Flaunting, Extravagant Queen

Chapter X THE FOURTEENTH OF JULY

Disasters came thick and fast in the year which followed. The baby, who had been born a few weeks after that terrible day when the verdict on the Diamond Necklace affair had been given, was a girl. Antoinette called her Sophie Beatrix; she lacked the strength of her sister, Madame Royale, and was going to be as sickly as the little Dauphin.

Antoinette was so unhappy about this child that she ceased to brood on the implication of the verdict; she ceased to care what the people said of her.

Her anxieties over her son and daughter had sobered her considerably. No more did she act on the stage of her gilded theatre at Trianon. She would sit with the sick child in her arms, staring bleakly before her.

And less than twelve months after her birth little Sophie Beatrix died in her mother’s arms.

There was another death that year in the royal family. Madame Louise, the Carmelite nun, passed piously away that November, crying as she did so: ‘To Paradise, quick, at full gallop!’ She believed that a special coach had been sent from heaven to convey her there. Mesdames Adelaide and Victoire still lived on at Bellevue, vindictive, never losing an opportunity to vilify the Queen.

‘Oh, Elisabeth,’ said Antoinette to her sister-in-law who had helped her nurse the sick child, ‘sometimes I wonder whether I shall ever be gay again.’

Elisabeth wept with her; Antoinette was beginning to realise that her quiet little sister-in-law was the best friend she had, and one of the very few whom she could trust.

Her unpopularity was growing every day. She was aware of the gathering malice all about her. Once someone called after her as she passed through the Oeil-de-Boeuf to the King’s apartments: ‘A Queen who does her duty should keep to her apartments and concern herself with knitting.’ Madame Vigée le Brun was afraid to hang her portrait of the Queen in the Salon lest it should be the signal for riots; and Antoinette had realised that it was best for her not to appear too often in the Capital.

During the months of sorrow it was beginning to be clear to her that the affairs of the country were in a dangerous state. As she pondered these matters a change came over her, so that she felt impatient with the giddy person she had been. She remembered that she was a Habsburg and that the Habsburgs were rulers; she thought often of her mother, and she began to wonder whether in the years ahead of her she might not grow a little like her. The King she saw as kindly but very weak; and what France needed now was a strong ruler. Louis – Poor Louis – even in his magnificent robes of state could not look like a King. His appearance was against him no less than his character.

Calonne was bringing further disaster upon the country with his policy of borrowing; the yearly deficit was now over 100,000,000 livres. It was impossible to keep the true state of affairs from the King any longer, and when Louis heard this alarming news he was filled with horror.

Calonne, ever optimistic, ever ready with schemes (never mind if there was no possibility of carrying them out, they were still schemes with which to lull the fearful) decided to gather round him a body of men from the nobility and clergy who should help him to govern. These he called the ‘Notables’, and he gave out that he expected great things from them. The announcement was received with scorn by the people, who promptly gave the new assembly the Anglo-French title of ‘Not-Ables’. They had little power, since only the Estates-General could impose taxes; and after a great deal of argument and no achievement Calonne begged the Notables to adjourn; after which he himself was dismissed from office.

The country was calling for Necker, but the King was against his recall and firmly refused to have him back.

Antoinette, who had been watching the struggle with growing understanding, thought that the Archbishop of Toulouse, Lomenie de Brienne, would be a good man to take Calonne’s place. He was therefore appointed to the Treasury, but the people were against him from the start, merely because he had been recommended by the Queen.

He dissolved the Notables, who returned to their estates and lost no time in informing all those with whom they came into contact that the exchequer was verging on bankruptcy.

The Parlement determined to oppose every scheme which Brienne laid before it. The minister made one great mistake. He declared that the Queen should have a place at the meetings of the Council and thus help to govern.

The people were outraged. ‘We are being governed by Madame Déficit,’ they cried. And the rumours increased; the affair of the Diamond Necklace was discussed and garnished with fresh libels. In Bellevue and the Palais Royal it was said: ‘It is not the King who is at fault. It is the Queen.’

