The Court party had concerted a scheme of revenge upon the Commons for
their act of the 23rd June. The queen sent for her favourite minister,
the Baron de Breteuil. He had been minister of state in 1783, and had
had charge of the king's house, an important post, for the _lettres
de cachet_ fell to this department. The baron had quarrelled with
Calonne, whom the queen detested. That was one reason why she confided
in his judgment. Troops were massed about Versailles and Paris;
fifteen regiments, for the most part composed of foreign mercenaries,
were encamped around the capital. The Royal Cravate was at Charenton,
Reinach and Diesbach at Sèvres, Nassau at Versailles, Salis-Samode
at Issy, the hussars of Berchenay at the Military School; at other
stations were the regiments of Esterhazy, Roemer, &c. There were as
many as 30,000 men in and around Paris. Sentinels occupied every
bridge, every avenue.
The old Marshal de Broglie received the command in chief, the Baron de
Besenval received that of the troops surrounding the capital.
Mirabeau thought that the only sure means of intimidating the court was
to discuss publicly the measures which it was adopting. He interrupted
the business of the constitution by a proposal that the king should
send away the troops.
'Sire,' said Mirabeau, 'in the midst of your subjects, be guarded only
by their love.'
He pointed out that every day fresh bodies of soldiers were arriving,
that the bridges and promenades were changed into military posts, that
the sight of adjutants dashing about with orders and counter-orders
despatched from the palace or from the house of the Marshal de Broglie
at all moments of the day, gave to the town the appearance of being the
seat of war.
'More soldiers are shown us menacing the nation,' said he, 'than would
be marched against an invading foe, and a thousand times more than
would be assembled to succour friends martyred for their fidelity.'
The address to the king, proposed by Mirabeau, was carried all but
unanimously, four voices alone being found to oppose it. The answer of
the king was equivocal.
He said that the soldiers were there to preserve tranquillity, and not
to intimidate the Assembly, and that if the army caused alarm, he was
ready to transfer the States to Soisson or Noyon. With this answer the
Assembly was forced to remain content, unsatisfactory as it seemed.
The plans of the queen, the Count d'Artois, the Princes of Condé and
Conti, and the Dukes of Polignac and d'Enghien, were now complete. The
capital and Versailles were invested, and at a signal the army would
fall upon them, and trample under foot all opposition. The last blow
had to be struck, and Marie Antoinette was the person to strike it.
It was to fall on Necker, the prime minister, whom the Court party
detested, and whom it could never forgive for having persuaded the king
to summon the States-General, and thus to imperil their supremacy over
king and country.
On Saturday evening, July 11th, Lindet was walking with the Abbé
Grégoire along the Paris road, beyond the barrier at the end of the
Avenue.
'What will happen next?' asked the Curé of Bernay. 'It appears evident
that the queen intends a _coup d'état_, but what it will be no one
knows exactly.'
'The time for a _coup d'état_ is passed,' said Grégoire; 'on the
twenty-third of last month the decisive blow was struck, and it was
struck by the Assembly. Consider, my friend, what can the Court do
now? The Assembly represents twenty-five millions of men, the court
represents a few thousands. The prestige of royalty burst like a bubble
on that day in May. The king is the head of a party, a little miserable
party, ranged against the vast bulk of the French people.'
'You forget the army,' said Lindet; 'the court can always summon to
its aid brute force to crush right and reason, as it has crushed it for
centuries with the same means.'
'I question whether it can now rely implicitly on the army. Remember,
the army reflects the condition of France; it has its officers and its
privates; the former, the privileged, all nobles; and for the rest,
the army is a _cul-de-sac_, there is no possibility of advance, of
promotion. And as we groan under feudalism, so does the soldier cry
out under the oppression of his officers, who have cheated him of his
pay, have cut short his rations, have bullied and insulted him. If the
commoners rise against the nobles, and the curés against the bishops,
depend upon it the privates will rebel against their officers. We curés
have joined cause with the commons, the soldiers will make common cause
with us. And then, where are the privileged with the crown, whose cause
they defend?'
'And what do you suppose will be the end?'
