of Marat, who had fallen under the avenging knife of Charlotte Corday in
July, 1793. Robespierre was left sole director of the Revolution, being
president of the Committee of Public Safety, leader of the Jacobin Club,
favorite of the extreme terrorists, and lord and master of the
Convention, whose members were held in subjection by his violence and
their fears.
His dominion was not to be of long continuance. It was signalized by
such a frightful activity of the guillotine, in which multitudes of
innocent persons daily perished, that the terror which he produced was
quickly followed by indignation, and a combination of many of the
leading spirits of the Convention was formed against him. One after
another he had vanquished all his enemies, and stood alone. But he stood
on such a ghastly pyramid of the dead that he could not hope to maintain
his dangerous elevation. The voice of vengeance, long choked by terror,
at length began to rise against this wholesale executioner.
The outbreak was precipitated by a demand of Saint-Just, the most
prominent supporter of Robespierre, that a dictatorship should be
established in France, and that the "virtuous and inflexible, as well as
incorruptible citizen," Robespierre, should be made Dictator. It was a
declaration of war. Many of the members of the Convention knew that it
meant their death. Once give their terrible foe the extreme power which
this demand indicated, and every known enemy of Robespierre in France
would be doomed. Yet to oppose it was to oppose the Jacobins and the
revolutionary sections, the controlling powers in Paris. The boldest
members of the Convention might well pause and tremble before assailing
their seemingly impregnable foe. But the rule of Robespierre had been
opposed in committee; it had ceased to be a secret that he had enemies
in the Convention; as yet the sentiment against him had spoken only in
the dark, but the time was rapidly approaching when an open struggle
could no longer be avoided.
Robespierre himself began the battle. He said to a deputation from
Aisne, "In the situation in which it now is, gangrened by corruption,
and without power to remedy it, the Convention can no longer save the
republic; both will perish together."
He repeated this accusation before the Convention itself, in a
threatening speech, in which he declared that there was in its midst a
conspiracy against public liberty; there were traitors in the national
councils; the Convention must be purged and purified; the conspirators
must be punished. His words were listened to in sullen silence. When he
had ceased no word was spoken, except in whispers from member to member.
The glove of defiance had been cast into their midst; were there none
among them with the courage to take it up, or must they all yield
themselves as the slaves or the victims of this merciless autocrat? No;
there were men of courage and patriotism left. Three delegates rose
simultaneously, three voices struggled for precedence in the right to
attack the tyrant and dare the worst.
"The man who has made himself master of everything, the man who
paralyzes our will, is he who has just spoken--Robespierre!" cried
Cambon, in ringing tones of defiance.
"It is Robespierre! It is Robespierre," came from other unsealed voices.
"Let him give an account of the crimes of the members whose death he
demanded from the Jacobins."
The attack was so unexpected and so vehement that Robespierre hesitated
to reply.
"You who pretend to have the courage of virtue, have the courage of
truth," cried Charlier; "name the individuals you accuse."
Tumult and confusion followed these daring words. Robespierre, unable to
gain the ear of the assembly, which now seemed filled with his enemies,
and finding the feeling against him rapidly spreading, left the hall and
took refuge with the Jacobins, where he repeated his address, this time
to applauding hearers. Violent councils followed. Henriot, commandant of
the troops, proposed to march on the Convention and put an end to its
existence. "Name thy enemies," shouted the members to Robespierre; "we
will deliver them to thee." Yet there was hesitation and doubt among the
leaders; they feared the result of violent measures, and felt inclined
to temporize and wait.
The Convention met the next day. It met inspired with a new spirit.
Courage animated the members. They had crossed the Rubicon, and felt
that there was no return. During the interval since the last session
their forces had been organized, their plans considered. Saint-Just
appeared and sought to speak. He was interrupted and his words drowned
by the voices of indignant members.
"I see here," cried Billaud-Varennes, who stood beside him, "one of the
men who yesterday, at the Jacobins, promised the massacre of the
National Convention; let him be arrested."
