Bouillé at Metz.
To Bouillé, in his North-Eastern circle, none of these things are
altogether hid. Many times flight over the marches gleams out on
him as a last guidance in such bewilderment: nevertheless he
continues here: struggling always to hope the best, not from new
organisation but from happy Counter-Revolution and return to the
old. For the rest it is clear to him that this same National
Federation, and universal swearing and fraternising of People and
Soldiers, has done “incalculable mischief.” So much that
fermented secretly has hereby got vent and become open: National
Guards and Soldiers of the line, solemnly embracing one another
on all parade-fields, drinking, swearing patriotic oaths, fall
into disorderly street-processions, constitutional unmilitary
exclamations and hurrahings. On which account the Regiment
Picardie, for one, has to be drawn out in the square of the
barracks, here at Metz, and sharply harangued by the General
himself; but expresses penitence.[311]
Far and near, as accounts testify, insubordination has begun
grumbling louder and louder. Officers have been seen shut up in
their mess-rooms; assaulted with clamorous demands, not without
menaces. The insubordinate ringleader is dismissed with “yellow
furlough,” yellow infamous thing they call _cartouche jaune:_ but
ten new ringleaders rise in his stead, and the yellow _cartouche_
ceases to be thought disgraceful. “Within a fortnight,” or at
furthest a month, of that sublime Feast of Pikes, the whole
French Army, demanding Arrears, forming Reading Clubs,
frequenting Popular Societies, is in a state which Bouillé can
call by no name but that of mutiny. Bouillé knows it as few do;
and speaks by dire experience. Take one instance instead of many.
It is still an early day of August, the precise date now
undiscoverable, when Bouillé, about to set out for the waters of
Aix la Chapelle, is once more suddenly summoned to the barracks
of Metz. The soldiers stand ranked in fighting order, muskets
loaded, the officers all there on compulsion; and require, with
many-voiced emphasis, to have their arrears paid. Picardie was
penitent; but we see it has relapsed: the wide space bristles and
lours with mere mutinous armed men. Brave Bouillé advances to the
nearest Regiment, opens his commanding lips to harangue; obtains
nothing but querulous-indignant discordance, and the sound of so
many thousand livres legally due. The moment is trying; there are
some ten thousand soldiers now in Metz, and one spirit seems to
have spread among them.
Bouillé is firm as the adamant; but what shall he do? A German
Regiment, named of Salm, is thought to be of better temper:
nevertheless Salm too may have heard of the precept, _Thou shalt
not steal;_ Salm too may know that money is money. Bouillé walks
trustfully towards the Regiment de Salm, speaks trustful words;
but here again is answered by the cry of forty-four thousand
livres odd sous. A cry waxing more and more vociferous, as Salm’s
humour mounts; which cry, as it will produce no cash or promise
of cash, ends in the wide simultaneous whirr of shouldered
muskets, and a determined quick-time march on the part of
Salm—towards its Colonel’s house, in the next street, there to
seize the colours and military chest. Thus does Salm, for its
part; strong in the faith that _meum_ is not _tuum_, that fair
speeches are not forty-four thousand livres odd sous.
Unrestrainable! Salm tramps to military time, quick consuming the
way. Bouillé and the officers, drawing sword, have to dash into
double quick _pas-de-charge_, or unmilitary running; to get the
start; to station themselves on the outer staircase, and stand
there with what of death-defiance and sharp steel they have; Salm
truculently coiling itself up, rank after rank, opposite them, in
such humour as we can fancy, which happily has not yet mounted to
the murder-pitch. There will Bouillé stand, certain at least of
_one_ man’s purpose; in grim calmness, awaiting the issue. What
the intrepidest of men and generals can do is done. Bouillé,
though there is a barricading picket at each end of the street,
and death under his eyes, contrives to send for a Dragoon
Regiment with orders to charge: the dragoon officers mount; the
dragoon men will not: hope is none there for him. The street, as
we say, barricaded; the Earth all shut out, only the indifferent
heavenly Vault overhead: perhaps here or there a timorous
householder peering out of window, with prayer for Bouillé;
copious Rascality, on the pavement, with prayer for Salm: there
do the two parties stand;—like chariots locked in a narrow
thoroughfare; like locked wrestlers at a dead-grip! For two hours
they stand; Bouillé’s sword glittering in his hand, adamantine
resolution clouding his brows: for two hours by the clocks of
Metz. Moody-silent stands Salm, with occasional clangour; but
does not fire. Rascality from time to time urges some grenadier
to level his musket at the General; who looks on it as a bronze
General would; and always some corporal or other strikes it up.
In such remarkable attitude, standing on that staircase for two
hours, does brave Bouillé, long a shadow, dawn on us visibly out
of the dimness, and become a person. For the rest, since Salm has
not shot him at the first instant, and since in himself there is
no variableness, the danger will diminish. The Mayor, “a man
infinitely respectable,” with his Municipals and tricolor sashes,
finally gains entrance; remonstrates, perorates, promises; gets
Salm persuaded home to its barracks. Next day, our respectable
Mayor lending the money, the officers pay down the _half_ of the
demand in ready cash. With which liquidation Salm pacifies
itself, and for the present all is hushed up, as much as may
be.[312]
Such scenes as this of Metz, or preparations and demonstrations
towards such, are universal over France: Dampmartin, with his
knotted forage-cords and piled chamois jackets, is at Strasburg
in the South-East; in these same days or rather nights, Royal
Champagne is “shouting _Vive la Nation, au diable les
Aristocrates_, with some thirty lit candles,” at Hesdin, on the
far North-West. ‘The garrison of Bitche,’ Deputy Rewbell is sorry
to state, ‘went out of the town, with drums beating; deposed its
officers; and then returned into the town, sabre in hand.’[313]
Ought not a National Assembly to occupy itself with these
objects? Military France is everywhere full of sour inflammatory
humour, which exhales itself fuliginously, this way or that: a
whole continent of smoking flax; which, blown on here or there by
any angry wind, might so easily start into a blaze, into a
continent of fire!
Constitutional Patriotism is in deep natural alarm at these
things. The august Assembly sits diligently deliberating; dare
nowise resolve, with Mirabeau, on an instantaneous disbandment
and extinction; finds that a course of palliatives is easier. But
at least and lowest, this grievance of the Arrears shall be
rectified. A plan, much noised of in those days, under the name
“Decree of the Sixth of August,” has been devised for that.
Inspectors shall visit all armies; and, with certain elected
corporals and “soldiers able to write,” verify what arrears and
peculations do lie due, and make them good. Well, if in this way
the smoky heat be cooled down; if it be not, as we say,
ventilated over-much, or, by sparks and collision somewhere, sent
_up!_