At the Bar.
Meanwhile, in a space of some five weeks, we have got to another
emerging of the Trial, and a more practical one than ever.
On Tuesday, eleventh of December, the King’s Trial has _emerged_,
very decidedly: into the streets of Paris; in the shape of that
green Carriage of Mayor Chambon, within which sits the King
himself, with attendants, on his way to the Convention Hall!
Attended, in that green Carriage, by Mayors Chambon, Procureurs
Chaumette; and outside of it by Commandants Santerre, with
cannon, cavalry and double row of infantry; all Sections under
arms, strong Patrols scouring all streets; so fares he, slowly
through the dull drizzling weather: and about two o’clock we
behold him, “in walnut-coloured great-coat, _redingote
noisette_,” descending through the Place Vendôme, towards that
Salle de Manége; to be indicted, and judicially interrogated. The
mysterious Temple Circuit has given up its secret; which now, in
this walnut-coloured coat, men behold with eyes. The same bodily
Louis who was once Louis the Desired, fares there: hapless King,
he is getting now towards port; his deplorable farings and
voyagings draw to a close. What duty remains to him henceforth,
that of placidly enduring, he is fit to do.
The singular Procession fares on; in silence, says Prudhomme, or
amid growlings of the Marseillese Hymn; in silence, ushers itself
into the Hall of the Convention, Santerre holding Louis’s arm
with his hand. Louis looks round him, with composed air, to see
what kind of Convention and Parliament it is. Much changed
indeed:—since February gone two years, when our Constituent, then
busy, spread fleur-de-lys velvet for us; and we came over to say
a kind word here, and they all started up swearing Fidelity; and
all France started up swearing, and made it a Feast of Pikes;
which has ended in this! Barrère, who once “wept” looking up from
his Editor’s-Desk, looks down now from his President’s-Chair,
with a list of Fifty-seven Questions; and says, dry-eyed: ‘Louis,
you may sit down.’ Louis sits down: it is the very seat, they
say, same timber and stuffing, from which he accepted the
Constitution, amid dancing and illumination, autumn gone a year.
So much woodwork remains identical; so much else is not
identical. Louis sits and listens, with a composed look and mind.
Of the Fifty-seven Questions we shall not give so much as one.
They are questions captiously embracing all the main Documents
seized on the Tenth of August, or found lately in the Iron Press;
embracing all the main incidents of the Revolution History; and
they ask, in substance, this: Louis, who wert King, art thou not
guilty to a certain extent, by act and written document, of
trying to continue King? Neither in the Answers is there much
notable. Mere quiet negations, for most part; an accused man
standing on the simple basis of _No:_ I do not recognise that
document; I did not do that act; or did it according to the law
that then was. Whereupon the Fifty-seven Questions, and Documents
to the number of a Hundred and Sixty-two, being exhausted in this
manner, Barrère finishes, after some three hours, with his:
‘Louis, I invite you to withdraw.’
Louis withdraws, under Municipal escort, into a neighbouring
Committee-room; having first, in leaving the bar, demanded to
have Legal Counsel. He declines refreshment, in this
Committee-room, then, seeing Chaumette busy with a small loaf
which a grenadier had divided with him, says, he will take a bit
of bread. It is five o’clock; and he had breakfasted but slightly
in a morning of such drumming and alarm. Chaumette breaks his
half-loaf: the King eats of the crust; mounts the green Carriage,
eating; asks now what he shall do with the crumb? Chaumette’s
clerk takes it from him; flings it out into the street. Louis
says, It is pity to fling out bread, in a time of dearth. ‘My
grandmother,’ remarks Chaumette, ‘used to say to me, Little boy,
never waste a crumb of bread, you cannot make one.’ ‘Monsieur
Chaumette,’ answers Louis, ‘your grandmother seems to have been a
sensible woman.’[590] Poor innocent mortal: so quietly he waits
the drawing of the lot;—fit to do this at least well; Passivity
alone, without Activity, sufficing for it! He talks once of
travelling over France by and by, to have a geographical and
topographical view of it; being from of old fond of
geography.—The Temple Circuit again receives him, closes on him;
gazing Paris may retire to its hearths and coffee-houses, to its
clubs and theatres: the damp Darkness has sunk, and with it the
drumming and patrolling of this strange Day.
