GARDEN OF THE TUILERIES.
FOUNDATIONS OF THE REPUBLIC.
ANECDOTE OF MLLE. THÉROUANNE.
KNIGHTS OF THE POIGNARD.
NATIONAL CONVENTION.
TRIAL OF LOUIS XVI.
ATTEMPT TO SAVE HIM
The garden of the Tuileries is large and handsome. It evokes the
memories of the glorious efforts of the brave Swiss Guard, murdered for
their fidelity to their trust on August 10, 1792. I have been informed
on very good authority that if the King could have been persuaded to
remain in the Palace, surrounded by his faithful guards, the victory
would have terminated in favour of the Royal cause. Several persons
who were then members of the Legislative Assembly have assured me the
majority of the Convention never dreamt of a deposition until they
perceived their victim at their mercy. The King’s fatal resolution
determined those who were yet undecided. But even then it was supposed
Royalty would be continued in different hands. The Orleans faction
were, however, afraid to exert their power. Those engaged in the
conspiracy of the Duke neglected to seize the moment and thus secure
their object. They were duped by men who had no share in their
treachery, a convincing proof that in political matters too much
refinement and fine-spun preliminaries will never avail against unity
of principle.
Above a month elapsed before the Orleans faction and the Republican
party felt their mutual strength. The former were employed in sounding
the minds of others and in treaty; the latter, while they held out
encouraging hopes to the former, were concentrating their forces and
preparing to strike a decisive blow. Thus they compelled the Orleans
party to become their blind instruments.
[Sidenote: FOUNDATIONS OF THE REPUBLIC]
At length the National Convention assembled on September 21; the
Orleans party awaited with eager expectation that some distinguished
member of the other side, with whom they had been tampering, should
move the deposition of King Louis. They then intended to propose a
Regent should be nominated in the person of Philippe of Orleans.[1]
The Republicans, however, expected a motion for the total abolition of
Royalty.
A solemn pause ensued. How the heart of Orleans must have palpitated!
On a sudden the thunder burst from an unexpected quarter; it was
reserved for an ecclesiastic to pronounce the doom of a throne which
had existed for centuries. Gregoire,[1] Bishop of Blois, exclaimed:
Why debate when all are agreed? Kings are in the moral economy
of the world what monsters are in the natural; Courts are the
repositories of crimes and the dens of tyrants. The history of
Kings is the martyrology of nations. As we are all convinced of
these truths, why, I repeat, should we debate?
This speech operated like an electric shock upon the Convention,
the members rose _en masse_, and called for _the question_. This
proposition was then decreed: ROYALTY IS ABOLISHED IN FRANCE. Thus
vanished the prospects of Orleans and his abettors, and so was a
Republic established in France.
The fears and listlessness of Louis XVI. were the proximate causes
which led to his ruin and overthrow. As a corroborating proof of this
statement I give the evidence of a young and beautiful but fanatical
girl, Mademoiselle Thérouanne de Mirecourt,[1] who has repeatedly
declared to me _que c’était la poltronnerie seule du tyran qui sauva
la France_.
[A] See Appendix.
Before I quit this subject I cannot avoid noticing the character of
this young woman. During the attack upon the Tuileries she headed
a body of pikemen and showed absolute fearlessness and marvellous
courage. I have often been in her company, and remarked that she
possessed by nature a fund of humanity and a tolerable share of
information; but that vanity, desire of popularity and fanaticism made
her wild, savage and ferocious. One day she invited me to breakfast
with her, and on my entering her apartment I beheld a pike, a sword, a
brace of pistols, and suspended over the chimney-piece the _bonnet
rouge_; scattered about the floor lay above a hundred books and
pamphlets, on her bed newspapers, on her table Marat’s _Ami du
Peuple_. On my inquiry why a lady of her charms kept such dreadful
instruments in her room, she replied: “No compliments, Citizen. Society
is undergoing a change, a grand re-organisation, and women are about
to resume their rights. We shall no more be flattered in order to be
enslaved, these arms have dethroned the tyrant, and conquered freedom.
