THE THRONE DEMOLISHED.
1848
Attempts at conciliation.--False confidence of the king.--Resignation
of Thiers.--Scene in the palace.--Heroism of the queen.--The
insurrection triumphant.--The abdication.--Imminent danger of the
royal family.--Peril and sufferings of the Duchess of Orleans.--Flight
of the king.--Escape.--She retires from the Tuileries.--The duchess in
the Chamber of Deputies.--Speech of Lamartine.--Scene in the
Chamber.--Entrance of the duchess.--The rush of the mob.--Escape of
the duchess and her children.--The Provisional Government.--The
moderate and the radical Republicans.--A compromise.--A surging
crowd.--Awful scenes in Paris.--Death of Louis Philippe.
In the mean time the king formed a new and liberal ministry,
consisting of MM. Thiers, Odillon Barrot, and Duvergier de Hauranne,
hoping thus to conciliate the populace. The fact was placarded, at
six o'clock in the morning, all over Paris. But the act of appointing
Marshal Bugeaud to command the troops was a declaration of war--the
formation of this ministry was a supplication for peace. The one act
was defiance, the other capitulation. Thus, while General Bugeaud was
loading his cannon to the muzzle, and marshalling his troops for
battle, he received an order, to his inexpressible chagrin, from the
new ministry directing him to cease the combat and to withdraw the
troops, while at the same time an announcement was made, by a
proclamation to the people, that the new ministry had ordered the
troops everywhere to cease firing, and to withdraw from the menacing
positions which they occupied. The indignant marshal for a time
refused to obey the order until it should be ratified by the
sign-manual of the king. He soon, however, received a dispatch from
the Duke de Nemours which rendered it necessary to submit. Thus the
new ministry rejected the policy of resistance, and inaugurated that
of conciliation.
The king, worn out by excitement and fatigue, at four o'clock in the
morning retired to his chamber for a few hours of sleep. He was so
far deceived as to flatter himself that, through the measures which
had been adopted, all serious trouble was at an end. He slept
soundly, and did not rise until eleven o'clock, when he came down to
the breakfast-room in morning-gown and slippers, and with a smiling
countenance. Here appalling tidings met him. The exasperated populace
were tearing down and trampling under foot the conciliatory
proclamation of M. Thiers. The national troops, disgusted with the
contradictory orders which had been issued, were loud in their clamor
against the king. The National Guard was everywhere fraternizing with
the people. The frenzy of insurrection was surging through all the
thoroughfares of Paris.
The king was silent in consternation. Immediately repairing to his
chamber, he dressed himself in the uniform of the National Guard, and
returned to his cabinet, where he was joined by two of his sons, the
Duke de Nemours and the Duke de Montpensier. All night long the
dismal clang of the tocsin had summoned the fighting portion of the
population to important points of defense. Nearly all the churches
were in the hands of the insurgents. Under cover of the darkness,
barricades had been rising in many of the streets. The national
troops had retired, humiliated, to the vicinity of the Tuileries and
Palais Royal. Many of the soldiers, in their disgust, had thrown away
their muskets, while some of the officers, under similar feelings,
had broken their swords and cast them away upon the pavement.
Affairs made such rapid progress that by ten o'clock M. Thiers became
fully convinced that he had no longer influence with the people. He
accordingly resigned the ministry, and M. Odillon Barrot, a man far
more democratic in his principles, was appointed prime-minister in
his stead. The Palais Royal, the magnificent ancestral abode of the
Duke of Orleans, being left unguarded, the mob burst in, rioted
through all its princely saloons, plundering and destroying. Its
paintings, statuary, gorgeous furniture, and priceless works of art
were pierced with bayonets, slashed with sabre-strokes, thrown into
the streets, and consumed with flames. In less than half an hour the
magnificent apartments of this renowned palace presented but a
revolting spectacle of destruction and ruin.
The king, the queen, the Duchess of Orleans, and the Duke de
Montpensier, with several distinguished friends, were still in the
breakfast-room--the Gallery of Diana, in the Tuileries. The mob,
their hands filled with the plunder of the Palais Royal, were already
entering the Carrousel. Loud shouts announced their triumph to the
trembling inmates of the royal palace, and appalled them with fears
of the doom which they soon might be called to encounter. Two of the
gentlemen, M. Remusat and M. de Hauranne, stepped out into the
court-yard of the Tuileries to ascertain the posture of affairs.
