The war, of course, played havoc with the economy, and our own glass trade was among the first to suffer. Many of the younger men obeyed the call to arms and joined the army, and we were left with the older workmen, and our furnace alight scarcely three days in the week.
Horses and vehicles were requisitioned for the troops, grain prices rose once more, and this time some deputies in the Assembly demanded the death penalty for hoarders, but the measure was not passed. The more the pity, I remember thinking, and looked back, without revulsion, to the killing of the silver merchant and his son-in-law at Ballon. I had grown wiser in three years, or less compassionate. Being wife to an officer of the National Guard, and sister-in-law to a deputy, gave one a bias in favor of authority—if authority was on our side.
Jacques Duval’s friend Marat, the journalist, was right when he denounced the timid members of the Assembly in his paper L’Ami du Peuple, and advocated the seizure of power by a strong group of proved patriots who would not hesitate to use stern measures to unite the country and put down opposition. There was one deputy in whom we all had confidence, the little lawyer Robespierre, who back in ’89 had spoken with such fervor at Versailles. If anyone had the force and ability to control the situation, which rapidly worsened through the summer, here was the man to do it, said my brother-in-law.
Robespierre… known as “the Incorruptible” among his friends, for nothing and no one could deflect him from what he believed to be right and just. Others might look with leniency upon those who failed to prosecute the war, or remain friendly with the émigrés in case the tide turned and the enemy were successful, but not Robespierre. Again and again he warned the ministers who controlled policy in the Assembly that the King’s position had become untenable; his obstinacy in refusing to sign decrees necessary for the safety of the country meant that he was playing for time, hoping that the forces of the duke of Brunswick would defeat the army of the French people. If the King would not cooperate with government, the King must be deposed. Government must be strong, or the nation would perish.
These were the arguments we heard during the feverish summer of ’92, either through reading L’Ami du Peuple or direct from François’s brother Jacques Duval. But the news that roused us most, and indeed every man and woman in the country, was when, on the 1st of August, the invading general, the duke of Brunswick, issued a manifesto threatening to deliver Paris to “military execution and total destruction” if “the slightest violence” was committed against the royal family. The royal family were not even in our thoughts. We were all too concerned with the imminent invasion and the danger to our homes to be concerned with them. The manifesto, intended to frighten us into submission, did just the opposite, and, far from making us feel tender towards the King and Queen, turned us, almost overnight, into republicans.
When, on the 10th of August, the Paris crowds rose en masse and marched on the Tuileries, destroyed the Swiss guards, and forced the royal family to take shelter behind the manège where the Assembly sat, our small community at le Chesne-Bidault had every sympathy with the people. Now, we felt, let the duke of Brunswick do his worst. We were ready for him. One triumph resulted from this fracas, and this was that the weak men within the Assembly were broken. The local government of Paris, the municipality, or commune as it was called, now had control, and in September a new Assembly, to be known as the National Convention, would be elected by universal suffrage, which Robespierre had been demanding all along.
“At last,” said my brother Pierre, “we shall have a strong government.”
In fact, one of the first decrees passed, the day after the storming of the Tuileries, was an order giving every municipality throughout the country the right to arrest suspects on sight.
I think if Michel could have had his way every prison would have been at bursting point. As it was, he, and the National Guard, could now round up every nonjuring priest for deportation, though in Paris the Commune used harsher measures and imprisoned them.
The royal family were confined in the Temple, where the pernicious influence of the Queen could do no further damage, and letters to her nephew the Emperor of Austria no longer find their way across the frontier.
Marat, in L’Ami du Peuple, declared that the only way to save the Revolution for the people was to slaughter the aristocrats en masse; yet if this happened the innocent might suffer with the guilty. Somehow, we no longer seemed to preach the brotherhood of man.
Meanwhile, both François and Michel were preoccupied with the primary elections to take place in the last week in August. Our département of Loir-et-Cher was divided into thirty-three cantons, and each canton comprised several parishes or communes. Every man over twenty-five was allowed to vote for an Elector or Electors in his canton, and these Electors in their turn voted for the deputies who would represent the people of the département in the Assembly.
Both my husband and my brother were to stand as Electors for the canton of Gault, and both were determined to see that no one who might have the slightest reactionary tendency should offer themselves as candidates beside them. They were supported in this by Jacques Duval, my husband’s brother, who wrote to François from Paris urging the importance of a majority of progressives in the next Assembly—the National Convention. This, he said, could only come about if the Electors themselves were progressives, and could thus make sure that the right deputies were returned to power. He was not offering himself for reelection, for his health was bad. This was a great blow to François and Michel, for they felt that so close a relative, holding a position in Paris of such importance, was not only a help to our own small business but a security should things go wrong.
“We must be f-firm on one thing,” declared Michel, a week or so before the primary elections were to be held, “and that is to see that no p-priest or ex-m-member of the aristocracy is allowed to vote.”
“What about priests who have already sworn the oath to the Constitution?” asked François.
