In looking back, after a long lapse of years, I cannot refrain from a
feeling of astonishment to think how little remembrance I possess of the
occurrences of that day--one of the most memorable that ever dawned for
France--the eventful 29th of July, that closed the reign of terror
by the death of the tyrant! It is true, that all Paris was astir at
daybreak; that a sense of national vengeance seemed to pervade the
vast masses that filled the streets, which now were scenes of the most
exciting emotion. I can only account for the strange indifference that I
felt about these stirring themes by the frequency with which similar, or
what to me at least appeared similar, scenes had already passed before
my eyes.
One of the most remarkable phases of the revolution was the change
it produced in all the social relations by substituting an assumed
nationality for the closer and dearer ties of kindred and affection.
France was everything--the family nothing; every generous wish, every
proud thought, every high ambition or noble endeavour, belonged to the
country. In this way, whatever patriotism may have gained, certainly
all the home affections were utterly wrecked; the humble and unobtrusive
virtues of domestic life seemed mean and insignificant beside the grand
displays of patriotic devotion which each day exhibited.
Hence grew the taste for that ‘life of the streets’ then so
popular--everything should be en _évidence_. All the emotions which
delicacy would render sacred to the seclusion of home were now to be
paraded to the noonday. Fathers were reconciled to rebellious children
before the eyes of multitudes; wives received forgiveness from their
husbands in the midst of approving crowds; leave-takings the most
affecting; partings, for those never to meet again; the last utterings
of the death-bed; the faint whispers of expiring affection; the
imprecations of undying hate--all, all were exhibited in public, and the
gaze of the low, the vulgar, and the debauched associated with the most
agonising griefs that ever the heart endured. The scenes, which now are
shrouded in all the secrecy of domestic privacy, were then the daily
life of Paris; and to this cause alone can I attribute the hardened
indifference with which events the most terrible and heart-rending were
witnessed. Bred up amidst such examples, I saw little matter for emotion
in scenes of harrowing interest. An air of mockery was on everything,
and a bastard classicality destroyed every semblance of truth in
whatever would have been touching and affecting.
The commotion of Paris on that memorable morning was, then, to my
thinking, little more than usual If the crowds who pressed their way to
the Place de la Revolution were greater--if the cries of vengeance
were in louder utterance--if the imprecations were deeper and more
terrible--the ready answer that satisfied all curiosity was--it was
Robespierre who was on his way to be executed. Little knew I what hung
upon that life! and how the fate of millions depended upon the blood
that morning was to shed! Too full of myself and my own projects, I
disengaged myself from the crowds that pressed eagerly towards the
Tuileries, and took my way by less-frequented streets in the direction
of the Boulevard Mont Parnasse.
I wished, if possible, to see the père once more, to take a last
farewell of him, and ask his blessing, too; for still a lingering faith
in the lessons he had taught me continued to haunt my mind amidst
all the evil influences with which my wayward life surrounded me. The
further I went from the quarter of the Tuileries, the more deserted
and solitary grew the streets. Not a carriage or horseman was to be
seen--scarcely a foot-passenger. All Paris had, apparently, assembled
on the Place de la Révolution; and the very beggars had quitted their
accustomed haunts to repair thither. Even the distant hum of the vast
multitude faded away, and it was only as the wind bore them that I could
catch the sounds of the hoarse cries that bespoke a people’s vengeance.
And now I found myself in the little silent street which once had been
my home. I stood opposite the house where we used to live, afraid to
enter it lest I might compromise the safety of her I wished to save,
and yet longing once more to see the little chamber where we once sat
together--the chimney-corner where, in the dark nights of winter, I
nestled, with my hymn-book, and tried to learn the rhymes that every
plash of the falling hail against the windows routed--to lie down once
more in the little bed, where so often I had passed whole nights of
happy imaginings--bright thoughts of a peaceful future that were never
to be realised!
