Chapter 1: 5.vi

Storm and Victory.

But, to the living and the struggling, a new, Fourteenth morning
dawns. Under all roofs of this distracted City, is the nodus of a
drama, not untragical, crowding towards solution. The bustlings
and preparings, the tremors and menaces; the tears that fell from
old eyes! This day, my sons, ye shall quit you like men. By the
memory of your fathers’ wrongs, by the hope of your children’s
rights! Tyranny impends in red wrath: help for you is none if not
in your own right hands. This day ye must do or die.

From earliest light, a sleepless Permanent Committee has heard
the old cry, now waxing almost frantic, mutinous: Arms! Arms!
Provost Flesselles, or what traitors there are among you, may
think of those Charleville Boxes. A hundred-and-fifty thousand of
us; and but the third man furnished with so much as a pike! Arms
are the one thing needful: with arms we are an unconquerable
man-defying National Guard; without arms, a rabble to be whiffed
with grapeshot.

Happily the word has arisen, for no secret can be kept,—that
there lie muskets at the _Hôtel des Invalides_. Thither will we:
King’s Procureur M. Ethys de Corny, and whatsoever of authority a
Permanent Committee can lend, shall go with us. Besenval’s Camp
is there; perhaps he will not fire on us; if he kill us we shall
but die.

Alas, poor Besenval, with his troops melting away in that manner,
has not the smallest humour to fire! At five o’clock this
morning, as he lay dreaming, oblivious in the _Ecole Militaire_,
a “figure” stood suddenly at his bedside: “with face rather
handsome; eyes inflamed, speech rapid and curt, air audacious:”
such a figure drew Priam’s curtains! The message and monition of
the figure was, that resistance would be hopeless; that if blood
flowed, wo to him who shed it. Thus spoke the figure; and
vanished. “Withal there was a kind of eloquence that struck one.”
Besenval admits that he should have arrested him, but did
not.[180] Who this figure, with inflamed eyes, with speech rapid
and curt, might be? Besenval knows but mentions not. Camille
Desmoulins? Pythagorean Marquis Valadi, inflamed with “violent
motions all night at the Palais Royal?” Fame names him, “Young M.
Meillar”;[181] Then shuts her lips about him for ever.

In any case, behold about nine in the morning, our National
Volunteers rolling in long wide flood, south-westward to the
_Hôtel des Invalides;_ in search of the one thing needful. King’s
procureur M. Ethys de Corny and officials are there; the Curé of
Saint-Etienne du Mont marches unpacific, at the head of his
militant Parish; the Clerks of the Bazoche in red coats we see
marching, now Volunteers of the Bazoche; the Volunteers of the
Palais Royal:—National Volunteers, numerable by tens of
thousands; of one heart and mind. The King’s muskets are the
Nation’s; think, old M. de Sombreuil, how, in this extremity,
thou wilt refuse them! Old M. de Sombreuil would fain hold
parley, send Couriers; but it skills not: the walls are scaled,
no Invalide firing a shot; the gates must be flung open.
Patriotism rushes in, tumultuous, from grundsel up to ridge-tile,
through all rooms and passages; rummaging distractedly for arms.
What cellar, or what cranny can escape it? The arms are found;
all safe there; lying packed in straw,—apparently with a view to
being burnt! More ravenous than famishing lions over dead prey,
the multitude, with clangour and vociferation, pounces on them;
struggling, dashing, clutching:—to the jamming-up, to the
pressure, fracture and probable extinction, of the weaker
Patriot.[182] And so, with such protracted crash of deafening,
most discordant Orchestra-music, the Scene is changed: and
eight-and-twenty thousand sufficient firelocks are on the
shoulders of so many National Guards, lifted thereby out of
darkness into fiery light.

Let Besenval look at the glitter of these muskets, as they flash
by! Gardes Françaises, it is said, have cannon levelled on him;
ready to open, if need were, from the other side of the
River.[183] Motionless sits he; “astonished,” one may flatter
oneself, “at the proud bearing (_fière contenance_) of the
Parisians.”—And now, to the Bastille, ye intrepid Parisians!
There grapeshot still threatens; thither all men’s thoughts and
steps are now tending.

Old de Launay, as we hinted, withdrew “into his interior” soon
after midnight of Sunday. He remains there ever since, hampered,
as all military gentlemen now are, in the saddest conflict of
uncertainties. The Hôtel-de-Ville “invites” him to admit National
Soldiers, which is a soft name for surrendering. On the other
hand, His Majesty’s orders were precise. His garrison is but
eighty-two old Invalides, reinforced by thirty-two young Swiss;
his walls indeed are nine feet thick, he has cannon and powder;
but, alas, only one day’s provision of victuals. The city too is
French, the poor garrison mostly French. Rigorous old de Launay,
think what thou wilt do!

