Lion Sprawling its Last.
Representative Carrier went to the Guillotine, in December last;
protesting that he acted by orders. The Revolutionary Tribunal,
after all it has devoured, has now only, as Anarchic things do,
to devour itself. In the early days of May, men see a remarkable
thing: Fouquier-Tinville pleading at the Bar once his own. He and
his chief Jurymen, Leroi _August-Tenth_, Juryman Vilate, a Batch
of Sixteen; pleading hard, protesting that they acted by orders:
but pleading in vain. Thus men break the axe with which they have
done hateful things; the axe itself having grown hateful. For the
rest, Fouquier died hard enough: ‘Where are thy Batches?’ howled
the People.—‘Hungry _canaille_,’ asked Fouquier, ‘is thy Bread
cheaper, wanting them?’
Remarkable Fouquier; once but as other Attorneys and Law-beagles,
which hunt ravenous on this Earth, a well-known phasis of human
nature; and now thou art and remainest the most remarkable
Attorney that ever lived and hunted in the Upper Air! For, in
this terrestrial Course of Time, there was to be an _Avatar_ of
Attorneyism; the Heavens had said, Let there be an Incarnation,
not divine, of the venatory Attorney-spirit which keeps its eye
on the bond only;—and lo, this was it; and they have attorneyed
it in its turn. Vanish, then, thou rat-eyed Incarnation of
Attorneyism; who at bottom wert but as other Attorneys, and too
hungry Sons of Adam! Juryman Vilate had striven hard for life,
and published, from his Prison, an ingenious Book, not unknown to
us; but it would not stead: he also had to vanish; and this his
Book of the _Secret Causes of Thermidor_, full of lies, with
particles of truth in it undiscoverable otherwise, is all that
remains of him.
Revolutionary Tribunal has done; but vengeance has not done.
Representative Lebon, after long struggling, is handed over to
the ordinary Law Courts, and by them guillotined. Nay, at Lyons
and elsewhere, resuscitated Moderatism, in its vengeance, will
not wait the slow process of Law; but bursts into the Prisons,
sets fire to the prisons; burns some three score imprisoned
Jacobins to dire death, or chokes them “with the smoke of straw.”
There go vengeful truculent “Companies of Jesus,” “Companies of
the Sun;” slaying Jacobinism wherever they meet with it; flinging
it into the Rhone-stream; which, once more, bears seaward a
horrid cargo.[774] Whereupon, at Toulon, Jacobinism rises in
revolt; and is like to hang the National Representatives.—With
such action and reaction, is not a poor National Convention hard
bested? It is like the settlement of winds and waters, of seas
long tornado-beaten; and goes on with jumble and with jangle. Now
flung aloft, now sunk in trough of the sea, your Vessel of the
Republic has need of all pilotage and more.
What Parliament that ever sat under the Moon had such a series of
destinies, as this National Convention of France? It came
together to make the Constitution; and instead of that, it has
had to make nothing but destruction and confusion: to burn up
Catholicisms, Aristocratisms, to worship Reason and dig
Saltpetre, to fight Titanically with itself and with the whole
world. A Convention decimated by the Guillotine; above the tenth
man has bowed his neck to the axe. Which has seen Carmagnoles
danced before it, and patriotic strophes sung amid Church-spoils;
the wounded of the Tenth of August defile in handbarrows; and, in
the Pandemonial Midnight, Egalité’s dames in tricolor drink
lemonade, and spectrum of Sieyes mount, saying, _Death sans
phrase_. A Convention which has effervesced, and which has
congealed; which has been red with rage, and also pale with rage:
sitting with pistols in its pocket, drawing sword (in a moment of
effervescence): now storming to the four winds, through a
Danton-voice, Awake, O France, and smite the tyrants; now frozen
mute under its Robespierre, and answering his dirge-voice by a
dubious gasp. Assassinated, decimated; stabbed at, shot at, in
baths, on streets and staircases; which has been the nucleus of
Chaos. Has it not heard the chimes at midnight? It has
deliberated, beset by a Hundred thousand armed men with
artillery-furnaces and provision-carts. It has been betocsined,
bestormed; over-flooded by black deluges of Sansculottism; and
has heard the shrill cry, _Bread and Soap_. For, as we say, its
the nucleus of Chaos; it sat as the centre of Sansculottism; and
had spread its pavilion on the waste Deep, where is neither path
nor landmark, neither bottom nor shore. In intrinsic valour,
ingenuity, fidelity, and general force and manhood, it has
perhaps not far surpassed the average of Parliaments: but in
frankness of purpose, in singularity of position, it seeks its
fellow. One other Sansculottic submersion, or at most two, and
this wearied vessel of a Convention reaches land.