Speedily they returned, pale, and with features expressive of intense
anxiety.
"Sire," said M. Remusat to the king, "it is necessary that your
majesty should know the truth! To conceal it at this moment would be
to render ourselves implicated in all that may follow. Your feelings
of security prove that you are deceived! Three hundred feet from here
the dragoons are exchanging their sabres, and the soldiers their
muskets with the people!"
"It is impossible!" exclaimed the king, recoiling with astonishment.
"Sire," added an officer, M. de l'Aubospere, who was present, "it is
true. I have seen it."
The queen, re-enacting the heroism of Maria Antoinette on a similar
occasion, said to her faint-hearted husband, "Go, show yourself to
the discouraged troops, to the wavering National Guard. I will come
out on the balcony with my grandchildren and the princesses, and I
will see you die worthy of yourself, of your throne, and of your
misfortunes."
The king descended the stairs, while the queen and the princesses
went upon the balcony. He passed through the court-yard of the
Tuileries into the Carrousel. If any shouts were uttered of "_Vive le
Roi_," they were drowned in the cry which seemed to burst from all
lips, "_Vive la Reforme! a bas les Ministres!_"
All hope was now gone! The king, in despair, returned to the royal
family. The panic was heart-rending--the ladies weeping aloud. The
shouts which filled the air announced that the mob was approaching,
triumphant, from all directions, while a rattling fire of musketry
was heard, ever drawing nearer. Marshal Bugeaud did what he could to
arrest the advance of the insurgents, but his troops were sullen, and
but feebly responded to any of his orders.
In the midst of this terrible scene, the king took his pen to appoint
another ministry, still more radically democratic than Barrot and
Hauranne. As he was writing out the list, M. de Girardin entered the
apartment. He was editor of the _Times_ newspaper, and one of the
most uncompromising Republicans in the city. Approaching the king, he
said to him firmly, yet respectfully,
"Sire, it is now too late to attempt to form a new ministry. The
public mind can not be tranquilized by such a measure. The flood of
insurrection, now resistless, threatens to sweep away the throne
itself. Nothing short of _abdication_ will now suffice."
Upon the utterance of that fatal word, the king inquired anxiously,
"Is there no other alternative?"
M. Girardin replied, "Sire, within an hour, perhaps, there will be no
such thing as a monarchy in France. The crisis admits of no third
alternative. The king must abdicate, or the monarchy is lost."
The Duke de Montpensier, fully comprehending the peril of the hour,
earnestly entreated his father to sign the abdication. But, on the
other hand, there were those who entreated the king, with equal
fervor, not to sign it. M. Piscatory and Marshal Bugeaud urged that
abdication would inflict a _Republic_ upon France, with no end to
anarchy and civil war; that the only way to meet the insurrection was
to crush it by military power.
The king hesitated. The clamor and the rattle of musketry increased
and drew nearer. Messengers came in breathless, announcing that all
was lost. The Duke de Montpensier, trembling in view of the irruption
of the mob, and of the dreadful consequent doom of the royal family,
with renewed earnestness entreated his father to abdicate. Thus
influenced, the king took his pen and wrote:
"I abdicate this crown, which I received from the voice of
the nation, and which I accepted only that I might promote
the peace and harmony of the French.
"Finding it impossible to accomplish this endeavor, I
bequeath it to my grandson, the Count de Paris. May he be
more happy than I have been."
It is said that the excitement and hurry of the occasion were so
great that the king neglected to sign the abdication. Girardin,
however, took the paper and went out into the stormy streets to
announce the important event. But Paris was now in a state of ferment
which nothing could immediately appease. The rush and roar of the
storm of human passion in the streets seemed still to increase, and
to approach nearer to the doors of the palace. Danger of violence and
death was imminent. Nearly all had withdrawn from the Tuileries
except the royal family. Louis Philippe now thought only of escape.
Surrounded as the palace was by the mob, this was no easy task to
accomplish. The king disguised himself in citizen's dress. The queen
was almost frantic with terror.
