ON THE FRAGILITY OF CONSPIRACIES
ON SEPTEMBER 21, 1822, THE PLACE DE GRÈVE IN Paris was once again the scene of a sinister event. The scaffold had been set up, and several thousand people were silently bending an ear to catch the sound of the wheels of a cart on the paving stones. There was a large contingent of troops on horseback and on foot on the street leading to the scaffold and in the surrounding area. There was a fear of disturbances. Men in plain clothes with anxious looks moved ceaselessly through the crowd, scrutinizing faces, noting every gesture of the spectators, looking at clothing and haircuts for a detail that might indicate a disguise. One might have thought it was a repetition of the great macabre spectacle, the bloody festivities that had so frequently happened here. But that was not quite the case. It was no longer 1793, although the ritual that was getting under way resembled the earlier one. But the vast majority of the people present had not come to scream for death—quite the contrary. The huge crowd was impressively silent. Sadness could be read on their faces. When the wheels of the cart could be heard, many women’s eyes filled with tears, and when everything was over, many men could no longer hold back their sobs. What was happening on the Place de Grève in the early autumn of 1822 was a legal assassination, like many others France had known over the last thirty years. And the four victims who were handed over to the executioner on that day deserved as much compassion as the most touching victims of the terrorist madness of the end of the preceding century.
The victims were young men, all under thirty. They came from humble backgrounds; all four were soldiers with not particularly distinguished careers, since none was above the rank of noncommissioned officer. Their names were Bories, Pommier, Raoulx, and Goubin, and they have come down to posterity, as they were tried collectively, under the name of the Four Sergeants of La Rochelle.
Their appointment with death in a public square on that September day was not because of any crime that could be imputed to them. They were about to die because they had conducted themselves like men of honor, by not revealing a clandestine action that they knew about and with which, to be sure, they wanted to be associated, but they had not had the opportunity to do so. So they had been convicted for their silence and for their intentions.
Since the assassination of the Duke de Berry, the son of the Count d’Artois, by a mentally disturbed man in 1820, France had been living under an oppressive regime, although the charter Louis XVIII had granted his subjects in 1814, which acknowledged certain freedoms, was still in force. After the assassination, the moderates, known as the Constitutionnels, whose principal representative was Decazes, had been forced to cede power to the ultra-royalists, the Ultras, who dreamed only of vengeance. They had overwhelmed the king, who had some political intelligence and wanted to unite as much of the French population as possible around the throne, and were attempting to destroy everything good or acceptable that had been accomplished between 1789 and 1814; in a word, their goal was counterrevolution. Since parliamentary activity was ineffective for the liberal opposition, secret societies seemed to be the only desirable recourse for anyone who wanted to change things. These societies became fashionable under the Second Restoration, on both the right and the left, because the supposedly democratic system was not functioning normally and individual freedom and freedom of the press were seriously threatened from 1820 on by the Villèle government that had succeeded the moderate and relatively open Martignac government. Resentments were piling up in the France of the time: the Bonapartists accused the Bourbons of having sacrificed the interests of the nation to those of their dynasty; the republicans saw the gains of the Revolution being lost one after the other, after a brief period of reconciliation between 1815 and 1820; and the former émigrés and the Ultras thought that repression had been insufficient and that the supporters of absolute monarchy had not recovered what had been taken away from them. In this climate, informing, calumny, intrigues, and conspiracies, small and large, proliferated. The Catholic Church itself, although it benefited from its alliance with the government, was not absent from the galaxy of secret associations. The devotees of the Congrégation often acted behind a mask. The Chevaliers de la Foi, in the service of Throne and Altar, had organized their association in imitation of the Freemasons, as had the Francs-Régénérés, who acted in the interests of the Count d’Artois, who was jealous of his brother and eager to succeed him. On the opposition side, the principal secret society was the Charbonnerie. Its origins are obscure, although it is known that it played an important role in the revolutionary movements of Spain and Italy. It had, in fact, been imported into France from Italy by two young French republicans, Joubert and Dougier, on their return from Naples, where they had been initiated by local carbonari.
The basic cell of the Charbonnerie was the “vente,” generally consisting of twenty members. The “ordinary” vente received orders from a “central” vente, with which it had minimum contact and whose names were supposed to be unknown. Above the central vente, the “haute” vente held supreme authority over the organization throughout the national territory. Although Freemasons, as individuals, could be affiliated with the Charbonnerie, there were no links between the two organizations, since one of the essential rules of Freemasonry in all countries was respect for existing authority and non-involvement in politics. The goal of the Charbonnerie in nineteenth-century Europe was on the contrary to overthrow oppressive governments by violent means, preferably selective, that is, by conspiracies, coups, and assassinations of men in power. The rule of secrecy was absolute. Members, who were required always to carry a knife—a means for instant defense or attack and easy to conceal, as well as a symbol—owed each other help and assistance wherever they might be and whatever their social position. They called each other cousins or good cousins.
In 1821, the Bazar conspiracy, so called because the Bazar Français in Paris served as cover for the principal conspirators, came to light. At the center of this conspiracy, which does not appear to have been the work of the Charbonnerie as such, was a colonel by the name of Sauzet. The political goals seem to have been vague, because the Orleanists and Bonapartists who were involved in the operation had not agreed among themselves on the composition of the provisional government they intended to set up at Vincennes. They hoped they would easily be able to seize that fortress, where they had accomplices.
Indiscretions meant that the police got wind of the affair before it could be put into operation. Some of the conspirators were arrested; the others had the time to flee and hide. The government thought it wise not to try to seek out those behind the conspiracy or to take public action against them. Lafayette, a liberal deputy, was suspected, as he was whenever a conspiracy was discovered; but, although he had been informed by some conspirators, he refused to be associated with the operation, and there was no evidence against him.
