and propose new measures of public safety. Lamourette, getting before
him, asked to be heard on a motion of order. He said {242} that of all
the means proposed for arresting the divisions which were destroying
France, but one had been forgotten, and that the only one which could
be efficacious. It was the union of all Frenchmen in one mind, the
reconciliation of all the deputies, without exception. What was to
prevent this? The only irreconcilable things are crime and virtue.
What do all our mistrust and suspicions amount to? One party in the
Assembly attributes to the other a seditious desire to destroy the
monarchy. The others attribute to their colleagues a desire to destroy
constitutional equality and to establish the aristocratic government
known as that of the Two Chambers. These are the disastrous suspicions
which divide the empire. "Very well!" cried the abbe, "let us crush
both the republic and the Two Chambers." The hall rang with unanimous
applause from the Assembly and the galleries. From all sides came
shouts of "Yes, yes, we want nothing but the Constitution." Lamourette
went on: "Let us swear to have but one mind, one sentiment. Let us
swear to sink all our differences and become a homogeneous mass of
freemen formidable both to the spirit of anarchy and that of feudalism.
The moment when foreigners see that we desire one settled thing, and
that we all desire it, will be the moment when liberty will triumph and
France be saved. I ask the president to put to vote this simple
proposition: That those who equally abjure and execrate the republic
and the Two Chambers shall rise." At {243} once, as if moved by the
same impulse, the members of the Assembly rose as one man, and swore
enthusiastically never to permit, either by the introduction of the
republican system or by that of the Two Chambers, any alteration
whatsoever in the Constitution.
By a spontaneous movement, the members of the extreme left went towards
the deputies of the right. They were received with open arms, and, in
their turn, the right advanced toward the ranks of the left. All
parties blended. Jaucourt and Merlin, Albite and Ramond, Gensonne and
Calvet, Chabot and Genty, men who ordinarily opposed each other
relentlessly, could be seen sitting on the same bench. As if by
miracle, the Assembly chamber became the temple of Concord. The moved
spectators mingled their acclamations with the oaths of the deputies.
According to the expressions of the _Moniteur_, serenity and joy were
on all faces, and unction in every heart.
M. Emmery was the next speaker. "When the Assembly is reunited," said
he, "all the powers ought to be so. I ask, therefore, that the
Assembly at once send the King the minutes of its proceedings by a
deputation of twenty-four members." The motion was adopted.
A few minutes later, Louis XVI., followed by the deputation and
surrounded by his ministers, entered the hall. Cries of "Long live the
nation! Long live the King!" resounded from every side. The sovereign
{244} placed himself near the president, and in a voice that betrayed
emotion, made the following address: "Gentlemen, the spectacle most
affecting to my heart is that of the reunion of all wills for the sake
of the country's safety. I have long desired this salutary moment; my
desire is accomplished. The nation and the King are one. Each of them
has the same end in view. Their reunion will save France. The
Constitution should be the rallying-point for all Frenchmen. We all
ought to defend it. The King will always set the example of so doing."
The president replied: "Sire, this memorable moment, when all
constituted authorities unite, is a signal of joy to the friends of
liberty, and of terror to its enemies. From this union will issue the
force necessary to combat the tyrants combined against us. It is a
sure warrant of liberty."
After prolonged applause a great silence followed. "I own to you, M.
the President," presently said the complaisant Louis XVI., "that I was
longing for the deputation to finish, so that I might hasten to the
Assembly." Applause and cries of "Long live the nation! Long live the
King!" redoubled. What! this monarch now acclaimed is the same prince
against whom Vergniaud hurled invectives a few days ago with the
enthusiastic approbation of the same Assembly! He is the sovereign
whom the Girondin thus addressed: "O King, who doubtless have believed
with Lysander the tyrant that truth is no better than a lie, and that
men must be amused {245} with oaths like children with rattles; who
have pretended to love the laws only to preserve the power that will
enable you to defy them; the Constitution only that it may not cast you
from the throne where you must remain in order to destroy it; the
nation only to assure the success of your perfidy by inspiring it with
confidence,--do you think you can impose upon us to-day by hypocritical
protestations?" What has occurred since the day when Vergniaud,
uttering such words as these, was frantically cheered? Nothing. That
day, the weather-cock pointed to anger; to-day to concord. Why? No
one knows. Tired of hating, the Assembly doubtless needed an instant
of relaxation. Violent sentiments end by wearying the souls that
experience them. They must rest and renew their energies in order to
hate better to-morrow. And why say to-morrow? This very evening the
quarrelling, anger, and fury will begin anew.
