From Versailles.
However, the Paris National Guard, wholly under arms, has cleared
the Palace, and even occupies the nearer external spaces;
extruding miscellaneous Patriotism, for most part, into the Grand
Court, or even into the Forecourt.
The Bodyguards, you can observe, have now of a verity, “hoisted
the National Cockade:” for they step forward to the windows or
balconies, hat aloft in hand, on each hat a huge tricolor; and
fling over their bandoleers in sign of surrender; and shout _Vive
la Nation_. To which how can the generous heart respond but with,
_Vive le Roi; vivent les Gardes-du-Corps?_ His Majesty himself
has appeared with Lafayette on the balcony, and again appears:
_Vive le Roi_ greets him from all throats; but also from some one
throat is heard ‘_Le Roi à Paris_, The King to Paris!’
Her Majesty too, on demand, shows herself, though there is peril
in it: she steps out on the balcony, with her little boy and
girl. ‘No children, _Point d’enfans!_’ cry the voices. She gently
pushes back her children; and stands alone, her hands serenely
crossed on her breast: ‘should I die,’ she had said, ‘I will do
it.’ Such serenity of heroism has its effect. Lafayette, with
ready wit, in his highflown chivalrous way, takes that fair
queenly hand; and reverently kneeling, kisses it: thereupon the
people do shout _Vive la Reine_. Nevertheless, poor Weber “saw”
(or even thought he saw; for hardly the third part of poor
Weber’s experiences, in such hysterical days, will stand
scrutiny) “one of these brigands level his musket at her
Majesty,”—with or without intention to shoot; for another of the
brigands “angrily struck it down.”
So that all, and the Queen herself, nay the very Captain of the
Bodyguards, have grown National! The very Captain of the
Bodyguards steps out now with Lafayette. On the hat of the
repentant man is an enormous tricolor; large as a soup-platter,
or sun-flower; visible to the utmost Forecourt. He takes the
National Oath with a loud voice, elevating his hat; at which
sight all the army raise their bonnets on their bayonets, with
shouts. Sweet is reconcilement to the heart of man. Lafayette has
sworn Flandre; he swears the remaining Bodyguards, down in the
Marble Court; the people clasp them in their arms:—O, my
brothers, why would ye force us to slay you? Behold there is joy
over you, as over returning prodigal sons!—The poor Bodyguards,
now National and tricolor, exchange bonnets, exchange arms; there
shall be peace and fraternity. And still ‘_Vive le Roi;_’ and
also ‘_Le Roi à Paris_,’ not now from one throat, but from all
throats as one, for it is the heart’s wish of all mortals.
Yes, _The King to Paris:_ what else? Ministers may consult, and
National Deputies wag their heads: but there is now no other
possibility. You have forced him to go willingly. ‘At one
o’clock!’ Lafayette gives audible assurance to that purpose; and
universal Insurrection, with immeasurable shout, and a discharge
of all the firearms, clear and rusty, great and small, that it
has, returns him acceptance. What a sound; heard for leagues: a
doom peal!—That sound too rolls away, into the Silence of Ages.
And the Château of Versailles stands ever since vacant, hushed
still; its spacious Courts grassgrown, responsive to the hoe of
the weeder. Times and generations roll on, in their confused
Gulf-current; and buildings like builders have their destiny.
Till one o’clock, then, there will be three parties, National
Assembly, National Rascality, National Royalty, all busy enough.
Rascality rejoices; women trim themselves with tricolor. Nay
motherly Paris has sent her Avengers sufficient “cartloads of
loaves;” which are shouted over, which are gratefully consumed.
The Avengers, in return, are searching for grain-stores; loading
them in fifty waggons; that so a National King, probable
harbinger of all blessings, may be the evident bringer of plenty,
for one.
And thus has Sansculottism made prisoner its King; _revoking_ his
parole. The Monarchy has fallen; and not so much as honourably:
no, ignominiously; with struggle, indeed, oft repeated; but then
with unwise struggle; wasting its strength in fits and paroxysms;
at every new paroxysm, foiled more pitifully than before. Thus
Broglie’s whiff of grapeshot, which might have been something,
has dwindled to the pot-valour of an Opera Repast, and _O
Richard, O mon Roi_. Which again we shall see dwindle to a
Favras’ Conspiracy, a thing to be settled by the hanging of one
Chevalier.
