received him in his chamber. He had resumed his kindly air, and when
the ex-minister had shown him the accounts of the last {172} fortnight,
he complimented him on their clearness. Afterwards, the following
conversation took place: "Then you are going to join Luckner's
army?"--"Yes, Sire, I leave this frightful city with delight; I have
but one regret; you are in danger here."--"Yes, that is
certain."--"Well, Sire, you can no longer fancy that I have any
personal interest to consult in talking with you; once having left your
Council, I shall never again approach you; it is through fidelity and
the purest attachment that I dare once more entreat you, by your love
for your country, your safety and that of your crown, by your august
spouse and your interesting children, not to persist in the fatal
resolution of vetoing the two decrees. This persistence will do no
good, and you will ruin yourself by it."--"Don't say any more about it;
my decision is made."--"Ah! Sire, you said the same thing when, in
this very room, and in presence of the Queen, you gave me your word to
sanction them."--"I was wrong, and I repent of it."--"Sire, I shall
never see you again; pardon my frankness; I am fifty-three, and I have
some experience. It was not then that you were wrong, but now. Your
conscience is abused concerning this decree against the priests; you
are being forced into civil war; you are helpless, and you will be
overthrown, and history, though it may pity you, will reproach you with
having caused all the misfortunes of France. On your account, I fear
your friends still more than your enemies."--"God is my witness {173}
that I wish for nothing but the welfare of France."--"I do not doubt
it, Sire; but you will have to account to God, not solely for the
purity but also for the enlightened execution of your intentions. You
expect to save religion, and you destroy it. The priests will be
massacred and your crown torn from you. Perhaps even your wife, your
children..." Emotion prevented Dumouriez from going on. Tears stood
in his eyes. He kissed the hand of Louis XVI. respectfully. The King
wept also, and for a moment both were silent. "Sire," resumed
Dumouriez, "if all Frenchmen knew you as well as I do, our woes would
soon be ended. Do you desire the welfare of France? Very well! That
demands the sacrifice of your scruples ... You are still master of
your fate. Your soul is guiltless; believe a man exempt from passion
and prejudice, and who has always told you the truth."--"I expect my
death," replied Louis XVI. sadly, "and I forgive them for it in
advance. I thank you for your sensibility. You have served me well; I
esteem you, and if a happier time shall ever come, I will prove it to
you." With these words the King rose sadly, and went to a window at
the end of the apartment. Dumouriez gathered up his papers slowly, in
order to gain time to compose his features; he was unwilling to let his
emotion become evident to the persons at the door as he went out.
"Adieu," said the King kindly, "and be happy!"
As he was leaving, he met his friend Laporte, intendant of the civil
list. The two, who were meeting {174} for the last time, went into
another room and closed the door. "You advised me to resign," said
Laporte, "and I meant to do so, but I have changed my mind. My master
is in danger, and I will share his fate."--"If I were in the personal
service of the King, as you are," replied Dumouriez, "I would think and
act the same; I esteem your devotion, and love you the more for it;
each of us is faithful in his own way; you, to Louis; I, to the King of
the French. May both of us felicitate him some day on his happiness!"
Then the two friends separated, after embracing each other with tears.