'If the king listen to Necker, Mounier, and his followers, they will
give to France a constitution on the Anglican model; the movement will
stop short at that point. If violence be attempted, we shall rush
into pure democracy. I am content either way. Possibly we are not yet
prepared for republicanism, and a constitutional monarchy will prove a
stepping-stone and halting-place before the final plunge.'
'You desire a pure democracy.'
'I desire to see a constitution in which every officer is responsible
to the nation, and every individual member of the nation has an
interest in the government. What interest have you or I in the king?
Absolutely none. He derives his title to the throne through his blood.
Of all farces, an hereditary monarchy is the most absurd. An elective
monarchy is different. I should not object to a king, if he were chosen
by vote of the people; for authority must be conferred by the nation,
and must be removable by the nation, so that no man may be made an
irresponsible autocrat. Till the nation and its government are so
interwoven in interests and responsibilities, that its organization
rests on no fictitious basis, but on the common weal, there must be
injustice, and there will be rebellion.'
'Stand back,' said Lindet.
The two priests drew back, as they heard the sound of wheels. The night
was dark,--so dark that they stepped into the hedge before they were
aware.
Two brilliant lights approached at a rapid rate from Versailles, and
the tinkle of the collars of post-horses proclaimed a travelling
carriage. The crack of a postilion's whip, the rumble of wheels, and
the jingle of bells, drowned the noise of an approaching carriage from
the direction of Paris. Almost as soon as the curés were aware that
they heard the roll of two vehicles, they met, and their wheels were
locked. The shock brought both carriages to a stand-still.
The post-boys of the travelling coach and the driver of the small Paris
hackney-carriage dismounted, and abused each other with many oaths and
threatening gestures.
'Why, in the devil's name, have you not got lamps?' asked one of the
postilions. 'And pray, why did you not steer out of the way of our
lights, hey!'
'Was I going to drive into the hedge to please you?' retorted the
coachman; 'was I going to upset monsieur to gratify you? Was I going to
run the chance of upsetting the barouche to oblige you? hey!'
'Are you going to back your horses, hey?'
'Will you do the same with yours, hey?'
'Not till you do so, hey!'
'Nor I till yours move, hey!'
'I will whip you----'
'You will dare, hey!'
'Hey! but I will.'
'Sacré au nom de Dieu!'
'Mille diables!'
'What are you fellows about?' asked a gentleman, thrusting his head out
of the travelling carriage; 'cease quarrelling, and unlock the wheels.'
'Bah! what fellows!' exclaimed a head thrust out of the window of the
smaller carriage; 'please to inform me when you are ready to start
again. I shall put on my nightcap, and take a nap till you have done.'
The postilion removed the lamp from its place in the carriage, and
proceeded to examine the wheels. Lindet stepped forward and volunteered
his assistance. The wheels were faster than was anticipated.
'Back the horse, and be damned to you!' said the postilion to the
coachman.
'I am backing, you pert jackanapes,' answered the other.
'You are not backing sufficiently,' said the postboy.
'Will you make my mare back till she is black in the face, hey?'
'Yes, I will, hey!'
'Then you won't, hey!'
'I dare you to touch her, hey!'
'You dare! hey!'
'Yes, I do! hey!'
'Now then,' exclaimed the gentleman from the travelling coach; 'I
insist on a cessation of this wrangling. Loose the wheels at once.'
'Allow me,' said the gentleman from the Parisian barouche. He leaped
out of his conveyance, caught the lantern from the postboy, and
suddenly, with such abruptness as not to give the other traveller time
to withdraw his head, he turned the full blaze of the lamp upon his
face.
His hat was off immediately, and he bowed low.
Grégoire touched Lindet on the arm, and pointed to the illumined face.
It was that of Necker.
'Look at the top of the coach,' whispered the abbé; 'it is laden with
boxes. He is dismissed.'
Lindet looked. The light was immediately averted.
'You are on your way to the place I have left,' said Necker, in a low
voice to the other.
'I have been summoned. But whether to replace you or not I cannot tell
yet. Bah! what strange meetings there are in the world!'
