Inspector Malseigne.
Of Inspector Malseigne we discern, by direct light, that he is
“of Herculean stature;” and infer, with probability, that he is
of truculent moustachioed aspect,—for _Royalist_ Officers now
leave the upper lip unshaven; that he is of indomitable
bull-heart; and also, unfortunately, of thick bull-head.
On Tuesday the 24th of August, 1790, he opens session as
Inspecting Commissioner; meets those “elected corporals, and
soldiers that can write.” He finds the accounts of Château-Vieux
to be complex; to require delay and reference: he takes to
haranguing, to reprimanding; ends amid audible grumbling. Next
morning, he resumes session, not at the Townhall as prudent
Municipals counselled, but once more at the barracks.
Unfortunately Château-Vieux, grumbling all night, will now hear
of no delay or reference; from reprimanding on his part, it goes
to bullying,—answered with continual cries of ‘_Jugez tout de
suite_, Judge it at once;’ whereupon M. de Malseigne will off in
a huff. But lo, Château Vieux, swarming all about the
barrack-court, has sentries at every gate; M. de Malseigne,
demanding egress, cannot get it, though Commandant Denoue backs
him; can get only ‘_Jugez tout de suite_.’ Here is a nodus!
Bull-hearted M. de Malseigne draws his sword; and will force
egress. Confused splutter. M. de Malseigne’s sword breaks; he
snatches Commandant Denoue’s: the sentry is wounded. M. de
Malseigne, whom one is loath to kill, does force egress,—followed
by Château-Vieux all in disarray; a spectacle to Nanci. M. de
Malseigne walks at a sharp pace, yet never runs; wheeling from
time to time, with menaces and movements of fence; and so reaches
Denoue’s house, unhurt; which house Château-Vieux, in an agitated
manner, invests,—hindered as yet from entering, by a crowd of
officers formed on the staircase. M. de Malseigne retreats by
back ways to the Townhall, flustered though undaunted; amid an
escort of National Guards. From the Townhall he, on the morrow,
emits fresh orders, fresh plans of settlement with Château-Vieux;
to none of which will Château-Vieux listen: whereupon finally he,
amid noise enough, emits order that Château-Vieux shall march on
the morrow morning, and quarter at Sarre Louis. Château-Vieux
flatly refuses marching; M. de Malseigne “takes _act_,” due
notarial protest, of such refusal,—if happily that may avail him.
This is end of Thursday; and, indeed, of M. de Malseigne’s
Inspectorship, which has lasted some fifty hours. To such length,
in fifty hours, has he unfortunately brought it. Mestre-de-Camp
and Regiment du Roi hang, as it were, fluttering: Château-Vieux
is clean gone, in what way we see. Over night, an Aide-de-Camp of
Lafayette’s, stationed here for such emergency, sends swift
emissaries far and wide, to summon National Guards. The slumber
of the country is broken by clattering hoofs, by loud fraternal
knockings; every where the Constitutional Patriot must clutch his
fighting-gear, and take the road for Nanci.
And thus the Herculean Inspector has sat all Thursday, among
terror-struck Municipals, a centre of confused noise: all
Thursday, Friday, and till Saturday towards noon. Château-Vieux,
in spite of the notarial protest, will not march a step. As many
as four thousand National Guards are dropping or pouring in;
uncertain what is expected of them, still more uncertain what
will be obtained of them. For all is uncertainty, commotion, and
suspicion: there goes a word that Bouillé, beginning to bestir
himself in the rural Cantonments eastward, is but a Royalist
traitor; that Château-Vieux and Patriotism are sold to Austria,
of which latter M. de Malseigne is probably some agent.
Mestre-de-Camp and Roi flutter still more questionably:
Château-Vieux, far from marching, “waves red flags out of two
carriages,” in a passionate manner, along the streets; and next
morning answers its Officers: ‘Pay us, then; and we will march
with you to the world’s end!’
Under which circumstances, towards noon on Saturday, M. de
Malseigne thinks it were good perhaps to inspect the ramparts,—on
horseback. He mounts, accordingly, with escort of three troopers.
At the gate of the city, he bids two of them wait for his return;
and with the third, a trooper to be depended upon, he—gallops off
for Lunéville; where lies a certain Carabineer Regiment not yet
in a mutinous state! The two left troopers soon get uneasy;
discover how it is, and give the alarm. Mestre-de-Camp, to the
number of a hundred, saddles in frantic haste, as if sold to
Austria; gallops out pellmell in chase of its Inspector. And so
they spur, and the Inspector spurs; careering, with noise and
jingle, up the valley of the River Meurthe, towards Lunéville and
the midday sun: through an astonished country; indeed almost
their own astonishment.
What a hunt, Actæon-like;—which Actæon de Malseigne happily
_gains._ To arms, ye Carabineers of Lunéville: to chastise
mutinous men, insulting your General Officer, insulting your own
quarters;—above all things, fire _soon_, lest there be parleying
and ye refuse to fire! The Carabineers fire soon, exploding upon
the first stragglers of Mestre-de-Camp; who shrink at the very
flash, and fall back hastily on Nanci, in a state not far from
distraction. Panic and fury: sold to Austria without an _if;_ so
much per regiment, the very sums can be specified; and traitorous
Malseigne is fled! Help, O Heaven; help, thou Earth,—ye unwashed
Patriots; ye too are sold like us!
Effervescent Regiment du Roi primes its firelocks, Mestre-de-Camp
saddles wholly: Commandant Denoue is seized, is flung in prison
with a “canvass shirt” (_sarreau de toile_) about him;
Château-Vieux bursts up the magazines; distributes “three
thousand fusils” to a Patriot people: Austria shall have a hot
bargain. Alas, the unhappy hunting-dogs, as we said, have _hunted
away_ their huntsman; and do now run howling and baying, on what
trail they know not; nigh rabid!
And so there is tumultuous march of men, through the night; with
halt on the heights of Flinval, whence Lunéville can be seen all
illuminated. Then there is parley, at four in the morning; and
reparley; finally there is agreement: the Carabineers give in;
Malseigne is surrendered, with apologies on all sides. After
weary confused hours, he is even got under way; the Lunévillers
all turning out, in the idle Sunday, to see such departure:
home-going of mutinous Mestre-de-Camp with its Inspector captive.
Mestre-de-Camp accordingly marches; the Lunévillers look. See! at
the corner of the first street, our Inspector bounds off again,
bull-hearted as he is; amid the slash of sabres, the crackle of
musketry; and escapes, full gallop, with only a ball lodged in
his buff-_jerkin_. The Herculean man! And yet it is an escape to
no purpose. For the Carabineers, to whom after the hardest
Sunday’s ride on record, he has come circling back, “stand
deliberating by their nocturnal watch-fires;” deliberating of
Austria, of traitors, and the rage of Mestre-de-Camp. So that, on
the whole, the next sight we have is that of M. de Malseigne, on
the Monday afternoon, faring bull-hearted through the streets of
Nanci; in open carriage, a soldier standing over him with drawn
sword; amid the “furies of the women,” hedges of National Guards,
and confusion of Babel: to the Prison beside Commandant Denoue!
That finally is the lodging of Inspector Malseigne.[318]
Surely it is time Bouillé were drawing near. The Country all
round, alarmed with watchfires, illuminated towns, and marching
and rout, has been sleepless these several nights. Nanci, with
its uncertain National Guards, with its distributed fusils,
mutinous soldiers, black panic and redhot ire, is not a City but
a Bedlam.