All now seems quiet, so I will go to bed. Heaven only knows if
to-morrow night we may be allowed to seek our pillows in safety.
_28th_.--My _femme-de-chambre_ undrew my curtains this morning, "with
such a face--so faint, so spiritless, so dull, so dead in look, so
woe-begone"--proclaiming that barricades had been erected during the
night, and that the bodies of those killed in the encounter yesterday
have been paraded through the streets in order to excite still more the
angry feelings of the people. This last measure reminds one of the
appalling exhibitions in the fearful and memorable Revolution of former
days; and the reminiscences it awakens are not calculated to
tranquillize the mind.
She states that the shops are all closed, and that no provisions can be
obtained; the cook complains that his stockpots want replenishing; and
the _femme de charge_ hints that the larder is not so well supplied as
it would have been had she known what was to occur. Each and all of
these functionaries seem wholly occupied by the dread of not being able
to furnish us with as copious repasts as usual, unmindful that a mighty
throne is tottering to its foundation, and that a struggle is going on
in which many lives may be sacrificed.
The Duc de Raguse has incurred great blame for his intercourse with the
supposed leaders of the Revolution. This conduct has had the effect of
destroying the confidence of the troops in their chief, and of
weakening their attachment to the cause they were to support. The
Maréchal was the Commandant appointed by the King, and as such, bound
to treat as rebels those who opposed themselves to his government;
instead of which, he seemed more like the _confident_ of a party who,
it is alleged, owe their victory to his supineness.
The Duc de Guiche has not left his post, near the royal family, since
the 26th, except to pass and repass with instructions from the King to
the Duc de Raguse, twice or thrice a-day. He has been repeatedly
recognised by the people, though in plain clothes, and experienced at
their hands the respect so well merited by his honourable conduct and
devotion to his sovereign. How often have I heard this noble-minded man
censured for encouraging the liberal sentiments of the Dauphin; and
heard this, too, from some of those who are now the first to desert
Charles the Tenth in the emergency which is the result of the system
they advocated!
---- has been here; he tells me that to Marshal Marmont the king has
confided unlimited power, and that Paris has been declared in a state
of siege.
He says that the military dispositions are so defective, that there is
not a young officer in the army capable of committing a similar
mistake. The regiments are crowded into narrow streets, in which even
children may become dangerous enemies, by throwing from the windows
every missile within their reach on the heads of the soldiers. He is of
opinion that, in twenty-four hours, the populace will be in possession
of Paris. The tri-coloured flag is now floating from the towers of
Notre-Dame; while the white flag of the luckless Bourbons, as often
stained by the faithlessness of its followers, as by the blood of its
foes, still waves from the column of the Place Vendôme,--that column
erected to commemorate the glory of the great chief now calmly sleeping
in his ocean-washed grave.
The civil authorities seem paralyzed: the troops have been twelve hours
on duly without any refreshment, except that afforded by the humanity
of the people, who have brought them wine and bread; can it be hoped
that these same soldiers will turn their arms against those who have
supplied their necessities?
The royal emblems are destroyed wherever they are found, and the bust
of the king has been trampled on. The disgusting exhibition of the dead
bodies has had the bad effect calculated upon, and all is tumult and
disorder. Every one wonders where are the authorities, and why a
sufficient military force does not appear, for there has been ample
time, since the disposition to insurrection manifested by the people,
to assemble the troops.
Every visitor, and, notwithstanding the disturbed state of Paris, we
have already had several to-day, announces some fresh disaster, each
representing it according to the political creed to which he adheres.
The Royalists assert that the outbreak is the result of a long and
grave conspiracy, fomented by those who expect to derive advantage from
it; while the Liberals maintain that it has arisen spontaneously and
simultaneously from the wounded spirit of liberty, lashed into a
frenzied resistance by the ordonnances. I pretend not to know which of
these statements is the most correct; but I believe that the favourite
opinion of the worthy Sir Roger de Coverley, that "much could be said
on both sides of the question," might now fairly be urged; for,
according to the march of events, it is but too probable that the
melodrama now enacting before our eyes has not been an impromptu; and
it is quite clear that the ordonnances have furnished the occasion, and
the excuse (if such were required), for the performance.
