_Abbè Sieyes.--Consular Procession to the Council Chamber.--10th of
August, 1792.--Celerity of Mons. Fouche's Information.--The two
Lovers.--Cabinet of Mons. le Grand--Self-prescribing
Physician.--Bust of Robespierre.--His Lodgings.--Corn Hall.--Museum
of French Monuments.--Revolutionary Agent.--Lovers of married
Women._
A neat remark was made upon the abbè Sieyes, to whose prolific mind the
revolution and all its changes have been imputed. This extraordinary man
has a noble house in the Champs Elisées, and is said to have the best
cook in Paris. As a party in which I was, were passing his hotel, a near
relation of the abbè, who happened to be with us, commented upon the
great services which the cloistered fabricator of constitutions had
afforded to France, and adverted to his house and establishment as an
unsuitable reward for his labours. A gentleman, who was intimate with
the abbè, but was no great admirer of his morals, said, "I think, my
dear madam, the abbè ought to be very well satisfied with his destiny;
and I would advise him to live as long as he can in the Champs Elisées;
for when he shall happen to experience that mysterious transition to
which we are all hastening, I think the chances will be against his
finding good accommodations in any other Elysium."
As I was passing one morning through the hall of the Thuilleries, the
great door of the council chamber was opened, and the second and third
consuls, preceded and followed by their suite in full costume, _marched_
with great pomp to business, to the roll of a drum. This singular
procession from one part of the house to the other, had a ridiculous
effect, and naturally reminded me of the fustian pageantry which, upon
the stage, attends the entries and exits of the kings and queens of the
drama.
I have often been surprised to find that the injuries which the cornice
of the entrance, and the capitals of the columns in the hall of the
Thuilleries, have sustained from the ball of cannon, during the horrible
massacre of the 10th of August, 1792, have never been repaired. Every
vestige of that day of dismay and slaughter ought for ever to be
effaced; instead of which, some labour has been exercised to perpetuate
its remembrance. Under the largest chasms which have been made by the
shot is painted, in strong characters, that gloomy date.
In the evening of that day of devastation, from which France may date
all her sufferings, a friend of mine went into the court-yard of the
Thuilleries, where the review is now held, for the purpose of
endeavouring to recognise, amongst the dead, any of his acquaintances.
In the course of this shocking search, he declared to me, that he
counted no less than eight hundred bodies of Swiss and French, who had
perished in that frightful contest between an infatuated people and an
irresolute sovereign. I will not dilate upon this painful subject, but
dismiss it in the words of the holy and resigned descendant of Nahor,
"Let that day be darkness; let not God regard it from above, neither let
the light shine upon it; let darkness and the shadow of death stain it;
let a cloud dwell upon it; let the blackness of the day terrify it."
I have before had occasion to notice the promptitude and activity of the
french police, under the penetrating eye of Mons. Fouche. No one can
escape the vigilance of this man and his emissaries. An emigrant of
respectability assured me, that when he and a friend of his waited upon
him for their passports to enable them to quit Paris for the South of
France, he surprised them by relating to them the names of the towns,
the streets, and of the people with whom they had lodged, at various
times, during their emigration in England.
Whilst I was at Paris, an affair happened very near the hotel in which I
lodged, which in its sequel displayed that high spirit and sensibility
which appear to form the presiding features in the french character, to
which may be attributed all the excesses which have stained, and all the
glory which has embellished it. A lady of fortune, and her only
daughter, an elegant and lovely young woman, resided in the Fauxbourg
St. Germain. A young man of merit and accomplishments, but unaided by
the powerful pretensions of suitable fortune, cherished a passion for
the young lady, to whom he had frequent access, on account of his being
distantly related to her. His affection was requited with return; and
before the parent suspected the attachment, the lovers were solemnly
engaged. The indications of pure love are generally too unguarded to
escape the keen, observing eye of a cold, mercenary mother. She charged
her daughter with her fondness, and forbade her distracted lover the
house. To close up every avenue of hope, she withdrew with her wretched
child into Italy, where they remained for two years; at the expiration
of which, the mother had arranged for her daughter a match more
congenial to her own pride and avarice, with an elderly gentleman, who
had considerable fortune and property in the vicinity of Bourdeaux.