Everywhere a cry went up for an Estates-General. Brienne started borrowing again; he planned to float new loans; the Parlement would not agree.

The King then rose and declared: ‘I command you to carry out what you have heard.’

Orléans leaped to his feet and, knowing that he had more than the support of those who nightly gathered in the Palais Royal behind him, assured the King that what he had said was illegal.

Louis, angry and weary with the continual conflict, lost his habitual calm for once and shouted: ‘You are banished, Monsieur d’Orléans. You will leave at once for your estates in Villers-Cotterets.’

That was a sign. The rift between the King and the Parlement was now an open one.

But if he had subdued the Parlement of Paris, this was not the case with the provincial parlements. They stood firmly beside the Paris Parlement; they refused to accept the edicts proposed by Brienne, and rioting broke out all over the country.

The demand for an Estates-General was renewed. This time a promise had to be given that it should be elected and called for the following year.

The people were calling for the return of Necker, and in this also the King had to give way.

Those were days which seemed to be oppressive with foreboding.

Antoinette had at last begun to understand the need for reform. Now that she took her place as a Privy Councillor she was beginning to see – even more clearly than did the King – what great danger the country was in.

She set about reforming her household, and when Madame Bertin presented herself she was sadly received.

‘I shall not be sending for you often,’ Antoinette told the dressmaker. ‘I have many dresses in my wardrobe. These will suffice for a while.’

‘But Your Majesty is joking,’ cried the dressmaker. ‘We have the honour of France to uphold. I have here a delicious velvet …’

‘No,’ said the Queen. ‘Go now, my dear Bertin. I will not discuss dresses now. If I should need your services I will send for you.’

Inwardly fuming with rage Madame Bertin left the Palace. She saw her lucrative business being snatched from her. ‘What is this new fad?’ she demanded when she returned to her workroom. ‘What is that empty-headed idiot up to now?’ Then she laughed. ‘She’ll be calling for me to-morrow. She’ll not be able to resist the new velvet.’

And when the Queen did not call for her, Madame Bertin’s rage was beyond her control. She spat out insults against the Queen, who had been so good to her; she chatted in les Holies with the market-women; and she vilified the Queen as loudly as any of them.

Antoinette then called the Duc de Polignac to her and told him that she must relieve him of his post as Director-General of her horses. For this she had paid him 50,000 livres a year and, as it had been necessary to fill her stables with horses in order to make the post something more than a sinecure, this had been a further expense. Polignac was deeply hurt. The Queen would ruin him, he declared. ‘It may be necessary for some of us to be ruined,’ Antoinette told him, ‘in order to save France.’

She summoned Vaudreuil and told him that he must give up his post of Grand Falconer, which was not exactly essential.

Vaudreuil was horrified.

‘I shall be bankrupt,’ he declared.

‘That may be,’ answered Antoinette sadly, ‘but it is better that you rather than your country should be so.’

This was outrageous, this was unthinkable. Was the Queen deserting her friends?

‘I hope that is something I shall never do,’ she told them. ‘But the times are dangerous. Have you not heard of these riots? Do you not know that an Estates-General is to be called? We must cut down expenses everywhere … everywhere.’

‘The Queen has gone mad,’ said Vaudreuil to his mistress Gabrielle.

It was not often that Antoinette appeared in public now. She always dreaded such appearances.

But there had come a request from the Opéra House, where a gala performance was to take place. How could there be a gala performance without the presence of the King and Queen?

‘I dread going,’ she told Louis. ‘It is always the same. It is I whom they hate. You they accept and excuse. You are the King and a Bourbon. They cannot forget that I am a Habsburg and a foreigner.’

‘We are expected to go,’ said Louis.

She knew it was a duty she could not evade.

