The Twenty-two.
Whom next, O Tinville? The next are of a different colour: our
poor Arrested Girondin Deputies. What of them could still be laid
hold of; our Vergniaud, Brissot, Fauchet, Valazé, Gensonné; the
once flower of French Patriotism, Twenty-two by the tale:
_hither_, at Tinville’s Bar, onward from “safeguard of the French
People,” from confinement in the Luxembourg, imprisonment in the
Conciergerie, have they now, by the course of things, arrived.
Fouquier Tinville must give what account of them he can.
Undoubtedly this Trial of the Girondins is the greatest that
Fouquier has yet had to do. Twenty-two, all chief Republicans,
ranged in a line there; the most eloquent in France; Lawyers too;
not without friends in the auditory. How will Tinville prove
these men guilty of Royalism, Federalism, Conspiracy against the
Republic? Vergniaud’s eloquence awakes once more; “draws tears,”
they say. And Journalists report, and the Trial lengthens itself
out day after day; “threatens to become eternal,” murmur many.
Jacobinism and Municipality rise to the aid of Fouquier. On the
28th of the month, Hébert and others come in deputation to inform
a Patriot Convention that the Revolutionary Tribunal is quite
“shackled by forms of Law;” that a Patriot Jury ought to have
“the power of cutting short, of _terminer les débats_, when they
feel themselves convinced.” Which pregnant suggestion, of cutting
short, passes itself, with all despatch, into a Decree.
Accordingly, at ten o’clock on the night of the 30th of October,
the Twenty-two, summoned back once more, receive this
information, That the Jury feeling themselves convinced have cut
short, have brought in their verdict; that the Accused are found
guilty, and the Sentence on one and all of them is Death with
confiscation of goods.
Loud natural clamour rises among the poor Girondins; tumult;
which can only be repressed by the gendarmes. Valazé stabs
himself; falls down dead on the spot. The rest, amid loud clamour
and confusion, are driven back to their Conciergerie; Lasource
exclaiming, ‘I die on the day when the People have lost their
reason; ye will die when they recover it.’[687] No help! Yielding
to violence, the Doomed uplift the Hymn of the Marseillese;
return singing to their dungeon.
Riouffe, who was their Prison-mate in these last days, has
lovingly recorded what death they made. To our notions, it is not
an edifying death. Gay satirical _Pot-pourri_ by Ducos; rhymed
Scenes of Tragedy, wherein Barrère and Robespierre discourse with
Satan; death’s eve spent in “singing” and “sallies of gaiety,”
with “discourses on the happiness of peoples:” these things, and
the like of these, we have to accept for what they are worth. It
is the manner in which the Girondins make _their_ Last Supper.
Valazé, with bloody breast, sleeps cold in death; hears not their
singing. Vergniaud has his dose of poison; but it is not enough
for his friends, it is enough only for himself; wherefore he
flings it from him; presides at this Last Supper of the
Girondins, with wild coruscations of eloquence, with song and
mirth. Poor human Will struggles to assert itself; if not in this
way, then in that.[688]
But on the morrow morning all Paris is out; such a crowd as no
man had seen. The Death-carts, Valazé’s cold corpse stretched
among the yet living Twenty-one, roll along. Bareheaded, hands
bound; in their shirt-sleeves, coat flung loosely round the neck:
so fare the eloquent of France; bemurmured, beshouted. To the
shouts of _Vive la République_, some of them keep answering with
counter-shouts of _Vive la République_. Others, as Brissot, sit
sunk in silence. At the foot of the scaffold they again strike
up, with appropriate variations, the Hymn of the Marseillese.
Such an act of music; conceive it well! The yet Living chant
there; the chorus so rapidly wearing weak! Samson’s axe is rapid;
one head per minute, or little less. The chorus is worn out;
farewell for evermore ye Girondins. Te-Deum Fauchet has become
silent; Valazé’s dead head is lopped: the sickle of the
Guillotine has reaped the Girondins all away. “The eloquent, the
young, the beautiful and brave!” exclaims Riouffe. O Death, what
feast is toward in thy ghastly Halls?
Nor alas, in the far Bourdeaux region, will Girondism fare
better. In caves of Saint-Emilion, in loft and cellar, the
weariest months, roll on; apparel worn, purse empty; wintry
November come; under Tallien and his Guillotine, all hope now
gone. Danger drawing ever nigher, difficulty pressing ever
straiter, they determine to separate. Not unpathetic the
farewell; tall Barbaroux, cheeriest of brave men, stoops to clasp
his Louvet: ‘In what place soever thou findest my mother,’ cries
he, ‘try to be instead of a son to her: no resource of mine but I
will share with thy Wife, should chance ever lead me where she
is.’[689]
Louvet went with Guadet, with Salles and Valady; Barbaroux with
Buzot and Pétion. Valady soon went southward, on a way of his
own. The two friends and Louvet had a miserable day and night;
the 14th of November month, 1793. Sunk in wet, weariness and
hunger, they knock, on the morrow, for help, at a friend’s
country-house; the fainthearted friend refuses to admit them.
They stood therefore under trees, in the pouring rain. Flying
desperate, Louvet thereupon will to Paris. He sets forth, there
and then, splashing the mud on each side of him, with a fresh
strength gathered from fury or frenzy. He passes villages,
finding “the sentry asleep in his box in the thick rain;” he is
gone, before the man can call after him. He bilks Revolutionary
Committees; rides in carriers’ carts, covered carts and open;
lies hidden in one, under knapsacks and cloaks of soldiers’ wives
on the Street of Orléans, while men search for him: has
hairbreadth escapes that would fill three romances: finally he
gets to Paris to his fair Helpmate; gets to Switzerland, and
waits better days.
Poor Guadet and Salles were both taken, ere long; they died by
the Guillotine in Bourdeaux; drums beating to drown their voice.
Valady also is caught, and guillotined. Barbaroux and his two
comrades weathered it longer, into the summer of 1794; but not
long enough. One July morning, changing their hiding place, as
they have often to do, “about a league from Saint-Emilion, they
observe a great crowd of country-people;” doubtless Jacobins come
to take them? Barbaroux draws a pistol, shoots himself dead.
Alas, and it was not Jacobins; it was harmless villagers going to
a village wake. Two days afterwards, Buzot and Pétion were found
in a Cornfield, their bodies half-eaten with dogs.[690]
Such was the end of Girondism. They arose to regenerate France,
these men; and have accomplished _this_. Alas, whatever quarrel
we had with them, has not their cruel fate abolished it? Pity
only survives. So many excellent souls of heroes sent down to
Hades; they themselves given as a prey of dogs and all manner of
birds! But, here too, the will of the Supreme Power was
accomplished. As Vergniaud said: “The Revolution, like Saturn, is
devouring its own children.”