'I wish you success where I have failed,' said Necker, still in a voice
scarcely above a whisper.
'We shall try different means,' replied the other; 'but----take a
pinch!' he extended his box, it was of gold.
Necker declined. 'Well,' said the speaker, emptying some into his palm
and applying it thus to his nose; 'we must do our best.'
At that moment another head appeared at the window of the little
carriage.
'There's my son-in-law,' said Foulon, for it was he; 'just awake. He
has been snoring all the way from Paris. Berthier, my boy, brisk up.
Here is----'
'Hush, hush! for Heaven's sake,' exclaimed the ex-minister; 'it is most
important that nothing should be known of my departure.'
'All right, sir!' said the coachman, approaching Foulon.
'All right at last, is it? Very well. Good evening, monsieur.' He
returned to his carriage.
'Will you drive against me again, hey!' shouted the coachman, when he
had mounted the box.
'I would do so a thousand times, hey!' yelled the postboy, leaping on
his horse.
'You lie, you gherkin!' called the coachman, gathering the reins into
his hand.
'You are drunk, you pumpkin!' cried the postboy, cracking his whip.
'A thousand devils! say that again, hey!' roared the driver as the
vehicles passed.
'Till death's day. I repeat it. Hey!'
'Shrimp!' bellowed the coachman, turning in his seat and shouting over
the back of the carriage.
'Flounder!' called the postilion over his shoulder.
When the two carriages were out of sight, Grégoire turned to Lindet,
and said, 'the court has committed suicide. The queen has prevailed
upon the king to dismiss Necker, and now she is about to form a
ministry after her own heart. _Quos Deus vult perdere prius dementat_.'
Lindet was too much overwhelmed with amazement and dismay to answer.
'In twenty-four hours,' continued Grégoire, 'Paris will explode, and
blood will flow. The result of this stroke of policy is certain. Paris
will be in arms to-morrow, and the court will take the opportunity
of pouring upon the city in revolt its troops of mercenaries. It may
succeed; the nascent revolution may be strangled by the iron grasp
of the military, and then recommences the reign of tyranny. It may
fail, and then the people are lashed into fury, and will not spare the
conquered. The stroke is bold.'
'What is to be done?'
'Do not breathe a word of what you have seen. It is just possible
that the king may be turned again. I shall go to the Duke de la
Rochefoucauld. Ah! how different he is from the cardinal! he has
influence with his majesty. Merciful God! we shall have blood flowing
in streams in a few hours.'
Lindet thought for a moment. Then he said, hesitatingly, 'it is one's
duty to use every possible means of preventing bloodshed. Shall I seek
out my bishop? He is the queen's chaplain, a proud, worldly man, but no
fool. He might persuade her to recall this precipitate step, if he were
to see the case in the true light.'
'By all means visit him,' said Grégoire; 'no time is to be lost. We
are both weak vessels, but God may enable us to stave off a terrible
disaster. I desire a republic with all my heart, but, in God's name,
let it not be brought about by bloodshed and anarchy.'
They separated at the foot of the steps leading to the palace gates.
Numerous oil-lamps illumined the court of the ministers, and into this
Lindet penetrated without difficulty. Having inquired his way to the
apartments of the prelate, he mounted the stairs to the corridor in
which they were situated, and was shown by a valet into the bishop's
sitting-room.
De Narbonne-Lara was not then in his chamber, but the priest was told
that he would return to it directly; his wax candles were burning on
the table, and his pen was laid upon the paper, still wet with ink, on
which he had been writing.
Lindet stood and waited patiently for him. He had not spoken to him
since he had been inhibited,--he had scarcely seen him since he had
been elected deputy in the place of the bishop and the bishop's
candidate. A meeting must prove disagreeable to himself and to the
prelate, but it was worth while to undergo it, for De Narbonne, from
his acquaintance with German, was believed to stand high in the queen's
favour, and to influence her conduct. That violent measures must
produce a popular rising was so evident, that he hoped the prospect of
the terrible misery which must ensue, when placed clearly before the
bishop, would induce him to bend the queen to moderation.
