Troops are brought up from the Frontier.--The Assembly petitions the King
to withdraw them.--He refuses.--He dismisses Necker.---The Baron de
Breteuil is appointed Prime Minister.--Terrible Riots in Paris.--The
Tri-color Flag is adopted.--Storming of the Bastile and Murder of the
Governor.--The Count d'Artois and other Princes fly from the Kingdom.--The
King recalls Necker.--Withdraws the Soldiers and visits Paris.--Formation
of the National Guard.-Insolence of La Fayette and Bailly.--Madame de
Tourzel becomes Governess of the Royal Children--Letters of Marie
Antoinette on their Character, and on her own Views of Education.
But even so solemn, a grief as that for a dead child she was not suffered
to indulge long. Even for such a purpose royalty is not always allowed the
respite which would be conceded to those in a more moderate station; and
affairs in Paris began to assume so menacing a character that she was
forced to rouse herself to support her husband. Demagogues in Paris
excited the lower classes of the citizens to formidable tumults. The
troops were tampered with; they mutinied; and when the Assembly so
violated its duty as to take the mutineers under its protection, and to
intercede with the king for their pardon, Louis, or, as we should probably
say, Necker, did not venture to refuse, though it was plain that the
condign punishment of such an offense was indispensable to the maintenance
of discipline for the future. And Louis felt the humiliation so deeply
that some of those about him, the Count d'Artois taking the lead in that
party, were able to induce him to bring up from the frontier some German
and Swiss regiments, which, as not having been exposed to the contagion of
the capital, were free from the prevailing taint of disloyalty. But Louis
was incapable of carrying out any plan resolutely. He selected the
commander with judgment, placing the troops under the orders of a veteran
of the Seven Years' War, the old Marshal de Broglie, who, though more than
seventy years of age, gladly brought once more his tried skill and valor
to the service of his sovereign. But the king, even while intrusting him
with this command, disarmed him at the same moment by a strict order to
avoid all bloodshed and violence; though nothing could be more obvious
than that such outbreaks as the marshal was likely to be called on to
suppress could not be quelled by gentle means.
The Orleanists and Mirabeau probably knew nothing of this humane or rather
pusillanimous order, though most of the secrets of the court were betrayed
to them; but Mirabeau saw in the arrival of the soldiers a fresh
opportunity of making the king feel the folly of the minister in rejecting
his advances; and in a speech of unusual power he thundered against those
who had advised the bringing-up of troops, as he declared, to overawe the
Assembly; though, in fact, nothing but their presence and active exertions
could prevent the Assembly from being overawed by the mob. But,
undoubtedly, at this time his own first object was to use the populace of
Paris to terrify the members into obedience to himself. In one of his ends
he succeeded; he drove Necker from office. He carried the address which he
proposed, to entreat the king to withdraw the troops; but Louis had for
the moment resolved on adopting bolder counsels than those of Necker. He
declined to comply with the petition, declaring that it was his duty to
keep in Paris a force sufficient to preserve the public tranquillity,
though, if the Assembly were disquieted by their neighborhood, he
expressed his unwillingness to remove their session to some more distant
town. And at the same time he dismissed Necker from office, banishing him
from France, but ordering him to keep his departure secret.
The queen had evidently had great influence in bringing him to this
decision; but how cordially she approved of all the concessions which the
king had already made, and how clearly she saw that more still remained to
be done before the necessary reformation could be pronounced complete, the
letter which on the evening of Necker's dismissal she wrote to Madame de
Polignac convincingly proves. She had high ideas of the authority which a
king was legitimately entitled to exercise; and to what she regarded as
undue restrictions on it, injurious to his dignity, she would never
consent. She probably regarded them as abstract questions which had but
little bearing on the substantial welfare of the people in general; but of
all measures to increase the happiness of all classes, even of the very
lowest, she was throughout the warmest advocate.
"July 11th, 1789.
