Chapter XIX: The Invasion of the Tuileries . . . . . . . . . 198 (6)

The Most Christian King is treated like the Divine Master. Petion, mayor of Paris, is to play the role of Pontius Pilate. He washes his hands of all that is to happen. He orders the battalions of National Guards under arms for the following day, not in order to oppose the march of the columns of the people, but to fraternize with the petitioners, and act as escort to the insurrection. This equivocal measure, he thinks, will set him right with both the Directory and the populace. To one he says: "I am watching," and to the other, "I am with you." {185} The rioters count on Petion as anarchy counts on weakness. He is precisely the magistrate that suits the faubourgs when they resort to violent measures. A last conventicle was held at the house of Santerre the brewer, chief of battalion of the National Guard of the Faubourg Saint-Antoine, on the night of June 19-20. It broke up at midnight. All was ready. The leaders of the insurrection repaired each to his post. They summoned their loyal adherents, and sent them about in small detachments to assemble and mass together the working classes, as soon as they should leave their houses in the morning. Santerre had declared that the National Guard could offer no opposition to the rioters. "Rest easy," said he to the conspirators; "Petion will be there." Louis XVI. no longer feigned not to notice the danger. "Who knows," said he during the night to M. de Malesherbes, with a melancholy smile, "who knows if I shall see the sun set to-morrow?"

{186}

XVIII.

THE MORNING OF JUNE TWENTIETH.

It is Wednesday, June 20, 1792, the anniversary of the oath of the Jeu de Paume. The signal is given. The faubourgs assemble. It is five in the morning. Santerre, on horseback, is at the Place de la Bastille, at the head of a popular staff. The army of rioters forms slowly. Some anxiety is shown at first. The departmental decree forbidding armed gatherings had been posted, and occasioned some reflection in the timid. But Santerre reassures them. He tells them that the National Guard will not be ordered to oppose their march, and that they may count on Petion's complicity.

When the march toward the National Assembly begins, hardly more than fifteen hundred are in line. But the little band increases as it goes. The route lies through rues Saint-Antoine, de la Verrerie, des Lombards, de la Ferronnerie, and Saint-Honore. The procession is headed by soldiers, after whom comes a great poplar stretched upon a wagon. It is the Liberty tree. According to some, it is to be planted in the courtyard of the Riding School, opposite the Assembly chamber; according to others, on the {187} terrace of the Tuileries, before the principal door of the palace. A military band plays the _Ca ira_, which is chanted in chorus by the insurrectionary troop. No obstacle impedes their march. The torrent swells incessantly. The inquisitive mingle with the bandits. Some are in uniform, some in rags; there are soldiers, active and disabled, National Guards, workmen, and beggars. Harlots in dirty silk gowns join the contingent from studios, garrets, and robbers' dens, and gangs of ragpickers unite with butchers from the slaughter-houses. Pikes, lances, spits, masons' hammers, paviors' crowbars, kitchen utensils,--their equipment is oddity itself.

It is noon. The session of the Assembly has just been opened. At this hour the throng, now numbering some twenty thousand persons, enters the rue Saint-Honore. The Directory of the Department of Paris demands admission to the bar on pressing business, and the municipal attorney-general, Roederer, begins to speak. Heeding neither the murmurs of the galleries, the disapprobation of part of the Assembly, nor the clamor sure to be raised against him that evening in the Jacobin and Cordelier clubs, he boldly announces what is going on. He reminds them of the law, and the decrees forbidding armed gatherings which have been issued by the Commune and the Department. He adds that, without such prohibitions, neither the authorities nor private individuals have any security for their lives. "We demand," cried he, "to be invested with {188} complete responsibility; we demand that our obligation to die for the maintenance of public tranquillity shall in nowise be diminished."

Vergniaud ascends the platform. He owns that, in principle, the Assembly is wrong in admitting armed gatherings within its precincts, but he declares that he thinks it impossible to refuse a permission accorded to so many others to that which now presents itself. He believes, moreover, that it could not be dispersed without a resort to martial law and a renewal of the massacre of the Champ-de-Mars. "It would be insulting to the citizens who are now asking to pay their respects to you," said he, "to suspect them of bad intentions... The assemblage doubtless does not claim to accompany the citizens who desire to present a petition to the King. Nevertheless, as a precaution, I propose that sixty members of the Assembly shall be commissioned to go to the King and remain near him until this gathering shall have been dispersed."

The discussion continues. M. Ramond follows Vergniaud. What is going to happen? What will the insurrectionary column do? Glance for an instant at the topography of the Assembly and its environs. The session-chamber is the Hall of the Riding School, which extends to the terrace of the Feuillants, and occupies the site where the rue de Rivoli was opened later on, almost at the corner of the future rue de Castiglione. It is a building about one hundred and fifty feet long. In front of it is a long and {189} narrow courtyard beginning very near the rue de Dauphin. It is entered through this courtyard, which a wall, afterwards replaced by a grating, separates from the terrace of the Feuillants. It may be entered at the other extremity, also, at the spot where the flight of steps facing the Place Vendome was afterwards built. From the side of the courtyard it can be approached by carriages, but from the other, only by pedestrians who cross the narrow passage of the Feuillants, which starts from the rue Saint-Honore, opposite the Place Vendome, and leads to the garden of the Tuileries. This passage is bordered on the right by the convent of the Capuchins; on the left is the Riding School, almost at the spot where the passage opens into the Tuileries Garden by a door which had just been closed, and before which had been placed a cannon and a battalion of National Guards.

