Chapter 1: 7.viii

The Equal Diet.

But why lingers Mounier; returns not with his Deputation? It is
six, it is seven o’clock; and still no Mounier, no Acceptance
pure and simple.

And, behold, the dripping Menads, not now in deputation but in
mass, have penetrated into the Assembly: to the shamefullest
interruption of public speaking and order of the day. Neither
Maillard nor Vice-President can restrain them, except within wide
limits; not even, except for minutes, can the lion-voice of
Mirabeau, though they applaud it: but ever and anon they break in
upon the regeneration of France with cries of: ‘Bread; not so
much discoursing! _Du pain; pas tant de longs discours!_’—So
insensible were these poor creatures to bursts of Parliamentary
eloquence!

One learns also that the royal Carriages are getting yoked, as if
for Metz. Carriages, royal or not, have verily showed themselves
at the back Gates. They even produced, or quoted, a written order
from our Versailles Municipality,—which is a Monarchic not a
Democratic one. However, Versailles Patroles drove them in again;
as the vigilant Lecointre had strictly charged them to do.

A busy man, truly, is Major Lecointre, in these hours. For
Colonel d’Estaing loiters invisible in the Œil-de-Bœuf;
invisible, or still more questionably _visible_, for instants:
then also a too loyal Municipality requires supervision: no
order, civil or military, taken about any of these thousand
things! Lecointre is at the Versailles Townhall: he is at the
Grate of the Grand Court; communing with Swiss and Bodyguards. He
is in the ranks of Flandre; he is here, he is there: studious to
prevent bloodshed; to prevent the Royal Family from flying to
Metz; the Menads from plundering Versailles.

At the fall of night, we behold him advance to those armed groups
of Saint-Antoine, hovering all-too grim near the Salle des Menus.
They receive him in a half-circle; twelve speakers behind
cannons, with lighted torches in hand, the cannon-mouths
_towards_ Lecointre: a picture for Salvator! He asks, in
temperate but courageous language: What they, by this their
journey to Versailles, do specially want? The twelve speakers
reply, in few words inclusive of much: ‘Bread, and the end of
these brabbles, _Du pain, et la fin des affaires_.’ When the
_affairs_ will end, no Major Lecointre, nor no mortal, can say;
but as to bread, he inquires, How many are you?—learns that they
are six hundred, that a loaf each will suffice; and rides off to
the Municipality to get six hundred loaves.

Which loaves, however, a Municipality of Monarchic temper will
not give. It will give two tons of rice rather,—could you but
know whether it should be boiled or raw. Nay when this too is
accepted, the Municipals have disappeared;—ducked under, as the
Six-and-Twenty Long-gowned of Paris did; and, leaving not the
smallest vestage of rice, in the boiled or raw state, they there
vanish from History!

Rice comes not; one’s hope of food is baulked; even one’s hope of
vengeance: is not M. de Moucheton of the Scotch Company, as we
said, deceitfully smuggled off? Failing all which, behold only M.
de Moucheton’s slain warhorse, lying on the Esplanade there!
Saint-Antoine, baulked, esurient, pounces on the slain warhorse;
flays it; roasts it, with such fuel, of paling, gates, portable
timber as can be come at,—not without shouting: and, after the
manner of ancient Greek Heroes, _they lifted their hands to the
daintily readied repast;_ such as it might be.[246] Other
Rascality prowls discursive; seeking what it may devour. Flandre
will retire to its barracks; Lecointre also with his
Versaillese,—all but the vigilant Patrols, charged to be doubly
vigilant.

So sink the shadows of Night, blustering, rainy; and all paths
grow dark. Strangest Night ever seen in these regions,—perhaps
since the Bartholomew Night, when Versailles, as Bassompierre
writes of it, was a _chétif château_. O for the Lyre of some
Orpheus, to constrain, with touch of melodious strings, these mad
masses into Order! For here all seems fallen asunder, in
wide-yawning dislocation. The highest, as in down-rushing of a
World, is come in contact with the lowest: the Rascality of
France beleaguering the Royalty of France; “ironshod batons”
lifted round the diadem, not to guard it! With denunciations of
bloodthirsty Anti-national Bodyguards, are heard dark growlings
against a Queenly Name.

The Court sits tremulous, powerless; varies with the varying
temper of the Esplanade, with the varying colour of the rumours
from Paris. Thick-coming rumours; now of peace, now of war.
Necker and all the Ministers consult; with a blank issue. The
Œil-de-Bœuf is one tempest of whispers:—We will fly to Metz; we
will not fly. The royal Carriages again attempt egress;—though
for trial merely; they are again driven in by Lecointre’s
Patrols. In six hours, nothing has been resolved on; not even the
Acceptance pure and simple.