"I can not sleep, my dear heart, without letting you know that M. Necker
is gone. MM. de Breteuil and de la Vauguyon will be summoned to the
council to-morrow. God grant that we may at last be able to do all the
good with which we are wholly occupied. The moment will be terrible; but I
have courage, and, provided that the honest folks support us without
exposing themselves needlessly, I think that I have vigor enough in myself
to impart some to others. But it is more than ever necessary to bear in
mind that all classes of men, so long as they are honest, are equally our
subjects, and to know how to distinguish those who are right-thinking in
every district and in every rank. My God! if people could only believe
that these are my real thoughts, perhaps they would love me a little. But
I must not think of myself. The glory of the king, that of his son, and
the happiness of this ungrateful nation, are all that I can, all that I
ought to, wish for; for as for your friendship, my dear heart, I reckon on
that always..."
Such language and sentiments were worthy of a sovereign. That the feelings
here expressed were genuine and sincere, the whole life of the writer is a
standing proof; and yet already fierce, wicked spirits, even of women (for
never was it more clearly seen than in France at this time how far, when
women are cruel, they exceed the worst of men in ferocity), were thirsting
for her blood. Already a woman in education and ability far above the
lowest class, one whose energy afterward raised her to be, if not the
avowed head, at least the moving spirit, of a numerous party (Madame
Roland), was urging the public prosecution, or, if the nation were not
ripe for such a formal outrage, the secret assassination, of both king and
queen.[1] But, however benevolent and patriotic were the queen's
intentions, it became instantly evident that those who had counseled the
dismissal of Necker had given their advice in entire ignorance of the hold
which he had established on the affections of the Parisians; while the new
prime minister, the Baron de Breteuil, whose previous office had connected
him with the police, was, on that account, very unpopular with a class
which is very numerous in all large cities. The populace of Paris broke
out at once in riots which amounted to insurrection. Thousands of
citizens, not all of the lowest class, decorated with green cockades, the
color of Necker's livery, and armed with every variety of weapon, paraded
the streets, bearing aloft busts of Necker and the Duc d'Orléans, without
stopping, in their madness, to consider how incongruous a combination they
were presenting. The most ridiculous stories were circulated about the
queen: it was affirmed that she had caused the Hall of the Assembly to be
undermined, that she might blow it up with gunpowder;[2] and, by way of
averting or avenging so atrocious an act, the mob began to set fire to
houses in different quarters of the city. Growing bolder at the sight of
their own violence, they broke open the prisons, and thus obtained a
re-enforcement of hundreds of desperadoes, ripe for any wickedness. The
troops were paralyzed by Louis's imbecile order to avoid bloodshed, and in
the same proportion the rioters were encouraged by their inaction and
evident helplessness. They attacked the great armory, and equipped
themselves with its contents, applying to the basest uses time-honored
weapons, monuments of ancient valor and patriotism. The spear with which
Dunois had cleared his country of the British invaders; the sword with
which the first Bourbon king had routed Egmont's cavalry at Ivry, were
torn down from the walls to arm the vilest of mankind for rapine and
slaughter. They stormed the Hôtel de Ville, and got possession of the
municipal chest, containing three millions of francs; and now, more and
more intoxicated with their triumph, and with the evidence which all these
exploits afforded that the whole city was at their mercy, they proceeded
to give their riot a regular organization, by establishing a committee to
sit in the Guildhall and direct their future proceedings. Lawless and
ferocious as was the main body of the rioters, there were shrewd heads to
guide their fury; and the very first order issued by this committee was
marked by such acute foresight, and such a skillful adaptation to the
requirements of the moment and the humor of the people, that it remains in
force to this day. It was hardly strange that men in open insurrection
against the king's authority should turn their wrath against one of its
conspicuous emblems, consecrated though it was by usage of immemorial
antiquity and by many a heroic achievement--the snow-white banner bearing
the golden lilies. But that glorious ensign could not be laid aside till
another was substituted for it; and the colors of the city, red and blue,
and white, the color of the army, were now blended together to form the
tricolor flag which has since won for itself a wider renown than even the
deeds of Bayard or Turenne had shed upon the lilies, and with which, under
every form of government, the nation has permanently identified itself.
