ARREST OF THE ROYAL FUGITIVES.
Arrival at Varennes.--The Party arrested.--Personal Appearance of the
King.--The Guards fraternize with the People.--Indignation of the
Crowd.--The Captives compelled to return to Paris.--Dismay of M. de
Bouillé.--Excitement in Paris.--The Mob ransack the Tuileries.--Acts
of the Assembly.--Decisive Action of La Fayette.--Proclamation of the
King.--The Jacobin Club.--Unanimity of France.
The carriages were driven rapidly forward, while the royal family sat
perplexed and silent, yet quite unprepared for the doom which was
impending. An hour's drive brought them to Clermont. Here the king
found two squadrons of horse, under Count de Dumas. But the detachments
of dragoons moving to and fro had excited suspicion, and the populace
of Clermont had been roused, and gathered alarmingly around the
carriages.
The municipal authorities examined the passports of the travelers,
and, finding all apparently correct, allowed them to proceed, but,
calling out a detachment of the National Guard, forbade the Dragoons to
leave the town. The Dragoons, whose sympathies were with the people,
and who knew not on what mission they had been led by their officers,
immediately fraternized with the Guards, and their commander, Count
Dumas, was indebted to the fleetness of his horse for his escape from
arrest. It was midnight when the carriages arrived at Varennes. This
little town is situated on both banks of a narrow stream united by a
bridge. A tower is at one end of the bridge, supported by a massive and
gloomy arch, which arch must be traversed with care to enter upon the
bridge, and where a very slight obstacle would prevent any advance;
"a relic," says Lamartine, "of the feudal system, in which the nobles
captured the serfs, and where, by a strange retribution, the people
were destined to capture the monarchy."
The royal family, entirely exhausted with sleeplessness, anxiety,
and the travel of twenty-four hours, were all asleep, when the few
scattering lights of the town were perceived. They were to change
horses here, and the king was distinctly informed that they would find
the horses _before crossing the river_. It was, however, afterward
decided, without communicating the change to the king, that the fresh
horses should be stationed on the other side of the bridge. Thus
the carriages could cross the bridge at full speed, and, in case of
any popular tumult, could more easily effect a change of horses and
departure on the other side.
The king and queen, greatly alarmed in finding no relay of horses,
themselves left the carriage, and groped about through the darkened
streets seeking for them in vain. A few lights burned dimly here
and there in the houses, but all else was the silence and gloom of
midnight. The king even knocked at a few doors where lights were seen,
and inquired for the relays. The half-roused sleepers could give him no
intelligence.
In thus traveling by relays of horses in Europe, each relay has its
postillions, who go their appointed stage only. The postillions who had
drawn the carriage from the last post-house, entirely unconscious of
the dignity of their passengers, having fulfilled their appointed task,
weary of waiting, threatened to unharness their horses and leave the
carriage in the street until the relay should arrive. By dint of bribes
the king induced them to cross the bridge and continue the journey.
Just as they entered the arch beneath the tower to cross the bridge,
and when enveloped in almost Egyptian darkness, the horses were stopped
by a cart which obstructed the way. Some men seized the bridles of the
leaders, and one man on horseback shouted at the window of the carriage
the appalling words,
"In the name of the nation, stop! You are driving the king."
Drouet had effectually accomplished his design. Taking a shorter
road than that which the carriage pursued, he rode directly to a
stable, communicated his secret to the inn-keeper and sent him to give
the alarm, while he, with a few comrades whom he hastily gathered,
barricaded the bridge with the cart and such other heavy articles as
they could lay their hands upon. The delay upon the other side just
gave them time to do this before the carriage entered the vaulted
archway.
The king and queen were thunderstruck, and their hearts sank in
dismay. Immediately they perceived the signs of a great tumult. The
village bells were ringing. Lights were flashing through the gloom.
An undefined uproar seemed to increase in the streets, while crowds
were collecting on the bridge. One man with a lantern in his hand half
entered the carriage and cast the light full upon the faces of each one
of the inmates. The travelers were then commanded to alight and exhibit
their passports. Drouet, taking the passports, conducted the captives
in their carriage back again from the bridge to the door of the mayor
of the little town, a grocer by the name of Sausse.
