The Fall Of The Bastille

"To the Bastille! to the Bastille!" was the cry. Paris surged with an

ungovernable mob. Month by month, week by week, day by day, since the

meeting of the States-General,--called into being chiefly to provide

money for the king and kept in being to provide government for the

people,--the revolutionary feeling had grown, alike among the delegates

and among the citizens. Now the population of Paris was aroused, the

unrul element of the city was in the streets, their wrath directed

against the prison-fortress, the bulwark of feudalism, the stronghold of

oppression, the infamous keeper of the dark secrets of the kings of

France. The people had always feared, always hated it, and now against

its sullen walls was directed the torrent of their wrath.



The surging throng besieged the Hotel de Ville, demanding arms. Gaining

no satisfaction there, they rushed to the Invalides, where they knew

that arms were stored. The governor wished to parley. "He asks for time

to make us lose ours!" cried a voice in the crowd. A rush was made, the

iron gates gave way, the cellar-doors were forced open, and in a short

time thirty thousand guns were distributed among the people.



Minute by minute the tumult increased. Messengers came with threatening

tidings. "The troops are marching to attack the Faubourgs; Paris is

about to be put to fire and sword; the cannon of the Bastille are about

to open fire upon us," were the startling cries. The people grew wild

with rage.



This scene was the first of those frightful outbreaks of mob violence

of which Paris was in the coming years to see so many. It was the 14th

of July, 1789. As yet no man dreamed of the horrors which the near

future was to bring forth. The Third Estate was at war with the king,

and fancied itself the power in France. But beneath it, unseen by it,

almost undreamed of by it, was rousing from sleep the wild beast of

popular fury and revenge. Centuries of oppression were about to be

repaid by years of a wild carnival of slaughter.



The Bastille was the visible emblem of that oppression. It was an armed

fortress threatening Paris. The cannon on its walls frowned defiance to

the people. Momentarily the wrath of the multitude grew stronger. The

electors of the Third Estate sent a message to Delaunay, governor of the

Bastille, asking him to withdraw the cannons, the sight of which

infuriated the people, and promising, if he would do this, to restrain

the mob.



The advice was wise; the governor was not. The messengers were long

absent; the electors grew uneasy; the tumult in the street increased. At

length the deputation returned, bringing word that the governor pledged

himself not to fire on the people, unless forced to do so in

self-defence. This message the electors communicated to the crowd

around the Hotel de Ville, hoping that it would satisfy them. Their

words were interrupted by a startling sound, the roar of a cannon,--even

while they were reporting the governor's evasive message the cannon of

the Bastille were roaring defiance to the people of Paris! An attack had

been made by the people on the fortress and this was the governor's

response.



That shot was fatal to Delaunay. The citizens heard it with rage.

"Treason!" was the cry. "To the Bastille! to the Bastille!" again rose

the shout. Surging onward in an irresistible mass, the furious crowd

poured through the streets, and soon surrounded the towering walls of

the detested prison-fortress. A few bold men had already cut the chains

of the first drawbridge, and let it fall. Across it rushed the multitude

to attack the second bridge.



The fortress was feebly garrisoned, having but thirty Swiss soldiers and

eighty invalids for its defence. But its walls were massive; it was well

provided; it had resisted many attacks in the past; this disorderly and

badly-armed mass seemed likely to beat in vain against those century-old

bulwarks and towers. Yet there come times in which indignation grows

strong, even with bare hands, oppression waxes weak behind its walls of

might, and this was one of those times.



A chance shot was fired from the crowd; the soldiers answered with a

volley; several men were wounded; other shots came from the people; the

governor gave orders to fire the cannon; the struggle had begun.



It proved a short one. Companies of the National Guard were brought up

to restrain the mob,--the soldiers broke from their ranks and joined it.

Two of their sub-officers, Elie and Hullin by name, put themselves at

the head of the furious crowd and led the people to the assault on the

fortress. The fire of the garrison swept through their dense ranks; many

of them fell; one hundred and fifty were killed or wounded; but now

several pieces of cannon were dragged up by hand and their threatening

muzzles turned against the gates.



The assault was progressing; Delaunay waited for succor which did not

arrive; the small garrison could not withstand that mighty mob; in the

excitement of the moment the governor attempted to blow up the powder

magazine, and would have done so had not one of his attendants held his

arms by force.



And now deputations arrived from the electors, two of them in

succession, demanding that the fortress should be given up to the

citizen guard. Delaunay proposed to capitulate, saying that he would

yield if he and his men were allowed to march out with arms and honor.

The proposition was received with shouts of sarcastic laughter.



"Life and safety are all we can promise you," answered Elie. "This I

engage on the word of an officer."



Delaunay at this ordered the second drawbridge to be lowered and the

gates to be opened. In poured the mass, precipitating themselves in fury

upon that hated fortress, rushing madly through all its halls and

passages, breaking its cell-doors with hammer blows, releasing captives

some of whom had been held there in hopeless misery for half a lifetime,

unearthing secrets which added to their revengeful rage.



Elie and Hullin had promised the governor his life. They miscalculated

their power over their savage followers. Before they had gone far they

were fighting hand to hand with the multitude for the safety of their

prisoner. At the Place de Greve, Hullin seized the governor in his

strong arms and covered his bare head with a hat, with the hope of

concealing his features from the people. In a moment more he was hurled

down and trodden under foot, and on struggling to his feet saw the head

of Delaunay carried on a pike. The major and lieutenant were similarly

massacred. Flesselles, the mayor of Paris, shared their fate. The other

prisoners were saved by the soldiers, who surrounded and protected them

from the fury of the mob.



The fall of the Bastille was celebrated by two processions that moved

through the streets; one blood-stained and horrible, carrying the heads

of the victims on pikes; the other triumphant and pathetic, bearing on

their shoulders the prisoners released from its cells. Of these, two had

been incarcerated so long that they were imbecile, and no one could

tell whence they came. On the pathway of this procession flowers and

ribbons were scattered. The spectators looked on with silent horror at

the other.



Meanwhile, the king was at Versailles, in ignorance of what was taking

place at Paris. The courts were full of soldiers, drinking and singing;

wine had been distributed among them; there were courtiers and court

intrigues still; the lowering cloud of ruin had yet scarcely cast a

shadow on the palace. Louis XVI. went to bed and to sleep, in blissful

ignorance of what had taken place. The Duke of Lioncourt entered and had

him awakened, and informed him of the momentous event.



"But that is a revolt!" exclaimed the king, with startled face, sitting

up on his couch.



"No, sire," replied the duke; "it is a revolution!"



That was the true word. It was a revolution. With the taking of the

Bastille the Revolution of France was fairly inaugurated. As for that

detested fortress, its demolition began on the next day, amid the

thunder of cannon and the singing of the Te Deum. It had dominated

Paris, and served as a state-prison for four hundred years. Its site was

henceforward to be kept as a monument to liberty.