All morning, since nine, there has been a cry everywhere: To the
Bastille! Repeated “deputations of citizens” have been here,
passionate for arms; whom de Launay has got dismissed by soft
speeches through portholes. Towards noon, Elector Thuriot de la
Rosiere gains admittance; finds de Launay indisposed for
surrender; nay disposed for blowing up the place rather. Thuriot
mounts with him to the battlements: heaps of paving-stones, old
iron and missiles lie piled; cannon all duly levelled; in every
embrasure a cannon,—only drawn back a little! But outwards
behold, O Thuriot, how the multitude flows on, welling through
every street; tocsin furiously pealing, all drums beating the
_générale:_ the Suburb Saint-Antoine rolling hitherward wholly,
as one man! Such vision (spectral yet real) thou, O Thuriot, as
from thy Mount of Vision, beholdest in this moment: prophetic of
what other Phantasmagories, and loud-gibbering Spectral
Realities, which, thou yet beholdest not, but shalt! ‘_Que voulez
vous?_’ said de Launay, turning pale at the sight, with an air of
reproach, almost of menace. ‘Monsieur,’ said Thuriot, rising into
the moral-sublime, ‘What mean _you?_ Consider if I could not
precipitate _both_ of us from this height,’—say only a hundred
feet, exclusive of the walled ditch! Whereupon de Launay fell
silent. Thuriot shews himself from some pinnacle, to comfort the
multitude becoming suspicious, fremescent: then descends; departs
with protest; with warning addressed also to the Invalides,—on
whom, however, it produces but a mixed indistinct impression. The
old heads are none of the clearest; besides, it is said, de
Launay has been profuse of beverages (_prodigua des buissons_).
They think, they will not fire,—if not fired on, if they can help
it; but must, on the whole, be ruled considerably by
circumstances.

Wo to thee, de Launay, in such an hour, if thou canst not, taking
some one firm decision, _rule_ circumstances! Soft speeches will
not serve; hard grape-shot is questionable; but hovering between
the two is _un_questionable. Ever wilder swells the tide of men;
their infinite hum waxing ever louder, into imprecations, perhaps
into crackle of stray musketry,—which latter, on walls nine feet
thick, cannot do execution. The Outer Drawbridge has been lowered
for Thuriot; new _deputation of citizens_ (it is the third, and
noisiest of all) penetrates that way into the Outer Court: soft
speeches producing no clearance of these, de Launay gives fire;
pulls up his Drawbridge. A slight sputter;—which has _kindled_
the too combustible chaos; made it a roaring fire-chaos! Bursts
forth insurrection, at sight of its own blood (for there were
deaths by that sputter of fire), into endless rolling explosion
of musketry, distraction, execration;—and overhead, from the
Fortress, let one great gun, with its grape-shot, go booming, to
shew what we _could_ do. The Bastille is besieged!

On, then, all Frenchmen that have hearts in their bodies! Roar
with all your throats, of cartilage and metal, ye Sons of
Liberty; stir spasmodically whatsoever of utmost faculty is in
you, soul, body or spirit; for it is the hour! Smite, thou Louis
Tournay, cartwright of the Marais, old-soldier of the Regiment
Dauphine; smite at that Outer Drawbridge chain, though the fiery
hail whistles round thee! Never, over nave or felloe, did thy axe
strike such a stroke. Down with it, man; down with it to Orcus:
let the whole accursed Edifice sink thither, and Tyranny be
swallowed up for ever! Mounted, some say on the roof of the
guard-room, some “on bayonets stuck into joints of the wall,”
Louis Tournay smites, brave Aubin Bonnemere (also an old soldier)
seconding him: the chain yields, breaks; the huge Drawbridge
slams down, thundering (_avec fracas_). Glorious: and yet, alas,
it is still but the outworks. The Eight grim Towers, with their
Invalides’ musketry, their paving stones and cannon-mouths, still
soar aloft intact;—Ditch yawning impassable, stone-faced; the
inner Drawbridge with its _back_ towards us: the Bastille is
still to take!

