XXI. THE MORROW OF JUNE TWENTIETH.

In the morning of June 21 there were still some disorderly gatherings in front of the Tuileries. On awaking, the Dauphin put this artless question to the Queen: "Mamma, is it yesterday still?" Alas! yes, it was still yesterday, it was always to be yesterday until the catastrophes at the end of the drama. It was just a year to a day since the royal family had furtively quitted Paris to begin the fatal journey which terminated at Varennes. This souvenir occurred to Marie Antoinette, and, recalling the first stations of her Calvary, the unfortunate sovereign told herself that her humiliations had but just begun. Her lips had touched only the brim of the chalice, and it must be drained to the dregs.

Meanwhile, visitors were arriving at the Tuileries one after another to condole with and protest their fidelity to the King and his family. When Marshal de Mouchy made his appearance, the worthy old man was received with the honors due to his noble conduct on the previous day. When the invasion began, Louis XVI., in order not to irritate the rabble, had given his gentlemen a formal order to withdraw, but the old marshal, hoping that his great age (he was seventy-seven) would excuse his presence in the palace, had refused to leave his master. More than once, with a strength rejuvenated by devotion, he had succeeded in repulsing persons whose violence made him tremble for the King's life. As soon as she saw the marshal, Marie Antoinette made haste to say: "I have learned from the King how courageously you defended him yesterday. I share his gratitude."—"Madame," he replied, alluding to those of his relatives who had figured among the promoters of the Revolution, "I did very little in comparison with the injuries I should like to repair. They were not mine, but they touch me very nearly."—"My son," said the Queen, calling the Dauphin, "repeat before the marshal, the prayer you addressed to God this morning for the King." The child, kneeling down, put his hands together, and looking up to heaven, began to sing this refrain from the opera of Pierre le Grand:—

Ciel, entends la prière
Qu'ici je fais:
Conserve un si bon père
A ses sujets.[ 1 ]

After the Marshal de Mouchy came M. de Malesherbes. Contrary to his usual custom, the ex-first president wore his sword. "It is a long time," some one said to him, "since you have worn a sword."—"True," replied the old man, "but who would not arm when the King's life is in danger?" Then, looking with emotion at the little Prince, he said to Marie Antoinette: "I hope, Madame, that at least our children will see better days!"

And yet, even for the present there still remained a glimmer of hope. Hardly had the invaders left the palace than invectives against them rose from all classes of society. The calmness and courage of the King and his family found admirers on every side. The departments sent addresses demanding the punishment of those who had been guilty. Royalist sentiments woke to life anew. One might almost believe that the indignation caused by the recent scandals would produce an immediate reaction in favor of Louis XVI. Possibly, with an energetic sovereign, something might have been attempted. On the whole, the insurrection had obtained nothing. Even the Girondins perceived the dangerous character of revolutionary passions. Honest men stigmatized the criminal tendencies which had just displayed themselves. It was the moment for the King to show himself and strike a great blow. But Louis XVI. had neither will nor energy. Letting the last chance of safety which fortune offered him escape, he was unable to profit by the turn in public opinion. Nothing could shake him out of that easy patience which was the chief cause of his ruin.

Marie Antoinette herself was opposed to vigorous measures. She still desired to try the effects of kindness. Learning that a legal inquiry was proposed into the events of June 20, and foreseeing that M. Hue would be called as a witness, she said to this loyal servant: "Say as little in your deposition as truth will permit. I recommend you, on the King's part and my own, to forget that we were the objects of these popular movements. Every suspicion that either the King or myself feel the least resentment for what happened must be avoided; it is not the people who are guilty, and even if it were, they would always obtain pardon and forgetfulness of their errors from us."

During this time the Assembly maintained an attitude more than equivocal. It contained a great number of honest men. But, terrorized already, it no longer possessed the courage of indignation. It grew pale before the menaces of the public. By cringing to the rabble it had attained that hypocritical optimism which is the distinctive mark of moderate revolutionists, and which makes them in turn the dupes and the victims of those who are more zealous.

If the majority of the deputies had said openly what they silently thought, they would not have hesitated to stigmatize the invasion of the Tuileries as it deserved. But in that case, what would have become of their popularity with the pikemen? And then, must they not take into account the ambitions of the Girondins, the hatreds of the Mountain party, and the rancor of Madame Roland and her friends? Was it not, moreover, a real satisfaction to the bourgeoisie to give power a lesson and humiliate a sovereign? Ah! how cruelly this pleasure will be expiated by those who take delight in it, and how they will repent some day for having permitted justice, law, and authority to be trampled under foot!

When the session of June 21 opened, Deputy Daverhoult denounced in energetic terms the violence of the previous day. Thuriot exclaimed: "Are we expected to press an inquiry against forty thousand men?" Duranton, the Minister of Justice, then read a letter from the King, dated that day, and worded thus: "Gentlemen, the National Assembly is already acquainted with the events of yesterday. Paris is doubtless in consternation; France will hear the news with astonishment and grief. I was much affected by the zeal shown for me by the National Assembly on this occasion. I leave to its prudence the task of investigating the causes of this event, weighing its circumstances, and taking the necessary measures to maintain the Constitution and assure the inviolability and constitutional liberty of the hereditary representative of the nation. For my part, nothing can prevent me, at all times and under all circumstances, from performing the duties imposed on me by the Constitution, which I have accepted in the true interests of the French nation."