The sole thought of Dumouriez now was to escape from the city where he
had witnessed so many intrigues and been so often deceived. He was
very sorrowful at heart. Ordinarily so gay, so brilliant, so full of
Gallic and _Rabelaisian_ wit, power had made him melancholy. His
ministerial life left on him an abiding impression of bitterness and
repugnance. "One needs," he has said, "either a patriotism equal to
any test, or else an insatiable ambition, to aspire in any way whatever
after those difficult positions where one is surrounded with snares and
calumnies. One learns only too soon that men are not worth the trouble
one takes to govern them." June 19, he wrote to the Assembly, asking
an authorization to repair to the Army of the North. "I have spent
thirty-six years in military and diplomatic service, and have
twenty-two wounds," said he in this letter; "I envy the fate of the
virtuous Gouvion, and should {175} esteem myself happy if a cannon-ball
could put an end to all differences concerning me." He never again
returned either to the palace, the Assembly, or any other place where
he might encounter either ministers, deputies, or persons belonging to
the court. He started for the army, June 26, regarding it as "the only
asylum where an honest man might still be safe. At least, death
presents itself there under the attractive aspect of glory." He left
in the capital "consternation, suspicion, hatred, which pierced through
the frivolity of the wretched Parisians." With an intuition worthy of
a man of genius, he foresaw the vicious circle about to be described by
French history, and divined that by plunging into license men return
inevitably to servitude, because "it is impossible to sustain liberty
with an absurd government, founded on barbarity, terror, and the
subversion of every principle necessary to the maintenance of human
society." Two years later, in 1794, he wrote in his Memoirs: "The
serpent will recoil upon itself. His tail, which is anarchy, will
re-enter his throat, which is despotism."
[1] The advanced republican party in the Assembly.
{176}
XVII.
THE PROLOGUE TO JUNE TWENTIETH.
On retiring from the ministry, Dumouriez left his successors a burden
far too heavy for their shoulders, and under which they were to
succumb. The new ministers, Lajard, Terrier de Montciel, and
Chambonas, were almost unknown men who had no definite, decided
opinions, and offered no resistance to disorder: for that matter, they
had no means of doing so. The political system then in power had left
Paris a helpless prey to sedition. By the new laws, the executive
power could take no direct action looking to the preservation of public
order in any French commune. Any minister or departmental
administration that should adopt a police regulation or give a
commander to armed forces, would be guilty of betraying a trust. The
power to prevent or repress disorder belonged exclusively to the
municipal authority, which, in Paris, was composed of a mayor, sixteen
administrators, thirty-two municipal councillors, a council-general of
ninety-six notables, an attorney-general and his two substitutes. This
body of 148 members was the redoubtable power known as the Commune of
Paris. It was not {177} composed entirely of seditious persons, and in
the National Guard, also, there were still battalions fervently devoted
to the constitutional monarchy. But Petion was mayor of Paris; Manuel,
the attorney-general, and Danton his substitute. Seditious movements
were sure to find instigators and accomplices in these three men.
Moreover, the insurrection was regularly organized. It had its
muster-rolls, its officers, sergeants, soldiers; its strategy and plans
of battle. It utilized wineshops as guard-houses, the faubourgs as
barracks, the red bonnet and the _carmagnole_, or revolutionary jacket,
as a uniform. Its agitators distributed wine, beer, and brandy
gratuitously. The Jacobins or the Cordeliers had but to give the
signal for a riot, and a riot sprang out of the ground. The mine was
loaded; the only question was when to fire the train. The Girondins
were of one mind with the Jacobins. Exasperated by the dismissal of
three ministers who shared their opinions, they wanted to intimidate
the court by means of a popular tumult, and thus force the unhappy
sovereign to sanction the two decrees, concerning the deportation of
priests and the camp of twenty thousand men. The populace already
manifested their restlessness by threats and strange rumors. At the
Jacobin Club the most violent propositions were mooted. Some wanted to
establish a minority, on the ground of the King's mental alienation;
some, to send the Queen back to Austria; the more moderate talked of
suppressing the army, {178} dismissing the staff-officers of the
National Guard, depriving the King of the right of veto, and electing a
Constituent Assembly. Revolutionary conventicles multiplied beyond all
measure. The division of Paris into forty-eight sections became an
exhaustless source of confusion. The assembly of each section
transformed itself into a club.
Meanwhile, the moderate party rested all its hopes on Lafayette, who
was friendly not only to liberty, but to order. He considered himself
the founder of the new monarchy, of constitutional royalty; but, for
that very reason, he felt that he had duties toward the King.
