THE OVERTHROW OF THE DIRECTORY
The Councils at St. Cloud -- Bonaparte's Poor Appearance as a
Conspirator -- His Attack on the Constitution -- Uneasiness of
the Five Hundred -- Bonaparte Overawed by their Fury -- The Day
Saved by His Brother Lucien -- A Semblance of Constitutional
Government Restored -- Bonaparte Master of the Situation -- Paris
Delighted.
Next morning there was much coming and going in the city, much
discussion in the streets, but no disorder. Toward noon, the hour
appointed for their meeting, the delegates to the two houses of the
legislature, accompanied by many of the people, moved in the direction
of St. Cloud. Bonaparte, with a few thousand troops, was already
there. Nothing was ready for the reception of the councils, and during
the almost fatal interval of hasty preparation the Jacobins gathered
in groups to discuss the situation, suspecting for the first time that
what confronted them was not reform of the constitution, however
radical, but its overthrow. It was long after the appointed time,
nearly two o'clock, before the rooms of the palace were ready and the
members of the councils were called to order--the Five Hundred in the
Orangery on the ground floor of one wing, the Ancients upstairs in the
other wing, occupying the Hall of Apollo. Bonaparte and the
half-hearted, timid Sieyes were closeted in one of the downstairs
chambers, awaiting events. A six-horse carriage had been stationed by
the latter at the gate, for his own use in case of mishap. Soldiers
stood guard at all the approaches, and the reception-rooms were
filled with men and officers, friends of the arch-conspirator.
Disquieting news soon began to arrive from the assemblies. Upstairs
the Ancients, amid intense excitement, had voted a series of routine
motions and adjourned for an interval, a course tending to postpone
consideration of the proposition to intrust Bonaparte with the conduct
of affairs. They wished to ascertain through a message from the Five
Hundred, as the law required, if the executive were duly constituted,
and all the directors present; for in that case only would their
action be legal. The delay was to them unaccountable and seemed
interminable as they strolled about in pairs and groups, uneasy and
vacillating. At last the rumor spread that the general was coming to
their hall and they hurried to their seats. When they were at last
reassembled anarchy broke loose; for the secretary announced, falsely,
of course, that four directors had resigned, and that the fifth was in
restraint.
At that moment Bonaparte, with his staff, appeared at the door and a
sudden silence fell upon the place. The scene appalled him. The
bravery of the general is different from the personal courage of the
soldier in the face of physical danger, and both are unlike the pluck
of him who defies the law. The latter Bonaparte never had. For a
moment he was pale; but, gathering resolution by a mighty effort, he
spoke in disjointed but rudely eloquent phrase. They were on a
volcano, he said. He was no Caesar or Cromwell, but a plain soldier
living quietly in Paris, who had been called unawares to save his
country. If he had been a usurper, he would have called not on the
legislature, but on the soldiers of Italy. It was the duty of those
present to save liberty and equality--"and the constitution," cried a
voice. "The constitution!" was his answer. "You violated it on the
eighteenth of Fructidor; you violated it on the twenty-second of
Floreal; you violated it on the thirtieth of Prairial. The
constitution! All factions invoke it, and it has been violated by all.
It is despised by everybody; it can no longer save us, because it
commands the respect of nobody." He then proceeded to ask for the
powers necessary in the emergency, promising to lay them down when his
work was done. "What are the pressing dangers?" said some one. What
were they, indeed? If he must speak, he would. "I declare," he cried,
"that Barras and Moulins have invited me to head a party in order to
overthrow all men of liberal ideas." The clumsy falsehood produced a
storm. Was this the Jacobin conspiracy they had been told of--Barras
the aristocrat and Moulins the democrat conspiring together! They
wanted details.
In the interval of speaking, the orator had found his cue again, and
at once launched out, not into the asked-for details, but into a
tornado of language, abusing the constitution and the Five Hundred,
and at the same time adroitly threatening that if the old cry of
outlaw were raised against him, he would call on the grenadiers whose
caps he saw, on the soldiers whose bayonets were in view. "Remember
that I walk with the goddess of fortune, accompanied by the god of
war!" "General," whispered Bourrienne in his ear, "you no longer know
what you are saying." The president of the Ancients was at his wit's
end. How could the council, eager as they were to do so, grant the
general's demands on such a showing as this? A third time came calls
from the benches for details of the plot which made necessary the
contemplated measures. And a third time Bonaparte's gift of specious
prevarication failed. He could think of nothing but Barras and
Moulins; but now, in mentioning their names once more, he added that
what made them dangerous was that they had expressed what was almost
universally desired; otherwise they would be no worse than a very
large number of others who were at heart of the same mind. "If liberty
perish," he cried, "you will be responsible to the universe, to
posterity, to France, and to your families." It sounded like an
anti-climax and left his auditors perfectly cold. Therewith he was
virtually dragged from the room by his dismayed companions. The
preconcerted program was then carried out, and a vote of confidence in
Bonaparte was passed. To retrieve the blunders of his speech, a
revised version, of the same general tenor, but more as it should have
been, was next day printed by "authority."