In six hours? Alas, he who, in such circumstances, cannot resolve
in six minutes, may give up the enterprise: him Fate has already
resolved for. And Menadism, meanwhile, and Sansculottism takes
counsel with the National Assembly; grows more and more
tumultuous there. Mounier returns not; Authority nowhere shews
itself: the Authority of France lies, for the present, with
Lecointre and Usher Maillard.—This then is the abomination of
desolation; come suddenly, though long foreshadowed as
inevitable! For, to the blind, all things are sudden. Misery
which, through long ages, had no spokesman, no helper, will now
be its own helper and speak for itself. The dialect, one of the
rudest, is, what it could be, _this_.

At eight o’clock there returns to our Assembly not the
Deputation; but Doctor Guillotin announcing that it will return;
also that there is hope of the Acceptance pure and simple. He
himself has brought a Royal Letter, authorising and commanding
the freest “circulation of grains.” Which Royal Letter Menadism
with its whole heart applauds. Conformably to which the Assembly
forthwith passes a Decree; also received with rapturous Menadic
plaudits:—Only could not an august Assembly contrive further to
‘_fix_ the price of bread at eight sous the half-quartern;
butchers’-meat at six sous the pound;’ which seem fair rates?
Such motion do “a multitude of men and women,” irrepressible by
Usher Maillard, now make; does an august Assembly hear made.
Usher Maillard himself is not always perfectly measured in
speech; but if rebuked, he can justly excuse himself by the
peculiarity of the circumstances.[247]

But finally, this Decree well passed, and the disorder
continuing; and Members melting away, and no President Mounier
returning,—what can the Vice-President do but also melt away? The
Assembly melts, under such pressure, into deliquium; or, as it is
officially called, adjourns. Maillard is despatched to Paris,
with the “Decree concerning Grains” in his pocket; he and some
women, in carriages belonging to the King. Thitherward slim
Louison Chabray has already set forth, with that “written
answer,” which the Twelve She-deputies returned in to seek. Slim
sylph, she has set forth, through the black muddy country: she
has much to tell, her poor nerves so flurried; and travels, as
indeed today on this road all persons do, with extreme slowness.
President Mounier has not come, nor the Acceptance pure and
simple; though six hours with their events have come; though
courier on courier reports that Lafayette is coming. Coming, with
war or with peace? It is time that the Château also should
determine on one thing or another; that the Château also should
show itself alive, if it would continue living!

Victorious, joyful after such delay, Mounier does arrive at last,
and the hard-earned Acceptance with him; which now, alas, is of
small value. Fancy Mounier’s surprise to find his Senate, whom he
hoped to charm by the Acceptance pure and simple,—all gone; and
in its stead a Senate of Menads! For as Erasmus’s Ape mimicked,
say with wooden splint, Erasmus shaving, so do these Amazons
hold, in mock majesty, some confused parody of National Assembly.
They make motions; deliver speeches; pass enactments; productive
at least of loud laughter. All galleries and benches are filled;
a strong Dame of the Market is in Mounier’s Chair. Not without
difficulty, Mounier, by aid of macers, and persuasive speaking,
makes his way to the Female-President: the Strong Dame before
abdicating signifies that, for one thing, she and indeed her
whole senate male and female (for what was one roasted warhorse
among so many?) are suffering very considerably from hunger.

Experienced Mounier, in these circumstances, takes a twofold
resolution: To reconvoke his Assembly Members by sound of drum;
also to procure a supply of food. Swift messengers fly, to all
bakers, cooks, pastrycooks, vintners, restorers; drums beat,
accompanied with shrill vocal proclamation, through all streets.
They come: the Assembly Members come; what is still better, the
provisions come. On tray and barrow come these latter; loaves,
wine, great store of sausages. The nourishing baskets circulate
harmoniously along the benches; nor, according to the Father of
Epics, _did any soul lack a fair share of victual_ (δαῖτος
ὲἱσης), _an equal diet_); highly desirable, at the moment.[248]

Gradually some hundred or so of Assembly members get edged in,
Menadism making way a little, round Mounier’s Chair; listen to
the Acceptance pure and simple; and begin, what is the order of
the night, “discussion of the Penal Code.” All benches are
crowded; in the dusky galleries, duskier with unwashed heads, is
a strange “coruscation,”—of impromptu billhooks.[249] It is
exactly five months this day since these same galleries were
filled with high-plumed jewelled Beauty, raining bright
influences; and now? To such length have we got in regenerating
France. Methinks the travail-throes are of the sharpest!—Menadism
will not be restrained from occasional remarks; asks, ‘What is
use of the Penal Code? The thing we want is Bread.’ Mirabeau
turns round with lion-voiced rebuke; Menadism applauds him; but
recommences.

Thus they, chewing tough sausages, discussing the Penal Code,
make night hideous. What the issue will be? Lafayette with his
thirty thousand must arrive first: him, who cannot now be
distant, all men expect, as the messenger of Destiny.