She rode to the Opéra House with the King. There were some in the brilliant assembly there to cheer them; but the cheers were for the King, and Antoinette’s ears were alert for the whisper, which could grow to a shout, of ‘Madame Déficit’; she was trying to catch the hisses among the cheers.

And as she stepped into the royal box she saw what had been pinned there. It was a placard and on it had been scribbled in huge letters:

‘Tremble, Tyrants. Your reign is nearly over.’

A servant hastily removed it but all during that performance it seemed to dance before the Queen’s eyes, and wherever she looked, from the stage to the glittering audience, she saw those words, ‘Tremble, Tyrants’.

And she did tremble.

The terrible sense of foreboding stayed with her.

Soon the members of the Estates-General would be in Versailles; with this new foresight, which had come to Antoinette in her new mood of seriousness, she had begged Louis to hold the assembly in some provincial town, somewhere far distant from Paris, where storms were not so likely to blow up. But Louis was adamant. He was bewildered by what was happening, but he continued to look upon himself as the father of his people, and if he showed no sensitivity to the rising storms, neither did he show fear.

Certainly the Estates-General must come to Versailles and the Capital.

‘The Estates-General are elected members from all classes of society,’ she reminded him. ‘It is the first time men have been elected from the lower ranks of society to take a part in the country’s government. Louis, it is a complete turnabout. It will rob you of your power.’

‘It was necessary,’ said the King.

And she was afraid of the Estates-General.

But there was one matter which caused her greater sadness. The health of her eldest son was rapidly failing.

The little Dauphin was subject to sudden attacks of fever; one of his legs was shorter than the other, and his spine was twisted; he was unable to stand, for he suffered from that complaint which had affected so many Bourbons: rickets.

Each day his mother sat beside him and wondered whether it would be his last. Often she would remember how Louis loved their children, even as she did; how kind and gentle he always was to them. She said to Madame de Campan: ‘Do you remember how the King used to sit up with me night after night when Madame Royale was a baby and she was sick?’

Madame de Campan remembered.

‘The King is a good man,’ said Antoinette. She put out a hand suddenly to Madame de Campan. ‘I will go to my rest now,’ she said. ‘It is a big day to-morrow.’

The Princesse de Lamballe said: ‘You will wear your dress of violet, white and silver. It is a beautiful dress, one of the best Your Majesty ever had.’

Antoinette did not answer.

‘And your ostrich plume headdress is so becoming,’ went on the Princesse.

But still Antoinette was not listening. ‘Light my candles,’ she said. ‘I will go to bed now.’

They lighted four candles on her dressing-table and as they took off her elaborate headdress one of them went out. Madame de Campan relighted it, but almost at once the second candle went out.

‘What is wrong with the candles to-night?’ said the Queen.

‘There is a draught coming from somewhere,’ replied Madame de Campan.

‘Pray shut the windows. I do not like to see the candles going out like this. It frightens me.’

The windows were shut and the room seemed very quiet, and then the third candle went out.

The Queen turned suddenly to the Princesse and caught her in an embrace. ‘My misfortunes make me superstitious,’ she said. ‘I am afraid of something … something near me … something evil. I feel that the candles are warning me to-night. I believe that if the fourth candle goes out it will be an omen of overwhelming evil.’

‘You are distraught,’ said the Princesse. ‘It is the ordeal of to-morrow of which you think. But be assured, dearest, that it will soon be over and …’

The Princesse had stopped. The three women were all looking at the fourth candle which had gone out.

‘Maman,’ said the Dauphin, ‘how beautiful you are!’

She smiled and danced daintily before him in the violet, white and silver gown.

‘Kneel down,’ said the Dauphin, ‘that I may see your feathers.’

So she knelt, and he tried to put up a thin arm to touch them. She caught his arm and kissed it; then she held him pressed against her, that he might not see her tears.

‘Maman,’ he said, ‘I wish I were strong. I wish I could ride in the carriage beside you to-day. You look so pretty … all the people will love you.’