Louis is now separated from his Queen and Family; given up to his
simple reflections and resources. Dull lie these stone walls
round him; of his loved ones none with him. In this state of
“uncertainty,” providing for the worst, he writes his Will: a
Paper which can still be read; full of placidity, simplicity,
pious sweetness. The Convention, after debate, has granted him
Legal Counsel, of his own choosing. Advocate Target feels himself
“too old,” being turned of fifty-four; and declines. He had
gained great honour once, defending Rohan the Necklace-Cardinal;
but will gain none here. Advocate Tronchet, some ten years older,
does not decline. Nay behold, good old Malesherbes steps forward
voluntarily; to the last of his fields, the good old hero! He is
grey with seventy years: he says, “I was twice called to the
Council of him who was my Master, when all the world coveted that
honour; and I owe him the same service now, when it has become
one which many reckon dangerous.” These two, with a younger
Desèze, whom they will select for pleading, are busy over that
Fifty-and-sevenfold Indictment, over the Hundred and Sixty-two
Documents; Louis aiding them as he can.
A great Thing is now therefore in open progress; all men, in all
lands, watching it. By what Forms and Methods shall the
Convention acquit itself, in such manner that there rest not on
it even the suspicion of blame? Difficult that will be! The
Convention, really much at a loss, discusses and deliberates. All
day from morning to night, day after day, the Tribune drones with
oratory on this matter; one must stretch the old Formula to cover
the new Thing. The Patriots of the Mountain, whetted ever keener,
clamour for despatch above all; the only good Form will be a
swift one. Nevertheless the Convention deliberates; the Tribune
drones,—drowned indeed in tenor, and even in treble, from time to
time; the whole Hall shrilling up round it into pretty frequent
wrath and provocation. It has droned and shrilled wellnigh a
fortnight, before we can decide, this shrillness getting ever
shriller, That on Wednesday 26th of December, Louis shall appear,
and plead. His Advocates complain that it is fatally soon; which
they well might as Advocates: but without remedy; to Patriotism
it seems endlessly late.
On Wednesday, therefore, at the cold dark hour of eight in the
morning, all Senators are at their post. Indeed they warm the
cold hour, as we find, by a violent effervescence, such as is too
common now; some Louvet or Buzot attacking some Tallien, Chabot;
and so the whole Mountain effervescing against the whole Gironde.
Scarcely is this done, at nine, when Louis and his three
Advocates, escorted by the clang of arms and Santerre’s National
force, enter the Hall.
Desèze unfolds his papers; honourably fulfilling his perilous
office, pleads for the space of three hours. An honourable
Pleading, “composed almost overnight;” courageous yet discreet;
not without ingenuity, and soft pathetic eloquence: Louis fell on
his neck, when they had withdrawn, and said with tears, _Mon
pauvre Desèze_. Louis himself, before withdrawing, had added a
few words, ‘perhaps the last he would utter to them:’ how it
pained his heart, above all things, to be held guilty of that
bloodshed on the Tenth of August; or of ever shedding or wishing
to shed French blood. So saying, he withdrew from that
Hall;—having indeed finished his work there. Many are the strange
errands he has had thither; but this strange one is the last.
And now, why will the Convention loiter? Here is the Indictment
and Evidence; here is the Pleading: does not the rest follow of
itself? The Mountain, and Patriotism in general, clamours still
louder for despatch; for Permanent-session, till the task be
done. Nevertheless a doubting, apprehensive Convention decides
that it will still deliberate first; that all Members, who desire
it, shall have leave to speak.—To your desks, therefore, ye
eloquent Members! Down with your thoughts, your echoes and
hearsays of thoughts: now is the time to shew oneself; France and
the Universe listens! Members are not wanting: Oration spoken
Pamphlet follows spoken Pamphlet, with what eloquence it can:
President’s List swells ever higher with names claiming to speak;
from day to day, all days and all hours, the constant Tribune
drones;—shrill Galleries supplying, very variably, the tenor and
treble. It were a dull tune otherwise.
