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.’


Chapter XI

THE OCTOBER DAYS