France in eighteen hundred and two

The garden of the Tuileries is large and handsome. It evokes the memories of the glorious efforts of the brave Swiss Guard, murdered for their fidelity to their trust on August 10, 1792. I have been informed on very good authority that if the King could have been persuaded to remain in the Palace, surrounded by his faithful guards, the victory would have terminated in favour of the Royal cause. Several persons who were then members of the Legislative Assembly have assured me the majority of the Convention never dreamt of a deposition until they perceived their victim at their mercy. The King’s fatal resolution determined those who were yet undecided. But even then it was supposed Royalty would be continued in different hands. The Orleans faction were, however, afraid to exert their power. Those engaged in the conspiracy of the Duke neglected to seize the moment and thus secure their object. They were duped by men who had no share in their treachery, a convincing proof that in political matters too much refinement and fine-spun preliminaries will never avail against unity of principle.

Above a month elapsed before the Orleans faction and the Republican party felt their mutual strength. The former were employed in sounding the minds of others and in treaty; the latter, while they held out encouraging hopes to the former, were concentrating their forces and preparing to strike a decisive blow. Thus they compelled the Orleans party to become their blind instruments.

At length the National Convention assembled on September 21; the Orleans party awaited with eager expectation that some distinguished member of the other side, with whom they had been tampering, should move the deposition of King Louis. They then intended to propose a Regent should be nominated in the person of Philippe of Orleans.[1] The Republicans, however, expected a motion for the total abolition of Royalty.

A solemn pause ensued. How the heart of Orleans must have palpitated! On a sudden the thunder burst from an unexpected quarter; it was reserved for an ecclesiastic to pronounce the doom of a throne which had existed for centuries. Gregoire,[1] Bishop of Blois, exclaimed:

This speech operated like an electric shock upon the Convention, the members rose en masse, and called for the question. This proposition was then decreed: Royalty is Abolished in France. Thus vanished the prospects of Orleans and his abettors, and so was a Republic established in France.

The fears and listlessness of Louis XVI. were the proximate causes which led to his ruin and overthrow. As a corroborating proof of this statement I give the evidence of a young and beautiful but fanatical girl, Mademoiselle Thérouanne de Mirecourt,[1] who has repeatedly declared to me que c’était la poltronnerie seule du tyran qui sauva la France.

Before I quit this subject I cannot avoid noticing the character of this young woman. During the attack upon the Tuileries she headed a body of pikemen and showed absolute fearlessness and marvellous courage. I have often been in her company, and remarked that she possessed by nature a fund of humanity and a tolerable share of information; but that vanity, desire of popularity and fanaticism made her wild, savage and ferocious. One day she invited me to breakfast with her, and on my entering her apartment I beheld a pike, a sword, a brace of pistols, and suspended over the chimney-piece the bonnet rouge; scattered about the floor lay above a hundred books and pamphlets, on her bed newspapers, on her table Marat’s Ami du Peuple. On my inquiry why a lady of her charms kept such dreadful instruments in her room, she replied: “No compliments, Citizen. Society is undergoing a change, a grand re-organisation, and women are about to resume their rights. We shall no more be flattered in order to be enslaved, these arms have dethroned the tyrant, and conquered freedom. Sit down and take your chocolate.”

With all this severity of character she possessed some attractions and captured the heart of John Sheares,[1] who was executed for treason during the late rebellion. His affection for her was so great that he proposed marriage to her. Had he been gratified in his inclination there is good reason to suppose he might have been now alive, and she in a happy situation. For he often assured me that should his suit prove successful he would abandon politics altogether and retire into private life. He was one of the finest young men I ever beheld, and a handsomer pair would have rarely been seen. But fortune decided their fate should be disastrous. When he tendered his proposals she pulled a pistol from her pocket and threatened to shoot him if he said another word upon the subject. He returned to Ireland, to fall a victim five years later to offended justice. She is now in a miserable state of insanity, confined in a madhouse in the Rue de Sèvre, Faubourg S. Germain.

The Garden of the Tuileries brings to my recollection the famous story of the Knights of the Poignard, when on February 23, 1791, a number of the Knights of S. Louis were supposed to have entered into a conspiracy to carry off the King. I was present on the occasion, and a spectator of the scene. An immense concourse of people collected about the Palace, and there was much noisy talk about concealed daggers, but I saw none, nor any blade save that of La Fayette’s[1] sword, who, mounted on his white charger, galloped to and fro as if the fate of the world depended on his actions.