Here there was quite a debate. The passports were made out correctly.
The party corresponded with the description. They all declared that
they were the Baroness de Korff with her attendants. Sausse appeared
to be satisfied. But Drouet, a young man of unusual intelligence and
energy, demanded,
"Why is not the passport signed by the President of the National
Assembly? And if you are foreigners, how is it that you have influence
to procure fifty dragoons to escort you at St. Menehould, and as many
more at Clermont? And why is there a detachment of hussars waiting for
you at Varennes?"
[Illustration: LOUIS XVI. ARRESTED AT VARENNES.]
In the eagerness of the altercation it became very evident that
the counterfeit servants were not menials, and that the assumed
baroness was not accustomed to exercise authority over her pretended
maid-servant and valet de chambre. By this time a sufficient number
of the National Guard had assembled to prevent the possibility of the
rescue of the captives by the Hussars. The queen, seeing that all
farther attempts at deception were useless, and indignant at the
disrespect with which her husband was treated, exclaimed,
"Since you acknowledge him to be your king, speak to him with the
respect which you owe him!"
[Illustration: SCENE AT VARENNES.]
The whole party had thus far remained in the carriage. The tumult was
rapidly increasing. The bells were ringing, guns firing, drums beating,
and a crowd of men and women, in disordered dresses and eagerly
vociferating, was fast gathering around the captives. Lights in the
distance were seen hurrying to and fro, and armed men in tumultuous
bands of excitement and consternation were rushing from all directions.
Respectfully Sausse, who appears to have been a very humane man, urged
them to alight, and for their own protection to enter the door of the
grocery. They did so, and sat down upon the boxes, barrels, and bags
which were scattered around. The king now, to save himself from farther
insults, appealed to the loyalty of his subjects. He rose, and with
dignity said to the crowd,
"Yes! I am your king. Behold the queen and my children. We entreat you
to treat us with the respect which the French have always shown to
their sovereigns."
With the exception of that courtliness of manners which is almost the
inheritance of high birth, there was nothing in the king's personal
appearance to inspire deference. Though a somewhat educated and
accomplished man, he was totally destitute of any administrative skill
or of any initiative powers. He would have embellished almost any
situation in private life, as a kind-hearted, conscientious, exemplary
man. The costume of a servant, a steward, a tutor, a clerk, was far
more in accordance with his abilities and his character than the
insignia of royalty. His figure was swollen by a flabby obesity, the
result of a ravenous appetite and indolent habits. His legs were too
short for his body; the expression of his countenance unintellectual
and stolid.
As he appeared before the peasants and townsmen of Varennes that night,
exhausted with fatigue and terror, in the mean dress of a _valet_, in
a disordered wig, his fat cheeks pale and shrunken, with livid lips
aghast and speechless, he excited first emotions of surprise, then
of contempt, then of unfeigned pity. "What, that the king! that the
queen!" the crowd exclaimed in amazement. The piteous spectacle brought
tears into the eyes even of many of the most hostile and obdurate.
Varennes was but thirty miles from Montmedy, which, though in France,
was directly on the Germanic frontier. Thus the citizens of Varennes
were at but a few hours' march from those terrible armies of the
Continent which were threatening to sweep over France with flame
and blood. Knowing that their town might be one of the first to
encounter the horrors of war, they had been living in the midst of
the most terrific alarms. They had hoped that the king was, in heart,
in sympathy with the nation, and would place himself at the head of
the nation to resist the invaders. Surprise, grief, and indignation
struggled in their hearts as they found that the king was actually
endeavoring to escape from France to join their enemies. None but those
who live on the frontier at such a time can fully realize the terrible
significance of the words _the enemy_.
"What!" exclaimed the multitude, "the king running away, abandoning us,
his children, and becoming a traitor to the nation; going over to the
_enemy_, to aid them to burn our homes and massacre us all!"
Some wept; others execrated; others threatened to shoot the king upon
the spot. The simple-hearted peasants were, in intelligence, mere
children. They had been educated to regard the monarchy as paternal
and the king as their father. Choiseul and Goguelat, who, it will be
remembered, were stationed at the bridge of Sommeville with fifty
hussars, now came clattering into the streets of Varennes with their
detachment. At the same time Count Dumas arrived, who had escaped alone
from his dragoons, they having abandoned him at St. Menehould.