On reaching the rue Saint-Honore, the crowd had taken good care not to enter the court of the Riding School, where they might have been arrested and disarmed. They preferred to follow the rue Saint-Honore and take the passage conducting thence to the Assembly and the terrace of the Feuillants. Three municipal officers who had gone to the Tuileries Garden, passed through this passage before the crowd, and met the advancing column at the door of the Assembly, just as M. Ramond was in the tribune discussing Vergniaud's proposition. While the head of the column was awaiting the issue of this discussion, the rank and file were constantly advancing. The {190} passage became so thronged that people were in danger of stifling. Part of them withdrew from the crowd and went into the garden of the Capuchin convent, where they amused themselves by planting the Liberty tree in the classic ground of monkish ignorance and idleness, as was said in those days. The remainder, which was in front of the door and the grating of the terrace of the Feuillants, became exasperated. The sight of the glittering bayonets, and the cannon placed in front of this grating, roused them to fury.

Meanwhile, a letter from Santerre reached the president of the National Assembly: "Gentlemen," said he, "I have received a letter from the commandant of the National Guard, which announces that the gathering amounts to eight thousand men, and that they demand admission to the bar of the chamber."--"Since there are eight thousand of them," cried a deputy, "and since we are only seven hundred and forty-five, I move that we adjourn the session and go away."

Santerre's letter is thus expressed: "Mr. President, the inhabitants of the Faubourg Saint-Antoine are celebrating to-day the anniversary of the oath of the _Jeu de Paume_. They have been calumniated before you; they ask to be admitted to the bar; they will confound their cowardly detractors for the second time, and prove that they are still the men of July 14." It was applauded by a large number of the Assembly. On the other side murmurs rose against it. M. Ramond {191} went on with his speech: "Eight thousand men, they say, are awaiting your decision. You owe it to twenty-five millions of other men who await it with no less interest.... Certainly, I shall never fear to see the citizens of Paris in our midst, nor the entire French people around us. No one could behold with greater pleasure than I the weapons which are a terror to the enemies of liberty; but the law and the authorities have spoken. Let the petitioners, therefore, lay down at the entrance of the sanctuary the arms they are forbidden to bear within it. You ought to insist on this. They ought to obey."

M. Ramond's courage did not last long. Passing to Vergniaud's proposal to send sixty members of the Assembly to the Tuileries, he said: "I applaud the motive which prompted this proposition. But, convinced that there is nothing to be feared by any person from the citizens of Paris, I regard the motion as insulting to them."

Meanwhile, the noise at the door redoubles; the petitioners are growing impatient. Guadet rises to demand that they shall come in with their arms. It is plain that the Gironde has taken the riot under its patronage. After some disorderly and violent debate, it is resolved that the president shall put the question: Are the petitioners to be admitted to the bar? They do not yet decide this other: Shall the armed citizens defile before the Assembly after they have been heard? The first question is answered in the affirmative. The delegates of the crowd are {192} admitted to the bar. They make their entry into the Assembly between one and two in the afternoon.

Their orator is a person named Huguenin, who will preside a few weeks later at the Council of the Commune during the September massacres. In his declamatory harangue he includes every tirade, threat, and insult current in the streets. "We demand," said he, "that you should find out why our armies are inactive. If the executive power is the cause, let it be abolished. The blood of patriots must not flow to satisfy the pride and ambition of the perfidious palace of the Tuileries." Here the galleries burst into enthusiastic applause. The orator goes on: "We complain of the delays of the Superior National Court. Why is it so slow in bringing down the sword of the law upon the heads of the guilty? ... Do the enemies of the country imagine that the men of July 14 are sleeping? If they appear to be so, their awakening will be terrible.... There is no time to dissimulate; the hour is come, blood will flow, and the tree of Liberty we are about to plant will flourish in peace." The applause from the galleries redoubles. Huguenin excites himself to fury: "The image of the country," he shouts, "is the sole divinity which it shall be permitted to adore. Ought this divinity, so dear to Frenchmen, to find in its own temple those who rebel against its worship? Are there any such? Let them show themselves, these friends of arbitrary power; let them make themselves known! This is not their {193} place! Let them depart from the land of liberty! Let them go to Coblentz and rejoin the _emigres_. There, their hearts will expand, they will distil their venom, they will machinate, they will conspire against their country." The orator concludes by demanding that the armed citizens shall be passed in review by the Assembly. It was in vain that Stanislas de Girardin cries, "Do the laws exist no longer, then?" The Assembly capitulates. Armed citizens are introduced. Twenty thousand men are about to pass through the session hall. The march is opened by a dozen musicians, who stop in front of the president's armchair. Then the two leaders of the manifestation make their appearance: Santerre, king of the fish markets, idol of the faubourgs, and Saint-Huruge, the deserter from the aristocracy, the marquis demagogue; Saint-Huruge, cast into the Bastille for his debts and scandalous behavior, and liberated by the Revolution; Saint-Huruge, the man of gigantic stature and the strength of a Hercules, who is the rioter _par excellence_, and whose stentorian voice rises above the bellowing of the crowd.