Half choking with my emotion, I passed on, and soon saw the green
fields, and the windmill-covered hill of Montmartre rising above the
embankment of the Boulevards--and now the ivy-clothed wall of the
garden, within which stood the chapel of St. Blois. The gate lay ajar as
of old, and, pushing it open, I entered. Everything was exactly as I had
left it--the same desolation and desertion everywhere--so much so, that
I almost fancied no human foot had crossed its dreary precincts since
last I was there. On drawing nigh to the chapel, I found the door fast
barred and barricaded as before; but a window lay open, and on examining
it closer I discovered the marks of a recent foot-track on the ground
and the window-sill. Could the Père Michel have been there? was the
question that at once occurred to my mind. Had the poor priest come
to take a last look and a farewell of a spot so dear to him? It could
scarcely have been any other. There was nothing to tempt cupidity in
that humble little church; an image of the ‘Virgin and Child’ in wax
was the only ornament of the altar. No, no; pillage had never been the
motive of him who entered here.
Thus reasoning, I climbed up to the window, and entered the chapel. As
my footsteps echoed through the silent building, I felt that sense of
awe and reverence so inseparably connected with a place of worship,
and which is ever more impressive still as we stand in it alone. The
present, however, was less before me than the past, of which everything
reminded me. There was the seat the marquise used to sit in--there the
footstool I had so often placed at her feet. How different was the last
service I had rendered her! There the pillar, beside which I have
stood spell-bound, gazing at that fair face, whose beauty arrested
the thoughts that should have wended heavenward, and made my muttered
prayers like offerings to herself. The very bouquet of flowers some
pious hand had placed beneath the shrine--withered and faded--was there
still. But where were they whose beating hearts had throbbed with deep
devotion? How many had died upon the scaffold!--how many were still
lingering in imprisonment, some in exile, some in concealment, dragging
out lives of misery and anxiety! What was the sustaining spirit of
such martyrdom? I asked myself again and again. Was it the zeal of true
religion, or was it the energy of loyalty that bore them up against
every danger, and enabled them to brave death itself with firmness?--and
if this faith of theirs was thus ennobling, why could not France be of
one mind and heart? There came no answer to these doubts of mine, and I
slowly advanced towards the altar, still deeply buried in thought. What
was my surprise to see that two candles stood there, which bore signs
of having been recently lighted. At once the whole truth flashed across
me--the père had been there; he had come to celebrate a mass--the last,
perhaps, he was ever to offer up at that altar. I knew with what warm
affection he loved every object and every spot endeared to him by long
time, and I fancied to myself the overflowing of his heart as he entered
once more, and for the last time, the little temple, associated with
all the joys and sorrows of his existence. Doubtless, too, he had waited
anxiously for my coming; mayhap in the prayers he offered I was not
forgotten. I thought of him kneeling there, in the silence of the night,
alone, as he was, his gentle voice the only sound in the stillness of
the hour, his pure heart throbbing with gratitude for his deliverance,
and prayerful hopes for those who had been his persecutors. I thought
over all this, and, in a torrent of emotions, I knelt down before
the altar to pray. I know not what words I uttered, but his name must
somehow have escaped my lips, for suddenly a door opened beside the
altar, and the Père Michel, dressed in his full vestments, stood before
me. His features, wan and wasted as they were, had regained their wonted
expression of calm dignity, and by his look I saw that he would not
suffer the sacred spot to be profaned by any outburst of feeling on
either side.
‘Those dreadful shouts tell of another massacre,’ said he solemnly, as
the wind bore towards us the deafening cries of the angry multitude.
‘Let us pray for the souls’ rest of the departed.’
‘Then will your prayers be offered for Robespierre, for Couthon, and St.
Just,’ said I boldly.
‘And who are they who need more the saints’ intercession--who have ever
been called to judgment with such crimes to expiate--who have ever so
widowed France, and so desecrated her altars? Happily, a few yet remain
where piety may kneel to implore pardon for their iniquity. Let us
recite the Litany for the Dead,’ said he solemnly, and at once began the
impressive service.
