第 二十二 章 · QUOS DEUS VULT PERDERE
. QUOS DEUS VULT PERDERE
Once again, precisely as he had done when he joined the Binet troupe,
did Andre-Louis now settle down whole-heartedly to the new profession
into which necessity had driven him, and in which he found effective
concealment from those who might seek him to his hurt. This profession
might--although in fact it did not--have brought him to consider himself
at last as a man of action. He had not, however, on that account ceased
to be a man of thought, and the events of the spring and summer months
of that year 1789 in Paris provided him with abundant matter for
reflection. He read there in the raw what is perhaps the most amazing
page in the history of human development, and in the end he was forced
to the conclusion that all his early preconceptions had been at fault,
and that it was such exalted, passionate enthusiasts as Vilmorin who had
been right.
I suspect him of actually taking pride in the fact that he had been
mistaken, complacently attributing his error to the circumstance that he
had been, himself, of too sane and logical a mind to gauge the depths of
human insanity now revealed.
He watched the growth of hunger, the increasing poverty and distress of
Paris during that spring, and assigned it to its proper cause, together
with the patience with which the people bore it. The world of France was
in a state of hushed, of paralyzed expectancy, waiting for the States
General to assemble and for centuries of tyranny to end. And because of
this expectancy, industry had come to a standstill, the stream of trade
had dwindled to a trickle. Men would not buy or sell until they clearly
saw the means by which the genius of the Swiss banker, M. Necker, was to
deliver them from this morass. And because of this paralysis of affairs
the men of the people were thrown out of work and left to starve with
their wives and children.
Looking on, Andre-Louis smiled grimly. So far he was right. The
sufferers were ever the proletariat. The men who sought to make
this revolution, the electors--here in Paris as elsewhere--were men
of substance, notable bourgeois, wealthy traders. And whilst these,
despising the canaille, and envying the privileged, talked largely of
equality--by which they meant an ascending equality that should confuse
themselves with the gentry--the proletariat perished of want in its
kennels.
At last with the month of May the deputies arrived, Andre-Louis’
friend Le Chapelier prominent amongst them, and the States General were
inaugurated at Versailles. It was then that affairs began to become
interesting, then that Andre-Louis began seriously to doubt the
soundness of the views he had held hitherto.
When the royal proclamation had gone forth decreeing that the deputies
of the Third Estate should number twice as many as those of the other
two orders together, Andre-Louis had believed that the preponderance of
votes thus assured to the Third Estate rendered inevitable the reforms
to which they had pledged themselves.
But he had reckoned without the power of the privileged orders over
the proud Austrian queen, and her power over the obese, phlegmatic,
irresolute monarch. That the privileged orders should deliver battle
in defence of their privileges, Andre-Louis could understand. Man being
what he is, and labouring under his curse of acquisitiveness, will never
willingly surrender possessions, whether they be justly or unjustly
held. But what surprised Andre-Louis was the unutterable crassness of
the methods by which the Privileged ranged themselves for battle. They
opposed brute force to reason and philosophy, and battalions of foreign
mercenaries to ideas. As if ideas were to be impaled on bayonets!
The war between the Privileged and the Court on one side, and the
Assembly and the People on the other had begun.
The Third Estate contained itself, and waited; waited with the patience
of nature; waited a month whilst, with the paralysis of business now
complete, the skeleton hand of famine took a firmer grip of Paris;
waited a month whilst Privilege gradually assembled an army in
Versailles to intimidate it--an army of fifteen regiments, nine of
which were Swiss and German--and mounted a park of artillery before
the building in which the deputies sat. But the deputies refused to be
intimidated; they refused to see the guns and foreign uniforms; they
refused to see anything but the purpose for which they had been brought
together by royal proclamation.
Thus until the 10th of June, when that great thinker and metaphysician,
the Abbe Sieyes, gave the signal: “It is time,” said he, “to cut the
cable.”
And the opportunity came soon, at the very beginning of July. M. du
Chatelet, a harsh, haughty disciplinarian, proposed to transfer the
eleven French Guards placed under arrest from the military gaol of the
Abbaye to the filthy prison of Bicetre reserved for thieves and felons
of the lowest order. Word of that intention going forth, the people at
last met violence with violence. A mob four thousand strong broke into
the Abbaye, and delivered thence not only the eleven guardsmen, but all
the other prisoners, with the exception of one whom they discovered to
be a thief, and whom they put back again.
