CHAPTER XLI.
CONCERNING THE BILL OF FORFEITURE.
Madame Roland was very far from having assumed at that period the important position that she afterwards held. As yet she had never fretted and fumed her hour upon the political stage. In fact, she was not yet a minister. I did not pay more attention to her than one commonly pays to a woman. She appeared to be about thirty years of age, of fresh complexion—heat of the blood, if one may say so. Her mouth was large, but filled with irreproachable teeth; her hands were large and muscular, but well-shaped; her nose was retroussé; her figure was good—small waist and well-filled hips, but, on the whole, having a decidedly voluptuous tendency. Thus was Madame Roland, in the evening of the 15th of July, 1791.
Just as I was observing her, I heard some one call M. Duplay.
Duplay turned round. It was M. Laclos who called him. He held a pen in his hand, and had a sheet of paper on his table. M. Brissot was sitting beside him.
“My dear Duplay,” said he, “I was about to write the petition for which all are going to vote, but my writing is too much like that of the secretary of the Duc d’Orleans. There is nothing wrong in the matter, I assure you. Here is M. Brissot, a member of the National Assembly, and he would not be likely to work against his colleagues. We must have some one whose handwriting is unknown. Your young man can write, I suppose?”
“Rather, I should say,” replied M. Duplay; “he is a scholar.”
“Well,” said Laclos, mildly, “be kind enough to call him hither, and tell him what we require. You will dictate, Brissot, will you not?”
Feeling sure that the conversation concerned me, I approached.
They told me what was required. It would give me an active participation in what was going on, so I was quite willing.
M. Brissot dictated.
As it was not permitted to make a copy of the petition, I can only give it from memory. It was well and strongly worded; it had, metamorphically speaking, two heads; the one reproached the Assembly with timidity, and the other accused them of having not dared to usurp the King’s so-called prerogative, and asserted, at the same time, that the King’s supposed deprivation of his regal rights by the Assembly was, in reality, a sham.
As I was writing these words, Brissot still dictating, Laclos arousing himself, placed his hand on Brissot’s arm, and said, “Citizen Brissot, I doubt whether the friends of the Constitution, who compose the greater number of our club, will sign, unless you make a slight alteration in the words, but which will not alter the meaning.”
“What alteration?” demanded Brissot.
“Were I in your place, I would insert, after ‘his original dignity,’ these words, ‘by constitutional means.’”
Brissot reflected a moment, and then, with a shrug of his shoulders he said, “I see no objection.”
Then he continued dictating to me.
“By constitutional means.”
I turned round to see whether Robespierre and Danton would not make some objection to our employment; but both had gone, and, in fact, the hall was all but empty, so that the petition was dictated to space.
The two editors remarked that the members had retired because they felt their presence to be useless, and knew that the petition would be read to them on the following morning; but soon an emissary arrived, who spoke in an undertone to M. de Laclos. During this time I again read the petition, and then I understood the ponderous significance of the five words which had been so aptly added by the well-known author of “Liaisons Dangereuses.”
The constitutional means by which they could replace the King, was by placing on the throne the Dauphin, governed by a regency; but the brothers of the King, the Comte d’Artois and the Comte de Provence, being out of France, the Regent’s office belonged, of right, to the Duc d’Orleans, who would thus take the same place by the throne of Louis XVI as his ancestor had by the throne of his predecessor, Louis XV. I asked myself why it was that Brissot never thought of that, though I did. But I said to myself that perhaps he would not be angry at being hidden behind the word constitutional as he knew that the petition was his own work.
At this moment, the fears of M. de Laclos appeared to be realized. The emissary who had whispered in his ear, had come to tell him that the constitutional Royalists of the Jacobins, and those of the National Assembly, were going to rejoin the Feuillants, and thus separate themselves from the pure Jacobin—that is to say, the Republican.
The two heads of the emigration movement were Duport and Lameth.
Their intention was to form a new club, composed of friends of the Constitution—an aristocratic assembly where none were admitted but by a pass-card, and where they received none but electors, who then stayed with the veritable Jacobins—none, with the exception of six or seven demagogue deputies and the canaille who followed in the steps of the Duc d’Orleans, and who formed the entire club.
“What is to be done?” asked Brissot. “They wish to have the Assembly to themselves.”
