SCENES FROM THE (OLD) FRENCH REVOLUTION.
(From the "Quarterly" Review of Madame Junot's Memoirs.)
About the beginning of the revolution, a working-man, by name Thirion, had established himself in a little stall (in Paris,) where he carried on his business as a mender of carpets. He called one morning to ask M. Permon's (a Royalist [7] ) custom, but was civilly told that the family had long employed a tradesman of his class, and could not change for a stranger: the man took the refusal so insolently, that he was at last turned out of doors, vowing revenge. M. Permon, the ports being still open, makes a run over to London to place some money in our funds. Meantime "the Sections are organized," and Thirion becomes "Secretaire, Greffier, President, je ne scai quoi, de la notre." The morning after his return to Paris, M. Permon had just risen, when footsteps were heard loud on the staircase, and in burst Citizen Thirion, two other patriots of the Sectional Committee, and the carpetman's shopboy. (Madame Junot's Narrative commences here.)
"My father was shaving himself. Naturally quick tempered, his impatience was extreme when he recognised the individual, and he was imprudent enough to make a menacing gesture the moment they broke into his dressing-room. 'I am here to see the law enforced,' cries Thirion, on seeing my father advance with the razor in his hand. 'Well, what law is it that chooses so worthy an organ?'—'I am here to learn your age, your pursuits, and to interrogate you as to your journey to Coblentz.' My father, who had from the first word felt the most violent disposition to toss the man down stairs, shivered with rage; but, at last, he composed himself, wiped his chin, laid down his razor, and, crossing his arms, placed himself full in front of Thirion: then, measuring him from the utmost height of his tall and elegant person, he said, 'You wish to know my age?'—'Yes, such are my orders.'—Where is the order?' said my father, extending his hand. 'It is enough for you to know that I am sent hither by the committee of my section: my orders are sufficiently proved by my presence.'—Ah! you think so; I am of a different opinion. Your presence here is nothing but an insult, unless you have a judiciary order to justify it; show it me, and I shall forget the name of the man, to see only the public functionary.' Thirion raised his voice as my father lowered his—'What is your age?—What was the object of your going to Coblentz?'——My father seizes a large bamboo, and makes it whistle over Thirion's head—at that moment my mother rushes in, and succeeds in dragging him into another room, and restoring him to something like calmness. I remember she placed me in his arms, whispering to me to entreat him to think of me. Meantime, Thirion had drawn up his procès verbal, and withdrawn:—he left me weeping without knowing why I wept, but I saw that my mother and my sister were in tears too. My father sat pale, trembling with anger,—everything about us had a desolate aspect."
The family escape from Paris—and it was time. Violent alternations of fear, anger, sorrow, terror, and disgust, with frequent disguises, flights, and all sorts of changes of residence, at length wear out the health and spirits of M. Permon—a man, apparently, who united dull enough intellect with all the vivacity of a Frenchman's mere temperament; and he dies in obscurity long before anything like order is re-established. We need not dwell on the particular fortunes of a not very interesting set of people; but may quote one or two more specimens of the sort of scenes which fill the greater part of the first of these volumes. Our authoress and her sister are at one time separated from their parents, and placed in an obscure pension in the Faubourg (no longer St.) Antoine. Their brother, a very young man, has also remained in Paris, and frequently visits them in their retreat.
"We could not but observe, that for some days he had been very melancholy, and that he was getting more and more so. We asked the reason, and he told us at last that the section had denounced my father in a very alarming style. We fell a-crying, my sister and I. Albert consoled us as well as he could, but it was easy to see that the denunciation was not all—that some immediate danger fixed his fears. We knew afterwards, in effect, that a report had been spread of the arrest of my parents at Limoges—happily a false one. The horizon meanwhile was taking a bloody tint. Judge of my brother's anxiety! he came every day in a cabriolet, which my father had had built just before these late events; it was an elegant one, very lofty, of the kind called wiski. Already he had been all but insulted by the populace in driving through the faubourg; but liveries had not yet altogether disappeared, and nothing would persuade him to listen to our remonstrances, and make the domestic put off his. Thus it was on the 31st of August, when he came to see us as usual."
"There was about the boarding-house a man charged with all the rough work, by name Jaquemart, a fellow that could do everything—but the most atrocious of countenances. 'The sight of that man makes me sick,' said Albert; 'I am sure he will end in something tragic.'"
"One day, shortly after we went to the pension, Jaquemart was bringing in a load of wood, when my brother drove at the speed of his horse into the entrance. He saw the man had a burden that would hardly allow him to get out of the way in time—cried 'Gare!'—perceived that his efforts were in vain—and pulled back his horse so sharply as to run much risk of wounding the animal, and, indeed, of being thrown out himself, owing to the extraordinary elevation of the wiski. Jaquemart, however, escaped by this means with a scratch on his leg; his eyes were good, he saw what Albert had done to master his horse, and vowed gratitude."
"The 31st of August the man had nothing to do about the house, yet he kept lounging at the gate, or in the court, all day long. It was late ere Albert came—he had been waiting for him, and whispered, as he alighted, 'Stay here to-night to take care of your sisters—don't go home.' Albert looked at him with astonishment; he had, indeed, perceived symptoms of some commotion, but fancied, as most of Paris did, that it would be directed against the Temple. 'What is your meaning?' said he. 'I entreat you to stay here—you will be near your sisters; and if there be need for another hand, mine shall not be far off—very well!—we shall be there.' Albert pressed him with questions, but could extract nothing; and after giving the man some money, persisted; in returning home as usual."