Despising the reactionists, whose hopes were more or less enlisted on
behalf of the foreign armies, he also detested the Jacobins who were
dishonoring and compromising the new order of things. He expresses
both sentiments in a letter addressed to the National Assembly, and
written from the intrenched camp of Maubeuge, June 16, 1792, the Fourth
Year of Liberty: "Can you conceal from yourselves," he says in it,
"that a faction, and to use plain terms, the Jacobin faction, has
caused all these disorders? I make the accusation boldly. Organized
like a separate empire, with its capital and its affiliations blindly
directed by certain ambitious chiefs, this sect forms a distinct body
in the midst of the French people, whose powers it usurps by
subjugating its representatives and agents. In its public meetings,
attachment to the laws is named aristocracy, and disobedience to them
patriotism; there the {179} assassins of Desilles are received in
triumph, and Jourdan's insensate clamor finds panegyrists; there the
story of the assassinations which defiled the city of Metz is still
greeted with infernal applause."
Lafayette puts himself courageously forward in his letter: "As to me,
gentlemen, who espoused the American cause at the very time when the
ambassadors assured me it was lost; who, from that period, devoted
myself to a persistent defence of the liberty and sovereignty of
peoples; who, on June 11, 1789, in presenting a declaration of rights
to my country, dared to say, 'For a nation to be free, all that is
necessary is that it shall will to be so,' I come to-day, full of
confidence in the justice of our cause, of scorn for the cowards who
desert it, and of indignation against the traitors who would sully it;
I come to declare that the French nation, if it be not the vilest in
the universe, can and ought to resist the conspiracy of kings which has
been leagued against it." At the same time, the general
enthusiastically praised his soldiers: "Doubtless it is not within the
bosom of my brave army that sentiments of timidity are permissible.
Patriotism, energy, discipline, patience, mutual confidence, all civic
and military virtues, I find here. Here the principles of liberty and
equality are cherished, the laws respected, and property held sacred;
here, neither calumnies nor seditions are known."
Including both revolutionists and reactionists in the same accusation,
Lafayette makes this reflection: {180} "What a remarkable conformity of
language exists, gentlemen, between those seditious persons
acknowledged by the aristocracy, and those who usurp the name of
patriots! All are alike ready to repeal our laws, to rejoice in
disorders, to rebel against the authorities granted by the people, to
detest the National Guard, to preach indiscipline to the army, and
almost to disseminate distrust and discouragement." Lafayette
concludes in these words: "Let the royal power be intact, for it is
guaranteed by the Constitution; let it be independent, for this
independence is one of the forces of our liberty; let the King be
revered, for he is invested with the national majesty; let him choose a
ministry unhampered by the yoke of any faction; if conspirators exist,
let them perish only by the sword of law; finally, let the reign of
clubs, brought to nothing by you, give place to the reign of law; their
disorganizing maxims to the true principles of liberty; their delirious
fury to the calm courage of a nation which knows its rights and which
defends them!"
Lafayette's letter was read to the Assembly at the session of June 18.
The noble thoughts it expresses produced at first a favorable
impression, and it was greeted with much applause. For an instant the
Girondins were disconcerted; but, feeling themselves supported by the
Jacobins who lined the galleries, they soon resumed the offensive.
"What does the advice of the general of the army amount to," said
Vergniaud, "if it is not law?" Guadet maintained {181} that the letter
must be apocryphal. "When Cromwell used such language," said he,
"liberty was at an end in England, and I cannot persuade myself that
the emulator of Washington desires to imitate the conduct of the
Protector. We no longer have a constitution if a general can give us
laws." The allusion to Cromwell produced its effect. The letter,
instead of being published and copies sent to the eighty-three
departments, was merely referred to a committee.
Nevertheless, public opinion was aroused. A reactionary sentiment
against the Jacobins began to show itself. The King might have
profited by it, and found his account in relying upon Lafayette, the
army, and the National Guard. But Louis XVI. was in too much haste.
His resistance, like his concessions, was maladroit and inopportune.
Without having combined his means of defence, consulted with Lafayette,
or having any troops at his disposal, he vetoed the two famous decrees,
June 19, and thus threw himself headlong into the snare. The
Revolution, which had lain in wait for him, would not let its prey
escape. It gave Lafayette no time to arrive, but, without losing a
minute, organized an insurrection for the next day. The royal tree had
been so violently shaken, that it needed, or so they thought, but one
more shock to lay it low and root it out.
