THE FRENCH REVOLUTION

If Louis XV, successor of Louis XIV, had been a strong, upright man, a vast amount of trouble might have been prevented. But with a helpless little child for king, and powerful, vicious men for regent and prime minister, poor France had a hard time.

As the years passed, matters grew worse and worse, abroad as well as at home. In the “Seven Years’ War,” Quebec was captured by the English general Wolfe, and thus France lost Canada. The French power in the East was destroyed, and India fell into the hands of the English. The French Government became so weak and uncertain that the citizens despised it. They hoped that when the king should die, a change of rulers would better things; but he lived on year after year, nearly sixty years of misery for his people.

France in the eighteenth century was not a good country to live in. Taxes were terribly high, and there were three which the peasants found almost unendurable. One of these was the heavy tax on salt, especially unfair because each family was forced to buy of the Government a certain quantity, whether it was needed or not. One required them to labor on the roads and other public works whenever they were called upon, even though their crops might be spoiling in the fields. A third tax was levied according to the amount that a man’s land produced. If a peasant adopted wise means of agriculture and raised good crops, his taxes increased. If two men, one industrious and one lazy, had the same kind of land, the man who worked hard and raised a large crop had to pay higher taxes than the lazy man.

This was bad enough, but it would not have been quite so hard to bear if all the people had been treated alike. On the contrary, the nobles paid hardly any taxes, neither did the bishops and archbishops nor the wealthy monasteries. The peasants and the country clergy, who were in general poor and needy, were almost the only ones to be taxed. The nobles despised the peasants, and the peasants hated the nobles. Meanwhile, a group of writers had much to say about freedom and justice and the rights of men, and tried to make the French understand how wrong and unfair all this was. People began to think.

When Louis XVI, grandson of Louis XV, came to the throne, he was only twenty years old. He had never expected to become king and, like other young nobles, he had spent most of his time amusing himself. His amusements were innocent enough, for he read substantial books; he liked geography and mathematics, and he especially enjoyed outdoor exercises and making locks and keys at a forge which he had set up in the palace. He had married when he was sixteen a young Austrian princess, Marie Antoinette. She was bright and pretty and charming, and if she had tried, she could have made every one love her. Instead of this, she thought of nothing but amusing herself. The manners of the ladies of the court were much more formal than she had been used to in her Austrian home, and their dress struck her as comical and old-fashioned. When they appeared before her, she made fun of them almost to their faces. Their banquets were stiff and lengthy, and she would not be bored by attending them. She liked to go on merry little picnics with people who were amused by her witty speeches. She built a country house called Petit Trianon, and there she used to make butter like a farmer’s wife and, dressed as a shepherdess, to drive a flock of well-washed sheep with blue ribbons around their necks. Her husband sometimes played the game with her, and, pretending to be a miller, ground grain into flour for her to use in her cooking.

This was harmless, to be sure, but the king and queen of France had important duties to the nation, and these they were neglecting for amusement. Then, too, many of Marie Antoinette’s entertainments cost a great deal of money, so much that it was sometimes difficult for the minister of finance to pay the bills. Her mother, the Empress of Austria, wrote her anxious, motherly letters, warning her that trouble would surely result; but the young queen went on in her own willful way.

Louis was upright and kind-hearted and desirous of doing all that he could for his people, but he was weak, and thought one thing one day and quite the opposite another day. Moreover, he was very fond of his wife, and she had little trouble in leading him wherever she wished.

Before long there were stories that the queen was using the money of the state for her extravagant entertainments. The French hated Austria, and they began to speak of the young queen as “the Austrian.” Some even whispered that she was sending good French money to Austria. Mobs in the streets began to sing,

“My little queen, not twenty-one, Maltreat the folk as you’ve begun, And o’er the border you shall run.”

Whatever might be the cause, the fact was certain that thousands of people in France were hungry, and even the royal treasury was empty. Louis had made a wise financier named Turgot minister of finance. He planned to reduce expenses and to tax all at the same rate. Then there was an outcry. The queen was indignant at the idea of reducing her expenditures; the nobles were angry at the thought of having to pay taxes; and even the peasants were annoyed at the changes which Turgot suggested, lest these should result in even worse than had yet come to them.

