Conquering your King.
On the morrow a fourth Deputation to the Château is on foot: of a
more solemn, not to say awful character, for, besides “orgies in
the Orangery,” it seems, “the grain convoys are all stopped;” nor
has Mirabeau’s thunder been silent. Such Deputation is on the
point of setting out—when lo, his Majesty himself attended only
by his two Brothers, step in; quite in the paternal manner;
announces that the troops, and all causes of offence, are gone,
and henceforth there shall be nothing but trust, reconcilement,
good-will; whereof he “permits and even requests,” a National
Assembly to assure Paris in his name! Acclamation, as of men
suddenly delivered from death, gives answer. The whole Assembly
spontaneously rises to escort his Majesty back; “interlacing
their arms to keep off the excessive pressure from him;” for all
Versailles is crowding and shouting. The Château Musicians, with
a felicitous promptitude, strike up the _Sein de sa Famille_
(Bosom of one’s Family): the Queen appears at the balcony with
her little boy and girl, “kissing them several times;” infinite
_Vivats_ spread far and wide;—and suddenly there has come, as it
were, a new Heaven-on-Earth.
Eighty-eight august Senators, Bailly, Lafayette, and our
repentant Archbishop among them, take coach for Paris, with the
great intelligence; benedictions without end on their heads. From
the Place Louis Quinze, where they alight, all the way to the
Hôtel-de-Ville, it is one sea of Tricolor cockades, of clear
National muskets; one tempest of huzzaings, hand-clappings, aided
by “occasional rollings” of drum-music. Harangues of due fervour
are delivered; especially by Lally Tollendal, pious son of the
ill-fated murdered Lally; on whose head, in consequence, a civic
crown (of oak or parsley) is forced,—which he forcibly transfers
to Bailly’s.
But surely, for one thing, the National Guard must have a
General! Moreau de Saint-Méry, he of the “three thousand orders,”
casts one of his significant glances on the Bust of Lafayette,
which has stood there ever since the American War of Liberty.
Whereupon, by acclamation, Lafayette is nominated. Again, in room
of the slain traitor or quasi-traitor Flesselles, President
Bailly shall be—Provost of the Merchants? No: Mayor of Paris! So
be it. _Maire de Paris!_ Mayor Bailly, General Lafayette; _vive
Bailly, vive Lafayette_—the universal out-of-doors multitude
rends the welkin in confirmation.—And now, finally, let us to
Notre-Dame for a _Te Deum._
Towards Notre-Dame Cathedral, in glad procession, these
Regenerators of the Country walk, through a jubilant people; in
fraternal manner; Abbé Lefevre, still black with his gunpowder
services, walking arm in arm with the white-stoled Archbishop.
Poor Bailly comes upon the Foundling Children, sent to kneel to
him; and “weeps.” _Te Deum_, our Archbishop officiating, is not
only sung, but _shot_—with blank cartridges. Our joy is boundless
as our wo threatened to be. Paris, by her own pike and musket,
and the valour of her own heart, has conquered the very
wargods,—to the satisfaction now of Majesty itself. A courier is,
this night, getting under way for Necker: the People’s Minister,
invited back by King, by National Assembly, and Nation, shall
traverse France amid shoutings, and the sound of trumpet and
timbrel.
Seeing which course of things, Messeigneurs of the Court
Triumvirate, Messieurs of the dead-born Broglie-Ministry, and
others such, consider that their part also is clear: to mount and
ride. Off, ye too-loyal Broglies, Polignacs, and Princes of the
Blood; off while it is yet time! Did not the Palais-Royal in its
late nocturnal “violent motions,” set a specific price (place of
payment not mentioned) on each of your heads?—With precautions,
with the aid of pieces of cannon and regiments that can be
depended on, Messeigneurs, between the 16th night and the 17th
morning, get to their several roads. Not without risk! Prince
Condé has (or seems to have) “men galloping at full speed;” with
a view, it is thought, to fling him into the river Oise, at
Pont-Sainte-Mayence.[190] The Polignacs travel disguised;
friends, not servants, on their coach-box. Broglie has his own
difficulties at Versailles, runs his own risks at Metz and
Verdun; does nevertheless get safe to Luxemburg, and there rests.
This is what they call the First Emigration; determined on, as
appears, in full Court-conclave; his Majesty assisting; prompt
he, for his share of it, to follow any counsel whatsoever. “Three
Sons of France, and four Princes of the blood of Saint Louis,”
says Weber, “could not more effectually humble the Burghers of
Paris than by appearing to withdraw in fear of their life.” Alas,
the Burghers of Paris bear it with unexpected Stoicism! The Man
d’Artois indeed is gone; but has he carried, for example, the
Land D’Artois with him? Not even Bagatelle the Country-house
(which shall be useful as a Tavern); hardly the four-valet
Breeches, leaving the Breeches-maker!—As for old Foulon, one
learns that he is dead; at least a “sumptuous funeral” is going
on; the undertakers honouring him, if no other will. Intendant
Berthier, his son-in-law, is still living; lurking: he joined
Besenval, on that Eumenides’ Sunday; appearing to treat it with
levity; and is now fled no man knows whither.
The Emigration is not gone many miles, Prince Condé hardly across
the Oise, when his Majesty, according to arrangement, for the
Emigration also thought it might do good,—undertakes a rather
daring enterprise: that of visiting Paris in person. With a
Hundred Members of Assembly; with small or no military escort,
which indeed he dismissed at the Bridge of Sèvres, poor Louis
sets out; leaving a desolate Palace; a Queen weeping, the
Present, the Past, and the Future all so unfriendly for her.
At the Barrier of Passy, Mayor Bailly, in grand gala, presents
him with the keys; harangues him, in Academic style; mentions
that it is a great day; that in Henri Quatre’s case, the King had
to make conquest of his People, but in this happier case, the
People makes conquest of its King (_a conquis son Roi_). The
King, so happily conquered, drives forward, slowly, through a
steel people, all silent, or shouting only _Vive la Nation;_ is
harangued at the Townhall, by Moreau of the three-thousand
orders, by King’s Procureur M. Ethys de Corny, by Lally
Tollendal, and others; knows not what to think of it, or say of
it; learns that he is “Restorer of French Liberty,”—as a Statue
of him, to be raised on the site of the Bastille, shall testify
to all men. Finally, he is shewn at the Balcony, with a Tricolor
cockade in his hat; is greeted now, with vehement acclamation,
from Square and Street, from all windows and roofs:—and so drives
home again amid glad mingled and, as it were, intermarried
shouts, of _Vive le Roi_ and _Vive la Nation;_ wearied but safe.
It was Sunday when the red-hot balls hung over us, in mid air: it
is now but Friday, and “the Revolution is sanctioned.” An August
National Assembly shall make the Constitution; and neither
foreign Pandour, domestic Triumvirate, with levelled Cannon,
Guy-Faux powder-plots (for that too was spoken of); nor any
tyrannic Power on the Earth, or under the Earth, shall say to it,
What dost thou?—So jubilates the people; sure now of a
Constitution. Cracked Marquis Saint-Huruge is heard under the
windows of the Château; murmuring sheer speculative-treason.[191]