Well might a great Italian writer pronounce revolutions to be the
carnivals of history. This one seems to be not only a carnival but
Saturnalia, for the ebriety of the slaves of liberty is well calculated
to disgust the friends; and those who witness this intoxication are
reminded of the observation of Voltaire, that "_Les Français goûtent de
la liberté comme des liqueurs fortes avec lesquelles ils s'enivrent."_
A revolution affected by physical instead of moral force, is a grave
wound inflicted on social order and civilization--a wound which it
takes ages to heal.
When on the point of sitting down to our _déjeûner a la fourchette_
(for people will eat while thrones are crumbling), repeated knockings,
at the _porte-cochère_ induced us to look from the window in order to
see who the persons were who thus loudly demanded admittance, when it
was discovered that they were Doctors Pasquier and De Guise. They had
been dressing the wounded at the hospital in the Faubourg du Roule, and
finding on their return that the Champs-Élysées and Rue St.-Honoré were
the scenes of combat, had bethought themselves of our vicinity, and
sought shelter. When our unexpected visitants, deeming themselves
fortunate in having found a refuge, prepared to join our repast, it was
ludicrous to observe the lengthened faces of our servants at this
addition to our party. They, having previously lamented the paucity of
provisions in the larder, and being aware of the difficulty, if not
impossibility, of procuring a further supply, looked on the new-comers
as interlopers, who would inevitably diminish the already too limited
stock.
We had not been seated above five minutes at table, when the report of
fire-arms announced that hostilities were renewed, and we hurried to
the drawing-room to observe what was going on. The servants looked as
if they rather enjoyed the interruption to the morning's meal, thinking
no doubt that it would preserve the provisions, now so precious in
their eyes, and they prepared to remove the viands with unusual
alacrity; but their visages lengthened when told to let them remain on
the table, and became still longer when we shortly after resumed our
places at the board.
An Englishwoman, in the kitchen establishment, has just performed a
feat that has elevated her into a heroine in the eyes of the rest of
the servants. Finding the larder not sufficiently supplied, she sallied
forth into the street, passed through the Rue St.-Honoré, while the
fighting was going on, and returned bearing a basket of meat, obtained
certainly at the risk of her life, as shots were flying around her. As
none of the men offered to undertake this action, she is now considered
little less than an amazon, and her _amour-propre_ being excited by the
commendations bestowed on her courage, she declares that she will go
forth for all that may be required, as she despises fear.
We have now entrenched ourselves in the front drawing-rooms, with the
external shutters, which are stuffed to exclude noise, closed, but
which we open occasionally, in order to see what is going on. Sitting
in darkness, with the sound of firing, and the shouts of the people,
continually in our ears, I can hardly bring myself to think that all
that is now passing is not a dream.
The populace, ten minutes ago, rushed from the Rue St.-Honoré towards
the Champs-Élysées, assailing the troops stationed in the latter place;
and were in turn assailed by these last, and forced to retreat to the
Rue St.-Honoré. The scene was one of the utmost confusion.
The firing is going on; stragglers are rushing to and fro; a body of
troops are stationed at the bottom of this street, and some pieces of
cannon have been placed. A thousand rumours are afloat, each more
improbable than the other. One moment it is announced that several
regiments have fraternized with the people; another, that the royal
family have fled to Belgium; the next, that Paris is to be fired by the
insurgents; but it would be impossible to repeat one-half the wild
rumours in circulation.
There is a mixture of the sublime and of the ridiculous in the scenes
now passing before my eyes that is quite extraordinary. Looking from my
window, twenty minutes ago, I saw a troop of boys, amounting to about
fifty, the eldest of whom could not be more than ten or eleven years
old, and some who appeared under that age, march through our streets,
with wooden swords, and lances pointed with sharp nails, flags flying,
and crying, "_Vive la charte! Vive la liberté_!" The gravity and
intrepidity of these _gamins de Paris_ would, at any other period, have
elicited a smile; but now, this demonstration on the part of mere
children creates the reflection of how profound and general must be the
sympathy enlisted against the government and the sovereign in the
hearts of the people.