Every necessary preparation was made for this cruel union, which it was
determined should be celebrated in Paris, to which city they returned
for that purpose. Two days before the marriage was intended to take
place, the young lover, wrought up to frenzy by the intelligence of the
approaching nuptials, contrived, by bribing the porter whilst the mother
was at the opera with her intended son-in-law, to reach the room of the
beloved being from whom he was about to be separated for ever. Emaciated
by grief, she presented the mere spectre of what she was when he last
left her. As soon as he entered the room, he fell senseless at her feet,
from which state he was roused by the loud fits of her frightful maniac
laughter. She stared upon him, like one bewildered. He clasped her with
one hand, and with the other drew from his pocket a vial containing
double distilled laurel water: he pressed it to her lips, until she had
swallowed half of its contents; the remainder he drank himself.--The
drug of death soon began to operate.--Clasped in each other's arms, pale
and expiring, they reviewed their hard fate, and, in faint and lessening
sentences, implored of the great God of mercy, that he would pardon them
for what they had done, and that he would receive their spirits into
his regions of eternal repose; that he would be pleased, in his divine
goodness, to forgive the misjudging severity which had driven them to
despair, and would support the unconscious author of it, under the heavy
afflictions which their disastrous deaths would occasion. They had
scarcely finished their prayer, when they heard footsteps approaching
the room. Madame R----, who had been indisposed at the opera, returned
home before its conclusion, with the intended bridegroom. The young man
awoke, as it were, from his deadly drowsiness, and, exerting his last
strength, pulled from his breast a dagger, stabbed the expiring being,
upon whom he doated, to the heart; and, falling upon her body, gave
himself several mortal wounds. The door opened; the frantic mother
appeared. All the house was in an instant alarmed; and the fatal
explanation which furnished the materials of this short and sad recital,
was taken from the lips of the dying lover, who had scarcely finished it
before he breathed his last. Two days afterwards, the story was hawked
about the streets.
From this painful narrative, in which the French impetuosity is strongly
depicted, I must turn to mention my visit to Mons. le G----, who lives
in the Rue Florentine, and is considered to be one of the first
architects in France; in which are many monuments of his taste and
elegance. It is a curious circumstance that all artists exercise their
talents more successfully for their patrons than for themselves. Whether
it is the hope of a more substantial reward than that of mere
self-complacency, which usually excites the mind to its happiest
exertions, I will not pretend to determine; but the point seems to be in
some degree settled by the conduct of a celebrated Bath physician, of
whom it is related, that, happening once to suffer under a malady from
which as his skill had frequently relieved others, he determined to
prescribe for himself. The recipe at first had not the desired effect.
The doctor was surprised. At last he recollected that he had not feed
himself. Upon making this discovery, he drew the strings of his purse,
and with his left hand placed a guinea in his right, and then
prescribed. The story concludes by informing its readers, that the
prescription succeeded, and the doctor recovered.--In adorning the front
of his own hôtel, Mons. le G----, in my very humble opinion, has not
exhibited his accustomed powers. In a small confined court-yard he has
attempted to give to a private dwelling the appearance of one of those
vast temples of which he became enamoured when at Athens. The roof is
supported by two massy fluted pilastres, which in size are calculated to
bear the burthen of some prodigious dome. The muscular powers of
Hercules seem to be here exercised in raising a grasshopper from the
ground. The genius of Mons. le G----, unlike the world's charity, does
not begin at home, but seems more disposed to display its most
successful energies abroad. His roof, however, contains such a monument
of his goodness and generosity, that I must not pass it over. This
distinguished architect is one of those unfortunate beings who have been
decreed to taste the bitterness, very soon after the sweets of
matrimony. Upon discovering the infidelity of his lady, who is very
pretty and prepossessing, the distracted husband immediately sought a
divorce from the laws of his country. This affair happened a very short
time before the revolution afforded unusual acceleration and facilities
to the wishes of parties, who, under similar circumstances, wished to
get rid of each other as soon as possible. The then "law's delay"
afforded some cause of vexation to Mons. le G----, who was deeply
injured. Before his suit had passed through its last forms, the father
of his wife, who at the time of their marriage lived in great affluence,
became a bankrupt. In the vortex of his failure, all the means of
supporting his family were swallowed up. The generous le G----,
disdaining to expose to want and ignominy the woman who had once been
dear to him, would proceed no further. She is still his wife; she bears
his name, is maintained by him, and in a separate suite of apartments
lives under the same roof with him. But Mons. and Madame le G---- have
had no intercourse whatever with each other for eleven years. If in the
gallery or in the hall they meet by accident, they pass without the
interchange of a word. This painful and difficult arrangement has now
lost a considerable portion of its misery, by having become familiar to
the unfortunate couple.