The spectators in the galleries tremble with joy; they stamp on perceiving both Santerre and Saint-Huruge, sabre in hand and pistols at the belt. The band plays the _Ca ira_, the national hymn of the red caps. Is this an orgy, a masquerade? Look at these rags, these bizarre costumes, these butcher-boys brandishing their knives, these tattered women, these drunken harlots who dance and shout; inhale this {194} odor of wine and eau-de-vie; behold the ensigns, the banners of insurrection, the ambulating trophies, the stone table on which are inscribed the Rights of Man; the placards wherein one reads: "Down with the veto!" "The people are tired of suffering!" "Liberty or Death!" "Tremble, tyrant!"; the gibbet from which hangs a doll representing Marie Antoinette; the ragged breeches surmounting the fashionable motto: "Live the Sans-Culottes!"; the bleeding heart set upon a pike, with the inscription, "Heart of an aristocrat!" The procession, which began about two in the afternoon, is not over until nearly four o'clock. At this time Santerre repairs to the bar, where he says: "The citizens of the Faubourg Saint-Antoine came here to express to you their ardent wishes for the welfare of the country. They beg you to accept this flag in gratitude for the good will you have shown towards them." The president responds: "The National Assembly receives your offering; it invites you to continue to march under the protection of the law, the safeguard of the country." And then, heedless of the dangers the King was about to incur, he adjourns the session at half-past four in the afternoon.

What is going to happen? Will the armed citizens return peaceably to their homes? Or, not content with their promenade to the Assembly, will they make another to the palace of the Tuileries? What preparations have been made for its defence? Ten battalions line the terrace facing the palace. Two {195} others are on the terrace at the water side, four on the side of the Carrousel. There are two companies of gendarmes before the door of the Royal Court; four on the Place Louis XVI., to guard the passage of the Orangery, opposite rue Saint-Florentin. Here, there might have been serious means of defence. But Louis XVI. is a sovereign who does not defend himself. Two municipal officers, MM. Boucher-Saint-Sauveur and Mouchet, had just approached him: "My colleagues and myself," said M. Mouchet to him, "have observed with pain that the Tuileries were closed the very instant the cortege made its appearance. The people, crowded into the passage of the Feuillants, were all the more dissatisfied because they could see through the wicket that there were persons in the garden. We ourselves, Sire, were very much affected at seeing cannon pointed at the people. It is urgent that Your Majesty should order the gates of the Tuileries to be opened."

After hesitating slightly, Louis XVI. ended by replying: "I consent that the door of the Feuillants shall be opened; but on condition that you make the procession march across the length of the terrace and go out by the courtyard gate of the Riding School, without descending into the garden."

This was one of the King's illusions. While he was parleying with the two municipal officers the armed citizens had passed in review before the Assembly. They had just left the session hall by a door leading into the courtyard. Once in this {196} courtyard, the intervention of some municipal officers caused the entrance known as the Dauphin's door, opposite the street of the same name, to be opened for them. It was by this that they entered the Tuileries Garden, while it was the wish of Louis XVI. that they should pass out through it from the terrace of the Feuillants. There they are, then, in the garden, having made an irruption there instead of continuing their route through rue Saint-Honore. Here they come along the terrace in front of the palace, on which several battalions of the National Guard are stationed. The crowd passes quickly before these battalions. Some of the guards unfix their bayonets; others present arms, as if to do honor to the riot. Having passed through the garden, the columns of the people go out through the gate before the Pont-Royal. They pass up the quay, and through the Louvre wickets, and so into the Place Carrousel, which is cut up by a multitude of streets, a sort of covered ways very suitable to facilitate the attack.

Certain municipal officers make some slight efforts to quiet the assailants; others, on the contrary, do what they can to embolden and excite them. The four battalions at the entrance of the Carrousel, and the two companies of gendarmes posted before the door of the Royal Court, make no resistance. The rioters, who have invaded the Carrousel, find their march obstructed by the closing of this door. Santerre and Saint-Huruge, who had been the last to leave the National Assembly, make their appearance, {197} raging with anger. They rail at the people for not having penetrated into the palace. "That is all we came for," say they. Santerre, before the door of the Royal Court--one of the three courtyards in front of the palace, opposite the Carrousel--summons his cannoneers. "I am going," he cries, "to open the doors with cannon-balls."

Some royalist officers of the National Guard seek vainly to defend the palace. No one heeds them. The door of the Royal Court opens its two leaves. The crowd presses through. No more dike to the torrent; the gendarmes set their caps on the ends of their sabres, and cry: "Live the nation!" The thing is done; the palace is invaded.

{198}

XIX.

THE INVASION OF THE TUILERIES.

It is nearly four o'clock in the afternoon. The invasion of the Tuileries is beginning. Let us glance at the palace and get a notion of the apartments through which the crowd are about to rush. On approaching it by way of the Carrousel, one comes first to three courtyards: that of the Princes, in front of the Pavilion of Flora; the Royal Court, before the Pavilion of the Horloge; and the Swiss Court, before the Pavilion of Marsan. The assailants enter by the Royal Court, pass into the palace through the vestibule of the Horloge Pavilion, and climb the great staircase. On the left of this are the large apartments of the first story:--

1. The Hall of the Hundred Swiss (the future Hall of the Marshals);

2. The Hall of the Guards (the future Hall of the First Consul);

3. The King's Antechamber (the future Salon d'Apollon);

4. The State Bedchamber (the future Throne-room);

{199}

5. The King's Grand Cabinet (called later the Salon of Louis XIV.);

6. The Gallery of Diana.

There are a battalion and two companies of gendarmes in the palace, as well as the guards then on duty and those they had relieved. But as no orders are given to these troops, they either break their ranks or fraternize with the enemy. No obstacle, no resistance, is offered, and nobody defends the apartments. The assailants, who have taken a cannon as far as the first story, enter the Hall of the Hundred Swiss, whose doors are neither locked nor barricaded. They penetrate into the Hall of the Guards with the same ease. But when they try to make their way into the OEil-de-Boeuf, or King's Antechamber, the locked door of this apartment arrests their progress. This exasperates them, and one of the panels is soon broken.