They demanded more men, and a committee with three millions of francs
could easily command recruits. They stormed the Hôtel des Invalides, where
thousands of muskets were kept fit for instant use; one division of
regular troops, whose commander, the Baron de Besenval, was a resolute
man, determined to do his duty, mutinying against his orders, and refusing
to fire on the mob. They took possession of the city gates, and, thinking
themselves now strong enough for any exploit, on the third day of the
insurrection, the 14th of July, they marched in overpowering force to
attack the Bastile.
In former times the Bastile had been the great fortress of the city; and,
as such, it had been fortified with all the resources of the engineer's
art. Massive well-armed towers rose at numerous points above walls of
great height and solidity. A deep fosse surrounded it, and, when well
supplied and garrisoned, it had been regarded with pride by the citizens,
as a bulwark capable of defying the utmost efforts of a foreign enemy, and
not the less to be admired because they never expected it to be exposed to
such a test; but as a warlike fortress it had long been disused. In recent
times it had only been known as the State-prison, identified more than any
other with the worst acts of despotism and barbarity. As such it was now
as much detested as it had formerly been respected; and it had nothing but
the outward appearance of strength to resist an attack. Evidently the
military authorities had never anticipated the possibility that the mob
would rise to such a height of audacity. But the rioters were now
encouraged by two days of unbroken success, and those who spurred them on
were well-informed as well as fearless. They knew that the castle was in
such a state that its apparent strength was its real weakness; that its
entire garrison consisted of little more than a hundred soldiers, most of
whom were superannuated veterans, a force inadequate to man one-tenth of
the defenses; and that the governor, De Launay, though personally brave,
was a man devoid of presence of mind, and nervous under responsibility.
Led by a brewer, named Santerre, who for the next three years bore a
conspicuous part in all the worst deeds of ferocity and horror, they
assailed the gates in vast numbers. While the attention of the scanty
garrison was fully occupied by this assault, another party scaled the
walls at a point where there was not even a sentinel to give the alarm,
and let down one draw-bridge across the fosse, while another was loosened,
as is believed, by traitors in the garrison itself. Swarming across the
passage thus opened to them, thousands of the assailants rushed in;
murdered the governor, officers, and almost every one of the garrison; and
with a savage ferocity, as yet unexampled, though but a faint omen of
their future crimes, they cut off the head and hands of De Launay and
several of their chief victims, and, sticking them on pikes, bore them as
trophies of their victory through the streets of the city.
The news of what had been done came swiftly to Versailles, where it
excited feelings in the Assembly which, had the king or his advisers been
capable of availing themselves of it with skill and firmness, might have
led to a salutary change in the policy of that body; for the greater part
of the deputies were thoroughly alarmed at the violence of Santerre and
his companions, and would in all probability have supported the king in
taking strong measures for the restoration of order. But Louis could not
be roused, even by the murder of his own faithful servant, to employ force
to save those who might be similarly menaced. The only expedient which
occurred to his mind was to concede all that the rioters required; and at
midday on the 15th he repaired to the Assembly, and announced that he had
ordered the removal of the troops from Paris and from Versailles;
declaring that he trusted himself to the Assembly, and wished to identify
himself with the nation. The Assembly could hardly have avoided feeling
that it was a strange time to select for withdrawing the troops, when an
armed mob was in possession of the capital; but, as they had formerly
requested that measure, they thought themselves bound now to applaud
it, and, being for the moment touched by the compliment paid to
themselves, when he quit the Hall they unanimously rose and followed him,
escorting him back to the palace with vehement cheers. A vast crowd filled
the outer courts, who caught the contagion, and shouted out a demand for a
sight of the whole royal family; and presently, when the queen brought out
on the balcony her only remaining boy, whom the death of his brother had
raised to the rank of dauphin, and saluted them, with a graceful bow, the
whole mass burst out in one vociferous acclamation.
