Loménie’s Thunderbolts.
Arise, Loménie-Brienne: here is no case for “Letters of Jussion;”
for faltering or compromise. Thou seest the whole loose _fluent_
population of Paris (whatsoever is not solid, and fixed to work)
inundating these outer courts, like a loud destructive deluge;
the very Basoche of Lawyers’ Clerks talks sedition. The lower
classes, in this duel of Authority with Authority, Greek
throttling Greek, have ceased to respect the City-Watch:
Police-satellites are marked on the back with chalk (the M
signifies _mouchard_, spy); they are hustled, hunted like _feræ
naturæ_. Subordinate rural Tribunals send messengers of
congratulation, of adherence. Their Fountain of Justice is
becoming a Fountain of Revolt. The Provincial Parlements look on,
with intent eye, with breathless wishes, while their elder sister
of Paris does battle: the whole Twelve are of one blood and
temper; the victory of one is that of all.
Ever worse it grows: on the 10th of August, there is “_Plainte_”
emitted touching the “prodigalities of Calonne,” and permission
to “proceed” against him. No registering, but instead of it,
denouncing: of dilapidation, peculation; and ever the burden of
the song, States-General! Have the royal armories no thunderbolt,
that thou couldst, O Loménie, with red right-hand, launch it
among these Demosthenic theatrical thunder-barrels, mere resin
and noise for most part;—and shatter, and smite them silent? On
the night of the 14th of August, Loménie launches his
thunderbolt, or handful of them. Letters named of the Seal (_de
Cachet_), as many as needful, some sixscore and odd, are
delivered overnight. And so, next day betimes, the whole
Parlement, once more set on wheels, is rolling incessantly
towards Troyes in Champagne; “escorted,” says History, “with the
blessings of all people;” the very innkeepers and postillions
looking gratuitously reverent.[68] This is the 15th of August
1787.
What will not people bless; in their extreme need? Seldom had the
Parlement of Paris deserved much blessing, or received much. An
isolated Body-corporate, which, out of old confusions (while the
Sceptre of the Sword was confusedly struggling to become a
Sceptre of the Pen), had got itself together, better and worse,
as Bodies-corporate do, to satisfy some dim desire of the world,
and many clear desires of individuals; and so had grown, in the
course of centuries, on concession, on acquirement and
usurpation, to be what we see it: a prosperous social Anomaly,
deciding Lawsuits, sanctioning or rejecting Laws; and withal
disposing of its places and offices by sale for ready
money,—which method sleek President Hénault, after meditation,
will demonstrate to be the indifferent-best.[69]
In such a Body, existing by purchase for ready-money, there could
not be excess of public spirit; there might well be excess of
eagerness to divide the public spoil. Men in helmets have divided
that, with swords; men in wigs, with quill and inkhorn, do divide
it: and even more hatefully these latter, if more peaceably; for
the wig-method is at once irresistibler and baser. By long
experience, says Besenval, it has been found useless to sue a
Parlementeer at law; no Officer of Justice will serve a writ on
one; his wig and gown are his Vulcan’s-panoply, his enchanted
cloak-of-darkness.
The Parlement of Paris may count itself an unloved body; mean,
not magnanimous, on the political side. Were the King weak,
always (as now) has his Parlement barked, cur-like at his heels;
with what popular cry there might be. Were he strong, it barked
before his face; hunting for him as his alert beagle. An unjust
Body; where foul influences have more than once worked shameful
perversion of judgment. Does not, in these very days, the blood
of murdered Lally cry aloud for vengeance? Baited, circumvented,
driven mad like the snared lion, Valour had to sink extinguished
under vindictive Chicane. Behold him, that hapless Lally, his
wild dark soul looking through his wild dark face; trailed on the
ignominious death-hurdle; the voice of his despair choked by a
wooden gag! The wild fire-soul that has known only peril and
toil; and, for threescore years, has buffeted against Fate’s
obstruction and men’s perfidy, like genius and courage amid
poltroonery, dishonesty and commonplace; faithfully enduring and
endeavouring,—O Parlement of Paris, dost thou reward it with a
gibbet and a gag?[70] The dying Lally bequeathed his memory to
his boy; a young Lally has arisen, demanding redress in the name
of God and man. The Parlement of Paris does its utmost to defend
the indefensible, abominable; nay, what is singular,
dusky-glowing Aristogiton d’Espréménil is the man chosen to be
its spokesman in that.
