Louis XV. was dead, and two children, with the light-heartedness of
youth and inexperience, stepped upon the throne which was to be a
scaffold--Louis XVI., only twenty, and Marie Antoinette, his wife,
nineteen. He, amiable, kind, full of generous intentions; she,
beautiful, simple, child-like and lovely. Instead of a debauched old
King with depraved surroundings, here were a Prince and Princess out of
a fairy-tale. The air was filled with indefinite promise of a new era
for mankind to be inaugurated by this amiable young king, whose
kindness of heart shone forth in his first speech, "We will have no
more loans, no credit, no fresh burdens on the people;" then, leaving
his ministers to devise ways of paying the enormous salaries of
officials out of an empty treasury, and to arrange the financial
details of his benevolent scheme of government, he proceeded with his
gay and brilliant young wife to Rheims, there to be crowned with a
magnificence undreamed of by Louis XIV.
In the midst of these rejoicings over the new reign, and of speculative
dreams of universal freedom, there was wafted across the Atlantic news
of a handful of patriots arrayed against the tyranny of the British
Crown. Here were the theories of the new philosophy translated into
the reality of actual experience. "No taxation without
representation," "No privileged class," "No government without the
consent of the governed." Was this not an embodiment of their dreams?
Nor did it detract from the interest in the conflict that
England--England, the hated rival of France, was defied by an indignant
people of her own race. There was not a young noble in the land who
would not have rushed if he could to the defence of the outraged
colonies.
The King, half doubting, and vaguely fearing, was swept into the
current, and the armies and the courage of the Americans were
splendidly reinforced by generous, enthusiastic France.
Why should the simple-hearted Louis see what no one else seemed to see:
that victory or failure were alike full of peril for France? If the
colonies were conquered, France would feel the vengeance of England; if
they were freed and self-governing, the principle of Monarchy had a
staggering blow.
In the mean time, as the American Revolution moved on toward success,
there was talk in the cabin as well as the _chateau_ of the "rights of
man." In shops and barns, as well as in clubs and drawing-rooms, there
was a glimmering of the coming day.
"What is true upon one continent is true upon another," say they. "If
it is cowardly to submit to tyranny in America, what is it in France?"
"If Englishmen may revolt against oppression, why may not Frenchmen?"
"No government without the consent of the governed, eh? When has our
consent been asked, the consent of twenty-five million people? Are we
sheep, that we have let a few thousands govern us for a thousand years,
_without_ our consent?"
Poverty and hunger gave force and urgency to these questions. The
people began to clamor more boldly for the good time which had been
promised by the kind-hearted King. The murmur swelled to an ominous
roar. Thousands were at his very palace gates, telling him in no
unmistakable terms that they were tired of smooth words and fair
promises. What they wanted was a new constitution and--bread.
Poor Louis! the one could be made with pen and paper; but by what
miracle could he produce the other? How gladly would he have given
them anything. But what could he do? There was not enough money to
pay the salaries of his officials, nor for his gay young Queen's fetes
and balls! The old way would have been to impose new taxes. But how
could he tax a people crying at his gates for bread? He made more
promises which he could not keep; yielded, one after another,
concessions of authority and dignity; then vacillated, and tried to
return over the slippery path, only to be dragged on again by an
irresistible fate.
When Louis XVI. convoked the States-General, he made his last
concession to the demands of his subjects.
That almost-forgotten body had not been seen since Richelieu effaced
all the auxiliary functions of government. Nobles, ecclesiastics, and
_tiers etat_ (or commons) found themselves face to face once more. The
handsome contemptuous nobles, the princely ecclesiastics were
unchanged--but there was a new expression in the pale faces of the
commons. There was a look of calm defiance as they met the disdainful
gaze of the aristocrats across the gulf of two centuries.
The two superior bodies absolutely refused to sit in the same room with
the commons. They might under the same roof, but in the same
room--never.