Where is Louis XVI. when the invasion begins? In his bedroom with his family. It communicates with the Grand Cabinet, and has windows commanding a view of the garden. M. Acloque, chief of the second legion of the National Guard, and a faithful royalist, hastens to the King by way of the little staircase leading from the Princes' Court to the royal chamber, in order to tell him what has happened. He finds the door locked; he knocks, gives his name, urgently demands admittance, and obtains it. He advises Louis XVI. to show himself to the people. {200} The King, whom no peril has ever frightened, does not hesitate to follow this advice. The Queen wishes to accompany her husband; but she is opposed in this and forcibly drawn into the Dauphin's chamber, which is near that of Louis XVI. Happier than the Queen,--these are her own words,--Madame Elisabeth finds nobody to tear her from the King. She takes hold of the skirts of her brother's coat. Nothing could separate them.

Louis XVI. passes into the Great Cabinet, thence into the State Bedchamber, and through it into the OEil-de-Boeuf, where he will presently receive the crowd. He is surrounded at this moment by Madame Elisabeth, three of his ministers (MM. de Beaulieu, de Lajard, and Terrier de Montciel), the old Marshal de Mouchy, Chevalier de Canolle, M. d'Hervilly, M. Guinguerlet, lieutenant-colonel of the unmounted gendarmes, and M. de Vainfrais, also an officer of gendarmes. Some grenadiers of the National Guard afterwards arrive through the Great Cabinet and the State Bedchamber. "Come here! four grenadiers of the National Guard!" cries the King. One of them says, "Sire, do not be afraid."--"I am not afraid," replies the King; "put your hand on my heart; it is pure and tranquil." And taking the grenadier's hand he presses it forcibly against his breast. The grenadier is a tailor named Jean Lalanne. Later, under the Terror, by a decree of the 12th Messidor, Year II., he will be condemned to death for having--so runs the sentence--"displayed the character of a {201} cringing valet of the tyrant, in boasting before several citizens that Capet, taking his hand and laying it on his heart, had said to him, 'Feel, my friend, whether it palpitates.'"

"Gentlemen, save the King!" cries Madame Elisabeth. Meanwhile, the crowd is still in the next apartment, the Hall of the Guards. They are battering away with hatchets and gun-stocks at the door which opens into the King's Antechamber. Nothing but a partition separates Louis XVI. from the assailants. He orders the door to be opened. The crowd rush in. "Here I am," says Louis XVI. calmly; "I have never deviated from the Constitution."

"Citizens," says Acloque, "recognize your King and respect him; the law commands you to do so. We will all perish rather than suffer him to receive the slightest harm." M. de Canolle cries: "Long live the nation! Long live the King!" This cry is not repeated. Some one begs Madame Elisabeth to retire. "I will not leave the King," she replies, "I will not leave him." Those who surround Louis XVI. make a rampart for him of their bodies. The crowd becomes immense. It is proposed to the King that he stand on a bench in the embrasure of the central window, from which there is a view of the courtyard. Other benches and a table are placed in front of him. Madame Elisabeth takes a bench in the next window with M. de Marsilly. The hall is full. Groans, atrocious threats, and gross insults resound on every side. Some one shouts: "Down with the {202} veto! To the devil with the veto! Recall the patriot ministers! Let him sign, or we will not go out of here!" The butcher Legendre comes forward. He asks permission to speak. Silence is obtained, and, addressing the King, he says: "Monsieur." At this unusual title, Louis XVI. make a gesture of surprise. "Yes, Monsieur," goes on Legendre, "listen to us; it is your duty to listen to us.... You are a traitor. You have always deceived us, and you deceive us still; the measure is full, and the people are tired of being made your laughing-stock." The insolent butcher, who calls himself the agent of the people, then reads a pretended petition which is a mere tissue of recriminations and threats. Louis XVI. listens with imperturbable sang-froid. He answers simply: "I will do what the Constitution and the decrees ordain that I shall do." The noise begins anew. It is a rain, a hail of insults.

Some individuals mistake Madame Elisabeth for Marie Antoinette. Her equerry, M. de Saint-Pardoux, throws himself between her and the furious wretches, who cry: "Ah! there is the Austrian woman; we must have the Austrian!" and undeceives them by naming her.--"Why did you not allow them to believe I am the Queen?" says the courageous Princess; "perhaps you might have averted a greater crime." And, putting aside a bayonet which almost touches her breast, "Take care, Monsieur," she says gently, "you might hurt somebody, and I am sure you would be sorry to do that." {203} The shouts redouble. The confusion becomes terrible. It is with great difficulty that some grenadiers of the National Guard defend the embrasure of the window where Louis XVI. still stands immovable on his bench. Mingled with the crowd there are inoffensive persons, who have come merely out of curiosity, and even honest men who sincerely pity the King. But there are tigers and assassins as well. One of them, armed with a club ending in a sword-blade, tries to thrust it into the King's heart. The grenadiers parry the blow with their bayonets. A market porter struggles long to reach Louis XVI., against whom he brandishes a sabre. Several times the wretched monarch seeks to address the crowd. His voice is lost in the uproar. A municipal official, M. Mouchet, hoisting himself on the shoulders of two persons, demands by voice and gesture a moment's silence for the King and for himself. Vain efforts. The vociferations of the crowd only increase. Here comes a long pole on the end of which is a Phrygian cap, a _bonnet rouge_. The pole is inclined towards M. Mouchet. M. Mouchet takes the cap and presents it to the King, who, to please the crowd, puts it on his head.