One moment he formed the National Guard into line. At the next he ordered them to file off, then he dismounted and bolted into the Palace—in a trice he was again on horseback—in short he created more alarm among the people than if an Austrian army had reached the barriers. At length, after a great deal of marching, counter-marching, bustling and puffing, the Marquis assured the mob that all was safe. Here followed great applause, and the populace quietly dispersed. Some Knights of S. Louis were present and were very roughly handled by the people, but no other motive had carried them to the Tuileries except an anxious desire to defend the King against attacks by the mob. There is one fact established by this event, that even at that period Louis XVI. was respected by the people, and they considered their security to be identified by his person. I have not the least doubt that a decided majority of the people of France would at this day rejoice in the restoration of their ancient line of Princes.

The Hall used by the National Convention stands on one side of the Tuileries garden. It was formerly the King’s stables. It is the intention of the First Consul to restore it to its original purpose.

Curiosity induced me to enter a place which had been the focus of so many revolutions, where the Republic was declared, the unhappy King tried, and more bloody tragedies performed in one twelvemonth than in all Europe in the space of two hundred years.

I found it completely dismantled, the galleries, the Tribune, the flag of Liberty that was planted over the Bastille and suspended in triumph over the centre of the hall, all have been destroyed, even the floor removed, and we trod upon the bare earth. The place was, however, so familiar to me that I was able to give my companion a very accurate description of it, and to point out the spot on which the unfortunate King was placed during his trial.

Now that I am upon this subject I will mention some circumstances respecting this event which have not, I believe, been ever made known to the public. I was present at the trial and sat very near to the King. Before he was brought to the bar, it was decreed, on the motion of one Legendre,[1] a butcher, that “No person, except the President, should be permitted to speak a word while Louis Capet was present.” Legendre premised his motion by this remark: “Citizen President, I demand that this Assembly preserves the mournful silence of the tomb, so that when the bloody tyrant enters it may strike his guilty soul with horror.” This speech was received with unbounded applause, and the bloodstained hypocrite Barrère,[1] who was President, apostrophised the people on the propriety of observing silence. There were very few people of respectable or even decent appearance in the galleries; they were filled with the vilest rabble. During the night preceding this mock trial the people in the galleries kept themselves awake by singing the Marseillaise hymn, which was vociferated more than a hundred times. The officers of the National Guard provided wine and cakes for those who were willing to purchase them. In the morning the deputies assembled and proceeded upon the order of the day, Santerre,[1] the brewer, being despatched to the Temple to conduct the King to the Convention.

It was arranged the President should first read the whole of the charges and then propose them severally to the King, demanding answers. He was authorised to interrogate the monarch, and any refusal to answer was to be construed into a confession of guilt. Santerre now presented himself at the bar, and thus addressed the President:

“Citizen President, Louis Capet awaits your orders.”

Before Barrère[1] had time to reply, Mailhé, one of the Secretaries, exclaimed: “Bring him in!” The King attended by several of the officers of the Paris Etat[AAÉtat?]-Majeur, and followed by Santerre, then advanced to the bar, standing erect and firm, and casting (as it seemed to me) a look of defiance upon the silent Assembly. A little before the King entered a member of the Convention said to an Englishman who was present: “This will give you a correct idea of your country in the last century.” To which he replied with uncommon spirit: “No, indeed, we shall see too many tricks here.”

I watched the King with the minutest attention, and I observed that in looking round the assembly, he cast his eye upon the standards taken from the Austrians and Prussians, and gave a sudden start, from which, however, he recovered himself in an instant.

A wooden chair was brought, upon which Barrère invited him to be seated. He then read the whole of the charges, during which the King fixed his eyes attentively upon him. To every charge he answered directly, without premeditation, and with such skilful propriety that the audience were astonished.

When he was accused of shedding the blood of Frenchmen he raised his voice with all the conscientiousness of innocence, and replied: “No, sir, I have never shed the blood of any Frenchman.” His spirit was evidently wounded at this charge, and I perceived a tear trickle down his cheek; but, as if unwilling to give his enemies an opportunity of weakness in his conduct, he instantaneously wiped his face and forehead to denote he was oppressed by heat.

After all his answers had been obtained several papers were handed to him, with some degree of politeness, by one of the Huissiers. This civility was a contrast to the brutal behaviour of Mailhé,[1] the Secretary, who was afterwards desired to present some papers to the King. These papers were said to have been signed by the monarch, and to have been found in a box concealed in a secret part of his cabinet. Their contents were not of great importance, but the object of the Convention was to identify the King’s handwriting. A chair was placed for Mailhé close to the King, but within the bar. Immediately he was seated the unfeeling monster turned it completely round, so as to face the President and show his back to the King. The insulted monarch felt the affront, and showed by the manner in which he resented it a proud superiority over his dastardly enemy. He rose from his seat and remained on his legs during the whole of the examination. Mailhé retained his position, and, sitting with one leg crossed over the other, read aloud each paper and then handed it over his right shoulder to the sovereign, accompanied each time by the query: “Louis, is that your handwriting?” The unfortunate monarch snatched it abruptly from his hand and answered indignantly: “No, it is not my writing.”

