The secret cipher letters went now faster than ever, and seem to have
been so urgent about speedy help and rescue as to have appeared somewhat
peevish to friends at a distance. The queen's sister wrote from
Brussels that she hoped the royal family did not doubt the anxiety of
their friends: that the danger appeared indeed as pressing as it could
be represented; but that some prudence was necessary on the part of
those who were preparing help, and some patience on the part of those
who were awaiting it.--Alas! It was difficult for the poor queen to be
patient, expecting, as she did daily, the murder of the king. Though
this fear seems to have been unfounded, it caused her as much suffering
as if it had been just.--She had a breastplate made for the king, of
silk many times folded, and well wadded, so that it would resist the
blow of a dagger, and even a pistol-ball. This under-dress was made at
Madame Campan's house; and she brought it into the palace, wearing it as
an under-petticoat, that no one might see it. For three days, in the
beginning of July, did Madame Campan wear this heavy warm petticoat
before an opportunity could be found for the king to try it on. The
occasion for which it was wanted was the 14th of July, the anniversary
of the destruction of the Bastille, and the date of the Independence of
the Nation, as the nation chose to say: on which day the king was to
appear in public.
When he tried on the breastplate, he said in a low voice to Madame
Campan that he wore this to satisfy the queen, but that he was persuaded
he should not be assassinated, but left to be disposed of in another
way. The queen afterwards made Madame Campan repeat to her what the
king had said, and then observed that this was not new to her: she had
seen the king much occupied of late in studying the history of Charles
the First of England. The king declared that he studied this history in
order to learn how to avoid the errors of Charles in dealing with his
people. Alas! If he had done so twenty years before, it is doubtful
whether such study could have been of any use to a ruler who had neither
the knowledge nor the spirit necessary for the times. Now it was by
many years too late. No one believed in his sincerity: every one
despised his weakness; and he was so humbled that no act of his could
have the force or the grace of freedom. The history of Charles the
First is indeed a most instructive lesson to kings: but it is a lesson
which must be learned and used while kings are still sitting on an
honoured and unshaken throne.
There were people enough in Paris grieved and shocked at the proceedings
of the 20th of June to have made some stand in defence of the king,--
some delay in the dissolution of society; and these people declared
themselves by public acts, particularly by petitions to the Assembly. A
man of spirit would have seized the occasion: and if the king had been
such a man, he might possibly have risen from this point out of his
misfortunes, and so have made a favourable day out of that most
miserable one. But, as usual, the royal family overlooked the
opportunity. They were so occupied in looking for help from Germany,
that they had no attention, no trust, for friends nearer home. The Duke
of Brunswick was coming with an army to rescue them. The people knew
this well enough; and their panic about an invasion did not make them
love the more the family at whose call the invaders were coming. On the
25th of July, the Duke of Brunswick began his march into France, and
issued a proclamation which said that the whole French nation should be
protected by him in rallying round their king; but that, if any parties
should insult the king, or carry him away from Paris, such persons
should be destroyed, and Paris blown to pieces with his cannon. As the
French nation did not wish or intend to rally round their king, this
proclamation made them furious, and caused the destruction of the royal
family in a shorter time than it would otherwise have happened; if it
had otherwise happened at all. Was ever such mournful folly heard of as
marks the whole history of this unhappy king? One's compassion,
however, is chiefly for the three who were victims of this folly without
sharing it. The king and queen brought much of their misery upon
themselves; but the sweet Princess Elizabeth and the two children
suffered without having sinned. The darkness of their lot was now
gathering fast about them.
It was impossible, after the late proceedings, to consider the palace
safe at any hour. The queen feared assassination for herself as a
foreigner, and a trial for the king, preparatory to his death upon the
scaffold; and she desired to guard against any seizure of papers, which
might now take place at any time. She deposited her ready money in the
hands of a faithful person; and the king employed his old companion,
Gamin, the locksmith, to make, in great secrecy, a safe for papers in a
place where no one would suspect its existence. This fellow betrayed
the secret; first, luckily, to some friends; and the queen, hearing of
this, persuaded the king to empty out the safe. Gamin afterwards
publicly informed the enemies of the king of this cupboard, and moreover
swore that the king attempted to poison him when it was done, that the
secret might be safe. This absurd calumny was believed, like everything
else that was said against the royal family; and the wretch had a
pension given him. Such was the king's reward for submitting, like a
timid apprentice, to this man's insolence, while learning lock-making
from him, for ten years past.
