About twenty years of age, amiable, irresolute, of simple tastes and
earnest piety, Louis XVI. succeeded to the throne at a time when these
qualities of gentleness could avail but little against the crowning evils
of the age, and when the supreme genius and iron will of a Cromwell or a
Napoleon could alone have averted the destruction by which the state was
menaced. Signs of dissolution and prophecies of woe were already abroad.
Long wars and the lavish expenditure of the last century and a half, had
reduced the finances of the kingdom to a deplorable condition. The public
credit was at its lowest ebb. The treasury presented a deficit of forty
millions. The people, over-taxed, restless, half-savage, and dangerously
intelligent, abandoned agriculture and sought a precarious subsistence by
smuggling and spoliation. A spirit of political and religious infidelity
pervaded the middle and lower classes. The throne had too long been
degraded by excess, and tarnished by scandal, to command the affection
of the multitude. The nobles were scorned rather than reverenced, and
not even the ancient stronghold of terror remained. The clergy, by their
cruelties, their ignorance, and their debaucheries had alienated the
great body of the people, and brought down upon themselves the satire
and indignation of the enlightened. In Voltaire, Rousseau, Montesquieu,
and D’Alembert, the new opinions had found their chief advocates and
leaders. Before their sweeping censures Christianity, loyalty, tradition
had trembled, and sunk away. They were speedily reinforced by all the
intelligence of the age. A host of distinguished men hastened to their
support, and the innovators carried all before them—leveling good as
well as evil, trampling upon much that was pure in their reckless hatred
of that which was foul, and sapping the foundations of truth, mercy
and chivalry, while compassing the necessary destruction of falsehood,
despotism, imposition and vice.
To the government of this crumbling edifice and this murmuring people
came Louis, with his good heart, his boyish timidity, and his woful
inexperience. His queen, Marie Antoinette, was a daughter of Maria
Theresa, fair, generous and impetuous. Surrounded by eager courtiers, and
saluted for the first time as king and queen, they fell upon their knees,
and cried, weeping, “Oh God, guide us! Protect us! We are too young to
reign!”
The king’s first act was to reëstablish the parliament, and place the
financial department in the hands of the impartial and provident Turgot.
Unfortunately for himself and the country, Louis suffered his mind to
be prejudiced against this able minister, and, dismissing him in 1776,
gave his office to M. Necker, a less efficient but a less unpopular
politician. A war with England was now proposed by the king’s ambitious
statesmen, who beheld at this juncture an opportunity of wresting from
their ancient rival a large proportion of her foreign commerce. England
and her American colonies were at variance. Not much more than a year
had elapsed since the great battles of Lexington and Bunker’s Hill,
and the American independence was but just declared. It now became the
obvious policy of France to foment this war, to support the rebellious
colonists, and to transfer to the navies of Louis XVI. that maritime
superiority which had so long been the bulwark of the English liberties.
The king, from motives of forbearance, was unwilling to commence this
war; but, being overruled by his ministry, signed a treaty of alliance
with the United States in the commencement of the year 1778. This treaty
was equivalent to a declaration of war, and the first important action
took place by sea off the isle of Ushant on the 27th of July. The fleets
numbered thirty sail each; not a ship was captured or sunk on either
side; and the fortune of the day was indecisive. In the following year,
an alliance with Spain doubled the naval strength of Louis XVI. The
French and Spanish admirals united their fleets, and hovered about
the coasts of England without making any descent; whilst the Count
d’Estaings, with twelve ships of the line, took the islands of Granada
and St. Vincent, and made an unsuccessful attack upon St. Lucia, which
had been lately conquered by the English. On the 16th of January, 1780,
Admiral Rodney, then on his way to the relief of Gibraltar, encountered
and defeated a Spanish fleet commanded by Don Juan de Langara. He then
sailed on, unopposed, to Gibraltar, and next proceeded to the West
Indies. While there he thrice engaged with the Count de Guichen, who
had succeeded to the command of the French fleet. None of these actions
were productive of important results. The Count de Guichen was replaced
in 1781 by the Count de Grasse, a man of great skill and courage, who
defeated the English admiral, Hood, on the 28th of April, and added
Tobago to the conquests of France. In this year another enemy rose
against England. The Dutch declared war, and George III. was involved
at one time, by sea and land, in four great contests, namely, with
France, Spain, America and Holland. In the month of October, however,
the surrender of Yorktown by Lord Cornwallis virtually ended the contest
between England and the United States; and the four European powers