The grocer's shop was surrounded with a crowd armed with muskets,
pitchforks, and axes. Notwithstanding many fierce threats, the officers
forced their way through the crowd and entered the shop. There they
found the royal family in a deplorable condition. The little boy,
Louis, the dauphin, was happily asleep on a low cot bed. His sister,
Maria Theresa, three years older, in great terror, was sitting on
a bench between her governess and her aunt Elizabeth, clinging
tremblingly to their hands. The king and queen were standing by the
side of M. Sausse, imploring him to permit them to continue on their
way.
Choiseul, grasping significantly the hilt of his sword, said boldly to
the king, "Sire, please give immediate orders to depart. I have forty
hussars. No time is to be lost. In one hour they will be gained over by
the people."
This was true. The hussars were Germans. Blindly obeying their
officers, they had no idea of the commission upon which they had been
sent. They were now surrounded by the populace, and were listening,
with surprise and sympathy, to their narrative of the events. At
this critical moment the municipality of Varennes, accompanied by
the officers of the National Guard in that place, entered the shop.
Accustomed as they had long been to revere and almost to adore royalty,
for the rural districts had by no means kept pace with Paris in
disregard of the throne, the officers threw themselves upon their knees
before the king and said,
"In God's name, sire, do not forsake us; do not quit the kingdom."
"It is not my intention," the king replied, "to leave France. The
insults I have suffered force me to leave Paris. I am going only to
Montmedy, and I invite you to accompany me thither; only give orders, I
pray you, for my carriages to be got ready."
The municipal authorities departed to deliberate, begging the king to
wait till the light should dawn. It was now two o'clock in the morning.
The chances of escape were every moment diminishing. The crowd, armed
with such weapons as they could on the moment seize, had become
formidable; the bridge was so barricaded that it could not be passed;
and but little reliance could be placed in the fidelity of the hussars.
There was, however, a ford near by, where the stream could be passed
on horseback. Choiseul and Goguelat entreated the king and queen, with
the ladies, immediately to mount on horseback, the king holding the
dauphin on the saddle, and, protected by the forty hussars, to cross
the stream, and attempt to effect their escape.
The queen, whose personal heroism never forsook her, looked at her
children, thought of the bullets which might be showered upon them,
and, yielding to a mother's love, hesitated. The king also, who never
dishonored himself by an act of cowardice, thought only of the peril of
those who were dearer to him than life, and said,
"But can you assure me that in this struggle a shot may not strike the
queen, my sister, or the children? Besides, the municipality does not
forbid to let us pass; it merely requests me to wait till daybreak.
Moreover, the Marquis de Bouillé is at Stenay, but twenty-four miles
distant. He can not fail to learn of my detention, and he will be here
with his troops in the morning."
Another weary hour of agitation, tumult, and gathering excitement
passed away, and the clock struck three. The hussars were now
completely gained over by the people, and were drinking with them "To
the Nation."
The municipal authorities, having briefly deliberated, returned to the
king with this short but terrible announcement,
"The people, being absolutely opposed to the king continuing his
journey, have resolved to dispatch a courier to the National Assembly
in order to be informed of its intentions."
M. de Goguelat now went out into the surging crowd to judge if it were
possible to fight their way through. Mounting his horse he rode slowly
around, when Drouet approached him and said, "You want to carry off the
king, but you shall not have him alive."
The carriage was surrounded by a body of the National Guard. Goguelat
approached the carriage with a few hussars who still hesitatingly
obeyed his orders, when the major in command of the detachment of the
National Guard said to him, "One step farther, and I shoot you."
Goguelat spurred his horse on, when a pistol was discharged. Two
bullets struck him, and he fell bleeding to the ground. He was,
however, able to rise and enter the shop, but the hussars immediately
with acclaim avowed themselves the soldiers of the nation. Goguelat
had observed also that at the end of the street there were two cannons
planted which seemed ready to fire upon them. There was no longer the
possibility of escape by force, unless M. de Bouillé should chance to
arrive in season with his well-trained dragoons.
