Grown Electric.
But now also National Deputies from all ends of France are in
Paris, with their commissions, what they call pouvoirs, or
powers, in their pockets; inquiring, consulting; looking out for
lodgings at Versailles. The States-General shall open there, if
not on the First, then surely on the Fourth of May, in grand
procession and gala. The _Salle des Menus_ is all
new-carpentered, bedizened for them; their very costume has been
fixed; a grand controversy which there was, as to “slouch-hats or
slouched-hats,” for the Commons Deputies, has got as good as
adjusted. Ever new strangers arrive; loungers, miscellaneous
persons, officers on furlough,—as the worthy Captain Dampmartin,
whom we hope to be acquainted with: these also, from all regions,
have repaired hither, to see what is toward. Our Paris
Committees, of the Sixty Districts, are busier than ever; it is
now too clear, the Paris Elections will be late.
On Monday, the 27th of April, Astronomer Bailly notices that the
Sieur Réveillon is not at his post. The Sieur Réveillon,
“extensive Paper Manufacturer of the Rue St. Antoine;” he,
commonly so punctual, is absent from the Electoral Committee;—and
even will never reappear there. In those “immense Magazines of
velvet paper” has aught befallen? Alas, yes! Alas, it is no
Montgolfier rising there today; but Drudgery, Rascality and the
Suburb that is rising! Was the Sieur Réveillon, himself once a
journeyman, heard to say that “a journeyman might live handsomely
on fifteen _sous_ a-day?” Some sevenpence halfpenny: ’tis a
slender sum! Or was he only thought, and believed, to be heard
saying it? By this long chafing and friction it would appear the
National temper has got _electric_.
Down in those dark dens, in those dark heads and hungry hearts,
who knows in what strange figure the new Political Evangel may
have shaped itself; what miraculous “Communion of Drudges” may be
getting formed! Enough: grim individuals, soon waxing to grim
multitudes, and other multitudes crowding to see, beset that
Paper-Warehouse; demonstrate, in loud ungrammatical language
(addressed to the passions too), the insufficiency of sevenpence
halfpenny a-day. The City-watch cannot dissipate them; broils
arise and bellowings; Réveillon, at his wits’ end, entreats the
Populace, entreats the authorities. Besenval, now in active
command, Commandant of Paris, does, towards evening, to
Réveillon’s earnest prayer, send some thirty Gardes Françaises.
These clear the street, happily without firing; and take post
there for the night in hope that it may be all over.[127]
Not so: on the morrow it is far worse. Saint-Antoine has arisen
anew, grimmer than ever;—reinforced by the unknown Tatterdemalion
Figures, with their enthusiast complexion and large sticks. The
City, through all streets, is flowing thitherward to see: “two
cartloads of paving-stones, that happened to pass that way” have
been seized as a visible godsend. Another detachment of Gardes
Françaises must be sent; Besenval and the Colonel taking earnest
counsel. Then still another; they hardly, with bayonets and
menace of bullets, penetrate to the spot. What a sight! A street
choked up, with lumber, tumult and the endless press of men. A
Paper-Warehouse eviscerated by axe and fire: mad din of Revolt;
musket-volleys responded to by yells, by miscellaneous missiles;
by tiles raining from roof and window,—tiles, execrations and
slain men!
The Gardes Françaises like it not, but have to persevere. All day
it continues, slackening and rallying; the sun is sinking, and
Saint-Antoine has not yielded. The City flies hither and thither:
alas, the sound of that musket-volleying booms into the far
dining-rooms of the Chaussée d’Antin; alters the tone of the
dinner-gossip there. Captain Dampmartin leaves his wine; goes out
with a friend or two, to see the fighting. Unwashed men growl on
him, with murmurs of ‘_À bas les Aristocrates_ (Down with the
Aristocrats);’ and insult the cross of St. Louis? They elbow him,
and hustle him; but do not pick his pocket;—as indeed at
Réveillon’s too there was not the slightest stealing.[128]
At fall of night, as the thing will not end, Besenval takes his
resolution: orders out the _Gardes Suisses_ with two pieces of
artillery. The Swiss Guards shall proceed thither; summon that
rabble to depart, in the King’s name. If disobeyed, they shall
load their artillery with grape-shot, visibly to the general eye;
shall again summon; if again disobeyed, fire,—and keep firing
“till the last man” be in this manner blasted off, and the street
clear. With which spirited resolution, as might have been hoped,
the business is got ended. At sight of the lit matches, of the
foreign red-coated Switzers, Saint-Antoine dissipates; hastily,
in the shades of dusk. There is an encumbered street; there are
“from four to five hundred” dead men. Unfortunate Réveillon has
found shelter in the Bastille; does therefrom, safe behind stone
bulwarks, issue, plaint, protestation, explanation, for the next
month. Bold Besenval has thanks from all the respectable Parisian
classes; but finds no special notice taken of him at
Versailles,—a thing the man of true worth is used to.[129]
But how it originated, this fierce electric sputter and
explosion? From D’Orléans! cries the Court-party: he, with his
gold, enlisted these Brigands,—surely in some surprising manner,
without sound of drum: he raked them in hither, from all corners;
to ferment and take fire; evil is his good. From the Court! cries
enlightened Patriotism: it is the cursed gold and wiles of
Aristocrats that enlisted them; set them upon ruining an innocent
Sieur Réveillon; to frighten the faint, and disgust men with the
career of Freedom.
Besenval, with reluctance, concludes that it came from “the
English, our natural enemies.” Or, alas, might not one rather
attribute it to Diana in the shape of Hunger? To some twin
_Dioscuri_, OPPRESSION and REVENGE; so often seen in the battles
of men? Poor Lackalls, all betoiled, besoiled, encrusted into dim
defacement; into whom nevertheless the breath of the Almighty has
breathed a living soul! To them it is clear only that
eleutheromaniac Philosophism has yet baked no bread; that
Patrioti Committee-men will level down to their own level, and no
lower. Brigands, or whatever they might be, it was bitter earnest
with them. They bury their dead with the title of _Défenseurs de
la Patrie_, Martyrs of the good Cause.
Or shall we say: Insurrection has now served its Apprenticeship;
and this was its proof-stroke, and no inconclusive one? Its next
will be a master-stroke; announcing indisputable Mastership to a
whole astonished world. Let that rock-fortress, Tyranny’s
stronghold, which they name _Bastille_, or _Building_, as if
there were no other building,—look to its guns!
But, in such wise, with primary and secondary Assemblies, and
_Cahiers_ of Grievances; with motions, congregations of all
kinds; with much thunder of froth-eloquence, and at last with
thunder of platoon-musquetry,—does agitated France accomplish its
Elections. With confused winnowing and sifting, in this rather
tumultuous manner, it has now (all except some remnants of Paris)
sifted out the true wheat-grains of National Deputies, Twelve
Hundred and Fourteen in number; and will forthwith open its
States-General.