That was open revolt at last, and with revolt Privilege knew how to
deal. It would strangle this mutinous Paris in the iron grip of the
foreign regiments. Measures were quickly concerted. Old Marechal de
Broglie, a veteran of the Seven Years’ War, imbued with a soldier’s
contempt for civilians, conceiving that the sight of a uniform would
be enough to restore peace and order, took control with Besenval as his
second-in-command. The foreign regiments were stationed in the
environs of Paris, regiments whose very names were an irritation to the
Parisians, regiments of Reisbach, of Diesbach, of Nassau, Esterhazy, and
Roehmer. Reenforcements of Swiss were sent to the Bastille between whose
crenels already since the 30th of June were to be seen the menacing
mouths of loaded cannon.
On the 10th of July the electors once more addressed the King to request
the withdrawal of the troops. They were answered next day that the
troops served the purpose of defending the liberties of the Assembly!
And on the next day to that, which was a Sunday, the philanthropist Dr.
Guillotin--whose philanthropic engine of painless death was before very
long to find a deal of work--came from the Assembly, of which he was a
member, to assure the electors of Paris that all was well, appearances
notwithstanding, since Necker was more firmly in the saddle than ever.
He did not know that at the very moment in which he was speaking so
confidently, the oft-dismissed and oft-recalled M. Necker had just been
dismissed yet again by the hostile cabal about the Queen. Privilege
wanted conclusive measures, and conclusive measures it would
have--conclusive to itself.
And at the same time yet another philanthropist, also a doctor, one
Jean-Paul Mara, of Italian extraction--better known as Marat, the
gallicized form of name he adopted--a man of letters, too, who had spent
some years in England, and there published several works on sociology,
was writing:
“Have a care! Consider what would be the fatal effect of a seditious
movement. If you should have the misfortune to give way to that, you
will be treated as people in revolt, and blood will flow.”
Andre-Louis was in the gardens of the Palais Royal, that place of shops
and puppet-shows, of circus and cafes, of gaming houses and brothels,
that universal rendezvous, on that Sunday morning when the news of
Necker’s dismissal spread, carrying with it dismay and fury. Into
Necker’s dismissal the people read the triumph of the party hostile to
themselves. It sounded the knell of all hope of redress of their wrongs.
He beheld a slight young man with a pock-marked face, redeemed from
utter ugliness by a pair of magnificent eyes, leap to a table outside
the Café de Foy, a drawn sword in his hand, crying, “To arms!” And then
upon the silence of astonishment that cry imposed, this young man
poured a flood of inflammatory eloquence, delivered in a voice marred at
moments by a stutter. He told the people that the Germans on the Champ
de Mars would enter Paris that night to butcher the inhabitants. “Let
us mount a cockade!” he cried, and tore a leaf from a tree to serve his
purpose--the green cockade of hope.
Enthusiasm swept the crowd, a motley crowd made up of men and women of
every class, from vagabond to nobleman, from harlot to lady of fashion.
Trees were despoiled of their leaves, and the green cockade was flaunted
from almost every head.
“You are caught between two fires,” the incendiary’s stuttering voice
raved on. “Between the Germans on the Champ de Mars and the Swiss in the
Bastille. To arms, then! To arms!”
Excitement boiled up and over. From a neighbouring waxworks show came
the bust of Necker, and presently a bust of that comedian the Duke
of Orleans, who had a party and who was as ready as any other of the
budding opportunists of those days to take advantage of the moment for
his own aggrandizement. The bust of Necker was draped with crepe.
Andre-Louis looked on, and grew afraid. Marat’s pamphlet had impressed
him. It had expressed what himself he had expressed more than half a
year ago to the mob at Rennes. This crowd, he felt must be restrained.
That hot-headed, irresponsible stutterer would have the town in a blaze
by night unless something were done. The young man, a causeless advocate
of the Palais named Camille Desmoulins, later to become famous, leapt
down from his table still waving his sword, still shouting, “To arms!
Follow me!” Andre-Louis advanced to occupy the improvised rostrum, which
the stutterer had just vacated, to make an effort at counteracting that
inflammatory performance. He thrust through the crowd, and came suddenly
face to face with a tall man beautifully dressed, whose handsome
countenance was sternly set, whose great sombre eyes mouldered as if
with suppressed anger.