To describe this Siege of the Bastille (thought to be one of the
most important in history) perhaps transcends the talent of
mortals. Could one but, after infinite reading, get to understand
so much as the plan of the building! But there is open Esplanade,
at the end of the Rue Saint-Antoine; there are such Forecourts,
_Cour Avancé, Cour de l’Orme_, arched Gateway (where Louis
Tournay now fights); then new drawbridges, dormant-bridges,
rampart-bastions, and the grim Eight Towers: a labyrinthic Mass,
high-frowning there, of all ages from twenty years to four
hundred and twenty;—beleaguered, in this its last hour, as we
said, by mere Chaos come again! Ordnance of all calibres; throats
of all capacities; men of all plans, every man his own engineer:
seldom since the war of Pygmies and Cranes was there seen so
anomalous a thing. Half-pay Elie is home for a suit of
regimentals; no one would heed him in coloured clothes: half-pay
Hulin is haranguing Gardes Françaises in the Place de Grève.
Frantic Patriots pick up the grape-shots; bear them, still hot
(or seemingly so), to the Hôtel-de-Ville:—Paris, you perceive, is
to be burnt! Flesselles is “pale to the very lips” for the roar
of the multitude grows deep. Paris wholly has got to the acme of
its frenzy; whirled, all ways, by panic madness. At every
street-barricade, there whirls simmering, a minor
whirlpool,—strengthening the barricade, since God knows what is
coming; and all minor whirlpools play distractedly into that
grand Fire-Mahlstrom which is lashing round the Bastille.

And so it lashes and it roars. Cholat the wine-merchant has
become an impromptu cannoneer. See Georget, of the Marine
Service, fresh from Brest, ply the King of Siam’s cannon.
Singular (if we were not used to the like): Georget lay, last
night, taking his ease at his inn; the King of Siam’s cannon also
lay, knowing nothing of _him_, for a hundred years. Yet now, at
the right instant, they have got together, and discourse eloquent
music. For, hearing what was toward, Georget sprang from the
Brest Diligence, and ran. Gardes Françaises also will be here,
with real artillery: were not the walls so thick!—Upwards from
the Esplanade, horizontally from all neighbouring roofs and
windows, flashes one irregular deluge of musketry,—without
effect. The Invalides lie flat, firing comparatively at their
ease from behind stone; hardly through portholes, shew the tip of
a nose. We fall, shot; and make no impression!

Let conflagration rage; of whatsoever is combustible! Guard-rooms
are burnt, Invalides mess-rooms. A distracted “Peruke-maker with
two fiery torches” is for burning “the saltpetres of the
Arsenal;”—had not a woman run screaming; had not a Patriot, with
some tincture of Natural Philosophy, instantly struck the wind
out of him (butt of musket on pit of stomach), overturned
barrels, and stayed the devouring element. A young beautiful
lady, seized escaping in these Outer Courts, and thought falsely
to be de Launay’s daughter, shall be burnt in de Launay’s sight;
she lies swooned on a paillasse: but again a Patriot, it is brave
Aubin Bonnemere the old soldier, dashes in, and rescues her.
Straw is burnt; three cartloads of it, hauled thither, go up in
white smoke: almost to the choking of Patriotism itself; so that
Elie had, with singed brows, to drag back one cart; and Reole the
“gigantic haberdasher” another. Smoke as of Tophet; confusion as
of Babel; noise as of the Crack of Doom!

Blood flows, the aliment of new madness. The wounded are carried
into houses of the Rue Cerisaie; the dying leave their last
mandate not to yield till the accursed Stronghold fall. And yet,
alas, how fall? The walls are so thick! Deputations, three in
number, arrive from the Hôtel-de-Ville; Abbé Fouchet (who was of
one) can say, with what almost superhuman courage of
benevolence.[184] These wave their Town-flag in the arched
Gateway; and stand, rolling their drum; but to no purpose. In
such Crack of Doom, de Launay cannot hear them, dare not believe
them: they return, with justified rage, the whew of lead still
singing in their ears. What to do? The Firemen are here,
squirting with their fire-pumps on the Invalides’ cannon, to wet
the touchholes; they unfortunately cannot squirt so high; but
produce only clouds of spray. Individuals of classical knowledge
propose _catapults_. Santerre, the sonorous Brewer of the Suburb
Saint-Antoine, advises rather that the place be fired, by a
“mixture of phosphorous and oil-of-turpentine spouted up through
forcing pumps:” O Spinola-Santerre, hast thou the mixture
_ready?_ Every man his own engineer! And still the fire-deluge
abates not; even women are firing, and Turks; at least one woman
(with her sweetheart), and one Turk.[185] Gardes Françaises have
come: real cannon, real cannoneers. Usher Maillard is busy;
half-pay Elie, half-pay Hulin rage in the midst of thousands.