Such Social Anomaly is it that France now blesses. An unclean
Social Anomaly; but in duel against another worse! The exiled
Parlement is felt to have “covered itself with glory.” There are
quarrels in which even Satan, bringing help, were not unwelcome;
even Satan, fighting stiffly, might cover himself with glory,—of
a temporary sort.
But what a stir in the outer courts of the Palais, when Paris
finds its Parlement trundled off to Troyes in Champagne; and
nothing left but a few mute Keepers of records; the Demosthenic
thunder become extinct, the martyrs of liberty clean gone!
Confused wail and menace rises from the four thousand throats of
Procureurs, Basoche-Clerks, Nondescripts, and Anglomaniac
Noblesse; ever new idlers crowd to see and hear; Rascality, with
increasing numbers and vigour, hunts _mouchards_. Loud whirlpool
rolls through these spaces; the rest of the City, fixed to its
work, cannot yet go rolling. Audacious placards are legible, in
and about the Palais, the speeches are as good as seditious.
Surely the temper of Paris is much changed. On the third day of
this business (18th of August), Monsieur and Monseigneur
d’Artois, coming in state-carriages, according to use and wont,
to have these late obnoxious _Arrêtés_ and protests “expunged”
from the Records, are received in the most marked manner.
Monsieur, who is thought to be in opposition, is met with vivats
and strewed flowers; Monseigneur, on the other hand, with
silence; with murmurs, which rise to hisses and groans; nay, an
irreverent Rascality presses towards him in floods, with such
hissing vehemence, that the Captain of the Guards has to give
order, ‘_Haut les armes_ (Handle arms)!’—at which thunder-word,
indeed, and the flash of the clear iron, the Rascal-flood
recoils, through all avenues, fast enough.[71] New features
these. Indeed, as good M. de Malesherbes pertinently remarks, ‘it
is a quite new kind of contest this with the Parlement:’ no
transitory sputter, as from collision of hard bodies; but more
like ‘the first sparks of what, if not quenched, may become a
great conflagration.’[72]
This good Malesherbes sees himself now again in the King’s
Council, after an absence of ten years: Loménie would profit if
not by the faculties of the man, yet by the name he has. As for
the man’s opinion, it is not listened to;—wherefore he will soon
withdraw, a second time; back to his books and his trees. In such
King’s Council what can a good man profit? Turgot tries it not a
second time: Turgot has quitted France and this Earth, some years
ago; and now cares for none of these things. Singular enough:
Turgot, this same Loménie, and the Abbé Morellet were once a trio
of young friends; fellow-scholars in the Sorbonne. Forty new
years have carried them severally thus far.
Meanwhile the Parlement sits daily at Troyes, calling cases; and
daily adjourns, no Procureur making his appearance to plead.
Troyes is as hospitable as could be looked for: nevertheless one
has comparatively a dull life. No crowds now to carry you,
shoulder-high, to the immortal gods; scarcely a Patriot or two
will drive out so far, and bid you be of firm courage. You are in
furnished lodgings, far from home and domestic comfort: little to
do, but wander over the unlovely Champagne fields; seeing the
grapes ripen; taking counsel about the thousand-times consulted:
a prey to tedium; in danger even that Paris may forget you.
Messengers come and go: pacific Loménie is not slack in
negotiating, promising; D’Ormesson and the prudent elder Members
see no good in strife.
After a dull month, the Parlement, yielding and retaining, makes
truce, as all Parlements must. The Stamp-tax is withdrawn: the
_Subvention_ Land-tax is also withdrawn; but, in its stead, there
is granted, what they call a “Prorogation of the Second
Twentieth,”—itself a kind of Land-tax, but not so oppressive to
the Influential classes; which lies mainly on the Dumb class.
Moreover, secret promises exist (on the part of the Elders), that
finances may be raised by Loan. Of the ugly word States-General
there shall be no mention.
And so, on the 20th of September, our exiled Parlement returns:
D’Espréménil said, “it went out covered with glory, but had come
back covered with mud (_de boue_).” Not so, Aristogiton; or if
so, thou surely art the man to clean it.