“They can s-swear as hard as they like,” replied my brother, “we’ll k-keep them out. In any event, we’ll march the National Guard around every parish first, and make sure the n-nominees for election have taken the oath.”
It was on the Sunday preceding the elections, I remember, that he had the National Guard of le Plessis-Dorin, and others from a neighboring parish, on parade in the foundry yard. They went off in strength, some eighty strong, under the command of André Delalande—whom Michel had promoted to commandant—to force any prospective Elector of doubtful patriotism to take the oath.
There was not a parish or a commune in the district that dared withstand this onslaught, though many protested at the treatment and said the National Guard had no right to enforce the oath upon loyal citizens.
“Loyal be d-damned,” said Michel. “We’ll soon s-see who’s loyal when we come to c-count the votes.”
The opening meeting to discuss the elections was held in the church at Gault on the 26th of August. I was allowed to be present, though I kept myself well in the background. From the very start of the proceedings there was trouble. By right of age and precedence Monsieur Montlibert, mayor of Gault, was called to preside over the assembly, to the loud protests of my husband and brother.
“He is an aristocrat,” cried my husband, “he has no business to be here.”
“It’s m-men like him,” shouted my brother, “who have b-brought the country to its p-present state. He’s t-turned coat once, he’ll d-do it again.”
Michel’s stammer, of course, was a handicap at such a meeting, and his temper was not improved by the murmur of laughter that rose from the benches all about us in the church. I at once felt hot with shame, especially as at this moment the curé of Gault, and those of Oigny and St. Agil, entered from the sacristy. Both Michel and François began waving papers above their heads and shouting, “No priests in this assembly… Tell them to get out… No priests in here.”
The curé of Gault, a mild enough looking man in all consci
ence, stood by the chancel steps. “Those members of the clergy who have taken the oath have every right to be admitted,” he answered.
“We don’t want f-fools like you,” shouted Michel. “Go suck your s-soup.”
There was a moment’s horrified silence. Then an uproar broke out. Some older members present began to protest, but the younger ones yelled and jeered, and within a few minutes the three curés retreated with dignity, afraid, no doubt, that their presence would provoke violence.
I was scarlet with embarrassment, and wished that Michel and François would hold their peace. Finally a Monsieur Villette was nominated instead of the mayor and, mounting a chair, rebuked “certain of those present who would drive good patriots from this assembly.”
“There is no law forbidding a constitutional priest from becoming an Elector, or from voting,” he announced, “nor for expelling any ex-member of the aristocracy.”
There were cheers at this, and counter-cheers, or rather boos, from my brother and my husband and those who sided with them. Nevertheless, a show of hands decided upon the expulsion of the so-called former aristocrats, and the mayor Montlibert, with his son and a few others, left the church.
There was no further trouble until the bulletins, on which each man voting for an Elector had to write his name, had been dropped in the box provided. Villette, the president, was about to take the box to the scrutators to be counted when I saw Michel nudge my husband. François sprang to his feet and seized the box from the president.
“Your duties are finished,” he cried. “It is not the business of the president to concern himself with the bulletins. This is the function of the scrutators.”
He at once bore off the box to the sacristy, where the scrutators were waiting, all of them members of the National Guard, and I wondered how many of the bulletins they counted would find their way first to my husband and my brother. I sat silent, aghast at what I saw. The words “Liberté, égalité, fraternité” seemed far remote from the proceedings here. No one protested. Even the president Villette looked stupefied, and did not move.
“They deserve all they get,” I told myself, to quiet my conscience. “Half of those who vote can’t read or write, and someone must do their thinking for them.”
My husband returned and took his seat beside Michel. They consulted a moment, and then François called on Henri Darlanges, from the parish of la Grande-Borde, to stand up and show himself. There was a shuffle of feet, and a frightened individual stood to attention.
“We have information,” said my husband, “that you are sheltering two men in your house, former members of the aristocracy without passports, who have arms hidden.”
“Not a word of truth in it,” answered the man, a prospective Elector. “You are welcome to search my house and the whole parish.”
Further consultation between Michel and François resulted in a demand for the return of Monsieur Montlibert, the mayor of Gault, to the assembly. I could see that it was my brother who was issuing the orders, and my husband who acted as spokesman for him.
“Citizen mayor,” said my husband, “you have heard this man Henri Darlanges deny all knowledge of strangers or hidden arms. As adjutant-general of the National Guard, Michel Busson-Challoir orders you to proceed at once to la Grande-Borde and search his house. The proceedings cannot continue here at Gault until this is done.” When he had finished speaking the doors of the church were flung open and a great contingent of the National Guard marched in, about sixty of them, all workmen from le Chesne-Bidault.
I began to see what my menfolk were at. Suspicion, whether just or unjust, must be thrown on all prospective Electors of moderate views. Once tainted thus, no one would have the hardihood to vote for them. The way would be clear then for the progressives.
“By what right…” began the mayor, but Michel, leaving his seat and walking over to Henri Darlanges, cut him short.