The Patriots, in Mountain and Galleries, or taking counsel
nightly in Section-house, in Mother Society, amid their shrill
_Tricoteuses_, have to watch lynx-eyed; to give voice when
needful; occasionally very loud. Deputy Thuriot, he who was
Advocate Thuriot, who was Elector Thuriot, and from the top of
the Bastille, saw Saint-Antoine rising like the ocean; this
Thuriot can stretch a Formula as heartily as most men. Cruel
Billaud is not silent, if you incite him. Nor is cruel Jean-Bon
silent; a kind of Jesuit he too;—write him not, as the
Dictionaries too often do, _Jambon_, which signifies mere _Ham_.
But, on the whole, let no man conceive it possible that Louis is
not guilty. The only question for a reasonable man is, or was:
Can the Convention judge Louis? Or must it be the whole People:
in Primary Assembly, and with delay? Always delay, ye Girondins,
false _hommes d’état!_ so bellows Patriotism, its patience almost
failing.—But indeed, if we consider it, what shall these poor
Girondins do? Speak their convictions that Louis is a Prisoner of
War; and cannot be put to death without injustice, solecism,
peril? Speak such conviction; and lose utterly your footing with
the decided Patriot? Nay properly it is not even a conviction,
but a conjecture and dim puzzle. How many poor Girondins are sure
of but one thing: That a man and Girondin ought to _have_ footing
somewhere, and to stand firmly on it; keeping well with the
Respectable Classes! _This_ is what conviction and assurance of
faith they have. They must wriggle painfully between their
dilemma-horns.[591]
Nor is France idle, nor Europe. It is a Heart this Convention, as
we said, which sends out influences, and receives them. A King’s
Execution, call it Martyrdom, call it Punishment, were an
influence! Two notable influences this Convention has already
sent forth, over all Nations; much to its own detriment. On the
19th of November, it emitted a Decree, and has since confirmed
and unfolded the details of it. That any Nation which might see
good to shake off the fetters of Despotism was thereby, so to
speak, the Sister of France, and should have help and
countenance. A Decree much noised of by Diplomatists, Editors,
International Lawyers; such a Decree as no living Fetter of
Despotism, nor Person in Authority anywhere, can approve of! It
was Deputy Chambon the Girondin who propounded this Decree;—at
bottom perhaps as a flourish of rhetoric.
The second influence we speak of had a still poorer origin: in
the restless loud-rattling slightly-furnished head of one Jacob
Dupont from the Loire country. The Convention is speculating on a
plan of National Education: Deputy Dupont in his speech says, ‘I
am free to avow, M. le Président, that I for my part am an
Atheist,’[592]—thinking the world might like to know that. The
French world received it without commentary; or with no audible
commentary, so _loud_ was France otherwise. The Foreign world
received it with confutation, with horror and astonishment;[593]
a most miserable influence this! And now if to these two were
added a third influence, and sent pulsing abroad over all the
Earth: that of Regicide?
