CHAPTER IV
A RÊVERIE
A Possible Historical Clue
To find the causes of the universal movement, which for convenience we call the French Revolution, one should be a trained historian, philosopher, and theologian, and be able to pass in review and justly estimate the aspirations for political consolidation, greater individual responsibility, and the revolt against Papal tyranny over consciences, as they had been working in all European countries for many centuries. To find the causes for the particular form which this universal development took in France, it would be necessary to weigh the moral, social, and political (including the fiscal) tendencies of earlier generations. This would be manifestly impossible in a paper dealing with the revolution in France as it may have appeared to a single mind, on one special day, at a time of great mental excitement. There can be no doubt that Marie Antoinette was the innocent victim of a world-wide upheaval in the moments when men were first consciously developing it, and we can well believe that to herself the reasons for such reversals of older thoughts seemed inscrutable; whilst she would have vainly sought, in reflecting over her own mistakes, for grounds sufficient to justify the enormous misfortunes which overwhelmed her personally.
The tenth of August, 1792, was a marked day in the history of the French Revolution. The tide of French democratic reaction against the ever-increasing selfishness of privilege, and the inability of the rulers to sympathise with the growing desire for greater freedom and less personal government, had been gathering force with constantly increasing momentum; and on this day Louis XVI. virtually relinquished all independence as Head of the State by surrendering himself, for the sake of the safety of his family and to save France from the crime of massacring its King, into the doubtful care of the Legislative Assembly.
That Assembly grew out of the States-General which had been convened by the King, May 5th, 1789, at one of the critical moments when the dissatisfaction of the nation with its financial conditions produced keen anxiety to the Court; and it had (on another epoch-making day of that unrestful period) refused, on June 23rd, 1789, to be dissolved by mandate of the King. From that moment the National Assembly had become the centre of the reforming party in France. Louis XVI., as King, did not seem to stand in the way of the wishes of the nation as expressed by the Assembly. He appeared to be willing to forego more of his prerogatives than was compatible with the existence of monarchy as understood in France; but, it was believed, the Queen was of a different opinion and desirous of upholding the ancient monarchical idea as a practical force, which at that time, in spite of the King’s amiability and absence of policy, could not be otherwise than hostile to the still vague, but unbounded, aspirations of the democratic party. “Madame Veto” had that influence over the King due to a strong personality and her position as a much loved wife; upon her, therefore, fell the wrath of the nation. It was instinctively recognised that as a wife and mother she had every reason to desire the continuance of things as they were, and the people quickly interpreted every act of vacillation on the King’s part to the Queen’s active enmity to the rising forces of democracy.
It was on August 10th, 1792, that the Legislative Assembly was made to realise another function belonging to it beyond that of fighting the prerogatives of the King and of the aristocracy. In such a restless age, and in such a country as France, it was impossible to suppose that the outspoken longings of philosophers, poets, and statesmen for freedom, should not stir up the hope of freedom from all authority and restraint whatever in the lowest stratum of society. The lengths to which the mob in Paris could go had, during the last three years, shown itself on isolated occasions, but with increasing frequency and savagery. Both mob and Assembly were animated by the same desire, viz. to make monarchy in France absolutely helpless to withstand their will. The Assembly was trying to bring it about with some appearance of constitutional decency, without apparently perceiving that unless the King was allowed to banish himself, a discrowned monarch without any _raison d’être_ whatever in the country inevitably meant his ultimate, and perhaps speedy, disappearance by death. The mob saw its policy more clearly, and was ready to get rid of him and the Queen by instant murder.
Thus, on the morning of August 10th, the Legislative Assembly had the double part to play of continuing its assault on privilege whilst protecting the royal family from destruction.
When, at some moment between 7 and 9 a.m., Louis XVI. and Marie Antoinette entered the Manège in which the Council met, there was, at first, some attempt at restrained courtesy showing itself in the grave assurance of protection in reply to the King’s request, and also in half an hour’s doubt as to where he should sit down. But the Assembly was entirely aware of its victory in this act of unconditional surrender on the part of the King, and would allow no royal guards of any description to enter. There was a short alarm lest it should have to defend itself against the cannon of the insurgents, the sound of firing approaching nearer to the building than the nerves of some of the deputies could sustain with calmness.[78] But the mob had not yet realised that it had the upper hand, and was content to believe that the protected King was the imprisoned King, and only continued to howl ferocious threats outside the _grilles_.
If the Assembly did not immediately see its way to the definite imprisonment of the Sovereign, neither did it choose that the royal party should sit on its own benches, so it ordained that they should be placed in the _logographie_—the reporter’s room—a sort of den not far from the President’s chair, open to the Manège and within sight and hearing of all that passed, but without dignity or decent comfort.[79] Here, without apparently any opportunity for resting or meals, the King, Queen, Princess Elizabeth, Madame Royale, and the Dauphin remained, until (at least) 10 p.m.[80] A few faithful attendants, such as the Princesse de Lamballe, Madame de Tourzel, the Prince de Poix, and the Duc de la Rochefoucauld, were with them, and at first other royalists were allowed to bring them news and to pass in and out, but this was stopped in the course of the day.
From Dufour’s account it would seem that no one was busying themselves to supply their wants until he undertook to do so the next day.[81] A draught of water brought to them in their cells at night to quench their raging thirst is all that he speaks of. If the story of the King eagerly devouring food in public is true (and it is impossible to believe that the children had nothing), yet it is doubtful whether the Queen, who had had no rest the night before, had any food during the day.
What a tumult of disgust, fears, indignation, and overwhelming regrets must have occupied the Queen’s mind! It was difficult enough to maintain an outwardly calm, queenly demeanour; her thoughts must have been confused, half formed, reflecting the agitation of despair and anxiety. She knew only too well that she was looked upon as the political enemy of the crowd for reasons that were not altogether untrue. She had had a policy inconsistent with republicanism and, though worsted in it, the events of the last three years probably justified it in her own mind.