The king, having abdicated in favor of his grandson, the Count de
Paris, was disposed to leave the child-monarch with his mother in the
palace. He flattered himself that the innocence of the child and the
helplessness of the mother would prove their protection. But when the
Duchess of Orleans perceived that no arrangements were being made
for her escape and that of her children, she exclaimed in anguish,
"Are you going to leave me here alone, without parents, friends, or
any to advise me? What will become of me?"
The king sadly replied, "My dear Helen, the dynasty must be saved,
and the crown preserved to your son. Remain here, then, for his sake.
It is a sacrifice you owe your son."
Seldom has a woman and a mother been called to pass through a more
severe ordeal than this. The peril was awful. In a few moments a mob
of countless thousands, composed of the dregs of the populace of
Paris, inflamed with intoxication and rage, might be surging through
all the apartments of the Tuileries, while the duchess and her
children were entirely at their mercy. No ordinary heroism could be
adequate to such a trial. The duchess threw herself at the feet of
the king, and entreated permission to accompany him in his flight.
The king was firm, cruelly firm. Leaving the widow of his son, with
her two children, all unprotected, behind him, he withdrew, to effect
his own escape with the queen and the princesses, under the guidance
of his son, the Duke de Nemours, who displayed the utmost heroism
during all the scenes of that eventful day. As the party was in
disguise, and the whole city was in a state of indescribable tumult,
the fugitives succeeded in traversing, without being recognized, the
broad central avenue of the garden of the Tuileries. Emerging by the
gate of the Pont Tournant, they reached the foot of the obelisk in
the Place de la Concorde. It was one o'clock in the afternoon; the
duke had ordered the carriages to be ready for them there. But the
mob, recognizing the carriages as belonging to the royal family, had
dashed them to pieces.
The embarrassment and peril were terrible. There was momentary danger
of being recognized. Then death and being trampled beneath the feet
of the mob were almost inevitable. An agitated throng of countless
thousands was surging through the Place. Already some began to
suspect them as belonging to the court, and they were rudely jostled.
But providentially there were two hackney-coaches near by. These were
hurriedly engaged, the royal family thrust into them, and a guard of
cuirassiers, previously stationed near for the occasion by the Duke
de Nemours, gathered around the carriages as an escort, and at a
quick trot swept along the banks of the Seine by the Quai de Billi,
and escaped from Paris. That night they reached Dreux, one of the
country-seats of the king.
Their peril still was great. The small escort at their disposal was
by no means sufficient to protect them, should there be any uprising
of the people to arrest their progress. It was, therefore, deemed
best to dismiss their guard, and proceed to the sea-coast in
disguise, by unfrequented routes, as simple travellers. They were,
however, in great want of money. The king, in the confusion of his
departure, had left seventy thousand dollars in banknotes upon his
bureau. He had but a small supply in his pocket.
Resuming their journey the next morning, they reached Evreux, and
were entertained for the night by a farmer in the royal forest, who
had no idea of the distinguished character of the guests to whose
wants he was ministering. Early in the morning of the third day they
set out again in a rude cart, called a Berlin, drawn by two
cart-horses. They had many strange adventures and narrow escapes,
even performing a portion of their journey on foot. At length they
reached the sea-coast at Honfleur, near the mouth of the Seine, on
the southern bank. Here they embarked, still under the assumed name
of Mr. and Mrs. Smith, for Havre, from which port they crossed over
to New Haven, on the southern coast of England, leaving behind them
their crown and their country forever. They reached this land of
refuge for dethroned kings on the 4th of March, and took up their
abode at Claremont, formerly the residence, and perhaps then the
property of their son-in-law, Leopold, king of Belgium.
[Illustration: LOUIS PHILLIPE LEAVING FRANCE.]
And now let us return to the Princess Helen, who was left with her
two children in one of the apartments of the palace. Immediately upon
the withdrawal of the king, the troops in the Carrousel, who were
then retreating into the court-yard of the Tuileries, retired through
the palace into the garden. The princess, a very heroic woman, had
entirely recovered her self-possession, and awaited her doom with the
serenity of a martyr. As the shouting mob rushed into the Carrousel,
and the windows of the palace were rattling from the explosions of
the artillery, M. Dupin, president of the Chamber of Deputies,
entered the room, and, much agitated with both fear and hope,
said,
"Madame, I have come to tell you that perhaps the _role_ of Maria
Theresa is reserved for you."