alone carried on hostilities. The month of April, 1782, was signalized by
a hard-fought and sanguinary engagement between the Count de Grasse and
Admiral Rodney. They met on the 12th, off the island of Dominique, with
nearly equal forces, and the French were disastrously defeated with a
loss of eight ships, a terrible sacrifice of life, and the captivity of
the Count de Grasse. England was not, however, destined to profit much by
the victory; for, as Admiral Rodney was sailing back with his well-won
captures, a fearful storm arose, and most of the prizes were lost. Among
these was the _Ville de Paris_, a fine ship of 110 guns, lately presented
to the king by the citizens of Paris. On the 13th of October, in the
same year, the fortress of Gibraltar was made the scene of a formidable
assault, which failed utterly. The besiegers were commanded by the Duke
de Crillon, an officer in the Spanish service; the Count d’Artois,
brother to Louis; and the Duke de Bourbon. Negotiations for peace were
now commenced, and her late successes by sea enabled England to treat
at a less disadvantage than might have been expected, considering the
circumstances of the war. The preliminaries were signed at Versailles on
the 20th of January, 1783. France restored to England all her conquests,
with the exception of St. Lucia, Tobago, the establishments on the river
Senegal, and some trifling possessions in Africa and the East Indies.
England relinquished all that she had captured. Spain acquired the island
of Minorca.
More embarrassed than ever by the cost of the late war, the finances of
France had now fallen into a worse state than before. The public debt
was increased. The people exasperated by a system of taxation which
spared the wealthy and oppressed the poor, and imbued, moreover, with
those democratic principles which had found their way from America to
France, became still louder in the expression of their discontent. M. De
Calonne had by this time succeeded M. Necker. He was brilliant, fluent,
ready with expedients. Dreading the recriminations and plain-speaking
that must have attended a meeting of the States-general, this minister
proposed to convene the Notables—that is to say, an assemblage of
persons gathered from all parts of the kingdom, and chiefly from the
higher ranks of society. This measure had been taken by Henry IV. and
by Louis XIII.; it was not, therefore, without precedent, and much was
hoped by the nation. They met, to the number of 137, in February, 1787.
M. De Calonne laid before them the condition of the exchequer, and
proposed to submit to taxation all the landed property of the kingdom,
including that of the privileged classes. But he addressed an assembly
composed almost exclusively of the privileged classes, and they would
not hear his arguments. On the 9th of April, finding his position
untenable, he resigned his office, and was succeeded by M. De Brienne.
Still the notables refused to abate their ancient immunities, and were
in consequence dissolved on the 25th of May. The absolute necessity
of procuring money now compelled the king arbitrarily to register a
royal edict, which met with strong opposition from the parliament. This
body was then banished to Troyes, but again recalled in the month of
September. In 1788, M. de Brienne, weary of combating the difficulties
of his office, resigned in favor of M. Necker. This gentleman, as the
first act of his second ministry, proposed to convoke the states-general,
and on the 5th of May, 1789, that august assembly filled the Hall de
Menus in the Palace of Versailles. The king, in a brief speech, spoke
hopefully of the present and the future, trusted that his reign might be
commemorated henceforth by the happiness and prosperity of his people,
and welcomed the states-general to his palace. Unforeseeing and placid,
he beheld in this meeting nothing but the promise of amelioration,
nor guessed how little prepared for usefulness or decision were its
twelve hundred. It soon became evident that the real strength of the
states-general lay in the commons. They formed the third estate, and
numbered as many members as the clergy and noblesse together. They took
upon themselves to decide whether the deliberations of the Assembly
should be carried on in three chambers or one—they covered their heads in
presence of the king—they constituted themselves the “National Assembly,”
and invited the clergy and aristocracy to join them. The timid sovereign
sanctioned these innovations, and the Assembly proceeded to exercise its
self-conferred functions. Supplies were voted for the army; the public
debt was consolidated; a provisional collection of taxes was decreed; and
the inviolability of the members proclaimed. In the meantime the nobles,
headed by the king’s second brother, the Count d’Artois, were collecting
in the neighborhood of the court and capital such troops as they could
muster from every quarter of the kingdom. Necker was exiled, and it
became evident that the king’s imprudent advisers had counselled him to
have recourse to violence. Paris, long prepared for insurrection, rose
_en masse_. Necker alone had possessed the confidence of the citizens,
and his dismissal gave the signal for arms. Camille Desmoulins, a young
and enthusiastic patriot, harangued the populace at the Palais Royal.
