Mercury de Brézé.
Now surely were the time for a “god from the machine;” there is a
_nodus_ worthy of one. The only question is, Which god? Shall it
be Mars de Broglie, with his hundred pieces of cannon?—Not yet,
answers prudence; so soft, irresolute is King Louis. Let it be
Messenger _Mercury_, our Supreme Usher de Brézé.
On the morrow, which is the 20th of June, these Hundred and
Forty-nine false Curates, no longer restrainable by his Grace of
Paris, will desert in a body: let De Brézé intervene, and
produce—closed doors! Not only shall there be Royal Session, in
that Salle des Menus; but no meeting, nor working (except by
carpenters), till then. Your Third Estate, self-styled “National
Assembly,” shall suddenly see itself extruded from its Hall, by
carpenters, in this dexterous way; and reduced to do nothing, not
even to meet, or articulately lament,—till Majesty, with _Séance
Royale_ and new miracles, be ready! In this manner shall De
Brézé, as Mercury _ex machinâ_, intervene; and, if the
Œil-de-Bœuf mistake not, work deliverance from the _nodus_.
Of poor De Brézé we can remark that he has yet prospered in none
of his dealings with these Commons. Five weeks ago, when they
kissed the hand of Majesty, the mode he took got nothing but
censure; and then his “sincere attachment,” how was it scornfully
whiffed aside! Before supper, this night, he writes to President
Bailly, a new Letter, to be delivered shortly after dawn
tomorrow, in the King’s name. Which Letter, however, Bailly in
the pride of office, will merely crush together into his pocket,
like a bill he does not mean to pay.
Accordingly on Saturday morning the 20th of June, shrill-sounding
heralds proclaim through the streets of Versailles, that there is
to be a _Séance Royale_ next Monday; and no meeting of the
States-General till then. And yet, we observe, President Bailly
in sound of this, and with De Brézé’s Letter in his pocket, is
proceeding, with National Assembly at his heels, to the
accustomed Salles des Menus; as if De Brézé and heralds were mere
wind. It is shut, this Salle; occupied by Gardes Françaises.
‘Where is your Captain?’ The Captain shows his royal order:
workmen, he is grieved to say, are all busy setting up the
platform for his Majesty’s _Séance;_ most unfortunately, no
admission; admission, at furthest, for President and Secretaries
to bring away papers, which the joiners might destroy!—President
Bailly enters with Secretaries; and returns bearing papers: alas,
within doors, instead of patriotic eloquence, there is now no
noise but hammering, sawing, and operative screeching and
rumbling! A profanation without parallel.
The Deputies stand grouped on the Paris Road, on this umbrageous
_Avenue de Versailles;_ complaining aloud of the indignity done
them. Courtiers, it is supposed, look from their windows, and
giggle. The morning is none of the comfortablest: raw; it is even
drizzling a little.[149] But all travellers pause; patriot
gallery-men, miscellaneous spectators increase the groups. Wild
counsels alternate. Some desperate Deputies propose to go and
hold session on the great outer Staircase at Marly, under the
King’s windows; for his Majesty, it seems, has driven over
thither. Others talk of making the Château Forecourt, what they
call _Place d’Armes_, a Runnymede and new _Champ de Mai_ of free
Frenchmen: nay of awakening, to sounds of indignant Patriotism,
the echoes of the Œil-de-boeuf itself.—Notice is given that
President Bailly, aided by judicious Guillotin and others, has
found place in the Tennis-Court of the Rue St. François. Thither,
in long-drawn files, hoarse-jingling, like cranes on wing, the
Commons Deputies angrily wend.
Strange sight was this in the Rue St. François, Vieux Versailles!
A naked Tennis-Court, as the pictures of that time still give it:
four walls; naked, except aloft some poor wooden penthouse, or
roofed spectators’-gallery, hanging round them:—on the floor not
now an idle teeheeing, a snapping of balls and rackets; but the
bellowing din of an indignant National Representation,
scandalously exiled hither! However, a cloud of witnesses looks
down on them, from wooden penthouse, from wall-top, from
adjoining roof and chimney; rolls towards them from all quarters,
with passionate spoken blessings. Some table can be procured to
write on; some chair, if not to sit on, then to stand on. The
Secretaries undo their tapes; Bailly has constituted the
Assembly.
Experienced Mounier, not wholly new to such things, in
Parlementary revolts, which he has seen or heard of, thinks that
it were well, in these lamentable threatening circumstances, to
unite themselves by an Oath.—Universal acclamation, as from
smouldering bosoms getting vent! The Oath is redacted; pronounced
aloud by President Bailly,—and indeed in such a sonorous tone,
that the cloud of witnesses, even outdoors, hear it, and bellow
response to it. Six hundred right-hands rise with President
Bailly’s, to take God above to witness that they will not
separate for man below, but will meet in all places, under all
circumstances, wheresoever two or three can get together, till
they have made the Constitution. Made the Constitution, Friends!
