The Sword of Honor; or, The Foundation of the French Republic. Эжен Сю
Abbot Morlet. "This antagonism which she has just mentioned will some day, perhaps, be our salvation; for I have no faith in the party of the court, composed in part, as it is, of young mad-caps."
"By heaven, Abbot," the whole company cried with one voice, "but you are impertinent!"
The Abbot shrugged his shoulders and continued impassively. "The revolution will plunge on in its course. First the royalty and the nobility will fall beneath the blows of the tribunes of the Third Estate. Then will fall the Church – but only to rerise more powerful than before, to rear again the scaffolds and relight the pyres of the Inquisition."
"You are talking nonsense, Abbot," again put in Barrel Mirabeau. "Your prophecies partake of desperation."
"Nobility and royalty will disappear in the tempest," pursued the Abbot, "but it remains with us to make that disappearance one of the phases of a rebirth that will establish theocracy more powerful than ever. The instant will be decisive, momentous. It may one day come about that the bourgeoisie will merge its cause with that of the populace; that it will establish education free, unified, common, and uncontrolled by the Church; that it will abolish private property, making common to each and all the tools of production. Should the bourgeoisie decide thus to emancipate the proletariat, Throne and Altar are done for forever. It is for us, then, to nurse the antagonism already existent between the two, to envenom their mutual mistrust and reproaches. We must inflame the fear of the bourgeoisie for the populace; we must kindle the mistrust of the laborers toward the bourgeois; we must prick the people on to excess; above all we must invoke to pillage and massacre that furious beast which is not the people, but which in times of revolution is confounded with it – it is the red specter which we must make use of to terrify the bourgeoisie and drive it to sunder its cause from that of the people. That is how we can countermine the revolution, and force the sovereigns of Europe to unite, to invade France, and to exterminate our enemies. Let us mingle, in disguise, with the people; let us provoke and irritate their appetite for blood. Let us and our agents strike the first blows – pillage – burn – mow off heads – those of our friends, too, for we must above all avert suspicion; make the blood pour, to rouse the beast and put it in appetite for sack and massacre!"
Even Barrel Mirabeau was taken aback at this diatribe. "God's death, Sir Abbot," he cried with horror, "do you take us for gallows-tenders?"
"To make of us mowers of heads!" cried the Count of Plouernel. "'Tis insanity!"
"What exquisite fastidiousness!" retorted Morlet.
"You must have clean lost your senses, Abbot," returned Plouernel. "To dare to propose such a role to us – to make hyenas out of us!"
"We sons of the Church," answered the Abbot, "shall then assume the role ourselves, if it is so repugnant to you, gentlemen of the nobility.8 You fear to soil your lace cuffs and silk stockings with mire and blood; we of the clergy, less dainty, and arrayed in coarser garb, are free from any such false delicacy. We shall roll up our cuffs to the elbow, and perform our duty. We shall save you, then, my worthy gentlemen, with or without your aid; that will be an account to be settled afterwards between us."
"The priest has been vomited forth from hell," thought Victoria, to herself. "He is a demon incarnate."
"We shall know how to save the monarchy, Sir Abbot," replied the Count of Plouernel to his friend Morlet, "even without the need of you folks of the Church; have no worry on that score. You forget that it was our sword which established the monarchy in Gaul and revived the Catholic Church, fourteen centuries ago, without the aid of the cassocks of that time."
"Fine words – but empty," answered the Abbot. "If you are indeed so determined to draw the sword, Monsieur Count, will you then please tell me why, this very day, you resigned into the hands of the King the command of your regiment? Your boast comes at a poor season."
"You well know why, Monsieur Abbot," the Count retorted. "My regiment grew uncontrollable. The evil, however, dates far back. The first symptoms of insubordination in the French Guards showed themselves two years ago. A sergeant named Maurice" – Victoria shuddered – "had the insolence to pass me without saluting; and after I took off his cap with a stroke of my cane, he had the audacity to raise his hand against his colonel. I handed the mutineer over to the scourges till he dropped dead. That is how I avenge my honor."
As Monsieur Plouernel thus told the story of Sergeant Maurice, Victoria was unable to control herself. Her features contracted, and she fixed on Plouernel a look of menace. Then a sudden flush overspread her features. None of this was lost upon the Abbot. "What is this mystery?" he pondered. "The Marchioness casts an implacable look at the Count, then she blushes – she who till now has been as pale as marble. What can there have been between this Italian Marchioness and this sergeant in the French Guards, now two years dead?"
At that moment the steward again entered the banquet hall and approached the Count of Plouernel.
"What news, Robert?" asked the latter.
"Terrible, my lord!"
"My Robert is not an optimist," explained Plouernel to the company. "In what does this terrible news consist?"
"The barriers of the Throne and St. Marcel are on fire. Everywhere the tocsin is clanging. The people of the districts are gathering in the churches."
"Behold the sway of our holy religion over the populace – they pray before the altars," cried the Cardinal briskly.
"Alas, my lord, it is not to pray, at all, that the rebels are swarming into the churches, but to listen to haranguers, and among others a comedian by the name of Collot D'Herbois, who preaches insurrection. They trample the sacred vessels under foot, spit on the host, and tear down the priestly ornaments."
"Profanation! Sacrilege!" exclaimed the Cardinal, suddenly modifying his ideas on the sway of his faith over the people.
"One of our men," continued the steward, "saw them putting up bills which the rabble read by the light of their torches. One of the placards read: 'For sale, because of death, the business of Grand Master of Ceremonies. Inquire of the widow Brezé.'"
"Ah, poor Baked one," sang out the Marquis, making a hideous pun on the unfortunate officer's name, "you are cooked! All they have to do now is to eat you!"
"On other placards were written in large letters, 'Names of the Traitors to the Nation: Louis Capet – Marie Antoinette – Provence – Artois – Conti – Bourbon – Polignac – Breteuil – Foulon' – and others."
"That is intended to point out these names to the fury of the populace!" gasped the Viscount of Mirabeau.
"The rumor runs through Paris that to-morrow the people will rise in arms and march on Versailles."
"So much the better," exclaimed the Viscount. "They will be cut to pieces, this rabble. Cannoniers – to your pieces – fire!"
"Go on, tell us what you know," said Plouernel to his steward Robert. "Is that all?"
"Alas no, my lord. This miserable populace in arms surrounds and threatens the City Hall. The old Board of Aldermen is dissolved, and is replaced by a new revolutionary committee, which has taken the power into its own hands."
"Are the names of this committee known?" asked the Count.
"Yes, my lord. From the City Hall windows they threw to the rioting people lists with the names. Here is one which our emissary got hold of: – 'President of the permanent committee, Monsieur Flesselles, ex-Provost of the merchants' – "
"Oh, well," laughed the Duke, "if the other members of the committee are revolutionists of that stamp, we can sleep in peace. Flesselles is in our employ."
"Finish reading your paper," ordered the Count.
"'The said committee, in session assembled, decrees: Article I – A city militia shall immediately be organized in each district, composed of licensed business men. Article II – The cockade of this militia shall be blue and red, the city colors.'"
"Is that all? Finish reporting," said Plouernel, seeing the steward pause.
"One of our spies, on entering the neighborhood of
For an exactly parallel line of conduct, see that of Abbot Le Roy, at the time of the invasion of Reveillon's paper factory in the St. Antoine suburb, as given in the admirable