She inherited a belief in a strong rule, beneficent as her own kindly nature required, but one that could fight its battles and make full use of such opportunities as hereditary kingship possessed. Again and again she had felt that the King’s action was worse than nothing. Marie Antoinette would have sternly punished the crime of killing the King’s officials;[82] she would have upheld the sovereign office as long as there were those who prized it. The country could never have reached the present point of rebellion if the taking of the Bastille, for instance, had not been condoned and the murders and outrages connected with it had not been allowed to pass without adequate punishment. Why were the troops dismissed so soon after, and the nobles allowed to emigrate? It may have been right for the monarch to urge upon some of them the danger in which they stood by remaining, but where was their courage and loyalty in leaving the country?[83]
The sensation of loneliness was terrible. Where were the illustrious families and statesmen who had not left France, who, had the Queen only known it, were to go during the next year in one long procession to the scaffold? They were, she knew, paralysed by the King’s inaction and weakness. Surely they would have rallied had he called upon them with decision to defend their rights and had placed himself at their head, even though many of those princely families who had surrounded her during the first years of her reign had been alienated and in opposition to herself before the disaffection became general. Where were the faithful Swiss guards who only that morning had escorted them in safety to the Manège, and would have fought bravely and perhaps been the rallying point for all who were not declared democrats? Alas, alas, the sounds of screams and fiendish massacre were in her ears at the moment; cannon, musketry, and cold-blooded carnage were then and there destroying the last stronghold! The tiny _loge_, only 10 feet square, so painfully hot and full of comers and goers, seemed to the despairing Queen empty of all who should have been there to represent the monarchical principle. The presence of the Prince de Poix and the Duc de la Rochefoucauld and a few others, who were endangering their lives by being with them, only emphasised the forlornness of the royal condition.
Looking from her dismal corner in the _loge_ at the King, who sat with impassive mien facing the assembly, what waves of painful emotion must have swept across her brain! The King could not see things from her point of view, but he had loved and spoilt her. He had been faithful to her, as no French monarch for many generations had been loyal to his wife. He was devoted to her and to their children; had paid her debts again and again;[84] had ennobled and enriched her friends; his patience and magnanimity were saintly; but how often had she raged against his theory that the King’s duty was to set an example of lofty forbearance and forgiveness of every injury even when done to him as representing the law, justice, and power of the whole French peoples. She had instinctively felt that had she been in the King’s place she would have found her way through the past crises without either descending from her throne or doing wrong to the most Christian charity. She knew that she was kind-hearted, and had always loved to be the benefactress of others: yes, she too could forgive royally when forgiveness was due from her in her own person, but not when it required injustice to others.
But Marie Antoinette was too clear-sighted to impute all the blame of this downfall to the King’s mistakes. No doubt his feeble idea had been to behave as though the democrats only were the nation, forgetting the contrary view of those who had either banished themselves or who were perforce silent unless he could lead the way. To obey every behest of the Legislative Assembly and of the mob showed a lamentable lack of wisdom, but even such a poor policy had brought him an undoubted though fleeting popularity. He had appeared to take the side of the opponents of monarchy; he had divested himself of prerogatives; had sworn to a Constitution beyond his power to carry out, and had submitted to the indignity of placing the red bonnet on his head; but had she not helped to make all this short-sighted weakness even more unavailing than it need have been? What was the use of humbling the aristocracy along with himself, and of acting against his own convictions, if at the same time he consented to plans for escaping, and was known to be so far untrustworthy to his own professions that at every crisis he listened to her incessant urgings to the more spirited policy, by which he could instantly rally the royal forces?
Bitterly she knew that she had never prevailed to overcome his fatal belief that the King was never to shed the blood of a Frenchman, even if he were a disturber of the public peace; but she had ever to bear the blame of every mistake. She thought of that terrible message sent only two hours ago at the bidding of the Assembly that their guards were not to defend themselves, but to disarm.[85] Only this morning there were 600 Swiss and 200 gentlemen, and even companies of the national guard whom they could trust, but whispered reports had reached even the _loge_ that their noble supporters had died unsoldierly and cold-blooded deaths. There was no longer any nucleus in the country of loyalty to the consecrated ruler.
There was nothing now to prevent the passing of the formal decree by which she heard the King finally deprived of the crown and of every vestige of authority. Though Louis XVI. appeared unheeding and expressionless, could _she_ bear this indignity, this wrong to her son? Could they not escape from this wicked durance? But she had consented to this surrender to their enemies in the hope of saving her son’s life. It had been the only chance. As long as they were in some shelter from the howling savages outside who were screaming for their blood, the life of her son was secure. She had long accustomed herself to the thought of being assassinated, but there was no fear of a judicial murder; no government of France would sink to such a point of wickedness and unwisdom in the face of a united Europe.[86] They would be condemned to more years of miserable bondage, but they would be together; friends would rally; circumstances would clear themselves. The Queen had it in her still to do and dare everything if there were any hope of surmounting the present crisis.
If she might only act! But no, the Queen’s heart sank again as the numbing sense of helplessness came over her, remembering that she would not be allowed to act. It was always the King who had the last word. She might plan, but he, with all his love and confidence in her, invariably thwarted every attempt requiring some spirit of defiance. He had ruined the Varennes scheme by letting himself be recognised at critical moments. Why did he review the guards that morning, and make it unavailing by omitting to speak words of courage and confidence? Why did he seek the protection of his enemies rather than fire on the mob, which an hour later fled away at the volleys fired by the Swiss?[87] No, there was no hope of contending against the difficulties imposed on their party by the inertia of the King. And now things had gone so far, perhaps he had no choice but to advise obedience when the Assembly decreed that the few friends outside their household who had pressed into the _loge_ should no longer hold communication with them, but should retire. More than once during those sad hours they had to see faithful servants bleeding and with torn clothes judged at the bar of the Assembly for having defended them.[88] The handkerchief that was handed to the Queen in the place of her own, which was soaked with tears, in order that she might wipe the drops of sweat off the brow of the young Dauphin, was tinged with blood.[89]
Exhausted by horror and disappointment, what strength remained to the Queen must have spent itself in thoughts for her little son, who with touching obedience was trying to be “bien sage avec ces vilains hommes.”[90] If she was personally helpless to save his crown, surely the Kings of Europe would see to it. Again hope revived at the thought of a successful war already beginning. The false moves of the last years perhaps only meant at the worst, that though she and the King had to die at the hands of an enraged but defeated France, the boy would escape. With victorious armies surrounding Paris, there would be those within who would then be roused to get the lad into the protection of friends. Surely God would help him then!