Poor Monarchy! But what save foulest defeat can await that man,
who wills, and yet wills not? Apparently the King either has a
right, assertible as such to the death, before God and man; or
else he has no right. Apparently, the one or the other; could he
but know which! May Heaven pity him! Were Louis wise he would
this day abdicate.—Is it not strange so few Kings abdicate; and
none yet heard of has been known to commit suicide? Fritz the
First, of Prussia, alone tried it; and they cut the rope.[255]
As for the National Assembly, which decrees this morning that it
“is inseparable from his Majesty,” and will follow him to Paris,
there may one thing be noted: its extreme want of bodily health.
After the Fourteenth of July there was a certain sickliness
observable among honourable Members; so many demanding passports,
on account of infirm health. But now, for these following days,
there is a perfect murrian: President Mounier, Lally Tollendal,
Clermont Tonnere, and all Constitutional Two-Chamber Royalists
needing change of air; as most No-Chamber Royalists had formerly
done.
For, in truth, it is the _second Emigration_ this that has now
come; most extensive among Commons Deputies, Noblesse, Clergy: so
that “to Switzerland alone there go sixty thousand.” They will
return in the day of accounts! Yes, and have hot welcome.—But
Emigration on Emigration is the peculiarity of France. One
Emigration follows another; grounded on reasonable fear,
unreasonable hope, largely also on childish pet. The highflyers
have gone first, now the lower flyers; and ever the lower will go
down to the crawlers. Whereby, however, cannot our National
Assembly so much the more commodiously make the Constitution;
your Two-Chamber Anglomaniacs being all safe, distant on foreign
shores? Abbé Maury is seized, and sent back again: he, tough as
tanned leather, with eloquent Captain Cazalès and some others,
will stand it out for another year.
But here, meanwhile, the question arises: Was Philippe d’Orléans
seen, this day, “in the Bois de Boulogne, in grey surtout;”
waiting under the wet sere foliage, what the day might bring
forth? Alas, yes, the Eidolon of him was,—in Weber’s and other
such brains. The Chatelet shall make large inquisition into the
matter, examining a hundred and seventy witnesses, and Deputy
Chabroud publish his Report; but disclose nothing _farther_.[256]
What then has caused these two unparalleled October Days? For
surely such dramatic exhibition never yet enacted itself without
Dramatist and Machinist. Wooden Punch emerges not, with his
domestic sorrows, into the light of day, unless the wire be
pulled: how can human mobs? Was it not d’Orléans then, and
Laclos, Marquis Sillery, Mirabeau and the sons of confusion,
hoping to drive the King to Metz, and gather the spoil? Nay was
it not, quite contrariwise, the Œil-de-Bœuf, Bodyguard Colonel de
Guiche, Minister Saint-Priest and highflying Loyalists; hoping
also to drive him to Metz; and try it by the sword of civil war?
Good Marquis Toulongeon, the Historian and Deputy, feels
constrained to admit that it was _both_.[257]
Alas, my Friends, credulous incredulity is a strange matter. But
when a whole Nation is smitten with Suspicion, and sees a
dramatic miracle in the very operation of the gastric juices,
what help is there? Such Nation is already a mere hypochondriac
bundle of diseases; as good as changed into glass; atrabiliar,
decadent; and will suffer crises. Is not Suspicion itself the one
thing to be suspected, as Montaigne feared only fear?
Now, however, the short hour has struck. His Majesty is in his
carriage, with his Queen, sister Elizabeth, and two royal
children. Not for another hour can the infinite Procession get
marshalled, and under way. The weather is dim drizzling; the mind
confused; and noise great.
Processional marches not a few our world has seen; Roman triumphs
and ovations, Cabiric cymbal-beatings, Royal progresses, Irish
funerals: but this of the French Monarchy marching to its bed
remained to be seen. Miles long, and of breadth losing itself in
vagueness, for all the neighbouring country crowds to see. Slow;
stagnating along, like shoreless Lake, yet with a noise like
Niagara, like Babel and Bedlam. A splashing and a tramping; a
hurrahing, uproaring, musket-volleying;—the truest segment of
Chaos seen in these latter Ages! Till slowly it disembogue
itself, in the thickening dusk, into expectant Paris, through a
double row of faces all the way from Passy to the Hôtel-de-Ville.