Is it possible? That man on a bench, with the ignoble cap of a galley-slave on his head, surrounded by a drunken and tattered rabble who vomit filthy language, that man the King of France and Navarre, the most Christian King, Louis XVI.? Go back to the day of the coronation, June 11, 1775. It is {204} just seventeen years and nine days ago! Do you remember the Cathedral of Rheims, luminous, glittering; the cardinals, ministers, and marshals of France, the red ribbons, the blue ribbons, the lay peers with their vests of cloth-of-gold, their violet ducal mantles lined with ermine; the clerical peers with cope and cross? Do you remember the King taking Charlemagne's sword in his hand, and then prostrating himself before the altar on a great kneeling-cushion of velvet sown with golden lilies? Do you see him vested by the grand-chamberlain with the tunic, the dalmatica, and the ermine-lined mantle which represent the vestments of a sub-deacon, deacon, and priest, because the King is not merely a sovereign, but a pontiff? Do you see him seizing the royal sceptre, that golden sceptre set with oriental pearls, and carvings representing the great Carlovingian Emperor on a throne adorned with lions and eagles? Do you remember the pealing of the bells, the chords of the organ, the blare of trumpets, the clouds of incense, the birds flying in the nave?

And now, instead of the coronation the pillory; instead of the crown the hideous red cap; instead of hymns and murmurs of admiration and respect,--insults, the buffoonery of the fish-market, shouts of contempt and hatred, threats of murder. Ah! the time is not far distant when a Conventionist will break the vial containing the sacred oil on the pavement of the Abbey of Saint Remi. How slippery is the swift descent, the fatal descent by which a {205} sovereign who disarms himself glides down from the heights of power and glory to the depths of opprobrium and sorrow! There he is! Not content with putting the red bonnet on his head, he keeps it there, and mumming in the Jacobin coiffure, he cries: "Long live the nation!" The crowd find the spectacle amusing. A National Guard, to whom some one has passed a bottle of wine, offers the complaisant King a drink. Perhaps the wine is poisoned. No matter; Louis XVI. takes a glass of it.

While all this is going on, two deputies, Isnard and Vergniaud, present themselves. "Citizens," says the first, "I am Isnard, a deputy. If what you demand were at once granted, it might be thought you extorted it by force. In the name of the law and the National Assembly, I ask you to respect the constituted authorities and retire. The National Assembly will do justice; I will aid thereto with all my power. You shall obtain satisfaction; I answer for it with my head; but go away." Vergniaud follows him with similar remarks. Neither is listened to. Nobody departs.

It is six in the evening. For two hours, one man, exposed to every insult, has held his own against a multitude. At last Petion arrives wearing his mayor's scarf. The crowd draws back. "Sire," says he, "I have just this instant learned the situation you were in."--"That is very astonishing," returns Louis XVI.; "for it has lasted two hours."--"Sire, truly, I was ignorant that there was trouble at the palace. {206} As soon as I was informed, I hastened to your side. But you have nothing to fear; I answer for it that the people will respect you."--"I fear nothing," replies the King. "Moreover, I have not been in any danger, since I was surrounded by the National Guard."

Petion, like Pontius Pilate, pretends indifference. A municipal officer, M. Champion, reminds him of his duties, and says with firmness: "Order the people to retire; order them in the name of the law; we are threatened with great danger, and you must speak." At last Petion decides to intervene. "Citizens," he says, "all you who are listening to me, came to present legally your petition to the hereditary representative of the nation, and you have done so with the dignity and majesty of a free people; return now to your homes, for you can desire nothing further. Your demand will doubtless be reiterated by all the eighty-three departments, and the King will grant your prayer. Retire, and do not, by remaining longer, give occasion to the public enemies to impugn your worthy intentions."

At first this discourse of the mayor of Paris produces but slight effect. The cries and threats continue. But, after a while, the crowd, worn out with shouting, and hungry and thirsty as well, begin to quiet down a little. The most excited cry: "We are waiting for an answer from the King. Nothing has been asked of him yet." Others say: "Listen to the mayor, he is going to speak again; we will {207} hear him." Petion repeats what he said before: "If you do not wish your magistrates to be unjustly accused, withdraw."

M. Sergent, administrator of police, who had come with the mayor, asked if any one has ordered the doors leading from the Grand Cabinet to the Gallery of Diana to be opened, so as to allow the crowd to pass out by the small staircase into the Court of the Princes. Louis XVI. overheard this question. "I have had the apartments opened," said he; "the people, marching out on the gallery side, will like to see them." A sentiment of curiosity hastened the movements of the crowd. In order to go out, they had to pass through the State Bedchamber, the Grand Cabinet, and the Gallery of Diana. Sergent, standing in front of the door, leading from the OEil-de-Boeuf to the State Bedchamber, unfastens his scarf and waving it over his head, cries: "Citizens, this is the badge of the law; in its name we invite you to retire and follow us." Petion says: "The people have done what they ought to do. You have acted with the pride and dignity of freemen. But there has been enough of it; let all retire." A double row of National Guards is formed, and the people pass between them. The return march begins. A few recalcitrants want to remain, and keep up a cry of "Down with the veto! Recall the ministers!" But they are swept on by the stream, and follow the march like all the rest. While they are going out through the door between the OEil-de-Boeuf and the State {208} Bed-chamber, the National Guard prevents any one from entering on the other side, through the door connecting the OEil-de-Boeuf with the Hall of the Guards.