Sit down and take your chocolate.”
With all this severity of character she possessed some attractions and
captured the heart of John Sheares,[1] who was executed for treason
during the late rebellion. His affection for her was so great that he
proposed marriage to her. Had he been gratified in his inclination
there is good reason to suppose _he_ might have been now alive,
and _she_ in a happy situation. For he often assured me that
should his suit prove successful he would abandon politics altogether
and retire into private life. He was one of the finest young men I ever
beheld, and a handsomer pair would have rarely been seen. But fortune
decided their fate should be disastrous. When he tendered his proposals
she pulled a pistol from her pocket and threatened to shoot him if he
said another word upon the subject. _He_ returned to Ireland, to
fall a victim five years later to offended justice. _She_ is now
in a miserable state of insanity, confined in a madhouse in the Rue de
Sèvre, Faubourg S. Germain.
[Sidenote: KNIGHTS OF THE POIGNARD]
The Garden of the Tuileries brings to my recollection the famous story
of the Knights of the Poignard, when on February 23, 1791, a number
of the Knights of S. Louis were _supposed_ to have entered into a
conspiracy to carry off the King. I was present on the occasion, and a
spectator of the scene. An immense concourse of people collected about
the Palace, and there was much noisy talk about concealed daggers, but
I saw none, nor any blade save that of La Fayette’s[1] sword, who,
mounted on his white charger, galloped to and fro as if the fate of the
world depended on his actions.
One moment he formed the National Guard into line. At the next he
ordered them to file off, then he dismounted and bolted into the
Palace--in a trice he was again on horseback--in short he created
more alarm among the people than if an Austrian army had reached the
barriers. At length, after a great deal of marching, counter-marching,
bustling and puffing, the Marquis assured the mob that all was safe.
Here followed great applause, and the populace quietly dispersed. Some
Knights of S. Louis were present and were very roughly handled by the
people, but no other motive had carried them to the Tuileries except
an anxious desire to defend the King against attacks by the mob. There
is one fact established by this event, that even at that period Louis
XVI. was respected by the people, and they considered their security to
be identified by his person. I have not the least doubt that a decided
majority of the people of France would at this day rejoice in the
restoration of their ancient line of Princes.
The Hall used by the National Convention stands on one side of the
Tuileries garden. It was formerly the King’s stables. It is the
intention of the First Consul to restore it to its original purpose.
Curiosity induced me to enter a place which had been the focus of so
many revolutions, where the Republic was declared, the unhappy King
tried, and more bloody tragedies performed in one twelvemonth than in
all Europe in the space of two hundred years.
I found it completely dismantled, the galleries, the Tribune, the flag
of Liberty that was planted over the Bastille and suspended in triumph
over the centre of the hall, all have been destroyed, even the floor
removed, and we trod upon the bare earth. The place was, however, so
familiar to me that I was able to give my companion a very accurate
description of it, and to point out the spot on which the unfortunate
King was placed during his trial.
Now that I am upon this subject I will mention some circumstances
respecting this event which have not, I believe, been ever made known
to the public. I was present at the trial and sat very near to the
King. Before he was brought to the bar, it was decreed, on the motion
of one Legendre,[1] a butcher, that “No person, except the President,
should be permitted to speak a word while Louis Capet was present.”
Legendre premised his motion by this remark: “Citizen President, I
demand that this Assembly preserves the mournful silence of the tomb,
so that when the bloody tyrant enters it may strike his guilty soul
with horror.” This speech was received with unbounded applause, and the
bloodstained hypocrite Barrère,[1] who was President, apostrophised
the people on the propriety of observing silence. There were very few
people of respectable or even decent appearance in the galleries; they
were filled with the vilest rabble. During the night preceding this
mock trial the people in the galleries kept themselves awake by singing
the Marseillaise hymn, which was vociferated more than a hundred
times. The officers of the National Guard provided wine and cakes for
those who were willing to purchase them. In the morning the deputies
assembled and proceeded upon the order of the day, Santerre,[1] the
brewer, being despatched to the Temple to conduct the King to the
Convention.
