Burial with Bonfire.
Besenval, during these extraordinary operations, of Payment
two-fifths in Paper, and change of Prime Minister, had been out
on a tour through his District of Command; and indeed, for the
last months, peacefully drinking the waters of Contrexeville.
Returning now, in the end of August, towards Moulins, and
“knowing nothing,” he arrives one evening at Langres; finds the
whole Town in a state of uproar (_grande rumeur_). Doubtless some
sedition; a thing too common in these days! He alights
nevertheless; inquires of a “man tolerably dressed,” what the
matter is?—‘How?’ answers the man, ‘you have not heard the news?
The Archbishop is thrown out, and M. Necker is recalled; and all
is going to go well!’[102]
Such _rumeur_ and vociferous acclaim has risen round M. Necker,
ever from “that day when he issued from the Queen’s Apartments,”
a nominated Minister. It was on the 24th of August: “the
galleries of the Château, the courts, the streets of Versailles;
in few hours, the Capital; and, as the news flew, all France,
resounded with the cry of _Vive le Roi! Vive M. Necker!_[103] In
Paris indeed it unfortunately got the length of turbulence.”
Petards, rockets go off, in the Place Dauphine, more than enough.
A “wicker Figure (_Mannequin d’osier_),” in Archbishop’s stole,
made emblematically, three-fifths of it satin, two-fifths of it
paper, is promenaded, not in silence, to the popular
judgment-bar; is doomed; shriven by a mock Abbé de Vermond; then
solemnly consumed by fire, at the foot of Henri’s Statue on the
Pont Neuf;—with such petarding and huzzaing that Chevalier Dubois
and his City-watch see good finally to make a charge (more or
less ineffectual); and there wanted not burning of sentry-boxes,
forcing of guard-houses, and also “dead bodies thrown into the
Seine over-night,” to avoid new effervescence.[104]
Parlements therefore shall return from exile: Plenary Court,
Payment two-fifths in Paper have vanished; gone off in smoke, at
the foot of Henri’s Statue. States-General (with a Political
Millennium) are now certain; nay, it shall be announced, in our
fond haste, for January next: and all, as the Langres man said,
is “going to go.”
To the prophetic glance of Besenval, one other thing is too
apparent: that Friend Lamoignon cannot keep his Keepership.
Neither he nor War-minister Comte de Brienne! Already old Foulon,
with an eye to be war-minister himself, is making underground
movements. This is that same Foulon named _âme damnée du
Parlement;_ a man grown gray in treachery, in griping,
projecting, intriguing and iniquity: who once when it was
objected, to some finance-scheme of his, ‘What will the people
do?’—made answer, in the fire of discussion, ‘The people may eat
grass:’ hasty words, which fly abroad irrevocable,—and will send
back tidings!
Foulon, to the relief of the world, fails on this occasion; and
will always fail. Nevertheless it steads not M. de Lamoignon. It
steads not the doomed man that he have interviews with the King;
and be “seen to return _radieux_,” emitting _rays_. Lamoignon is
the hated of Parlements: Comte de Brienne is Brother to the
Cardinal Archbishop. The 24th of August has been; and the 14th
September is not yet, when they two, as their great Principal had
done, descend,—made to fall _soft_, like him.
And now, as if the last burden had been rolled from its heart,
and assurance were at length perfect, Paris bursts forth anew
into extreme jubilee. The Basoche rejoices aloud, that the foe of
Parlements is fallen; Nobility, Gentry, Commonalty have rejoiced;
and rejoice. Nay now, with new emphasis, Rascality itself,
starting suddenly from its dim depths, will arise and do it,—for
down even thither the new Political Evangel, in some rude version
or other, has penetrated. It is Monday, the 14th of September
1788: Rascality assembles anew, in great force, in the Place
Dauphine; lets off petards, fires blunderbusses, to an incredible
extent, without interval, for eighteen hours. There is again a
wicker Figure, “_Mannequin_ of osier:” the centre of endless
howlings. Also Necker’s Portrait snatched, or purchased, from
some Printshop, is borne processionally, aloft on a perch, with
huzzas;—an example to be remembered.
But chiefly on the Pont Neuf, where the Great Henri, in bronze,
rides sublime; there do the crowds gather. All passengers must
stop, till they have bowed to the People’s King, and said
audibly: _Vive Henri Quatre; au diable Lamoignon!_ No carriage
but must stop; not even that of his Highness d’Orléans. Your
coach-doors are opened: Monsieur will please to put forth his
head and bow; or even, if refractory, to alight altogether, and
kneel: from Madame a wave of her plumes, a smile of her fair
face, there where she sits, shall suffice;—and surely a coin or
two (to buy _fusées_) were not unreasonable from the Upper
Classes, friends of Liberty? In this manner it proceeds for days;
in such rude horse-play,—not without kicks. The City-watch can do
nothing; hardly save its own skin: for the last twelve-month, as
we have sometimes seen, it has been a kind of pastime to _hunt_
the Watch. Besenval indeed is at hand with soldiers; but they
have orders to avoid firing, and are not prompt to stir.
On Monday morning the explosion of petards began: and now it is
near midnight of Wednesday; and the “wicker _Mannequin_” is to be
buried,—apparently in the Antique fashion. Long rows of torches,
following it, move towards the Hôtel Lamoignon; but “a servant of
mine” (Besenval’s) has run to give warning, and there are
soldiers come. Gloomy Lamoignon is not to die by conflagration,
or this night; not yet for a year, and then by gunshot (suicidal
or accidental is unknown).[105] Foiled Rascality burns its
“Mannikin of osier,” under his windows; “tears up the
sentry-box,” and rolls off: to try Brienne; to try Dubois Captain
of the Watch. Now, however, all is bestirring itself; Gardes
Françaises, Invalides, Horse-patrol: the Torch Procession is met
with sharp shot, with the thrusting of bayonets, the slashing of
sabres. Even Dubois makes a charge, with that Cavalry of his, and
the cruelest charge of all: “there are a great many killed and
wounded.” Not without clangour, complaint; subsequent criminal
trials, and official persons dying of heartbreak![106] So,
however, with steel-besom, Rascality is brushed back into its dim
depths, and the streets are swept clear.
Not for a century and half had Rascality ventured to step forth
in this fashion; not for so long, showed its huge rude lineaments
in the light of day. A Wonder and new Thing: as yet gamboling
merely, in awkward Brobdingnag sport, not without quaintness;
hardly in anger: yet in its huge half-vacant laugh lurks a shade
of grimness,—which could unfold itself!
However, the thinkers invited by Loménie are now far on with
their pamphlets: States-General, on one plan or another, will
infallibly meet; if not in January, as was once hoped, yet at
latest in May. Old Duke de Richelieu, moribund in these autumn
days, opens his eyes once more, murmuring, ‘What would Louis
Fourteenth’ (whom he remembers) ‘have said!’—then closes them
again, forever, before the evil time.