After a while the king gave up supporting Turgot, and a Swiss named Necker took his place. This was in the time of the American Revolution; and the money with which France helped the American colonies was another strain upon her resources. Necker was dismissed, and matters went from bad to worse. With an empty treasury and a hungry people, the queen and court were amusing themselves as usual. Louis was unhappy, but helpless.

Another minister of finance was tried, one De Calonne. His plan was to raise money by borrowing--but he made no provision to pay even the interest on this borrowed money. Necker was recalled, and he advised the king to call a meeting of the States-General; that is, representatives of the nobles, the clergy, and the “Third Estate,” or commoners. The demand rang from one end of the land to the other, and the meeting was called. It was a brilliant assembly, for king and court came in their plumed hats and satin and velvet clothes embroidered with gold and jewels. The clergy wore flowing mantles, the archbishops in purple velvet, the others in colors varying according to their degrees. The Third Estate were ordered to wear short black cloaks and white cravats, and of course looked far inferior to the others in all their gorgeousness.

The Third Estate were not in brilliant attire, but they had done some thinking, especially on the question of how the voting should be done. There were more of the commons than of the nobles and higher clergy together; but it had been expected that each order would vote separately. In this case, the one vote of the Third Estate could do nothing against the two votes of the other divisions. The Third Estate, however, demanded that all should vote together. This would give them a majority, and naturally the nobles and higher clergy refused. The Third Estate thereupon named themselves and those of the other two orders who had joined them the National Assembly, took an oath not to dissolve till they had given France a constitution, and proceeded to business. At first Louis opposed, then he yielded; then, on his wife’s advice, he called out some Swiss and German troops to protect him and keep order in Paris.

There was certainly need of some power to keep order. The mob seized bread, wine, and arms wherever they could be found. They put on cockades of red, white, and blue as badges, and for three days they raged up and down the streets of Paris. A report was spread, “The king is going to break up the National Assembly and turn the guns of the Bastille upon the city if there is any resistance.” And at this all Paris went wild.

The Bastille had been built for a fortress, but from the time of Richelieu it had been used as a prison, and here men who had offended the king or some powerful noble had often been kept for years with no trial and sometimes with no charge brought against them. Whenever the French people looked at its massive walls, they thought of tyranny and injustice, and now they declared that they would have no more of it. They rushed roaring and howling through the streets, and after a five-hours’ siege the Bastille was in their hands. The governor and his officers were murdered and their heads placed on pikes and carried about the city with wild shouts of rejoicing.

But where were the king and queen and nobles? They were in beautiful Versailles, dancing and feasting and enjoying themselves. They knew that there was trouble in Paris, but they had no idea that it would affect them. After the king had gone to bed, a noble went to his room. “Sire,” he said, “the Paris mob have taken the Bastille.” “Why, that is a revolt!” said the king in bewilderment. “No, sire,” declared the noble gravely, “it is a revolution.”

Only a few weeks passed before the frenzy broke out again. Some new guards were sent to Versailles, and the old guards welcomed them with a banquet. When the king and queen entered the room, the soldiers cheered, tore off their red, white, and blue cockades and put on the white ones that were the royal emblem. It was not long before the story of this banquet reached Paris, and thousands of women caught up knives, brooms, pikes, sticks--whatever they could find--and rushed off to Versailles. “Take us to the king!” they cried. “Give us bread, bread!” Louis promised to send bread to them in Paris, but that was not enough; he must go with them, they declared. The National Guard, with the Marquis de Lafayette at its head, arrived and did its best to protect the royal family; but the mob was wild with excitement and hunger. Both Louis and the queen stepped out boldly on a balcony. “I am ready to die,” said Marie Antoinette fearlessly. Lafayette knelt before her and kissed her hand. Even the rough crowd were touched, and she was saved.

