THE KING’S TRIAL PROCEEDED WITH.
The King had scarcely quitted the Convention upon the occasion of
his first appearance there, than he was accorded the privilege of
even the commonest prisoner on his trial—that of choosing two counsel
for his defence. The King chose two—one named Trouchet; the other,
Target. The former willingly accepted the office; the second dreaded
to appear as the accomplice of the King; and wrote a cowardly letter,
saying, to defend Louis Capet would be to outrage his own principles.
But this precaution, so far from saving him, marked him out to the
terrorists as a man who was a coward, and, in his turn, he was
drafted to the scaffold, undefended and unlamented.
An old man, and a great one, of a family notorious for their wisdom
and their justice—one Malsherbes, aged seventy-four, and who had
served twice as a Minister during Louis XVI’s reign—took the position
offered to the wretched man, Target, and refused by him.
Indeed, he asked for it. The act is well worth admiration. At
seventy-four, when most men are weary of life, this good man asked
for a position which he knew was one which might involve the
forfeiture of his own existence. Said he, “I was twice summoned to
the council of him who was my master at a time when everybody was
ambitious of the post, and I owe him this service now that this
office is, in the eyes of most persons, one of danger; and had I the
means of acquainting him with my wishes, I should not seek another
mode of striving to serve him” (he was speaking to the President of
the Convention); “but I think, seeing the position you hold, that you
can most safely convey to Louis XVI my desire to serve him.”
The Convention, violent as were its members, reverenced this devotion
of friendship, and honest Malsherbes was appointed to the task of
defending the fallen King.
“Malsherbes,” said a friend to him, as he was leaving the Convention,
“you are the friend of Louis XVI; how can you bring him papers in
which he will read the expressions of the wrath of the people against
him?”
“The King is not like other men,” returned M. de Malsherbes. “He
possesses a great mind, and such faith as raises him above all
things.”
“You are an honest man,” replied the friend. “But if you were not,
what is to prevent you from bringing him poison, as a weapon, or
advising him to commit suicide?”
Malsherbes hesitated for a moment, and then he replied, “If the
King were of the religion of the philosophers—were he a Cato or a
Brutus—he might kill himself. But he is pious—he is a Christian—he
knows that religion forbids him to lay violent hands upon himself,
and he will not commit suicide.”
Malsherbes went daily after this to see the King, to commune with him
upon the defence which was to be set up.
But of what avail was any defence? The question was not whether or
not the King was guilty, but whether or not his death would be of
advantage to the establishment of the republic.
During these final days of his life, the King was entirely deprived
of the consolation of seeing his family. He was now kept completely
isolated. However, by the mercy of Cléry, his servant, on the one
hand, and that of Turgy, the Queen’s attendant, on the other, the
desolate couple communicated. A few words were written on a morsel of
thin paper, which, being folded, a needle was run through it, and it
was in this condition concealed in a hank of sewing-thread, which was
put in the Queen’s work-box by Turgy, who placed the thread, and its
answering line, in Cléry’s way, who conveyed it to a place where the
King would look for it.
Louis XVI never had any doubt that he would be executed. On the
other hand, he does not appear, up to the time of his trial, to have
assumed for one moment that the Queen would suffer.
Before his sentence was pronounced, he made his will. It is a long
document. Here are some of the chief lines in this testament:—“I,
Louis XVI of that name, and King of France, confined for four months
in the Tower of the Temple, at Paris, by those who were my subjects,
and deprived during eleven days of all communication with even my
family, and, moreover, implicated in a trial, the outcome of which
no man can with certainty foresee—for who can measure the passions
of men?—having no one, save God, as a witness of my thoughts, or to
whom I can address myself, do here declare, in His presence, this my
last will and testament. I bequeath my soul to God, my creator, and
pray that, in all his mercy he will accept it. I die in the faith
of the Church, and bow to its laws. I pray the good Lord to forgive
me as I have forgiven. I have striven hard to remember some of my
sins, and to abominate them. I bow before God. I beg all that I have
accidentally injured—for by my will I never hurt human being—to
forgive me the harm they may believe I have caused them.