As Goguelat, wounded and covered with blood, again entered the presence
of the royal family, they presented a heart-rending spectacle. The
queen was sitting upon a bench between two boxes of candles, piteously
pleading with the grocer's wife to intercede with her husband in their
behalf.
"You are a mother, madame," said the queen; "you are a wife; the fate
of a wife and mother is in your hands. Think what I must suffer for
these children, for my husband. At one word from you I shall owe them
to you. The Queen of France will owe you more than her kingdom, more
than life."
There is an instinct, unreflecting, in the human heart, which says that
it would have been _noble_ in the woman to have periled every thing
to save the queen. The universal heart does homage to disinterested
benevolence, even when it is unthinking and mistaken. But in this case
the good woman, with very natural and prosaic common sense, said,
"I wish it were in my power to help you. But bless me! you are thinking
of your husband and I am thinking of mine. Every woman for her own
husband."
This speech certainly did not indicate a heroic nature. But it is
obvious that M. Sausse had now no power to save the king. Matters had
proceeded far beyond his control. If he could by any stratagem have
facilitated the flight, his own life would have been the inevitable
forfeit. It would have been treason to the nation. Humanity also seemed
imperiously to demand that the king should be stopped. His escape would
place him at the head of foreign and hostile armies to ravage France
with the horrors of war, and to quench the kindling flame of liberty in
blood.
The queen, whose energetic mind foresaw the awful future, was
overwhelmed and burst into tears. The king had now lost all
self-possession, and was bewildered as a child. The people, who began
to be apprehensive that the troops of Bouillé might come to the
rescue, were crowding the door and shouting, "Back, back to Paris."
The king was urged to show himself, that he might tranquilize the
people. He went to a window and looked out upon the excited multitude,
over whom a few torches shed a lurid light. The sight of the king at
first produced profound silence. The people then, as versatile as
children, were so affected by the appearance of the king in his servile
dress, and with his woe-worn countenance, that many wept; and while not
one word of insult was heard, many cried out, in compassionate tones,
_Vive le Roi_!
The day was then just beginning to dawn. Gradually the sun rose, and
shone upon a strange spectacle. The guns, the drums, the alarm-bells
had roused the whole country around. Ten thousand men had already
assembled in Varennes, choking the narrow street where the grocery
stood. From all directions the country people were seen hurrying to the
town, as the strange tidings of the attempted flight and arrest were
spreading far and wide. As the crowd increased in the streets, and the
gloom of night was dispelled by the bright blaze of day, the tumult
rose higher and higher. All sympathy for the royal family seemed to
give place to a feeling of indignation, that they should be stealing
away to lead foreign armies to make war upon the liberties of France.
At seven o'clock the door opened, and the king beheld, to his surprise,
an officer of the National Guard of Paris. His dress was disordered,
and he was dusty and worn with hurried travel. The man was greatly
agitated when he found himself in the presence of the king, and could
only stammer, in broken and almost incoherent phrase, the words,
"Sire, all Paris is being murdered; our wives and children are perhaps
assassinated; you shall not go any farther; sire, the interests of the
state; yes, sire, our wives and our children."
The queen seized the hand of the officer, and, leading him to a humble
bed in the corner, where the two royal children, Maria and Louis,
utterly exhausted, were sleeping, said to him, as she pointed to the
children,
"Am I not a mother also?"[275]
The king, interrupting her, turned abruptly to the officer, and said,
"What do you want?"
"Sire," he replied, "I have a decree of the Assembly."
"Where is it?" inquired the king.
"My comrade has it," was the reply.
Just then the door opened, and M. de Romeuf entered. He was an
aide-de-camp of the Marquis de la Fayette and a true patriot, while at
the same time he was well known by the royal family as a friend of the
king. He entered, holding the decree in his hand, greatly agitated;
and, as he beheld the humiliating condition of the sovereign of France,
and was conscious of the most painful duty devolving upon himself, he
could not restrain his emotions, but bowed his head and wept bitterly.
There is not a generous heart on earth which will not be in sympathy
with that grief.