She shook her head and tried to smile.

‘But they will,’ he told her. ‘You are so pretty.’

She began to bargain then. Let him get well and I will not complain whatever they do to me. Let them vilify me; let them hiss me … shout at me … but let my baby be well and strong.

He said: ‘Maman, could I not see the procession?’

‘My darling, you are not strong enough.’

‘It will be wonderful,’ he said. ‘All the horses, and you and Papa in the state carriages; the horses with their plumes … the beautiful coaches and all the postilions in their gay uniforms. Will you ride with Papa?’

‘No, he will ride in the first coach with your uncles; I shall follow him in the second one.’

The boy’s lustreless eyes brightened a little.

‘I remember other ceremonies. The Cardinals in their red robes and Bishops in violet. Papa will be in cloth of gold, will he not? How I should love to see him! But you … you will be more beautiful than anybody. I wish I could be part of the procession.’

‘One day you shall.’

‘One day,’ he repeated. That was how she had consoled him in the past. ‘One day you will be strong enough.’ He always believed it, even as each day he grew weaker.

‘Maman, if I could but watch you … I should be so happy. Could I not … perhaps from the balcony?’

She kissed his forehead. ‘We will arrange something. You shall see us pass by.’

He smiled. ‘One day,’ he said, ‘I’ll be there, and I’ll ride in your carriage, Maman. I’d rather be in your carriage than anywhere else.’

‘One day,’ she said.

And she gave orders that he should be warmly wrapped up, and that a little bed should be put for him on the veranda over the royal stables. From there he could watch the procession pass by.

The carriages drove out from the château – the King in the first with his brothers; the Queen in the second; and following were the noblemen and women of royal blood.

They came to the church of Notre Dame where a short service was held; and from Notre Dame they walked in procession to the church of Saint Louis, where Mass was to be celebrated.

It was a brilliant sight with the banners flying and the clergy and other dignitaries of Versailles leading the processions. All carried wax candles – the members of the Tiers Etat in tricorn hats, black coats and white muslin cravats; the nobility followed, their garments of cloth of gold, and their plumed hats making a marked contrast with the soberly clad members of the Tiers Etat. Among the noblemen one stood out because of the plainness of his dress. The Duc d’Orléans had allied himself with the common people by refusing to wear the garments of his rank.

When he appeared there were loud cheers: ‘Vive le Duc d’Orléans!’ And that cry was louder and more insistent than that of ‘Vive le Roi!’

The Cardinals in their scarlet robes and the Bishops in their violet cassocks made a splash of colour. They preceded the Host carried under a canopy by four Princes; immediately behind this came Louis, dressed as the noblemen, his candle in his hand.

The Queen looked up, for she could see in the distance the stables and the little bed there; she smiled and she thought she saw a movement as though the little Dauphin had seen her and recognised her.

She was thinking of him, so that she did not realise how deadly was the silence as she passed through the crowd.

Then suddenly a group of women close to her shouted: ‘Vive le Duc d’Orléans!’

She understood their meaning. They were telling her they hated her in her beautiful garments which were such a contrast to those affected by the Duc d’Orléans.

Yet she could hear their shouting now: ‘Vive le Roi!’ It was only the Queen they hated.

She knew that those about her were watching her anxiously.

She held her head a little higher. She looked very majestic in her beautiful gown, the plumes of her headdress swaying gracefully as she walked – haughty and beautiful – the Queen who remembered only her royalty and cared nothing for the insults of the canaille.

Antoinette knelt by the bed of her son.

His fevered hands were in hers; his wish was that she should not leave his side.

‘Maman,’ he said, ‘do not be sad; one day, you know …’

Her lips said: ‘One day’; but she could not stop the tears falling from her eyes.

‘You cry for me, Maman,’ said the Dauphin. ‘Am I so very ill?’

She said: ‘Do not speak, my darling. Save your breath for getting well.’

