Never had monarchy so great a number of advisers, for everybody uttered his opinions loudly and publicly.
The most moderate said:—
"It is a very simple matter."
This form of language, it will be observed, is nearly always applied, with us, to the most difficult circumstances.
"It is a very simple matter," said they. "Let them begin by obtaining from the National Assembly a sanction which it will not refuse. Its attitude has, for some time, been reassuring to every one; it will not countenance violence committed by the lower classes, any more than abuses perpetrated by the upper.
"The Assembly will plainly declare that insurrection is a crime; that citizens who have representatives to explain their griefs to the king, and a king to do them justice, are wrong in having recourse to arms and in shedding blood.
"Being once armed with this declaration, which could certainly be obtained from the Assembly, the king could not avoid chastising Paris, like a good parent, that is to say, severely.
"And then the tempest would be allayed, and the monarchy would regain the first of its rights. The people would return to their duty, which is obedience, and things would go on in the usual way."
It was thus that the people in general were settling this great question, upon the squares and the Boulevards.
But before the Place d'Armes, and in the vicinity of the barracks, they treated the subject very differently.
There could be seen men altogether unknown in the neighborhood, men with intelligent countenances and sinister looks, disseminating mysterious advice to all around them, exaggerating the news which was already sufficiently serious, and propagating, almost publicly, the seditious ideas which during two months had agitated Paris and excited the suburbs. Round these men groups were forming, some gloomy and hostile, some excited, composed of people whom these orators were reminding of their misery, their sufferings, the brutal disdain of the monarchy for the privations of the people. An orator said to them:—
"During eight centuries that the people have struggled, what have they obtained? Nothing. No social rights; no political rights. What is their fate? That of the farmer's cow, from whom its calf is led to the shambles, its milk to be sold at the market, its meat to be taken to the slaughter-house, its skin to be dried at the tannery. In short, pressed by want, the monarchy has yielded, it has made an appeal to the States; but now that the States are assembled, what does the monarchy? Since the day of their convocation it weighs heavily upon them. If the National Assembly is formed, it is against the will of the monarchy. Well, then! since our brethren of Paris have just given us such vigorous assistance, let us urge the National Assembly onward. Each step which it takes in the political arena, where the battle has begun, is a victory for us: it is the extension of our field, it is the increase of our fortune, it is the consecration of our rights. Forward! forward, citizens! The Bastille is but the outwork of tyranny! The Bastille is taken; the citadel is before us!"
In remote corners other meetings were formed, and other words pronounced. Those who pronounced them were men evidently belonging to a superior class, who had sought in the costume of the vulgar a disguise with which their white hands and distinguished accent contrasted strangely.
"People," exclaimed these men, "in truth, you are deceived on both sides! Some ask you to retrace your steps, while others urge you onward. Some speak to you of political rights, of social rights; but are you happier for having been permitted to vote through the medium of your delegates? Are you any the richer since you have been represented? Have you been less hungry, now that the National Assembly makes decrees? No. Leave politics, then, to those who can read. It is not a written phrase or maxim that you need. It is bread, and again bread; it is the well-being of your children, the tranquillity and security of your wives. Who will give you all that? A king, firm in character, young in mind, and of a generous heart. That king is not Louis XVI.,—Louis XVI., who is ruled by his wife, the iron-hearted Austrian. It is—search carefully round the throne; search there for him who can render France happy, and whom the queen naturally detests, and that because he throws a shadow over the picture, because he loves the French, and is beloved by them."
Thus did public opinion manifest itself at Versailles; thus was civil war fomented everywhere.
Gilbert observed several of these groups, and then, having perceived the state of the public mind, he walked straight to the palace, which was guarded by numerous military posts, to protect it against whom no one knew.
Notwithstanding all these precautions, Gilbert, without the slightest difficulty, crossed the first courtyard, and reached the vestibule without having been asked by any one where he was going.
When he arrived at the Hall of the Œil-de-Bœuf, he was stopped by one of the body-guards. Gilbert drew from his pocket the letter of Monsieur de Necker, whose signature he showed.
The guard cast his eyes over it. The instructions he had received were very strict; and as the strictest instructions are precisely those which most need to be interpreted, the guard said to Gilbert:—
"The order, sir, to allow no one to visit the king is positive; but as the case of a person sent by Monsieur de Necker was evidently not foreseen, and as, according to all probability, you are the bearer of important information to his Majesty, go in. I will take the responsibility upon myself."
Gilbert entered.
The king was not in his apartments, but in the council-room. He was just receiving a deputation from the National Guard of Paris, which had come to request the dismissal of the troops, the formation of a guard of citizens, and his presence in the capital.
Louis had listened coldly; then he had replied that the situation of affairs required investigation; and that, moreover, he was about to deliberate on the subject with his council.
And, accordingly, he deliberated.
During this time the deputies were waiting in the gallery; and through the ground-glass windows of the doors they could observe the shadows of the royal councillors and the threatening attitude which they assumed.
By the study of this species of phantasmagoria they could foresee that the answer would be unfavorable.
In fact, the king contented himself with saying that he would appoint some officers for the national militia, and would order the troops at the Champ-de-Mars to fall back.