The officers obeyed this order. Saint-Just was in custody. Billaud
continued his remarks, declaring that the members were in danger of
massacre, denouncing Robespierre and his supporters, bidding them to be
firm and resolute. His boldness infected the assembly; the deputies
stood up and waved their hats, shouting their approval. In the midst of
this scene Robespierre appeared, livid with rage, his eyes flashing with
the fury which inspired him.
"I demand liberty to speak," he exclaimed.
"Down with the tyrant!" rose in a roar from a hundred voices.
Tallien, the leader of the opposition, sprang into the tribune.
"I demand that the veil be torn away instantly," he exclaimed. "The work
is done, the conspirators are unmasked. Yesterday, at the Jacobins, I
saw the army of the new Cromwell formed, and I have come here armed with
a dagger to pierce his heart if the Assembly dares not decree his
accusation. I demand the arrest of Henriot and his staff."
The debate went on, growing more violent minute by minute. Several times
Robespierre strove to speak, but each time his voice was drowned in
cries of "Down with the tyrant!" Pale with rage and fear, he turned from
his opponents towards his former supporters, both hands nervously
clutching the tribune.
"It is to you, pure and virtuous men," he said, "that I address myself.
I do not talk with scoundrels."
"Down with the tyrant!" was the response of the members addressed.
Evidently the whole assembly had turned against him.
Henriot, the president, rang his bell for order.
"President of assassins," cried Robespierre, in a voice that grew
feebler, "I once more demand liberty to speak."
"The blood of Danton is choking him!" cried Garnier de l'Aude.
"Shall this man longer remain master of the Convention?" asked Charles
Duval.
"Let us make an end! A decree! a decree!" shouted Lasseau.
"A tyrant is hard to strike down!" exclaimed Fréron.
Robespierre stood in the midst of his circle of enemies, assailed on all
sides, nervously turning in his hands an open knife.
"Send me to death!" he ejaculated.
"You have merited it a thousand times," cried his foes. "Down with the
tyrant!"
In the midst of the tumult a decree for his arrest was offered and
carried. In it were included the names of his brother, of Couthon, and
of Saint-Just. Henriot proclaimed the decree, while wild acclamations of
triumph shook the room.
"Long live liberty! Long live the republic! Down with the tyrants! To
the bar with the accused!" came from the lips of those who the day
before had not dared to speak. The floodgates were down and the torrent
of long repressed fury was rushing on the accused. The exciting scene
ended in the removal of the prisoners, who were taken to separate
prisons.
Tidings of what had taken place in the Convention ran like wildfire
through Paris. Thousands of households were inspired with hope. The
terrorists were filled with fury and dismay. The Commune and the
Jacobins swore to support Robespierre. The tocsin peal rang out; the
people gathered; the gates of Paris were closed; Henriot, half drunk,
galloped along the streets, crying out that the representatives of the
people were being massacred; an insurrection against the Convention was
rapidly organized, headed by desperate men, among them Robespierre
himself, who was again free, having been taken from the hands of the
officers.
All was in peril. The Convention had assembled again, but had taken no
steps in self-defence. Startling tidings were brought to the members in
quick succession. It was said that the National Guard was coming with
artillery, to direct it against the hall. The roar of the insurrection
filled street and building. For the time it looked as if Robespierre had
conquered, and all was at an end.
"I propose," cried Elie Lacoste, "that Henriot be outlawed."
As he spoke these words, the man named stood in the street without,
ordering the artillerists, whose cannon were trained upon the Convention
hall, to fire. The gunners hesitated. It was a critical moment. The fate
of France hung in the balance. A group of the deputies came hastily from
the hall and faced Henriot and his men.
"What are you doing, soldiers?" they exclaimed. "That man is a rebel,
who has just been outlawed."
The gunners lowered their matches. The Convention was saved. The
National Guard had deserted Robespierre. Henriot put spurs to his horse,
and fled at full gallop.
"Outlaw all who shall take arms against the Convention, or who shall
oppose its decrees," said Barère; "as well as those who have defied it
by eluding arrest."
This decree, repeated to the insurgents, completed their discomfiture.
Rapidly they dispersed. Public opinion had changed; the Convention had
triumphed. The gunners who had marched with the insurrection deserted
their pieces; and a few hours afterwards returned to them, to protect
the Convention.