He nodded. ‘I will get well, Maman.’

She lifted her eyes to the doctors. What could they do but shake their heads? It had been obvious for many months that the Dauphin would not live.

Louis was beside her, his hand on her shoulder.

Poor Louis! Dear Louis! He suffered even as she did.

The little boy was lying back on his pillows; his breathing was stertorous; desperately he was fighting for his life.

But he was going, little Louis Joseph.

Antoinette knelt by his bed and buried her face in her hands, because she could not bear to look at her son in his last moments.

The King brought her other children to her – Madame Royale who was just past her tenth and little Louis Charles who had had his fourth birthday.

‘Comfort your mother,’ said the King.

And Antoinette, opening her eyes, found great balm from those little ones.

Now the conflict had grown more wild. The nobility and the clergy banded together against the Third Estate; and the Third Estate was in conflict with the Estates-General.

The Third Estate began to call itself the National Assembly, with Jean Sylvain Bailly its President; they decided that they would draw up a Constitution which was to make understood by all how much power was in the King’s hands.

Necker urged the King to agree to certain reforms, and drafted a speech for the King to deliver. The King was persuaded to alter this, which infuriated Necker who realised fully how desperate the situation was. Louis wanted to make it clear that he understood he must give up a certain amount of authority, but he was determined to keep the privileged classes in control of the country’s affairs; and he could not agree that the Estates-General should have the power to alter the social life of the country. Privilege must be maintained; that was to be the theme of the King’s speech.

This was received with anger, and when the King dismissed the assembly, Mirabeau, the most dynamic member of the Tiers Etat, retorted that they had held their office by the power of the people and would not leave except at the point of the bayonet.

Bailly, the President, pointed out more diplomatically that the nation once assembled could be dismissed by none.

The King, alarmed, ordered that more troops be brought into Paris and Versailles. He now realised that the National Assembly which had sprung into being was his bitterest enemy. He determined to form a new government from which he would dismiss all with liberal ideas. He called in de Breteuil and dismissed Necker – the one man in whom the people had faith.

Necker, weary of the struggle and seeing disaster very near, took his leave of Versailles and went to his native Switzerland without delay.

The people watched the arrival of the troops with sullen eyes. The rumour spread that the King’s intention was to lodge the newly elected representatives of the common people in the Bastille.

Louis assured the assembly that he was merely taking precautions on account of certain signs of unrest in the Capital. Food was scarce owing to last year’s bad harvest; and at such times, as had been proved in the past, it was necessary to take these measures. He wanted no repetition of the Guerre des Farines.

He sensed, he said, that the Assembly was uneasy, so he would then arrange for its members to leave for the provinces.

Louis and the nobility congratulated themselves. They had countered the rebellious notions of the common people. There should be no new Constitution with a manacled monarchy. The old regime should continue.

It was the 12th of July – hot and sultry.

The National Assembly heard that Necker had been dismissed, and they knew then that all hope was lost. Necker was the only King’s man on whom they had pinned their hopes.

‘Necker gone.’

‘Necker dismissed.’

The news reached the fevered streets of Paris; and it was like the match applied to the fuse.

During those hot days of July Orléans, from the windows of his apartments at one end of the square which formed the Palais Royal, looked down on astonishing scenes; and looking was filled with gratification and ever-growing excitement. The Gardens of the Palais Royal were crowded day and night. Between the tables outside the cafés the prostitutes walked among the men who argued fiercely against the monarchy; agitators had stationed themselves under the trees to harangue the people. Throughout the evening and far into the night could be heard the shouts against religion, and most of all against the aristocrats. The wildest rumours were bred in the Palais Royal. And Orléans was King of this little world made up of merchants, beggars, vagabonds, prostitutes, certain aristocrats who believed that their safety lay with Orléans, and certain politicians who believed that the way to fame and fortune lay with him.