As to his presence in Paris, he would only show this favor when the rebellious city had completely submitted.
The deputation begged, insisted, and conjured. The king replied that his heart was grieved, but that he could do nothing more.
And satisfied with this momentary triumph and this manifestation of a power which he no longer possessed, the king returned to his apartment.
He there found Gilbert. The guard was standing near him.
"What is wanted of me?" asked the king.
The body-guard approached him, and while he was apologizing to the king for having disobeyed his orders, Gilbert, who for many years had not seen the king, was silently examining the man whom God had given to France as her pilot during the most violent tempest the country had ever experienced.
That stout, short body, in which there was neither elasticity nor majesty; that inexpressive and low-formed brow; that pallid youthfulness contending against premature old age; the unequal struggle between a powerful physical organization, and a mediocre intelligence, to which the haughtiness of rank alone gave a fitful importance,—all these to the physiognomist who had studied with Lavater, to the magnetizer who had read the future with Balsamo, to the philosopher who had dreamed with Jean Jacques, to the traveller, in short, who had passed all the human races in review,—all these implied degeneracy, dwindling, impotence, and ruin.
Gilbert was therefore struck dumb, not from a feeling of respect, but from grief, while contemplating this mournful spectacle.
The king advanced towards him.
"It is you," said he, "who bring me a letter from Monsieur de Necker?"
"Yes,
Sire."
"Ah!" cried he, as if he had doubted it; "give it to me quickly."
And he pronounced these words in the tone of a drowning man who cries, "A rope!"
Gilbert presented the letter to the king.
Louis immediately grasped it, read it hurriedly, then, with a gesture which was not altogether wanting in nobleness of manner:—
"Leave us, Monsieur de Varicourt," said he to the body-guard.
Gilbert remained alone with the king. The room was lighted but by a single lamp. It might have been thought that the king had diminished the quantity of light, in order that no one should perceive on his wearied rather than careworn brow the anxious thoughts which crowded there.
"Sir," said he, fixing upon Gilbert a clearer and more penetrating gaze than the latter would have thought him capable of,—"Sir, is it true that you are the author of the memoirs which have so much struck me?"
"Yes, Sire."
"What is your age?"
"Thirty-two years, Sire; but study and misfortune double age. Treat me as if I were an old man."
"Why did you omit so long to present yourself to me?"
"Because, Sire, I did not wish to tell your Majesty aloud what I could write to you more freely and more easily."
Louis XVI. reflected.
"Had you no other reason?" said he, suspiciously.
"No, Sire."
"But still, either I am mistaken, or there were some peculiar circumstances which ought to have convinced you of my kindly feeling towards you."
"Your Majesty intends to speak of that sort of rendezvous which I had the temerity to give the king, when, after my first memoir, I begged him, five years ago, to place a light near his window, at eight o'clock in the evening, to indicate that he had read my work."
"And—?" said the king, with an air of satisfaction.
"And on the day and at the hour appointed, the light was, in fact, placed where I had asked you to place it."
"And afterwards?"
"Afterwards I saw it lifted up and set down again three times."
"And then?"
"After that I read the following words in the 'Gazette:'—
"'He whom the light has called three times may present himself to him who has raised it three times, when he will be compensated.'"
"Those are, in fact, the very words of the advertisement," said the king.
"And there is the advertisement itself," said Gilbert, drawing from his pocket the number of the 'Gazette' in which the advertisement he had just alluded to had been published five years previously.
"Well—very well," said the king. "I have long expected you. You arrive at a moment I had quite ceased to expect you. You are welcome; for you come, like good soldiers, at the moment of battle."
Then, looking once more attentively at Gilbert:—
"Do you know, sir," said he to him, "that it is not an ordinary thing for a king to await the arrival of a person to whom he has said, 'Come to receive your reward,' and that that person should abstain from coming."
Gilbert smiled.
"Come now, tell me," said Louis XVI., "why did you not come?"
"Because I deserved no reward, Sire."
"For what reason?"
"Born a Frenchman, loving my country, anxious for its prosperity, confounding my individuality with that of thirty millions of men, my fellow-citizens, I labored for myself while laboring for them. A man is not worthy of reward when he labors for his own interest."
"That is a paradox, sir; you had another reason."
Gilbert did not reply.
"Speak, sir; I desire it."
"Perhaps, Sire, you have guessed rightly."
"Is not this it?" asked the king in an anxious tone. "You found the position a very serious one, and you kept yourself in reserve."
"For one still more serious. Yes, Sire, your Majesty has divined the truth."
"I like frankness," said the king, who could not conceal his agitation; for he was of a timid nature, and blushed easily.
"Then," continued Louis XVI., "you predicted the king's fall to him, and you feared to be placed too near the ruins."
"No, Sire, since it is just at the moment that danger is most imminent that I come to face the danger."
"Yes, yes; you have just left Necker, and you speak like him. The danger!—the danger! Without doubt it is dangerous at this moment to approach me. And where is Necker?"
"Quite ready, I believe, to obey the orders of your Majesty."
