THE PEOPLE IN COUNCIL.
On the morrow, the ninth of July, ’90, we were _en route_ at
daybreak, drums beating in front of us, to assist in the celebration
of the grand fête of the general federation.
Father Descharmes embraced me, with an expression of sorrow which
wounded me to the heart.
“Perhaps you youngsters are in the right,” said he, “and we old men
are in the wrong. But what will you, my child. One cannot give up in
two days the creed of sixty years.”
“I know not what may come of all this, but I hope that my eyes will
be closed in death before it does come.”
“But uncle,” said I, “although it would be a great treat to me to go
to Paris and see the fête, still, if you wish it, I will not go.”
“No, my boy, go; and heaven grant that I may live to see your return,
and that we may meet again in this world.”
I embraced him as I wept, for I loved him dearly.
Had he not fed and clothed me and brought me up, and watched the
infant become, under his roof a man?
“Bring my arm-chair to the door,” said he; “I do not wish to lose the
last glimpse of the setting sun.”
I obeyed. Leaning on my shoulder he reached the door, and sitting
down in the chair, took my hand, and kissed me, saying “Go!”
I departed, returning in time to see this good old servitor of
royalty die. With kingcraft he suffered, and with its death he died.
When I lost sight of him, it seemed as if I had left him for ever,
and I felt half inclined to return at once, never to leave him; but
the temptation of seeing Paris was too much for me, and in another
moment we were in sight of the houses of Islettes.
A surprise awaited me there.
The inhabitants, not wishing to be separated from their Curé, had put
him into a little carriage drawn by a horse, and the good priest, his
eyes overflowing with tears, was bidding farewell to Mademoiselle
Marguerite, who wept on the steps in front of the door of the
Presbytery.
In those days, a journey of forty leagues was no small matter, and
the poor girl believed that the good Abbé Fortin had departed for
ever.
We continued our route, the drums beating, and the carriage rolling
ahead of us. Some of our party pressed on in front, to form an escort
of honor for the worthy priest.
We found M. Drouet awaiting us at the head of the deputation, on the
Place of St. Menehould.
Amongst the deputation, was an old soldier of the Seven Years War,
who had served under Marshal Saxe, and who was present at the battle
of Fontenoy; and a sailor, who was in active service at the time of
the birth of the Bailli de Suffren. Both, living ruins of an ancient
regime, wished to witness the dawn of a new era.
M. Drouet had placed a carriage at their service, but they would not
use it. It therefore proceeded empty in the midst of the _cortêge_,
in the front rank of which the two veterans marched with heads
erect—a benediction, as it were, bestowed by the dead era on the age
which was just about to dawn.
All the high roads of France were filled with processions like ours,
all hastening to one great focus—Paris.
Never since the Crusade had so great a number, of their own will,
bent their steps in one direction.
All along the road, deputations came to greet the travellers.
They offered hospitality to the old men and priests. It was
impossible to provide for all, so the main body bivouacked in the
open air.
Great fires were lighted, at which every one prepared his simple
meal. There was no lack of wine in a country which particularly
cultivated grapes.
On the morrow, at daybreak, all started at beat of drum. When the
noise of the drum ceased, all joined in the chorus of the _Ça ira_ of
’90, which has nothing in common with the menacing and bloodthirsty
_Ça ira_ of ’93.
This song kept up the energies of those men on the march, who were
toiling along under a hot July sun, to the end of the journey. It
supported those laborers who were making the arena, so to speak,
where great deeds were to be done.
We have said that it was with an unwilling heart that the Assembly
decreed the federation—that it was with an unwilling heart that
the city had sent its workmen to the Champ de Mars, to prepare for
that great and solemn reunion. The time approached—the work did not
proceed. What happened?
All Paris rose, and proceeded to the Champ de Mars carrying various
implements of labor—one a pickaxe another a shovel, and so on.
And not only did the people—not only did the _bourgeoisie_ do this,
but old men and children, lords and laborers, ladies of rank and
women of shame, actors and actresses, priests and soldiers,—all
joined in the work, which did not even close when night fell like a
shroud over the city of Paris.
The invalids, who could not work on account of their being maimed,
held the torches, to lighten them at their labors.
Begun in the morning of the 9th of July, this stupendous work was
completed in the night of the 13th, two hours before sunrise.
We arrived on the 12th, in the evening.
Paris was crowded; but, strange to say, the hotel keepers and
letters of lodgings, instead of raising their prices, lowered them
considerably. This spoke well for the disposition of Paris towards us.
Truly this was not the federation of France, but the fraternal
greeting of the world.
A Prussian Baron—Jean Baptiste de Clootz, better known by the name
of Anacharsis—presented himself before the National Assembly with
twenty men of different nations—Russians, Poles, men of the north,
men of the west, men of the east, and men of the south,—all habited
in the costume of their country. He came to ask permission for them
to appear at the federation of the Champ de Mars, as they wished to
represent the federation of the world.
Later on, this same Anacharsis Clootz wished to give twelve thousand
francs, to make war against royalty.
One may imagine my astonishment on finding myself in Paris, on the
Boulevards, gazing at the ruins of the Bastille.
Drouet pointed it out to me, afterwards, the patriotic workmen on
the Champ de Mars. I rushed to join them; and, seizing a spade, was
speedily hard at work.
My fellow-workman appeared to be an artizan of about fifty years of
age. He gave orders to a boy about my age, who was close at hand.
On seeing the ardor with which I worked, he asked me who I was, and
whence I came.
I told him that my name was Réné Besson; that I came from the new
department of the Meuse; and that I was apprenticed to a carpenter,
by trade.
When he heard this, he held out his hand, a smile illuminating his
austere visage.
“Take that, boy,” said he. “If you are an apprentice, I am a master;
and here are two lads, about your age, who live with me, to learn
their trade. If you have nothing better to do, come and sup with me
to-night—you shall be made welcome.”
I shook hands with him, and accepted his kind offer. The French, at
the dawn of the Revolution, were a nation of brothers.
As the clock struck five, we threw down our tools, gave ourselves a
wash in the Seine; after which we crossed over to the other side of
the river, and entered the Rue St. Honoré.
The master and I had walked side by side all the way, the two
apprentices following behind.
He asked me some questions about our department, what political
opinions we had, and whether I knew any one in Paris.
I answered all his questions with becoming modesty.
My companion stopped at the commencement of the Rue St. Honoré, on
the left-hand side, opposite a church, which I discovered later on to
be the Church of Assumption.
“We have arrived,” said he; “I will go first, to show you the way.”
He passed down a passage, at the extremity of which I perceived a
light.
I involuntarily raised my head, and read on the façade of the house
these three words:
“DUPLAY, Master Carpenter.”
I entered—the apprentices followed me.