Yet even in that moment of congratulation there were base and malignant
spirits in the crowd, full of bitterness against the royal family, and
especially against the queen, whom they had evidently been taught to
regard as the chief obstacle to the reforms which they desired. Her
faithful waiting-woman, Madame de Campan, had gone down into the
court-yard and mingled with the crowd, to be the better able to judge of
their real feelings. She could see that many were disguised; and one
woman, whose veil of black lace, with which she concealed her features,
showed that she did not belong to the lowest class, seized her violently
by the arm, calling her by her name, and bid her "go and tell her queen
not to interfere any more in the Government, but to leave her husband and
the good States-general to work out the happiness of the people." Others
she heard uttering threats of vengeance against Madame de Polignac. And
one, while pouring forth "a thousand invectives" against both king and
queen, declared that it should soon be impossible to find even a fragment
of the throne on which they were now seated.
Marie Antoinette was greatly alarmed, not for herself, but for her
husband; and, now that he had determined on withdrawing the soldiers from
the capital, she earnestly entreated him to accompany them, taking the not
unreasonable view that the violence of the Parisian mob would be to some
extent quelled, and the well-intentioned portion of the Assembly would
have greater boldness to support their opinions, if the king were thus
placed out of the reach of danger from any fresh outbreak; and it was
generally understood that an attack on Versailles itself was
anticipated.[3] She felt so certain of the wisdom of such a course, and so
sanguine of prevailing, that she packed up her diamonds, burned many of
her papers, and drew up a set of orders for the arrangement of the details
of the journey. But on the morning of the 16th she was compelled to inform
Madame Campan that the plan was given up. Large portions of the Parisian
mob, and among them one deputation of the fish-women, who in this, as well
as on more festive occasions, claimed equally to take the lead, had come
out to demand that the king should visit Paris; and the Ministerial
Council thought it safer for him to comply with that petition than to
throw himself into the arms of the soldiers, a step which might not
improbably lead to a civil war.
To the queen this seemed the most dangerous course of all. She knew that
both at Versailles and at Paris the agents of the Duke of Orléans had been
scattering money with a lavish hand; and she scarcely doubted that either
on his road, or in the city, her husband would be assassinated, or at the
least detained by the mob as a prisoner and a hostage.
Had she not feared to increase his danger, she would have accompanied him;
but at such a crisis it required more courage and fortitude to separate
herself from him; and the most courageous part was ever that which was
most natural to her. But, though she took no precautions for herself, she
was as thoughtful as ever for her friends; and, knowing how obnoxious the
Duchess de Polignac was to the multitude, she insisted on her departing
with her family. The duchess fled, not unwillingly; and at the same time
others also quit Versailles who had not the same plea of delicacy of sex
to excuse their terrors, and who were bound by every principle of duty to
remain by the king's side the more steadily the greater might be the
danger. The Prince de Condé, who certainly at one time had been a brave
man, and had won an honorable name, worthy of his intrepid ancestor, in
the Seven Years' War; his brother, the Prince de Conti; the Count
d'Artois, who, having always been the advocate of the most violent
measures, was doubly bound to stand forward in defense of his king and
brother, all fled, setting the first example of that base emigration which
eventually left the king defenseless in the midst of his enemies. The
Baron de Breteuil and some of the ministers made similar provision for
their own safety; though it may be said, as some extenuation of their
ignoble flight, that they had no longer any official duties to detain
them, since the king had already dismissed them, and on the evening of the
16th had written to Necker to beg him to return without delay and resume
his office, claiming his instant obedience as a proof of the attachment
and fidelity which he had promised when departing five days before.
On the morning of the 17th, Louis set out for Paris in a single carriage,
escorted by a very slender guard and accompanied by a party of the
deputies. He was fully alive to the danger he was incurring. He knew that
threats had been openly uttered that he should not reach Paris alive;[4]
and he had prepared for his journey as for death, burning his papers,
taking the sacrament, and making arrangements for a regency. Marie
Antoinette was almost hopeless of his safety. She sat with her children in
her private room, shedding no tears, lest the knowledge of her grief
should increase the alarm of her attendants; but her carriages were kept
harnessed, and she had prepared and learned by heart a short speech, with
which, if the worst news which she apprehended should arrive, she intended
to repair to the Assembly, and claim its protection for the wife and
children of their sovereign.[5] But often, as she rehearsed it, her voice,
in spite of all her efforts, was broken by sobs, and her reiterated
exclamation, "They will never let him return!" but too truly expressed the
deep forebodings of her heart.