At half-past three Louis XVI. left the Hall of the Manege, in the midst
of joyful applause from the Assembly and the galleries. During the
evening session discord reappeared. The following letter from the King
was read: "I have just been handed the departmental decree which
provisionally suspends the mayor and the procureur of the Commune of
Paris. As this decree is based on facts which personally concern me,
the first impulse of my heart is to beg the Assembly to decide upon
it." Does any one believe that the Assembly will have the courage to
condemn Petion and the 20th of June? Not a bit {246} of it. It makes
no decision, but passes unanimously from the King's letter to the order
of the day. And what occurs at the clubs? Listen to Billaud-Varennes
at the Jacobins: "They embrace each other at the Assembly," he
exclaims; "it is the kiss of Judas, it is the kiss of Charles IX.,
extending his hand to Coligny. They were embracing like this while the
King was preparing for flight on October 6. They were embracing like
this before the massacres of the Champ-de-Mars. They embrace, but are
the court conspiracies coming to an end? Have our enemies ceased their
advance against our frontiers? Is Lafayette the less a traitor?" And
thereupon the cry broke out: "Petion or death!" The next day, June 8,
at the Assembly, loud applause greeted the orator from a section who
said, concerning the department: "It openly serves the sinister
projects and disastrous conspiracies of a perfidious court. It is the
first link in the immense chain of plots formed against the people. It
is an accomplice in the extravagant projects of this general, who, not
being able to become the hero of liberty, has preferred to make himself
the Don Quixote of the court." A deputy exclaimed: "The acclamations
with which the Assembly has listened to this petition authorize me to
ask its publication: I make an express motion to that effect." And the
publication was decreed.
O poor Lamourette! humanitarian abbe, rose-water revolutionist, of what
avail is your democratic holy water? What have you gained by your
sentimental {247} jargon? what do your dreams of evangelical philosophy
and universal brotherhood amount to? Poor constitutional abbe, people
are scoffing already at your sacerdotal unction, your soothing homily!
The very men who, to please you, have sworn to destroy the republic,
will proclaim it two and a half months later. Your famous reunion of
parties, people are already shrugging their shoulders at and calling it
the "_baiser d'Amourette, la reconciliation normande_": the calf-love
kiss, the pretended reconciliation. They accuse you of having sold
yourself to the court. They ridicule, they flout, and they will kill
you. January 11, 1794, Fouquier-Tinville's prosecuting speech will
punish you for your moderatism. You will carry your head to the
scaffold, and, optimist to the end, you will say: "What is the
guillotine? only a rap on the neck."
{248}
XXIV.
THE FETE OF THE FEDERATION IN 1792.
The fete of the Federation, which was to be celebrated July 14, was
awaited with anxiety. The federates came into Paris full of the most
revolutionary projects. Anxiety and anguish reigned at the Tuileries.
Louis XVI. and Marie Antoinette, who were to be present in the
Champ-de-Mars, feared to be assassinated there. The Queen's
importunities decided the King to have a plastron made, to ward off a
poniard thrust. Composed of fifteen thicknesses of Italian taffeta,
this plastron consisted of a vest and a large belt. Madame Campan
secretly tried it on the King in the chamber where Marie Antoinette was
lying. Pulling Madame Campan by the dress as far as possible from the
Queen's bed, Louis XVI. whispered: "It is to satisfy her that I yield;
they will not assassinate me; their plan is changed; they will put me
to death in another way." When the King had gone out, the Queen forced
Madame Campan to tell her what he had just said. "I had divined it!"
she exclaimed. "He has said this long time that all that is going on
in France is an imitation of the revolution in England under Charles I.
I begin to dread {249} an impeachment for him. As for me, I am a
foreigner, and they will assassinate me. What will become of my poor
children?" And she fell to weeping. Madame Campan tried to administer
a nervine, but the Queen refused it. "Nervous maladies," said she.
