At daybreak, from my balcony, I see advancing a noisy column of people,
among whom are a number of National Guards. The mob stops in front of
the Mairie, which is guarded by about thirty Municipal Guards, and with
loud cries demands the soldiers’ arms. Flat refusal by the Municipal
Guards, menacing clamours of the crowd. Two National Guard officers
intervene: “What is the use of further bloodshed? Resistance will be
useless.” The Municipal Guards lay down their rifles and ammunition and
withdraw without being molested.
The Mayor of the Eighth Arrondissement, M. Ernest Moreau, requests me
to come to the Mairie. He tells me the appalling news of the massacre
on the Boulevard des Capucines. And at brief intervals further news
of increasing seriousness arrives. The National Guard this time has
definitely turned against the Government, and is shouting: “Hurrah for
Reform!” The army, frightened at what it did yesterday, appears resolved
not to take any further part in the fratricidal struggle. In the Rue
Sainte Croix la Bretonnerie the troops have fallen back before the
National Guard. At the neighbouring Mairie of the Ninth Arrondissement,
we are informed, the soldiers are fraternising and patrolling with the
National Guard. Two other messengers in blouses arrive almost together:
“The Reuilly Barracks has been taken.” “The Minimes Barracks has
surrendered.”
“And from the Government I have neither instructions nor news!” says M.
Ernest Moreau. “What Government, if any, is there? Is the Mole Ministry
still in existence? What is to be done?”
“Go to the Prefecture of the Seine,” advises M. Perret, a member of the
General Council. “It isn’t far to the Hotel de Ville.”
“Well, then, come with me.”
They go. I reconnoitre round the Place Royale. Everywhere reign
agitation, anxiety and feverish expectation. Everywhere work is being
actively pushed upon barricades that are already formidable. This time
it is more than a riot, it is an insurrection. I return home. A soldier
of the line, on sentry duty at the entrance to the Place Royale, is
chatting amicably with the vedette of a barricade constructed twenty
paces from him.
At a quarter past eight M. Ernest Moreau returns from the Hotel de
Ville. He has seen M. de Rambuteau and brings slightly better news.
The King has entrusted the formation of a Cabinet to Thiers and Odilon
Barrot. Thiers is not very popular, but Odilon Barrot means reform.
Unfortunately the concession is coupled with a threat: Marshal Bugeaud
has been invested with the general command of the National Guard and of
the army. Odilon Barrot means reform, but Bugeaud means repression. The
King is holding out his right hand and clenching his left fist.
The Prefect requested M. Moreau to spread and proclaim the news in his
quarter and in the Faubourg Saint Antoine.
“This is what I will do,” says the Mayor.
“Very good,” I observe, “but believe me, you will do well to announce
the Thiers-Barrot Ministry and say nothing about Marshal Bugeaud.”
“You are right.”
The Mayor requisitions a squad of National Guards, takes with him his
two deputies and the Municipal Councillors present, and descends into
the Place Royale. The roll of drums attracts the crowd. He announces the
new Cabinet. The people applaud and raise repeated shouts of “Hurrah
for Reform!” The Mayor adds a few words recommending harmony and the
preservation of order, and is universally applauded.
“The situation is saved!” he says, grasping my hand.
“Yes,” I answer, “if Bugeaud will give up the idea of being the
saviour.”
M. Ernest Moreau, followed by his escort, goes off to repeat his
proclamation in the Place de la Bastille and the faubourg, and I return
home to reassure my family.
Half an hour later the Mayor and his cortege return greatly agitated and
in disorder to the Mairie. This is what had happened:
The Place de la Bastille was occupied at its two extremities by troops,
leaning on their rifles. The people moved freely and peaceably between
the two lines. The Mayor, arrived at the foot of the July column, made
his proclamation, and once again the crowd applauded vigorously. M.
Moreau started towards the Faubourg Saint Antoine. At this moment a
number of workingmen accosted the soldiers amicably and said: “Your
arms, give up your arms.” In obedience to the energetic orders of their
captain the soldiers refused. Suddenly a shot was fired; it was followed
by other shots; the terrible panic of the previous day was perhaps about
to be renewed. M. Moreau and his escort were pushed about, thrown down.
The firing on both sides lasted over a minute, and five or six persons
were killed or wounded.
Fortunately, this time the affray occurred in broad daylight. At the
sight of the blood they had shed there was a revulsion of feeling on
the part of the troops, and after a moment of surprise and horror the
soldiers, prompted by an irresistible impulse, raised the butts of
their rifles in the air and shouted: “Long live the National Guard!”
The general in command, being powerless to control his men, went off
to Vincennes by way of the quays and the people remained masters of the
Bastille and of the faubourg.
“It is a result that might have cost more dear, in my case especially,”
remarks M. Moreau and he shows us his hat which has been pierced by a
bullet. “A brand new hat,” he adds with a laugh.
Half past ten o’clock.--Three students from the Ecole Polytechnique have
arrived at the Mairie. They report that the students have broken out of
the school and have come to place themselves at the disposition of the
people. A certain number have therefore distributed themselves among the
mairies of Paris.
The insurrection is making progress every hour. It now demands that
Marshal Bugeaud be replaced and the Chamber dissolved. The pupils of
the Ecole Polytechnique go further and talk about the abdication of the
King.