In the valuable and curious cabinet of Mons. le G----, I found out,
behind several other casts, a bust of Robespierre, which was taken of
him, a short period before he fell. A tyrant, whose offences look white,
contrasted with the deep delinquency of the oppressor of France, is said
to be indebted more to his character, than to nature, for the
representation of that deformity of person which appears in
Shakspeare's portrait of him, when he puts this soliloquy in his lips:--
"I that am curtail'd of this fair proportion,
Cheated of feature, by dissembling Nature,
Deform'd, unfinish'd, sent before my time,
Into the breathing world, scarce half made up;
And that so lamely and unfashionably,
That dogs bark at me, as I halt by them."
History, enraged at the review of the insatiable crimes of Robespierre,
has already bestowed upon him a fanciful physiognomy, which she has
composed of features which rather correspond with the ferocity of his
soul, than with his real countenance. From the appearance of this bust,
which is an authentic remblance of him, his face must have been rather
handsome. His features were small, and his countenance must have
strongly expressed animation, penetration and subtlety. This bust is a
real curiosity. It is very likely that not another is now to be found,
Mons. le G---- is permitted to preserve it, without reproach on account
of his art. I can safely say, he does not retain it from any emotions of
veneration for the original. It is worthy of being placed between the
heads of Caligula and Nero. Very near the residence of Mons. le G---- is
the house in which Robespierre lodged. It is at the end of the Rue
Florentine, in the Rue St. Honore, at a wax chandler's. This man is too
much celebrated, not to render every thing which relates to him curious.
The front windows of his former lodgings look towards the Place de la
Concorde, on the right of which his prime minister, the permanent
guillotine, was quartered. Robespierre, who, like the revolting angel,
before the world's formation, appears to have preferred the sceptre of
Hell and chaos, to the allegiance of order and social happiness, will
descend to posterity with no common attributes of distinction and
preeminence. His mind was fully suited to its labours, which, in their
wide sphere of mischief, required more genius to direct them than was
bestowed upon the worst of the tyrants of Rome, and a spirit of evil
which, with its "broad circumference" of guilt, was calculated to darken
the disk of their less expanded enormity.
From Robespierre's lodgings, curiosity led me to visit the building in
which the jacobin club held their Pandemonium. It is a noble edifice,
and once belonged to the Order of Jacobins. Near this church stands the
beautiful fabric of the Corn Hall of Paris, designed by Monsieur le
Grand. The dome of the bank of England is in the same style, but
inferior, in point of lightness and elegance. That of the Corn Hall
resembles a vast concavity of glass. In this noble building the millers
deposit their corn for sale. Its deep and lofty arches and area, were
nearly filled with sacks, containing that grain which is precious to all
nations, but to none more than the french; to a frenchman, bread is most
emphatically the staff of life. He consumes more of it at one meal than
an englishman does at four. In France, the little comparative quantity
of bread which the english consume, is considered to form a part of
their national character. Before I left Paris, I was requested to
visit a very curious and interesting exhibition, the Museum of French
Monuments; for the reception of which, the ancient convent of the monks
of the Order of les Petits Augustines, is appropriated. This national
institution is intended to exhibit the progress of monumental taste in
France, for several centuries past, the specimens of which have chiefly
been collected from St. Denis, which formerly was the burial place of
the monarchs of France, and from other churches.