A multitude of papers were presented on the one part and denied on the other, in the same style.

Finally Mailhé rose from his seat, exclaiming dramatically, “Louis denies everything! Louis recollects nothing at all!”

A voice from the boxes, behind the Deputies, shouted: “Take off his head!” but it was not noticed.

Thus far victory was on the side of the King. Never were charges more completely refuted by a forsaken individual, deprived of the support of friends or counsel.

The President was at a loss how to proceed. Barbaroux[1] and several Deputies rushed up to his chair and whispered in his ear. This confused him the more. At length Manuel,[1] nicknamed the Solon or Solomon or Socrates of France (I forget which), advanced into the area of the hall, and in a bungling manner said: “President, the representatives of the people have decreed that none of us shall speak while the King—Louis, I mean—is amongst us. Now I propose that Louis be made to withdraw for a little while, so that every member may deliver his opinion.”

No words can give an idea of the silly appearance of Manuel when he found the word King had escaped from his lips. At the sound of that name I perceived Legendre,[1] his body writhing and distorted, preparing to bellow. As he was sitting down he gave Bourdon l’Oise[1] a tremendous box on the ear for calling him to order, which the other returned by a sound blow in the face.

Several Deputies parted them. In the midst of this confusion, when all the members were talking together, Barrère rang his bell and told the King he might withdraw. The King then said to the President: “I request to have the assistance of counsel,” and then withdrew before an answer could be given.

That artful and infernal villain, Barrère, during this trial affected great sympathy towards his injured sovereign, articulated all the charges in a faltering accent, and remained uncovered during the whole time the King was present. Most of the members wore their hats. The Duke of Orleans, who seated himself in full view of his fallen relative, was, however, uncovered.

The King was plainly dressed in an olive silk coat, and looked remarkably well. Barrère wore a dark coat and scarlet waistcoat, lead-coloured kerseymere breeches and white silk stockings. Robespierre wore black. Orleans was habited in blue. The majority of the members looked like blackguards. Legendre wore no neckcloth, but an open collar à la Brutus.

Manuel was much agitated by the misapplication of the word King. Not so the monarch, who dropped a similar expression. As he was giving an account of the invitation to the entertainment at Versailles, which the Queen had received from the Gardes de Corps, he caught up his words and said: “La ci-devant Reine, ma femme.” The rest of this affecting spectacle is sufficiently known. I have mentioned the incidents above because I have never seen them in any printed accounts of that melancholy day.

It has been generally asserted that no effort was made to rescue the captive monarch. This assertion is false. I am personally acquainted with a man who had 15,000 livres deposited in his hands for the purpose of rescuing the King. This sum was so prudently distributed and the plan so judiciously made, that if Santerre had not ordered drums to beat, to drown the forcible appeal the Royal sufferer was making to the people, I surely believe it would have been carried into effect. There were persons on the fatal spot prepared to seize the moment of opportunity, had the fickle character of the Parisian populace, who would send up shouts to Heaven to-morrow at the execution of the First Consul, whom they adore to-day, made it likely that they would have joined or divided in the enterprise.

There is not a spot in this Hall of Convention which does not revive a thousand sublime and painful recollections.

I remember seeing Mirabeau,[1] Barnave[1] and the Lornettes,[1] and on the same side of the Hall those conspicuous members who thundered against the Clergy, the Feudal Laws, and the despotism of the Throne. I have heard the virtuous Mounier[1] pour forth the language of generous indignation against the motion of Barnave on the emigration of the aunts of the King. Methinks I hear again the nervous eloquence of Cazalis[1] on behalf of his King and the established laws of the country. Here I have heard Mirabeau on the Veto; the celebrated speech of Cardinal Moury[1] on Avignon and the Comtal Venaissin,[1] the gloomy metaphysics of Condorcet[1] and the eloquent if mistaken enthusiasm of Grégoire.

I have also beheld, O wretched change!—this Hall polluted by monsters breathing nothing but death and devastation. I have heard in that Tribune the sanguinary suggestions of Danton and Robespierre, the howlings of Marat—the ravings of Brissot, Anarcharsis Cloots[1] and Gondet,[1]1 and the calembours of the Gascon Barrère.

There, too, I have seen Tom Paine[1] stand up like a post, while another read a translation of his speech. What noise, what uproar and cabals have originated within these walls! They seem besmeared with human blood. The images they excite arise in dreadful succession, and stalk before my imagination like the shades of Banquo’s line.

Never shall I forget the day when in the midst of a solemn speech Gensonne[1] was delivering, the impudent little Marat,[1] who could scarcely reach his throat, gave him a box on the ear. The other took him in his arms and threw him neck and heels out of the Tribune.