No outburst met this insult. With marvellous self-control and dignity,
and with an ominous calm, the commons constituted themselves into the
"National Assembly."
Aristocratic France had committed its concluding act of arrogance and
folly. And when poor distracted Louis gave impotent order for the
Assembly to disperse, he committed suicide. Louis the man lived on to
be slain by the people three years later, but Louis the King died at
that moment.
When the Assembly defied his authority and continued to solemnly act as
if he had not spoken, the power had passed to the people. They were
sovereign.
Paris was in wild excitement; and a rumor that troops were marching
upon the Assembly to disperse it converted excitement into madness.
The populace marched toward the Bastille, and in another hour the heads
of the Governor and his officials were being carried on pikes through
the streets of Paris.
The horrible drama had opened, and events developed with the swiftness
of a falling avalanche. Louis might have followed his fleeing nobles.
But always vacillating, and "letting I dare not wait upon I would," the
opportunity was lost. He and his family were prisoners in the
"Temple," while an awful travesty upon a court of justice was sending
out death-warrants for his friends and adherents faster than the
guillotine could devour them.
More and more furious swept the torrent, gathering to itself all that
was vile and outcast. Where were the pale-faced, determined patriots
who sat in the "National Assembly"? Some of them riding with Dukes and
Marquises to the guillotine. Was this the equality they expected when
they cried "Down with the Aristocrats"?
Did they think they could guide the whirlwind after raising it? As
well whisper to the cyclone to level only the tall trees, or to the
conflagration to burn only the temples and palaces.
With restraining agencies removed, religion, government, King, all
swept away, that hideous brood born of vice, poverty, hatred, and
despair came out from dark hiding-places; and what had commenced as a
patriotic revolt had become a wild orgie of bloodthirsty demons, led by
three master-demons, Robespierre, Marat, and Danton, vying with each
other in ferocity.
Then we see that simple girl thinking by one supreme act of heroism and
sacrifice, like Joan of Arc, to save her country. Foolish child! Did
she think to slay the monster devouring Paris by cutting off one of his
heads? The death of Marat only added to the fury of the tempest; and
the falling of Charlotte Corday's head was not more noticed than the
falling of a leaf in the forest.
On the 21st of January, 1793, Louis XVI. embraced for the last time his
adored wife and children; then, with every possible indignity, was
strapped to a plank and shoved under the guillotine.
The kindest-hearted, most inoffensive gentleman in Europe had expiated
the crimes of his ancestors.
A few months later, Marie Antoinette, daughter of the proud Empress
Maria Theresa, and child of the Caesars, was borne along the same road.
And how bravely she met her awful fate! We forget her follies, her
reckless grasping after pleasures, in view of her horrible sufferings
and in admiration of her courage as she rides to her death; sitting in
that hideous tumbril, head erect, pale, proud, defiant, as if upon a
throne.
With the death of the King and Queen the madness had reached its
height, and a revulsion of feeling set in. There was a surfeit of
blood, and an awakening sense of horror, which turned upon the
instigators. Danton fell, and finally, when amid cries of "Death to
the tyrant!" Robespierre was dragged wounded and shivering to the fate
he had brought upon so many thousands, the drama which had opened at
the Bastille was fittingly closed.
The great battle for human liberty had been fought and won. Religious
freedom and political freedom were identical in principle. The right
of the human conscience proclaimed by Luther in 1517 had in 1793 only
expanded into the large conception of all the inherent rights of the
_individual_.
It had taken centuries for English persistence to accomplish what
France, with such appalling violence, had done in as many years. It
had been a furious outburst of pent-up force; but the work had been
thorough. Not a germ of tyranny remained. The incrustations of a
thousand years were not alone broken, but pulverized; the privileged
classes were swept away, and their vast estates, two-thirds of the
territory of France, ready to be distributed among the rightful owners
of the soil, those who by toil and industry could win them. France was
as new as if she had no history. There was ample opportunity for her
people now. What would they do with it?