The day of the 14th had been spent at Versailles by the Assembly, in
sending deputations to the king which were answered evasively, and by
the queen and Madame de Polignac in encouraging the officers, to whom
was committed the task of restoring the ancient régime. The queen had
walked in the orange-garden within sight of the soldiers, had spoken to
and flattered their officers, and had ordered the distribution of wine
among the troops.
In the meantime, messages were being transmitted to the Assembly from
the Committee of Electors at the Hôtel de Ville of Paris, informing
them of the state of the capital, and of the siege of the Bastille. The
news of the progress of the insurrection spread through Versailles,
and excited various emotions. That which predominated in the Hall of
the States-General was vexation, because the work of the Assembly was
interrupted by the popular agitation. The courtiers swaggered and
laughed over it. That the people should be able to dint the walls of
a fortress which had repulsed the Great Condé, was a supposition too
absurd to be entertained with gravity.
The king retired early to bed. About midnight, the Duke de Liancourt
entered his chamber to announce the capture of the Bastille, and, at
his instance, he resolved to visit the Assembly next morning.
The Assembly had reassembled, ignorant of the dispositions of the
king, and it resolved to send him another deputation; but when he
arrived, without guards, and advancing into the hall spoke frankly and
naturally, he was interrupted by bursts of applause.
But the Court had no intention of capitulating to the Assembly.
Berthier and Foulon were at Versailles with De Broglie, Breteuil, and
the rest of the new ministry. They saw that the crisis had arrived.
Force must be employed, or all was lost.
A cabinet council was summoned; Monsieur and the Count d'Artois formed
part of it. Every member composing it was anxious, those who least
expressed it in their countenances were the old Marshal and Foulon. The
Count d'Artois was in a condition of nervous trepidation; he had heard
that his name had been denounced at the Palais Royal, along with those
of Flesselles and De Launay. The Marshal de Broglie was indifferent, at
least in appearance; if the king gave the command, he was ready to blow
Paris into the Seine; he was a soldier, and his chief virtue lay in
obedience to his superior. Foulon, calm and imperturbable, took snuff,
and then dusted his face with his handkerchief; he extended his box
to Berthier, who took a pinch with shaking fingers. His father-in-law
raised his eyebrows, and a slight curl appeared on his lip.
Berthier wiped his eyes repeatedly, and dropped his handkerchief,
picked it up and dropped it again.
The stout, amiable king had a weary, worried expression; his
lock-making and hunting had been sadly interfered with by the business
of state.
The ministers were singularly agreed. Their plans had been concerted to
the smallest detail at De Broglie's lodgings. When each spoke, it was
to address the king, and to urge him to adopt decisive measures.
'Sire,' said De Broglie, 'I have the troops massed about Paris. Two
fresh regiments have to-day arrived. In my opinion, the people have
been allowed to make head against authority too long. They must be
restrained. If I may march my battalions upon Paris, I promise your
majesty, in twelve hours the rebellion will be at an end.'
'But blood will be shed,' said the king, thoughtfully.
'A little, no doubt, will be spilt,' answered the marshal; 'but what of
that?'
'No blood shall flow by my orders,' said Louis, decidedly.
'You are wrong, De Broglie,' observed Foulon; 'the chances are that no
lives will be lost; when your thousands appear, bah! who will there
be in the streets? The rats will have fled into the sewers, and in
good time we shall send the cats after them. Bah! talk of bloodshed!
there is not the possibility of that. What is the civilian before
the soldier? Nothing. The soldier is trained to cut this way, and to
thrust that way, to bang off his gun so, and to charge with his lance
so. He has acquired the art of killing a man in some thirty different
ways. The civilian knows that; he looks up at the man of war and says
to himself, "I am a mere tyro at this art. Whilst I am making up my
mind how to begin, whisk, whisk, whack, whack, I am a dead man in four
slices. I had better run." And, sire! he runs.'
'You think there will be no loss of life?' asked the king, hesitatingly.
'Think, sire,' repeated Foulon, with admirable confidence; 'I am
absolutely sure of it. Consider, there are some hundred cannon and
bombs ready at a moment's notice to knock the house of our Parisian
rebel into fine dust about his ears. In that house are the beloved
wife, and the darling children. A bomb falling through the ceiling may
reduce the beloved wife to pulp, and mash the darling children. And
worse still, the furniture will all be destroyed, and the linen torn to
shreds, and the strong box containing ten years' savings exploded high
into the air to fall down the chimney of neighbour B., his implacable
enemy. But worse still is the prospect of himself being maimed in a
finger, a toe, an eye, or a nose, or of being blown bodily into that
most objectionable of places--eternity.'
'But,' hesitated the king, 'if the good people were to oppose the
troops----'
'Then,' said De Broglie, 'we must pour a volley among them and send
them flying.'
'I cannot make up my mind to it,' said Louis, despairingly. 'Am not I
the father of my people? How, then, can I consent to their being mown
down by your bullets?'
'Sire,' observed Foulon; 'allow me to remark, without the least
intention of presumption, that it is very necessary for a father
sometimes to whip his little boys; that, unless he wishes his home to
become a bear-garden, he must use the rod pretty freely and pretty
resolutely.'