The guards, when called out to disperse the mobs, refused to fire. The
citizens formed themselves into a national guard. The foodless multitude
attacked and pillaged in various quarters. The barriers were fired; and
on the 14th of July, this wild army appeared before the walls of the
Bastile. Stanch in his principles of military honor, the aged Marquis
de Launay, then governor of the prison, refused to surrender, raised
the drawbridge, and fired upon the multitude. His feeble garrison,
consisting of eighty-two invalids and thirty-two Swiss, was menaced by
thousands. The siege lasted four hours. The besiegers were joined by the
French guards—cannon were brought—De Launay capitulated—the drawbridge
was lowered, and the Bastile taken. Taken by a lawless sea of raging
rebels, who forthwith massacred the governor, his lieutenant, and some
of the aged invalids—set fire to the building, and razed it to the
ground—freed the few prisoners found in the cells—garnished their pikes
with the evidences of murder, and so paraded Paris. From this moment the
people were supreme. The troops were dismissed from Versailles—Necker was
recalled—the king visited Paris, and was invested at the Hotel de Ville
with the tri-colored emblem of democracy.
Then began the first emigration. The Count d’Artois, the Prince of Condé,
the Polignacs, and other noble and royal families, deserted in the
moment of peril, and from beyond the frontiers witnessed the revolution
in ignoble safety. The king and his family remained at Versailles, sad
at heart amid their presence-chambers and garden-groves, just four
leagues from volcanic Paris. Hither, from time to time, during the few
days that intervened between the 14th of July and the 4th of August,
came strange tidings of a revolution which was no longer Parisian, but
national—tidings of provincial gatherings—of burning chateaux—of sudden
vengeances done upon unpopular officials, intendants, tax-gatherers, and
the like. It was plain that the First Estate must bow its proud head
before the five-and-twenty savage millions, make restitution, speak well,
smile fairly—or die. The memorable 4th of August came, when the nobles
did this, making an ample confession of their weakness. The Viscount de
Noailles proposed to reform the taxation by subjecting to it every order
and rank; by regulating it according to the fortune of the individual;
and by abolishing personal servitude, and every remaining vestige of
the feudal system. An enthusiasm, which was half fear and half reckless
excitement, spread throughout the Assembly. The aristocrats rose in their
places and publicly renounced their seignorial dues, privileges, and
immunities. The clergy abolished tithes and tributes. The representative
bodies resigned their municipal rights. All this availed but little;
and should have been done many months before to have weighed with the
impatient commons. The people scorned a generosity which relinquished
only that which was untenable, and cared little for the recognition
of a political equality that had already been established with the
pike. The Assembly was at this time divided into three parties—that
of the aristocracy, composed of the greater part of the noblesse and
clergy; that of the moderate party, headed by M. Necker; and that of the
republicans, among whom the most conspicuous were Lafayette, Sièyes,
Robespierre, and the great, the impetuous, the profligate Mirabeau. But
theirs was not the only deliberative body. A minor assembly, consisting
of one hundred and eighty electors; a mass of special assemblies of
mechanics, tradesmen, servants, and others; and a huge incongruous mob
at the Palais Royal, met daily and nightly for purposes of discussion.
These demonstrations, and the extreme opinions to which they hourly
gave rise, alarmed the little court yet lingering around the king. They
persuaded him that he must have military assistance, and the troops were,
unhappily, recalled to Versailles.