“I pray all men of charity to add their prayers to mine. I pardon,
from the bottom of my heart, all those who are my enemies, without
that I have given them cause to be other than my friends; and I ask
God to pardon them also, for they know not what they do. I also
pray pardon for those whose zeal in my cause has done me so much
harm. I recommend to God my wife and children, my sister, my aunts
and brothers, and all those belonging to me through blood, or by
any other way. I pray heaven to look pityingly upon my wife, and
children, and sister, all of whom have too long suffered with me, and
to strengthen them if they lose me, so long as they shall remain in
this world. To my wife I recommend my children, whom she has never
ceased to love; and I pray my wife to teach her children to look upon
the pomps and vanities of this world—if they should be so unfortunate
as to suffer them—only as dangerous and vanished possessions, and to
turn their thoughts to eternity. And I pray my sister to be gentle as
ever to my children, should they have the misfortune to lose her.”
This is the first time, in sooth, the King betrays the least
intimation of his fears that his blood will not suffice to appease
the national rage. And even here it may be doubted whether Louis does
not rather refer to natural than violent death, for the Princess
Elizabeth was younger than the Queen. It will be seen that, even at
this pass, and solemn moment, the King has not the least thought
that the Princess herself will be despatched below the knife of the
guillotine.
The King’s will continued:—
“I pray my wife to pardon me all she has suffered, and will suffer,
on my account, and all the sorrow I may have caused her in my life,
as she may be certain I forgive her if she can possibly suppose that
she has ever caused me a grief.
“I pray my children, after their love to God, which is above all, to
love one another, and to live in peace; to be grateful and obedient
to their mother; and in memory of me, I pray them to look upon my
sister as their second mother.
“I pray my son, should he be so luckless as to become King, to forget
the troubles I shall have passed through, and to forgive the people,
who know not what they do, that which they will accomplish. Let him
not forget that he was born for the happiness of his subjects; that
he can only reign safely by upholding the laws; and that he can
only do this while his power lasts. Once let him lose power, and he
becomes more injurious than ever he was useful; and, above all, let
him remember the load of debt I owe to the children of the men who
have already fallen in defending my cause.”
[These words are obviously the result of Louis’s study of the history
of England, of the stigma that rests upon the memory of Charles II,
through persistently ignoring the just claims of the children of the
men who had died in the cause of his beheaded father, Charles I.]
The King concludes his will by recommending Cléry to the Convention,
and asking that the sword, purse, jewels, and other ornaments taken
from him may be given to that person after the writer shall be dead.
He signed the will “LOUIS,” as though he still reigned.
This will is sublime in its simplicity; its Christianity, pity,
regret, and massive setting aside of his life as passed away, are
all very beautiful points; while the belief that his death would
compensate all, and that the country would not visit his faults upon
the heads of his family, shows still an amount of faith in his people
which is truly touching.
Upon the defence being read, the King found it opened with an appeal
to the people, and a description of the wretched condition of the
royal family. The two counsel and the King, who were the only people
who heard this defence read, and which had been put into form by the
reader, Desèze, were all moved at the beauty of the language.
But the King was inflexible.
“All that must be struck out,” he said.
And he insisted—for was he not a dying man? The wishes of the dying
are obeyed.
After the reading of the defence, the King, being left alone with
Malsherbes, he was tormented by the thought that he could not
compensate his counsel for their labors.
“Desèze and Trouchet,” he said, “owe me nothing. They gave me their
time, exertions, and, perhaps, their lives, and I cannot pay them.
Even if I leave a legacy, it will not be paid. Again, what could pay
such work as theirs?”
“Sire, you have the power of repaying them.”
“How?”
“Take them, for one mere moment, to your heart.”
So, next day, when the two gentlemen came, he held open his arms, and
pressed these brave men, one after the other, to his heart.
This was all that he had to bestow—a royal accolade, the peaceful
kiss of a dying man.
At this second examination, they gave the King a suit of clothing,
in which he looked at worst passable. But another shape of indignity
was put upon him: he was kept waiting in a cold waiting-room during a
whole hour.
The King was advised not to shave, that the savagery of his gaolers
in even depriving him of so common a necessary as a razor should move
his judges. But the King refused to avail himself of this theatrical
effect. He was rather fitted to fall with dignity into the repose of
death, than to war, fight, battle for life.
Louis XVI forgave the men who were to condemn him before they tried
him; but his very pardon became his most perfect revenge in the eyes
of posterity.
The King’s counsel spoke logically, but with no power of words.
