ON THE NEXT DAY, the Assembly received a report from the Maire of Paris and from the Commandant of the National Guard. All were anxious to be deceived, and the comedy was easily played.
The Assembly thanked them for an energy they had no idea they had employed, and congratulated them for a victory each deplored from the bottom of his heart, and thanked God from the bottom of its heart that at one blow both the insurrection and the insurgents had been crushed.
According to these felicitations, the revolution was terminated. It was just beginning.
In the meantime, the old Jacobins, judging the morrow by the yesterday, fancied they were attacked and pursued, and prepared to find pardon for their real importance in a feigned humility. Robespierre, yet alarmed at having been nominated as king, instead of Louis XVI., drew up an address in the name of the present and absent.
In this address he thanked the Assembly for its generous efforts, its wisdom, firmness, vigilance and impartial and incorruptible justice.
How was it possible for the Feuillants not to regain courage, and think themselves powerful, when they thus saw the humility of their adversaries?
For a time they thought themselves masters, not only of Paris, but of France.
Alas! the Feuillants did not understand the state of things. When they left the Jacobins, they had merely formed an assembly which was a double of the real one. The similitude between the two was such, that in the Feuillants, as in the chamber, none were admitted except on condition of paying taxes, being an active citizen, and eligible of voting for electors.
The people then had two chambers instead of one. This was not what it wanted. It wished a popular chamber, to be not the ally, but the enemy of the Assembly, which would not reconstruct, but destroy royalty.
The Feuillants did not then in any respect satisfy the public. The public, therefore, at once abandoned them.
By crossing the street, they lost all popularity.
In July, there were out of Paris four hundred societies. Three hundred corresponded with both Jacobins and Feuillants, one hundred with the Jacobins alone.
As the Feuillants grew weak, the Jacobins rebuilt themselves under the guidance of Robespierre—the most popular man of France.
What Cagliostro had prophesied to Gilbert about the little lawyer of Arras was accomplished.
Perhaps we shall also see it fulfilled in relation to the little Ajaccio Corsican.
The time for the termination of the National Assembly came. It struck slowly, it is true, like the life of an old man which slowly drops away.
Having taken three thousand votes, the Assembly had finished the revision of the constitution.
This constitution was an iron cage, in which, it knew not how, the king Lad been shut up. The fact that the bars were gilded did not make it the less a prison.
The royal will was powerless, for it had become a wheel which received instead of giving motion. All the power of resistance which Louis XVI. had, was his veto, which suspended for three years the execution of any decrees which did not please the king. The wheel then ceased to turn, and the whole machine was stopped.
This vis inertice being left aside, the royalty of Henri IV., of Louis XIV., all the power of action of those great monarchs, was gone.
The day on which the king was to swear to the constitution drew near England and the emigres wrote to him: “Die if it be needed; but do not degrade yourself by that oath.”
Leopold and Barnave said: “Swear, and let any one keep his oath who can.”
The king terminated the discussion by this phrase: “I declare that I do not see consistency or amity enough in the constitution; as an expression of opinions, however, I will consent to it, and experience shall decide.”
It remained to be determined where the constitution should be presented to the king—at the Tuileries or in the Assembly. The king said he would swear to the constitution where it was voted.
The appointed day was the 13th September.
The Assembly received this communication with unanimous applause. The king went thither.
In an outburst of enthusiasm, Lafayette proposed an amnesty to all who were accused of having favoured the king's flight. It was acceded to by acclamation. The cloud which had darkened the prospects of Andree and Charny was dissipated.
A deputation of sixty members was appointed to thank the king for his letter.
The keeper of the seals hurried to tell the king of the vote.
On the same morning, the Assembly had abolished the order of the Saint Esprit, authorising the king alone to wear the cordon, which was the evidence of the high nobility.
The deputation found the king wearing only the star of St. Louis, and as Louis XVI. knew the effect which the absence of the cordon bleu would produce, he said:
“Gentlemen, this morning you abolished the order of the Saint Esprit, preserving it for me alone. As an order to me has no value except that it gives me the power of communication, henceforth I look on it as abolished for me also.”