On June 16, a request had been presented to the Council-General of the
Commune, asking them to authorize the citizens of the Faubourg
Saint-Antoine {182} to assemble in arms on June 20, the anniversary of
the oath of the Jeu de Paume, and present a petition to the Assembly
and the King. The Council had passed to the order of the day, but the
petitioners declared that they would assemble notwithstanding. On the
19th, the Directory of the department, which on all occasions had shown
itself inimical to agitators, and which was presided over by the Duke
de La Rochefoucauld, issued an order forbidding all armed gatherings,
and enjoining the commandant-general and the mayor to take all
necessary measures for dispersing them. This order was communicated to
the National Assembly by the Minister of the Interior at the evening
session.
"It is important," said a deputy, "that the Assembly should know the
decrees of the administrative bodies when they tend to assure public
tranquillity. Nobody is ignorant that at this moment the people are
greatly agitated. Nobody is ignorant that to-morrow threatens to be a
day of violence." Vergniaud replied: "I do not know whether or not
to-morrow is to be a day of troubles, but I cannot understand how M.
Becquet, who is always so constitutional" (here there was laughter and
applause), "how M. Becquet, by an inversion of law and order, desires
the National Assembly to occupy itself with police regulations." The
decree of the Directory was read, nevertheless. But the Assembly, far
from supporting it, passed to the order of the day. The rioters had
nothing to fear.
{183}
During the same session, a deputation of citizens from Marseilles had
been presented at the bar of the Assembly. The orator of this
deputation thus expressed himself: "French liberty is in danger. The
free men of the South are ready to march in its defence. The day of
the people's wrath has come at last. The people, whom they have always
sought to ruin or enslave, are tired of parrying blows. They want to
inflict them, and to annihilate conspiracies. It is time for the
people to rise. This lion, generous but enraged, is about to quit his
repose, and spring upon the pack of conspirators." Here the galleries
applauded furiously. The orator continued: "The popular force is your
force; employ it. No quarter, since you can expect none." The
applause and enthusiastic cries of the galleries redoubled. Somebody
demanded that the speech should be sent to the eighty-three departments
of France. A deputy, M. Rouher, was courageous enough to exclaim: "It
is not by the harangues of seditious persons that the departments
should be instructed!" Another deputy, M. Lecointre-Puyravaux,
responded: "Is it surprising that men born under a burning sun should
have a more ardent imagination and a patriotism more energetic than
ours?" The question whether the discourse should be sent to the
departments was put to vote, and the president and secretaries declared
that the Assembly had decided against it. This did not suit the public
in the galleries. They howled, they vociferated. They claimed that
the result was {184} doubtful. They demanded a viva voce count. This
demand alarmed those deputies who never dared to look the Revolution in
the face. A new vote was taken, and this time, the sending of the
address to the eighty-three departments was decreed. With such an
Assembly, why should the insurrectionists have hesitated?
The rioters of the next day did not hesitate a moment. The order of
the Directory had somewhat intimidated them. But Chabot, the deputy so
celebrated for his violence at the Jacobin Club, hastened to reassure
them. "To-morrow," said he, "you will be received with open arms by
the National Assembly. People count on you." The Faubourg
Saint-Antoine was in commotion. Condorcet said, in speaking of the
anxieties expressed by the ministers: "Is it not fine to see the
Executive asking legislators to provide means of action! Let them save
themselves; that is their business!"