"Lead the way," replied the heroic woman; "my life belongs to France
and to my children."
"There is not a moment to lose," M. Dupin rejoined. "Let us go
instantly to the Chamber of Deputies."
As he was speaking these words, the Duke de Nemours returned. Peril
was indeed imminent. The mob was already surging in at the court of
the Tuileries, and thundering against the gates of the palace.
The princess and her few companions immediately set out on foot, to
pass through the garden of the Tuileries, the Place de la Concorde,
and to cross the river, to obtain the protection of the Chamber of
Deputies. Scarcely had they emerged from the portals into the garden
ere the roaring mob burst from the court-yard into the palace, and
surged through the saloons with the destruction of consuming flame.
Shouts seemed to burst from all lips, "Down with the Throne!" "Long
live the Republic!" Every vestige of royalty was torn to shreds. The
rich drapery which canopied the throne was rent into scarfs, or
formed into cockades, with which the mob decorated their persons.
With hurried steps and anxious hearts the royal party pressed on
through the throng which choked all the avenues to the palace. They
seem to have been partially recognized, for a noisy crowd followed
their footsteps. The princess led her eldest son, the Count de Paris,
by the hand. The youngest, the Duke de Chartres, was carried in the
arms of an aid-de-camp. M. Dupin walked upon one side of the
princess, and the Duke de Nemours upon the other. Safely they crossed
the bridge and entered the hotel of the Deputies. All was agitation
and confusion there. M. Dupin repaired to the hall of session, and,
ascending the tribune, announced that the king had abdicated in favor
of his grandson. In a brief, earnest speech he urged the claims of
the Count de Paris as king, under the regency of the Duchess of
Orleans, his mother. This speech created a momentary enthusiasm. By
acclamation it was voted that the resignation of the king should be
accepted, and that the Count de Paris should be recognized as lawful
sovereign, under the regency of the duchess. Just then Lamartine came
in.
Lamartine, notwithstanding the brilliance of his talents and the
purity of his character, was by no means insensible to flattery, or
to the suggestions of ambition. It is said that a group of
Republicans had but a moment before met him at the entrance of the
building, with the assurance that a Republic was inevitable, and that
all the Republicans were looking to him as their leader and future
President. These assurances may not have swayed his judgment. But
many who had supposed that his strong predelictions were for royalty
were not a little surprised when he ascended the tribune, and said,
"There is but one way to save the people from the danger which a
revolution, in our present social state, threatens instantly to
introduce, and that is to trust ourselves to the force of the people
themselves--to their reason, their interests, their aims. It is a
_republic_ which we require. Yes, it is a Republic which alone can
save us from anarchy, civil war, foreign war, spoliation, the
scaffold, destruction of property, the overthrow of society, the
invasion of foreigners. The remedy is heroic. I know it. But there
are occasions, such as those in which we live, when the only safe
policy is that which is grand and audacious as the crisis itself."
As Lamartine left the tribune, M. Thiers entered, flushed with
excitement. All eyes were anxiously fixed upon him. Taking his place
in the tribune, he simply remarked, "The tide is rising," at the same
time, with dramatic gesture, lifting his hat above his head. As he
again disappeared in the crowd, there was a general increase of
alarm. It was manifest to all that affairs were now sweeping along in
a swollen current which human sagacity could but feebly control. The
roar of the throng surging around the hall filled the air. The
strongest minds were appalled.
Just then the folding-doors of the Chamber were thrown open, and the
Duchess of Orleans, leading the Count de Paris by one hand and the
Duke de Chartres by the other, was ushered in. Lamartine, an
eye-witness, gives the following account of the scene: "A respectful
silence immediately ensued. The Deputies, in deep anxiety, crowded
around the august princess, and the strangers in the gallery leaned
over, hoping to catch some words which might fall from her lips. She
was dressed in mourning. Her veil, partially raised, disclosed a
countenance the emotion and melancholy of which enhanced the charms
of youth and beauty. Her pale cheeks were marked by the tears of the
widow, the anxieties of the mother. No man could look on her
countenance without being moved. Every feeling of resentment against
the monarchy faded away before the spectacle. The blue eyes of the
princess wandered over the hall as if to implore aid, and were, for a
moment, dazzled. Her slight and fragile form inclined before the
sound of the applause with which she was greeted. A slight blush, the
mark of the revival of hope in her bosom, tinged her cheeks. The
smile of gratitude was already on her lips. She felt that she was
surrounded by friends. In her right hand she held the young king, in
her left the Duke of Chartres--children to whom their own catastrophe
was a spectacle. A white collar was turned down the neck of each, on
his dark dress--living portraits of Vandyck, as if they had stepped
out of the canvas, of the children of Charles I."