Consider this: Vanguard of National troops; with trains of
artillery; of pikemen and pikewomen, mounted on cannons, on
carts, hackney-coaches, or on foot;—tripudiating, in tricolor
ribbons from head to heel; loaves stuck on the points of
bayonets, green boughs stuck in gun barrels.[258] Next, as
main-march, “fifty cartloads of corn,” which have been lent, for
peace, from the stores of Versailles. Behind which follow
stragglers of the Garde-du-Corps; all humiliated, in Grenadier
bonnets. Close on these comes the Royal Carriage; come Royal
Carriages: for there are an Hundred National Deputies too, among
whom sits Mirabeau,—his remarks not given. Then finally,
pellmell, as rearguard, Flandre, Swiss, Hundred Swiss, other
Bodyguards, Brigands, whosoever cannot get before. Between and
among all which masses, flows without limit Saint-Antoine, and
the Menadic Cohort. Menadic especially about the Royal Carriage;
tripudiating there, covered with tricolor; singing “allusive
songs;” pointing with one hand to the Royal Carriage, which the
illusions hit, and pointing to the Provision-wagons, with the
other hand, and these words: ‘Courage, Friends! We shall not want
bread now; we are bringing you the Baker, the Bakeress, and
Baker’s Boy (_le Boulanger, la Boulangère, et le petit
Mitron_).’[259]
The wet day draggles the tricolor, but the joy is
unextinguishable. Is not all well now? ‘_Ah, Madame, notre bonne
Reine_,’ said some of these Strong-women some days hence, ‘Ah
Madame, our good Queen, don’t be a traitor any more (_ne soyez
plus traître_), and we will all love you!’ Poor Weber went
splashing along, close by the Royal carriage, with the tear in
his eye: “their Majesties did me the honour,” or I thought they
did it, “to testify, from time to time, by shrugging of the
shoulders, by looks directed to Heaven, the emotions they felt.”
Thus, like frail cockle, floats the Royal Life-boat, helmless, on
black deluges of Rascality.
Mercier, in his loose way, estimates the Procession and
assistants at two hundred thousand. He says it was one boundless
inarticulate Haha;—_transcendent_ World-Laughter; comparable to
the Saturnalia of the Ancients. Why not? Here too, as we said, is
Human Nature once more human; shudder at it whoso is of
shuddering humour: yet behold it is human. It has “swallowed all
formulas;” it tripudiates even so. For which reason they that
collect Vases and Antiques, with figures of Dancing Bacchantes
“in wild and all but impossible positions,” may look with some
interest on it.
Thus, however, has the slow-moving Chaos or modern Saturnalia of
the Ancients, reached the Barrier; and must halt, to be harangued
by Mayor Bailly. Thereafter it has to lumber along, between the
double row of faces, in the transcendent heaven-lashing Haha; two
hours longer, towards the Hôtel-de-Ville. Then again to be
harangued there, by several persons; by Moreau de Saint-Méry,
among others; Moreau of the Three-thousand orders, now National
Deputy for St. Domingo. To all which poor Louis, who seemed to
“experience a slight emotion” on entering this Townhall, can
answer only that he ‘comes with pleasure, with confidence among
his people.’ Mayor Bailly, in reporting it, forgets “confidence;”
and the poor Queen says eagerly: ‘Add, with
confidence.’—‘Messieurs,’ rejoins Bailly, ‘You are happier than
if I had not forgot.’
Finally, the King is shewn on an upper balcony, by torchlight,
with a huge tricolor in his hat: “And all the ‘people,’ says
Weber, grasped one another’s hands;—thinking _now_ surely the New
Era was born.” Hardly till eleven at night can Royalty get to its
vacant, long-deserted Palace of the Tuileries: to lodge there,
somewhat in strolling-player fashion. It is Tuesday, the sixth of
October, 1789.
Poor Louis has Two other Paris Processions to make: one
ludicrous-ignominious like this; the other not ludicrous nor
ignominious, but serious, nay sublime.
END OF THE FIRST VOLUME.
VOLUME II.
THE CONSTITUTION
Mauern seh ich’ gestürzt, und Mauern seh’ ich errichtet
Hier Gefangene, dort auch der Gefangenen viel.
Ist vielleicht nur die Welt ein grosser Kerker? Und frei ist
Wohl der Tolle, der sich Ketten zu Kränzen erkiest?
GOETHE.