But what if everything should fail? Fatality had overtaken every reasonable hope since this terrible revolution had begun. There were forces of mysterious and terrific magnitude, which seemed to her to be bearing away everything that had been stable hitherto. Her ignorance of what constituted these forces increased their terror for her. During the two hours when the deputies separately repeated the words of the oath to maintain liberty, equality, or die, the Queen in utter weariness tried to penetrate the mystery of that fatality which seemed to overtake royalty in France, and herself in particular. Perhaps for a moment she realised that had she seriously studied history some light might have come as to the meaning of this crushing movement. The volumes of Hume’s _History of England_, which in early days had been carelessly listened to, conveyed little to her inattentive mind.[91] She did not know even the history of France intelligently enough to be able to guess whether the enveloping force owed its strength to anything which could have been foreseen. Was there anyone who could have foreseen this trend of events, when it was only last year that the Constitution had been applauded to the skies as the consummation of political wisdom?[92]
Was the penury of the country and the starving condition of the poor at the bottom of this earthquake? But why visit them upon the Court? People must know that she and the King were most kindly and anxious and troubled for all. They had reduced every possible expense in their household. Had she not nine years ago refused the diamond necklace on account of its expense? She had not gambled in old days more than others; neither had she enriched her friends more than sovereigns were in the habit of doing. The Pompadours and Dubarrys had rolled in wealth. What was the cost of Trianon compared to the millions of money spent in building the Palace at Versailles?[93] It was unjust to make her and her children bear the punishment of the sins of former generations.
Were such writers as Voltaire and Rousseau responsible in any degree for the gathering forces that were crashing all law and order as they had been hitherto understood? The Queen knew something of their views, but their invectives against kings as tyrants seemed unjust and exaggerated, and had repelled her. To her mind, her mother, husband, and brothers were not selfish oppressors; they meant to be useful to their subjects, and would have been unwise to have rejected the wisdom of former times embodied in traditions and old customs. Moreover, any truths uttered by Voltaire were vitiated to the Queen by his declared hostility to religion as she knew it. Such overwhelming forces as were destroying France could not be the outcome of such feeble views; there must be stronger reasons than such writings could account for.
But here there was some tangle of ideas which could not be unravelled. The Queen’s mind was not one to dwell on abstractions; it was wholly untrained and incapable of thinking out points of philosophical or religious argument. She could not disentangle the various points of view which distracted her mind.
As the long hours went on, her sorrows which admitted of no comfort: the strange impassiveness of the king: the sight of her weeping companions: the efforts of the children not to give trouble: and the physical suffering entailed on all alike, boxed up in this stifling hole on a hot August afternoon, filled her with maddening oppression. Whilst the cold and insolent words of the hostile Assembly, the unspeakable insults incessantly hurled at her by the cruel voices outside, the noise, the heat, the smells, the want of room, added to the effects of sleepless nights and absence of nourishment, must have filled her with an uncontrollable longing to get away. As the afternoon wore on with no hope of relief, black, helpless despair closed in on the mind of the tired Queen. She must have felt that, if she was not to go mad, it was necessary to extricate herself from her present surroundings by at least a semi-unconsciousness of them. Her brain was on fire. Could she not force her imagination to take some rest? Even in happy times some natural impatience in the Queen’s nature made it imperative to her to run away and be alone sometimes. It was at the Petit Trianon that she had found relief from tiresome restrictions, importunities of etiquette, and obsequious crowds. There at least she could have her own way and her love of simple pleasures and country freedom had been satisfied. If only she could fly to that beloved spot away from this horrible smell of blood, what happiness it would be to her jaded spirits! Only to think of it afforded her a dim pleasure overcoming the inevitable bitterness of the recollection.
Yes; it was the Petit Trianon which of all places in France she loved best. The bare memory of its trees and grass and cool shadows brought a little refreshment. It was there that she had always found a reprieve from the stately formalities of Versailles and that she had been able to unqueen herself and be on an equality with her friends. But was there no pang as she realised with fresh point that the King had just been deposed, and that she, by the voice of the only authority at present recognised in the country, was no longer Queen of France? That favourite pastime of pretending to be no queen in the privacy of Trianon had been a dangerous game! Marie Antoinette had not attempted to be on an equality with the old _haute noblesse_ whose absence at this moment was so deplorable. Such familiarity would have lowered them in their own eyes; for their rank and consideration rested on their service to the sovereigns, and only by etiquettes rigorously kept could the princes and old nobility find their own _raison d’être_. With keen pain the truth flashed upon her that a thoughtless Queen had done her best to undermine Cardinal Richelieu’s policy in bringing the great feudal princes to squabble in small rivalries about positions at Court rather than leave them to combine into factions and fight each other in wars dangerous to the State. Etiquettes had been laughed at, and the nobles superseded in her favour by persons without claim to the titles and fortunes lavished upon them. But was it possible that such small considerations had really alienated the most powerful class in France? The Queen had only to recollect the restrained indignation of the Comtesse de Noailles: those dismal years when no one attended her balls at Versailles[94]: the immense offence given to the distinguished families of Soubise, Condé, Rohan, Guemenée, and all who were connected with them, by her furious and undignified anger with Cardinal Rohan[95]: besides the murmurs of all who considered themselves wronged by their exclusion from her friendship at Trianon to realise bitterly what had alienated the aristocracy from her, beyond, apparently, hope of recall.
Too worn and sad to pursue such painful thoughts, it was a relief to let the vision of her favourite home float before her mind’s eye and to remember the loyalty of her Trianon servants, such as Antoine Richard, _jardinier en chef_, who had succeeded to the post so long held by his father Claude Richard.[96] How loyally they had carried out her wishes, and, under the direction of her architect Mique,[97] had altered their much loved nursery gardens into a fashionable “jardin anglais”! It had been delightful planning that garden and altering the arrangements and decorations of the house and grounds with her own rare good taste, until scarcely any part was left bringing to mind the sojourn there of Madame de Pompadour, but the house itself,[98] and the little ménagerie with its vacherie, bergerie, and poulaillers,[99] or of Madame du Barry, but the formal French garden,[100] the chapel,[101] with the kitchens beyond.