As the queen raised her eyes and saw M. de Romeuf enter, she exclaimed,
with surprise and indignation,
"What, sir, is it you? Oh! I could never have believed it possible."
Romeuf replied sadly, "We have done only our duty; but we hoped not to
have overtaken your majesties."[276]
The king took from the hand of Romeuf the decree of the Assembly
and hastily read it. It was an order enjoining upon all public
functionaries "to stop, by all the means in their power, _the abduction
of the king_, and to prevent the continuance of the journey."
The king indignantly threw the decree upon the bed where the children
were sleeping, and exclaimed, in words whose truth he then by no means
fully realized,
"_There is no longer any King in France_."
The queen, with pardonable but very injudicious passion, picked up the
decree of the National Assembly and threw it upon the floor, saying
vehemently,
"It shall not defile my children."
"Madame," said Romeuf sorrowfully to the queen, to whom he was much
attached, "in the name of your safety, your glory, I entreat you to
control your grief. Would you rather have any one but me witness these
passions?"
The gentle reproach recalled the queen to herself, and she nerved
herself to endurance, calmness, and dignity. The mental agony of
that dreadful night had already turned her hair from auburn into the
whiteness of snow.
It was greatly feared that the troops of Bouillé might come and rescue
the king. Preparations for the departure were therefore hastened.
Six horses were harnessed into the carriage, and the royal family,
notwithstanding they did every thing in their power to cause delay,
were forced to take their seats. The queen would not allow any one to
touch her son, but carried him in her own arms to the carriage.
The melancholy cortège now commenced its slow progress toward Paris,
escorted by four thousand of the National Guard.
M. de Bouillé, as we have mentioned, was at Stenay, at but the distance
of eight leagues from Varennes, with several regiments of soldiers
under his command, waiting the arrival of the king. Had the king but
reached that stage he would have been safe. Bouillé was in a state of
great anxiety, and during the night had rode forward to within six
miles of Varennes, hoping to meet the king. Perplexed by the delay,
and anxious lest he should be abandoned by his soldiers, in whom he
could place but little confidence, he rode back to Stenay, and had just
arrived there, at half past four in the morning, when he received the
intelligence that the king was arrested, that the alarm-bells were
ringing, that the whole country was aroused, and the National Guard
in Stenay, Metz, and Verdun were rapidly forming in defense of the
_Nation_.
Under these circumstances there was but one regiment in whom M. Bouillé
could repose any confidence--the Royal German--and but one officer, his
own son, in whom he could confide.
Bouillé was an energetic and brave man. He immediately called out the
German regiment, and by the influence of impassioned language and
enormous bribes to every man induced them to start for the rescue.
Almost with the speed of the whirlwind these strongly mounted dragoons
swept the space intervening between Stenay and Varennes. It was a
quarter of nine o'clock before they reached the town. The National
Guard, anticipating this movement, was strongly posted to repel them.
As Bouillé was reconnoitring in preparation for an attack, he was
informed that the king had been gone more than an hour and a half;
that the bridge was broken down, the streets barricaded; that M. de
Choiseul, M. de Goguelat, and M. de Dumas were prisoners; that their
hussars had fraternized with the people; that the garrisons of Metz
and Verdun were rapidly approaching to attack him, and that the whole
country around was swarming with troops and National Guards roused by
the peril of the nation.
The horses of the dragoons were entirely exhausted by the forced drive
of twenty-four miles; the soldiers themselves gave manifest symptoms of
hesitation. All hope was gone. Bouillé slowly, sadly, silently retraced
his steps. At Stenay popular enthusiasm had gained all hearts. His
soldiers abandoned him, and he narrowly escaped with his life across
the frontier to Luxembourg.
We must now return to Paris to record the scenes which transpired
there after the flight of the king. At seven o'clock in the morning
of the 21st of June the servants at the Tuileries, on entering the
apartments of the king and queen, found the beds undisturbed and the
rooms deserted. The alarm was speedily spread through the palace, and
flew from the chateau like wild-fire through the streets and into the
faubourgs. "The king has escaped!" was upon all lips. The crowd, in
countless thousands, rushed to the Tuileries. They pressed in at the
doors and up the stairs, and explored all the mysterious interior of
the palace. The most vile and degraded of the population of the city
are always foremost on such occasions. The awe which they at first felt
soon gave place to derision.
