The French Revolution

Lynn 8-4

THE FRENCH REVOLUTION

To be Right 1789, June 20 The Journal of Abel Bringer (Sans-Culottes) I longed, these days, for someone to tell me that I was wrong.

Tell me what was wrong.

Maybe it was the way my sister weaved lace with a tiredness in her body, (she never slept, and there was a reason) or the way my mother used to spend her whole day staring blankly out our miniscule window (she wasn’t here anymore, but even if she was present, she never really was here) or even the flagrant comments the drunkards spat in the tavern downstairs about the King.

Yet now, here, with blood roaring in my ears as well as the surrounding hubbub of shrieking shouts, I longed to be right.

Winds swept into the bright court, leaning against a crowded balcony, I watched as hats cascaded down from the air below---and a man, standing upon a podium, declared that “WE DESERVED A CONSTITUTION”.

I could no longer hide my excitement and joined in the frenzy--LIBERTYEQUALBREADLANDFULLREVOLUTIONREVOLUTION---words pulsed, rushed in my head.

These were all the things I, no, we wanted.

To wash away these laws, the nobles and the wretched King and Queen, to have equal

rights and liberty, and to never worry about going hungry.

In 1788, there was a severe drought that brought famine upon our small town of

Versailles. Ernestine, my sister, weaved and threaded her lace from dawn to dusk, sniveling to the work table every chance the light came through, and cried back to sleep when she no longer could see. We (not sure about Mother) knew that she worked so hard with little complaint was because of how much we needed her. She struggled for every coin, to feed the family.

I tried to help, but I was a boy and wasted thread even if I tried to learn. Mother cried

every time she heard Ernestine arguing with one of the nobles who never paid for the lace, and sobbed harder when Ernestine returned empty-handed. There was nothing we could do. The nobles were above us in any way.

More than half of our earnings were taxed while the nobles seemed to saunter around

without having to burden with paying anything other than luxuries for themselves.

Selfish ingrates.

One of my main jobs everyday was to haggle prices with the baker downstairs ever

since bread prices had rose more than half of before. Typically, we couldn’t afford the bread and resorted to buying cheaper, moldier ones, and even that was a rarity, since we weren’t the only one starving.

Ever since father left to fight for the Americans, he never came back. Gone. We never

saw him again.

After his disappearance, we lost another lace-maker in the family; Mother grew dumb,

voiceless. She fiddled with a piece of thread all day long, until it broke too, then resorted to rocking herself back and forth beside the window, listening to the intermittent sounds of the traffic of horses and people outside.

Sometimes, when dusk came early, I lingered on the busiest street---a small bump

against a noble’s shoulder, followed by a mischievous “sorry, Sir!� and the spluttering idiot would never know he had lost a silk handkerchief or a bronze watch. But these were rare days and never earned us much more than enough to buy half a pail of pork stew.

While we suffered more and more, the King XVI seemed ignorant of what was

happening beyond his safe haven of glowing castle-walls. Much as he deserved, he fell more and more in debt (much of the debt was gained from the previous King, who loved the extravagance in his court) until he hired a man named Calonne to help him raise money.

In 1789 May, Calonne had suggested an Estate General, a meeting of all three Estates,

and the King complied and agreed to discuss about taxing the First and Second Estates (I childishly grew hopeful), and those big-headed horses actually refused. Horses that flounced around with ribbons tied in their hair that were never worn twice, while we suffered beneath them to never have touched a single string of ribbon even once.

I was almost losing hope until today, June 20th.

A group of Third Estates met across where the Estates General was held and demanded

a Constitution! Freedom! Equal rights!

Later, I heard that they called this event in which I joined, the Tennis Court Oath, and

the group of people who did this honorable thing named themselves the National Assembly.

As if a light had finally opened, I finally feel hope for our country. We are finally

wakened and ready for change!

1793 January 20

Afternoon 2 PM

Blood and Lace The color of the clouds looked like blood-stained lace that was frayed at the edges. Useless.