Thus face to face, each looking into the eyes of the other, they stood
for a long moment, the jostling crowd streaming past them, unheeded.
Then Andre-Louis laughed.
“That fellow, too, has a very dangerous gift of eloquence, M. le
Marquis,” he said. “In fact there are a number of such in France to-day.
They grow from the soil, which you and yours have irrigated with the
blood of the martyrs of liberty. Soon it may be your blood instead. The
soil is parched, and thirsty for it.”
“Gallows-bird!” he was answered. “The police will do your affair for
you. I shall tell the Lieutenant-General that you are to be found in
Paris.”
“My God, man!” cried Andre-Louis, “will you never get sense? Will you
talk like that of Lieutenant-Generals when Paris itself is likely to
tumble about your ears or take fire under your feet? Raise your voice,
M. le Marquis. Denounce me here, to these. You will make a hero of me in
such an hour as this. Or shall I denounce you? I think I will. I think
it is high time you received your wages. Hi! You others, listen to me!
Let me present you to...”
A rush of men hurtled against him, swept him along with them, do what he
would, separating him from M. de La Tour d’Azyr, so oddly met. He sought
to breast that human torrent; the Marquis, caught in an eddy of it,
remained where he had been, and Andre-Louis’ last glimpse of him was of
a man smiling with tight lips, an ugly smile.
Meanwhile the gardens were emptying in the wake of that stuttering
firebrand who had mounted the green cockade. The human torrent poured
out into the Rue de Richelieu, and Andre-Louis perforce must suffer
himself to be borne along by it, at least as far as the Rue du Hasard.
There he sidled out of it, and having no wish to be crushed to death or
to take further part in the madness that was afoot, he slipped down
the street, and so got home to the deserted academy. For there were no
pupils to-day, and even M. des Amis, like Andre-Louis, had gone out to
seek for news of what was happening at Versailles.
This was no normal state of things at the Academy of Bertrand des Amis.
Whatever else in Paris might have been at a standstill lately, the
fencing academy had flourished as never hitherto. Usually both the
master and his assistant were busy from morning until dusk, and already
Andre-Louis was being paid now by the lessons that he gave, the
master allowing him one half of the fee in each case for himself, an
arrangement which the assistant found profitable. On Sundays the
academy made half-holiday; but on this Sunday such had been the state of
suspense and ferment in the city that no one having appeared by eleven
o’clock both des Amis and Andre-Louis had gone out. Little they thought
as they lightly took leave of each other--they were very good friends by
now--that they were never to meet again in this world.
Bloodshed there was that day in Paris. On the Place Vendome a detachment
of dragoons awaited the crowd out of which Andre-Louis had slipped. The
horsemen swept down upon the mob, dispersed it, smashed the waxen effigy
of M. Necker, and killed one man on the spot--an unfortunate French Guard
who stood his ground. That was a beginning. As a consequence Besenval
brought up his Swiss from the Champ de Mars and marshalled them in
battle order on the Champs Elysees with four pieces of artillery. His
dragoons he stationed in the Place Louis XV. That evening an enormous
crowd, streaming along the Champs Elysees and the Tuileries Gardens,
considered with eyes of alarm that warlike preparation. Some insults
were cast upon those foreign mercenaries and some stones were flung.
Besenval, losing his head, or acting under orders, sent for his dragoons
and ordered them to disperse the crowd, But that crowd was too dense to
be dispersed in this fashion; so dense that it was impossible for the
horsemen to move without crushing some one. There were several crushed,
and as a consequence when the dragoons, led by the Prince de Lambesc,
advanced into the Tuileries Gardens, the outraged crowd met them with a
fusillade of stones and bottles. Lambesc gave the order to fire. There
was a stampede. Pouring forth from the Tuileries through the city went
those indignant people with their story of German cavalry trampling upon
women and children, and uttering now in grimmest earnest the call to
arms, raised at noon by Desmoulins in the Palais Royal.
The victims were taken up and borne thence, and amongst them was
Bertrand des Amis, himself--like all who lived by the sword--an ardent
upholder of the noblesse, trampled to death under hooves of foreign
horsemen launched by the noblesse and led by a nobleman.
To Andre-Louis, waiting that evening on the second floor of No. 13
Rue du Hasard for the return of his friend and master, four men of the
people brought that broken body of one of the earliest victims of the
Revolution that was now launched in earnest.