The regiment of Flanders and a body of dragoons came, and on the 1st of
October the newly-arrived officers were invited to a grand banquet by
their comrades of the royal body-guard. After the dinner was removed
and the wine had begun to circulate, the queen presented herself
with the Dauphin in her arms, and her husband at her side. Cries of
loyalty and enthusiasm burst forth—their healths were drunk with drawn
swords—the tri-colored cockades were trampled under foot, and white ones,
emblematic of Bourbon, were distributed by the maids of honor. The news
of this fatal evening flew to Paris. Exasperated by the arrival of the
soldiery—by the insult offered to the tri-color—by the fear of famine
and civil war—the mob rose in fury, and with cries of “Bread! bread!”
poured out of Paris and took the road to Versailles. Here, sending
messages, threats, and deputations to the king and to the Assembly, the
angry thousands encamped for the night, in inclement weather, round
about the palace. Toward morning a grate leading into the grand court
was found to be unfastened, and the mob rushed in. On they went, across
the marble court and up the grand staircase. The body-guards defended
themselves valiantly and raised the alarm—the queen fled, half-dressed,
to the king’s chamber—the “living deluge” poured through galleries and
reception-rooms, making straight for the queen’s apartments. On this
terrible day, Marie Antoinette was, above all, the object of popular
hatred. Separated now from the revolutionists by the hall of the
Œil-de-Bœuf, where the faithful remnant of body-guards had assembled
to defend them to the last, the royal family listened tremblingly to
the battering of the axes on the yet unbroken doors. At this moment of
peril came Lafayette, with the national guard of Paris, and succeeded
in clearing the palace, in pacifying the multitude, and in rescuing,
for the time, the hapless group in the king’s apartments. The mob, now
driven outside, demanded that Louis should show himself, and go to Paris
with his family. Refusal and remonstrance were alike useless. The royal
carriage was brought out, the king and his family took their places, the
mob thronged round, and so, with the defeated body-guards in the midst,
and some bloody trophies of the struggle carried forward upon pikes, the
mournful procession went from Versailles to Paris. Lodged thenceforth in
the Tuileries, treated with personal disrespect, and subjected to all the
restrictions of imprisonment, Louis and his queen supported indignities
with dignity, and insult with resignation.
On the 4th of September, M. Necker relinquished his office. He had been
so courageous as to oppose the decree of the 16th of June, by which all
distinctions of titles, armorial bearings, and other hereditary honors
were abolished. From having been the idol of the republicans he now
found himself dangerously unpopular, and so retired in safety to Geneva.
During all this time the emigration of the noblesse went on. Assembling
upon the German frontier toward the spring-time of the year 1791, they
formed themselves into an army under the command of the Prince of
Condé, and adopted for their motto, “Conquer or die.” Fearful, however,
of endangering the king’s personal safety, they took no measures to
stay the tide of rebellion, but hovered by the Rhine, watchful and
threatening. Soon the king and queen, their two children, and the
Princess Elizabeth, sister to the king, were the only members of the
royal family left in Paris. Flight had long been talked of and frequently
delayed; but at last everything was arranged, and Monday night, June 20,
1791, was fixed for the attempt. Eluding the vigilance of the guards,
they stole out of the palace in disguise, and after numerous delays and
misapprehensions, during which the queen lost her way in the Rue de Bac,
they entered a hackney-coach driven by the Count de Fersen, and exchanged
it, at the gate St. Martin, for a carriage and four. Thus, never pausing,
they passed Chalons, and arrived at St. Menehould. Here they were to
have been met by some cavalry, commanded by the Marquis de Bouillé; but
the time fixed for their arrival was so long gone by that the escort,
weary of waiting, had given them up, and gone on to Varennes. Stopping to
change horses at St. Menehould, the king was recognized; and at Varennes,
within reach of Bouillé’s soldiers, he was stopped and questioned. The
national guard flew to arms—an aid-de-camp came up in breathless haste,
seeking the fugitives and bearing the decree of arrest—the horses’ heads
were turned toward Paris, and the last chance for life and liberty was
past! After a return-journey of eight days, the king and his family
reëntered the capital, and were received in profound silence by an
immense concourse. More closely guarded, more mistrusted than ever, he
was now suspended by the National Assembly from those sovereign functions
which he had so long ceased to exercise or possess. In the meantime the
articles of a new Constitution had been drawn up, and were publicly
ratified by the royal oath and signature on the 14th of September. The
National Assembly, having completed this work, dissolved itself on the
30th, and the members of the new, or legislative assembly, took their
seats on the 1st of October, 1791.