[Sidenote: THE NATIONAL CONVENTION]
It was arranged the President should first read the whole of the
charges and then propose them severally to the King, demanding answers.
He was authorised to interrogate the monarch, and any refusal to answer
was to be construed into a confession of guilt. Santerre now presented
himself at the bar, and thus addressed the President:
“Citizen President, Louis Capet awaits your orders.”
Before Barrère[1] had time to reply, Mailhé, one of the Secretaries,
exclaimed: “Bring him in!” The King attended by several of the officers
of the Paris Etat[AAÉtat?]-Majeur, and followed by Santerre, then
advanced to the bar, standing erect and firm, and casting (as it seemed
to me) a look of defiance upon the silent Assembly. A little before the
King entered a member of the Convention said to an Englishman who was
present: “This will give you a correct idea of your country in the last
century.” To which he replied with uncommon spirit: “No, indeed, we
shall see too many tricks here.”
I watched the King with the minutest attention, and I observed that in
looking round the assembly, he cast his eye upon the standards taken
from the Austrians and Prussians, and gave a sudden start, from which,
however, he recovered himself in an instant.
A wooden chair was brought, upon which Barrère invited him to be
seated. He then read the whole of the charges, during which the King
fixed his eyes attentively upon him. To every charge he answered
directly, without premeditation, and with such skilful propriety that
the audience were astonished.
When he was accused of shedding the blood of Frenchmen he raised his
voice with all the conscientiousness of innocence, and replied: “No,
sir, I have never shed the blood of any Frenchman.” His spirit was
evidently wounded at this charge, and I perceived a tear trickle down
his cheek; but, as if unwilling to give his enemies an opportunity of
weakness in his conduct, he instantaneously wiped his face and forehead
to denote he was oppressed by heat.
After all his answers had been obtained several papers were handed to
him, with some degree of politeness, by one of the Huissiers. This
civility was a contrast to the brutal behaviour of Mailhé,[1] the
Secretary, who was afterwards desired to present some papers to the
King. These papers were said to have been signed by the monarch, and
to have been found in a box concealed in a secret part of his cabinet.
Their contents were not of great importance, but the object of the
Convention was to identify the King’s handwriting. A chair was placed
for Mailhé close to the King, but within the bar. Immediately he was
seated the unfeeling monster turned it completely round, so as to face
the President and show his back to the King. The insulted monarch
felt the affront, and showed by the manner in which he resented it
a proud superiority over his dastardly enemy. He rose from his seat
and remained on his legs during the whole of the examination. Mailhé
retained his position, and, sitting with one leg crossed over the
other, read aloud each paper and then handed it over his right shoulder
to the sovereign, accompanied each time by the query: “Louis, is that
your handwriting?” The unfortunate monarch snatched it abruptly from
his hand and answered indignantly: “No, it is _not_ my writing.”
A multitude of papers were presented on the one part and denied on the
other, in the same style.
Finally Mailhé rose from his seat, exclaiming dramatically, “Louis
denies everything! Louis recollects nothing at all!”
A voice from the boxes, behind the Deputies, shouted: “Take off his
head!” but it was not noticed.
Thus far victory was on the side of the King. Never were charges more
completely refuted by a forsaken individual, deprived of the support of
friends or counsel.
The President was at a loss how to proceed. Barbaroux[1] and several
Deputies rushed up to his chair and whispered in his ear. This confused
him the more. At length Manuel,[1] nicknamed the Solon or Solomon or
Socrates of France (I forget which), advanced into the area of the
hall, and in a bungling manner said: “President, the representatives
of the people have decreed that none of us shall speak while the
King--Louis, I mean--is amongst us. Now I propose that Louis be made
to withdraw for a little while, so that every member may deliver his
opinion.”