"are the ailments of happy women; I no longer have them." Without her
knowledge a sort of corset, in the style of her husband's plastron, had
been made for her. Nothing could induce her to wear it. To those who
implored her with tears to put it on, she replied: "If seditious
persons assassinate me, so much the better; they will deliver me from a
most sorrowful life."
The fete of the Federation was celebrated in 1792 amidst extremely
tragical preoccupations. Things had changed very greatly since the
fete which had excited such enthusiasm two years earlier. On July 14,
1790, the Champ-de-Mars was filled at four o'clock in the morning by a
crowd delirious with joy. At eight o'clock in the morning of July 14,
1792, it was still empty. The people were said to be at the Bastille
witnessing the laying of the first stone of the column to be erected on
the ruins of the famous fortress. On the Champ-de-Mars there was no
magnificent altar served by three hundred priests, no side benches
covered by an innumerable crowd, none of that sincere and ardent joy
which throbbed in every heart two years before. For the fete of 1792,
eighty-three little tents, representing the departments of the kingdom,
had been erected on hillocks of sand. {250} Before each tent stood a
poplar, so frail that it seemed as if a breath might blow away the tree
and its tri-colored pendant. In the middle of the Champ-de-Mars were
four stretchers covered with canvas painted gray which would have made
a miserable decoration for a boulevard theatre. It was a so-called
tomb, an honorary monument to those who had died or were about to die
on the frontiers. On one side of it was the inscription: "Tremble,
tyrants; we will avenge them!" The Altar of the Country could hardly
be seen. It was formed of a truncated column placed on the top of the
altar steps raised in 1790. Perfumes were burned on the four small
corner altars. Two hundred yards farther off, near the Seine, a large
tree had been set up and named the Tree of Feudalism. From its
branches depended escutcheons, helmets, and blue ribbons interwoven
with chains. This tree rose out of a wood-pile on which lay a heap of
crowns, tiaras, cardinals' hats, Saint Peter's keys, ermine mantles,
doctors' caps, and titles of nobility. A royal crown was among them,
and beside it the escutcheons of the Count de Provence, the Count
d'Artois, and the Prince de Conde. The organizers of the fete hoped to
induce the King himself to set fire to this pile, covered with feudal
emblems. A figure representing Liberty, and another representing Law,
were placed on casters by the aid of which the two divinities were to
be rolled about. Fifty-four pieces of cannon bordered the
Champ-de-Mars on the side next the Seine, and the Phrygian cap crowned
every tree.
{251}
At eleven in the morning the King and his cortege arrived at the
Military School. A detachment of cavalry opened the march. There were
three carriages. In the first were the Prince de Poix, the Marquis de
Breze, and the Count de Saint-Priest; in the second, the Queen's
ladies, Mesdames de Tarente, de la Roche-Aymon, de Maille, and de
Mackau; in the third, the King, the Queen, their two children, and
Madame Elisabeth. The trumpets sounded and the drums beat a salute. A
salvo of artillery announced the arrival of the royal family. The
sovereign's countenance was mild and benevolent. Marie Antoinette
appeared still more majestic than usual. The dignity of her demeanor,
the grace of her children, and the angelic charm of Madame Elisabeth
inspired a tender respect. The little Dauphin wore the uniform of a
National Guard. "He has not deserved the cap yet," said the Queen to
the grenadiers.
The royal family took their places on the balcony of the Military
School, which was covered with a red velvet carpet embroidered with
gold, and watched the popular procession, entering the Champ-de-Mars by
the gate of the rue de Grenelle, and marching towards the Altar of the
Country. What a strange procession! Men, women, children, armed with
pikes, sticks, and hatchets; bands singing the _Ca ira_; drunken
harlots, adorned with flowers; people from the faubourgs with the
inscription, "Long live Petion!" chalked on their head-gear; six
legions of National Guards marching pell-mell with the _sans-culottes_;
red {252} caps; placards with devices either ferocious or stupid, like
this one: "Long live the heroes who died in the siege of the Bastille!"
a plan in relief of the celebrated fortress; a travelling
printing-press throwing off copies of the revolutionary manifesto,
which the crowd at first mistook for a little guillotine; a great deal
of noise and shouting,--and there you have the popular cortege. By way
of compensation, the troops of the line and the grenadiers of the
National Guard displayed extremely royalist sentiments. The 104th
regiment of infantry having halted under the balcony, its band played
the air: _Ou peut-on etre mieux qu'au sein de sa famille?_ (Where is
one better off than in the bosom of his family?)