The members of the Convention had run a serious risk in not taking
active steps to assemble their friends, and in thus giving so perilous
an opportunity to their enemies. This error was now retrieved; a section
of their supporters came together, commanded by Lèonard Bourdon and a
gendarme named Méda. They reached the Hôtel de Ville without opposition.
Méda entered it, crying, probably as a strategem, "Long live
Robespierre!" He reached the hall where the Jacobin leaders were
gathered in silent dismay around the fallen dictator. Robespierre sat at
a table, his head resting on his hand. Méda stepped towards him, pistols
in hand.
"Surrender, traitor!" he exclaimed.
"It is you who are a traitor," retorted Robespierre, "and I will have
you shot."
His words were barely spoken when Méda fired, his bullet shattering
Robespierre's lower jaw. It is well to state here, however, that in the
belief of many Robespierre shot himself.
This decided action created consternation in the room. The younger
Robespierre leaped from a window, receiving mortal injury from the fall.
Saint-Just turned towards Lebas and said to him, "Kill me."
"I have something better to do," answered Lebas, shooting himself
through the head.
A report from the stairway quickly followed. Méda with his second pistol
had shot Couthon and badly wounded him. The hall had suddenly become a
place of blood and death. The Jacobin chiefs, lately all-powerful, now
condemned, dead, or dying, presented a frightful spectacle. Two days
had changed the course of events in France. The Reign of Terror was at
an end.
Robespierre lay on a table, his head supported by a small deal box. The
blood flowed slowly from his mouth. He was silent, giving no sign of
pain or feeling. He was taken to the Conciergerie, whither other
prisoners of his faction were being brought. Saint-Just and Couthon were
already there.
Five o'clock came. The carts had drawn up as usual at the gate of the
prison, waiting for the condemned. This time there was a new spectacle
for the people, who had become wearied with executions, but were on the
alert for the fresh sensation promised them. It was no time to
temporize. The Convention had ordered the immediate execution of its
foes. As Robespierre, with a blood-stained cloth round his face, entered
the cart, there was a shout of joy and triumph from the assembled crowd.
The late all-powerful man had not a friend left.
On the scaffold the executioner tore the cloth from Robespierre's
wounded face. A terrible cry of pain followed, the first sign of
suffering he had given. In a minute more his head had fallen into the
gory basket, and France was avenged. It was the 28th of July, 1794, less
than four months after the death of Danton had left all the power in his
hands. In that and the following days one hundred and three executions
sealed the fate of the defeated enemies of the Convention. Justice had
been done; the Terror was at an end.
_THE BURNING OF MOSCOW._
From west to east across Europe had marched the army of the great
conqueror, no nation daring to draw a hostile sword, none venturing to
place an obstacle in its path. Across Russia it had marched almost as
triumphantly, breaking irresistibly through the dams of armed men in its
way, sweeping onward with the strength and majesty of fate. At length it
had reached the heart of the empire of the czars, and before it lay
displayed the ancient capital of the Muscovite kings, time-honored
Moscow.
This great city was revealed to the eyes of the weary soldiers with the
suddenness of a mirage in the desert. Throughout that day an
interminable outreach of level country had seemed to spread before them,
dreary, uninviting, disheartening. Now, from the summit of a hill, their
triumphant eyes gazed suddenly upon the roofs and spires of a mighty
city, splendid, far-reaching, stretching far across the plain that lay
revealed before their eyes. It seemed to them truly as if the hand of a
magician had touched the desert, and caused this city to spring up
across their path.
It was a remarkable spectacle that met their gaze. Here were visible
what seemed hundreds of gilded domes and shining spires, thousands of
habitations rich with varied colors, a strange compound of palaces and
cottages, churches and bell-towers, woods and lakes, Western and
Oriental architecture, the Gothic arches and spires of Europe mingled
with the strange forms of Byzantine and Asiatic edifices. Outwardly, a
line of monasteries flanked with towers appeared to encircle the city.