In the stuffy dirty _loge_ the royal family had resigned itself to a melancholy silence, the Dauphin was sleeping across her knee, and the Queen surrendered herself to a trance-like condition in which she saw again with extreme vividness and longing the place of former enjoyment. She was again free, opening all the gates with her own _passe-partout_, and wandering into all the corners of the grounds.[102] The beautiful trees planted by the two Richards in rich variety were, she recollected, in full summer foliage, and she would fain have felt some breath of the cool evening air, which she knew well must be blowing at that moment, though not for her. Or she was again in the mazy wood beyond the Vergelay bridge following in thought the sound of the light operatic music, so often played on bright afternoons, which drifted past her as she made her way along the wood paths. Well-known bars of Monsigny’s music mingled with reminiscences of Sacchini’s and Grétry’s operas. Was it not on an August day, twelve years ago, that she first acted herself in the charming little newly-built theatre?[103] It was in a play of Sedaine (_Le Roi et le Fermier_) for which Monsigny had written music, especially for the Trianon; and with pain it was remembered that the plot of the play was the favourite one at Trianon, viz. the superiority of the farmer’s condition over that of the King. Vaudreuil had acted the part of the farmer lover to her Jenny. The Queen’s thoughts flew to another, and the last, acting,[104] so immediately followed by the frightful episode of the diamond necklace when outrage first touched her and personal popularity was finally lost.[105] Under pressure from the Comte de Vaudreuil she had prevailed with the King, against his better judgment, to allow the _Mariage de Figaro_ to be acted in Paris.[106] In the following year, the older version of the same play had been performed at Trianon;[107] she had acted Rosina, the Comte d’Artois had taken the part of Figaro, and Vaudreuil that of Almaviva. Four years later the King’s prophecy had come true, and the destruction of the Bastille had been the signal for Vaudreuil’s hurried flight from the country.[108]
Well she remembered that false friend,[109] whom she had willingly received into her most intimate circle, though latterly he had often wearied her with his violent temper and importunities for more lucrative posts.[110]
There was one day in that last summer at Trianon, shortly before Vaudreuil’s final departure in July, which stood out, every detail being imprinted on her memory. She had wandered up the lane past the _logement des corps de gardes_, and had noticed on the ground near the lodge gates the old plough,—a reminiscence of Louis XVI.’s boyhood.[111] Coming towards the _porte du jardinier_, she had seen Rodolphe and Fidel Bersy[112] in the long green coats of the _petite livrée_ of the _gardes_.[113] They were directing some strangers. These guards were special friends of hers. Had she not paid all expenses out of her own purse when Rodolphe’s children had been ill with smallpox?[114] Whilst passing them she had noticed Marie Anne Lemaignan[115] standing near her mother[116] on the steps of their cottage outside the enclosure.[117] The Queen calculated that the girl, who had then been fourteen years old,[118] must now be a young woman of seventeen, and with her promise of beauty[119] would soon marry: probably, she thought, to young Charpentier,[120] who was already, she knew, attached to the girl. The Queen’s intimacy with her servants at Trianon had been a never-failing happiness, and she thought with infinite tenderness of the troubles their loyal sympathy for her must be causing them now.
Passing through the gardeners’ enclosure and the _porte d’entrée_ she had come into the English garden. Advancing a few steps, she had suddenly caught sight of Vaudreuil sitting by the small circular “ruine,”[121] dressed, she remembered, in the slouch hat and large cloak which had become fashionable since he had acted in such as Almaviva.[122] He turned and looked at her, but did not rise or make the smallest gesture of recognition. It was by her own orders that at Trianon her ladies and gentlemen did not rise or put away their occupations when the Queen entered a room; but she had lately become sensitive, and on this occasion she had felt his rudeness.[123] After all, she was the Queen; he was there as her honoured guest, where the highest in the land desired to be, and ordinary good manners required him to do more than sit still and look at her without seeming to notice her. The Queen remembered her sensation of displeasure. And now her extraordinarily excited memory which was enabling her to see Trianon again down to the smallest details of the scenery, also revealed to her her short-sighted folly in undermining the first principles of that mutual courtesy which constitutes best Court life, at a time when France was on the verge of an immense political whirlpool.
Yes; it was on that very same spot that the messenger came to her, a few months later, to announce the crowd of disaffected women from Paris _en route_ for Versailles. She could never forget that October morning, for from that time her life had entirely altered in character and the Queen had endured a weary round of perpetual and open insult. Throughout the preceding summer the grounds at the Petit Trianon, which had formerly been so jealously guarded even from the Court, had been thrown open to the public,[124] and in order to take the chance of walking there in any privacy the Queen had lately been in the habit of driving over during the morning. That fifth of October had been fairly fine during the early hours, and she remembered having seen the gardeners at work in the different parts of the gardens;[125] and on her way from the Temple de l’Amour to the Hameau, she had passed the _prairie_, and had seen two labourers in their picturesque brown tunics and coloured _chaperons rouges_[126] filling a hired cart with sticks.[127]
Crossing the Vergelay bridge she had approached the cavernous mouth of her favourite grotto,[128] over which ivy fell in graceful wreaths.[129] For the first time in her experience she had noticed that the little stream issuing from the grotto had not been cleared, but was choked with dead autumn leaves.[130] This unusual and forlorn sight had remained in her mind. Here she had sat for a time looking at the place now deserted by all who had formerly been with her there, and, as was inevitable at that time of political anxiety, became engrossed in mournful anticipations of further troubles.[131] They had pressed more than she could bear, and feeling a sudden desire to speak to someone she had entered the moss-lined grotto.[132] Passing the point on her left hand where the little cascade entered from above,[133] she climbed the rock staircase[134] leading to the upper opening[135] near the _porte d’entrée_. Coming out upon the elevated rocks, she called to Marie Anne Lemaignan, whose father’s cottage was not far off. Fancying that she heard the girl running to her, the Queen had turned and was surprised to see, instead of the girl, a _garçon de la Chambre_, who, in a state of great agitation, handed her a letter from M. de Saint Priest, a minister at the Palace.[136] Her memory recalled the look of that man, also in the fashionable Spanish hat and cloak, flying over one of the upright rocks placed near the path by her orders.[137] He had been so anxious that she should wait at the house whilst he fetched the carriage that she relinquished her first thought of hurrying back by the woods, and she turned instead to go to the little bridge which crossed the tiny waterfall. How fond she was of that little rustic bridge, which she had had placed high up on rocks, hiding the Theatre and surrounded by thujas and pine trees![138] It had been one of the most charming of her inventions, and in fancy the Queen again saw every step of the way, and the trickling stream pouring over the rocks at her right hand, amidst ferns and moss, on its way into the grotto below the bridge.
Sitting under the north terrace near the door leading from the house to the Jeu de Bague, she had re-opened and re-read the minister’s letter whilst waiting for the carriage. Womanlike, the Queen remembered that the dress she had been wearing that morning was one of the light skirts repaired during that summer, the green silk bodice made in July, a large white fichu, and a straw hat.[139]
At that moment two of the many strangers who now came in as they liked passed her by and even went up on to the terrace behind her by the staircase at her left hand.[140] The Queen knew that her concierge (Bonnefoy Du Plan)[141] was informed that she was there, and would certainly, on seeing them from his attic window over the chapel, send someone to ask them to go further from the house. It might not have been wise, but her old servants had done all they dared to protect her privacy. She had before now, when wandering about alone, heard the coldness and unconcern with which the Bersy brothers had directed strangers in the grounds. Just as she had expected, a moment later, the Queen had heard the slam of the chapel door[142] and had thought that Lagrange[143] would probably conduct them into the avenue by the passage of the _porte de la ménagerie_, that being the nearest way out of the gardens.[144]
The carriage was ready, and the moment had come for rallying her force to act the part of a true queen in whatever circumstances were before her. The vivid dream was over, and in proportion as her retrospect was concerned with more important matters, the details stood out less clearly in her mind.