That is a long task. Six hundred hands, meanwhile, will sign as
they have sworn: six hundred save one; one Loyalist Abdiel, still
visible by this sole light-point, and nameable, poor “M. Martin
d’Auch, from Castelnaudary, in Languedoc.” Him they permit to
sign or signify refusal; they even save him from the cloud of
witnesses, by declaring “his head deranged.” At four o’clock, the
signatures are all appended; new meeting is fixed for Monday
morning, earlier than the hour of the Royal Session; that our
Hundred and Forty-nine Clerical deserters be not balked: we shall
meet “at the Recollets Church or elsewhere,” in hope that our
Hundred and Forty-nine will join us;—and now it is time to go to
dinner.
This, then, is the Session of the Tennis-Court, famed _Séance du
Jeu de Paume;_ the fame of which has gone forth to all lands.
This is Mercurius de Brézé’s appearance as _Deus ex machinâ;_
this is the fruit it brings! The giggle of Courtiers in the
Versailles Avenue has already died into gaunt silence. Did the
distracted Court, with Gardes-des-Sceaux Barentin, Triumvirate
and Company, imagine that they could scatter six hundred National
Deputies, big with a National Constitution, like as much barndoor
poultry, big with next to nothing,—by the white or black rod of a
Supreme Usher? Barndoor poultry fly cackling: but National
Deputies turn round, lion-faced; and, with uplifted right-hand,
swear an Oath that makes the four corners of France tremble.
President Bailly has covered himself with honour; which shall
become rewards. The National Assembly is now doubly and trebly
the Nation’s Assembly; not militant, martyred only, but
triumphant; insulted, and which could not _be_ insulted. Paris
disembogues itself once more, to witness, “with grim looks,” the
_Séance Royale:_[150] which, by a new felicity, is postponed till
Tuesday. The Hundred and Forty-nine, and even with Bishops among
them, all in processional mass, have had free leisure to march
off, and solemnly join the Commons sitting waiting in their
Church. The Commons welcomed them with shouts, with embracings,
nay with tears;[151] for it is growing a life-and-death matter
now.
As for the _Séance_ itself, the Carpenters seem to have
accomplished their platform; but all else remains unaccomplished.
Futile, we may say fatal, was the whole matter. King Louis
enters, through seas of people, all grim-silent, angry with many
things,—for it is a bitter rain too. Enters, to a Third Estate,
likewise grim-silent; which has been wetted waiting under mean
porches, at back-doors, while Court and Privileged were entering
by the front. King and Garde-des-Sceaux (there is no Necker
visible) make known, not without longwindedness, the
determinations of the royal breast. The Three Orders _shall_ vote
separately. On the other hand, France may look for considerable
constitutional blessings; as specified in these Five-and-thirty
Articles,[152] which Garde-des-Sceaux is waxing hoarse with
reading. Which Five-and-Thirty Articles, adds his Majesty again
rising, if the Three Orders most unfortunately cannot agree
together to effect them, I myself will effect: ‘_seul je ferai le
bien de mes peuples_,’—which being interpreted may signify, You,
contentious Deputies of the States-General, have probably not
long to be here! But, in fine, all shall now withdraw for this
day; and meet again, each Order in its separate place, tomorrow
morning, for despatch of business. _This_ is the determination of
the royal breast: pithy and clear. And herewith King, retinue,
Noblesse, majority of Clergy file out, as if the whole matter
were satisfactorily completed.
These file out; through grim-silent seas of people. Only the
Commons Deputies file not out; but stand there in gloomy silence,
uncertain what they shall do. One man of them is certain; one man
of them discerns and dares! It is now that King Mirabeau starts
to the Tribune, and lifts up his lion-voice. Verily a word in
season; for, in such scenes, the moment is the mother of ages!
Had not Gabriel Honoré been there,—one can well fancy, how the
Commons Deputies, affrighted at the perils which now yawned dim
all round them, and waxing ever paler in each other’s paleness,
might very naturally, one after one, have _glided off;_ and the
whole course of European History have been different!