Many are those who, like their children, shout "_Vive la charte!_" and
"_Vive, la liberté!_" who are as ignorant of the true sense and value
of both as they are. Well might the victim, when being led to execution
in the days of the past revolution in France, exclaim, "O Liberty, what
crimes are committed in thy name!"
One of our servants has this moment informal me that the children,
whose warlike demeanour I was disposed to smile at an hour ago, have
rendered (_not_ the state, but the popular cause) some service. The
troops, more amused than surprised at the appearance of these mimic
soldiers, suffered them to approach closer than prudence warranted, and
the urchins, rushing among the horses, wounded several of the poor
animals severely, and effected their retreat before the soldiers were
aware of what had occurred.
A fatality seems to prevail in the preset crisis that is little less
than marvellous. A want of provisions for the troops is now added to
the catalogue of excitements against the cause of royalty. Harassed by
the repeated attacks of the populace, and exhausted by long exposure to
the intense heat of a burning sun, they are little prone to consider as
enemies those who approach them with food to allay the pangs of hunger,
and drink to cool their scorching thirst. ----, and others who have
mingled with the crowd, tell me that they have beheld repeated examples
of soldiers throwing down their arms, to embrace those who came to
seduce them with the most irresistible of all seductions--refreshment,
when they were nearly exhausted by the want of it.
I shall begin to consider myself half a heroine, after an exploit I
performed this evening. The men who shared our dinner having gone out
to observe what was passing, I determined, _coûte que coûte_, to pay a
visit to my friend Madame Craufurd. I attired myself as simply as
possible, and, attended by a _valet de pied_, sallied forth. Having
traversed the short distance that separates this house from the Rue
St.-Honoré, I arrived at the barricade erected in front of the entrance
to the Rue Verte, and I confess this obstacle seemed to me, for the
first minute or two that I contemplated it, insurmountable. My servant,
too, expressed his belief of the difficulty, if not impossibility, of
climbing over this mountain of loose stones, that I felt half disposed
to retrace my steps.
The shouts of a mob approaching along the Rue St.-Honoré quickly
decided me on the course to pursue; I clambered up as best I could, not
without considerable risk; nor was the danger and difficulty of the
descent on the other side of this rude pyramid less imminent. The
evening was more sultry than I ever experienced an evening to be, even
in Italy; the houses were all closed, the streets deserted, except when
a few occasional stragglers rushed along, glancing at me with surprise,
and uttering their comments on my courage. Now and then a dog ran by,
with a terrified air and drooping tail, keeping close to the houses as
if for protection. One might have fancied oneself in some city ravaged
by the plague, and the burning heat of the atmosphere, and lurid red of
the clouds, might have strengthened the notion.
It more than once occurred to me how singular it was for me, a woman
and a stranger, to find myself with only one attendant in the streets,
on foot, in a city declared to be in a state of siege, and with the
noise of firing in the distance, and the shouts of the populace,
continually breaking on my ears.
Having passed the Rue de la Ville-l'Évêque, and entered the Rue
d'Anjou, I soon reached the _porte-cochère_ of my friend. My servant
knocked, and very loudly, but before the Swiss porter would open the
door, he reconnoitred from the window in the _entresol_ of his lodge.
He could hardly credit his eyes when he saw me; and while he unbolted
and unchained the door, an operation which took him more time than I
thought necessary, I could hear him muttering that, "_Les dames
Anglaises n'ont peur de rien, positivement rien_." I was not sorry when
I heard the massive door closed after me, with its bolts and chains
again secured; but, as I crossed the courtyard, the different aspect of
the house, with its closed windows, reminded me so forcibly of the
change that had occurred since my last visit, only three days
previously, that I felt more agitated than while traversing the
streets.