[Illustration: _Museum of French Monuments._]
It will be remembered by the reader, that in the year 1793, Henriot, a
vulgar and furious republican, proposed setting off for the former
church, at the head of the sans culottes, to destroy all these curious
and valuable relics, "to strike," as he said, "the tyrants in their
tombs," but was prevented by some other republicans of influence, who
had not parted with their veneration for works of taste, from this
impious and impotent outrage.
In the first hall, which is very large, and impresses a similar awe to
that which is generally felt upon entering a cathedral, are the tombs of
the twelfth century. Amongst them I chiefly distinguished that of Henry
II, upon which are three beautiful mourning figures, supporting a cup,
containing his heart.
In the second hall, are the monuments of the thirteenth century, most of
them are very fine; that of Lewis the XIIth and his queen, is well
worthy of notice. I did not find much to gratify me in the hall of the
fourteenth century. In that of the fifteenth century are several noble
tombs, and beautiful windows of stained glass. In the hall of the
sixteenth century is a fine statue of Henry the IVth, by Franchville,
which is considered to be an admirable likeness of that wonderful man.
In the hall of the seventeenth century, is a noble figure, representing
religion, by Girardon.
In the cloisters are several curious statues, stained glass windows, and
tesselated pavement. There is here also a good bust of Alexis Peron,
with this singular epitaph,
Ci git qui ne fut rien,
Pas même académicien.
In the square garden within the cloisters, are several ancient urns, and
tombs. Amongst them is the vase which contains the ashes, if any remain,
of Abelard and Heloise, which has been removed from the Paraclete to the
Museum. It is covered with the graceful shade of an Acacia tree, which
seems to wave proudly over its celebrated deposit. Upon approaching this
treasurable antique, all those feelings rushed in upon me, which the
beautiful, and affecting narrative of those disastrous lovers, by Pope,
has often excited in me. The melancholy Heloise seemed to breathe from
her tomb here,
"If ever chance two wandering lovers brings,
O'er the pale marble shall they join their heads,
And drink the falling tear each other sheds:
Then sadly say, with mutual pity mov'd,
Oh! may we never love, as these have lov'd."
National guards are stationed in every apartment of the Museum, and
present rather an unaccording appearance, amidst the peaceful solemnity
of the surrounding objects. This exhibition is not yet completed, but,
in its present condition, is very interesting. Some hints, not
altogether useless, may be collected from it. In England, our churches
are charnel houses. The pews of the congregation are raised upon
foundations of putrefaction. For six days and nights the temple of
devotion is filled with the pestilent vapours of the dead, and on the
seventh they are absorbed by the living. Surely it is high time to
subdue prejudices, which endanger health without promoting piety. The
scotch never bury in their churches, and their burial places are upon
the confines of their towns. The eye of adoration is filled with a
pensive pleasure, in observing itself surrounded with the endeavours of
taste and ingenuity, to lift the remembrance of the great and good
beyond the grave, in that very spot where the frailty of our nature is
so often inculcated.
Such a display, in such a place, is rational, suitable, and admonitory.
The silent tomb becomes auxiliary to the eloquence of the pulpit. But
the custom which converts the place of worship into a catacomb, can
afford but a mistaken consolation to posthumous pride, and must, in some
degree, contaminate the atmosphere which is contained within its walls.
One evening as I was passing through the Boulevard Italien, in company
with a gentleman from Toulon, we met a tall, dark, hollow eyed,
ferocious looking man, of whom he related the following story.
Immediately after the evacuation of Toulon by the english, all the
principal toulonese citizens were ordered to repair to the market
place; where they were surrounded by a great military force.
This man who, for his offences, had been committed to prison, was
liberated by the french agents, in consequence of his undertaking to
select those of the inhabitants who had in any manner favoured the
capitulation of the town, or who had shown any hospitality to the
english, whilst they were in possession of it. The miscreant passed
before the citizens, who were drawn out in lines, amounting to near
three thousand. Amongst whom he pointed out about one thousand four
hundred persons to the fury of the government; without any other
evidence, or further examination, they were all immediately adjudged to
be shot. For this purpose a suitable number of soldiers were drawn out.