General Lafayette came to Paris, to remonstrate, at the head of
twenty-thousand petitioners, against the late treatment of the king. Of
course, those who had done it looked coldly upon him; and so did the
king. The king forbade his officers to support anything proposed by
General Lafayette; and the queen refused to allow him to remove her and
her family to the loyal city of Rouen. Lafayette, thus unsupported, had
to hasten back to the army; and in this way the royal family insulted
and dismissed the last person who could have rescued them from their
impending fate.
Whenever even the children appeared out of doors, they experienced such
insults that they left off going anywhere beyond the palace gardens,
from which the public were excluded, in order to allow the family to
take the air unmolested. Such cries, however, were heard from the
terrace outside, that, after being twice driven in by them, the family
gave up going out at all Louis had to give up his gardening, and the
sight of the flowers he had sown, and to keep within doors all these
long bright summer days.
The queen could not sleep much; and she ordered that neither the
shutters nor blinds of her chamber should be closed, that the nights
might appear less long. One night, as Madame Campan watched beside her,
she fixed her eyes on the moon, and said softly, that before she saw the
same moon next month, she and the king should be free. She declared
that their affairs were now proceeding fast and well, and told how the
army from Germany was to march, and how soon it might arrive. She
admitted that there were alarming differences of advice and opinion
among their followers, and spoke of the fatal consequences of the king's
irresolution; but still she hoped that another month would set them
free. She was, as usual, completely mistaken. She found it so hard to
bear the insults daily offered, even while expecting so speedy an end to
them, that she declared she should have preferred imprisonment in a
tower, on a lonely sea-shore, to her present condition. On their way
through the corridor to the chapel, one Sunday, the king and she were
greeted by the cry from some of the guards of "Long live the king!" but
others broke in with "No, no; no king! Down with the veto!" This
struck upon the queen's heart; for it was she who had persuaded the king
to put his veto, or prohibition, upon the banishment of the priests.
When they were in the chapel, something worse happened. The passage "He
bringeth down the mighty from their seat," had to be sung; and when the
choir came to it, they sang, or shouted it, three times as loud as any
other part of the service. The king's adherents were so angry at this
that when the words came "And may the Lord keep the king in safety," the
royalists shouted out three times "And the Queen." This indecent
contention went on during the whole time of service; and the royal
family found that they were no longer permitted even to worship in
peace.
On the 9th of August, there was much noise and confusion throughout
Paris; and it became known that an insurrection was to take place the
next morning. Louis knew that something was dreaded, but he slept as
usual. His servant, Clery, put him to bed at half-past eight, while it
was still daylight, and then went out, to try what he could learn of the
proceedings of the people. The king and queen supped at nine o'clock.
While Madame Campan waited on them at table, a noise was heard outside
the door. Madame Campan went to see what it was. Two of the guards
were fighting,--one abusing the king, and the other insisting that he
was sincere in professing to stand by the Constitution. If the queen
had not before given over all idea of safety, she would now have done
so. She said she knew that some of their fiercest enemies were among
their guards;--not their Swiss guards, but those who wore the national
uniform.
This was a terrible night. It was oppressively hot; and the rooms of
the palace were crowded with gentlemen, adherents of the court, who had
come to devote themselves finally for their king and his family. The
Swiss guards,--picked Swiss soldiers, strong and brave, hired to guard
the person and palace of the sovereign,--stood silently at their posts,
their red uniforms contrasting with the black clothes of the seven
hundred gentlemen who waited to see what they were to do. Though these
seemed a large number when collected under a roof,--though the rooms
were so full that the windows had to be thrown open, and the mayor
Petion went down to walk in the gardens because the heat was so
oppressive within, this was no force to oppose to a siege from the
population of Paris. The king caused the plan of defence, prepared by
General Viomenil, to be communicated to an officer, who said to Madame
Campan, "Put your jewels and money into your pockets. There is no
chance for us. The measures of defence are good for nothing. Our only
chance is in the resolution of the king; and with all his virtues, he
has not that."
Never yet had the king cut such a wretched figure as on this occasion.
He often congratulated himself on no blood having been shed by his
order: and this was one of his dying consolations. It seems never to
have occurred to him that his weakness caused more destruction than even
cruelty would have done. It caused not only the loss of many lives; it
encouraged the breaking up of society from its very foundations; it
spared the wicked, while it betrayed the faithful. It did moral injury,
which it may be worse to have to answer for in the end than some acts of
bloodshed. He would not have half a dozen shots fired to make a way for
his coach over the bridge of Varennes; but he deserted, without a
moment's scruple, his devoted Swiss guards, as we shall see; and as he
refused to suffer with them, he may be considered answerable for their
lives.