They were not yet fated to be realized; the Insurrection Committee had
already organized a force which they had entitled the National Guard, and
of which they had conferred the command on the Marquis de La Fayette, And
at the gates of the city the king was met by him and the mayor, a man
named Bailly, who had achieved a considerable reputation as a
mathematician and an astronomer, but who was thoroughly imbued with the
leveling and irreligious doctrines of the school of the Encyclopedists. No
men in Paris were less likely to treat their sovereign with due respect.
Since his return from America, La Fayette had been living in retirement on
his estate, till at the recent election he had been returned to the
States-general as one of the representatives of the nobles for his native
province of Auvergne. He had taken no part in the debates, being entirely
destitute of political abilities;[6] and he had apparently no very
distinct political views, but wavered between a desire for a republic,
such, as that of which he had witnessed the establishment in America, and
a feeling in favor of a limited monarchy such as he understood to exist in
Great Britain, though he had no accurate comprehension of its most
essential principles. But his ruling passion was a desire for popularity;
and as he had always been vain of his unbending ill-manners as a proof of
his liberal sentiments,[7] and as his vanity made him regard kings and
queens with a general dislike, as being of a rank superior to his own, he
looked on the present occurrence as a favorable opportunity for gaining
the good-will of the mob, by showing marked disrespect to Louis. He would
not even pay him the ordinary compliment of appearing in uniform, but
headed his new troops in plain clothes; and even those were not such as
belonged to his rank, but were the ordinary dress of a plain citizen;
while Bailly's address, as Louis entered the gates, was marked with the
most studied and gratuitous insolence. "Sire," said he, "I present to your
majesty the keys of your good city of Paris. They are the same which were
presented to Henri IV. He had conquered his people: to-day the people have
conquered their king."
Louis proceeded onward to the Hôtel de Ville, in a strange procession,
headed by a numerous band of fish-women, always prominent, and recruited
at every step by a crowd of rough peasant-looking men, armed with
bludgeons, scythes, and every variety of rustic weapons, evidently on the
watch for some opportunity to create a tumult, and seeking to provoke one
by raising from time to time vociferous shouts of "Vive la nation!" and
uttering ferocious threats against any one who might chance to exclaim,
"Vive le roi!" But they were disconcerted by the perfect calmness of the
king, on whom danger to himself seemed the only thing incapable of making
an impression. On Bailly's insolent speech he had made no comment,
remarking, in a whisper to his principal attendant, that he had better
appear not to have heard it. And now at the Hôtel de Ville his demeanor
was as unruffled as if every thing that had happened had been in perfect
accordance with his wishes. He made a short speech, in which he confirmed
all the concessions and promises which he had previously made. He even
placed in his hat a tricolor cockade, which the mayor had the effrontery
to present to him, though it was the emblem of the revolt of his subjects
and of the defeat of his troops. And at last such an effect had his
fearless dignity on even the fiercest of his enemies, that when he
afterward came out on the balcony to show himself to the crowd beneath,
the whole mass raised the shout of "Vive le roi!" with as much enthusiasm
as had ever greeted the most feared or the most beloved of his
predecessors.
His return to the barrier resembled a triumphal procession. Yet, happy as
it seemed that outrage had thus been averted and unanimity restored, the
result of the day can not, perhaps, be deemed entirely fortunate, since it
probably contributed to fix more deeply in the king's mind the belief that
concession to clamor was the course most likely to be successful. Nor did
the queen, though for the moment her despondency was changed to thankful
exultation, at all conceal from herself that the perils which had been
escaped were certain to recur; and that vigilance and firmness would
surely again be called for to repel them--qualities which she could find
in herself, but which she might well doubt her ability to impart to
others.[8]
Her own attention was for a moment occupied by the necessary work of
selecting a new governess for her children in the place of Madame de
Polignac; and after some deliberation her choice fell on the Marchioness
de Tourzel, a lady of the most spotless character, who seems to have been
in every respect well fitted for so important an office. As Marie
Antoinette had scarcely any previous acquaintance with her, it was by her
character alone that she had been recommended to her; as was gracefully
expressed in the brief speech with which Marie Antoinette delivered her
little charges into her hands. "Madame," said she, "I formerly intrusted
my children to friendship; to-day I intrust them to virtue;[9]" and, a day
or two afterward, to make easier the task which the marchioness had not
undertaken without some unwillingness, she addressed her a letter in which
she describes the character of her son, and her own principles and method
of education, with an impartiality and soundness of judgment which could
not have been surpassed by one who had devoted her whole attention to the
subject:
"July 25th, 1789.