But he is there. List to the _brool_ of that royal forest-voice;
sorrowful, low; fast swelling to a roar! Eyes kindle at the
glance of his eye:—National Deputies were missioned by a Nation;
they have sworn an Oath; they—but lo! while the lion’s voice
roars loudest, what Apparition is this? Apparition of Mercurius
de Brézé, muttering somewhat!—‘Speak out,’ cry
several.—‘Messieurs,’ shrills De Brézé, repeating himself, ‘You
have heard the King’s orders!’—Mirabeau glares on him with
fire-flashing face; shakes the black lion’s mane: ‘Yes, Monsieur,
we have heard what the King was advised to say: and you who
cannot be the interpreter of his orders to the States-General;
you, who have neither place nor right of speech here; _you_ are
not the man to remind us of it. Go, Monsieur, tell these who sent
you that we are here by the will of the People, and that nothing
shall send us hence but the force of bayonets!’[153] And poor De
Brézé shivers forth from the National Assembly;—and also (if it
be not in one faintest glimmer, months later) finally from the
page of History!—
Hapless De Brézé; doomed to survive long ages, in men’s memory,
in this faint way, with tremulent white rod! He was true to
Etiquette, which was his Faith here below; a martyr to respect of
persons. Short woollen cloaks could not kiss Majesty’s hand as
long velvet ones did. Nay lately, when the poor little Dauphin
lay dead, and some ceremonial Visitation came, was he not
punctual to announce it even to the Dauphin’s _dead body:_
‘Monseigneur, a Deputation of the States-General!’[154] _Sunt
lachrymæ rerum._
But what does the Œil-de-Bœuf, now when De Brézé shivers back
thither? _Despatch_ that same force of bayonets? Not so: the seas
of people still hang multitudinous, intent on what is passing;
nay rush and roll, loud-billowing, into the Courts of the Château
itself; for a report has risen that Necker is to be dismissed.
Worst of all, the Gardes Françaises seem indisposed to act: “two
Companies of them _do not fire_ when ordered!”[155] Necker, for
not being at the _Séance_, shall be shouted for, carried home in
triumph; and must not be dismissed. His Grace of Paris, on the
other hand, has to fly with broken coach-panels, and owe his life
to furious driving. The _Gardes-du-Corps_ (Body-Guards), which
you were drawing out, had better be drawn in again.[156] There is
no sending of bayonets to be thought of.
Instead of soldiers, the Œil-de-Bœuf sends—carpenters, to take
down the platform. Ineffectual shift! In few instants, the very
carpenters cease wrenching and knocking at their platform; stand
on it, hammer in hand, and listen open-mouthed.[157] The Third
Estate is decreeing that it is, was, and will be, nothing but a
National Assembly; and now, moreover, an inviolable one, all
members of it inviolable: “infamous, traitorous, towards the
Nation, and guilty of capital crime, is any person,
body-corporate, tribunal, court or commission that now or
henceforth, during the present session or after it, shall dare to
pursue, interrogate, arrest, or cause to be arrested, detain or
cause to be detained, any,” &c. &c. “_on whose part soever_ the
same be commanded.”[158] Which done, one can wind up with this
comfortable reflection from Abbé Sieyes: ‘Messieurs, you are
today what you were yesterday.’
Courtiers may shriek; but it is, and remains, even so. Their
well-charged explosion has exploded _through the touch-hole;_
covering themselves with scorches, confusion, and unseemly soot!
Poor Triumvirate, poor Queen; and above all, poor Queen’s
Husband, who means well, had he any fixed meaning! Folly is that
wisdom which is wise only behindhand. Few months ago these
Thirty-five Concessions had filled France with a rejoicing, which
might have lasted for several years. Now it is unavailing, the
very mention of it slighted; Majesty’s express orders set at
nought.
All France is in a roar; a sea of persons, estimated at “ten
thousand,” whirls “all this day in the Palais Royal.”[159] The
remaining Clergy, and likewise some Forty-eight Noblesse,
D’Orléans among them, have now forthwith gone over to the
victorious Commons; by whom, as is natural, they are received
“with acclamation.”
The Third Estate triumphs; Versailles Town shouting round it; ten
thousand whirling all day in the Palais Royal; and all France
standing a-tiptoe, not unlike whirling! Let the Œil-de-Bœuf look
to it. As for King Louis, he will swallow his injuries; will
temporise, keep silence; will at all costs have present peace. It
was Tuesday the 23d of June, when he spoke that peremptory royal
mandate; and the week is not done till he has written to the
remaining obstinate Noblesse, that they also must oblige him, and
give in. D’Espréménil rages his last; Barrel Mirabeau “breaks his
sword,” making a vow,—which he might as well have kept. The
“Triple Family” is now therefore complete; the third erring
brother, the Noblesse, having joined it;—erring but pardonable;
soothed, so far as possible, by sweet eloquence from President
Bailly.
So triumphs the Third Estate; and States-General are become
National Assembly; and all France may sing _Te Deum_. By wise
inertia, and wise cessation of inertia, great victory has been
gained. It is the last night of June: all night you meet nothing
on the streets of Versailles but “men running with torches” with
shouts of jubilation. From the 2nd of May when they kissed the
hand of Majesty, to this 30th of June when men run with torches,
we count seven weeks complete. For seven weeks the National
Carroccio has stood far-seen, ringing many a signal; and, so much
having now gathered round it, may hope to stand.