Having finished, Louis XVI, who had followed his advocate as though
rather interested for this gentleman than for himself, rose and
uttered these words:—
“You have now heard the grounds of my defence, and I shall not repeat
them. In speaking to you for the first, and perhaps the last, time,
I declare that I can accuse myself of nothing; that my advocate has
spoken the truth, and nothing but the truth. I never feared that
all I did should be made public, but I grieve that you accuse me of
spilling the blood of the people. And that the misfortunes of the
10th of August are attributed to me. I had thought that the numerous
evidences of love for my people which I have shown would have placed
me above such an accusation. This is not the case, and I must bear
with what has happened. I declare that I exposed my life to save the
shedding of one drop of the blood of my people.”
He turned, and left the chamber.
“Let him be judged!” cried Bazere.
“’Tis time the nation learns if she is right in wishing to be free,
and if this is a crime!”
“I ask,” cried Languinais, “that the sentence be declared by a ballot
of all France!”
“To prison with Languinais!” cried many voices.
“You are too openly a Royalist,” cried Thuriot.
“Why,” cried another, “he wills to try us, and make Louis himself
judge.”
“And I say,” replied Languinais, fearlessly, “that you constitute
yourselves accusers, judges, jury, and executioners. Let the people
declare themselves! Let there be liberty of speech, to declare
whether the King shall live or die.”
“Down with him!” cried a voice.
“You shall hear me,” cried Languinais.
“Put him upon his trial! place him in the dock, and let him instantly
be tried!”
“To prison with him!”
Silence was at last restored; but when Languinais sat down, he knew
he was a condemned man—he knew nothing could save him.
Meanwhile, in an ante-chamber, where the murmurs of his judges were
audible, the King’s counsel were endeavoring to cheer him with a
little hope. The people had demonstrated with somewhat of kindly
feeling in favor of the King at various theatres.
On his return to the Temple, the King having nothing of value with
which he could partially repay his counsel, took off his laced cravat
and gave it to Desèze.
On the 1st of January, after the French fashion of wishing friends
a happy new year, Cléry approached his master’s bed and offered him
best wishes for the continuance of his life.
The King put his hands together and prayed, for he remembered that
this was the day in the year when his thousand courtiers flocked to
his palace to congratulate him.
Rising, he sent to ask if his daughter was better (for the Princess
was ill), and to wish the Queen _a happy new year_.
From the first to the 16th of January, he was kept immured in the
great tower of the Temple, perfectly isolated. No one was allowed to
see him, not even one of his family. The fallen King passed his time
reading the history of England, especially the volumes of the life
and execution of Charles I—history which appeared to fascinate him.
Meanwhile, the members of the Convention were daily disputing the
question of the King’s life or death.
St. Just now rose to the surface. Unpityingly he cried, “If the
King is innocent, the people are guilty. You have declared martial
law against the tyrants of the whole world, and spare your own. The
Revolution only begins where the tyrant ends.”
Another cried, “If with this, my hand, I alone could strangle all
tyrants, I would not hesitate to rid the world of them.”
But the rising party in the house lived by favor of the eager
revolutionists, whom they dared not oppose. With them it was
necessary that the King should die.
Another, upon another day, cried, “We have lost three hours this day
talking of a thing they call a King. Are we, then, revolutionists?
No; we are vile slaves.”
Camille Desmoulins stuttered, “Let him be killed, with this word on
his brow—‘Traitor!’ and this on his back—‘King!’”
Another cried, “Henceforth, let murderers and thieves be buried in
the royal vaults!”
At length the Convention agreed to the plan of every member of the
Convention voting upon these three questions:—
1. Is Louis guilty?
2. Shall the decision of the Convention be submitted to the
ratification of the people.
3. What shall be the sentence?
To the first question, nearly seven hundred as against about a dozen,
voted “Yes.”
On the second, two hundred and eighty voices voted for the appeal to
the people; four hundred and twenty-three against it.
It was now (January 16) that Danton first betrayed his insatiable
thirst for blood.
“I thought,” cried he, “we were assembled for other purposes than
those of the drama.”
“’Tis a question of liberty!” cried several voices.
“Question of liberty?” cried Danton. “’Tis a question of a
comedy—that taking off the head of a tyrant with the axe of a King!
I demand that we do not separate before we have pronounced sentence
upon Louis! His accomplices have fallen without delay, therefore let
him fall at once!”
