Internecine.
What a France, through these winter months of the year 1787! The
very Œil-de-Bœuf is doleful, uncertain; with a general feeling
among the Suppressed, that it were better to be in Turkey. The
Wolf-hounds are suppressed, the Bear-hounds, Duke de Coigny, Duke
de Polignac: in the Trianon little-heaven, her Majesty, one
evening, takes Besenval’s arm; asks his candid opinion. The
intrepid Besenval,—having, as he hopes, nothing of the sycophant
in _him_,—plainly signifies that, with a Parlement in rebellion,
and an Œil-de-Bœuf in suppression, the King’s Crown is in
danger;—whereupon, singular to say, her Majesty, as if hurt,
changed the subject, _et ne me parla plus de rien!_[78]
To whom, indeed, can this poor Queen speak? In need of wise
counsel, if ever mortal was; yet beset here only by the hubbub of
chaos! Her dwelling-place is so bright to the eye, and confusion
and black care darkens it all. Sorrows of the Sovereign, sorrows
of the woman, think-coming sorrows environ her more and more.
Lamotte, the Necklace-Countess, has in these late months escaped,
perhaps been suffered to escape, from the Salpêtrière. Vain was
the hope that Paris might thereby forget her; and this
ever-widening-lie, and heap of lies, subside. The Lamotte, with a
V (for _Voleuse_, Thief) branded on both shoulders, has got to
England; and will therefrom emit lie on lie; defiling the highest
queenly name: mere distracted lies;[79] which, in its present
humour, France will greedily believe.
For the rest, it is too clear our Successive Loan is not filling.
As indeed, in such circumstances, a Loan registered by expunging
of Protests was not the likeliest to fill. Denunciation of
_Lettres-de-Cachet_, of Despotism generally, abates not: the
Twelve Parlements are busy; the Twelve hundred Placarders,
Balladsingers, Pamphleteers. Paris is what, in figurative speech,
they call “flooded with pamphlets (_regorge de brochures_);”
flooded and eddying again. Hot deluge,—from so many Patriot
ready-writers, all at the _fervid_ or boiling point; each
ready-writer, now in the hour of eruption, going like an Iceland
Geyser! Against which what can a judicious friend Morellet do; a
Rivarol, an unruly Linguet (well paid for it),—spouting _cold!_
Now also, at length, does come discussion of the Protestant
Edict: but only for new embroilment; in pamphlet and
counter-pamphlet, increasing the madness of men. Not even
Orthodoxy, bedrid as she seemed, but will have a hand in this
confusion. She, once again in the shape of Abbé Lenfant, “whom
Prelates drive to visit and congratulate,”—raises audible sound
from her pulpit-drum.[80] Or mark how D’Espréménil, who has his
own confused way in all things, produces at the right moment in
Parlementary harangue, a pocket Crucifix, with the apostrophe:
‘Will ye crucify him afresh?’ _Him_, O D’Espréménil, without
scruple;—considering what poor stuff, of ivory and filigree, _he_
is made of!
To all which add only that poor Brienne has fallen sick; so hard
was the tear and wear of his sinful youth, so violent, incessant
is this agitation of his foolish old age. Baited, bayed at
through so many throats, his Grace, growing consumptive,
inflammatory (with _humeur de dartre_), lies reduced to milk
diet; in exasperation, almost in desperation; with “repose,”
precisely the impossible recipe, prescribed as the
indispensable.[81]
On the whole, what can a poor Government do, but once more recoil
ineffectual? The King’s Treasury is running towards the lees; and
Paris “eddies with a flood of pamphlets.” At all rates, let the
_latter_ subside a little! D’Orléans gets back to Raincy, which
is nearer Paris and the fair frail Buffon; finally to Paris
itself: neither are Fréteau and Sabatier banished forever. The
Protestant Edict is registered; to the joy of Boissy d’Anglas and
good Malesherbes: Successive Loan, all protests expunged or else
withdrawn, remains open,—the rather as few or none come to fill
it. States-General, for which the Parlement has clamoured, and
now the whole Nation clamours, will follow “in five years,”—if
indeed not sooner. O Parlement of Paris, what a clamour was that!
‘Messieurs,’ said old d’Ormesson, ‘you will get States-General,
and you will repent it.’ Like the Horse in the Fable, who, to be
avenged of his enemy, applied to the Man. The Man mounted; did
swift execution on the enemy; but, unhappily, would not dismount!
Instead of five years, let three years pass, and this clamorous
Parlement shall have both seen its enemy hurled prostrate, and
been itself ridden to foundering (say rather, jugulated for hide
and shoes), and lie dead in the ditch.
Under such omens, however, we have reached the spring of 1788. By
no path can the King’s Government find passage for itself, but is
everywhere shamefully flung back. Beleaguered by Twelve
rebellious Parlements, which are grown to be the organs of an
angry Nation, it can advance nowhither; can accomplish nothing,
obtain nothing, not so much as money to subsist on; but must sit
there, seemingly, to be eaten up of Deficit.