The clang of bells was heard by the inmates of the palace, as they
stood, this summer night, by the open windows. Steeple after steeple
rang out; and every one knew that this was the token of insurrection in
the respective parishes. Petion had been sent for, to answer for what
was doing; he had not been civilly treated within doors, as might be
supposed,--the king speaking very roughly to him. He could not get away
again, as the gates were all guarded, and no one allowed to pass; so
that the only thing he could well do was to walk in the gardens.
At four in the morning, the National Assembly sent for him, to appear
and give an account of Paris. Considering that he had been pacing the
garden walks all night, the Mayor of Paris was as little able as anybody
to give an account of the city; but he was glad to get away, considering
his situation one of great danger.
The number of the Swiss guards was a thousand. Their post was within
the Tuileries. Outside were squadrons under the command of Mandat, a
loyal officer, who kept them ranged with their cannon round the outer
enclosures of the palace. Just at dawn, Mandat was sent for by the
magistrates of the city, and went alone, suspecting no danger. To his
amazement, he found that, with the exception of the mayor and one or two
more, the entire magistracy was changed, and now composed of furious
revolutionary men. They arrested him, and ordered him to prison; but
the mob seized him on the steps, and murdered him. The question next
was, what his soldiers would do now they had lost their commander. They
were hungry and weary; and were heard to say how sad it would be to fire
upon their own countrymen--how much easier to side with them. Now was
the moment for the king to speak and act. Now he was told what a gloomy
and uncertain temper these squadrons were in. He owed it to his office,
to his family, to his adherents, to his Swiss guards, to endeavour to
confirm these soldiers in their duty to him. A word, a look, a gesture
might, in the right moment, have done it. What did he do?
In the middle of the night, while all was supposed to be well among the
soldiers outside, the king had retired for a while. When he appeared
again, on the arrival of fresh tidings, it was seen, by the powder being
rubbed off from one side of his head, that he had been lying down to get
a little sleep. The queen and Princess Elizabeth also withdrew; but not
to sleep. They went, with Madame Campan to attend upon them, to a small
room on the ground-floor, where they lay down on couches. In preparing
to lie down, the princess took out the cornelian pin which fastened her
dress, and showed Madame Campan what was engraved upon it. It was the
stem of a lily, with the inscription, "Oblivion of wrongs: forgiveness
of injuries."
"I fear," said the princess, "our enemies do not regard that maxim: but
we must, nevertheless." The ladies conversed sadly enough, but little
imagining what was happening to Mandat. At last they heard a shot.
They sprang from their couches, observing that this was the first shot,
but would not be the last. They must go to the king. They did so,
desiring Madame Campan to follow, and to be in waiting with the other
ladies.--At four o'clock, the queen came out of the king's apartment,
saying that she had no longer any hope whatever, as Mandat was killed.
Yet the king was going out to review the squadrons who had lost their
commander; and the wife of a resolute and spirited king would not have
been without hope. She would have hoped much from the king's presence
and appeal. It was because she knew the king so well that she had no
hope.
Orders were given for Louis to be taken up and brought immediately: and
he was presently ready,--at a little before five, when (it being the
10th of August) it was quite light. His sister appeared too, and the
whole family went out to review the soldiers, as it was said, and to see
the preparations for defence. Louis had hold of his father's hand. At
first, a few voices cried "Long live the king!" but the king, pale and
silent, walked on without taking any notice; and in a few moments there
was a long growl, which burst into a clamour of "Long live the nation!"
Some of the gunners thrust themselves forward, and shook their fists in
the king's face, uttering the grossest insults. Some of the attendants
pushed them back; but the king, now white as the wall, said not a word.
Followed by the ladies of his family, he walked along the line, and back
again, leaving nothing but contempt behind. "All is lost," said the
queen to Madame Campan, as she entered her apartments: "the king showed
no energy; and this review has done nothing but harm." What a lot was
hers! To be dragged down, with her children, to destruction, by the
apathy of a husband, while she herself had spirit enough to have ruled
an empire, but must not now exert it, because it would exasperate the
people to have the foreigner, the Austrian, meddle with the affairs of
France!
What was to be done next? The Swiss, and the gentlemen and servants of
the court, were all that now remained to be depended upon. The Swiss
stood firm as their own Alps. The household arranged themselves in the
apartments, armed, and ready for the assault from without: though no one
of them could have hope of victory, or any expectation but of
destruction. In this terrible hour, however, they jested; and upon a
melancholy subject. They were miserably armed; and they quizzed one
another and themselves for the appearance they made. None had more than
a sword and a pair of pistols: one page had only a single pocket-pistol;
and another page and equerry had broken a pair of tongs, and taken each
a half.