There was no refreshment in going over the events of the rest of that day; though some of them came back to her in rapid succession. The hurried return of the King from hunting at Meudon; the councils; the variations of policy; the presence of a rough and alarming-looking crowd on the Place d’Armes; the free fights; the deputation of women escorted by Mounier on the part of the Assembly: then the final ordering of the carriages too late for escape; the heavy depressing rain from 4 p.m. onwards which at last helped to clear away the crowd; the arrival at midnight of Lafayette and his national guard. All had been confusing and miserable. But agitating as the 5th had been, there was no comparison between it and the tension of October 6th.
The Queen remembered that she had only gone to bed that morning at 2 a.m. in order that her ladies might have some rest, but for herself there was none. Both on October 6th, 1789, and now on August 10th, 1792, outside disturbances had begun at 5 a.m. amidst the glories of a perfect summer dawn. But on the former occasion it had been first realised in one of her own suite of rooms. She had heard the sounds of actual fighting close to her bedroom, and the hasty shout of the guards, “Sauvez la Reine!” informed her of their deadly peril. The escape to the King’s room and the gathering of the family together was quickly effected; but the comfort of the reunion had been followed by terrible hours when Lafayette had done his utmost to quell the fury of the mob. There had been amongst it a company of, as it seemed, veritable fiends, come from no one knew where, whose faces were terrible to look at.[145] It was they who enacted the horrid scene of beheading the two murdered guards (Varicourt and Deshuttes) under the royal windows in the Cour de Marbre; and until they marched off to Paris carrying with them the two decapitated heads on spikes, it was impossible to come to any terms with the mob. But after their departure, by Lafayette’s wish (which at that time amounted to command), first the King and then the Queen had ventured on to the balcony, and had been greeted with some warmth.
And now, three years later, they had not the protecting influence of Lafayette to depend on, nor even the doubtful friendship of Mirabeau. The mob had gained the upper hand, and seemed to be altogether composed of wild beasts thirsting for blood. Who would save them from the horrible crowd pressing against the _grille_? It had not been without relief that Marie Antoinette had just heard the decree passed to keep them in the building where they were for the night. But what afterwards? Clearly they were not to go back to the Tuileries. The mention of the Luxembourg palace was interesting; still more so, the arguments of the opposition that it contained dangerous subterranean passages and opportunities for escape. The Queen’s brain was eagerly at work again, and intensely conscious of the present.
But Madame Royale and the Dauphin had borne all they could, and at 7 p.m. Madame de Tourzel was allowed to see the accommodation being prepared for the party in the cells of the ancient _couvent des Feuillants_. It was not till 10 p.m. that they were escorted thither by representatives of the Assembly; but for the elders it was neither to rest nor to sleep, for they were still within sound of the fierce mob outside as well as of the distant hum of the all-powerful Assembly about to decree their final destiny.
Three more weary days and nights spent in much the same manner were forced upon the unhappy family before they were conducted to the Temple, and into what proved to be for the majority of them the valley of the shadow of death.
E. M.
_November, 1908._
Footnote 1:
The man said a great deal more which we could not catch.
Footnote 2:
I remember that on account of the wind I put on my coat.
Footnote 3:
The woman was standing on the steps, bending slightly forward, holding a jug in her hand. The girl was looking up at her from below with her hands raised, but nothing in them. She might have been just going to take the jug or have just given it up. Her light-brown hair escaped from under her cap. I remember that both seemed to pause for an instant, as in a _tableau vivant_; but we passed on, and I did not see the end.
Footnote 4:
By old I mean old or unusual forms, perhaps surviving in provincial French.
Footnote 5:
One man wore red, the other blue; the colours were not mixed.
Footnote 6:
I thought this gardener did not look like a Frenchman; he had more the air of an Englishman. He had hair on his face, a grizzled beard, was large and loosely made. His height was very uncommon, and he seemed to be of immense strength. His arms were long and very muscular. I noticed that even through the sleeves of his jersey.
Footnote 7:
_Archives Nationales_ O^I, 1878.
Footnote 8:
Desjardins, p. 15; Rocheterie’s _Histoire de Marie Antoinette_, pp. 289, 290, vol. i.
Footnote 9:
In the Bibliothèque Nationale.
Footnote 10:
Picture of a Garde de la Porte du Roi Louis XV., dite de la Manche, d’après une gravure de Chevilet. R. Jacquemin.
Footnote 11:
_Souvenirs d’un Page, le comte D’Hezecques_, pp. 130–134. (He says that their underdress was blue.)
Footnote 12:
_Ibid._, p. 137.
Footnote 13:
_Arch. Nat._ O^I, 1883.
Footnote 14:
_Arch. Nat._ O^I, 1878 and 1880.
Footnote 15:
_Légendes de Trianon_, Madame Julie Lavergne, pp. 89, 96.
Footnote 16:
_Arch. Nat._ O^I, 1878.
Footnote 17:
_Ibid._ O^I, 1882.
Footnote 18:
Desjardins, p. 90.
Footnote 19:
_Arch. Nat._ O^I, 1875.
Footnote 20:
_La Reine Marie Antoinette_, De Nolhac, pp. 61, 212.
Footnote 21:
_Le Barbier de Séville_, by Beaumarchais, was first played in 1775; it was rewritten and made politically scandalous as _Le Mariage de Figaro_ in 1781. This version was played in Vaudreuil’s private theatre at Gennevilliers and at the Odéon, 1783, and for the first time in Paris, by permission, April 27th, 1784.
Footnote 22:
_Modes et Usages_, De Reiset, p. 479, vol. i.
Footnote 23:
_Légendes de Trianon_, p. 75.
Footnote 24:
_La Belle Jardinière_, Lavergne, pp. 91, 97.
Footnote 25:
_Arch. Nat._ O^I, 1878.
Footnote 26:
_Arch. Nat._ O^I, 1877.
Footnote 27:
Letter enclosing marriage certificate (copy from the Archives Municipales, Versailles).
Footnote 28:
_Arch. Nat._ O^I, 1876, 1877.
Footnote 29:
_Ib._ O^I, 1879.
Footnote 30:
_Ib._ O^I, 1879.
Footnote 31:
_La vie de Madame Lavergne._
Footnote 32:
Quoted in _Les Palais de Trianon_, M. de Lescure, p. 148.
Footnote 33:
_Légendes de Trianon_, Madame Julie Lavergne, p. 75.