The unhappy victims were marched up to their destruction, upon the quay,
in sets of three hundred, and butchered.
The carnage was dreadful. In the last of these unfortunate groups, were
two gentlemen of great respectability, who received no wound from the
fire, but, to preserve themselves, dropped with the rest, and exhibited
all the appearances of having participated in the general fate.
This execution took place in the evening: immediately after its close,
the soldiers, fatigued, and sick with cold-blooded slaughter, marched
back to their quarters, without examining whether every person upon whom
they had fired, had fallen a victim to the murderous bullet. Soon after
the soldiers had retired, the women of Toulon, allured by plunder,
proceeded to the fatal spot. Mounted upon the bodies of the fallen,
they stripped the dead, and dying. The night was stormy. The moon,
emerging from dark clouds, occasionally, shed its pale lustre upon this
horrible scene. When the plunderers had abandoned their prey, during an
interval of deep darkness, in the dead of the night, when all was
silent, unconscious of each other's intentions, the two citizens who had
escaped the general carnage, disencumbered themselves from the dead,
under whom they were buried; chilled and naked, in an agony of mind not
to be described, they, at the same moment, attempted to escape. In their
agitation, they rushed against each other. Expressions of terror and
surprise, dropped from each of them. "Oh! God! it is my father!" said
one, "my son, my son, my son," exclaimed the other, clasping him in his
arms. They were father and son, who had thus miraculously escaped, and
met in this extraordinary manner.
The person from whom I received this account, informed me, that he knew
these gentlemen very well, and that they had been resettled in Toulon
about two years.
The wretch who had thus directed the ruthless vengeance of a
revolutionary banditti, against the breasts of his fellow citizens, was,
at this time, in Paris, soliciting, from the present government, from a
total misconception of its nature, those remunerations which had been
promised, but never realized by his barbarous employers.
I need scarcely add, that although he had been in the capital several
months, he had not been able to gain access to the minister's secretary.
The time of terror was over--the murderer's occupation was gone--the
guillotine, with unsatiated hunger, after having gorged the food which
was thrown to it, had devoured its feeder.
I must leave it to the ingenuity of my reader, to connect the
observation with which I shall close this chapter, with the preceding
story, for I am only enabled to do so, by observing, that an impressive
instance of the subject of it, occurred immediately after my mind had
been harrowed up, by the narrative which I have just related. The
married women of France feel no compunctious visitings of conscience, in
cherishing about them a circle of lovers, amongst whom their husbands
are _merely_ more favoured than the rest. I hope I shall not be
considered as an apologist, for an indulgence which, in France, excites
no jealousy in _one_, and no surprise amongst the many, when I declare,
that I confidently believe, in most instances, it commences, and
guiltlessly terminates in the love of admiration. I know, and visited in
Paris, a most lovely and accomplished young woman, who had been married
about two years. She admitted the visits of men, whom she knew were
passionately fond of her. Sometimes she received them in the presence,
and sometimes in the absence of her husband, as accident, not
arrangement, directed. They approached her with all the agitation and
tenderness of the most ardent lovers. Amongst the number, was a certain
celebrated orator. This man was her abject slave. A glance from her
expressive eye raised him to the summit of bliss, or rendered his night
sleepless. The complacent husband of Madame G----regarded these men as
his most beloved friends, because they enlarged the happiness of his
wife; and, strange as it may appear, I believe that he had as little
cause to complain as Othello, and therefore never permitted his repose
to be disturbed by those suspicions which preyed upon the vitals of the
hapless moor. The french Benedict might truly exclaim,
"--------------------'Tis not to make me jealous,
To say my wife is fair, feeds well, loves company,
Is free of speech, sings, plays, and dances well;
Where virtue is, these are more virtuous;
Nor from my own weak merits will I draw
The smallest fear, or doubt of her revolt."