"So much the better; I shall want him," said the king, with a sigh. "In politics we must not be headstrong. We think to do good, and we do wrong. We even do good, and some capricious event mars our projects; and though the plans laid were in reality good, we are accused of having been mistaken."
The king sighed again. Gilbert came to his assistance.
"Sire," said he, "your Majesty reasons admirably; but what is desirable at the present moment is, to see into the future more clearly than has been done hitherto."
The king raised his head, and his inexpressive eyebrows slightly frowned.
"Sire, forgive me," said Gilbert; "I am a physician. When the danger is imminent, I speak briefly."
"Do you, then, attach much importance to the riot of to-day?"
"Sire, it is not a riot—it is a revolution."
"And you wish me to make terms with rebels and assassins? For, in fine, they have taken the Bastille by force: it is an act of rebellion; they have killed Monsieur de Launay, Monsieur de Losme, and Monsieur de Flesselles: it is murder."
"I wish you to distinguish more correctly, Sire. Those who, took the Bastille are heroes; those who assassinated Messieurs de Flesselles, de Losme, and de Launay are murderers."
The king colored slightly, and almost immediately this color disappeared, his lips became pale, and a few drops of perspiration trickled down his forehead.
"You are right, sir. You are a physician indeed, or a surgeon rather, for you cut to the quick. But let us return to the object of our interview. You are Doctor Gilbert, are you not,—or at least it is with this name that your memoirs are signed?"
"Sire, it does me great honor that your Majesty has so good a memory, although, taking it all in all, I have no great reason to be proud of my name."
"How is that?"
"My name must, indeed, have been pronounced before your Majesty, and that not long ago."
"I do not understand you."
"Six days ago I was arrested and thrown into the Bastille. Now I have heard it said that no arrest of any importance was ever made without the king being aware of the fact."
"You in the Bastille!" said the king, opening his eyes widely.
"Here is the registration of my imprisonment, Sire. Put in prison, as I have the honor to tell your Majesty, six days ago, by order of the king, I came out of it at three o'clock to-day, by the grace of the people."
"To-day?"
"Yes, Sire. Did your Majesty hear the cannon?"
"Most undoubtedly."
"Well, then, the cannon opened the gates for me."
"Ah!" murmured the king, "I would willingly say that I am pleased at this event, had not the cannon of this morning been fired at the Bastille and the monarchy at the same time."
"Oh, Sire, do not make a prison the symbol of a principle: say, on the contrary, Sire, that you rejoice that the Bastille is taken: for henceforward injustice will not be committed in the king's name without his cognizance,—injustice similar to that of which I have just been the victim."
"But surely, sir, your arrest must have had a cause?"
"None that I know of, Sire; I was arrested on my return to France, and imprisoned, that is all."
"Really, sir," said Louis XVI., kindly, "is there not some egotism on your part, in speaking to me thus of yourself, when I so much need to have my own position spoken of?"
"Sire, all I require is, that your Majesty will answer me one single question."
"What is it?"
"Was or was not y
our Majesty concerned in my arrest?"
"I was not even aware of your return to France."
"I rejoice at this answer, Sire; I shall then be enabled to declare openly that when your Majesty is supposed to do wrong, you are nearly always calumniated; and to those who doubt it, I can cite myself as an example."
The king smiled.
"As a physician," said he, "you pour balm into the wound."
"Oh, Sire, I shall pour in the balm abundantly; and if you desire it I will cure the wound, that I will answer for."
"I most assuredly desire it."
"You must desire it very firmly, Sire."
"I do desire it firmly."
"Before going any farther, Sire," said Gilbert, "will you read that line written in the margin of my jail-book entry?"
"What line?" asked the king in an anxious tone.
Gilbert presented the page to the king. The king read: "'By request of the queen.'"
The king frowned.
"Of the queen!" said he; "can you have incurred her displeasure?"
"Sire, I am certain her Majesty knows me still less than did your Majesty."
"But still, you must have committed some fault; a man is not sent to the Bastille for nothing."
"It would seem that he may be, since I have just come out of it."
"But Monsieur Necker has sent you to me, and the warrant of imprisonment was signed by him."
"It was so undoubtedly."
"Then explain yourself more clearly. Review your past life. See if you do not find some circumstance in it which you had yourself forgotten."
"Review my past life! Yes, Sire; I shall do it, and aloud; do not fear, it will not occupy much time. I have labored without intermission since I attained the age of sixteen: the pupil of Jean Jacques, the companion of Balsamo, the friend of Lafayette and of Washington, I have never had cause to reproach myself, since the day that I left France, for a single fault, nor even an error. When acquired science permitted me to attend the wounded or the sick, I always thought myself responsible to God for every one of my thoughts, and every action. Since God has given me the care of human beings as a surgeon, I have shed blood for the sake of humanity, while ready to give my own to soothe or to save my patient; as a physician, I have always been a consoler, and sometimes a benefactor. Fifteen years have thus passed away. God has blessed my efforts: I have seen return to life the greater part of the afflicted, who have all kissed my hands. Those who have died, have been taken away by the will of God. No, I repeat, Sire, since the day when I left France, and that was fifteen years ago, I have done nothing with which I can reproach myself."
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