A few moments after this letter had been read, the session was disturbed by a warning from the municipal agent of the department, to the effect that an armed crowd were marching towards the palace. This was soon followed by tidings that Pétion had hindered their further advance, and the mayor himself came to the Assembly to receive the laudations of his friends. "Order reigns everywhere," said he; "all precautions have been taken. The magistrates have done their duty; they will always do so, and the hour approaches when justice will be rendered them."

Pétion then went to the Tuileries, where he addressed the King nearly in these terms:—

"Sire, we learn that you have been warned of the arrival of a crowd at the palace. We come to announce that this crowd is composed of unarmed citizens who wish to set up a may-pole. I know, Sire, that the municipality has been calumniated; but its conduct will be understood by you."—"It ought to be by all France," responded Louis XVI.; "I accuse no one in particular, I saw everything."—"It will be," returned the mayor; "and but for the prudent measures taken by the municipality, much more disagreeable events might have occurred." The King attempted to reply, but Pétion, without listening to him, went on: "Not to your own person; you may well understand that it will always be respected." The King, unaccustomed to interruption when speaking, said in a loud voice: "Be silent!" There was silence for an instant, and then Louis XVI. added: "Is it what you call respecting my person to enter my house in arms, break down my doors and use force to my guards?"—"Sire," answered Pétion, "I know the extent of my duties and of my responsibility."—"Do your duty!" replied Louis XVI.; "You are answerable for the tranquillity of Paris. Adieu!" And the King turned his back on the mayor.

Pétion revenged himself that very evening, by circulating a rumor that the royal family were preparing to escape; in consequence, he requested the commanders of the National Guard to re-enforce the sentries and redouble their vigilance. The revolutionists, who had been disconcerted for a moment by popular indignation, raised their heads again. Prudhomme wrote in the Révolutions de Paris: "The Parisian people—yes, the people, not the aristocratic class of citizens—have just set a grand example to France. The King, at the instigation of Lafayette, discharged his patriotic ministers; he paralyzed by his veto the decree relative to the camp of twenty thousand men, and that on the banishment of priests. Very well! the people rose and signified to him their sovereign will that the ministers should be reinstated and these two murderous vetoes recalled.... Doubtless it will not be long before Europe will be full of a caricature representing Louis XVI. of the big paunch, covered with orders, crowned with a red cap, and drinking out of the same bottle with the sans-culottes, who are crying: 'The King is drinking, the King has drunk. He has the liberty cap on his head.' Would he might have it in his heart!"

Apropos of this red bonnet which remained for three hours on the sovereign's head, Bertrand de Molleville ventured to put some questions to Louis XVI. on the evening of June 21. According to the Memoirs of the former Minister of Marine, this is what the King replied: "The cries of 'Long live the Nation' increasing in violence and seeming to be addressed to me, I answered that the nation had no better friend than I. Then an ill-looking man, thrusting himself through the crowd, came close to me and said in a rude tone: 'Very well! if you are telling the truth, prove it to us by putting on this red cap.' 'I consent,' said I. Instantly one or two of these people advanced and placed the cap on my hair, for it was too small for my head to enter it. I was convinced, I don't know why, that their intention was simply to place this cap on my head and then retire, and I was so preoccupied with what was going on before my eyes, that I did not notice whether it was there or not. So little did I feel it that after I had returned to my chamber I did not observe that I still wore it until I was told. I was greatly astonished to find it on my head, and was all the more displeased because I could have taken it off at once without the least difficulty. But I am convinced that if I had hesitated to receive it, the drunken man by whom it was presented would have thrust his pike into my stomach."

During the same interview Bertrand de Molleville congratulated the King upon his almost miraculous escape from the dangers of the previous day. Louis XVI. replied: "All my anxieties were for the Queen, my children and my sister; because I feared nothing for myself."—"But it seems to me," rejoined his interlocutor, "that this insurrection was aimed chiefly against Your Majesty."—"I know it very well," returned Louis XVI.; "I saw clearly that they wanted to assassinate me, and I don't know why they did not do it; but I shall not escape them another day. So I have gained nothing; it is all the same whether I am assassinated now or two months from now!"—"Great God!" cried Bertrand de Molleville, "does Your Majesty believe that you will be assassinated?"—"I am convinced of it," replied the King; "I have expected it for a long time and have accustomed myself to the thought. Do you think I am afraid of death?"—"Certainly not, but I would desire Your Majesty to take vigorous measures to protect yourself from danger."—"It is possible," went on the King after a moment of reflection, "that I may escape. There are many odds against me, and I am not lucky. If I were alone I would risk one more attempt. Ah! if my wife and children were not with me, people should see that I am not so weak as they fancy. What would be their fate if the measures you propose to me did not succeed?"—"But if they assassinate Your Majesty, do you think that the Queen and her children would be in less danger?"—"Yes, I think so, and even were it otherwise, I should not have to reproach myself with being the cause."

A sort of Christian fanaticism had taken possession of the King's soul. Resigned to his fate, he ceased to struggle, and wrote to his confessor: "Come to see me to-day; I have done with men; I want nothing now but heaven."

[1] Listen, heaven, to the prayer
That here I make:
Preserve so good a father
To his subjects.