The queen, dauphin, and Madame Royale, stood near the door. The queen was pale, and quivered in every nerve. Madame Royale, already proud, passionate, and violent, was haughty, and seemed not only to be aware of what passed, but to foresee future indignities. The dauphin was careless as a child, and looked like a human being inserted in a group of statuary.
The king, a few days before, had said to Montmorin: '-'I know I am lost; all that is now done for royalty is for my son.”
Louis XVI. replied, with apparent sincerity, to the reply of the deputation; when he had done, he turned to the dauphin and royal family: “My wife and children,” said he, “partake of my sentiments.”
Yes, they did; for when the deputation retired they drew together, and when they had looked after it anxiously, Marie Antoinette placed her white and marble-cold hand on the king's arm, and said:
“These people will have no more kings. Stone by stone, they tear down the monarchy, and of those stones build a tomb for us.”
She was mistaken, poor woman. She was to have a paupers grave—not even a tomb. She was not, however, wrong about the attacks on the royal prerogative.
M. de Malouet was President of the Assembly, and was a royalist. He, however, thought it necessary to consult the Assembly as to the manner in which the oath should be administered, and whether it would be seated or stand during the ceremony.
“Seated,” was heard from all sides.
“And the king?” said De Malouet.
“Standing and uncovered,” said a voice.
This voice was isolated, but clear, strong, and vibrating. It seemed the voice of the people, uttered alone for greater distinctness. The president grew pale.
Who pronounced those words? Came they from the hall, or from the galleries? It mattered not; they were so powerful that he had to reply.
“Gentlemen,” said he, “there is no circumstance in which the Assembly of the nation does not recognise the king as its chief. If the king stand, I propose that the Assembly hear the oath in the same attitude.”
“I propose an amendment which will suit everybody. Let us order that it be permitted to M. de Malouet, and those who prefer it, to hear the king kneeling; let us, though, maintain the proposition.” The proposition was lost.
On the next day the king was to swear.
The hall was full and the galleries crowded with spectators. At noon the king was announced.
He spoke erect, and the Assembly heard him standing. The discourse having been pronounced, the constitution was signed, and all sat down.
The president, Thouret, arose to pronounce his discourse, but after the two or three first phrases, seeing that the king did not rise, he resumed his seat. The galleries applauded, and the king evidently grew pale.
He took his handkerchief from his pocket, and wiped the perspiration from his brow. The queen, in a closed box, witnessed the ceremonial. She could bear no more, but arose, went out, closed the door, and returned to the Tuileries.
She returned without speaking a word even to her most intimate friends. Since Charny had gone her heart absorbed poison but did not emit it.
The king returned half an hour after.
An usher wished to walk before him. He put him aside by a sign, and appeared at the door of the room where she was.
He was so pale, so overcome, that the perspiration hung in large drops on his brow. The queen, when she saw him, arose and shrieked:
“Sire!” said she, “what has happened?”
Without speaking, the king sank into an arm-chair and sobbed.
“Madame, madame!” at last said he, “why would you be present at this session? Why would you be a witness of my humiliation? Was it for this, under the pretext of being a queen, that I brought you to France?”
Such an explosion from Louis XVI. was the more painful because it was rare. The queen could not resist, and running to the king, threw herself at his feet. Just then the door opened, and she turned round. Madame Campan had come in.
The queen reached out her hand, and said:
Madame de Campan did not misconceive why the queen wished her to go. She retired respectfully, but standing behind the door, heard the unfortunate couple long exchanging phrases, broken by sobs. At last they calmed their sobs, and were silent. After half an hour, the door opened, and the queen herself called Madame de Campan.
“Campan,” said she, “give this letter to M. de Maiden. It is addressed to my brother Leopold. Let him set out at once for Vienna, which he must reach before the news of today. If he need two or three hundred louis, give them to him. I will return them.”
Madame de Campan took the letter and left. Two hours after M. de Maiden set out for Vienna.
