Pétion-National-Pique.
And yet, how, on dark bottomless Cataracts there plays the
foolishest fantastic-coloured spray and shadow; hiding the Abyss
under vapoury rainbows! Alongside of this discussion as to
Austrian-Prussian War, there goes on no less but more vehemently
a discussion, Whether the Forty or Two-and-forty Swiss of
Château-Vieux shall be liberated from the Brest Gallies? And
then, Whether, being liberated, they shall have a public
Festival, or only private ones?
Théroigne, as we saw, spoke; and Collot took up the tale. Has not
Bouillé’s final display of himself, in that final Night of Spurs,
stamped your so-called “Revolt of Nanci” into a “Massacre of
Nanci,” for all Patriot judgments? Hateful is that massacre;
hateful the Lafayette-Feuillant “public thanks” given for it! For
indeed, Jacobin Patriotism and dispersed Feuillantism are now at
death-grips; and do fight with all weapons, even with scenic
shows. The walls of Paris, accordingly, are covered with Placard
and Counter-Placard, on the subject of Forty Swiss blockheads.
Journal responds to Journal; Player Collot to Poetaster Roucher;
Joseph Chénier the Jacobin, squire of Théroigne, to his Brother
Andre the Feuillant; Mayor Pétion to Dupont de Nemours: and for
the space of two months, there is nowhere peace for the thought
of man,—till this thing be settled.
_Gloria in excelsis!_ The Forty Swiss are at last got
“amnestied.” Rejoice ye Forty: doff your greasy wool Bonnets,
which shall become Caps of Liberty. The Brest Daughter-Society
welcomes you from on board, with kisses on each cheek: your iron
Handcuffs are disputed as Relics of Saints; the Brest Society
indeed can have one portion, which it will beat into Pikes, a
sort of Sacred Pikes; but the other portion must belong to Paris,
and be suspended from the dome there, along with the Flags of the
Three Free Peoples! Such a goose is man; and cackles over
plush-velvet Grand Monarques and woollen Galley-slaves; over
everything and over nothing,—and will cackle with his whole soul
merely if others cackle!
On the ninth morning of April, these Forty Swiss blockheads
arrive. From Versailles; with _vivats_ heaven-high; with the
affluence of men and women. To the Townhall we conduct them; nay
to the Legislative itself, though not without difficulty. They
are harangued, bedinnered, begifted,—the very Court, _not_ for
conscience” sake, contributing something; and their Public
Festival shall be next Sunday. Next Sunday accordingly it
is.[464] They are mounted into a “triumphal Car resembling a
ship;” are carted over Paris, with the clang of cymbals and
drums, all mortals assisting applausive; carted to the
Champ-de-Mars and Fatherland’s Altar; and finally carted, for
Time always brings deliverance,—into invisibility for evermore.
Whereupon dispersed Feuillantism, or that Party which loves
Liberty yet not more than Monarchy, will likewise have its
Festival: Festival of Simonneau, unfortunate Mayor of Etampes,
who died for the Law; most surely for the Law, though Jacobinism
disputes; being trampled down with his Red Flag in the riot about
grains. At which Festival the Public again assists,
_un_applausive: not we.
On the whole, Festivals are not wanting; beautiful rainbow-spray
when all is now rushing treble-quick towards its Niagara Fall.
National repasts there are; countenanced by Mayor Pétion;
Saint-Antoine, and the Strong Ones of the Halles defiling through
Jacobin Club, ‘their felicity,’ according to Santerre, ‘not
perfect otherwise;’ singing many-voiced their _ça-ira_, dancing
their _ronde patriotique_. Among whom one is glad to discern
Saint-Huruge, expressly “in white hat,” the Saint-Christopher of
the Carmagnole. Nay a certain _Tambour_ or National Drummer,
having just been presented with a little daughter, determines to
have the new Frenchwoman christened on Fatherland’s Altar then
and there. Repast once over, he accordingly has her christened;
Fauchet the Te-Deum Bishop acting in chief, Thuriot and
honourable persons standing gossips: by the name,
Pétion-National-Pique![465] Does this remarkable Citizeness, now
past the meridian of life, still walk the Earth? Or did she die
perhaps of teething? Universal History is not indifferent.