Centrally, crowning an eminence, rose a great citadel, from whose towers
one could look down on columned temples and imperial palaces, embattled
walls crowned with majestic domes, from whose summits, above the
reversed crescent, rose the cross, Russia's emblem of conquest over the
fanatical sectaries of the East. It was the Kremlin which they here
beheld, the sacred centre of the Russian empire, the ancient
dwelling-place and citadel of the czars.
A wild cry of wonder and triumph burst from the soldiers who had first
reached the summit of the hill. "Moscow! Moscow!" they shouted, their
imaginations strongly excited by the magnificent spectacle. This cry
lent wings to those behind them. In crowding hosts the eager soldiers
rushed up the long slope, all ranks mingling in their burning desire to
gaze upon that great city which was the goal of their far-extended
march. Deep were the emotions, intense the joy, with which they gazed on
this dazzling vision, with all its domes and spires burning in the warm
rays of the sun. Napoleon himself, who hastened to the spot, was struck
with admiration, and new dreams of glory doubtless sprang up in his soul
as he stood gazing with deep emotion on what must have seemed to him the
key of the East, the gateway to conquests never yet surpassed by man.
Little did he dream that it was ruin upon which he gazed, the fatal
turning-point in his long career of victory. Still certain of his
genius, still confident in his good fortune, he looked forward to new
conquests which would throw those of the past into the shade, and as his
eyes rested on that mighty city of the czars, the intoxication of glory
filled his soul.
The conqueror gave but little time to these dreams. The steps to realize
them must be taken. Murat was bidden to march forward quickly and to
repress all disorders which might break out in the city. Denniée was
ordered to hasten and arrange for the food and lodging of the soldiers.
Durosnel received orders to communicate with the authorities, to calm
their fears, and to lead them to the conqueror, that he might receive
their homage. Fancying that the inhabitants awaited his coming in
trembling fear, Napoleon halted until these preliminaries should be
arranged, before making his triumphant entry into the conquered capital
of Muscovy.
Murat, at the head of the light cavalry, galloped rapidly forward,
quickly reaching the bridge over the Moskowa. Here he found a rear-guard
of the Russian army, in rapid retreat. The meeting was not a hostile
one; Murat rode to the Russian line, and asked if there was an officer
among them who spoke French. A young Russian immediately presented
himself, and asked him what he wanted.
"Who is the commander of this rear-guard?" he asked.
The Russian pointed to a white-haired officer, who wore a long cloak of
fur. Murat advanced and held out his hand. The officer took and pressed
it warmly.
"Do you know me?" asked the Frenchman.
"Yes," answered the Russian, courteously; "we have seen enough of you
under fire to know you."
A short colloquy succeeded, during which Murat could not keep his eyes
from the officer's fur cloak, which looked as if it would be very
comfortable in a winter bivouac. The Russian, noticing his looks, took
off the mantle and offered it to him, begging him to accept it as a
present from an admiring foe. Murat courteously accepted it, and in
return presented the officer with a beautiful and valuable watch, which
was accepted in the same spirit of courteous good-will.
The Russian officer now joined his men, who were filing rapidly away,
and Murat rode onward into the streets of the captured city, his staff
and a detachment of cavalry accompanying him. Through street after
street he passed, here finding himself moving between rows of narrow
wooden houses, there through avenues bordered by palatial residences,
which rose from rich and ample gardens, but all silent and seemingly
deserted.
The city was there, but where were the people? Solitude surrounded him.
Not an inhabitant was to be seen. It seemed a city of the dead. Into
Berlin, Vienna, and other capitals had the French army entered, but
never had it seen anything like this utter solitude. The inhabitants, so
the surprised soldiers fancied, must be cowering in terror within their
houses. This desolation could not continue. Moscow was known as one of
the most bustling cities in Europe. As soon as the people learned that
no harm was meant them, the streets would again swarm with busy life.
Hugging this flattering opinion to his soul, Murat rode on, threading
the silent city.
Ah! here were some of the people. A few distracted individuals had
appeared in the streets. Murat rode up to them, to find that they were
French, belonging to the foreign colony of Moscow. They begged piteously
for protection from the robbers, who, they said, had become masters of
the town. They told Murat more than this, destroying the pleasant
picture of a submissive and contented population with which he had
solaced his mind. The population had fled, they said; no one was left in
the city except a few strangers and some Russians who knew the ways of
the French and did not fear them. In their place was a crew of thieves
and bandits whom the Count of Rostopchin had let loose on deserted
Moscow, emptying the prisons and setting these convicts free to ravage
the city at their will.
