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On the morrow, the ninth of July, ’90, we wereen routeat daybreak, drums beating in front of us, to assist in the celebration of the grand fête of the general federation.
Father Descharmes embraced me, with an expression of sorrow which wounded me to the heart.
“Perhaps you youngsters are in the right,” said he, “andwe old men are in the wrong. But what will you, my child. One cannot give up in two days the creed of sixty years.”
“I know not what may come of all this, but I hope that my eyes will be closed in death before it does come.”
“But uncle,” said I, “although it would be a great treat to me to go to Paris and see the fête, still, if you wish it, I will not go.”
“No, my boy, go; and heaven grant that I may live to see your return, and that we may meet again in this world.”
I embraced him as I wept, for I loved him dearly.
Had he not fed and clothed me and brought me up, and watched the infant become, under his roof a man?
“Bring my arm-chair to the door,” said he; “I do not wish to lose the last glimpse of the setting sun.”
I obeyed. Leaning on my shoulder he reached the door, and sitting down in the chair, took my hand, and kissed me, saying “Go!”
I departed, returning in time to see this good old servitor of royalty die. With kingcraft he suffered, and with its death he died.
When I lost sight of him, it seemed as if I had left him for ever, and I felt half inclined to return at once, never to leave him; but the temptation of seeing Paris was too much for me, and in another moment we were in sight of the houses of Islettes.
A surprise awaited me there.
The inhabitants, not wishing to be separated from their Curé, had put him into a little carriage drawn by a horse, and the good priest, his eyes overflowing with tears, was bidding farewell to Mademoiselle Marguerite, who wept on the steps in front of the door of the Presbytery.
In those days, a journey of forty leagues was no small matter, and the poor girl believed that the good Abbé Fortin had departed for ever.
We continued our route, the drums beating, and the carriage rolling ahead of us. Some of our party pressed on in front, to form an escort of honor for the worthy priest.
We found M. Drouet awaiting us at the head of the deputation, on the Place of St. Menehould.
Amongst the deputation, was an old soldier of the Seven Years War, who had served under Marshal Saxe, and whowas present at the battle of Fontenoy; and a sailor, who was in active service at the time of the birth of the Bailli de Suffren. Both, living ruins of an ancient regime, wished to witness the dawn of a new era.
M. Drouet had placed a carriage at their service, but they would not use it. It therefore proceeded empty in the midst of thecortêge, in the front rank of which the two veterans marched with heads erect—a benediction, as it were, bestowed by the dead era on the age which was just about to dawn.
All the high roads of France were filled with processions like ours, all hastening to one great focus—Paris.
Never since the Crusade had so great a number, of their own will, bent their steps in one direction.
All along the road, deputations came to greet the travellers.
They offered hospitality to the old men and priests. It was impossible to provide for all, so the main body bivouacked in the open air.
Great fires were lighted, at which every one prepared his simple meal. There was no lack of wine in a country which particularly cultivated grapes.
On the morrow, at daybreak, all started at beat of drum. When the noise of the drum ceased, all joined in the chorus of theÇa iraof ’90, which has nothing in common with the menacing and bloodthirstyÇa iraof ’93.
This song kept up the energies of those men on the march, who were toiling along under a hot July sun, to the end of the journey. It supported those laborers who were making the arena, so to speak, where great deeds were to be done.
We have said that it was with an unwilling heart that the Assembly decreed the federation—that it was with an unwilling heart that the city had sent its workmen to theChamp de Mars, to prepare for that great and solemn reunion. The time approached—the work did not proceed. What happened?
All Paris rose, and proceeded to theChamp de Marscarrying various implements of labor—one a pickaxe another a shovel, and so on.
And not only did the people—not only did thebourgeoisiedo this, but old men and children, lords and laborers, ladiesof rank and women of shame, actors and actresses, priests and soldiers,—all joined in the work, which did not even close when night fell like a shroud over the city of Paris.
The invalids, who could not work on account of their being maimed, held the torches, to lighten them at their labors.
Begun in the morning of the 9th of July, this stupendous work was completed in the night of the 13th, two hours before sunrise.
We arrived on the 12th, in the evening.
Paris was crowded; but, strange to say, the hotel keepers and letters of lodgings, instead of raising their prices, lowered them considerably. This spoke well for the disposition of Paris towards us.
Truly this was not the federation of France, but the fraternal greeting of the world.
A Prussian Baron—Jean Baptiste de Clootz, better known by the name of Anacharsis—presented himself before the National Assembly with twenty men of different nations—Russians, Poles, men of the north, men of the west, men of the east, and men of the south,—all habited in the costume of their country. He came to ask permission for them to appear at the federation of theChamp de Mars, as they wished to represent the federation of the world.
Later on, this same Anacharsis Clootz wished to give twelve thousand francs, to make war against royalty.
One may imagine my astonishment on finding myself in Paris, on the Boulevards, gazing at the ruins of the Bastille.
Drouet pointed it out to me, afterwards, the patriotic workmen on theChamp de Mars. I rushed to join them; and, seizing a spade, was speedily hard at work.
My fellow-workman appeared to be an artizan of about fifty years of age. He gave orders to a boy about my age, who was close at hand.
On seeing the ardor with which I worked, he asked me who I was, and whence I came.
I told him that my name was Réné Besson; that I came from the new department of the Meuse; and that I was apprenticed to a carpenter, by trade.
When he heard this, he held out his hand, a smile illuminating his austere visage.
“Take that, boy,” said he. “If you are an apprentice, I am a master; and here are two lads, about your age, who live with me, to learn their trade. If you have nothing better to do, come and sup with me to-night—you shall be made welcome.”
I shook hands with him, and accepted his kind offer. The French, at the dawn of the Revolution, were a nation of brothers.
As the clock struck five, we threw down our tools, gave ourselves a wash in the Seine; after which we crossed over to the other side of the river, and entered the Rue St. Honoré.
The master and I had walked side by side all the way, the two apprentices following behind.
He asked me some questions about our department, what political opinions we had, and whether I knew any one in Paris.
I answered all his questions with becoming modesty.
My companion stopped at the commencement of the Rue St. Honoré, on the left-hand side, opposite a church, which I discovered later on to be the Church of Assumption.
“We have arrived,” said he; “I will go first, to show you the way.”
He passed down a passage, at the extremity of which I perceived a light.
I involuntarily raised my head, and read on the façade of the house these three words:
“Duplay, Master Carpenter.”
I entered—the apprentices followed me.