[Sidenote: THE NATIONAL CONVENTION]
No words can give an idea of the silly appearance of Manuel when he
found the word _King_ had escaped from his lips. At the sound of
that name I perceived Legendre,[1] his body writhing and distorted,
preparing to bellow. As he was sitting down he gave Bourdon l’Oise[1]
a tremendous box on the ear for calling him to order, which the other
returned by a sound blow in the face.
Several Deputies parted them. In the midst of this confusion, when all
the members were talking together, Barrère rang his bell and told the
King he might withdraw. The King then said to the President: “I request
to have the assistance of counsel,” and then withdrew before an answer
could be given.
That artful and infernal villain, Barrère, during this trial affected
great sympathy towards his injured sovereign, articulated all the
charges in a faltering accent, and remained uncovered during the
whole time the King was present. Most of the members wore their hats.
The Duke of Orleans, who seated himself in full view of his fallen
relative, was, however, uncovered.
The King was plainly dressed in an olive silk coat, and looked
remarkably well. Barrère wore a dark coat and scarlet waistcoat,
lead-coloured kerseymere breeches and white silk stockings. Robespierre
wore black. Orleans was habited in blue. The majority of the members
looked like blackguards. Legendre wore no neckcloth, but an open collar
_à la_ Brutus.
Manuel was much agitated by the misapplication of the word King. Not
so the monarch, who dropped a similar expression. As he was giving an
account of the invitation to the entertainment at Versailles, which the
Queen had received from the Gardes de Corps, he caught up his words
and said: “La ci-devant Reine, ma femme.” The rest of this affecting
spectacle is sufficiently known. I have mentioned the incidents
above because I have never seen them in any printed accounts of that
melancholy day.
It has been generally asserted that no effort was made to rescue the
captive monarch. This assertion is false. I am personally acquainted
with a man who had 15,000 livres deposited in his hands for the purpose
of rescuing the King. This sum was so prudently distributed and the
plan so judiciously made, that if Santerre had not ordered drums to
beat, to drown the forcible appeal the Royal sufferer was making to
the people, I surely believe it would have been carried into effect.
There were persons on the fatal spot prepared to seize the moment of
opportunity, had the fickle character of the Parisian populace, who
would send up shouts to Heaven to-morrow at the execution of the First
Consul, whom they adore to-day, made it likely that they would have
joined or divided in the enterprise.
There is not a spot in this Hall of Convention which does not revive a
thousand sublime and painful recollections.
I remember seeing Mirabeau,[1] Barnave[1] and the Lornettes,[1] and
on the same side of the Hall those conspicuous members who thundered
against the Clergy, the Feudal Laws, and the despotism of the Throne.
I have heard the virtuous Mounier[1] pour forth the language of
generous indignation against the motion of Barnave on the emigration
of the aunts of the King. Methinks I hear again the nervous eloquence
of Cazalis[1] on behalf of his King and the established laws of the
country. Here I have heard Mirabeau on the Veto; the celebrated speech
of Cardinal Moury[1] on Avignon and the Comtal Venaissin,[1] the gloomy
metaphysics of Condorcet[1] and the eloquent if mistaken enthusiasm of
Grégoire.
[Sidenote: GARDEN OF THE PALAIS ROYALE]
I have also beheld, O wretched change!--this Hall polluted by monsters
breathing nothing but death and devastation. I have heard in that
Tribune the sanguinary suggestions of Danton and Robespierre, the
howlings of Marat--the ravings of Brissot, Anarcharsis Cloots[1] and
Gondet,[1]1 and the _calembours_ of the Gascon Barrère.
There, too, I have seen Tom Paine[1] stand up like a post, while
another read a translation of his speech. What noise, what uproar and
cabals have originated within these walls! They seem besmeared with
human blood. The images they excite arise in dreadful succession, and
stalk before my imagination like the shades of Banquo’s line.
Never shall I forget the day when in the midst of a solemn speech
Gensonne[1]1 was delivering, the impudent little Marat,[1]1 who could
scarcely reach his throat, gave him a box on the ear. The other took
him in his arms and threw him neck and heels out of the Tribune.