Downstairs the uproar was terrific. Lucien had expected the Ancients
to act swiftly and remit their decree at once to the Five Hundred. He
hoped to put and carry a motion to sanction it without giving time for
deliberation. The opening formalities of the session passed quietly,
and the assembly listened without interruption to a short, vague, and
feeble speech in which a Bonapartist deputy professed to announce the
pretended plot. The delay of two hours in meeting had, however, given
the Jacobins time to consider; there was no business before the house,
the resignations of the directors had not been presented to them, and,
apparently to pass the time, it was proposed that the delegates
present should solemnly, one by one, renew each his oath to the
constitution. This was done by all but Bergoeng, a single recalcitrant
who resigned his seat. Lucien himself performed the solemn rite. But
in the tedious process lasting over two hours desultory cries began to
be uttered: "No dictation!" "Down with dictators!" "We are all free
here!" Finally the shouts swelled in volume so as to reach the
sympathetic ears of the guards outside. In this critical moment
arrived Barras's resignation. It was read in full, including the
passage which declared that with the return of the illustrious warrior
for whom he had had the honor to open the way, and amid the striking
marks of confidence which the legislature had shown in their general,
he felt sure that liberty was no longer in danger, and that he was
therefore glad to return to the walks of private life.
The delegates, most of them at least, were unaware of the fact that
Sieyes and Roger-Ducos had already handed their resignations to
Bonaparte, and did not know that Gohier and Moulins were in duress.
This language, read between the lines, made it evident that the
Directory was on the verge of dissolution, or already dissolved, and
confirmed their suspicions of impending revolution. The Jacobin
majority was utterly disconcerted. Some proposed the immediate
election of a new Directory; others insisted on the constitutional
term of delay, and called for an adjournment. The most clear-sighted
saw the trap into which they had fallen, and began to speak of what
the circumstances meant. "I believe," said Grandmaison, "that among
those present some know whence we have come, and whither we are
going." At that critical instant the doors opened, and Bonaparte,
surrounded by grenadiers, appeared on the threshold. Chaos ensued. The
delegates rose from their seats, some made for the windows, some
rushed with menacing gestures toward the intruder, some shouted,
"Outlaw him!" "Outlaw him!" and demanded that a motion to that effect
be put. This redoubled the disorder. "Put him out!" "Outlaw the
dictator!" cried the multitude. "Begone, rash man!" said one near by.
"You are violating the sanctuary of the law." "Was it for this," said
another, "that you were victorious?" In the heat of passion the
unavoidable collision occurred, and the angry representatives laid
rude hands on Bonaparte. It was said next day that a grenadier whose
name was Thome threw himself in front of Bonaparte, and received in
his own coat-sleeve a dagger-thrust of Arena, an old Corsican foe,
which had been intended for his general; but no credible witness ever
professed to have seen the deed or any wound. Overpowered by
excitement and the mortal agony of one who has staked his all on a
doubtful event, the leader turned pale and lost consciousness. The
soldiers caught him in their arms, and dragged him downstairs into the
office which he had occupied, where he soon regained his self-command.
The cries of the now frenzied soldiery served as a complete
restorative and he demanded a horse. His own horse was not at hand and
he made but a sorry figure in mounting and curbing a restive steed,
the first which offered. But at last he found his seat and his voice.
Bounding to the open terrace, he harangued the troops and met with a
quick response in their hearty acclaim; they promptly formed in line.
The decisive moment had arrived. Would the soldiers, enthusiastic as
they seemed, really obey if ordered to take violent measures? Among
the generals were many anxious, troubled faces. After his incursion
upon the Ancients, Bonaparte had rushed into the antechamber where his
commanders sat, exclaiming, "There must be an end to this." During his
second absence, Serurier took the cue, and marched up and down,
declaiming, "They were going to kill your general, but be calm!" In
the Orangery Lucien accomplished a miracle, calmed the assemblage,
steadily refused to put the motion for outlawry, and demanded a
hearing for his brother. His plea being of no avail, he finally left
the chair, and with the despairing cry, "There is no liberty here!"
rushed from the room. The dreary honors of the day were to be his.
Bonaparte despatched a file of soldiers to escort him through the
throng. The drums rolled for silence, and a horse was brought, which
he mounted. Presenting himself then to the troops, he declared, as
president of the Five Hundred, that the majority of the legislature
were honorable men, but that in the room from which he had come were a
few assassins, English hirelings, who held the rest in terror. "Hurrah
for Bonaparte!" cried the soldiers; but they made no motion to clear
the Orangery, and Napoleon uttered no command. This was the historic
moment. Lucien, seizing the drawn sword of a bystander, and pointing
it at Napoleon's breast, exclaimed: "I swear I would strike down my
own brother should he ever endanger the liberties of the French!"
