNOYER BY A. W. EVANS WITH A PHOTOGRAVURE FRONTISPIECE AND FOURTEEN OTHER ILLUSTRATIONS NEW YORK : G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS PUBLISHERS ^ ^ MCMXIII S vafx.7^ LONDON AND NORWICH PRES?, LIMITED, LONDON AND NORWICH INTRODUCTION the famous oval room of the Soubise Palace, where, IN amid the gilded garlands of foliage and flowers, the eighteenth-century painter, Charles Natoire, grouped the supple and youthful figures which he had borrowed from the legend of Cupid and Psyche, there is a melancholy glass case which to-day contains the will of Louis XVI. and the last letter of Marie Antoinette. A note it is, rather than a letter. Two yellow, rumpled, ink-stained sheets on which the Queen of France, con- demned to death, expressed her last thoughts and addressed her final recommendations to her sister-in-law, Madame Elisabeth. The note was written at the conclusion of that terrible final appearance before the Revolutionary Tribunal. It is dated, " This i6th of October, at half-past four in the morning." Seven and a half hours before the execution ! " It is to you, my sister, that I am writing for the last time. I have just been condemned, not to a shameful death, that is only for criminals, but to join your brother. Innocent as he, I hope to show the same firmness in these last moments. I am as calm as one whose conscience has no reproach ; I feel profound regret at leaving my poor children, you know that I only existed for them and for you, my good and tender sister. In what a position do I leave you who in your affection have sacrificed everything to be with us ! I have learned from the speech for the defence in the trial that my daughter has been separated from you. Alas ! poor child, I dare not write to her, she would not receive my letter ; I do not even know if this will reach you. Receive for them both this my blessing ; I hope that one day, when they are bigger, they will be re-united with you, and enjoy to the full your tender care ; let them both think of what I viii INTRODUCTION have not ceased to inspire in them, that the principles and exact execution of one's duties are the fundamental basis of life, that their friendship and mutual confidence will cause its happiness. Let my daughter feel that at her age she ought always to help her brother by the counsels that her greater experience and affection inspire her with ; let my son, on his side, render to his sister ever}'- care, every service that affection can inspire ; lastly, let both feel that in whatever position they may find themselves, they will be truly happy only by their union ; let them take example from us. How much consolation has our friendship brought us in our misfortunes ! Happiness is doubly enjoyed when one can share it with a friend ; and where is a more tender or devoted friend to be found than in one's own family ? Let my son never forget his father's last words which I repeat to him expressly ; let him never seek to avenge our death. " I have to speak to you of something very painful to me. I know how much trouble this child must have caused you. Forgive him, dear sister ; think of his age and of how easy it is to make a child say what one likes, and even what he does not understand. A day will come, I hope, when he will better realise the value of your goodness and tenderness towards both. It remains for me to confide my last thoughts to you. I should have liked to write them to you from the beginning of my trial, but, besides the fact that I was not allowed to write, its course has been so rapid that I really should not have had the time. " I die in the Catholic, Apostolic, and Roman religion, in that of my fathers, in that in which I have been brought up and always professed ; having no spiritual consolations to expect, not knowing if there are priests of that religion here ; and if there were, the position in which I am would expose them too much if once they entered here. I sincerely ask God's pardon for all the faults I may have committed since I came into being ; I hope that in His goodness He will hear my last prayers as well as those that I have long made that He will receive mj;' soul in His mercy and goodness. I ask pardon from all whom I know, and especially from you, my sister, for all the trouble that, without wishing it, I may have caused them. I pardon all my enemies for the evil they have done me. I here say adieu to my aunts and to — INTRODUCTION ix all my brothers and sisters. I once had friends : the idea of being separated from them and their sufferings for ever is one of the greatest regrets that I take with me in dying ; let them know at least that to my last moment I have thought of them. " Adieu, my good and tender sister ; may this letter reach you ! Think always of me. I embrace you with all my heart as well as those poor dear children. Oh ! God ! how heart-rending it is to leave them for ever ! Adieu ! Adieu ! I am going to occupy myself with nothing more except my spiritual duties. As I am not free in my actions, perhaps they will bring me a priest^ ; but I here protest that I shall not say a word and shall treat him as an absolute stranger." The Queen has not signed this note, which is entirely written in her own hand. But the last page bears the five following signatures.—A. Q. Fouquier, Lecointre, Legot, Guffroy, and Massieu. How is this to be explained ? The first is the signature of Antoine Quentin Fouquier- Tinville, Public Prosecutor of the Revolutionary Tribunal of Paris ; the other four are those of the members of the National Convention, charged with the verification of the ex-Public Prosecutor's papers when, after Robespierre's fall, that magistrate was ordered to be indicted and placed on trial in his turn. The gaoler of the Conciergerie had taken possession of the Queen's last letter ; he had handed it over to Fouquier- Tinville. Marie Antoinette's presentiment did not deceive " her when she wrote : Alas ! poor child, I dare not write to her, she would not receive my letter ; I do not even know " " if this will reach you." May this letter reach you ! she also wrote. Those pages never reached their address. The Public Prosecutor kept among his papers this moving expression of the last prayers of a dead woman. Without any regard for the final wishes of a mother whom his Tribunal sent to the scaffold, he arranged among his portfolios the note ' A priest who had taken the oath to the Civil Constitution of the Clergy. Tr. —— X INTRODUCTION in which Marie Antoinette breathed forth all the pride of her character and all the ardent and simple tenderness of her heart. That is why to-day, after a hundred and seventeen years have passed, those who visit the Princesse de Soubise's drawing-room pause, filled with emotion, before the mystery of this touching letter, countersigned in the clumsy and uncouth handwriting of the famous Public Prosecutor. They ask questions. They want to know. And when they are given the above explanation, many of them remain there, motionless, and ask in low tones and with a sort of " shiver in their voice : What was Fouquier-Tinville then ? " A brute ? A monster ? Fouquier-Tinville does not seem to have had the appear- ance of a monster, if we refer to these terms in a note which was sent to him by Therese Frangoise de Stainville, Princesse de Grimaldi-Monaco, guillotined on the gth of Thermidor in the year II., the very day of Robespierre's fall : " Citizen, I ask ji^ou, in the name of humanity, to have this packet sent to my children ; you seemed to me to have a humane look, and when I saw you I regretted that you were not my judge ; perhaps I should not be charging you with a last wish if you had been. Heed the request of an unhappy mother, who perishes at the age of happiness and who leaves children deprived of their only resource ; let them at least receive this last evidence of my tenderness, and I shall ever owe you gratitude. "^ The Princesse de Monaco had declared herself pregnant, but soon afterwards she had written to Fouquier : " I warn you, citizen, that I am not with child. I wanted to tell you so ; no longer hoping that you will come, I send you word. I have not stained my mouth with this lie through fear of death, or to avoid it, but to give myself a day longer in order to cut off my hair myself and not to yield it to be cut by the hand of the executioner. It is the only legacy I can leave to my children ; at least it must be unstained.