A portrait of the king was taken from his bed-chamber and hung up at
the gate of the chateau. A fruit-woman emptied her basket of cherries
upon the queen's bed, and sat down upon the bed to sell her venture,
saying "It is the Nation's turn to-day to take their ease." Some one
placed a cap from the queen's wardrobe upon the head of a young girl.
She threw it contemptuously on the floor and trampled upon it, saying
"It will sully my forehead."
For several hours the whole city was in a state of intense
consternation. The departure of the king was associated in all minds
with the approach of foreign armies, the bombardment of Paris, the
sweep of dragoons through the streets, the assassination of the
patriots, and the extinction of liberty. The alarm-bells rang, drums
beat to arms, minute-guns were fired, and the National Guard rallied at
all their rendezvous. But in the midst of these alarms there appeared
an apparition which excited intense alarm in the bosoms of all the
friends of enlightened liberty and order.
It consisted of vast gatherings of haggard, wretched-looking men, the
most worthless and abandoned of the population of a great city, under
their own fierce leaders, armed with pikes and all wearing a red cap,
the _bonnet rouge_. Santerre, a brewer, an uneducated man, of vast
energies, and of great power to lead the passions of the populace,
led a band of two thousand of these red-caps through the streets. The
indignation of the people was now roused to the highest pitch against
the king, and against all who were supposed to have connived at his
flight. La Fayette was loudly accused of treason in having allowed the
king to escape. His coolness and presence of mind alone saved him from
the fury of the mob.
At nine o'clock the Constituent Assembly met, calm, yet fully conscious
of the momentous state of affairs. The president immediately informed
them that M. Bailly, the Mayor of Paris, had come to acquaint them that
the king and royal family had been _carried off_, during the night, by
some enemies of the nation. These noble men conducted, in this crisis,
with their accustomed moderation and dignity. Hesitating to assume that
the king had perjured himself by violating the oath he had so solemnly
taken to sustain the Constitution, they adopted the more generous idea
of his abduction.
La Fayette, at eight o'clock, had been informed of the escape, and
immediately hastened to the Tuileries, where he found M. Bailly, the
Mayor of Paris, and M. Beauharnais, President of the National Assembly.
They were both oppressed in view of the momentous posture of affairs,
and were lamenting the hours which must elapse before the Assembly
could be convoked and a decree issued authorizing pursuit. The course
pursued by La Fayette upon this occasion was worthy of his heroic and
noble nature. He proved himself a consistent disciple of his great
friend and model, Washington.
"Is it your opinion," inquired La Fayette, "that the arrest of the king
and royal family is absolutely essential to the public safety, and can
alone preserve us from civil war?"
"No doubt can be entertained upon that subject," both replied.
"Well, then," returned La Fayette, "I take upon myself all the
responsibility of this arrest."
He immediately issued an order to the National Guard throughout France
for the arrest of the king.[277] It was placed in the hands of two of
his officers, who set out instantly on the pursuit.
Leaving the Tuileries, La Fayette hastened on horseback to the Hôtel de
Ville. He passed excited crowds, who inveighed bitterly against him,
accusing him of traitorous complicity in the king's flight. Arriving at
the Place de Grève, in front of the Hôtel de Ville, he found one of his
officers, the Duke d'Aumont, in the hands of the infuriate mob, who
were on the point of massacring him.
La Fayette instantly plunged into the crowd, by his authoritative voice
and gesture overawed them, and at the imminent peril of his own life
rescued his friend. A moment's hesitation, an emotion of cowardice, and
both would inevitably have perished. An infuriate man, almost delirious
with rage, approached La Fayette, and, shaking his fist in his face,
exclaimed,
"You are a traitor. You have permitted the king to escape, and now
France is ruined."
"How ruined?" La Fayette replied, serenely smiling. "France has
twenty-five millions of inhabitants; the salary of the king is
twenty-five millions of francs. Every one of us gains twenty sous by
Louis XVI. relieving us of this payment."