Revolt of Germinal Twelfth ended as a vain cry; moribund
Sansculottism was swept back into invisibility. There it has lain
moaning, these six weeks: moaning, and also scheming. Jacobins
disarmed, flung forth from their Tribune in mid air, must needs
try to help themselves, in secret conclave under ground. Lo,
therefore, on the First day of the month _Prairial_, 20th of May
1795, sound of the _générale_ once more; beating sharp, ran-tan,
To arms, To arms!
Sansculottism has risen, yet again, from its death-lair; waste
wild-flowing, as the unfruitful Sea. Saint-Antoine is a-foot:
‘Bread and the Constitution of Ninety-three,’ so sounds it; so
stands it written with chalk on the hats of men. They have their
pikes, their firelocks; Paper of Grievances; standards; printed
Proclamation, drawn up in quite official manner,—considering
this, and also considering that, they, a much-enduring Sovereign
People, are in Insurrection; will have Bread and the Constitution
of Ninety-three. And so the Barriers are seized, and the
_générale_ beats, and tocsins discourse discord. Black deluges
overflow the Tuileries; spite of sentries, the Sanctuary itself
is invaded: enter, to our Order of the Day, a torrent of
dishevelled women, wailing, ‘Bread! Bread!’ President may well
cover himself; and have his own tocsin rung in “the Pavilion of
Unity;” the ship of the State again labours and leaks;
overwashed, near to swamping, with unfruitful brine.
What a day, once more! Women are driven out: men storm
irresistibly in; choke all corridors, thunder at all gates.
Deputies, putting forth head, obtest, conjure; Saint-Antoine
rages, ‘Bread and Constitution.’ Report has risen that the
“Convention is assassinating the women:” crushing and rushing,
clangor and furor! The oak doors have become as oak tambourines,
sounding under the axe of Saint-Antoine; plaster-work crackles,
woodwork booms and jingles; door starts up;—bursts-in
Saint-Antoine with frenzy and vociferation, Rag-standards,
printed Proclamation, drum-music: astonishment to eye and ear.
Gendarmes, loyal Sectioners charge through the other door; they
are recharged; musketry exploding: Saint-Antoine cannot be
expelled. Obtesting Deputies obtest vainly; Respect the
President; approach not the President! Deputy Féraud, stretching
out his hands, baring his bosom scarred in the Spanish wars,
obtests vainly: threatens and resists vainly. Rebellious Deputy
of the Sovereign, if thou have fought, have not we too? We have
no bread, no Constitution! They wrench poor Féraud; they tumble
him, trample him, wrath waxing to see itself work: they drag him
into the corridor, dead or near it; sever his head, and fix it on
a pike. Ah, did an unexampled Convention want this variety of
destiny too, then? Féraud’s bloody head goes on a pike. Such a
game has begun; Paris and the Earth may wait how it will end.
And so it billows free though all Corridors; within, and without,
far as the eye reaches, nothing but Bedlam, and the great Deep
broken loose! President Boissy d’Anglas sits like a rock: the
rest of the Convention is floated “to the upper benches;”
Sectioners and Gendarmes still ranking there to form a kind of
wall for them. And Insurrection rages; rolls its drums; will read
its Paper of Grievances, will have this decreed, will have that.
Covered sits President Boissy, unyielding; like a rock in the
beating of seas. They menace him, level muskets at him, he yields
not; they hold up Féraud’s bloody head to him, with grave stern
air he bows to it, and yields not.
And the Paper of Grievances cannot get itself read for uproar;
and the drums roll, and the throats bawl; and Insurrection, like
sphere-music, is inaudible for very noise: Decree us this, Decree
us that. One man we discern bawling “for the space of an hour at
all intervals,” ‘_Je demande l’arrestation des coquins et des
lâches_.’ Really one of the most comprehensive Petitions ever put
up: which indeed, to this hour, includes all that you can
reasonably ask Constitution of the Year One, Rotten-Borough,
Ballot-Box, or other miraculous Political Ark of the Covenant to
do for you to the end of the world! I also _demand arrestment of
the Knaves and Dastards_, and nothing more whatever. National
Representation, deluged with black Sansculottism glides out; for
help elsewhere, for safety elsewhere: here is no help.
