History of the French Revolution from 1789 to 1814 | Page 2

was Barnave by his
eloquence, Hébert by his sensuality, Danton by his practical good sense.
Nothing availed to save from the all-devouring guillotine. Those who
did survive seem almost to have survived by chance, delivered by some
caprice of fortune or by the criminal levity of "les tricoteuses," vile
women who degraded the very dregs of their sex.
For such atrocities no apology need be attempted, but their cause may
be explained, the factors which produced such popular fury may be
understood. As he stands on the terrace of Versailles or wanders
through the vast apartments of the château, the traveller sees in
imagination the dramatic panorama of the long-dead past. The
courtyard is filled with half-demented women, clamouring that the
Father of his People should feed his starving children. The
Well-Beloved jests cynically as, amid torrents of rain, Pompadour is
borne to her grave. Maintenon, gloomily pious, urges with sinister
whispers the commission of a great crime, bidding the king save his
vice-laden soul. Montespan laughs happily in her brief days of triumph.
And dominating the scene is the imposing figure of the Grand
Monarque. Louis haunts his great creation; Louis in his prime, the
admired and feared of Europe, the incarnation of kingship; Louis
surrounded by his gay and brilliant court, all eager to echo his historic
boast, to sink in their master the last traces of their identity.
Then a veil falls. But some can lift it, to behold a far different, a far
more stirring vision, and to such the deeper causes of the Terror are
revealed. For they behold a vast multitude, stained with care, haggard,
forlorn, striving, dying, toiling even to their death, that the passing
whim of a tyrant may be gratified. Louis commanded; Versailles arose,
a palace of rare delight for princes and nobles, for wits and courtly
prelates, for grave philosophers and ladies frail as fair. A palace and a
hell, a grim monument to regal egoism, created to minister to the
inflated vanity of a despot, an eternal warning to mankind that the
abuse of absolute power is an accursed thing. Every flower, in those
wide gardens has been watered with the tears of stricken souls; every
stone in that vast pile of buildings was cemented with human blood.

None can estimate the toll of anguish exacted that Versailles might be;
none can tell all its cost, since for human suffering there is no price.
The weary toilers went to their doom, unnoticed, unhonoured, their
misery unregarded, their pain ignored, And the king rejoiced in his
glory, while his poets sang paeans in his praise.
But the day of reckoning came, and that day was the Terror. The heirs
of those who toiled made their account with the heirs of those who
played. The players died bravely, like the gallant gentlemen they were;
their courage is applauded, a world laments their fate. The misery, thus
avenged, is forgotten; all the long agony of centuries, all the sunless
hours, all the darkness of a land's despair. For that sadness was hidden;
it was but the exceeding bitter lot of the poor, devoid of that dramatic
interest which illumines one immortal hour of pain. Yet he who would
estimate aright the Terror, who would fully understand the Revolution,
must reflect not only upon the suffering of those who fell victims to an
outburst of insensate frenzy, but also upon the suffering by which that
frenzy was aroused. In a few months the French people took what
recompense they might for many decades of oppression. They exacted
retribution for the building of Versailles, of all the châteaux of
Touraine; for all the burdens laid upon them since that day when liberty
was enchained and France became the bond-slave of her monarchs.
Louis XVI. paid for the selfish glory of Louis XIV.; the nobles paid for
the pleasures which their forefathers had so carelessly enjoyed; the
privileged classes for the privileges which they had usurped and had so
grievously misused.
The payment fell heavily upon individuals; the innocent often suffered
for the guilty; a Liancourt died while a Polignac escaped. Many who
wished well to France, many who had laboured for her salvation,
perished; virtue received the just punishment of vice. But the
Revolution has another side; it was no mere nightmare of horrors piled
on horrors. It is part of the pathos of History that no good has been
unattended by evil, that by suffering alone is mankind redeemed, that
through the valley of shadow lies the path by which the race toils
slowly towards the fulfilment of its high destiny. And if the victims of
the guillotine could have foreseen the future, many might have died

gladly. For by their death they brought the new France to birth. The
Revolution rises superior to the