But the mob were shouting, “The king to Paris!” and Louis could not refuse. It was a strange procession--the king, queen, their two children, and the king’s sister in a carriage, followed by a hundred deputies. Behind them swarmed thousands of the worst rabble in Paris, shouting, howling, screaming out coarse songs. A drizzling rain was falling. So it was that Louis and his queen were taken to the Tuileries. This palace had not been occupied for a long time. It was forlorn and gloomy, but here the royal family spent a year. The king hunted--though always in charge of some of the National Guards. The queen and Madame Elizabeth, the king’s sister, sewed and taught the children and cared for them, the little six-year-old dauphin and his older sister Maria Theresa; and so the time passed slowly away in anxiety and dread of what might come.

The National Assembly had now prepared a constitution according to which the country should be governed. Lafayette, representing the National Guards, took the oath to observe it. He was followed by the National Assembly, and many other bodies of men; last of all by King Louis himself.

There was a great celebration, and all looked promising; but, nevertheless, the royal finances were in as bad a condition as ever, and there was no one who had the power and authority to make the people keep order. A strong king would have enforced the laws, and thus made his own position stronger and strengthened his country; but Louis was not a strong king. Mirabeau, who was the real head of the National Assembly, could have advised and helped him, but Marie Antoinette did not trust Mirabeau. Then, too, she had not yet given up the hope that by help of the other nations the old times might after a while be brought back again.

Mirabeau had shown himself sensible and reasonable. By his eloquence he had generally been able to bring the other members of the Assembly around to his own way of thinking, and thus had prevented much violence. As long as he lived, the king was safe; but he died the year after the acceptance of the Constitution, and now Louis felt that his life was in danger. Three members of the National Assembly, Robespierre, Danton, and Marat, were now in power. They belonged to what was called the Jacobin Club, because it met in an unused monastery dedicated to Saint James. There were many clubs in those times, and the Jacobin was the fiercest and most bitter of them all.

The king had good reason to fear, and he made up his mind to flee--or Marie Antoinette made it up for him. Many nobles who had before this fled from France had appealed to other kings to come to the aid of their sovereign. The interest of these rulers needed no arousing, for they had been anxiously watching the acts of the revolutionists lest trouble of the same sort should arise in their own domains. A general faithful to Louis was near the frontier with some troops. If Louis could come to him, a foreign army would be at hand to help him regain the power that had slipped from his hands.

Unluckily, the heads of the royal family knew about as much of the proper way to manage their flight as did the little dauphin. Every hour counted, but they made their preparations as leisurely as if they were going on a pleasure trip. Then, instead of trying to slip away from Paris in an ordinary carriage, they rode off in a large new coach of gorgeous yellow, with attendants in yellow livery and troops posted along the road. The harness broke more than once; the roads were muddy; the relay horses were not found where they were expected; and the fugitives spent twenty-two hours in going sixty-nine miles. Of course every one gazed at the big yellow coach; and before long they gazed straight into the face of the king, for he was so foolish as to show himself at the window. The result was that a very sober royal family were carried back to the Tuileries, and guards were placed about them, even in their bedrooms.

No one knew when foreign troops might invade France, and volunteers rushed to Paris. One company came from Marseilles, and as they marched into the city, they sang a thrilling song which, because of the place from which they came, was called the “Marseillaise.” Its chorus is,

“To arms, to arms, ye brave! The avenging sword unsheath! March on, march on, all hearts resolved On liberty or death!”

The Jacobins determined to attack the Tuileries, and the royal family fled to the Assembly for protection. The mad rabble fell upon the beautiful palace. They destroyed everything that could be destroyed, and killed every living creature within its walls. The king and his family were carried to prison, and every one who was believed to sympathize with them had the same fate. Danton was the leader of the furious mob. “When we go forth to defend our country,” he declared, “the Royalists within the prison walls will break out, and neither mother, wife, sister, nor child will be safe from their revenge. Our only safety is to destroy them now.” Then began a terrible massacre of the Royalists, not only in Paris, but all over France. Swords and pikes and guns did not do the work fast enough, and an instrument, known as the “guillotine” was used for beheading people.