This pleasantry created a general laugh, and the words, repeated
through the crowd, soon restored good-nature. The heroism of La Fayette
also struck their imaginations, and he was greeted with applause as he
rode away.
He then hastened to the Assembly, which was now convened. Some of
the deputies had suspected him as conniving at the flight, and as he
entered a few murmurs arose. He, however, ascended the tribune and
gained a hearing. He proposed that his second officer in command, M.
de Gouvion, to whom had been especially intrusted the guard of the
Tuileries, should be examined by the Assembly.
"I will answer for this officer," said he, "and take upon myself the
responsibility of his acts."
M. de Gouvion was summoned to their bar, and testified that all the
ordinary outlets from the palace were carefully guarded. The king could
only have escaped in disguise and through some unusual mode of egress.
M. Bailly confirmed this testimony, and La Fayette was reinstated in
the confidence of the patriots.
The people, who had suspected La Fayette, refused to allow the _aides_
whom he had dispatched to pass the barriers. The Assembly immediately
issued an order sanctioning the measures of La Fayette, and the
officers were permitted to depart. The ministers of the king were then
summoned, and a decree passed that all orders were to be received
from the Assembly alone. With calmness truly majestic, and with
unanimity which apparently pervaded every act, thought, and resolution,
preparations were adopted to meet the fearful invasion which was
impending.
It was decreed at every hazard to defend the Constitution. The Assembly
assumed the Regency. Couriers were dispatched on every road toward
the frontiers to arrest every individual leaving the kingdom. Guns
were ordered from the arsenals more effectually to arm the National
Guard. These measures were so manifestly just and vital, that the most
interested partisans of the old despotism ventured no opposition.
While engaged in passing these decrees, M. de la Porte, superintendent
of the civil list, entered, bringing with him a private note and
a memorial which he had received from the king. The memorial was
dated the 20th of June, and was written and signed by the king. It
was entitled "_Proclamation of the King to all the French upon his
Departure from Paris_."
In this long recital of his grievances the king complained that he
had only a _suspensive veto_; that his salary was cut down to five
millions of dollars annually, which was not sufficient to support
him comfortably; that he was very badly lodged in the palace of the
Tuileries; that he had been incessantly annoyed by the National
Assembly, the clubs, and the journals, and that he was not properly
applauded when he appeared in public. He bitterly censured the decrees
of the National Assembly, and avowed that of his own free will he left
Paris, that he might at a safe distance from Paris regain his lost
power.[278]
M. de la Porte placed this memorial and the private note to him, which
accompanied it, upon the table, stating, however, his wish that the
private note might not be read. With delicacy and honor worthy of
commemoration it was returned to him unopened. The memorial was read
and was listened to in respectful silence. The Assembly pitying the
weakness of the king took no action upon it whatever.
[Illustration: INTERIOR OF THE JACOBIN CLUB.]
When the National Assembly was in session at Versailles there was a
club organized by the deputation from Bretaigne, called the Breton
Club. It was composed of the patriotic members of the Assembly. After
the removal of the Assembly to Paris this club held its meetings in
an old smoky convent of the Jacobin monks, and was hence called the
Jacobin Club. It rapidly increased, admitting members not belonging to
the Assembly, until it numbered twelve hundred members in Paris alone.
Its affiliated clubs were established all over the kingdom, and were
filled with the most ardent advocates of reform. In less than two years
they numbered two thousand four hundred societies in as many towns.
The Jacobin Club soon became so intensely and fiercely democratic,
that La Fayette, who was one of its original members, and others of
the more conservative of the patriots, withdrew from its tumultuous
gatherings. This club was now rapidly assuming the reins of government,
and marshaling the mob as its resistless and terrific arm of defense,
a weapon wielded by the Revolution of incalculable and terrible power.
It soon became the relentless and despotic sovereign of France, more
relentless and more despotic than any single sovereign who ever sat
upon a throne.
La Fayette, upon leaving the Assembly, hastened to the club of the
Jacobins, which already in numbers and influence rivaled the Assembly.