Footnote 34:
_Arch. Nat._ O^I, 1875.
Footnote 35:
_Ib._
Footnote 36:
_Ib._
Footnote 37:
_Arch. Nat._ O^I, 1875.
Footnote 38:
_Ib._
Footnote 39:
_Ib._ O^I, 1882. (There was also a “pont de bois à la porte verte” on the east side of the house, _Arch. Nat._ O^I, 1881 and 1882.)
Footnote 40:
_Ib._
Footnote 41:
_Ib._ (_Souvenirs d’un Page_, D’Hezecques, p. 242).
Footnote 42:
_Ib._ 1877.
Footnote 43:
_Ib._
Footnote 44:
_Ib._
Footnote 45:
_Souvenirs d’un Page_, p. 244.
Footnote 46:
Desjardins, picture, p. 196.
Footnote 47:
Desjardins, pp. 103, 73.
Footnote 48:
_Légendes de Trianon_, p. 75.
Footnote 49:
_Souvenirs d’un Page_, pp. 112, 118.
Footnote 50:
_Modes et Usages_, De Reiset, vol. i. p. 445.
Footnote 51:
_Souvenirs du Baron de Frénilly_, p. 80.
Footnote 52:
_Ib._ p. 80.
Footnote 53:
_Souvenirs d’un Page_, p. 242.
Footnote 54:
_Souvenirs d’un Page_, p. 243.
Footnote 55:
_La Dernière Rose_, p. 75.
Footnote 56:
_Arch. Nat._ O^I, 1875.
Footnote 57:
_Ib._ O^I, 1882.
Footnote 58:
_Ib._ O^I, 1882.
Footnote 59:
_Le Petit Trianon_, p. 90.
Footnote 60:
_Arch. Nat._ O^I, 1875.
Footnote 61:
_Souvenirs d’un Page_, p. 242.
Footnote 62:
_Arch. Nat._ O^I, 1882.
Footnote 63:
_Ib._ O^I, 1879.
Footnote 64:
Desjardins, p. 196.
Footnote 65:
_Arch. Nat._ O^I, 1882.
Footnote 66:
Desjardins, pp. 107, 120; _Arch. Nat._ O^1, 1875, 1877; Terrade, _Le Théâtre de la Reine_, p. 23.
Footnote 67:
_Modes et Usages_, De Reiset, vol. i. pp. 479, 404, 423, 365, 369.
Footnote 68:
Desjardins’, _Le Petit Trianon_, pp. 188, 189.
Footnote 69:
Page 7.
Footnote 70:
_Arch. Nat._ O^I, 1879.
Footnote 71:
_Ibid._ O^I, 1877.
Footnote 72:
_Ibid._ O^I, 1879.
Footnote 73:
_Arch. Nat._ O^1, 1876.
Footnote 74:
_Ibid._ O^1, 1877.
Footnote 75:
_Arch. Nat._ O^I, 1877.
Footnote 76:
_Ib._ O^I, 1880.
Footnote 77:
We heard in 1910 that this was the window out of which Marie Antoinette used to pass when she went into the garden.
Footnote 78:
_Marie Antoinette_, Lenotre, p. 3.
Footnote 79:
_Mémoires de Madame de Tourzel_, p. 216.
Footnote 80:
Rocheterie says 18 hours; Dufour, 13 hours.
Footnote 81:
_Marie Antoinette_, Lenotre, p. 13.
Footnote 82:
De Launay; governor of the Bastille, Flescelles; prévôt July 14, 1789. des marchands, Foulon; ministre, Berthier; intendant de l’Ile de July 4, 1789. France,
Footnote 83:
Comte d’Artois, Les Condés, Les Polignacs, Baron de Breteuil, le marechal de Broglie, le prince de Lambesc, le comte de Vaudreuil, ministres Bareuton, Villedeuil, Vauguyon, l’abbé de Vermond.
Footnote 84:
In 1783 the Queen’s wardrobe cost 199,000 livres; in 1784 it cost 217,000 livres; in 1785 it cost 252,000. One dress only worn once cost 6000 livres, not counting the material. _La Reine Marie Antoinette_, De Nolhac, pp. 36, 63.
In 1777 the Queen’s personal debts amounted to 487,000 livres, which the King paid out of his own purse. All this was changed after the birth of her first child, and the Queen, from that time, cut down every possible expense.
Footnote 85:
_Mémoires de Madame de Tourzel_, p. 220.
Footnote 86:
Even in the Conciergerie the Queen seems to have disbelieved in the likelihood of a formal condemnation to death. _Marie Antoinette_, Lenotre, pp. 247, 270.
Footnote 87:
_Histoire de Marie Antoinette_, La Rocheterie, p. 435.
Footnote 88:
Vicomte de Maillé, sent to L’Abbaye prison, murdered in the September massacres. M. de la Porte, _intendant de la liste civile_, also imprisoned and murdered in September. _Mémoires de M. de Tourzel_, p. 226.
Footnote 89:
La Rocheterie, p. 438.
Footnote 90:
La Rocheterie, p. 438.
Footnote 91:
_La Reine Marie Antoinette_, De Nolhac, p. 184.
Footnote 92:
_Almanack Historique de la Revolution Française pour l’année_, 1792, par M. J. P. Rabaut (contemporain).
Footnote 93:
The exterior masonry of the Palace cost 1,350,000 livres, apart from all the magnificent interiors, the grounds, and the outside buildings. La Grande Écurie cost 844,784 livres (_Versailles_, Peraté, p. 14). Expenses at Trianon under Louis XV., 340,000 livres; under Louis XVI., 1,649,529 livres (Desjardins, pp. 2, 407).
Footnote 94:
1777–1779.
Footnote 95:
1786.
Footnote 96:
Claude Richard was appointed _jardinier en chef_ at Trianon in 1750. He was the intimate friend of Linnæus, who called him “the cleverest gardener in Europe.” He was the son of François Richard who followed James II. from Windsor to St. Germains. The son, Antoine Richard, became _jardinier-botaniste-adjoint_ at Trianon, 1765, _jardinier en chef_, 1784–1805, and died 1807.
Footnote 97:
Guillotined 1794.
Footnote 98:
Built 1762.
Footnote 99:
_Le Petit Trianon_, Desjardins, p. 27.
Footnote 100:
1759–1761.
Footnote 101:
Built 1773 for Madame du Barry.
Footnote 102:
“Avoir netoyer le passe-partout que la Reine avait perdue avoir gravée de nom de la Reine dessus qui ouvrait les portes du Chateau et jardin de Trianon.” Locksmith’s account, 1785 (_Archives Nat._ O^1, 1882).