The duchess had but just entered when the doors were burst open by
the pressure of the crowd, and the mob rushed in. They were coarse,
brutal men, armed with every conceivable weapon, and immediately they
inundated the hall. Clamorously they demanded the rejection of the
throne, which had, thus far, ever trampled upon their rights, and for
the establishment of a republic, from which alone they hoped for
redress. A scene of indescribable confusion ensued, cries rising upon
all sides. The duchess endeavored to speak. Her tremulous feminine
voice was heard exclaiming, "I have come with all I hold dear in the
world," but the remainder of her words were drowned in the universal
clamor.
The sympathies of Lamartine, notwithstanding his republican speech,
were deeply moved by the presence of the princess. Taking advantage
of a slight lull in the storm, when his voice could be heard, he
said, "Mr. President, I demand that the sitting should be suspended,
from the double motive, on the one hand, of respect for the national
representation; on the other, for the august princess whom we see
before us."
But Marshal Oudinot, the Duke de Nemours, and other friends who
surrounded the duchess, deemed it essential to the success of her
cause that she should not withdraw from the Chamber. The human heart
is often swayed by influences stronger than argument. A young and
beautiful woman, heroically facing the most terrible dangers in
advocacy of the claims of her child to the throne, appealed more
persuasively to many chivalric hearts than the most cogent logic.
Every one in the room trembled for the life of the princess and her
children. They were surrounded by a mob of scowling, ferocious men,
who held possession of the hall. The blow of a club, the thrust of a
dagger, might at any instant be given, and there was no possibility
of protection.
The friends who endeavored to surround the princess and the children
with the shield of their bodies gradually crowded them along to a
higher portion of the house near the door, through which they could
more easily effect their escape in case of necessity. The confusion
and clamor which now filled the hall can scarcely be imagined.
Scarcely the semblance of a deliberative assembly was maintained. The
triumphant mob was holding there its wildest orgies. In vain
Lamartine, Ledru Rollin, and others endeavored to make themselves
heard, calling for a provisional government. The howling of the mob
drowned every voice.
The members, in confusion, rose from their seats. The president fled
from his chair. Some ferocious wretches, upon whose countenances
brutality was imprinted, clambered over the benches and leveled their
muskets at the head of the princess. Her friends, terror-stricken,
hurried her and her children through the door. The moment she
disappeared there was a general cry for a provisional government, as
the first step towards the establishment of a Republic. This call was
made, not only by the mob, but by that large portion of the Deputies
who thought that a Republic alone could save France from anarchy, and
restore to the people their long withheld rights.
Lamartine succeeded in obtaining the tribune. For a moment he was
popular, the representative of Republicanism. There was a brief lull
in the tempest as the throng listened to what he had to say. The
following list of names of those proposed to constitute the
Provisional Government was then read off: Lamartine, Marie, Ledru
Rollin, Cremieux, Dupont de l'Eure, Arago, and Garnier Pages. Some
of these names were received with cheers, others with hisses. It was
impossible to take any formal vote. The voices of the Deputies were
lost in the clamor of the mob. Still, the general assent seemed to be
in their favor. These were all good men. They were deemed moderate
Republicans.
But there was another portion of the Republican party, the radical,
so called, who would by no means be satisfied with such an
administration as these calm, deliberate men would inaugurate, with
their lingering adhesion to the rights of wealth and the dignity of
rank. There might have been possibly a thousand people crowded into
the hall of the Chamber of Deputies, who thus, self-appointed, were
forming a government for a nation numbering thirty-five millions.
The more radical party, perhaps equal in number, and no less
tumultuous, composed also of those of the stoutest muscle and most
determined will, who could elbow their way through the throng,
gathered in the great hall of the Hotel de Ville, proclaimed an
antagonistic provisional government, more in accordance with their
views. Their list consisted of Marrast, Flocon, Louis Blanc, and
Albert. The danger of a conflict, leading to hopeless anarchy, was
imminent, as the partisans of each should rally around its own
choice.