He was here also successful in stemming the torrent of obloquy which
was beginning to roll against him. As he left the club he met, on the
Quai Voltaire, Camille Desmoulins. The impetuous journalist, in a state
of intense excitement, hastened toward the white horse on which La
Fayette rode, and exclaimed:
"Monsieur de la Fayette, for more than a year I have constantly spoken
ill of you. This is the moment to convict me of falsehood. Prove that I
am a calumniator. Cover me with infamy by saving the state."
La Fayette grasped the hand of Desmoulins, whose patriotism he
respected, and replied,
"I have always recognized you as a good citizen. You will see that you
have been deceived. Our common oath is to live free or to die. All goes
well. There is but one feeling in the Assembly. The common danger has
united all parties."
"But why," rejoined Desmoulins, "does the Assembly affect to speak of
the _carrying off_ (enlévement) of the king in its decrees, when the
king himself writes that he escaped of his own free will? What baseness
or what treason in the Assembly to use such language, when we are
threatened by three millions of bayonets!"
"The word _carrying off_," La Fayette replied, "is a mistake in
dictation, which the Assembly will correct. This conduct of the king is
infamous."
The news of the flight of the king created consternation through all
the departments of France. It was regarded as the signal for both
foreign and civil war, and all expected immediately to hear the tramp
of hostile legions. With singular unanimity the people of France
rallied to meet the crisis. From the Gironde a message was sent to the
Assembly, saying,
"We have eighty thousand men enrolled in the National Guard, who are
all ready to march. But we have not as many guns as we have intrepid
and patriotic men. Send us arms."
The municipality of Villepaux sent word, "We are all ready to be torn
into ribbons rather than allow the integrity of the Constitution to be
violated."
"Our fields," wrote the citizens of Allier and Nivernais, "are covered
with harvests and men. Men and harvests are alike at the service of the
country, if she needs them."
"We are but few, but we are determined," wrote the inhabitants of
a little town in Normandy. "We have but two hundred men capable of
bearing arms, but they are young, strong, and courageous. They are all
ready to rush upon any foe who shall invade the soil of France."
Bordeaux assured the Assembly that it would immediately send two
thousand four hundred men to meet the foe. The whole kingdom was in
this blaze of patriotic enthusiasm. The ladies, ever participating
in devotion to a noble cause, sent in their jewelry to the Assembly,
saying,
"Change these ornaments into arms. It is not in our power to combat for
our country; but we can at least aid in arming our brave defenders."
Merchants left their shops, artisans their benches, and laborers the
fields, to toil as volunteers in throwing up fortifications around the
exposed towns. All hearts seemed to vibrate with the same hopes and
fears, and all hands united in the same patriotic toils. The partisans
of the court, few in numbers, were silent, waiting for the approach of
foreign armies before they should throw off the mask and avow their
treason.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 275: Mirabeau, after his interview with Marie Antoinette,
remarked in confidence to a friend, "You know the queen. Her force of
mind is prodigious. She is a man for courage."--_Dumont_, p. 211.]
[Footnote 276: Napoleon, at St. Helena, speaking in the light of
subsequent events, said, "The National Assembly never committed so
great an error as in bringing back the king from Varennes. A fugitive,
and powerless, he was hastening to the frontier, and in a few hours
would have been out of the French territory. What should they have
done in these circumstances? Clearly have facilitated his escape, and
declared the throne vacant by his desertion. They would thus have
avoided the infamy of a regicide government, and attained their great
object of republican institutions. Instead of which, by bringing him
back, they encumbered themselves with a sovereign whom they had no just
reason for destroying, and lost the inestimable advantage of getting
quit of the royal family without an act of cruelty."]
[Footnote 277: Our readers will not generally sympathize with Lamartine
in the exclamation, "This was a dictatorship, and the most personal of
all dictatorships, that a single man, taking the place of the Assembly
and the whole nation, thus assumed. He, on his private authority and
the right of his civic foresight, struck at the liberty and perhaps at
the life of the lawful ruler of the nation. This order led Louis XVI.
to the scaffold, for it restored to the people the victim who had just
escaped their clutches."--_History of the Girondists, by Alphonse de
Lamartine_, vol. i., p. 75.]
[Footnote 278: Histoire de la Rev. Fr., par Villiaumé, p. 13.]