The moment when Louis XVI. left the Military School to walk to the
Altar of the Country with the National Assembly was not without
solemnity. A certain anxiety was felt by all as to what might happen.
Would Louis XVI. be struck by a ball or by a poniard? What might not
be feared from so many demoniacs, howling like cannibals? The King,
the deputies, the soldiers, the crowd, all pressed against each other
in a solid mass that left no vacant spaces; all was in continual
undulation. Louis XVI. could only advance slowly and with difficulty.
The intervention of the troops was necessary to enable him to reach the
Altar of the Country, where he was to swear allegiance for the second
time to the Constitution whose fragments were to overwhelm his throne.
"It needed the character of Louis XVI.," Madame de {253} Stael has
said, "it needed that martyr character which he never belied, to
support such a situation as he did. His gait, his countenance, had
something peculiar to himself; on other occasions one might have wished
he had more grandeur; but at this moment it was enough for him to
remain what he was in order to appear sublime. From a distance I
watched his powdered head in the midst of all those black ones; his
coat, still embroidered as it had been in former days, stood out
against the costumes of the common people who pressed around him. When
he ascended the steps of the altar, one seemed to behold the sacred
victim offering himself in voluntary sacrifice."
The Queen had remained on the balcony of the Military School. From
there she watched through a lorgnette the dangerous progress of the
King. A prey to inexpressible emotion, she remained motionless during
an entire hour, hardly able to breathe on account of excessive anguish.
She used the lorgnette steadily, but at one moment she cried out: "He
has come down two steps!" This cry made all those about her shudder.
The King could not, in fact, reach the summit of the altar, because a
throng of suspicious-looking persons had already taken possession of it.
Deputy Dumas had the presence of mind to cry out: "Attention,
Grenadiers! present arms!" The intimidated _sans-culottes_ remained
quiet, and Louis XVI. took the oath amid the thundering of the cannon
ranged beside the Seine.
{254}
It was then proposed to the King that he should set fire to the Tree of
Feudalism; it was close to the river and the arms of France were hung
upon it. Louis XVI. spared himself that shame, exclaiming, "There is
no more feudalism!" He returned to the Military School by the way he
came. The 6th legion of the National Guard had not yet marched past
when the cavalry announced the King's approach. This legion,
quickening its pace, was intercepted by the royal escort, and invaded,
not to say routed, by the populace, which from all sides pressed into
its ranks.
Meanwhile the anguish of Marie Antoinette redoubled. "The expression
of the Queen's face," Madame de Stael says again, "will never be
effaced from my memory. Her eyes were drowned in tears; the splendor
of her toilette, the dignity of her demeanor, contrasted with the
throng that surrounded her. Nothing separated her from the populace
but a few National Guards; the armed men assembled in the Champ-de-Mars
seemed more as if they had come together for a riot than for a
festival." Petion, who had been reinstated in his functions as mayor
of Paris on the previous day, was the hero of the occasion. They
called him King Petion, and the cheers which resounded in honor of this
revolutionist were like a funeral knell in the ears of Marie Antoinette.
At last Louis XVI. appeared in front of the Military School. The Queen
experienced a momentary joy in seeing him approach. Rising hastily,
she ran {255} down the stairs to meet him. Always calm, the King
tenderly clasped his wife's hand. At once royalist sentiment took
fire. All who were present--National Guards, troops of the line,
Switzers, people in the courts, at the windows, on balconies and
gates--all cried: "Long live the King! Long live the Queen!" The
royal family regained the Tuileries in the midst of acclamations. At
the entrance of the palace enthusiasm deepened. From the Royal Court
to the great stairway of the Horloge Pavilion, the grenadiers of the
National Guard, who had escorted and saved the King, formed into line
with shouts of joy.
