THE REIGN OF TERROR.
The remains of Louis XVI were conveyed in a cart to the graveyard,
flung into a hole, and lime cast upon the remains, that the bones
might never be found, in order to be exalted into relics.
Paris was silent—except for the voices of the more excited of the
Revolutionists, who overran the city, announcing the death of the
tyrant, and proclaiming the advent of liberty.
The body of the people did not respond to this enthusiasm—they did
not confound punishment with victory. The body of the King was not
cold before the people began asking themselves whether or not a
righteous act had been committed. The King’s death left this problem
to be discussed by the nation. Many years have elapsed as I write,
and the problem is still discussed—had the people a right to kill
Louis XVI?
The result of the King’s death upon the more moderate Republicans,
and upon those who had agreed to the new constitution, but were
Royalists at heart, were in some cases terrible. To many, this
execution appeared a sacrilege, which must bring down upon the people
who had committed it one of those vengeances in which heaven demands
for the spilt blood of one just man the blood of an entire people.
Men died of grief when they learnt the awful facts, and many more
went mad.
Women cast themselves in panic from housetops, others from the
bridges into the River Seine.
Sisters, wives, and mothers of the Conventionalists, who had
condemned lovers to death, shrank from them as from lepers.
One of the principal judges at the trial, Michael Lepelletier,
was almost immediately stabbed in an eating-house by one Paris, a
hot-headed Royalist, who escaped only for a short time. Tracked,
he shot himself; and upon the body was found a paper bearing these
words:—
“I alone did the deed—let no other man be suspected. I did not
mean to kill the wretch, Lepelletier, but he came in my way. I was
waiting for the parricide D’Orleans, of whom I hoped to rid the
world. All Frenchmen have become cowards.”
Three days after, Lepelletier was publicly buried, after the antique
Greek mode, and thousands were squandered upon this pomp.
Meanwhile the nations were rising against France, although about this
time the Prussians had been worsted by the French on the eastern
frontiers.
In England, the horror produced was great; and one Chauvelin having
returned from London to Paris, declaring to the Convention that the
English masses were ready to rise and massacre the King (George III)
in his palace, the French ambassador at London was ordered to leave
England within twenty-four hours.
The Convention thereupon declared war against Holland and England.
Catharine II, of Russia, revoked the treaty of 1786, by which the
French were more favored in Russia, than other foreigners; and
ordered all the French in Russia to return to France, who would not
swear that they abhorred revolutionary sentiments. This Empress
joined the coalition against France.
The Convention had already declared war against Spain.
And now, England, Prussia, Austria, Russia, and Spain were all at war
with France—which was at war with itself.
Even Sweden had declared against the Republic. Not a friendly
national face looked upon France beyond the boundaries.
In mercy to what was now to happen to France, let it be said that,
cast upon her own resources, the armies of other people advancing
upon her by land, and by sea, despairing of help from the United
States, which had not yet recovered the blood spilt in obtaining her
independence, France was panic-stricken at the fear of civil war, and
rashly sought, by the most unpardonable acts, to exterminate this
probability by the extermination of all those who were suspected of
favoring Royalism.
The leader of blood amongst the Conventionists, immediately after the
execution of Louis XVI, took the hideous form of Marat. Dirty, mean,
fetid, disgusting in look and action, he endeared himself to the most
foul amongst the lowest by these attributes. But, like Robespierre,
who was a very fop in appearance and action, he accepted no public
money, and lived most obscurely in three or four garret-like rooms,
most meanly furnished. This man was the idol of the commonest people,
who saluted him almost as though a God: and he must have had some
occult power of attraction, for a woman really beautiful devoted her
life and honor to this creature. Nor was he without the sentiment of
self-sacrifice; for, though dying, though every violent speech he
made, which was always prefaced by the cry “_Blood!_” brought him
nearer to the grave, he never hesitated to exert himself, and quitted
his bed or his bath, in which he passed the greater part of his time,
to go down to the Convention, and denounce men on the most frivolous
pretences.
The moderate party in the Convention—the Girondists—who in theory
desired to save the King, and in practice condemned him to death,
were by this time in danger. They were in the way of the fiercer
party, led by Marat, Danton, and Robespierre, who were to eclipse
both; and these Girondists were already in the hands of their
opponents, condemned to follow the King to the scaffold.
It was in such language as the following that Marat, who gained a
poor living as the editor of a very fierce paper, spoke, in his
_Friend of the People_:
“I pray my readers pardon me to-day if I speak of myself; not
because I am vain, or a fool, or because I wish to serve the
people, and, therefore, must justify myself in their sight; for I
am accused of being a monster, greedy of blood—a tiger, longing for
gore!
“Born with a sensitive heart, carefully nurtured, at twenty-one, I
was pure, and had long since given myself up to knowledge.
“My mother gave much in charity, and all she gave passed through my
hands. At eight, I could not endure cruelty, and the sight of it
enraged me to madness.
“As a child I was weak, and never did I know the joys of childhood.
I was so loved, that I was never punished but once, when eleven,
and then unjustly. I sprang from the window of the room in which I
was confined, and found liberty in the streets, where, even now,
only liberty is to be found.”