How the great Bastille Clock ticks (inaudible) in its Inner Court
there, at its ease, hour after hour; as if nothing special, for
it or the world, were passing! It tolled One when the firing
began; and is now pointing towards Five, and still the firing
slakes not.—Far down, in their vaults, the seven Prisoners hear
muffled din as of earthquakes; their Turnkeys answer vaguely.

Wo to thee, de Launay, with thy poor hundred Invalides! Broglie
is distant, and his ears heavy: Besenval hears, but can send no
help. One poor troop of Hussars has crept, reconnoitring,
cautiously along the Quais, as far as the Pont Neuf. ‘We are come
to join you,’ said the Captain; for the crowd seems shoreless. A
large-headed dwarfish individual, of smoke-bleared aspect,
shambles forward, opening his blue lips, for there is sense in
him; and croaks: ‘Alight then, and give up your arms!’ the
Hussar-Captain is too happy to be escorted to the Barriers, and
dismissed on parole. Who the squat individual was? Men answer, it
is M. Marat, author of the excellent pacific _Avis au Peuple!_
Great truly, O thou remarkable Dogleech, is this thy day of
emergence and new birth: and yet this same day come four
years—!—But let the curtains of the future hang.

What shall de Launay do? One thing only de Launay could have
done: what he said he would do. Fancy him sitting, from the
first, with lighted taper, within arm’s length of the
Powder-Magazine; motionless, like old Roman Senator, or bronze
Lamp-holder; coldly apprising Thuriot, and all men, by a slight
motion of his eye, what his resolution was:—Harmless he sat
there, while unharmed; but the King’s Fortress, meanwhile, could,
might, would, or should, in nowise, be surrendered, save to the
King’s Messenger: one old man’s life worthless, so it be lost
with honour; but think, ye brawling _canaille_, how will it be
when a whole Bastille springs skyward!—In such statuesque,
taper-holding attitude, one fancies de Launay might have left
Thuriot, the red Clerks of the Bazoche, Curé of Saint-Stephen and
all the tagrag-and-bobtail of the world, to work their will.

And yet, withal, he could not do it. Hast thou considered how
each man’s heart is so tremulously responsive to the hearts of
all men; hast thou noted how omnipotent is the very sound of many
men? How their shriek of indignation palsies the strong soul;
their howl of contumely withers with unfelt pangs? The Ritter
Gluck confessed that the ground-tone of the noblest passage, in
one of his noblest Operas, was the voice of the Populace he had
heard at Vienna, crying to their Kaiser: Bread! Bread! Great is
the combined voice of men; the utterance of their _instincts_,
which are truer than their _thoughts:_ it is the greatest a man
encounters, among the sounds and shadows, which make up this
World of Time. He who can resist that, has his footing some where
_beyond_ Time. De Launay could not do it. Distracted, he hovers
between the two; hopes in the middle of despair; surrenders not
his Fortress; declares that he will blow it up, seizes torches to
blow it up, and does not blow it. Unhappy old de Launay, it is
the death-agony of thy Bastille and thee! Jail, Jailoring and
Jailor, all three, such as they may have been, must finish.

For four hours now has the World-Bedlam roared: call it the
World-Chimaera, blowing fire! The poor Invalides have sunk under
their battlements, or rise only with reversed muskets: they have
made a white flag of napkins; go beating the _chamade_, or
seeming to beat, for one can hear nothing. The very Swiss at the
Portcullis look weary of firing; disheartened in the fire-deluge:
a porthole at the drawbridge is opened, as by one that would
speak. See Huissier Maillard, the shifty man! On his plank,
swinging over the abyss of that stone-Ditch; plank resting on
parapet, balanced by weight of Patriots,—he hovers perilous: such
a Dove towards such an Ark! Deftly, thou shifty Usher: one man
already fell; and lies smashed, far down there, against the
masonry! Usher Maillard falls not: deftly, unerring he walks,
with outspread palm. The Swiss holds a paper through his
porthole; the shifty Usher snatches it, and returns. Terms of
surrender: Pardon, immunity to all! Are they accepted?—‘_Foi
d’officier_, On the word of an officer,’ answers half-pay
Hulin,—or half-pay Elie, for men do not agree on it, ‘they are!’
Sinks the drawbridge,—Usher Maillard bolting it when down;
rushes-in the living deluge: the Bastille is fallen! _Victoire!
La Bastille est prise!_[186]