And now the violences of late committed, and the anarchy existing not
only in Paris, but in all districts of France, had roused the indignation
of Europe. Francis II., Emperor of Austria, entered into an alliance
with the king of Prussia, hostilities were threatened, and the Assembly
declared for war, on the 20th of April, 1792. An invasion of the Austrian
Netherlands was attempted; but the French soldiers fled upon the first
sight of the Prussian columns, and General Rochambeau laid down his
command. On the 25th of July, the Duke of Brunswick, who commanded the
allies, issued a violent and imprudent manifesto, declaring himself
authorized to support the royal authority in France; to destroy the city
of Paris; and to pursue with the extremity of military law all those who
were disposed to resist the policy of Europe. He at the same time put
his immense army in motion, and advanced over the frontier with 70,000
Prussians and 68,000 Austrians and emigrant French. Perhaps no effort
on the part of his most eager enemy could have so injured the cause and
periled the safety of Louis XVI. The Assembly replied by fitting out an
army of 20,000 national volunteers, and giving the command to General
Dumouriez. Brunswick took Verdun and Longwy, and advanced toward the
capital, confident of victory; but, being met by the active and sagacious
Dumouriez, was forced to retreat. Verdun was won back again on the 12th,
and Longwy on the 18th of October. An Austrian army, engaged in the siege
of Lille, was compelled to abandon the attempt; and Custine on the Rhine
took possession of Trèves Spires, and Mayence. War having also been
declared against the King of Sardinia, Savoy was taken; and the great
victory of Jemappes, won by General Dumouriez, on the 6th of November,
subjected the whole of the Austrian Netherlands, with the exception
of Luxembourg, to the power of France. On all sides the national
troops repelled the invaders, resumed the offensive, and asserted the
independence of a victorious revolution.
In the meantime, enraged at this interference of the foreign powers,
and fluctuating (according to the reports from the scene of war) between
apprehension and exultation, the Parisian mob and the extreme republican
party came to regard the king with increased enmity. He was named in the
Assembly with violent opprobrium; the mob, incited to fury by Robespierre
and his associates, demanded the abolition of the royal authority; and on
the 10th of August the palace of the Tuileries was attacked. The national
guards, who had been appointed to the defence of the courtyards, went
over to the insurgents, and pointed their cannon against the chateau.
Only the gallant Swiss were left, and they, overpowered by numbers and
fighting gallantly to the last, were literally cut to pieces. The king
and his family escaped to the National Assembly, and on the 14th were
removed to the old Temple prison. From this time the reign of terror may
properly be said to have begun. The chronicles of September are written
in blood. Supreme in power as in crime, the party of the Fédérés, or Red
Republicans, secured the barriers, sounded the tocsin, and proceeded to
clear the prisons by an indiscriminate massacre. Nobles and priests, aged
men and delicate women, all who were guilty of good birth, loyalty, or
religion, were slain without distinction. The inmates of the Abbaye, the
Conciergerie, the Carmes, La Force, and the Bicêtre were all murdered,
after a hideous mockery of trial, at which neither innocence nor evidence
availed. The head of the beautiful and hapless Princess de Lamballe was
paraded about Paris on a pike, and displayed before the eyes of the
wretched prisoners in the Temple, whose confidential friend and companion
she had been. Mademoiselle de Sombreuil only saved her father’s life by
drinking a goblet of blood. Mademoiselle Cazotte flung herself between
her father and the murderers. Instances of the sublimest resignation, of
the loftiest courage, are abundant amid the records of this appalling
period. Thirteen thousand souls are said to have been sacrificed in Paris
alone, and similar massacres were perpetrated at Orleans, at Rheims, at
Lyons, and at Meaux. On the 21st of September, the legislative assembly,
having presided for the allotted space of one year, was succeeded by a
new body of representatives, chiefly consisting of the extreme republican
party, and known by the name of the National Convention. To abolish the
statutes of the kings, to leave the offices of government open to men of
every condition, to persecute the members of the more moderate faction,
and to impeach the king before the bar of the convention, were among the
first acts of the new government.