The worst feature of all this was that they had to seem happy and joyous.
During the rest of the day a tremendous crowd filled the Tuileries; at night the whole city was illuminated. The king and queen were invited to show themselves in the Champs Elysees, escorted by the aides-decamp and chiefs of the Parisian army.
Scarcely had they appeared, than cries of “Vive le roi!” “Vive la reine!” arose. After an interval the cries ceased. It was where the carriage had halted.
“Do not believe them, madame,” said a stern looking man of the people, who stood by with folded arms. “Vive la nation!”
The carriage was slowly driven on, but the man who had spoken placed his hand on the carriage-door, and whenever the cry of “Vive le roi!” was heard, or “Vive la reine!” shouted “Vive la nation!”
The queen returned with her heart crushed by the constant and heavy blows which were lanced on her by anger and hatred.
Representations were organized at the different theatres, at the opera, the Comedie Francaise and the Italiens.
At the two first the king and queen were received with unanimous applause; but at the last the people had taken all the pit, and they saw that at that place things would not go on well, and that there would probably be trouble during the evening. The fear became certain when they saw who filled the pit.
Danton, Desmoulins, Legendre, Sauterre, occupied paramount seats. When the queen entered the box the galleries sought to applaud. The pit hissed..
The queen looked with terror at the gaping crater before her. She saw the flame of eyes flashing with hatred and menace.
“What have I done?” said she, seeking to hide her trouble with a smile. “Why do they detest me so violently?”
All at once her eye rested with horror on a man who leaned against one of the columns on which the boxes rested.
It was he of Taverney, of Sevres, of the garden of the Tuileries. It was he of the menacing words, and mysterious and terrible actions.
When her eyes had once rested on him, she could not look away. He exerted the fascination of the serpent over her.
The play began. The queen made an effort, and broke the charm, so as to be able to turn away and look at the stage.
“Evenements Imprevus” of Gretry were played.
All the efforts of Marie Antoinette to divert her attention, however, were vain, for the mysterious man used a magnetic power, more mighty than her will, and she could not but turn and look in one direction.
The stare—motionless, sardonic, and mocking. It was a painful impression, internal and fatal. It was to one awake what the nightmare is to one asleep.
A kind of electricity floated through the hall. These two influences could not but meet and crash, as in an August day two clouds come together, and hurl forth lightning, if not bolts. The occasion came.
Madame Dagazon, a charming woman, who gave her name to a peculiar line of business, had a duo to sing with the tenor, in which were these verses:
“Ah! comme 'aime ma maitresse.”
The brave woman rushed to the front of the stage and opened her arms, reached them forth to the queen, sang the verses, and gave the fatal challenge.
The queen knew the tempest was come; terror-stricken, she turned aside, and her eyes fell involuntarily on the man who leaned against the column. She saw him make a sign, which the whole pit obeyed as an order.
With one voice it cried: “No master! no mistress! Liberty!”
To this the galleries and boxes replied:
“Vive le roi! Vive la reine! Long live our master and mistress!”
“No master! no mistress! Liberty! Liberty! Liberty!” howled the pit.
After this double declaration of war, the strife began.
The queen shrieked with terror, and closed her eyes. She could no longer look at this demon, who seemed the god of disorder, the spirit of destruction.
The officers of the National Guard then surrounded her, making a rampart of their bodies, and took her away.
In the corridor she heard the same cries.
“No master! no mistress! no king! no queen!”
They took her to her coach. She had fainted away.
She never went to the theatre again.
Sept. 30. The Constitutional Assembly declared that it had fulfilled its functions and closed its sessions.
The following is the result of its labours, during a session of two years and four months:
The complete disorganization of the monarchy.
The organization of popular power.
The destruction of all ecclesiastical and military privileges.
The issue of 100,000,000 of assignats.
The mortgage of the national property.
The recognition of freedom of worship.
Abolition of lettres de cachet.
Suppression of internal custom-houses.
The establishment of the National Guard.
