IT was really an army that Maillard commanded.
It had cannon, deprived of carriages and wheels, it is true; but they had been placed on carts. It had muskets, many of which were deficient in locks and triggers, it is true; but every one had a bayonet.
It had a quantity of other weapons, very awkward ones, it is true; but they were weapons.
It had gunpowder, which was carried in pocket-handkerchiefs, in caps, and in pockets; and in the midst of these living cartouche-boxes walked the artillery-men with their lighted matches.
That the whole army was not blown into the air during this extraordinary journey, was certainly a perfect miracle.
Maillard at one glance appreciated the feelings of his army. He saw that it would be of no use to keep it on the square where it had assembled, nor to confine it within the walls of Paris, but to lead it on to Versailles, and once arrived there to prevent the harm which it might attempt to do.
This difficult, this heroic task, Maillard was determined to accomplish.
And in consequence, Maillard descends the steps and takes the drum which was hanging from the shoulders of the young girl.
Dying with hunger, the poor young girl has no longer strength to carry it. She gives up the drum, glides along a wall, and falls with her head against a post.
A gloomy pillow,—the pillow of hunger.
Maillard asks her name. She replies that it is Madeleine Chambry. Her occupation had been carving in wood for churches. But who now thinks of endowing churches with those beautiful ornaments in wood, those beautiful statues, those magnificent basso-relievos, the master-pieces of the fifteenth century?
Dying with hunger, she had become a flower-girl in the Palais Royal.
But who thinks of purchasing flowers when money is wanting to buy even bread? Flowers, those stars which shine in the heaven of peace and abundance,—flowers are withered by storms of wind and revolutions.
Being no longer able to sculpture her fruits in oak, being no longer able to sell her roses, her jessamines, and lilacs, Madeleine Chambry took a drum, and beat the terrible reveille of hunger.
She also must go to Versailles,—she who had assembled all this gloomy deputation; only, as she is too feeble to walk, she is to be carried there in a cart.
When they arrive at Versailles, they will ask that she may be admitted into the palace with twelve other women. She is to be the orator; famishing, she will there plead before the king the cause of all those that are starving.
This idea of Maillard was much applauded.
And thus by a word Maillard had at once changed every hostile feeling.
They did not before this know why they were going to Versailles; they did not know what they were going to do there.
But now they know; they know that a deputation of twelve women, with Madeleine Chambry at their head, is going to supplicate the king, in the name of hunger, to take compassion on his people.
Somewhere about seven thousand women were there assembled. They commence their march, going along the quays.
But on arriving at the Tuileries, loud shouts were heard.
Maillard jumped upon a post in order to be seen by the whole of his army.
“What is it that you want?” he asked them.
“We wish to pass through the Tuileries.”
“That is impossible,” replied Maillard.
“And why is it impossible?” cried seven thousand voices.
“Because the Tuileries is the king's house and its gardens the king's; because to pass through them without the king's permission, would be to insult the king,—and more than that, it would be attacking, in the king's person, the liberty of all.”
Maillard went to the Swiss, his cocked hat in his hand.
“My friend,” said he, “will you allow these ladies to go through the Tuileries? They will only go through the archway, and will not do any injury to the plants or trees.”
The only answer the Swiss gave was to draw his long rapier, and to rush upon Maillard.
Maillard drew his sword, which was full a foot shorter, and their weapons crossed.
While they were tilting at each other, a woman went behind the Swiss, and gave him a fearful blow upon the head with a broom-handle, and laid him at Maillard's feet.
At the same time another woman was about to run the Swiss through the body with a thrust of her bayonet.
Maillard sheathes his sword, takes that of the Swiss under one arm, the musket of the woman under the other, picks up his hat, which had fallen to the ground during the struggle, puts it upon his head, and then leads his victorious troops through the Tuileries, where, in fulfilment of the promise he had made, no sort of damage was committed by them.
Let us, therefore, allow them to continue their way quietly through the Cours la Reine, and go on towards Sèvres, where they separated into two bands, and let us return to what was going on at Paris.
These seven thousand women had not very nearly drowned the electors, hanged the Abbé Lefevre and Maillard, and burned the Hôtel de Ville, without making a certain degree of noise.
On hearing this noise, which had been re-echoed even in the most remote quarters of the capital, Lafayette had hastened towards the Hôtel de Ville.
He was holding a sort of review at the Champ de Mars. He had been on horseback from eight o'clock in the morning; he reached the square of the Hôtel de Ville just as the clock was striking twelve.
The caricatures of those days represented Lafayette as a centaur, the body of which was the famous white horse which had become proverbial. The head was that of the commandant of the National Guard.
From the commencement of the Revolution, Lafayette spoke on horseback, Lafayette eat on horseback, Lafayette gave all his orders on horseback.
It often even happened that he slept on horseback.
And therefore when by chance he could sleep on his bed, Lafayette slept soundly.
When Lafayette reached the Quay Pelletier, he was stopped by a man who had been riding at full gallop on a swift horse.
This man was Gilbert; he was going to Versailles; he was going to forewarn the king of the visit with which he was threatened, and to place himself at his orders.
In two words he related all that had happened to Lafayette.
After that he rode off again at full speed.
Lafayette went on towards the Hôtel de Ville.