The measure of the Iniquity, then, of the Falsehood which has
been gathering through long centuries, is nearly full? At least,
that of the misery is! For the hovels of the Twenty-five
Millions, the misery, permeating upwards and forwards, as its law
is, has got so far,—to the very Œil-de-Bœuf of Versailles. Man’s
hand, in this blind pain, is set against man: not only the low
against the higher, but the higher against each other; Provincial
Noblesse is bitter against Court Noblesse; Robe against Sword;
Rochet against Pen. But against the King’s Government who is not
bitter? Not even Besenval, in these days. To it all men and
bodies of men are become as enemies; it is the centre whereon
infinite contentions unite and clash. What new universal
vertiginous movement is this; of Institution, social
Arrangements, individual Minds, which once worked cooperative;
now rolling and grinding in distracted collision? Inevitable: it
is the breaking-up of a World-Solecism, worn out at last, down
even to bankruptcy of money! And so this poor Versailles Court,
as the chief or central Solecism, finds all the other Solecisms
arrayed against it. Most natural! For your human Solecism, be it
Person or Combination of Persons, is ever, by law of Nature,
uneasy; if verging towards bankruptcy, it is even miserable:—and
when would the meanest Solecism consent to blame or amend
_itself_, while there remained another to amend?
These threatening signs do not terrify Loménie, much less teach
him. Loménie, though of light nature, is not without courage, of
a sort. Nay, have we not read of lightest creatures, trained
Canary-birds, that could fly cheerfully with lighted matches, and
fire cannon; fire whole powder-magazines? To sit and die of
deficit is no part of Loménie’s plan. The evil is considerable;
but can he not remove it, can he not attack it? At lowest, he can
attack the _symptom_ of it: these rebellious Parlements he can
attack, and perhaps remove. Much is dim to Loménie, but two
things are clear: that such Parlementary duel with Royalty is
growing perilous, nay internecine; above all, that money must be
had. Take thought, brave Loménie; thou Garde-des-Sceaux
Lamoignon, who hast ideas! So often defeated, balked cruelly when
the golden fruit seemed within clutch, rally for one other
struggle. To tame the Parlement, to fill the King’s coffers:
these are now life-and-death questions.
Parlements have been tamed, more than once. Set to perch “on the
peaks of rocks in accessible except by litters,” a Parlement
grows reasonable. O Maupeou, thou bold man, had we left thy work
where it was!—But apart from exile, or other violent methods, is
there not one method, whereby all things are tamed, even lions?
The method of hunger! What if the Parlement’s supplies were cut
off; namely its Lawsuits!
Minor Courts, for the trying of innumerable minor causes, might
be instituted: these we could call _Grand Bailliages_. Whereon
the Parlement, shortened of its prey, would look with yellow
despair; but the Public, fond of cheap justice, with favour and
hope. Then for Finance, for registering of Edicts, why not, from
our own Œil-de-Bœuf Dignitaries, our Princes, Dukes, Marshals,
make a thing we could call _Plenary Court_; and there, so to
speak, do our registering ourselves? St. Louis had his Plenary
Court, of Great Barons;[82] most useful to him: our Great Barons
are still here (at least the Name of them is still here); our
necessity is greater than his.
Such is the Loménie-Lamoignon device; welcome to the King’s
Council, as a light-beam in great darkness. The device seems
feasible, it is eminently needful: be it once well executed,
great deliverance is wrought. Silent, then, and steady; now or
never!—the World shall see one other Historical Scene; and so
singular a man as Loménie de Brienne still the Stage-manager
there.
Behold, accordingly, a Home-Secretary Bréteuil “beautifying
Paris,” in the peaceablest manner, in this hopeful spring weather
of 1788; the old hovels and hutches disappearing from our
Bridges: as if for the State too there were halcyon weather, and
nothing to do but beautify. Parlement seems to sit acknowledged
victor. Brienne says nothing of Finance; or even says, and
prints, that it is all well. How is this; such halcyon quiet;
though the Successive Loan did not fill? In a victorious
Parlement, Counsellor Goeslard de Monsabert even denounces that
“levying of the Second Twentieth on strict valuation;” and gets
decree that the valuation shall not be strict,—not on the
privileged classes. Nevertheless Brienne endures it, launches no
Lettre-de-Cachet against it. How is this?
Smiling is such vernal weather; but treacherous, sudden! For one
thing, we hear it whispered, “the Intendants of Provinces have
all got order to be at their posts on a certain day.” Still more
singular, what incessant Printing is this that goes on at the
King’s Château, under lock and key? Sentries occupy all gates and
windows; the Printers come not out; they sleep in their
workrooms; their very food is handed in to them![83] A victorious
Parlement smells new danger. D’Espréménil has ordered horses to
Versailles; prowls round that guarded Printing-Office; prying,
snuffing, if so be the sagacity and ingenuity of man may
penetrate it.
To a shower of gold most things are penetrable. D’Espréménil
descends on the lap of a Printer’s Danae, in the shape of “five
hundred louis d’or:” the Danae’s Husband smuggles a ball of clay
to her; which she delivers to the golden Counsellor of Parlement.
Kneaded within it, their stick printed proof-sheets;—by Heaven!
the royal Edict of that same self-registering _Plenary Court;_ of
those _Grand Bailliages_ that shall cut short our Lawsuits! It is
to be promulgated over all France on one and the same day.
This, then, is what the Intendants were bid wait for at their
posts: this is what the Court sat hatching, as its accursed
cockatrice-egg; and would not stir, though provoked, till the
brood were out! Hie with it, D’Espréménil, home to Paris; convoke
instantaneous Sessions; let the Parlement, and the Earth, and the
Heavens know it.