XVI. A THREE DAYS' MINISTRY.

Dumouriez had taken the portfolio of war. He kept it three days only. But during those three days what activity! what excitement! More than fifteen hundred signatures affixed, instructions sent to all the generals, a most tumultuous session of the National Assembly, a last effort to induce Louis XVI. to make further concessions, a resignation which was to be the signal for catastrophes. How the scenes of the drama multiply! How the dénouement is accelerated!

The session at which Dumouriez was to appear for the first time as Minister of War could not fail to be singular. It took place June 13, 1792, and from ten o'clock in the morning all the galleries had been crowded. The Jacobins had filled them with their satellites. The Girondins had prepared a dramatic surprise. The three ex-ministers were to be brought into the chamber under pretext of explaining the causes of their dismissal. It was agreed that they should be received as victims of the aristocracy and martyrs of the Revolution. Roland's letter—say, rather, his wife's letter—to Louis XVI. was read to the Assembly and frequently interrupted by loud bursts of applause. Just as it was finished, and some one was demanding that it should be sent to all the eighty-three departments, Dumouriez entered the hall. Murmurs and hisses arose on all sides. The Assembly voted the despatch of the letter to the departments. A deputy exclaimed: "It will be a famous document in the history of the Revolution and of the ministers." The Assembly went on to declare that Roland was followed by the regrets of the nation. Then Dumouriez ascended the tribune and read a message in which M. Lafayette announced the death of M. de Gouvion. He had been major-general of the National Guard, and, having quitted the Assembly rather than be present at the triumph of the Swiss of Chateauvieux, had met his death bravely in the Army of the North. "A cannon-ball," said the message, "has terminated a virtuous life." The Assembly was affected, and voted complimentary condolences to the father of the heroic officer.

Afterwards, Dumouriez read his report on military affairs. It was a long criticism on the legislators who had ordered a new levy of troops before providing the existing corps with their full complements; on the muster-masters, the standing committees, and the market-contractors, who were piling up abuses. Dumouriez complained of everything; he reproached the factions, and insisted on the consideration due to ministers. Guadet thundered out: "Do you hear him? He already thinks himself so sure of power that he takes it on him to give us advice."—"And why not?" resumed the minister, turning toward the side of the Mountain.[1] This bold response astonished the most furious. Some one said: "The document is not signed. Let him sign it! Let him sign it!" Dumouriez called for pen and ink, signed his memoir, and went to lay it on the desk. Then he slowly crossed the hall and went quietly out by the door beneath the Mountain, with a haughty glance at his adversaries. His martial attitude disconcerted them. The shouts and hootings ceased, and complete silence ensued. On leaving the Assembly, Dumouriez was surrounded by a group of persons before the door of the Feuillants, but their faces displayed no signs of anger toward him. As soon as he quitted the Assembly, his enemies, no longer intimidated by his presence, redoubled their attacks. Three or four deputies left the Chamber, and making their way to him through the crowd, said: "They are raising the devil inside; they would like to send you to Orleans." (It was there the Duke de Brissac was imprisoned and the Superior Court held its sessions.) "So much the better," replied Dumouriez; "I would take the baths, drink butter-milk, and rest myself." This sally amused the crowd, and the minister as he entered the Tuileries garden, said to the deputies who followed him: "It will be a mistake for my enemies to have my memoir printed, for it will bring all good citizens back to me. At present, being drunk and crazy, you have just extolled Roland's infamous perfidy to the skies." Then he went to the palace. Louis XVI. complimented him on his firmness, but absolutely refused to sanction the decree against the priests.

Far from ameliorating, the situation continued to grow worse. Pétion's emissaries stirred up the inhabitants of the faubourgs. That evening Dumouriez sent a letter to the King announcing that a riot was apprehended. Louis XVI. suspected that the minister was lying, and wrote to him: "Do not believe, Monsieur, that any one can succeed in frightening me by threats; my resolution is taken." Dumouriez had based his entire scheme on the hypothesis that the decree concerning the priests would be accepted by the King. From the moment that Louis XVI. rejected it, Dumouriez no longer hoped to remain in the ministry. He wrote again, imploring the sovereign to give it his sanction, and announcing that, in case of his refusal, the ministers would all feel obliged to retire. The next day, June 15, the King received them in his chamber. "Are you still," said he to Dumouriez, "in the same sentiments expressed in your letter last evening?"—"Yes, Sire, if Your Majesty will not permit yourself to be moved by our fidelity and attachment."—"Very well," replied Louis XVI., with a gloomy air, "since your decision is made, I accept your resignation and will provide for it." Dumouriez was no longer a minister. In his Memoirs he describes himself as much affected, "not on account of quitting a dangerous post, which simply made his existence disturbed and painful, but because he saw all his trouble thrown away, and the King handed over to the fury of cruel enemies and the criminal indiscretion of false friends."

At bottom, Dumouriez inspired nobody with confidence. He belonged to no party, and no one knew his opinions. He had leaned on both Jacobins and Girondins, while at the same time he was inspiring certain hopes in the Feuillants, and flattering the King, to whom he promised signs and wonders. Too revolutionary for the conservatives and too conservative for the revolutionists, he had tried a see-saw policy which would no longer answer. It became indispensable to make a choice. It was impossible to please both the Jacobins and the court.

And yet Dumouriez was a man of resources, and it is much to be regretted, on the King's account, that no better understanding could be arrived at between them. More successfully than any one else, Dumouriez might have resorted to bold measures and called in at this time the intervention of the army, as he did several years later. He loved money and rank; royalty still excited a great prestige over him, and he had used the Revolution as a means, not as an end.