On the 11th of December, 1792, Louis, still placid and dignified,
appeared before the tribunal of his enemies. He was accused of plots
against the sovereignty of the people—of intrigues with the European
powers—of tampering with Mirabeau, since dead—in short, of everything
that might be construed into an effort for life, liberty, or prerogative.
His trial lasted for more than a month, and during that time he was
separated from his family. Hitherto Louis and his wife had at least
shared their sorrows, and, by employing themselves in the education
of the Dauphin, had beguiled somewhat of the tedious melancholy of
prison life. Now it was over, and they were to meet but once again—to
bid farewell. On Christmas day the king drew up his will, and on the
following morning was summoned to the Convention for the purpose of
making his defense. This paper was read by his counsel, and, at its
conclusion, Louis spoke a few simple words relative to his own innocence
and the affection which he had always felt toward his people. He was
then conducted back to the Temple, and the discussions went on till the
15th of January, 1793, when it was resolved to put to the vote the three
great questions of culpability, of the expediency of an appeal to the
people, and of the nature of the punishment to be inflicted. On Tuesday,
the 15th, the first two questions were put, and the replies recorded.
By all the king was voted guilty, and by a majority of two to one the
appeal to the people was negatived. On Wednesday, the 16th, the question
of punishment was in like manner propounded. The agitation of Paris was
something terrible to witness. A savage mob gathered about the doors
of the Assembly, heaping threats upon all who dared to be merciful.
Even those who most desired to save the king became intimidated, and
some who had spoken bravely in his favor the day before now decreed his
death. From Wednesday to Sunday morning this strange scene lasted. Seven
hundred and twenty-one members, in slow succession, with trembling, with
confidence, with apologetic speech, or fierce enforcement, mounted the
tribune one by one, gave in their “Fate-word,” and went down to hear the
judgment of their successors. Paine, the English democrat, entered his
name on the side of mercy. Louis Égalité, Duke of Orleans, and father
to the late Louis Philippe, had the unparalleled infamy to vote for
death. Even the brave President Vergniaud, who had pleaded for Louis
with passionate earnestness only a day or two before, wavered in his
allegiance at the last, and spoke the fatal word. At length, when all
had voted, death was found to be decreed by a majority of twenty-six
voices. The king’s counsel appealed against the sentence; but the appeal
was rejected, and the Assembly recommenced voting, to fix the time of
execution. Death without delay—death within four-and-twenty hours, was
the result. On Sunday morning, January the 20th, the messengers of the
Convention told Louis he must die. A priest, a delay of three days, and
an interview with his family, was all that he asked. They granted him
the first and last request; but the delay was refused. In the evening
he was permitted to see his wife, sister and children. They met in a
chamber with glass doors, through which the municipal guards watched
all the cruel scene. Falling into each other’s arms, they were for
some time speechless with sorrow, and the conversation that ensued was
interrupted by cries and sobs. Then the king rose, promising to see
them again on the morrow, and so ended this agony of two hours. About
midnight, having recovered his serenity, and prayed with his confessor,
the Abbé Edgeworth, he went to bed and slept soundly. Waking at five, he
heard mass and received the sacrament. At eight the municipals summoned
him to execution, and, willing to spare the feelings of those whom he
loved, he left without a second farewell. There was a silence of death
upon all the city. Silent were the lines of soldiers—silent the gazing
multitudes—silent the eighty thousand armed men who guarded with cannon
the space around the scaffold. Through all these rolled the solitary
carriage, and to these the king, advancing suddenly as the last moment
came, said in an agitated voice, “Frenchmen, I die innocent. I pardon
my enemies, and I hope that France.…” At this moment he was seized by
the executioners, the drums beat and drowned his voice, and in a few
seconds he was no more. All at once the strange silence was broken—the
executioner upheld the severed head—the shouts of the wild populace
filled the air—and then they gradually cleared off, and the business of
the day went on in Paris as if no unusual thing had been done. Such was
the end of Louis XVI., a virtuous and well-intentioned sovereign, on the
21st of January, 1793.—_Edwards._