Further evidence of this disheartening story was soon forthcoming. When
the French approached the Kremlin they were saluted by a discharge of
musketry. Some of the villanous crew had invaded the capitol, seized on
the guns in the arsenal, and were firing on the invaders. A few minutes
settled this last effort in the defence of Moscow. The citadel was
entered at a charge, several of the villanous crew were sabred, and the
others put to flight. The French had the town, but it was an empty one,
its only inmates being thieves and strangers.
The next morning, September 15, 1812, Napoleon made his triumphal march
into Moscow, at the head of his conquering legions. But for the first
time in his career of victory he found himself in the streets of a
deserted city, advancing through empty avenues, to whose windows the
tread of marching feet called not an eye to witness the triumph of
France. It was a gloomy and threatening impression which was experienced
by the grand army in its progress through those silent and lifeless
streets. The ancient city of the czars seemed a body without a soul.
But if the people were gone, their dwellings remained. Moscow was taken,
with all its palaces and treasures. It was a signal conquest. Napoleon
hastened to the Kremlin, mounted to the top of the lofty tower of Ivan,
and from its height looked with eyes of pride on the far-extending city.
It was grand, that vision of palatial mansions, but it was mournful in
its silence and gloom, the tramp of soldiery its only sound, the flutter
of multitudes of birds--ravens and crows, which haunted the city in
thousands--its only sign of life. Two days before Moscow had been one of
the busiest cities in the world. Now it was the most silent. But the
conqueror had this satisfaction, that while abandoned like other Russian
towns, it was not burned like them, he might find here winter-quarters
for his army and by mild measures lure the frightened people back to
their homes again. Comforted with this hopeful view, Napoleon descended
the stairs again, filled with confidence and triumph.
His confidence was misplaced. Disaster lowered upon the devoted city. On
the day succeeding his entrance a column of flame suddenly appeared,
rising from a large building in which was stored an abundant supply of
spirits. The soldiers ran thither without thought of alarm, fancying
that this was due to some imprudence on the part of their own men. In a
short time the fire was mastered, and a feeling of confidence returned.
But immediately afterwards a new fire broke out in a great collection of
buildings called the Bazaar, in which were the richest shops of the
city, filled with costly goods, the beautiful fabrics of Persia and
India, and rare and precious commodities from all quarters of the world.
Here the flames spread with extraordinary rapidity, consuming the
inflammable goods with frightful haste, despite the frantic efforts of
the soldiers to arrest their progress. Despairing of success, they
strove to save something from the vast riches of the establishment,
carrying out furs, costly wines, valuable tissues, and other precious
treasures. Such as remained of the people of the town aided in these
efforts, in the natural desire to save something from the flames.
Until now all this seemed ordinary accident, and no one dreamed that
these fires were the result of hostile design. They were soon to learn
more of the unconquerable determination of the Russians. During the
following night the wind rose suddenly, and carried the flames of the
burning Bazaar along several of the most beautiful streets of Moscow,
the fire spreading rapidly among the wooden buildings, and consuming
them with alarming rapidity.
But this was not the most disturbing indication. Rockets were seen in
the distance, ascending into the air, and immediately afterwards fire
broke out in a dozen quarters, and hired bandits were seen carrying
combustibles at the end of long poles, and seeking to extend the empire
of the flames. A number of these were arrested, and under threat of
death revealed a frightful secret. The Count of Rostopchin had ordered
that the great city of Moscow should be set on fire and burned, with as
little heed for the immense loss involved as he would have had in
ordering the burning of a wayside village.
The news filled the whole army with consternation. Waiting till the wind
had risen, the ferocious count had sent up his signal-rockets to order
the work to begin. He had done more. On running to the pumps to obtain
water to extinguish the flames, there were none to be found. They had
been removed and the fire-extinguishing apparatus destroyed in
preparation for this incendiary work.