What is happening at the Tuileries? There is no news, either, from the
Ministry, no order from the General Staff. I decide to go to the Chamber
of Deputies, by way of the Hotel de Ville, and M. Ernest Moreau is kind
enough to accompany me.
We find the Rue Saint Antoine bristling with barricades. We make
ourselves known and the insurgents help us to clamber over the heaps
of paving-stones. As we draw near to the Hotel de Ville, from which the
roar of a great crowd reaches our ears, and as we cross some ground on
which are buildings in course of erection, we see coming towards us with
hurried steps M. de Rambuteau, the Prefect of the Seine.
“Hi! Monsieur the Prefect, what brings you here?” I cry.
“Prefect! Do I know whether I am still Prefect?” he replies with a surly
air.
A crowd, which looks anything but benevolent, has already begun to
gather. M. Moreau notices a house that is to let. We enter it, and M. de
Rambuteau recounts his misadventure.
“I was in my office with two or three Municipal Councillors,” he says,
“when we heard a great noise in the corridor. The door was thrown
violently open, and there entered unto me a big strapping captain of the
National Guard at the head of an excited body of troops.
“‘Monsieur,’ said the man, ‘you must get out of here.’
“‘Pardon me, Monsieur, here, at the Hotel de Ville I am at home, and
here I propose to stay.’
“‘Yesterday you were perhaps at home in the Hotel de Ville; to-day the
people are at home in it.’
“‘Ah! But--’
“‘Go to the window and look out on the square.’
“The square had been invaded by a noisy, swarming crowd in which
workingmen, National Guards and soldiers were mingled pell-mell. And
the rifles of the soldiers wore in the hands of the men of the people. I
turned to the intruders and said:
“‘You are right, messieurs, you are the masters here.’
“‘Well, then,’ said the captain, ‘instruct your employés to recognise my
authority.’
“That was too much. I replied: ‘What do you take me for?’ I gathered up
a few papers, issued a few orders, and here I am. Since you are going
to the Chamber, if there is still a Chamber, tell the Minister of the
Interior, if the Ministry still exists, that at the Hotel de Ville there
is no longer either Prefect or Prefecture.”
It is with great difficulty that we make our way through the human ocean
that with a noise as of a tempest covers the Place de Hotel de Ville.
At the Quai de la Mégisserie is a formidable barricade; thanks to the
Mayor’s sash shown by my companion we are allowed to clamber over it.
Beyond this the quays are almost deserted. We reach the Chamber of
Deputies by the left bank of the river.
The Palais Bourbon is encumbered by a buzzing crowd of deputies, peers
and high functionaries. From a rather large group comes the sharp voice
of M. Thiers: “Ah! here is Victor Hugo!” He comes to us and asks for
news about the Faubourg Saint Antoine. We add that about the Hotel de
Ville. He shakes his head gloomily.
“And how are things here?” I question in turn. “But first of all are you
still a Minister?”
“I? Oh! I am nobody! Odilon Barrot is President of the Council and
Minister of the Interior.”
“And Marshal Bugeaud?”
“He has also been replaced by Marshal Gerard. But that is nothing. The
Chamber has been dissolved, the King has abdicated and is on his way
to Saint Cloud, and the Duchess d’Orleans is Regent. Ah! the tide is
rising, rising, rising!”
M. Thiers advises us, M. Ernest Moreau and me, to come to an
understanding with M. Odilon Barrot. Action by us in our quarter, which
is such an important one, can be of very great utility. We therefore set
out for the Ministry of the Interior.
The people have invaded the Ministry and crowded it to the very office
of the Minister, where a not over respectful crowd comes and goes. At a
large table in the middle of the vast room secretaries are writing. M.
Odilon Barrot his face red, his lips compressed and his hands behind his
back, is leaning against the mantelpiece.
“You know what is going on, do you not?” he says when he sees us; “the
King has abdicated and the Duchess d’Orleans is Regent.”
“If the people so wills,” says a man in a blouse who is passing.
The Minister leads us to the recess of a window, looking uneasily about
him as he does so.
“What are you going to do? What are you doing?” I query.
“I am sending telegrams to the departments.”
“Is this very urgent?”
“France must be informed of events.”
“Yes, but meanwhile Paris is making events. Alas! has it finished making
them? The Regency is all very well, but it has got to be sanctioned.”
“Yes, by the Chamber. The Duchess d’Orleans ought to take the Count de
Paris to the Chamber.”
“No, since the Chamber has been dissolved. If the Duchess ought to go
anywhere, it is to the Hotel de Ville.”
“How can you think of such a thing! What about the danger?”
“There is no danger. A mother, a child! I will answer for the people.
They will respect the woman in the princess.
“Well, then, go to the Tuileries, see the Duchess d’Orleans, advise her,
enlighten her.”
“Why do you not go yourself?”
“I have just come from there. Nobody knew where the Duchess was; I could
not get near her. But if you see her tell her that I am at her disposal,
that I await her orders. Ah! Monsieur Victor Hugo, I would give my life
for that woman and for that child!”
Odilon Barrot is the most honest and the most devoted man in the
world, but he is the opposite of a man of action; one feels trouble and
indecision in his words, in his look, in his whole person.
“Listen,” he goes on, “what must be done, what is urgent, is that
the people should be made acquainted with these grave changes, the
abdication and Regency. Promise me that you will proclaim them at your
mairie, in the faubourg, and wherever you possibly can.”
“I promise.”