Gilbert went towards Versailles; only as the women were going on the right bank of the Seine, he took the left side of the river.
The square before the Hôtel de Ville having been vacated by the women, was soon afterwards filled with men.
These men were National Guards, receiving pay or not receiving it; old French guards, above all, who, having gone over to the people, had lost their privileges of king's guards,—privileges which had been inherited by the Swiss and the body-guards.
To the noise made by the women had succeeded the noise of the alarm-bell and the drums, calling the people to arms.
Lafayette made his way through the crowd, alighted from his horse at the foot of the steps, and without paying any attention to the acclamations, mingled with threats, excited by his presence, he began to dictate a letter to the king upon the insurrection which had taken place that morning.
He had got to the sixth line of his letter, when the door of the secretary's office was violently thrown open.
Lafayette raised his eyes. A deputation of grenadiers demanded to be received by the general.
Lafayette made a sign to the deputation that they might come in.
The grenadier who had been appointed spokesman of the deputation advanced to the table.
“General,” said he, in a firm voice, “we are deputed by ten companies of grenadiers. We do not believe that you are a traitor; but we are betrayed by the Government. It is time that all this should come to an end. We cannot turn our bayonets against women who are asking us for bread. The Provisioning Committee is either peculating, or it is incompetent; in either case, it is necessary that it should be changed. The people are unhappy; the source of their unhappiness is at Versailles. It is necessary to go there to find the king and bring him to Paris. The Flanders regiment must be exterminated, as well as the body-guards, who have dared to trample under foot the national cockade. If the king be too weak to wear the crown, let him abdicate; we will crown his son. A council of regency will be nominated, and all will then go well.”
Lafayette gazed at the speaker with astonishment. He had witnessed disturbances; he had wept over assassinations; but this was the first time that the breath of revolution had in reality been personally addressed to him.
This possibility that the people saw of being able to do without the king amazed him; it did more, it confounded him.
“How is this?” cried he.” Have you, then, formed the project of making war upon the king, and of thus compelling him to abandon us?”
“General,” replied the spokesman, “we love and we respect the king; we should be much hurt should he leave us, for we owe him much. But, in short, should he leave us, we have the dauphin.”
“Gentlemen! gentlemen!” cried Lafayette, “beware of what you are doing; you are attacking the crown, and it is my duty not to allow such a step!”
“General,” replied the National Guard, bowing, “we would for you shed the last drop of our blood. But the people are unhappy; the source of the evil is at Versailles. We must go to Versailles and bring the king to Paris. It is the people's will.”
Lafayette saw that it was necessary to sacrifice his own feelings; and this was a necessity from which he never shrank.
He descends into the centre of the square, and wishes to harangue the people; but cries of “To Versailles! To Versailles!” drown his voice.
Suddenly a great tumult was heard proceeding from the Rue de la Vannerie. It is Bailly, who in his turn is coming to the Hôtel de Ville.
At the sight of Bailly, cries of “Bread! Bread! To Versailles!” burst from every side.
Lafayette, on foot, lost amid the crowd, feels that the tide continues rising higher and higher, and will completely swallow him up.
He presses through the crowd, in order to reach his horse, with the same ardor that a shipwrecked mariner swims to reach a rock.
At last he grasps his bridle, vaults on his charger's back, and urges him on towards the entrance of the Hôtel de Ville; but the way is completely closed to him. Walls of men have grown up between him and it.
“Zounds, General!” cry these men, “you must remain with us.”
At the same time tremendous shouts are heard of “To Versailles! To Versailles!”
Lafayette wavers, hesitates. Yes, undoubtedly, by going to Versailles he may be very useful to the king; but will he be able to master and restrain this crowd who are urging him to Versailles? Will he be able to command these billows which have swept him from his feet, and against which he feels that he will now have to combat for his own safety?
Suddenly a man descends the steps, pushes through the crowd, a letter in his hand, and makes such good use of his feet and elbows, particularly the latter, that he at length reaches Lafayette.
This man was the ever indefatigable Billot.
“Here, General,” said he, “this comes from the Three Hundred.”
It was thus the electors were called.
Lafayette broke the seal, and began to read it to himself; but twenty thousand voices at once cried out:
Lafayette was therefore compelled to read the letter aloud. He makes a sign to request that they will be silent. Instantaneously, and as by a miracle, silence succeeds to the immense tumult; and Lafayette reads the following letter, not one word of which was lost by the people:—
“Seeing the state of circumstances and the desire of the people, and on the representation of the commandant-general that it was impossible to refuse, the electors assembled in council authorize the commandant-general, and even order him, to repair to Versailles.
“Four commissaries of the district will accompany him.”
Poor Latayette had absolutely represented nothing to the electors, who were by no means disinclined to leave some portion of the responsibility of the events which were about to happen on his shoulders. But the people,—they believed that he had really made representations, and this coincided so precisely with their views that they made the air ring with their shouts of “Long live Lafayette!”
Lafayette turned pale, but in his turn repeated, “To Versailles”
Fifteen thousand men followed him, with a more silent enthusiasm, but which was at the same time more terrible than that of the women who had gone forward as the advanced guard.
All these people were to assemble again at Versailles, to ask the king for the crumbs which fell from the table of the body-guards during the orgies of the 1st of October.
