Chapter 1: 7.ix

Lafayette.

Towards midnight lights flare on the hill; Lafayette’s lights!
The roll of his drums comes up the Avenue de Versailles. With
peace, or with war? Patience, friends! With neither. Lafayette is
come, but not yet the catastrophe.

He has halted and harangued so often, on the march; spent nine
hours on four leagues of road. At Montreuil, close on Versailles,
the whole Host had to pause; and, with uplifted right hand, in
the murk of Night, to these pouring skies, swear solemnly to
respect the King’s Dwelling; to be faithful to King and National
Assembly. Rage is driven down out of sight, by the laggard march;
the thirst of vengeance slaked in weariness and soaking clothes.
Flandre is again drawn out under arms: but Flandre, grown so
patriotic, now needs no “exterminating.” The wayworn Batallions
halt in the Avenue: they have, for the present, no wish so
pressing as that of shelter and rest.

Anxious sits President Mounier; anxious the Château. There is a
message coming from the Château, that M. Mounier would please
return thither with a fresh Deputation, swiftly; and so at least
_unite_ our two anxieties. Anxious Mounier does of himself send,
meanwhile, to apprise the General that his Majesty has been so
gracious as to grant us the Acceptance pure and simple. The
General, with a small advance column, makes answer in passing;
speaks vaguely some smooth words to the National
President,—glances, only with the eye, at that so mixtiform
National Assembly; then fares forward towards the Château. There
are with him two Paris Municipals; they were chosen from the
Three Hundred for that errand. He gets admittance through the
locked and padlocked Grates, through sentries and ushers, to the
Royal Halls.

The Court, male and female, crowds on his passage, to read their
doom on his face; which exhibits, say Historians, a mixture “of
sorrow, of fervour and valour,” singular to behold.[250] The
King, with Monsieur, with Ministers and Marshals, is waiting to
receive him: He ‘is come,’ in his highflown chivalrous way, ‘to
offer his head for the safety of his Majesty’s.’ The two
Municipals state the wish of Paris: four things, of quite pacific
tenor. First, that the honour of Guarding his sacred person be
conferred on patriot National Guards;—say, the Centre Grenadiers,
who as Gardes Françaises were wont to have that privilege.
Second, that provisions be got, if possible. Third, that the
Prisons, all crowded with political delinquents, may have judges
sent them. Fourth, _that it would please his Majesty to come and
live in Paris._ To all which four wishes, except the fourth, his
Majesty answers readily, Yes; or indeed may almost say that he
has already answered it. To the fourth he can answer only, Yes or
No; would so gladly answer, Yes _and_ No!—But, in any case, are
not their dispositions, thank Heaven, so entirely pacific? There
is time for deliberation. The brunt of the danger seems past!

Lafayette and d’Estaing settle the watches; Centre Grenadiers are
to take the Guard-room they of old occupied as Gardes
Françaises;—for indeed the Gardes du Corps, its late ill-advised
occupants, are gone mostly to Rambouillet. That is the order of
_this_ night; sufficient for the night is the evil thereof.
Whereupon Lafayette and the two Municipals, with highflown
chivalry, take their leave.

So brief has the interview been, Mounier and his Deputation were
not yet got up. So brief and satisfactory. A stone is rolled from
every heart. The fair Palace Dames publicly declare that this
Lafayette, detestable though he be, is their saviour for once.
Even the ancient vinaigrous _Tantes_ admit it; the King’s Aunts,
ancient _Graille_ and Sisterhood, known to us of old. Queen
Marie-Antoinette has been heard often say the like. She alone,
among all women and all men, wore a face of courage, of lofty
calmness and resolve, this day. She alone saw clearly what she
_meant_ to do; and Theresa’s Daughter _dares_ do what she means,
were all France threatening her: abide where her children are,
where her husband is.

Towards three in the morning all things are settled: the watches
set, the Centre Grenadiers put into their old Guard-room, and
harangued; the Swiss, and few remaining Bodyguards harangued. The
wayworn Paris Batallions, consigned to “the hospitality of
Versailles,” lie dormant in spare-beds, spare-barracks,
coffeehouses, empty churches. A troop of them, on their way to
the Church of Saint-Louis, awoke poor Weber, dreaming troublous,
in the Rue Sartory. Weber has had his waistcoat-pocket full of
balls all day; “two hundred balls, and two _pears_ of powder!”
For waistcoats were waistcoats then, and had flaps down to
mid-thigh. So many balls he has had all day; but no opportunity
of using them: he turns over now, execrating disloyal bandits;
swears a prayer or two, and straight to sleep again.

Finally, the National Assembly is harangued; which thereupon, on
motion of Mirabeau, discontinues the Penal Code, and dismisses
for this night. Menadism, Sansculottism has cowered into
guard-houses, barracks of Flandre, to the light of cheerful fire;
failing that, to churches, office-houses, sentry-boxes,
wheresoever wretchedness can find a lair. The troublous Day has
brawled itself to rest: no lives yet lost but that of one
warhorse. Insurrectionary Chaos lies slumbering round the Palace,
like Ocean round a Diving-bell,—no crevice yet disclosing itself.

Deep sleep has fallen promiscuously on the high and on the low;
suspending most things, even wrath and famine. Darkness covers
the Earth. But, far on the North-east, Paris flings up her great
yellow gleam; far into the wet black Night. For all is
illuminated there, as in the old July Nights; the streets
deserted, for alarm of war; the Municipals all wakeful; Patrols
hailing, with their hoarse _Who-goes_. There, as we discover, our
poor slim Louison Chabray, her poor nerves all fluttered, is
arriving about this very hour. There Usher Maillard will arrive,
about an hour hence, “towards four in the morning.” They report,
successively, to a wakeful Hôtel-de-Ville what comfort they can
report; which again, with early dawn, large comfortable Placards,
shall impart to all men.

Lafayette, in the Hôtel de Noailles, not far from the Château,
having now finished haranguing, sits with his Officers
consulting: at five o’clock the unanimous best counsel is, that a
man so tost and toiled for twenty-four hours and more, fling
himself on a bed, and seek some rest.

Thus, then, has ended the First Act of the Insurrection of Women.
How it will turn on the morrow? The morrow, as always, is with
the Fates! But his Majesty, one may hope, will consent to come
honourably to Paris; at all events, he can visit Paris.
Anti-national Bodyguards, here and elsewhere, must take the
National Oath; make reparation to the Tricolor; Flandre will
swear. There may be much swearing; much public speaking there
will infallibly be: and so, with harangues and vows, may the
matter in some handsome way, wind itself up.

Or, alas, may it not be all otherwise, unhandsome: the consent
not honourable, but extorted, ignominious? Boundless Chaos of
Insurrection presses slumbering round the Palace, like Ocean
round a Diving-bell; and may penetrate at any crevice. Let but
that accumulated insurrectionary mass find entrance! Like the
infinite inburst of water; or say rather, of inflammable,
self-igniting fluid; for example, “turpentine-and-phosphorus
oil,”—fluid known to Spinola Santerre!