Presently Lindet heard voices in the corridor; and next moment the door
opened, and a lacquey ushered in the bishop, Foulon, and Berthier.
Monseigneur stared in mute astonishment at the curé.
Foulon recognised him at once, and addressed him--'Ah, ha! our clerical
friend from Bernay. How is the little charmer? I hear she is with you
now. Oh that I could buy of you the secret of making love-phylters!
Actually, my Lord, the curé exerts such a charm over the bewitching
little peasantess, that she has been unable to endure Bernay without
him, and has followed him to Versailles.'
'Monsieur,' said Lindet, indignantly, 'a gentleman should not lend his
tongue to lie.'
'Excuse me, my good curé; we quite know that you do not wish it to be
generally known, and you may rely on my keeping my counsel, but that
the girl is with you in your lodgings here, you will hardly have the
audacity to deny.'
'I deny it most solemnly.'
'What brings you here?' asked the bishop. 'This is a great
impertinence.'
'I particularly desire to speak privately with your lordship.'
'I do not choose to waste my time on you.'
'Monseigneur, I beseech you hear me. You have treated me with great
injustice and severity, and I will not deny that I have harboured
bitter feelings against you. You must know that it is no pleasure to me
to find myself in a presence which has never proved agreeable to me. It
is only by an effort that I have overcome my repugnance, and have come
here to speak to you.'
'What do you want?' asked the bishop; 'your presence is quite as
distasteful to me as mine can be to you.'
'I wish to speak in private.'
'I will not listen to you in private; say what you have to say here.'
'I adjure you, my Lord, give me ten minutes in private.'
'On what subject have you come to visit me? Is it of a private nature?'
'No, my Lord.'
The bishop requested Foulon and Berthier to be seated.
'If not of a private nature, I suppose you to mean to intimate that
you desire to talk politics with me?' He threw up his head and spoke
contemptuously, as he settled himself into an arm-chair.
'I desire, my Lord, to speak to you in private, and shall not leave
this room till you have granted me the interview that I request.'
'That you demand,' said the bishop. 'Well, I have suffered so much from
your insolence, that a grain more will not crush me. Follow me.' He
rose and led the way haughtily into a cabinet; bowing first to Foulon
and Berthier, and requesting them to excuse his absence for a moment.
'I will trouble you to bring a candle,' said De Narbonne; 'I have no
desire to be closeted with you in the dark.'
Lindet returned to the table, and, taking up one of the wax lights,
followed the bishop with it into the apartment.
'Now, sir,' said the prelate, throwing himself into a fauteuil, 'tell
me at once your business, and then begone!'
'Monseigneur,' Lindet said, earnestly, 'I am ready to submit to you in
anything without a murmur. I am ready to make to you an apology for
having irritated and annoyed you. I will readily and on my knee ask
your pardon for any pain I may have caused you, if you will only listen
to me with patience for a few moments.'
'I am ready,' answered the prelate, the severe, sullen look fading from
his brow; 'submission comes late, but better late than never.'
'Monseigneur,' continued Lindet, 'the subject on which I have come to
speak is of public importance. I know that you, my Lord, have the ear
of her majesty the queen.'
'Well,' said the bishop, 'I will not deny it; her most gracious majesty
_is_ pleased to listen to and to act upon the advice I, her most
unworthy servant, tender to her.'
'I know well, also, my Lord, that the influence exercised by the queen
upon the king is paramount, and consequently you have in your power the
welfare of the nation.'
'Well,' said De Narbonne, every cloud disappearing from his face,
'perhaps you exaggerate a little; but let that pass, we will for the
moment suppose it so. Proceed, my good sir.'
'My Lord, at the present instant the fate of France hangs on the turn
of the scale; a feather may incline the balance one way or the other.'
'Possibly you are right,' said the bishop.
'M. Necker has been dismissed.'
'Indeed! how do you know that?'