“By the right of f-force,” he said. “Fall in behind the Guard.” And then, to Darlanges beside him, “G-give me your keys.”
The keys were handed over without a word. François snapped out an order. Then he and Michel, with the mayor and Henry Darlanges between them, marched out of the church, escorted by the National Guard.
The meeting broke up in confusion. Prospective Electors stood by uncertain what to do, most of them too scared to take any action. I saw one woman outside the church burst into tears and run to her husband, asking if everyone was to be put in prison.
I went and sat in the mairie, not knowing where else to go, waiting upon events. Some of our own workmen, in uniform, were on sentry duty outside. None of the inhabitants of Gault dared approach us.
Presently the procession returned. Henri Darlanges had his hands roped behind his back, and so had two other men with him, his lodgers, it appeared, looking even more frightened than he did himself.
A mock trial was set in motion, and the mayor Montlibert forced to interrogate the prisoners. It was obvious, even to someone like myself who knew nothing of the law, that none of the men had done wrong. No arms had been found in the house. The men had no pretensions to being aristocrats. Monsieur Villette, who had presided over the proceedings in the church, spoke up in their defense.
“If you are in c-collusion with these men,” said Michel, “have the c-courage to admit it, or keep silent.”
I feared, from his gesture and his tone of voice, that the worst might happen and the wretched prisoners would be taken out into the street and hanged. They feared so too. I saw the expression in their eyes. Then Michel summoned the captain of his Guard, the workman André Delalande.
“Take these men into c-custody,” he ordered, “and see that they are m-marched into Mondoubleau and handed over to the authorities f-first thing in the morning.”
André saluted. The unfortunates were marched out of the mairie.
“That’s all,” said Michel, “no further questions. The meeting in the c-church will be resumed tomorrow morning.”
The mayor Montlibert, the president Villette, and the other officials left the building without a word of protest. Then, and only then, did my brother wink at François.
“The scrutators are locked in the ch-church,” he said, “and I have the keys. I suggest we walk across and f-find out if they are counting the votes correctly.”
I returned alone that night to le Chesne-Bidault, except for six of the National Guard to act as escort. The next day I allowed the primary elections for the canton of Gault to continue without me. The proceedings, I was afterwards told, went smoothly enough until one official complained of the events of the preceding day, upon which he was informed if he gave further trouble the workmen of le Chesne-Bidault would be delighted to deal with him in their own fashion. The official was then silent.
I was not surprised, when the primary elections were over, to hear that both my husband and my brother had been elected for Gault. Whatever my own feelings in the matter, one thing was certain. Intimidation paid. “The destiny of the nation,” said my brother-in-law, Jacques Duval, “depends upon the Electors’ choice of deputies,” and those who were returned for Loir-et-Cher were all progressives. There was not a moderate man among them.
The fall of Verdun on the 2nd of September put the whole country in a state of alarm. If the enemy advanced one step further we were ready for them. I was prepared to fight beside the men in the foundry yard.
“Danger is imminent,” wrote Jacques Duval from Paris. “The tocsin has sounded here in the capital. Let it do so in each département throughout France, so that every citizen can rally to the nation’s defense.”
The very day he wrote that letter the prisons were broken into by the Paris crowds, and more than twelve hundred prisoners were slaughtered. We never heard who was to blame for it. Collective panic was the excuse given. Rumor, passing from one man to another, had whispered that the prisons held armed aristocrats, awaiting their moment to break free and destroy the citizens of Paris. The “brigands” of ’89 had been
resurrected.
On the 20th of September the Prussian and Austrian armies were repulsed at Valmy, and a few days later Verdun was retaken. The people’s army had responded to the call.
The new Assembly—the National Convention—met for the first time on September the 21st. We hoisted the tricolor above the furnace house at le Chesne-Bidault, and the workmen, all in their uniform of the National Guard, sang the marching song that had supplanted “Ça Ira”—the Marseillaise.
That evening, in the master’s house, Michel, François, and I set out the replicas of the original glass made twenty years ago for Louis XV at the château of la Pierre, and we toasted the new Republic.
15
“The National Convention declares Louis Capet, last King of the French, guilty of conspiracy against the liberty of the nation, and of attempting to undermine the safety of the State.
“The National Convention decrees that Louis Capet shall suffer the death penalty.”
There was not a home throughout the country, during January of ’93, where the case was not argued, for or against the King. Robespierre had stated the matter with his usual clarity, when he declared in December before the Convention, “If the King is not guilty, then those who have dethroned him are.”
There were no two ways about it. Either it was right to depose the monarch for summoning the aid of foreign powers against the State, or it was wrong. If right, then the monarch had been guilty of treason and must pay the penalty. If wrong, then the National Convention must dissolve, ask pardon of the monarch, and capitulate to the enemy.
“You cannot go against Robespierre’s logic,” said my brother Pierre. “The Convention must either accuse the King, or accuse itself. If the King is absolved, it is tantamount to saying the Republic should never have been proclaimed, and the country must lay down its arms against Prussia and Austria.”