The first Provisional Government, accordingly, immediately repaired
to the Hotel de Ville, followed by a tumultuous crowd which no man
could number. The leaders of the two parties soon met upon the stairs
of the Hotel de Ville, and a violent altercation ensued, which came
near to blows. The Place de Greve, in front of the hotel, was like a
storm-tossed ocean of agitated men, "a living sea, madly heaving and
tossing about beneath the tempest of revolution."
Both parties were terrified by the menacing aspect of affairs. A
compromise was hurriedly agreed to by adding to the six chosen at the
Chamber of Deputies six more, chosen from the party at the Hotel de
Ville. Lamartine, from the head of the stairs, read off the list to
the masses surging below.
In the mean time, the Duchess of Orleans, having escaped from the
Chamber of Deputies, and surrounded by friends who were ready to
sacrifice their own lives in her defense, was with difficulty rescued
from the crowd. Prominent among her protectors was M. de Morny. As
the duchess was veiled, her little party was soon lost in the heaving
masses, and unrecognized. The terrors of the hour caused fugitives to
be struggling wildly through the throng in all directions. The
pressure was so great and so resistless that the duchess was torn
from the side of her brother, the Duke de Nemours, and from both of
her children. A moment after the separation, as the mother, frantic
with terror, was groping around in search of her sons, a brutal
wretch of gigantic stature recognized the Count de Paris, and,
seizing him by the throat, endeavored to strangle him. One of the
National Guard who chanced to be near rescued the child, and
succeeded in placing him in the hands of his mother. But the younger
child, the Duke de Chartres, could nowhere be found. In vain the
distracted mother called aloud for her child. The close-packed throng
swayed to and fro, and her feeble voice was unheard in the deafening
clamor. She was swept along by the flow of a torrent which it was
impossible to resist. With exceeding difficulty her friends succeeded
in forcing her into a house. She ran to the window of one of the
chambers to look down upon the scene of tumult for her lost child.
Soon, to her inexpressible joy, she saw him in the arms of a friend.
The poor child was faint, and almost lifeless. He had been thrown
down and trampled under the feet of the crowd. The day was now far
spent. As soon as it was dark, the royal party, all in disguise,
engaged a hack, and, passing through the Champs Elysees, escaped from
the city. After a short journey of many perils and great mental
suffering, they were reunited with the exiled king and court at
Claremont.
The night succeeding these scenes in Paris was appalling beyond
imagination. There was no recognized law in the metropolis. A
population of a million and a half of people was in the streets. The
timid and the virtuous were terror-stricken. The drunken, the
degraded, the ferocious held the city at their mercy. Radical as was
the party which had assembled at the Hotel de Ville, there was
another party, composed of the dregs of the Parisian populace, more
radical still. This party was ripe for plunder and for unlimited
license in every outrage. About midnight, in a desperately armed and
howling band, they made an attack upon the Provisional Government at
the Hotel de Ville; after a severe struggle, the assailants were
repelled. The next morning the _Moniteur_ announced to the citizens
of Paris, and the telegraph announced to Europe, that the throne of
Louis Philippe had crumbled, and that a Republic was established in
France.
We must not forget, in our stern condemnation of the brutality, the
ignorance, the ferocity of the mob, that it was composed of
men--husbands, brothers, fathers--many of whom had been defrauded of
their rights and maddened by oppression. If governments will sow the
wind by trampling upon the rights of the people, they must expect to
reap the whirlwind when their exasperated victims rise in the
blindness of their rage.
Louis Philippe did not long survive his fall. He died at Claremont,
in England, on the 26th of August, 1850. The reader, who may be
interested to inform himself of the changes in France which followed
this Revolution, will find them minutely detailed in the "Life of
Napoleon III."
* * * * *
TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES:
1. Minor changes have been made to correct typesetter's errors;
otherwise, every effort has been made to remain true to the author's
words and intent.
2. The chapter summaries in this text were originally published as
banners in the page headers, and have been moved to beginning of the
chapter for the reader's convenience.
3. The final 11 paragraphs of Chapter IX in the original publication,
which appear to be out of context and which were duplicated in
Chapter XI, have been removed from this e-book.