"My son is four years and four months old, all but two days. I say nothing
of his size nor of his general appearance; it is only necessary to see
him. His health has always been good, but even in his cradle we perceived
that his nerves were very delicate.... This delicacy of his nerves is such
that any noise to which he is not accustomed frightens him. For instance,
he is afraid of dogs because he once heard one bark close to him; and I
have never obliged him to see one, because I believe that, as his reason
grows stronger, his fears will pass away. Like all children who are strong
and healthy, he is very giddy, very volatile, and violent in his passions;
but he is a good child, tender, and even caressing, when his giddiness
does not run away with him. He has a great sense of what is due to
himself, which, if he be well managed, one may some day turn to his good.
Till he is entirely at his ease with any one, he can restrain himself,
and even stifle his impatience and his inclination to anger, in order to
appear gentle and amiable. He is admirably faithful when once he has
promised any thing, but he is very indiscreet; he is thoughtless in
repeating any thing that he has heard; and often, without in the least
intending to tell stories, he adds circumstances which his own imagination
has put into his head. This is his greatest fault, and it is one for which
he must be corrected. However, taken altogether, I say again, he is a good
child; and by treating him with allowance, and at the same time with
firmness, which must be kept clear of severity, we shall always be able to
do all that we can wish with him. But severity would revolt him, for he
has a great deal of resolution for his age. To give you an instance: from
his very earliest childhood the word _pardon_ has always offended him. He
will say and do all that you can wish when he is wrong, but as for the
word _pardon_, he never pronounces it without tears and infinite
difficulty.
"I have always accustomed my children to have great confidence in me, and,
when they have done wrong, to tell me themselves; and then, when I scold
them, this enables me to appear pained and afflicted at what they have
done rather than angry. I have accustomed them all to regard 'yes' or
'no,' once uttered by me, as irrevocable; but I always give them reasons
for my decision, suitable to their ages, to prevent their thinking that my
decision comes from ill-humor. My son can not read, and he is very slow at
learning; but he is too giddy to apply. He has no pride in his heart, and
I am very anxious that he should continue to feel so. Our children always
learn soon enough what they are. He is very fond of his sister, and has a
good heart. Whenever any thing gives him pleasure, whether it be the going
anywhere, or that any one gives him any thing, his first movement always
is to ask that his sister may have the same. He is light-hearted by
nature. It is necessary for his health that he should be a great deal in
the open air; and I think it is better to let him play and work in the
garden on the terrace, than to take him longer walks. The exercise which
children take in running about and playing in the open air is much more
healthy than forcing them to walk, which often makes their backs
ache.[10]"
Some of these last recommendations may seem to show that the governess
was, to some extent, regarded as a nurse as well as a teacher; and when we
find Marie Antoinette complaining of want of discretion in a child of four
years old, it may perhaps be thought that she is expecting rather more of
such tender years than is often found in them; that she is inclined to be
overexacting rather than overindulgent; an error the more venial, since it
is probable that the educators of princes are more likely to go astray in
the opposite direction. But it is impossible to avoid being struck with
the candor with which she judges her boy's character, and with the
judiciousness of her system of education; and equally impossible to resist
the conviction that a boy of good disposition, trained by such a mother,
had every chance of becoming a blessing to his subjects, if fate had only
allowed him to succeed to the throne which she had still a right to look
forward to for him as his assured inheritance.