During those two or three days and nights which preceded the 14th, the sober men and women tried to found a band of guards who would protect them from these brigands who went about the streets shouting: ‘Des armes et du pain.’ Behind the barricaded houses parents stood over their children in the utmost anxiety, praying that the sound of shouting in the streets should not come their way.
On the 13th the disorders had increased. Gunsmiths’ shops had been raided, and the wild men and women now were armed. The Hôtel de Ville had been broken into and more ammunition stolen.
The citizens of Paris were seriously alarmed. Determined to protect their city from the marauders, the magistrates held meetings in the Hôtel de Ville; several men came forward to offer their services, arms were handed to the protectors of Paris, and bands were formed which were to patrol every district.
One or two of the rioters were seized and hanged; but the ring-leaders escaped. The streets grew quieter as the day wore on, but there was great uneasiness. It was remembered that the troops, having been instructed by the King not to fire on the people, had been useless in the riots, and their presence in the city had caused only uneasiness and panic.
Evening came and the agitators were standing on their tables in the Palais Royal and on the street corners, reminding the people of their wrongs.
Georges Jacques Danton was the cleverest of all the agitators; he knew how to fire the people to anger while he was making them laugh.
He shouted: ‘Shall we use the green cockade as our colours, Citizens? Never! Those are the colours of the Comte d’Artois, and the Comte d’Artois is one of those accursed aristocrats who snatch the bread from our mouths, Citizens, that they may parade in their glory. Nay, let our colours be those of our friend Monsieur d’Orléans – the tricolor, Citizens – blue, white and red! I have a list here, Citizens. It contains the names of those who are traitors to their country. Artois is in that list. Shall we use his colours?’
‘No!’ screamed the crowd.
‘Then let it be the tricolour.’
‘Long live the tricolour!’
The 14th July dawned, a day of blazing heat and blazing emotion, a day that was to be remembered for ever after.
Crowds gathered about the Palais Royal.
The plan was ready, but the people of Paris did not know this. Word was sent through the city.
‘Troops are advancing on Paris. Citizens are to be bombarded by the guns of the Bastille.’
‘Citizens, will you stay in your homes and do nothing? Will you allow the guns of the Bastille to murder your wives and children and yourselves? You have seen the price of bread … rising … rising … and you have dared to complain. Those to whose interest it is to see the price of bread rise now wish to murder those who raised their voices against tyranny. To arms, Citizens! There is one way to defeat our enemies. To the Bastille!’
The people were crowding into the streets. They assembled around the Hôtel de Ville and in the Place de Grève.
‘What means this?’ they asked of one another.
And the good citizens mingled with the cut-throat hirelings.
They had seen the guns on the battlements; those guns could be brought to bear upon the surrounding streets with devastating results.
Many people had passed the great fortress with its eight pointed towers and its dry moat; they had passed the gate which opened into the rue Saint-Antoine; they had looked at the two drawbridges, one the Pont de l’Avancée which opened on the Cour du Gouvernement, and the other on to the prison.
The prisoners of the Bastille were mostly political prisoners, and it was said that conditions therein were more comfortable than those of the Châtelet or the Salpêtrière.
‘We must take the Bastille,’ shouted the agitators. ‘Thus only can we prevent the guns of the fortress being used on the citizens of Paris.’
The cry went up: ‘To the Bastille!’
And on that hot 14th July, the people marched, brandishing sticks, rakes, guns, anything to which they could lay their hands; and in all the preceding days there had never been such tension, such rising excitement as there was that day.
The drawbridge chains had been cut. The defenders of the Bastille, on orders from the King, had not fired on the people … and the people were in command.
Through the streets they marched, singing in triumph; before them held high on a pike they carried the bleeding head of the Marquis de Launay, the Governor of the Bastille.
It was the night of the 14th when the Duc de Liancourt came riding in haste to Versailles.
‘I must see the King,’ he declared. ‘Without delay. There is not a moment to lose.’
‘His Majesty has retired for the night,’ the Duke was told.
‘Then he must be awakened,’ was the grim answer.
‘Monsieur le Duc … I tell you the King has gone to his bed!’
The Duc de Liancourt had thrust aside those who would detain him; he had marched into the King’s bedchamber and drawn back the curtains.
‘Sire,’ he cried, ‘the people have taken the Bastille and de Launay’s head is being carried on a pike through the streets with the mob howling about it.’
Louis sat up and rubbed the sleep out of his eyes. He said: ‘This would seem to be news of a revolt.’
‘No, Sire,’ said the Duke. ‘It is news of a revolution.’
Chapter XI
THE OCTOBER DAYS
The people were demanding the recall of Necker, and at same time declaring that if the King did not come to Paris they would go in a body to Versailles, destroy the Palace, drive away the courtiers and bring the King to his Capital that they might ‘take good care of him’.
There was consternation at Versailles. Artois had heard that his name was on a list of those who were to be executed. The King embraced him. ‘You must make immediate preparations to leave,’ he said.
The Polignacs and their friends had been the butt of lampoons and pamphlets for years. They too were near the top of the list.
‘I would not detain you here,’ said Antoinette. ‘It is too dangerous. You should get out of France with all speed.’
She went to the King and stood trembling before him. She was amazed at the calm of Louis. Was it courage, she wondered, or was it that it was as impossible to arouse him to fear as it was to ardour?
‘I shall go to Paris,’ he said.
Antoinette, looking at him, thought of all the years they had been together, all the kindness of this man, all the indulgences she had received from him. She thought of how his children loved him, and threw herself into his arms and implored him not to go to Paris.
‘Do you know that they have said that if I do not go to them they will come here?’
‘Do not go,’ said Antoinette. ‘They intend to kill you as they killed de Launay.’
‘They will remember that I am their King and they are my children.’
Antoinette shook her head; she could not speak; the lump in her throat was choking her.
He heard Mass and took the sacrament, made his will and set out for his Capital.
Antoinette watched him from the balcony of his apartments.
‘Good-bye, Louis,’ she said. ‘Good-bye, my poor dear King and husband.’