Foreign Courts interfere in this Trial of Louis; Spain, England:
not to be listened to; though they come, as it were, at least
Spain comes, with the olive-branch in one hand, and the sword
without scabbard in the other. But at home too, from out of this
circumambient Paris and France, what influences come
thick-pulsing! Petitions flow in; pleading for equal justice, in
a reign of so-called Equality. The living Patriot pleads;—O ye
National Deputies, do not the dead Patriots plead? The Twelve
Hundred that lie in cold obstruction, do not they plead; and
petition, in Death’s dumb-show, from their narrow house there,
more eloquently than speech? Crippled Patriots hop on crutches
round the Salle de Manége, demanding justice. The Wounded of the
Tenth of August, the Widows and Orphans of the Killed petition in
a body; and hop and defile, eloquently mute, through the Hall:
one wounded Patriot, unable to hop, is borne on his bed thither,
and passes shoulder-high, in the horizontal posture.[594] The
Convention Tribune, which has paused at such sight, commences
again,—droning mere Juristic Oratory. But out of doors Paris is
piping ever higher. Bull-voiced St. Huruge is heard; and the
hysteric eloquence of Mother Duchesse: “Varlet, Apostle of
Liberty,” with pike and red cap, flies hastily, carrying his
oratorical folding-stool. Justice on the Traitor! cries all the
Patriot world. Consider also this other cry, heard loud on the
streets: ‘Give us Bread, or else kill us!’ Bread and Equality;
Justice on the Traitor, that we may have Bread!
The Limited or undecided Patriot is set against the Decided.
Mayor Chambon heard of dreadful rioting at the _Théâtre de la
Nation:_ it had come to rioting, and even to fist-work, between
the Decided and the Undecided, touching a new Drama called _Ami
des Lois_ (Friend of the Laws). One of the poorest Dramas ever
written; but which had didactic applications in it; wherefore
powdered wigs of Friends of Order and black hair of Jacobin heads
are flying there; and Mayor Chambon hastens with Santerre, in
hopes to quell it. Far from quelling it, our poor Mayor gets so
“squeezed,” says the Report, and likewise so blamed and bullied,
say we,—that he, with regret, quits the brief Mayoralty
altogether, “his lungs being affected.” This miserable _Amis des
Lois_ is debated of in the Convention itself; so violent,
mutually-enraged, are the Limited Patriots and the
Unlimited.[595]
Between which two classes, are not Aristocrats enough, and
Crypto-Aristocrats, busy? Spies running over from London with
important Packets; spies pretending to run! One of these latter,
Viard was the name of him, pretended to accuse Roland, and even
the Wife of Roland; to the joy of Chabot and the Mountain. But
the Wife of Roland came, being summoned, on the instant, to the
Convention Hall; came, in her high clearness; and, with few clear
words, dissipated this Viard into despicability and air; all
Friends of Order applauding.[596] So, with Theatre-riots, and
“Bread, or else kill us;” with Rage, Hunger, preternatural
Suspicion, does this wild Paris pipe. Roland grows ever more
querulous, in his Messages and Letters; rising almost to the
hysterical pitch. Marat, whom no power on Earth can prevent
seeing into traitors and Rolands, takes to bed for three days;
almost dead, the invaluable People’s-Friend, with heartbreak,
with fever and headache: “_O, Peuple babillard, si tu savais
agir_, People of Babblers, if thou couldst but _act!_”
To crown all, victorious Dumouriez, in these New-year’s days, is
arrived in Paris;—one fears, for no good. He pretends to be
complaining of Minister Pache, and Hassenfratz dilapidations; to
be concerting measures for the spring campaign: one finds him
much in the company of the Girondins. Plotting with them against
Jacobinism, against Equality, and the Punishment of Louis! We
have Letters of his to the Convention itself. Will he act the old
Lafayette part, this new victorious General? Let him withdraw
again; not undenounced.[597]
And still, in the Convention Tribune, it drones continually, mere
Juristic Eloquence, and Hypothesis without Action; and there are
still fifties on the President’s List. Nay these Gironde
Presidents give their own party preference: we suspect they play
foul with the List; men of the Mountain cannot be heard. And
still it drones, all through December into January and a New
year; and there is no end! Paris pipes round it; multitudinous;
ever higher, to the note of the whirlwind. Paris will “bring
cannon from Saint-Denis;” there is talk of “shutting the
Barriers,”—to Roland’s horror.
Whereupon, behold, the Convention Tribune suddenly ceases
droning: we cut short, be on the List who likes; and make end. On
Tuesday next, the Fifteenth of January 1793, it shall go to the
Vote, name by name; and, one way or other, this great game play
itself out!