At this moment, a deputation of twenty-four members of the Assembly present themselves. Roused by the public clamor announcing that the King's life is in danger, the National Assembly has called an extraordinary evening session. The president of the deputation, M. Brunk, says to the King: "Sire, the National Assembly sends us to assure ourselves of your situation, to protect the constitutional liberty you should enjoy, and to share your danger." Louis XVI. replies: "I am grateful for the solicitude of the Assembly; I am undisturbed in the midst of Frenchmen." At the same time, Petion goes to turn back the crowd, who are constantly ascending the great staircase, and who threaten another invasion. The sentry at the doorway of the OEil-de-Boeuf is replaced, and the crowd ceases to flock thither. The circle of National Guards about the sovereign is increased. A space is formed, and he is surrounded by the deputation from the Assembly. Acloque, seeing that the tumult is lessening and the room no longer encumbered by the crowd, proposes to the King that he should retire, and Louis XVI. decides to do so. Surrounded by deputies and National Guards, he passes into the State Bedchamber, and notwithstanding the throng, he manages to reach a secret door at the right of the bed, near the chimney, which communicates with his bedroom. He goes through this little door, and some one closes it behind him.

{209}

It is not far from eight o'clock in the evening. The peril and humiliation of Louis XVI. have lasted nearly four hours, and the unhappy King is not yet at the end of his sufferings, for he does not know what has become of his wife and children. While these sad scenes had been enacting in the palace, a furious populace had been in incessant commotion beneath the windows, in the garden and the courtyards. People desiring to establish communication between those down stairs and those above, had been heard to cry: "Have they been struck down? Are they dead? Throw us down their heads!"

A slender young man, with the profile of a Roman medal, a pale complexion, and flashing eyes, was looking at all this from the upper part of the terrace beside the water. Unable to comprehend the long-suffering of Louis XVI., he said in an indignant tone: "How could they have allowed this rabble to enter? They should have swept out four or five hundred of them with cannon, and the rest would have run." The man who spoke thus, obscure and hidden in the crowd, opposite that palace where he was to play so great a part, was the "straight-haired Corsican," the future Emperor Napoleon.

{210}

XX.

MARIE ANTOINETTE ON JUNE TWENTIETH.

Louis XVI. had just entered his bedchamber. The crowd, after leaving the hall of the OEil-de-Boeuf, had departed through the State Bedchamber, and the King's Great Cabinet, called also the Council Hall. On entering this last apartment, an unexpected scene had surprised them. Behind the large table they saw the Queen, Madame Elisabeth, the Dauphin, and Madame Royale.

How came the Queen to be there? What had happened? At a quarter of four, when Louis XVI. had left his room to go into the hall of the Bull's-Eye and meet the rioters, Marie Antoinette, as we have already said, made desperate efforts to follow him. M. Aubier, placing himself before the door of the King's chamber, prevented the Queen from going out. In vain she cried: "Let me pass; my place is beside the King; I will join him and perish with him if it must be." M. Aubier, through devotion, disobeyed her. Nevertheless, the Queen, whose courage redoubled her strength, would have borne down this faithful servant if M. Rougeville, a chevalier of Saint-Louis, had not aided him to block up the passage. {211} Imploring Marie Antoinette in the name of her own safety and that of the King, not to expose herself needlessly to poniards, and aided by the Minister of Foreign Affairs, they drew her almost by force into the chamber of the Dauphin, which was near the King's. MM. de Choiseul, d'Haussonville, and de Saint-Priest, assisted by several grenadiers of the National Guard, afterwards induced her to go with her children into the Grand Cabinet of the King, called also the Council Hall, because the ministers were accustomed to assemble there.

The Princess de Lamballe, the Princess of Tarento, the Marchioness de Tourzel, the Duchesses de Luynes, de Duras, de Maille, the Marchioness de Laroche-Aymon, Madame de Soucy, the Baroness de Mackau, the Countess de Ginestous, remained with the Queen. So also did the Minister Chambonas, the Duke de Choiseul, Counts d'Haussonville and de Montmorin, Viscount de Saint-Priest, Marquis de Champcenetz, and General de Wittenghoff, commander of the 17th military division. The Queen and her children occupied the embrasure of a window, and the large and heavy table used by the ministerial council was placed in front of them as a sort of barricade.

Meanwhile, Marie Antoinette's apartments and her bedroom on the ground-floor were invaded. Some National Guards tried vainly to defend them. "You are cutting your own throats!" shouted the people. Overwhelmed by numbers, they saw the door of the first apartment broken down by hatchets. It {212} contained the beds of the Queen's servants, ranged behind screens. Afterwards they saw the invaders go into Marie Antoinette's sleeping-room, tear the clothes off her bed, and loll upon it, crying as they did so, "We will have the Austrian woman, dead or alive!"

The Queen, however, remained in the Council Hall, where she could hear the echo of the cries resounding in that of the OEil-de-Boeuf, where Louis XVI. was, and from which she was separated only by the State Bedchamber. Toward seven in the evening she beheld Madame Elisabeth, who, after heroically sharing the dangers of the King, had now found means to rejoin her. "The deputies who came to us," she wrote to Madame de Raigecourt, July 3, "had come out of good will. A veritable deputation arrived and persuaded the King to go back to his own apartments. As I was told this, and as I was unwilling to be left in the crowd, I went away about an hour before he did, and rejoined the Queen: you can imagine with what pleasure I embraced her." In their perils, therefore, Madame Elisabeth was near both Louis XVI. and Marie Antoinette.