As I knelt beside the rails of the altar, and heard the prayers which,
with deep devotion, he uttered, I could not help feeling the contrast
between that touching evidence of Christian charity and the tumultuous
joy of the populace, whose frantic bursts of triumph were borne on the
air.
‘And now come with me, Maurice,’ said he, as the Litany was concluded.
‘Here, in this little sacristy, we are safe from all molestation; none
will think of us on such a day as this.’
And as he spoke he drew his arm around me, and led me into the little
chamber where once the precious vessels and the decorations of the
church were kept.
‘Here we are safe,’ said he, as he drew me to his side on the oaken
bench, which formed all the furniture of the room. ‘To-morrow, Maurice,
we must leave this, and seek an asylum in another land; but we are not
friendless, my child--the brothers of the “Sacred Heart” will receive
us. Their convent is in the wilds of the Ardennes, beyond the frontiers
of France, and there, beloved by the faithful peasantry, they live in
security and peace. We need not take the vows of their order, which is
one of the strictest of all religious houses; but we may claim their
hospitality and protection, and neither will be denied us. Think what a
blessed existence will that be, Maurice, my son, to dwell under the same
roof with these holy men, and to imbibe from them the peace of mind
that holiness alone bestows; to awake at the solemn notes of the pealing
organ, and to sink to rest with the glorious liturgies still chanting
around you; to feel an atmosphere of devotion on every side, and to see
the sacred relics whose miracles have attested the true faith in ages
long past. Does it not stir thy heart, my child, to know that such
blessed privileges may be thine?’
I hung my head in silence, for, in truth, I felt nothing of the
enthusiasm with which he sought to inspire me. The père quickly saw what
passed in my mind, and endeavoured to depict the life of the monastery
as a delicious existence, embellished by all the graces of literature,
and adorned by the pleasures of intellectual converse. Poetry, romance,
scenery, all were pressed into the service of his persuasions; but how
weak were such arguments to one like me, the boy whose only education
had been what the streets of Paris afforded--whose notions of eloquence
were formed on the insane ravings of ‘The Mountain,’ and whose idea of
greatness was centred in mere notoriety!
My dreamy look of inattention showed him again that he had failed; and I
could see, in the increased pallor of his face, the quivering motion of
his lip, the agitation the defeat was costing him.
‘Alas! alas!’ cried he passionately, ‘the work of ruin is perfect; the
mind of youth is corrupted, and the fountain of virtue denied at the
very source. O Maurice, I had never thought this possible of thee, the
child of my heart!’
A burst of grief here overcame him; for some minutes he could not speak.
At last he arose from his seat, and wiping off the tears that covered
his cheeks with his robe, spoke, but in a voice whose full round tones
contrasted strongly with his former weak accents.
‘The life I have pictured seems to thee ignoble and unworthy, boy. So
did it not appear to Chrysostom, to Origen, and to Augustine--to the
blessed saints of our Church, the eldest-born of Christianity. Be it so.
Thine, mayhap, is not the age, nor this the era, in which to hope for
better things. Thy heart yearns for heroic actions--thy spirit is set
upon high ambitions--be it so. I say, never was the time more fitting
for thee. The enemy is up; his armies are in the field; thousands and
tens of thousands swell the ranks, already flushed with victory. Be
a soldier, then. Ay, Maurice, buckle on the sword--the battlefield is
before thee. Thou hast made choice to seek the enemy in the far-away
countries of heathen darkness, or here in our own native France, where
his camp is already spread. If danger be the lure that tempts thee--if
to confront peril be thy wish--there is enough of it. Be a soldier,
then, and gird thee for the great battle that is at hand. Ay, boy, if
thou feelest within thee the proud darings that foreshadow success,
speak the word, and thou shalt be a standard-bearer in the very van.’