King Louis was summoned before what was called the National Convention. He was quiet and self-controlled, and he answered all questions with good sense and dignity. He was accused of treason, of misgovernment, and of plotting against France with the enemies of the French people. Many of the members of the Convention would have defended him if they had dared; but Danton and the other Jacobins triumphed, and it was voted that within twenty-four hours he should die. The one favor granted him was to say good-bye to his family, from whom he had been separated for some time. A few hours later, he was taken to the guillotine. “Frenchmen,” he said, “I die innocent. I pardon my enemies. I desire that France--” but the order was given to beat the drums. “Son of Saint Louis, ascend to heaven,” said the priest who had heard his last confession, and the heavy knife of the guillotine fell.

During reign after reign the people had suffered because of the crimes and the mistakes of their rulers. This suffering had come to a climax in Louis’s day, and it would have needed a far wiser man than he to rescue the land from the horrors of the Revolution which was upon it. Louis was kind and brave and meant to do his best, but he had not the wisdom to save his country or himself.

Among those who voted for the king’s death were many who would, as has been said, gladly have done otherwise. These and others who were not so savage as the Jacobins were known as “Girondists,” because the chief ones among them came from the Department of the Gironde. But the Jacobins were the stronger. They threw into prison all whom they suspected of disagreeing with them. When the prisons were full, the prisoners were turned out, hundreds at a time, old and young, rich and poor, innocent and guilty, and were guillotined. Even the guillotine did not work fast enough for the slaughter, and crowds of prisoners were made to stand between two great ditches. Cannon were fired at them, and as they fell into the ditches, earth was shoveled over their bodies, many still alive. It is said that fifteen thousand of the inhabitants of a single city which ventured to resist the rule of the Jacobins were put to death in these ways and in others still more terrible.

The Revolutionists abolished the Christian religion, and declared themselves worshipers of the Goddess of Reason. To show that the past was entirely gone by, they gave up Sunday and declared every tenth day a time of rest. The names of days and months were changed. The tombs of the kings in Saint Denis were broken open and the bodies thrown into quicklime. That of Henry IV, who had been so loved by his people, was set upright to serve as a target for all who wished to stone it. People were wild with a frantic rage for blood and destruction. Women used to go early to the places of execution in order to get good seats for watching the guillotine do its dreadful work. They carried their knitting with them, and marked off in their stitches the number of the slain. Such was the “Reign of Terror.”

Marie Antoinette, her golden hair turned to gray by the horrors through which she had passed, was kept in prison. She was quiet and dignified and patient. She taught her children and did needlework, and so the dreadful days passed. Only a few months after the king’s death, her children were taken from her. The dauphin, who had been so loved and so tenderly cared for, was given over to a cruel, brutal man. Then the queen was shut into a dark cell, her work taken away; and there she sat, waiting for the end. It came before many months had passed. She was condemned to die, and in a rough cart she was carried with fast-bound hands to the guillotine. She walked calmly and firmly up the steps of the scaffold. “Farewell, my children,” she said. “I am going to your father.” The axe fell. “Long live the Republic!” shouted the crowd. The mad revolutionists of France had murdered their king and their queen. The little dauphin died from abuse and neglect. His sister lived, but her life was always saddened by the memory of those fearful days of suffering and terror.

The three men who had been leaders in these awful scenes met the fate that they deserved. A young girl named Charlotte Corday was convinced that if Marat was only dead, the horrors would cease. She pretended that she had important news for him, and he consented to see her. In a moment her dagger had done its work. But Robespierre, the most blood-thirsty of the three, still lived. In jealousy he had had Danton put to death, and now he stood alone. But the time came when his friends as well as his foes feared for their lives, and without regard to party they united, and Robespierre himself died by the guillotine.

The worst of the mad fury had come to an end, but there were different parties even in the National Convention, and whatever party was in power for the moment seized the opportunity to behead all opponents. At length, however, the country became more quiet. Many thousands still in prison were set free; and the members of the Convention went to work to make a republican constitution, for they had decided that France was henceforth to be a republic.