"All former souvenirs," says the Count de Vaublanc in his Memoirs, "all
former habits of respect then awoke.... Yes, I saw and observed this
multitude; it was animated with the best sentiments; at heart it was
faithful to its King and crowned him with sincere benedictions. But do
popular love and fidelity afford any support to a tottering throne? He
is mad who can think so. The people will be spectators of the latest
combat and will applaud the victor. And let no one blame them! What
can they do if they are not united, encouraged, and led? The people
behold a few seditious individuals attack a throne, and a few
courageous men defend it; they fear one party and desire the success of
the other. When the struggle is over, they submit and obey. The most
honest of them weep in silence, the timid force themselves to display a
guilty joy in order to escape the hatred of the victors whom they see
{256} bathing themselves in blood. They think about their families,
their affairs, their means of support. They were not expected to lead
themselves; that duty was imposed on others; have they fulfilled it?"
It is said that during the fete those who were friendly to the King,
amongst the crowd, were awaiting a signal they expected from him. They
hoped that, by the assistance of the Swiss, they could force their way
to the royal family during the confusion of a hand-to-hand affray, and
get them safely out of Paris. But Louis XVI. neither spoke nor acted.
He returned to his palace without having dared anything. And,
nevertheless, there were still many chances of safety open. Imagine
the effect of a haughty bearing, a commanding gesture in place of the
inert attitude habitual to the unfortunate sovereign. Fancy the Most
Christian King, the heir of Louis XIV., on horseback, haranguing the
people in the style of his witty and valiant ancestor, Henry IV.! He
is still King. The troops of the line are faithful. The great
majority of the National Guard are well-disposed towards him. Luckner,
Lafayette, Dumouriez himself, would ask nothing better than to defend
him if he would show a little energy.
The day after the ceremony of July 14, Lafayette was still anxious that
Louis XVI. should leave Paris openly and go to Compiegne, so as to show
France and Europe that he was free. In case of resistance, the general
demanded only fifty loyal cavaliers to take the royal family away.
From Compiegne, picked {257} squadrons would conduct them to the midst
of the French army, the asylum of devotion and honor. But Louis XVI.
refused. The last resources remaining to him were to evaporate between
his hands. He will profit neither by the sympathies of all European
courts, which ardently desire his safety; by his civil list, which
might be such an efficacious means of action; nor by the loyalty of his
brave soldiers, who are ready to shed their last drop of blood in his
defence. A large party in the Legislative Assembly would ask nothing
but a signal, providing it were seriously given, to rally with vigor to
the royal cause. He had intrepid champions there whom no menace could
affright, and who on every occasion, no matter how violent or
tumultuous the galleries might be, had braved the storm with heroic
constancy. Public opinion was changing for the better. The schemes
and language of the Jacobins exasperated the mass of honest people.
The provinces were sending addresses of fidelity to the King.
What was lacking to the monarch to enable him to combine so many
scattered elements into a solid group? A little will, a little of that
essential quality, audacity, which, according to Danton, is the last
word of politics. But Louis XVI. has a timorous soul. If he makes one
step forward, he is in haste to make another back. He is scrupulous,
hesitating; he has no confidence in himself or any one else. This
prince, so incontestably courageous, acts as if he were a coward. He
has made so many concessions already that {258} the idea of any manner
of resistance seems to him chimerical. Does the fate of Charles I.
make him dread the beginning of civil war as the supreme danger? Does
he fear to imperil the lives of his wife and children by an energetic
deed? Is he expecting foreign aid? Does he think to prove his wisdom
by his patience, and that success will crown delay? Is he so
benevolent, so gentle, that the least thought of repression is
repugnant to him? Does he wish to carry to extremes that pardon of
injuries which is recommended by the Gospel? What is plain is, that he
rejects every firm resolution.
Palliatives, expedients, half-measures, were what suited this honest
but feeble nature. Disturbed by contradictory councils, and no longer
knowing what to desire or what to hope, he looked on at his own
destruction like an unmoved spectator. He was no longer a sovereign
full of the sentiment of his power and his rights, but an almost
unconscious victim of fatality. Example full of startling lessons for
all leaders of state who adopt weakness as a system, and who, under
pretext of benevolence or moderation, no longer know how to foresee, to
will, or to strike!
{259}
XXV.
THE LAST DAYS AT THE TUILERIES.