After having voluntarily exposed herself to all the anguish of the invasion of the OEil-de-Boeuf, the courageous Princess was with the Queen in the Council Hall, when the crowd, coming through the State Bed-chamber, arrived there. The horde marched through it, carrying their barbarous inscriptions like so many ferocious standards. "One of these," says Madame {213} Campan in her Memoirs, "represented a gibbet from which an ugly doll was hanging; below it was written: 'Marie Antoinette to the lamp-post!' Another was a plank to which a bullock's heart had been fastened, surrounded by the words: 'Heart of Louis XVI.' Finally, a third presented a pair of bullock's horns with an indecent motto." Some royalist grenadiers belonging to the battalion called the _Filles-Saint-Thomas_, were near the council-table and protected the Queen. Marie Antoinette was standing, and held her daughter's hand. The Dauphin sat on the table in front of her. At the moment when the march began, a woman threw a red cap on this table and cried out that it must be placed on the Queen's head. M. de Wittenghoff, his hand trembling with indignation, took the cap and after holding it for a moment over Marie Antoinette's head, put it back on the table. Then a cry was raised: "The red cap for the Prince Royal! Tri-colored ribbons for little Veto!" Ribbons were thrown down beside the Phrygian cap. Some one shouted: "If you love the nation, set the red cap on your son's head." The Queen made an affirmative sign, and the revolutionary coiffure was set on the child's fair head.

What humiliations were these for the unhappy mother! What anguish for so haughty, so magnanimous a queen! The galley-slave's cap has touched the head of the daughter of Caesars, and now soils the forehead of her son! The slang of the {214} fish-markets resounds beneath the venerable arches of the palace. How bitterly the unfortunate sovereign expiates her former triumphs! Where are the ovations and the apotheoses, the carriages of gold and crystal, the solemn entries into the city in its gala dress, to the sound of bells and trumpets? What trace remains of those brilliant days when, more goddess than woman, the Queen of France and Navarre appeared through a cloud of incense, in the midst of flowers and light? This good and beautiful sovereign, whose least smile, or glance, or nod, had been regarded as a precious recompense, a supreme favor by the noble lords and ladies who bent respectfully before her, behold how she is treated now! Consider the costumes and the language of her new courtiers! And yet, Marie Antoinette is majestic still. Even in this horrible scene, in presence of these drunken women and ragged suburbans, she does not lose that gift of pleasing which is her special dower. At a distance they curse her; but when they come near they are subjugated by her spell. Her most ferocious enemies are touched in their own despite. A young girl had just called her "_Autrichienne_." "You call me an Austrian woman," replied she, "but I am the wife of the King of France, I am the mother of the Dauphin; I am a Frenchwoman by my sentiments as wife and mother. I shall never again see the land where I was born. I can be happy or unhappy nowhere but in France. I was happy when you loved me." Confused by this gentle {215} reproach, the young girl softened. "Pardon me," she said; "it was because I did not know you; I see very well now that you are not wicked." A woman, passing, stopped before the Queen and began to sob. "What is the matter with her?" asked Santerre; "what is she crying about?" And he shook her by the arm, saying: "Make her pass on, she is drunk." Even Santerre himself felt Marie Antoinette's influence. "Madame," he said to her, "the people wish you no harm. Your friends deceive you; you have nothing to fear, and I am going to prove it by serving as your shield." It was he who took pity on the Dauphin whom the heat was stifling, and said: "Take the red cap off the child; he is too hot." He too, it was, that hastened the march of the procession and pointed out to the people the different members of the royal family by name, saying: "This is the Queen, this is her son, this her daughter, this Madame Elisabeth."

At last the crowd is gone. The hall is empty. It is eight o'clock. The Queen and her children enter the King's chamber. Louis XVI., who finds them once more after so many perils and emotions, covers them with kisses. In the midst of this pathetic scene some deputies arrive. Marie Antoinette shows them the traces of violence which the people have left behind them,--locks broken, hinges forced off, wainscoting burst through, furniture ruined. She speaks of the dangers that have threatened the King and the insults offered to herself. Perceiving that Merlin de {216} Thionville, an ardent Jacobin, has tears in his eyes, she says: "You are weeping to see the King and his family so cruelly treated by people whom he has always desired to render happy." The republican answered: "Yes, Madame, I weep, but it is for the misfortunes of the mother of a family, not for the King and Queen; I hate kings and queens." A deputy accosted Marie Antoinette, saying in a familiar tone: "You were very much afraid, Madame, you must admit." "No, Monsieur," she replied, "I was not at all afraid; but I suffered much in being separated from the King at a moment when his life was in danger. At least, I had the consolation of being with my children and performing one of my duties." "Without pretending to excuse everything, agree, Madame, that the people showed themselves very good-natured." "The King and I, Monsieur, are convinced of the natural goodness of the people; it is only when they are misled that they are wicked."--"How old is Mademoiselle?" went on the deputy, pointing to Madame Royale.--"She is at that age, Monsieur, when one feels only too great a horror of such scenes."

Other deputies surround the Dauphin. They question him on different subjects, especially concerning the geography of France and its new territorial division into departments and districts, and are enchanted by the correctness of his replies.