I waited not for more; but springing up, I clasped my arms around his
neck, and cried, in ecstasy, ‘Yes! Père Michel, you have guessed aright,
my heart’s ambition is to be a soldier, and I want but your blessing to
be a brave one.’
‘And thou shalt have it. A thousand blessings follow those who go forth
to the good fight. But thou art yet young, Maurice--too young for this.
Thou needest time, and much teaching, too. He who would brave the enemy
before us, must be skilful as well as courageous. Thou art as yet but a
child.’
‘The general said he liked boy-soldiers,’ said I promptly; ‘he told me
so himself.’
‘What general--who told thee?’ cried the père, in trembling eagerness.
‘General Lacoste, the Chef d’État-major of the army of the Rhine; the
same who gave me a rendezvous for to-morrow at his quarters.’
It was not till I had repeated my explanation again and again, nor,
indeed, until I had recounted all the circumstances of my last night’s
adventure, that the poor père could be brought to see his way through a
mystery that had almost become equally embarrassing to myself. When he
did, however, detect the clue, and when he had perceived the different
tracks on which our minds were travelling, his grief burst all bounds.
He inveighed against the armies of the Republic as hordes of pillagers
and bandits, the sworn enemies of the Church, the desecrators of her
altars. Their patriotism he called a mere pretence to shroud their
infidelity. Their heroism was the bloodthirstiness of democratic
cruelty. Seeing me still unmoved by all this passionate declamation,
he adopted another tactic, and suddenly asked me if it were for such a
cause as this my father had been a soldier?
‘No!’ replied I firmly; ‘for when my father was alive, the soil of
France had not been desecrated by the foot of the invader. The Austrian,
the Prussian, the Englishman, had not yet dared to dictate the laws
under which we were to live.’
He appeared thunderstruck at my reply, revealing, as it seemed to him,
the extent of those teachings, whose corruptions he trembled at.
‘I knew it, I knew it!’ cried he bitterly, as he wrung his hands. ‘The
seed of the iniquity is sown--the harvest-time will not be long in
coming! And so, boy, thou hast spoken with one of these men--these
generals, as they call themselves, of that republican horde?’
‘The officer who commands the artillery of the army of the Rhine may
write himself general with little presumption,’ said I, almost angrily.
‘They who once led our armies to battle were the nobles of France--men
whose proud station was the pledge for their chivalrous devotion. But
why do I discuss the question with thee? He who deserts his faith may
well forget that his birth was noble. Go, boy, join those with whom
your heart is already linked. Tour lesson will be an easy one--you have
nothing to unlearn. The songs of the Girondins are already more grateful
to your ear than our sacred canticles. Go, I say, since between us
henceforth there can be no companionship.’
‘Will you not bless me, père,’ said I, approaching him in deep humility;
‘will you not let me carry with me thy benediction?’
‘How shall I bless the arm that is lifted to wound the Holy Church?--how
shall I pray for one whose place is in the ranks of the infidel? Hadst
thou faith in my blessing, boy, thou hadst never implored it in such a
cause. Renounce thy treason--and not alone my blessing, but thou shalt
have a ‘Novena’ to celebrate thy fidelity. Be of us, Maurice, and thy
name shall be honoured where honour is immortality.’
The look of beaming affection with which he uttered this, more than the
words themselves, now shook my courage, and, in a conflict of doubt and
indecision, I held down my head without speaking. What might have been
my ultimate resolve, if left completely to myself, I know not; but at
that very moment a detachment of soldiers marched past in the street
without. They were setting off to join the army of the Rhine, and were
singing in joyous chorus the celebrated song of the day, ‘Le chant du
départ.’ The tramp of their feet--the clank of their weapons--their
mellow voices--but, more than all, the associations that thronged to my
mind, routed every other thought, and I darted from the spot, and never
stopped till I reached the street.
A great crowd followed the detachment, composed partly of friends of the
soldiers, partly of the idle loungers of the capital. Mixing with these,
I moved onward, and speedily passed the outer boulevard and gained the
open country.