He concluded this article:—
“Restored to health, I only thought how I could be useful to the
cause of freedom. And yet they accuse me of having sold myself,—I,
who could amass millions by merely selling my silence,—I, who am in
poverty and want!”
Strange enough, like Robespierre, Marat firmly believed he was an
instrument in the hands of God. “The Revolution,” he would say, “is
the Gospel, and I am its apostle.”
But all the raving in the world could not hide the fact that France
had suddenly become poor. To be rich, was to run the risk of being
accused of being an aristocrat. And as all gold and silver was in the
hands of the rich, and these were flying from France, the land was
actually being drained of specie.
Paper money was issued—a currency which the people mistrusted, as the
people always mistrust the unusual; and the Girondists were popularly
accused of causing the disappearance of the precious metals.
The walls of popular hate were closing round that score of devoted
men.
The aspect of the land was horrible. People feared to go about in
anything but rags, dreading to be supposed rich, and therefore only
fit to die; land remained uncultivated, for its owners had fled; and
the half-destroyed, empty houses of the nobility began falling into
ruins. Not a carriage was to be seen, nor a jewel, nor any sign of
luxury. All was abject, wretched, debased. The bakers’ shops were
almost like prisons (to this day, bakers’ shops in Paris are often
barred); and the only prodigality was that of wine, the many years
store of which flowed in terrible abundance. It was cheaper than
bread, and steeled the heart to pity. Commerce had ceased, and not
a sail beyond that of a French fishing-smack was to be seen in the
French waters.
Marat now advocated the pillage of every store-house in the land,
and the hanging of some of the owners in their own gateways, as an
example to the rest.
And now that which was most feared occurred—civil war. La Vendée, in
the north-west of France—the Brittany of to-day—rose almost to a man,
and defied the republic.
Spain now began to pour her soldiers upon the south, while Austrians
and Prussians were gaining victory after victory in the north and
east.
So north, south, east, and west, enemies’ faces were turned upon
France, while England was preparing to sweep her navy around the
whole of the coasts of the now devoted land.
The Convention commanded that a black flag should float from the
towers of the Cathedral of Notre Dame de Paris.
The theatres were closed.
Only one cry was heard in the streets—“To arms—to arms!”
Danton and Robespierre now quarrelled. One Legendre undertook to
reconcile them, and they met without previous warning. Danton, a
bull-dog in ferocity, and with the bull-dog’s generosity advanced,
and held out his hand. Robespierre, with the silent stealth of the
tiger, which waits and pounces, affected not to see it, ate his
dinner in silence, and went away, after the utterance of a few words,
which were the first that openly indicated his intention of betraying
Danton.
Danton was beginning to repent. His remorse was natural. He had lost
his wife, whose death had been accelerated by terror. Unable to
endure his loneliness, he sought another wife; her parents rejected
him with loathing. But, after a little, they pitied his misery, and
gave their daughter to this strangely compounded man.
Danton now contemplated what was done after Napoleon had reigned
and lived, after Louis XVIII had reigned and died, after Charles
X had been driven from the French throne—the giving of a King to
France, not belonging directly to the hated Bourbons, but to the
younger branch, the Orleanists, the leader of whom, Philip Equality,
had voted Louis XVI’s death. He was never crowned; he died on the
scaffold. His son, Louis Philippe, ultimately became King of France.
Philip Equality refused the proposal.
Meanwhile, the Convention was becoming a mere field of battle. On one
particular night, the two sides clash—a poniard is drawn, a pistol
is clapped to a breast, and murder is nearly done. It is felt that
one party must be swept away, or nothing will be done. The moderate
party, the Girondists, twenty-two in all, are to-night nearer the
scaffold by a long journey than they were in the morning.
Marat is declared a traitor by two hundred and twenty voices, against
ninety-two. Marat defies the vote, throws himself into the arms of
the people, and is borne home in triumph.
The people rise in his favor.
On the 24th of April (the Queen has been waiting death during three
months) Marat is strong enough to appear and defy Parliament. He
commands them to declare him innocent of treason. This defiance is
carried to the thousands of armed men waiting the issue outside the
House of Assembly. A cannon-like roar from the people declare their
will—and he is pronounced innocent.
The people place him on a plank, the throne of the people, and bear
him through the streets, after crowning him with flowers.
“It is you, the people,” he cries, “who crown themselves upon my
head. I am the King of Poverty. May every head, which would rear
itself above the level of the people soon fall, when I cry ‘_Kill!_’”
A few days, and, in his arrogance, he says to his brother
Conventionists, “I hold you as a little water in the palm of this
hand; and as readily as I spill it, so I can spill the blood of all
of you!”
By this time, Philip Equality, for what he had been—a Duke—had become
hated of the people. Strangely enough, he who had been so cowardly as
a youth, now, when his life was threatened, became brave. When he was
arrested, he was perfectly calm; when separated from the elder of his
two sons, he was perfectly resigned. He had turned from his family to
serve the people, and he now wore their chains.
The people now demanded the deaths of all the leaders of the more
moderate Conventionists.
“_Death to the twenty-two!_”
The people had slain a King—therefore they began to demand the lives
of those who sought, as Republicans, to govern the stricken land.