Everything declared in favor of Louis’s death by this same January
16. On this day itself, a poor fellow named Louvain, who had been one
at the taking of the Bastille, venturing to say that the republic
ought to be established without the death of Louis XVI, a friend and
companion near him plunged his sword into his breast.
In the evening, a book-pedlar, suspected of royalism, leaving a
public reading-room, was accused by the people of distributing
pamphlets in favor of the King’s cause. He was assassinated with
thirty dagger-thrusts.
Upon this day the soldiery swept over Paris, brandishing their
swords, singing patriotic songs, and looking eagerly for the least
signs of opponents.
In a certain church in Paris, the hearts of passed-away kings were
kept in silver vases. These were seized and broken open, and the
contents cast into the common sewer.
At the Hall of the Convention a fearful scene was progressing—the
voting upon the sentence. It is night-time, and the hurriedly raised
black hangings suggest more an execution than a place of justice. The
Convention is held in an old monastery—dark, drear, and wretched. A
few scattered lanterns make the darkness visible, and throw a pale
light upon the faces of passers-by. At the two principal entrances
are cannon, the attendant artillerymen with the continuously lighted
fuse in hand. The cannon is there rather to be turned upon the
members of the Convention than to intimidate the people.
“_His death—or thine!_”
These were the words each Conventionist heard as he passed into the
Hall—words uttered in whispers, but which shook the hearers as though
they were thunder.
Persons who knew the various members were present, who received them
and commented upon their opinions. As Danton, Marat, Robespierre
and Camille Desmoulins passed, the ranks showed all the signs of
respect. Others were threatened. Languinais passed through a forest
of thrusting pikes to reach the voting table.
The Hall itself was very dark, the benches being filled with young
and beautiful women of the people class. Before them were a number of
butchers, reeking from their slaughter-houses.
Fifteen hours had the deputies sat—few remained. Of those present,
some were in little groups—others had fallen asleep.
The first votes left everything in uncertainty. _Death_ and _Exile_
were voted alternately.
Vergniaud, the leader of the Girondists, who had sworn to save the
King’s life, whose vote would control that of all the Girondists,
voted “_Death!_”
The King was doomed, because the Jacobins were all certain to vote
“Death” to a man.
Robespierre started, and Danton said, in a low, scoffing voice,
“These are your orators!”
The last man but one called to vote was the King’s cousin, the Duc
d’Orleans, Philip Equality. It was thought the ties of nature and of
blood would compel him to vote for exile.
He said these words:—
“My thoughts being fixed wholly upon duty, convinced that whoever
shall now or hereafter attempt to establish monarchy in this land is
worthy death—I vote _death_!”
This man, this monster to his own blood, had in early youth been so
abject a coward, that, during a naval engagement between the French
and English, he had gone down into the cock-pit, whence no one could
induce him to remove until the action was over. The cowardice of his
youth was well supplemented by his voting the King’s death.
Even Robespierre condemned him. Returning to Duplay’s house in the
evening, he said, “The miserable man! He was expected to listen to
the pleadings of his own heart, and vote exile; but he would not, or
dared not. The nation despises him henceforth!”
The monstrous act did not save him from the Reign of Terror. He died
on the scaffold—the most guilty wretch who there ended life.
Followed the man Orleans, a deputy, lying on a hand-bed. He was
dying, and he voted _death_!
A herald arrived from the King of Spain, interceding for the King’s
life.
Danton rose to speak, without the Speaker’s permission.
“Thou art not yet King, Danton!” cried a voice.
“I am astounded at Spain’s insolence!” cried Danton. “I desire that
war against Spain be immediately declared!”
The intercession damaged, rather than benefited, the royal cause.
The scrutiny of the votes now commenced.
Three hundred and thirty-four voted for exile or imprisonment.
Three hundred and eighty-seven voted for death. Thus _death_ was in
a majority of fifty-three; but, by subtracting from this number the
forty-six voices which had also voted a suspension of the execution
of death, the majority in favor of _immediate death_ was _seven_!
The Girondists, who did not wish for the King’s death, had voted his
execution, and thereby favored their enemies, the Jacobins, whose
thirst for death was unquenchable.
On the morning of the 19th January, Louis, who had been by this time
restored to his family, saw Malsherbes approaching him. The old man
fell on his knees.
“I see,” said the King; “Death!”