Footnote 103:
August 1st, 1780.
Footnote 104:
August 19th, 1785.
Footnote 105:
Cardinal Rohan had been arrested four days before, on August 15th, 1785.
Footnote 106:
Beaumarchais’ play of _Le Mariage de Figaro_ had been rewritten with political intention from the old play of _Le Barbier de Séville_ in 1783.
Footnote 107:
Twice played at Trianon, September 13th, 1784, and August 19th, 1785.
Footnote 108:
July 14th, 1789.
Footnote 109:
_La Reine Marie Antoinette_, De Nolhac, pages 161–212, 223, 224.
Footnote 110:
_Le Petit Trianon_, Desjardins, pages 180, 178, 342.
Footnote 111:
_Histoire de Marie Antoinette_, Rocheterie, pages 289, 290. Vol. i.
Footnote 112:
The brothers Bersy with Bréval were generally selected for guarding the _porte du jardinier_ whenever the Queen was at Trianon, _Arch. Nat._ O^I, 1880. They had the title of _garçons jardiniers de la Chambre_, O^I, 1878.
Footnote 113:
Probably green, as it was worn by the Suisses, piqueurs, gardes des portes, garçons jardiniers, and such royal servants as filled the minor parts at the royal theatre at Versailles, _Arch. Nat._ O^I, 1883. The traditional dress is still to be seen at the Comédie Française, which is the descendant of the old Royal Theatre. The Comte d’Artois was captain of the guards (including the gardes des portes) in 1789, and his livery was green.
Footnote 114:
In 1785, _Arch. Nat._ O^I, 1883.
Footnote 115:
The names “Lemonguin” and “Magny” are to be found in the old lists of under-gardeners at Trianon, _Arch. Nat._ O^I, 1876, 1877. “Mariamne” is mentioned among the children paid for picking up dead leaves in the grounds, 1783, _Arch. Nat._ O^1, 1877.
Footnote 116:
Marion’s mother died shortly before 1793, _Légendes de Trianon_, Lavergne.
Footnote 117:
In Mique’s map of 1783 there is a building outside the wall between the _ruelle_ and the _porte de jardinier_.
Footnote 118:
If Marianne was 21 at her son’s birth in 1796 she would have been 8 in 1783, and 14 in 1789.
Footnote 119:
In 1793 “Marion” (daughter of an under-gardener) was chosen by the Versailles Republican Club to personate the local Goddess of Reason. Horrified at the prospect, the night before the installation on the altar of the Versailles Notre Dame, she so completely disfigured her face with scratches from a thorn branch that she never completely lost the marks (_Légendes de Trianon_, M^{dme} Julie Lavergne, pp. 91–97).
Footnote 120:
In 1786 “Charpentier” is mentioned as an _ouvrier terrassier_, having to clear up sticks and leaves, plant flowers, and rake (_Arch. Nat._ O^1, 1878).
Charpentier seems to have been the “Jean de l’eau,” so called from his daily duty of fetching water from Ville d’Avray for the Queen’s table. He even tried to get it to her when she was in the Conciergerie, August, 1792. He was afterwards wounded at Marengo and became a captain, and in 1805 was appointed by Napoleon _jardinier en chef_ at the Petit Trianon, and married Marion (_Légendes de Trianon_, p. 97).
The marriage certificate of Alexandre Charpentier, in 1823 (at that time _chef d’atelier aux Pepinières Royales_ de Trianon, and, later, for many years _jardinier en chef_ at Trianon), shows that he was the son of Louis Toussaint Charpentier, _pensionnaire_, and Marie Anne Lemaignan (Mairie de Versailles).
Footnote 121:
“Dec. 5, 1780. Commencé par ordre de M. Mique le model de la partie de la grotte ... du coté des montagnes ... là dessus une petite ruine d’architecture, l’avoir penté, planté, et gazonné.”
“Detail estimatif d’une ruine formant la naissance d’une rivière, savoir—Fouille de terre—maçonnerie ... le massif et le rigolle des fondations ... pierre dure ... colonnes avec les murs au derrière ... 7 colonnes ... 7 chapiteaux ... partie de la voute ... le parement des murs ... le fossite pour l’architecture ... Recapitulation ... 7 chapiteaux Ioniques, antique ... 5 membres ... 5 rosaces ... 9358 livres” (_Arch. Nat._ O^I, 1878).
The Temple de l’Amour is more than once called a “ruine,” which did not seem to mean more than the reproduction of an older building. One “ruine” mentioned had six Corinthian pillars, and was near the “onze arpents.”
Footnote 122:
“Le chapeau ronds a larges bords, que l’on appelait à la jockey, remplaçait déjà le chapeau à trois cornes nommé à l’Androsmane.” On avait quitté le rabat, la bourse, les manchettes et l’épée (_Modes et Usages_, De Reiset, vol. i. p. 469).
Footnote 123:
“J’ai beaucoup vu le comte de Vaudreuil à Londres, sans avoir jamais découvert la distinction dont ses contemporains lui out fait honneur. Il avait été le coryphée de cette école d’exaggération qui régnait avant la Revolution, se passionnant pour toutes les petites choses, et restant froide devant les grandes ... Il ... gardait ses grands airs pour le salon de Madame de Polignac; et son ingratitude pour la Reine, dont je l’ai entender parler avec la dernière inconvenance” (_Memoirs de la Comtesse de Boigne_, p. 144).
Footnote 124:
_Le Petit Trianon_, Desjardins, p. 345.
Footnote 125:
The wages book shows that all the gardeners were at work out of doors on Oct. 5th, 1789, whereas on wet days they worked under cover, sometimes clearing out the passages of the house, _Arch. Nat._ O^1, 1879.
Footnote 126:
This was the dress of the bourgeoisie in the 14th century. See illustration of 14th century play _Pathelin_. Artisans wore it in the 17th century. See _Les Foires des Rues de Paris_. Musée Carnavalet. It was probably worn by field labourers up to the Revolution.
Footnote 127:
There is no mention of a cart and horse as part of the regular expenses at the Ferme, but from time to time “une voiture à un cheval, et un conducteur” were hired for picking up sticks in the Park. Jan., 1789, there is an entry for paying “plus un homme” for that purpose; and on Oct. 4th, 1789, we read of the hiring of “trois journées de voiture et deux chevaux” (almost necessarily requiring two men) (O^1, 1843).
Footnote 128:
See old picture by L’Espinasse, 1783. In Mique’s map (1783) two grottos are indicated, one close to the rocher bridge, on the left of it coming from the Hameau, and one near the Escargot hill, still to be seen to-day.