Broken. I remembered how different they had looked before. Before the scaffold was built here in the Place de la Revolution, before the Guillotine was carried out. The huge square was now completely transformed into a bustling place, with people---even the youngest children now, casting hopeful and eager glances at the decapitating weapon which stood still and poised ready to kill. I felt a sudden flare of irritation, glancing at the guillotine, that it was taking so long for them to kill the King of France.

The surrounding crowd also seemed impatient, and soon there was an un-rhythmic rumble that rippled through the crowd. It only took moments before the momentum released into a chant: “KILL HIM NOW, KILL HIM NOW.” By now, the raucous chant had grown louder as more people swamped in, laying blankets beside trees, while booths selling cakes and patties prepared for the celebration after the King’s beheading. The tavern near the scaffold had brandished large banners emblazoned with bright colors of blue, white and red stripes that represented our symbol for France, the soon-to-be liberated country. Or the symbol of the sans-culottes. The banners, glimmering in the afternoonlight almost shook heavily when a sudden eruption of ecstasy cannoned through the air, signaling the arrival of the most important guest of all.

It pained me when I saw the dreadful, pot-bellied King clamber up the steps of the scaffold.

How he served me the reminder of every pain he had brought upon us! Even, including the past four years. In 1789, July 14, a group of loyal people part of the Assembly broke into a building called the Invalides, and stole weapons.

Now armed, they stormed the Bastille, a prison symbolizing of the King’s monarchy, and attacked the stone fortress. Strangely, the guards guarding the fortress, showed no means of hostility, and let the attackers pass. The revolutionary party that attacked the Bastille soon inspired people all over France of defying the King grip on the country. After, the National

Assembly produced new laws that prevented violence from blossoming all over the country, and created the “Declaration of the Rights of Men”, to provide more freedom; but the violence still did not subside. A crowd of proud lower class women, marched from Paris to Versailles, and forced the King and his family to move to Paris. Swiftly, our monarchy government including the rich nobles were finally abolished, destroyed! But this sweet happiness did not last long, for something more terrifying was about to happen. In 1791, after the abolishment of many unpopular laws in France, Francis II became the Emperor of Austria. This new king was keen to fight for our former King and Queen with Prussia and Britain I furrowed my brows upon thinking this. Why had they not attacked yet? What were they waiting for? It was hard to admit, but we were already weakened on the inside with all the leftover riots going on.

I almost spat when I remembered how the King attempted to escape France. How weak was our King? First, he runs away from making decisions, letting the First and Second Estates to hog what little the Third Estates had; then, he runs again when his country is a mess (a mess that he made!) and flees to an enemy country!

He almost reached the border of Austria before his family was caught again.

In December, the King’s sentence was made on his trial. Traitor; for betraying his country and corresponding letters with the Austrian. Murderer; for destroying so many lives.

And now, letting thoughts of my past drift away, I cheer with the others as the pitiful King was dragged upon the scaffold.

Clochette squeezed my hand as I screamed with the crowds. Over the deafening roars of: “DEATH TO THE KING!” and “LIBERTY!” ‘s, my sister uselessly cried.

“This is wrong!” Her fingers could barely hold on to mine now as the crowd surged forward.

I laughed. “Why? We are happy and that’s all that matters!” What was my sister saying? She should be happy! The horrid man, who even though never touched a single drop of blood, slaughtered half of our country’s population. A man---no, a Death Angel, who killed almost everyone I had loved, had birthed a new me. A different me. And now, I was ready to fight for what is right.

That’s when I heard it, a thundering thud! so loud, that it echoed for miles. The blade of the guillotine lifted, smeared with blood in a pleasing shade.

His blood flows; cries of joy from 80,000 armed men rend the air. His blood flows, and there are people who dip a finger, a quill, a fragment of paper in it. His blood flows, and a man exclaims, whilst licking his finger: “It is vilely salty!” Bundles of his air, a bloody remnant, a blood-soaked piece of cloth, were sold near the weapon.