The Most Christian King is treated like the Divine Master. Petion,
mayor of Paris, is to play the role of Pontius Pilate. He washes his
hands of all that is to happen. He orders the battalions of National
Guards under arms for the following day, not in order to oppose the
march of the columns of the people, but to fraternize with the
petitioners, and act as escort to the insurrection. This equivocal
measure, he thinks, will set him right with both the Directory and the
populace. To one he says: "I am watching," and to the other, "I am
with you." {185} The rioters count on Petion as anarchy counts on
weakness. He is precisely the magistrate that suits the faubourgs when
they resort to violent measures. A last conventicle was held at the
house of Santerre the brewer, chief of battalion of the National Guard
of the Faubourg Saint-Antoine, on the night of June 19-20. It broke up
at midnight. All was ready. The leaders of the insurrection repaired
each to his post. They summoned their loyal adherents, and sent them
about in small detachments to assemble and mass together the working
classes, as soon as they should leave their houses in the morning.
Santerre had declared that the National Guard could offer no opposition
to the rioters. "Rest easy," said he to the conspirators; "Petion will
be there." Louis XVI. no longer feigned not to notice the danger.
"Who knows," said he during the night to M. de Malesherbes, with a
melancholy smile, "who knows if I shall see the sun set to-morrow?"
{186}
XVIII.
THE MORNING OF JUNE TWENTIETH.
It is Wednesday, June 20, 1792, the anniversary of the oath of the Jeu
de Paume. The signal is given. The faubourgs assemble. It is five in
the morning. Santerre, on horseback, is at the Place de la Bastille,
at the head of a popular staff. The army of rioters forms slowly.
Some anxiety is shown at first. The departmental decree forbidding
armed gatherings had been posted, and occasioned some reflection in the
timid. But Santerre reassures them. He tells them that the National
Guard will not be ordered to oppose their march, and that they may
count on Petion's complicity.
When the march toward the National Assembly begins, hardly more than
fifteen hundred are in line. But the little band increases as it goes.
The route lies through rues Saint-Antoine, de la Verrerie, des
Lombards, de la Ferronnerie, and Saint-Honore. The procession is
headed by soldiers, after whom comes a great poplar stretched upon a
wagon. It is the Liberty tree. According to some, it is to be planted
in the courtyard of the Riding School, opposite the Assembly chamber;
according to others, on the {187} terrace of the Tuileries, before the
principal door of the palace. A military band plays the _Ca ira_,
which is chanted in chorus by the insurrectionary troop. No obstacle
impedes their march. The torrent swells incessantly. The inquisitive
mingle with the bandits. Some are in uniform, some in rags; there are
soldiers, active and disabled, National Guards, workmen, and beggars.
Harlots in dirty silk gowns join the contingent from studios, garrets,
and robbers' dens, and gangs of ragpickers unite with butchers from the
slaughter-houses. Pikes, lances, spits, masons' hammers, paviors'
crowbars, kitchen utensils,--their equipment is oddity itself.
It is noon. The session of the Assembly has just been opened. At this
hour the throng, now numbering some twenty thousand persons, enters the
rue Saint-Honore. The Directory of the Department of Paris demands
admission to the bar on pressing business, and the municipal
attorney-general, Roederer, begins to speak. Heeding neither the
murmurs of the galleries, the disapprobation of part of the Assembly,
nor the clamor sure to be raised against him that evening in the
Jacobin and Cordelier clubs, he boldly announces what is going on. He
reminds them of the law, and the decrees forbidding armed gatherings
which have been issued by the Commune and the Department. He adds
that, without such prohibitions, neither the authorities nor private
individuals have any security for their lives. "We demand," cried he,
"to be invested with {188} complete responsibility; we demand that our
obligation to die for the maintenance of public tranquillity shall in
nowise be diminished."
Vergniaud ascends the platform. He owns that, in principle, the
Assembly is wrong in admitting armed gatherings within its precincts,
but he declares that he thinks it impossible to refuse a permission
accorded to so many others to that which now presents itself. He
believes, moreover, that it could not be dispersed without a resort to
martial law and a renewal of the massacre of the Champ-de-Mars. "It
would be insulting to the citizens who are now asking to pay their
respects to you," said he, "to suspect them of bad intentions... The
assemblage doubtless does not claim to accompany the citizens who
desire to present a petition to the King. Nevertheless, as a
precaution, I propose that sixty members of the Assembly shall be
commissioned to go to the King and remain near him until this gathering
shall have been dispersed."