Could Louis XVI. have pretended patience for a few days longer, perhaps he might have extricated himself from difficulties which, though grave, were still not insoluble. He did not choose his hour for resistance wisely. It was either too late or too soon. The dismission of Dumouriez was a blunder. At what moment did Louis XVI. elect to deprive himself of his minister's aid? That very one when, attacked by the Girondins, exasperated by Roland's conduct, and disgusted with the progress of anarchy, the force of circumstances was about to toss Dumouriez back to the side of the reactionists. The camp of twenty thousand men, if confided to safe hands, and secret service money judiciously employed, might have become the nucleus of a monarchical resistance. Lafayette and his partisans were becoming conservative, and between him and Dumouriez agreement was not impossible. Louis XVI. was in too great a hurry. His conscience revolted at an unfortunate moment. Why, if he was bent on this veto, so just, so honest, but so ill-timed, had he freely made so many concessions which thus became inexplicable? In rejecting the offers of Dumouriez, the Queen possibly deprived herself of her only remaining support. He who saved France in the Passes of Argonne might, had he gained the entire confidence of Louis XVI. and Marie Antoinette, have saved the King and royalty.

Dumouriez had a final interview with Louis XVI., June 18. The King received him in his chamber. He had resumed his kindly air, and when the ex-minister had shown him the accounts of the last fortnight, he complimented him on their clearness. Afterwards, the following conversation took place: "Then you are going to join Luckner's army?"—"Yes, Sire, I leave this frightful city with delight; I have but one regret; you are in danger here."—"Yes, that is certain."—"Well, Sire, you can no longer fancy that I have any personal interest to consult in talking with you; once having left your Council, I shall never again approach you; it is through fidelity and the purest attachment that I dare once more entreat you, by your love for your country, your safety and that of your crown, by your august spouse and your interesting children, not to persist in the fatal resolution of vetoing the two decrees. This persistence will do no good, and you will ruin yourself by it."—"Don't say any more about it; my decision is made."—"Ah! Sire, you said the same thing when, in this very room, and in presence of the Queen, you gave me your word to sanction them."—"I was wrong, and I repent of it."—"Sire, I shall never see you again; pardon my frankness; I am fifty-three, and I have some experience. It was not then that you were wrong, but now. Your conscience is abused concerning this decree against the priests; you are being forced into civil war; you are helpless, and you will be overthrown, and history, though it may pity you, will reproach you with having caused all the misfortunes of France. On your account, I fear your friends still more than your enemies."—"God is my witness that I wish for nothing but the welfare of France."—"I do not doubt it, Sire; but you will have to account to God, not solely for the purity but also for the enlightened execution of your intentions. You expect to save religion, and you destroy it. The priests will be massacred and your crown torn from you. Perhaps even your wife, your children..." Emotion prevented Dumouriez from going on. Tears stood in his eyes. He kissed the hand of Louis XVI. respectfully. The King wept also, and for a moment both were silent. "Sire," resumed Dumouriez, "if all Frenchmen knew you as well as I do, our woes would soon be ended. Do you desire the welfare of France? Very well! That demands the sacrifice of your scruples ... You are still master of your fate. Your soul is guiltless; believe a man exempt from passion and prejudice, and who has always told you the truth."—"I expect my death," replied Louis XVI. sadly, "and I forgive them for it in advance. I thank you for your sensibility. You have served me well; I esteem you, and if a happier time shall ever come, I will prove it to you." With these words the King rose sadly, and went to a window at the end of the apartment. Dumouriez gathered up his papers slowly, in order to gain time to compose his features; he was unwilling to let his emotion become evident to the persons at the door as he went out. "Adieu," said the King kindly, "and be happy!"

As he was leaving, he met his friend Laporte, intendant of the civil list. The two, who were meeting for the last time, went into another room and closed the door. "You advised me to resign," said Laporte, "and I meant to do so, but I have changed my mind. My master is in danger, and I will share his fate."—"If I were in the personal service of the King, as you are," replied Dumouriez, "I would think and act the same; I esteem your devotion, and love you the more for it; each of us is faithful in his own way; you, to Louis; I, to the King of the French. May both of us felicitate him some day on his happiness!" Then the two friends separated, after embracing each other with tears.

The sole thought of Dumouriez now was to escape from the city where he had witnessed so many intrigues and been so often deceived. He was very sorrowful at heart. Ordinarily so gay, so brilliant, so full of Gallic and Rabelaisian wit, power had made him melancholy. His ministerial life left on him an abiding impression of bitterness and repugnance. "One needs," he has said, "either a patriotism equal to any test, or else an insatiable ambition, to aspire in any way whatever after those difficult positions where one is surrounded with snares and calumnies. One learns only too soon that men are not worth the trouble one takes to govern them." June 19, he wrote to the Assembly, asking an authorization to repair to the Army of the North. "I have spent thirty-six years in military and diplomatic service, and have twenty-two wounds," said he in this letter; "I envy the fate of the virtuous Gouvion, and should esteem myself happy if a cannon-ball could put an end to all differences concerning me." He never again returned either to the palace, the Assembly, or any other place where he might encounter either ministers, deputies, or persons belonging to the court. He started for the army, June 26, regarding it as "the only asylum where an honest man might still be safe. At least, death presents itself there under the attractive aspect of glory." He left in the capital "consternation, suspicion, hatred, which pierced through the frivolity of the wretched Parisians." With an intuition worthy of a man of genius, he foresaw the vicious circle about to be described by French history, and divined that by plunging into license men return inevitably to servitude, because "it is impossible to sustain liberty with an absurd government, founded on barbarity, terror, and the subversion of every principle necessary to the maintenance of human society." Two years later, in 1794, he wrote in his Memoirs: "The serpent will recoil upon itself. His tail, which is anarchy, will re-enter his throat, which is despotism."

[1] The advanced republican party in the Assembly.