An officer of Chasseurs of the National Guard enters the King's chamber. This officer had shown {217} the utmost zeal in protecting his sovereign and had had the honor of being wounded at his side. He is congratulated. The Dauphin perceives him. "What is the name of that guard who defended my father so bravely?" he asks.--"Monseigneur," replies M. Hue, "I do not know; he will be flattered if you ask him." The Prince runs to put his question to the officer, but the latter, in respectful terms, declines to answer. Then M. Hue insists. "I beg you," he cries, "tell us your name."--"I ought to conceal my name," replies the officer; "unfortunately for me, it is the same as that of an execrable man." The faithful royalist bore the same name as the man who had caused the arrest of the royal family at Varennes the previous year. He was called Drouot.

The hour for repose has come at last. It is ten o'clock. Certain individuals still complain: "They took us there for nothing; but we will go back and have what we want." Still, the storm is over. The crowd has evacuated the palace, the courtyards, and the garden. The Assembly closes its sessions at half-past ten. Petion said there: "The King has no cause of complaint against the citizens who marched before him. He has said as much to the deputies and magistrates." Finally, as the deputies were about to separate after this exciting day, one of them, M. Guyton-Morveau, remarked: "The deputation which preceded us, has doubtless announced to you that all is now tranquil. We remained with the King for some time, and saw nothing which could {218} inspire the least alarm. We invited the King to seek some repose. He sent an officer of the National Guard to visit the posts, and the officer reported that there was nobody in the palace. His Majesty assured us that he desired to remain alone; we left him; and we can certify to you that all is quiet."

{219}

XXI.

THE MORROW OF JUNE TWENTIETH.

In the morning of June 21 there were still some disorderly gatherings in front of the Tuileries. On awaking, the Dauphin put this artless question to the Queen: "Mamma, is it yesterday still?" Alas! yes, it was still yesterday, it was always to be yesterday until the catastrophes at the end of the drama. It was just a year to a day since the royal family had furtively quitted Paris to begin the fatal journey which terminated at Varennes. This souvenir occurred to Marie Antoinette, and, recalling the first stations of her Calvary, the unfortunate sovereign told herself that her humiliations had but just begun. Her lips had touched only the brim of the chalice, and it must be drained to the dregs.

Meanwhile, visitors were arriving at the Tuileries one after another to condole with and protest their fidelity to the King and his family. When Marshal de Mouchy made his appearance, the worthy old man was received with the honors due to his noble conduct on the previous day. When the invasion began, Louis XVI., in order not to irritate the rabble, had given his gentlemen a formal order to withdraw, but {220} the old marshal, hoping that his great age (he was seventy-seven) would excuse his presence in the palace, had refused to leave his master. More than once, with a strength rejuvenated by devotion, he had succeeded in repulsing persons whose violence made him tremble for the King's life. As soon as she saw the marshal, Marie Antoinette made haste to say: "I have learned from the King how courageously you defended him yesterday. I share his gratitude."--"Madame," he replied, alluding to those of his relatives who had figured among the promoters of the Revolution, "I did very little in comparison with the injuries I should like to repair. They were not mine, but they touch me very nearly."--"My son," said the Queen, calling the Dauphin, "repeat before the marshal, the prayer you addressed to God this morning for the King." The child, kneeling down, put his hands together, and looking up to heaven, began to sing this refrain from the opera of _Pierre le Grand_:--

_Ciel, entends la priere
Qu'ici je fais:
Conserve un si bon pere
A ses sujets._[1]

After the Marshal de Mouchy came M. de Malesherbes. Contrary to his usual custom, the ex-first {221} president wore his sword. "It is a long time," some one said to him, "since you have worn a sword."--"True," replied the old man, "but who would not arm when the King's life is in danger?" Then, looking with emotion at the little Prince, he said to Marie Antoinette: "I hope, Madame, that at least our children will see better days!"

And yet, even for the present there still remained a glimmer of hope. Hardly had the invaders left the palace than invectives against them rose from all classes of society. The calmness and courage of the King and his family found admirers on every side. The departments sent addresses demanding the punishment of those who had been guilty. Royalist sentiments woke to life anew. One might almost believe that the indignation caused by the recent scandals would produce an immediate reaction in favor of Louis XVI. Possibly, with an energetic sovereign, something might have been attempted. On the whole, the insurrection had obtained nothing. Even the Girondins perceived the dangerous character of revolutionary passions. Honest men stigmatized the criminal tendencies which had just displayed themselves. It was the moment for the King to show himself and strike a great blow. But Louis XVI. had neither will nor energy. Letting the last chance of safety which fortune offered him escape, he was unable to profit by the turn in public opinion. Nothing could shake him out of that easy patience which was the chief cause of his ruin.

{222}

Marie Antoinette herself was opposed to vigorous measures. She still desired to try the effects of kindness. Learning that a legal inquiry was proposed into the events of June 20, and foreseeing that M. Hue would be called as a witness, she said to this loyal servant: "Say as little in your deposition as truth will permit. I recommend you, on the King's part and my own, to forget that we were the objects of these popular movements. Every suspicion that either the King or myself feel the least resentment for what happened must be avoided; it is not the people who are guilty, and even if it were, they would always obtain pardon and forgetfulness of their errors from us."

During this time the Assembly maintained an attitude more than equivocal. It contained a great number of honest men. But, terrorized already, it no longer possessed the courage of indignation. It grew pale before the menaces of the public. By cringing to the rabble it had attained that hypocritical optimism which is the distinctive mark of moderate revolutionists, and which makes them in turn the dupes and the victims of those who are more zealous.