When I entered the drawing-room, in which a large circle were
assembled, Madame Craufurd, though the servants announced my name,
could hardly believe I was indeed come. She wept bitterly while
embracing me, and observed on the hardship of a person so aged as
herself being called on to witness two revolutions. All the horrors of
the first are recalled vividly to her mind, and her terror of what may
occur is proportioned to what she remembers to have formerly taken
place. Nothing seemed to pacify her terror so much as the fact of my
having been permitted to pass unmolested to her house, though she
considered me little less than insane to have undertaken the task.
"For myself," said Madame C----, "I have little fear (though her
blanched cheek and trembling hand told another story); but for those
dearer to me than life, what have I not to dread? You who know the
chivalrous sentiments of the Duc de Guiche, and the attachment
entertained by him and my granddaughter for the royal family, will
understand how much I have to dread for them from the vengeance which
their devotion to their sovereign may draw on their heads. _They_ are
not, as you are aware, time-servers, like so many others, who will
desert their king in his hour of need. No; they will brave death, I am
assured, rather than forsake in adversity those whose prosperity they
shared."
The marquis d'Aligre, one of, it not the, richest landed proprietors in
France, was among the circle at Madame Craufurd's, and evinced no
little composure and courage in the circumstances in which we found
ourselves. He joined me in endeavouring to soothe her fears; and
probably the fact of his having so immense a stake to risk in the
crisis now taking place, added not a little weight to the arguments he
urged to quiet her alarms. When people have so much to lose, their
calmness has an imposing effect; and the rhetoric of the most
accomplished orator would have probably been less successful than was
the composed manner of the marquis d'Aligre, in restoring the wonted
courage of our amiable hostess.
When I rose to take leave, Madame C---- tried all her efforts to
persuade me to remain to sleep at her house, and I had no little
difficulty to escape from her importunity. She would fain send all her
men servants to escort me home, and the Marquis d'Aligre also
pressingly offered his services; but I was obstinate in my refusal to
allow anyone to accompany me, being convinced that there was even less
danger in proceeding with a single servant than more numerously
attended. I tore myself from the embraces of Madame C----, whose tears
flowed afresh, and bedewed my cheeks, and I once more passed through
the court-yard, followed to the porter's lodge by the _dames de
compagnie, femmes de chambre_, and _valets de chambre_, wondering at my
courage, offering up their prayers for my safety, and proclaiming that
only an Englishwoman would have faced such danger. The old Swiss porter
would not risk opening the gate until he had assured himself, from the
window, that the coast was clear, and closed it so rapidly when I had
passed it as almost to have endangered my heels.
On returning, I found a cord drawn across the street in front of the
barrack in the Rue Verte, and some forty or fifty ill-dressed and
riotous men assembled, half-a-dozen of whom held the cord. Having
approached close to it, I paused, and, looking calmly at those who held
it, I appealed by looks to their politeness. Some of them laughed
aloud, and asked me if I could not leap over the barrier that impeded
my progress, drawing the rope still higher while they spoke. I
answered, though I trembled at being exposed to their rude mirth, and
still more rude gaze, "That I felt sure Frenchmen would not compel me
to such an unfeminine exertion, or give me cause to tell my compatriots
when I returned to England that deference to women no longer existed in
France."
"Let her pass! let her pass!" exclaimed nearly all the voices of the
group; "she is courageous, and she speaks rightly, _Vivent les
Anglaises! Vivent les Anglaises!_" and the cord was instantly lowered
to the ground, and I hastily stepped over it, glad to get out of
hearing of the rough compliments bestowed on me.
My servant had attempted to address them before I spoke, but they one
and all assailed him with a torrent of reproach, demanding if he was
not ashamed to wear a livery, the badge of servitude, when all his
countrymen were fighting for their liberty. I had again to clamber over
the barricade, assisted by my servant, and, before I could cross the
Rue St.-Honoré, encountered various groups of men rushing along, all of
whom uttered such invectives against my footman that I determined not
again to go out attended by this symbol of aristocracy.
On reaching my home, the porter observed, with a self-complacency his
prudence could not conceal, that he "knew Madame la Comtesse had
nothing to dread from the people, they were brave and _bons enfans_,
and would not injure a lady;"--a commendation that clearly indicated
the state of his feelings.