'Sire,' said Berthier, 'I know these ruffians. Assume the upper hand,
and they will cringe to you. We must punish them for their audacity.
Sire! there is no knowing to what extremities they may proceed unless
they are reined up at once.'
'That is quite possible. I dare say you are right, gentlemen,' said the
king; 'but yet----' and he shook his head.
'Your majesty must remember that the dignity of the throne has to be
maintained,' said the Count d'Artois.
'I will not maintain it by steeping my royal purple in the blood of my
subjects,' answered Louis.
'Then, in Heaven's name, sire!' exclaimed the prince, losing all
patience, 'throw open the jails and let no murderer, coiner, or robber
be broken henceforth on the wheel. Our great ancestor, S. Louis, when
trying a criminal, was much inclined by his natural tenderness of
disposition to pardon the man; but, happening to open his Psalter at
the words, "Feci judicium et justitiam," he resolved to let Justice
take her course. Mercy that is not tempered with justice degenerates
into weakness.'
'I know,' said Louis, simply--so simply as to raise a smile on several
lips--'I know that I am weak.'
'Yes, sire! you are naturally prone to humanity and kindness. But at
a moment like this, to yield to the tenderer feelings, when a decided
line of action is imperatively demanded, is indeed weakness.'
'Enough,' said Louis; 'you are rather hard on me, Charles.'
'For my part,' muttered Berthier, 'I don't care how many of those
Parisian blackguards are despatched. They richly deserve breaking on
the wheel, and, to my thinking, a sabre-cut, a bayonet-thrust, or a
bullet, is too merciful treatment.'
'You are not their father, M. Berthier,' said the king.
'Sire,' began De Breteuil, in his loud, inflexible voice, 'it is not
a question of blood or no blood, but a question of the blood of the
rabble or of the court and the ministry. If the measure we suggest,
namely, the reduction of the rebellion by fire and steel, be rejected,
then nothing remains for us but to tender our resignations, and to
provide for our own safety, as best we can. That the brutal mob which
has massacred your majesty's servants, Governor De Launay and Provost
Flesselles, will hunt us down and butcher us, I have no manner of
doubt; your majesty, by condoning those murders, assures to the rabble
impunity if they assail us.'
'No, no, De Breteuil, you are wrong there.'
'Pardon me, sire,' he answered stiffly.
'What am I to do?' exclaimed the unfortunate king; 'I wish one of my
brothers had been born before me.'
The door half opened, and the queen appeared. She beckoned to the king,
and he followed her, closing the door behind him.
'Supposing we fail,' said Vaudreuil; 'I believe that our only chance of
safety is to fly the country.'
'If his majesty reject our proposal,' said Artois, 'I fly to-morrow. I
have no desire to have my head carried about on the end of a pike.'
'What shall you do?' asked Berthier of his father-in-law.
'I!' answered Foulon, taking snuff; 'I shall die.'
'I shall be off,' said Berthier, roughly; 'I'm not likely to run the
risk of being murdered like Flesselles, without the satisfaction of
knowing that my death will be avenged.'
'I suppose if we retire, Necker will return,' said De Broglie. 'Well,
let his majesty try peace; it has failed once, and it will fail again.'
'Are you aware, marshal,' said Foulon, 'that Mirabeau has been crying
out for your head?'
'Let him come and try to take it,' answered De Broglie; 'he will find
me his match, old as I am.'
The king returned, his brow wet with perspiration, and his whole
countenance wrung with distress.
'Gentlemen,' he spoke; 'I will do what I can. I will do anything you
desire of me--except give orders for the attack upon Paris. Happily,
no blood has flowed yet by my orders. I swear that none _shall_ flow
by my command. My reflections are made; I am ready to follow your
advice and that of her majesty in every particular except that which
is against my conscience. I have tried to stifle its voice, I have
tried to see the force of your arguments, but ever the horror starts up
before me of the possibility, nay, I fear the probability of carnage,
and of bearing to my grave a brand worse than that of Cain; he was his
brother's murderer, how much worse for a father to give up his children
to slaughter! I cannot--indeed I cannot--consent.'
'Sire,' said De Breteuil, 'if your majesty has taken that resolution,
we have but one course open to us.'
'The queen has been urging me,' said the king; 'and, if it were not
against my conscience, I would yield to her.'
'Then your majesty must allow us to tender our resignation,' said De
Breteuil.
'This is really very hard,' the king exclaimed. 'Have you only one
scheme, and that a bloody one? Why not try conciliation?'
'Sire, we have judged what is the only course open to us to propose; if
your majesty rejects that, it is our duty to withdraw.'
'I am very sorry,' muttered the king; 'but it cannot be helped, I fear.
Oh that we had come to an end of these troubles!'
When the ministers retired they shook hands. The three days' ministry
was at an end.
'I am off,' said De Broglie; 'I shall not jeopardise my neck in France
any longer.'
'And I follow you,' said the Count d'Artois.
'I shall take refuge in Belgium,' said Berthier.
'And I--' observed Foulon; 'I shall prepare to die--take a pinch of
snuff.'