“Good!” said Laclos: “but what does it matter as long as we have the people on our side? Let us proceed.”
Brissot continued his dictation, in which, however, Laclos no longer took part.
On the morrow, Saturday, M. Duplay and myself did not fail to be at the Jacobin club, where were assembled scarcely thirty persons.
They waited an hour; and at twelve there were assembled, perhaps, forty. The petition was read and applauded. All paid attention to the phrase introduced by M. Laclos, and it was decided that the petition should be taken in its present form to the Champ de Mars, there to be signed on the altar of the country.
A deputation was organized to carry the petition. M. Duplay had work to do at the Palais Royal. He advised me to follow the delegates, and then return to report to him what had passed.
We arrived at the Champ de Mars. As the report had spread about that the petition would be taken there, thousands of people had assembled.
The altar of the country was surmounted with an immense picture, representing the apotheosis of Voltaire.
The delegates mounted almost to the top of the altar, and commenced the reading; but they saw a group approaching, whom they recognised as members of the Cordeliers. They were received with acclamation, and, on their behalf, the reading was again commenced.
All went well till the phrase introduced by M. Laclos, “By all constitutional means.”
“Pardon,” said a voice; “would you mind reading that passage again?”
The reader continued, “By all constitutional means.”
“Stop!” cried the same voice.
A man then approached.
“Citizen,” said he, “my name is Bonneville. I am editor of The Mouth of Iron. The people are deceived.”
“Yes, yes, yes!” cried the Cordeliers.
“How deceive the people?” said the delegate charged with the reading of the petition.
“I say, for the second time, that the people are deceived!” cried Bonneville. “‘By all constitutional means,’ signifies ‘by a regency.’ And what is a regency? The royalty of D’Orleans in the place of the royalty of Louis XVI.”
“In the place of the royalty of Capet!” cried a voice that I recognised as having heard before.
“How Capet?” said a Jacobin.
“Without doubt,” replied the same mocking voice. “Since the nobles no longer have titles—since M. Mirabeau called himself only Riquetti—since M. de Lafayette called himself only M. Moltier—the King Louis XVI can call himself only Capet.”
“Take care,” said a Jacobin; “France is not yet ripe for a republic.”
“If she is not ripe for a republic,” cried Camille Desmoulins—for that was the man to whom the voice I recognised belonged—“how is it that she is rotten for monarchy?”
“To the vote—to the vote!” all cried.
They voted, and, with almost perfect unanimity, declared that the obnoxious phrase should be cut out. Then, in the enthusiasm which followed this vote, they all swore neither to recognise Louis XVI nor any other King.
On the morrow, Sunday, it was arranged that the people, forewarned by notice posted on the walls, should go to sign the petition on the altar.
“Still, citizen, we lack one thing.”
“What is that?” asked Camille Desmoulins.
“It is to have the law on our side.”
“We have it; since the Assembly have suspended the King, we have deposed him.”
“We must get from the Hotel de Ville an authorization to hold the meeting to-morrow.”
All started for the Hotel de Ville. They had but to keep on the quays; but the distance was rather a lengthy one; but as the refusal of the Mayor might spoil all, and as I wished to give a report to M. Duplay, I went with the others to the Hotel de Ville.
M. Bailly was not there; he was at the Place Vendome, watching the proceedings of the Assembly; but they found his substitute, told him of the matter, found him not unwilling, and demanded a written authorization. He said he did not see the necessity—a verbal permission being quite sufficient; that the people were always legal, exercising only their right of petition.
I returned to M. Duplay’s, telling him that the petition would be signed to-morrow, and that the signature would be approved of by Bailly, or, at least, by his substitute.
We were ignorant of what was going on in the Assembly.
The Assembly had learnt the decision taken by the Cordeliers and the Jacobins. It would not do to allow the people to take this supremacy upon itself. They appealed to Bailly and the municipal council.
At ten o’clock, Bailly and his council decided that on the morrow, Sunday, 17th July, the decree of the Assembly, hearing “that the suppression of executive power should last until the Constitutional Act had been presented to, and accepted by, the King,” should be fixed at eight o’clock punctually, and that proclamation of the decree should be with sound of trumpet proclaimed by the huissiers of the city.
Therefore, whoever did not recognise an act proceeding from the National Assembly—that is to say, the people’s representatives—should be rebels to the law, and should be treated as such.