'Never mind how, my Lord, but I do know it. As soon as the news of the
change of ministry reaches Paris, the city will be in arms, and not
Paris only, but every large town in France will rise. You cannot rely
upon the French guard, they are certain to fraternize with the people;
the events of the last few days must convince you of that. You know how
that only ten days ago the people broke into the prison of the Abbaye,
and liberated some dozen soldiers who had been thrown there for having
sworn to obey no orders contrary to those of the Assembly. You know
that a body of hussars and dragoons was sent against the people, and
that they refused to draw their swords upon them, but drank with the
mob the health of the nation. Perhaps you may not know, monseigneur,
that privates and officers of the French guard are heart and soul with
the people, that secret societies have been formed amongst them long
ago, and that disaffection has spread also to the regulars. You can
only rely on the Swiss and German mercenaries. Monseigneur, if Necker
be not immediately recalled, there will be civil war in France,--a
civil war between the French people and their brothers the French
soldiery on one side, and the Court and its hired foreigners on the
other. Are you prepared for this?'
The Bishop of Évreux was uneasy. He knew that what the curé said was
true, but the prospect was one he did not like to contemplate in all
its nakedness.
'You overrate my influence,' he said.
'At a moment like the present, every one should use what little
influence he has to avert a terrible disaster. Pray, my Lord, face the
consequences of this mad action for one moment, and consider whether it
is not worth your while at all hazards to strain every nerve to undo
it before it has produced its effects,--to stamp out the match before
it has exploded the barrel of gunpowder into which it has been cast.
My Lord, you, if you withhold your voice, will be responsible for the
blood which will flow in torrents.'
'Monsieur Lindet,' said the bishop, gravely, but with his hands
twitching, for he was frightened, 'sometimes the surgeon has to cut
deep to heal a deadly disease. Even supposing the worst were to come to
pass which you anticipate, and which God avert! it may be the means of
restoring tranquillity to France.'
'My Lord, place the consequences before your eye in every light. A
rebellion in Paris is inevitable. The union of the French guard with
the insurgents is also inevitable. What is the next step? The military
will be ordered to fall on Paris, and drive the people and the guard
before them, perhaps bombard the city, certainly cut down and trample
under their horses' feet the innocent as well as the guilty. You know,
my Lord, that this could not be done without the king's consent. Now,
can you calculate _with certainty_ on his majesty giving orders for the
massacre of his subjects? If you can, then well and good, the plan will
succeed, at all events for a time. But if the king hesitate for only a
few days,--if he refuse to permit the exercise of coercive measures on
so terrible a scale, then the game is lost, you have roused the whole
of France to madness, have forced the whole of the French people to
take up arms, you will probably find that the French soldiers will side
with them, and the whole of the old framework of the constitution will
go down with a crash, and bring crown, coronet, and mitre under its
ruins.'
The bishop turned a little pale, and his hands trembled.
'You exaggerate the consequences,' he faltered out.
'Monseigneur, your own common sense, your clear perception of the
state of public feeling at the time, must convince you that I do not
exaggerate. You,--no, I will not say that,--the Court is resolved on
using force to cut the Revolution short.'
The bishop would not speak.
'Yes, my Lord, it is so. Remember, the success of your venture entirely
depends on the king permitting the exercise of force. Can you calculate
on that?'
De Narbonne started up. His haughty manner had disappeared before the
prospect opening upon him. He had been one of the most urgent in his
advice to try the appeal to arms. He had never considered the chance
of the king refusing to permit their being turned against the people.
Knowing, as he well did, the kindness of the heart of Louis XVI;
knowing that with all his feebleness of purpose, and readiness to yield
to the opinion of the last speaker, he was conscientiously stubborn
against violence; knowing that even that very day he had refused to
allow the ex-minister to be arrested and sent to the Bastille, though
this had been urged by the queen herself, the bishop saw now for the
first time that the rock on which the Court scheme was in danger of
being wrecked, was the goodness of the king's heart.
The bishop looked at the curé and mused. Lindet said no more.
After a protracted silence, De Narbonne said, in a low voice: 'It is
too late; the die is cast.'
He led the way into the other room.
As Lindet bowed his farewell, the bishop held out his hand to him, and
said, 'Thank you.'
When the door closed upon the curé, he returned to the table at which
Foulon and Berthier were seated, and said:--'The new ministry will have
to be composed without me; I am resolved not to serve.'