The insurgents were now surrounding the Tuileries, and filling the
neighbourhood: and it seemed probable that the gunners, placed outside
for the defence of the palace, would turn their cannon against it. The
king sent a messenger to the Assembly, to request them to depute some of
their body to be a safeguard to the throne in this extremity. The
Assembly took no notice of the message; but went on with their regular
business.
The magistrate of the district saw now, from the temper of the people
outside, no chance but of destruction to every individual within the
palace, if once the siege began. The error was in ever pretending to
make a defence, while such a helpless being as the king must be the one
to give orders. It was too late to help that now. There were the
cannon, with the gunners surlily asking whether it was expected of them
to fire upon the people: and there were the people, too many and too
angry to be got rid of. The magistrate of the district, Roederer,
visited the palace, and begged a private interview with the king. He
was shown into a small apartment, which the king and queen entered.
Roederer proposed their going over to the Assembly without a moment's
delay, to commit themselves and their children to the protection of the
representatives of the people. "No, no!" exclaimed the queen, blushing,
no doubt, at the thought of the infamy of deserting, at the fatal
moment, their adherents, their steady Swiss, and the servants of the
household. Roederer told her that by remaining she would render herself
responsible for the lives of the whole family; for that no power could
save them within the walls of the palace. She said no more. The king
sat, the picture of indifference, with his hands upon his knees,
listening. When there was a pause, and he must say something, he looked
over his shoulder to the queen, and said, "Let us go."
As they left the apartment the queen told Madame Campan to remain till
either the family should return, or she should be sent for to join her
mistress,--no one knew where. The family never returned.
Only two ladies were permitted to accompany them,--the Princess de
Lamballe and Madame de Tourzel. In order to fulfil her duty,--in order
not to desert Louis,--his governess was compelled to leave her daughter
Pauline, only seventeen years old, in this besieged palace, among the
soldiers. Pauline escaped with life and safety, and joined her mother
soon after.
As the king walked through the apartments of the palace, followed by his
family, Roederer went before him, saying, "Make way! The king is going
to the Assembly." How these words must have pierced the hearts of his
devoted servants, of his faithful Swiss! This was the reward of their
brave fidelity! The king was leaving those who were ready to die rather
than desert him. He was going to walk out at an open door, while they
were shut in, to be shot down like game in an enclosure.
The family had but a short way to go; and their passage to the Assembly
was watched from the windows by some of the doomed friends whom they
left behind. They walked between two rows of guards; but were yet so
pressed upon that the queen was robbed of her watch and purse. Louis
held his mother's hand, and amused himself with kicking the dead leaves
as he walked. A gigantic man, a ringleader of the mob, snatched up the
boy, and carried him. The queen screamed with terror, and was near
fainting: but the man said, "Do not be frightened: I will do him no
harm." He merely carried him, and then set him down at the gate, where
a deputation from the Assembly came out, to meet the royal family. From
the palace windows the royal family were seen to enter that gate; and
those who saw it well knew that all hope for the royal cause was now
over.
The assailants without and the defenders in the outer court of the
Tuileries did not know of the departure of the royal family; and the
battle therefore began with fury. The gentlemen and servants had now
only to think of saving themselves as they could. Some escaped from
windows, and others under disguises: but many were murdered. The fate
of the Swiss was dreadful. They fought bravely, and kept their ranks.
At last, a messenger arrived with a written order from the king that
they should cease firing. But they were still fired upon from without.
They knew not what to do, and dispersed. Some few reached the Assembly,
and were sheltered there. Some few more fled into private houses; but,
as for the rest, their blood streamed on the floor of the palace, and
their bodies blocked up the doorways. Some lay dead on the terraces,
and others were shot down from street to street as they fled, fighting
their way. From fifty to eighty were marched as prisoners to the Hall
where the magistrates were sitting: but the crowd broke in upon them on
the way, and slaughtered them every one. Their last thought might well
have been, "Put not your trust in princes." But perhaps more painful
thoughts still were in their fainting hearts; and before their swimming
eyes might be visions of their homes in the Swiss valleys, and their
wives and children singing of them, while tending the cows on the
mountain side. Yet the king who, by his orders and arrangements, gave
them over to such a death as this, and deserted them at the crisis, was
for ever consoling himself with the thought that not a drop of blood had
ever been shed by his command.
In the neighbourhood of Lucerne, in Switzerland, there is a monument to
the memory of these men. Above a little lake rises a precipitous face
of rock. In the midst of this the monument is hollowed out. The Swiss
lion, wounded and dying, grasps with its failing claws the French
shield, with the royal lilies upon it.--If the king had sent his family
to the Assembly for safety, and himself remained to fall with his
adherents, this monument would not have been, as it is now, a reproach
upon his memory, durable as Swiss honour and as the everlasting rock.