There was at last a movement in the lines. "Shall we enter the hall?"
said Murat to Bonaparte. "Yes," was the reply; "and if they resist,
kill, kill! Yes; follow me! I am the god of the day!" Fortunately,
these hysterical words were heard only by a few. "Keep still!" said
Lucien. "Do you think you are talking to the Mamelukes?" With that the
order rang out, the rolling drums drowned the roar of talk, action
began, and with the brothers on horseback at their head, the
grenadiers advanced. There was no resistance, the deputies fled
swiftly through doors and windows into the dark, and in a few moments
the disordered room was empty.
If Bonaparte were to be neither a Caesar nor a Cromwell, it was Sieyes,
as the civilian and the constitution-maker, who should have swayed the
legislative councils in behalf of reform; but his heart was no more
engaged in Bonaparte's support now than it had ever been. Anxious to
be a leader, and to impose on France a constitution which by its
"perfection" should command authority, he had ever been relegated to a
second place. Instead of seizing this, his greatest opportunity as a
lawgiver, he and Roger-Ducos had softly withdrawn to their carriage.
The "perfect" constitution he had prepared would, in view of what had
just happened, consequently rest, like the one overthrown, upon
military force. Nevertheless, he thoroughly understood that Bonaparte
had gone too far, and that his mistake must be retrieved. The country
was not ripe for a military despot who, like Charles XII of Sweden,
would send his boot to preside over the representatives of the people,
or else turn them out of doors without a qualm. Accordingly, the few
Bonapartist delegates, who had fled with the rest and had found refuge
in the taverns or private houses of the neighborhood, were by his
advice, but with some difficulty, found and summoned by Lucien to
meet, late as it was, in their respective places, cold and
uncomfortable as these were. Upward of fifty out of the Five
Hundred--some impartial witnesses have put the number as high as one
hundred and twenty--ventured to come, and the semblance of
representative government was restored. To them the new, impossible,
and clumsy constitution made by Sieyes was presented for
consideration.
Meantime Bonaparte had thoroughly recovered his self-control. He
declared at St. Helena that all the conspiracies of the time were
alike without a head because they needed a "sword"; and that,
possessing one, he alone could choose what pleased him best. To Mme.
de Remusat he said: "It was one of the epochs in my life when I was
most skilful. I saw the Abbe Sieyes, and promised to put his wordy
constitution into operation. I received the Jacobin leaders, and the
agents of the Bourbons. I refused no one's advice, but I gave only
such as was in the interest of my plans. I withdrew from the people's
observation because I knew that when the time arrived curiosity to see
me would throw them under my feet. Every one fell into my toils, and
when I became head of the state there was not a party in France which
did not cherish some hope for my success." Mme. de Stael, returning on
the eighteenth of Brumaire from Switzerland to Paris, saw Barras
driving to his country-seat of Grosbois. On her arrival men talked no
longer of abstractions, of the Constituent Assembly, of the people, or
of the Convention: it was all of a person--of what General Bonaparte
had done. Her own feelings, she says, were mixed. If the battle were
joined, and the Jacobins victorious, she might turn about and fly, for
blood would flow once more. Still, at the thought of Bonaparte's
triumph she felt a prophetic sadness. She could not mourn for liberty,
for liberty had never existed in France. This was the voice of the
dispirited and disheartened constitutional republicans, who knew and
proposed no remedy. The royalists were fully aware of what they
desired. They had been sighing for a despot in France, for another
Richelieu, a fierce, intractable master, wielding a rod of iron,
without which the inhabitants could never be reconstructed into a
nation. In the words of a letter written somewhat earlier from
Coblentz, their city of refuge on the Rhine, they desired "the union
of powers in the hands of an imperious master, ... who, by a splendid
and brilliant Cromwellism, would hold in awe the people whom he forced
to respect and bless their own servitude." The mass of the nation were
tired of war and eager for a peace that would bring prosperity,
pleasure, and glory. The few honest and austere radicals went down
with their greedy and noisy fellows; the Jacobin party was no more.
There had been a complete rearrangement of factors in the French
problem.
For this reason the escaped legislators who reached Paris that night
found little or no comfort as they told their dreary tale. Everywhere
there was perfect calm, here and there signs of great satisfaction
with what was likely to happen or had happened. The great city went
about its affairs as usual, and when late in the evening Fouche issued
a manifesto to the effect that Bonaparte in his effort to denounce
"counter-revolutionary" measures before the Five Hundred had barely
escaped assassination, the paper was read on the stage of all the
theaters to eager audiences which in every instance applauded with
almost frenzied enthusiasm. Paris and all France was weary of the
Directory, it was eager for new things, for authority, for order, for
foreign and home policies which would safely anchor the civil
liberties won by the Revolution but jeopardized by the violence,
self-seeking, and incapacity of the adventurers who had been holding
the helm of state.