I am too happy to continue writing now, journal. I have decided to meet up with a few people to celebrate in the tavern downstairs; people like me, whom were all victims under the King’s rule. I am beginning to see hope now, and I beg the Lord not to take it away from me again.

July 28, 1794

Afternoon 3PM

What was a Life Worth?

My people are in pain. Even the sky can tell, littering the air high-above with lifeless, sunken, grey clouds that looked like‌nothing. So much has gone through, and I have forgotten to see anything in anything because there was no point.

I stare ahead, casting my eyes to the rised wooden platform ahead. The executioners, clad in black, stood ghostly still next to the silent weapon facing the crowds, faces cold, hard masks that glared at anything they set eyes on.

The crowd was as quiet as the executioners, with only a small portion of the populace chittering with each other. A few glanced nervously around them while they whispered.

An old woman hummed merrily beside me.

Another girl sobbed.

Both of these noises immediately stopped when the sound of horse hooves and footsteps clattered near the end of the crowd, accompanied by small grunts of pain.

Like a curtain, the crowd parted without objection as a wagon carried by a mule came into view. A few armed guards surrounded the cart, keeping the man sitting in the back of the vehicle trapped inside.

The man was staring at his shoes, wild-wispy looking dark hair that resembled frayed threads was half coated in dried blood. A giant bandage covered over half of his face, hiding a gunshot wound under the July sun.

Maximilien Robespierre.

His name that rippled through the crowd smoothly, seamlessly. And that’s when I felt it, a scorching feeling inside of me that erupted so sudden, it surprised even me as I watched my childhood idol ride his way to death.

Killed so many.

Ruthless.

Pity, after what he did for us.

Whispers were everywhere.

And I felt hate for Robespierre.

The once hero, leader of the Jacobins and me, the person who encouraged the revolution, was now going to be executed under his own guillotine. They called Robespierre’s reign on France: “The Reign of Terror”, after more than 50,000 people were killed.

After the National Assembly gave great power to the Committee of Public Safety in April, 1793, (which was actually controlled by the Jacobins) began a mass wipe-out of any Royalists.

New laws were constructed in 1789. Laws that were bound on ink and paper, but moved and acted by tasting blood. Laws such as the “Law of Suspects”, threw people into jail without a trial, while laws with similar feature rose with it. Another law allowed revolution heroes to condemn death upon any that they wished.

At first, Robespierre said that “this was necessary if we wanted to get rid of the royalists,” and once-nobles who’d tried to flee the sentence of death were caught again. We believed him, trusted him, helped him lead the begging-for-life people to the guillotine, but the rich people ran out. We never noticed the nuances in the prisoner’s faces and we never realized that eight out of ten people killed were actually peasants (people supposedly on our side!) until the death of my own sister.

Now that I realize, I was never there for her. While I, a sans-cullotes, went out to capture nobles, I left her at home, confident that she would be fine, until one day she stood up for the King.

She was dead the next day.

In 1793, about 3000 executions took place in Paris, while 14000 took place everywhere else.

What was the worth of all those lives? What was the worth of the revolution? These were questions I asked myself every day after my sister’s death.

People who were nobles were killed. People who were against the Jacobins were killed.

People who were even indifferent about the revolution were killed.

Tricoteuses knitted right beside the guillotine and people even placed bets on the order of the executed people being killed. The killings almost seemed comical and zany, like they were for fun, as if death was a game.

Finally, my heart changed once more when Robespierre was arrested and shot in the face in Hotel le Ville. I was no longer loyal to him when he was sentenced to death.

But now, watching Robespierre dragged to the blade, I see how inane I was before. How stupid was I to believe in him, that he would change something?

Before, I believed that the revolution changed nothing, but now I see that it changed everything. Living, death; minds and hearts.

Before, I believed that the revolution was worthless, but now I see that it was worth everything. Lives, deaths; heads and bodies.

I felt myself cry when the blade of the guillotine dropped.