Footnote 129:
May 28th, 1781.... Out attachés le lierre de la grotte (O^1, 1875).
Footnote 130:
The streams were cleared of dead leaves on Oct. 1, 2, 3, but not on the 4th or 5th or after that date (O^1, 1877).
Footnote 131:
_Memoirs of Marie Antoinette_, by Madame Campan, p. 201. _Légendes de Trianon_, by Madame Julie Lavergne, p. 75.
Footnote 132:
In the time of Marie Antoinette there were at least three grottos at Trianon, of which only one remains intact, and that possibly the last created; it may have been formed along with the Escargot hill, raised in 1781 (_Arch. Nat._ O^1, 1877).
The oldest grotto is mentioned in 1777 as ending at the _porte d’entrée_ (O^1, 1875). Issuing from the side of this first grotto was a “naissance de rivière,” which fed (perhaps by pipes) the small circular lake, whose waters passed under the Rocher bridge, through the great lake to the stream which meandered through the grounds. A small “ruine” having seven columns, a dome roof, and walls, stood above the spring “formant la naissance de la rivière” (O^1, 1878, Desjardins, p. 90).
Such waters as drained naturally through the first grotto seem to have collected in a little pool at the lower end. In June, 1780, a new “petite rivière,” intended to carry these stagnant waters away direct to the great lake, was made; a grotto of “oval form” was dug round it, and a montagne raised to cover it in (O^1, 1875). This second grotto was probably the one described by D’Hezecques: it must have turned at an angle from the first grotto and ended near the Rocher bridge, the tiny ruisseau passing through and beyond it into the great lake (O^1, 1875).
Footnote 133:
A small ravine between the first and second grottos may have been spanned by the “pont rustique” of D’Hezecques, passing over the miniature waterfall issuing from “la 2^{ième} source du Ravin” (nearer the Theatre than the first spring) (O^1, 1882). This would have given the name “ravin du petit pont” (O^1, 1875). The waterfall probably fell into the little pool, whose waters were carried by a “ruisseau” through the second (the Queen’s) grotto to the great lake. A rough sketch in the _Arch. Nat._ shows a small bridge in this position.
The cavern-like mouth at the lower end of the Queen’s grotto, close to the Rocher bridge, is shown in L’Espinasse’s picture of 1783. It is to be observed that in this picture no large rock (such as there is now) was over the long bridge which stood upon low rocks between the two lakes. The picture suggests that the rock opening of the grotto has been lifted away from its original place to its present position over the long Rocher bridge.
Footnote 134:
D’Hezecques describes the grotto as dark on first entering, lined with moss, and as having a staircase within it leading to the summit of the rocks. This staircase may be identical with the rock staircase now attached by modern masonry to the back of the great rock over the bridge, without any apparent reason.
Footnote 135:
A view of the prairie (also a condition of the Queen’s grotto described by D’Hezecques) is obtainable from the high ground in this part of the English garden.
Footnote 136:
_Légendes de Trianon_, Madame Julie Lavergne, p. 76.
Footnote 137:
(Rocks placed) “Pièce donnant au bord du lac de l’ancien jardin cote des rochers ... au long du chemin de l’emplacement de la Ruine sur la conduitte en bois à la 2^{ième} Source du Ravin” (O^I, 1882).
In 1788 “Pièce au dessus du Rocher du Ravin et ... passage des voiture sur le pont de bois.... Pièce à droite en face du Rocher du Ravin.”
Footnote 138:
“En face du chateau ... une pelouse ... se terminait par une roche ombragée de pins, de thujas, de mélèzes, et surmontait d’un pont rustique, comme on en rencontre dans les montagnes de la Suisse et les précipices du Valais ...” (_Souvenirs d’un Page_, p. 242).
(Rocks placed), “1788 ... sur les montagnes des Pins à gauche et en montant au Rocher.... Montagne des Pins à droite en montante au Rocher” (_Arch. Nat._ O^1, 1882). In 1791, every few days during January, February, March of that year, trees were torn up from the montagnes. In April, 1792, “Journée à arracher les Thujas sur les montagnes” (O^1, 1879).
Footnote 139:
_Livre-Journal de Madame Éloffe_, pp. 404, 423, 365, 369.
Footnote 140:
After May, 1789, the grounds were thrown open (Desjardins, p. 345).
Footnote 141:
_Le Petit Trianon_, Desjardins, pp. 188, 189.
Footnote 142:
The great door of the chapel, which led into the royal gallery, opened upon a terrace then joined to the western terrace of the house.
Footnote 143:
The name of the Suisse (in 1789) in charge of the _porte du perron de la Chapelle_ was Lagrange. His rooms were behind the chapel (Desjardins, p. 189).
Footnote 144:
According to M. de Nolhac (see note to _Consignes de Marie Antoinette_, p. 7) the _porte de la ménagerie_ should be placed near the buildings of the kitchens and conciergerie. In Mique’s map (1783) a broad passage led through these buildings from the French garden to the avenue.
Footnote 145:
“Parmi eux se trouvoient des hommes de figure étrange, ce qui sembloient y avoir été appelés; car le peuple de Paris a sa physionomie, et ceux qui le connoissent savent bien distinguer les étrangers qui s’y confondent. Ces bandes farouches avoient précédé la garde nationale, dont il faut bien la distinguer; elles causèrent tout le désordre du lendemain.... Au dehors, les brigands s’étoient emparés de deux gardes du corps; ils leur coupèrent la tête, malgré les efforts de ceux des gardes nationaux qui arrivoient.... Enfin cette bande de scélérats reprit la route de Paris, emportant en signe de victoire les deux têtes des gardes des corps. Avec eux disparut toute l’horreur des scènes sanglantes du matin. Alors le caractère national se montra dans toute sa candeur. Les soldats parisiens et les gardes du roi s’embrassent.”—_Almanach Historique de la Revolution Française_, M. J. P. Rabaut, pp. 151–153.
This was written in 1791, and Rabaut was guillotined later “comme Girondin.”
GLASGOW: PRINTED AT THE UNIVERSITY PRESS BY ROBERT MACLEHOSE AND CO. LTD.
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES
1. P. 131, changed “No double his feeble idea” to “No doubt his feeble idea”. 2. Archives Nationales O^I and Archives Nationales O^1 are used interchangeably. Did not alter. 3. Silently corrected typographical errors and variations in spelling. 4. Archaic, non-standard, and uncertain spellings retained as printed. 5. Enclosed italics font in _underscores_. 6. Superscripts are denoted by a caret before a single superscript character or a series of superscripted characters enclosed in curly braces, e.g. M^r. or M^{ister}.