About four in the afternoon, there remain hardly more than some
Sixty Members: mere friends, or even secret-leaders; a remnant of
the Mountain-crest, held in silence by Thermidorian thraldom. Now
is the time for them; now or never let them descend, and speak!
They descend, these Sixty, invited by Sansculottism: Romme of the
New Calendar, Ruhl of the Sacred Phial, Goujon, Duquesnoy,
Soubrany, and the rest. Glad Sansculottism forms a ring for them;
Romme takes the President’s chair; they begin resolving and
decreeing. Fast enough now comes Decree after Decree, in
alternate brief strains, or strophe and antistrophe,—what will
cheapen bread, what will awaken the dormant lion. And at every
new Decree, Sansculottism shouts, Decreed, Decreed; and rolls its
drums.
Fast enough; the work of months in hours,—when see, a Figure
enters, whom in the lamp-light we recognise to be Legendre; and
utters words: fit to be hissed out! And then see, Section
Lepelletier or other Muscadin Section enters, and Gilt Youth,
with levelled bayonets, countenances screwed to the
sticking-place! Tramp, tramp, with bayonets gleaming in the
lamp-light: what can one do, worn down with long riot, grown
heartless, dark, hungry, but roll back, but rush back, and escape
who can? The very windows need to be thrown up, that
Sansculottism may escape fast enough. Money-changer Sections and
Gilt Youth sweep them forth, with steel besom, far into the
depths of Saint-Antoine. Triumph once more! The Decrees of that
Sixty are not so much as rescinded; they are declared null and
non-extant. Romme, Ruhl, Goujon and the ringleaders, some
thirteen in all, are decreed Accused. Permanent-session ends at
three in the morning.[775] Sansculottism, once more flung
resupine, lies sprawling; sprawling its _last_.
Such was the First of Prairial, 20th May, 1795. Second and Third
of Prairial, during which Sansculottism still sprawled, and
unexpectedly rang its tocsin, and assembled in arms, availed
Sansculottism nothing. What though with our Rommes and Ruhls,
accused but not yet arrested, we make a new “True National
Convention” of our own, over in the East; and put the others Out
of Law? What though we rank in arms and march? Armed Force and
Muscadin Sections, some thirty thousand men, environ that old
False Convention: we can but bully one another: bandying
nicknames, ‘_Muscadins_,’ against ‘Blooddrinkers, _Buveurs de
Sang_.’ Féraud’s Assassin, taken with the red hand, and
sentenced, and now near to Guillotine and Place de Grève, is
retaken; is carried back into Saint-Antoine: to no purpose.
Convention Sectionaries and Gilt Youth come, according to Decree,
to seek him; nay to disarm Saint-Antoine! And they do disarm it:
by rolling of cannon, by springing upon enemy’s cannon; by
military audacity, and terror of the Law. Saint-Antoine
surrenders its arms; Santerre even advising it, anxious for life
and brewhouse. Féraud’s Assassin flings himself from a high roof:
and all is lost.[776]
Discerning which things, old Ruhl shot a pistol through his old
white head; dashed his life in pieces, as he had done the Sacred
Phial of Rheims. Romme, Goujon and the others stand ranked before
a swiftly-appointed, swift Military Tribunal. Hearing the
sentence, Goujon drew a knife, struck it into his breast, passed
it to his neighbour Romme; and fell dead. Romme did the like; and
another all but did it; Roman-death rushing on there, as in
electric-chain, before your Bailiffs could intervene! The
Guillotine had the rest.
They were the _Ultimi Romanorum_. Billaud, Collot and Company are
now ordered to be tried for life; but are found to be already
off, shipped for Sinamarri, and the hot mud of Surinam. There let
Billaud surround himself with flocks of tame parrots; Collot take
the yellow fever, and drinking a whole bottle of brandy, burn up
his entrails.[777] Sansculottism spraws no more. The dormant lion
has become a dead one; and now, as we see, any hoof may smite
him.