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Seis crónicas inéditas de Carlos Ripoll |
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V ) REPUBLICAN FRANCE'S NATIONAL HOLIDAY Today Paris is in full festival. Cannons are booming, flags are fluttering, all the public places are crowded, and the air is vibrating with the strains of the "Marseillaise." Not for years has Paris been so gay. At the Southern Railroad Terminus and at the Saint Lazare long trains of cars arriving from moment to moment (bring great throngs of people) into the city. The excited people feel in sympathy with all the joy and all the distrust of 1789. With angry eyes they gaze at the fine houses of the Bonapartists, draped in mourning for the young prince lying quiet enough now, poor fellow, in his lonely grave in Zululand. They are not yet wholly sure of their victory. In this festival they celebrate the first hour of conscious power, the first cry of conscious strength, of a nation not yet quite mistress of herself. To-day, in a moment of apparent repose, Paris chants a war song. The men of the provinces respond to the call. France takes this method of telling the world that she intends to remain a republic. To-day the would-be kings or emperors are either exiles or citizens, but the people, still distrustful of them, renew their oath that they will never again allow themselves to be led astray by the lights of feudalism and imperialism, that like will-o'-wisps can even yet be discerned in the darkness. On this 14th of July an altar, to be surmounted by a statue dedicated to Free France, stands in the Place du Chateau d'Eau. At night electricity will illuminate the city. The day itself is full of a spiritual electricity. The old passions of the French revolution are still young and fresh. The Hotel de Ville, that made itself felt on the 13th of July, 1789, is replaced by the present Hotel de Ville, whose members, restless and noisy, pose, somewhat drolly, in the roles of Desmoulins, Marat, and Danton, to the great disquietude of the magnificent Gambetta, a man opulent of flesh and voice, of energy and of thought. One fact - plain, palpable, full of the germs of civil storms - it is to be noted. To-day, unless the Administration opposes it, two slabs will be placed over two graves - the graves of Desmoulins and Danton. Will Marat's turn come next? It is more than probable that the present authorities of France will not view with favor even the paying of honors to Desmoulins. The Municipal Council, in its session of June 23, requested the Administration to sanction this tribute of respect to the two revolutionists; and Citizen Jules Roche has written inscriptions for the slabs to be placed over the ashes of the fond lover of Lucie and the proud debauchee, colossal even in his vices. Here is one of these inscriptions:
The other reads:
This festival is a strophe in the epic of the French Revolution: a revolution, as Henri Taine affirms, neither chronicled nor finished. That revolution, indeed, founded a nation: but the conquest of centuries of monarchism and feudalism was a far more difficult task; it has not yet been achieved. In Paris the Gaulois, the Figaro, the Univers, and L'Ordre still champion the old order of things. They manufacture sentiment to take the place of reason. Republican journals, violent but honest, hold a solemn and earnest language. In the monarchical sheets we find a reflex of the petty passions of kings and in the republican journals of the fruitful passions of men. The Paris newspapers will be interesting to-day. The grand scenes of the Revolution will once more be recalled. Again we shall hear the accents of the States General. Mirabeau will again be likened to the thunder, and Desmoulins to the lightning. The vacillating King, the unfortunate Queen, the wise Bailly, the Hotel de Ville, where the thunderbolt was forged that destroyed the Bastille - all these will be remembered. The heroes of the Three Days will again stride forth. The people rose goodnaturedly, as the people always do. The lips which asked only for their rights kissed the hand of the Prince. The Austrian court, struck with terror, worried Louis XVI. to the verge of madness. The King, naturally honest, was so weak that he ceased to be honest. The States General were convoked. The people were dying of hunger - the hunger for bread, the hunger for liberty. On the 4th of May, 1789, the clergy, with all their gravity, the nobility, splendidly dressed like lackeys in their liveries, followed the King to Paris. On the 5th of May, at the opening of the States General, the third estate, placed in the end of the hall, gnawed at their disgrace, while the clergy smiled, and the nobility, with their hands on their swords, surrounded the King. The next day the passions that had been awakened began to hiss like serpents. The nobility would not join with the third estate in the deliberations. The latter formed the National Assembly, ignoring the orders. The King ordered the adjournment of the session. On the 20th of June the Deputies resolved not to adjourn until the Constitution should be placed upon a solid foundation. Bailly, superb, tranquil, took the oath. Hats waved in the air; vivats resounded like a tempest through the palace. The French guards having declared for the people, some of their number were locked up in l'Abbaye. The people assembled at the Palais Royal, destined afterward to see terrible days: they rushed forth crying, "a l'Abbaye!" The doors were broken down, the soldiers released and carried off in triumph. The King dismissed Necker, who was the last hope of the famishing people. The Government was handed over to the most arrogant of the nobles. The houses emptied themselves. The people stood in throngs, their faces pale, their fists clenched. The Prince Lambese, at the head of the Royal Regiment, massacred without pity, trampled under the heels of his horse, this unarmed populace. Then came the uprising. Paris rushed to arms. The workmen, with their old Gallic caps and now famous pikes, filled the streets. They had 12,000 guns and 50,000 pikes. The Deputies were known to be menaced, the King was about to fly; the Assembly itself was in danger of being handed over to the tender mercies of the foreign regiments. The Queen, whose brave death has obscured the faults of her life, promenaded in the garden distributing refreshments, and smiling upon those who were about to kill the people, encouraging them with her caressing words and flattering their delighted officers. The people were already rushing forward like burning lava, constantly reenforced from the entrails of the burning volcano. The sound of firing had been heard on the night of the 13th near the Bastille. It was a great morning, that morning of July 14, the dawn of a new age. The sun found the populace surrounding the sombre feudal prison, uttering wild cries and threatening it with their fists. Thirty-two Swiss soldiers and eighty-two Invalides garrisoned it. They promised not to fire upon the people. The multitude dispersed, only to return half an hour later. Pikes flashed in the sunlight and the shouts became deafening. The chains of the bridge and the door were broken down. The storm entered the abyss. The crowd, wild with enthusiasm, poured into the long corridors, feeling the humid walls and exploring the places where men had been put to death - buried alive. The Guards arrived on the scene with artillery. Delaunay surrendered, the Swiss fled, the Guard protected the Invalides. The head of Delaunay fell to the ground; his daughter barely escaped with her life. The keys of the Bastile were displayed on the point of a pike. The people, so many times bathed in their own blood, had at last learned the way to kill. One year after its capture, on the site of the old Bastille, was displayed a notice: "Dancing here!" And they danced gayly in that year of 1790. Ninety years have rolled by, and the people dance there still, and the people will dance there always. Whatever may befall, the Bastille will never be rebuilt. The Sun, July 14, 1880 |