Many able men were with him. Choderlos de Laclos was a useful man. His novel, Liaisons Dangereuses, had aroused anger in many because of his descriptions of the depravity of society; he was a General who, when he left the army, had become secrétaire de commandements to Orléans. He could write a pamphlet which could rouse the masses to fury – a very useful man. There was Mirabeau, an aristocrat himself, become bankrupt through many years of dissolute living, but a man of immense powers, could he but use them; and now, having reached the mature age of forty, he desired to use them; he longed for power; and he saw in France’s present position a means of attaining it. There was Camille Desmoulins, a fiery journalist and protégé of Mirabeau. There was Danton, the paid agitator.

And there was Théroigne de Mericourt. Orléans was not sure that Théroigne was not as useful as any of the men. He had first met Théroigne when he was in England. She had been called Anne Terwagne in those days; she was a Belgian, and the Prince of Wales had mentioned her to Orléans. She had become one of Orléans’ mistresses and he had brought her to France with him, where she had quickly set up house and become one of the most sought-after courtesans of Paris society. She adopted the name of Comtesse de Campinados and found several rich protectors with whom she travelled in the utmost luxury throughout Europe.

But Théroigne was clever. She had heard rumours. She knew of the trouble which was brewing in France; and she knew that many looked to Orléans as the leader of it. If Orléans was to lead a new society in France, if he were to become King of France, which she knew had been a secret ambition of his, she wanted to be at hand to share his triumphs.

That was why Théroigne was in Paris; that was why she had established her salon in the rue de Bouloi where she gathered writers, politicians and disgruntled aristocrats, and served revolutionary ideas with her wine.

It was therefore pleasing for the Duc d’Orléans to sit in his apartments and watch the rising excitement.

Mirabeau had laid his plans. When the moment was ripe the people should rise against the King; they should appoint the Duc d’Orléans Lieutenant-General of the Kingdom. And from that, mused Orléans, it should be an easy step to the throne.

Then came the news that Necker was dismissed.

It was the sign, and Mirabeau was ready. It was true that when Necker had been in office he had sneered at the man, called him the Genevese sou-snatcher, the clock that was always slow; and he had indeed been preparing a speech to deliver to the Assembly in which he was going to demand his dismissal and accuse him of being concerned in the famine which was the result of the failure of the previous year’s harvest.

What did that matter? The King had dismissed Necker; the time was ripe, the mob were ready; the weather was hot, and so was the blood of the people. Necker would serve very well as an excuse.

Camille Desmoulins leaped onto a table outside one of the cafés in Palais Royal.

‘Citizens,’ he cried, ‘you know the nation has asked for Necker to be retained, and he has been driven away. Could you be more insolently defied? To arms, Citizens! To arms! I call you, my brothers, to liberty.’

The mob crowded about him; some carried sticks, some had pistols, some hatchets, some brooms – anything that would do for a weapon.

They seized Desmoulins and carried him high on their shoulders; they surged about the Palais Royal, crying ‘To arms! Citizens, throw off the shackles of slavery! Liberty, Citizens! We will fight for liberty.’

Desmoulins produced effigies. One was of Necker; the other of the Duc d’Orléans.

Through the streets of Paris the people marched carrying those effigies high, shouting ‘To arms, Citizens! Liberty!’

Disorder had burst on Paris. Gangs roamed the streets; the tradespeople barricaded their shops, for many of the brigands who were rioting and looting were strangers to Paris. They spoke with accents which did not belong to the Capital and its environs; they were wilder, lacking completely the grace of the Parisian which was evident even in the most humble. The Parisians were the most cultured people in France; and France had been the most cultured country in the world. They liked to sit outside the cafés and talk; they were less eager to act. They were idlers by nature, preferring the adventures of the mind to action. These coarse crude people certainly did not belong to Paris. It was becoming clear to many of the peace-loving citizens of the Capital that these hordes who roamed the streets shrieking of their ills and demanding liberty, were hirelings. This filled them with alarm.

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.’