Another affair in the following year caused much more of a stir. It was known as the Saumur and Belfort conspiracy, the names of the two cities where insurrections among the troops were to serve as a signal for others. Survivors of the Bazar conspiracy were involved in this new attempt at subversion, which was clearly the work of the Charbonnerie. The organization had many branches in eastern France, and significant resources were at its disposal, supplied by the haute vente. Among the dignitaries whom the vast majority of members did not suspect to be their leaders were Lafayette, who seems to have held the highest position, and a number of colleagues from the Assembly, including de Schonen, d’Argenson, Koechlin, and Manuel, in addition to such well-known Parisian figures as the artists Ary Scheffer and Horace Vernet.
The plan was to seize Vincennes and the Tuileries and then to establish a provisional government in Alsace under the leadership of Lafayette, d’Argenson, and Koechlin. The date fixed for the operation was December 24, 1821. Because this was the anniversary of Adrienne’s death, and it was Lafayette’s custom to spend the day in meditation and perhaps prayer in his late wife’s room, he did not leave La Grange until December 25. He left the château with his son and a servant, who volunteered because he guessed that his master was about to undertake a dangerous and exciting mission.
The retired general and current deputy was supposed to go to Belfort, but things went wrong. An accidental explosion in the arsenal at Vincennes caused the summoning of reinforcements, and the plan to seize the fortress was cancelled. The commander of the forces in Belfort, an Ultra named Toustain, detected suspicious movements. He made preventive arrests and, after an incident during which he was fired on, he decided to close the gates of the city.
Informed on the road, Lafayette hid in the home of a friend in Haute-Saône and destroyed the documents he was carrying. The government expected further operations and kept watch.
The leader of the Charbonnerie in Saumur, General Berton, did not go into action until February 22, 1822. With troops he had assembled in the region, he marched on the city, but a large number of the men panicked and dispersed. Recognizing that he was powerless, Berton went to hide in La Rochelle, but he was betrayed and arrested with two other members of the conspiracy, one of whom, Dr. Coffié, committed suicide. Berton and the other man captured with him, Sauge, were sentenced to death and executed.
At the trial, with no supporting evidence, the prosecutor threw out the names of Lafayette, Benjamin Constant, and Manuel as those who were truly responsible for the conspiracy.
In early February 1822, the 45th infantry regiment had been transferred from Paris to La Rochelle because the colonel had heard that a military vente had been established in his unit. But he did not know who was involved. The Four Sergeants, the unfortunate heroes of this episode, belonged to this regiment and to the Charbonnerie. When they left Paris, they had been given halves of cards that had been cut in two; other affiliates would make themselves known along the way by presenting the other halves. Since they were heading toward the west of France, it is likely that they were to be called on to back up the movement unleashed in Saumur. When Berton, after his failure, took refuge in La Rochelle, he met Pommier and other members of the vente in the regiment. Bories, the most intelligent and responsible of the Four Sergeants had unfortunately been put under arrest for having responded to a provocation from foreign soldiers, an incident with no connection to the conspiracy. An affiliate named Goupillon, who knew that Berton was being hunted, denounced his comrades. Arrested along with 24 other soldiers after the suspects had been interrogated by General Despinois, Goupillon was acquitted at trial because of his role as an informer. Under pressure from Despinois, some of the accused revealed some information about the central vente, but they retracted that at trial and remained silent about everything else.
Marchangy, the violent and bitterly sarcastic prosecutor, called for the heads of twelve of the defendants. He was granted four, with the others being sentenced to prison terms. The lawyers for the defense all belonged to the Charbonnerie. Bories, who was born into a peasant family in Aveyron and had been introduced to Lafayette, dominated the trial with his serenity, eloquence, and self-denial. To the very end, while not revealing the names that the government was eager to learn, he tried to assign all responsibility to himself. He addressed the jury in these terms: “The prosecutor, by declaring that no oratorical power could possibly save me from public condemnation, has designated me as the principal guilty party. Well, I accept that position, happy that if I lay my head on the scaffold I may secure absolution for all my comrades.” The jurors were not swayed. The four who had been sentenced to death were promised their lives if they revealed the names of the members of the haute vente. The sergeants responded with contemptuous silence. When they were taken to the Place de Grève on September 21, they stood tall. On the way, Bories managed to throw a bouquet to a girl who had approached the convoy. She imagined she was his fiancée, and the story is that she lay flowers on the hero’s grave several times every year until 1864.
At the foot of the scaffold the four men embraced, and each of them found the strength to cry out “Vive la liberté!” before the blade fell. The crowd was appalled.
By choosing to sacrifice their lives the Four Sergeants of La Rochelle earned the status of martyrs. Beyond the cause they believed in, these simple noncommissioned officers provided a tremendous lesson in honor to all the ministers, glorious generals, diplomats, prefects, men of letters, and all the other dignitaries who, in the years following the fall of the Empire, had distinguished themselves by their betrayals and the repudiation of their past. During the trial, the prosecutor Marchangy had made it a point to stigmatize the “nobles of the haute vente” who urged unfortunate men to commit crimes and remained comfortably at home while subalterns alone faced the rigors of the law. The argument had no effect on the sergeants. After the execution, odious caricatures showed Lafayette, partly hidden and with a look of satisfaction, witnessing the ordeal of his young subordinates from a window facing the Place de Grève. The hatred of the former émigrés and the Ultras for the ex-commander of the National Guard fed on any circumstance that offered an opportunity to blacken his name.
But it is important to remember that the Charbonnerie had made every effort to save the condemned men. An attempted prison escape almost succeeded. An intermediary, the prison surgeon, had managed to bribe the director, who demanded 70,000 gold francs so he could flee abroad after opening the cells of the Four Sergeants. Lafayette had provided the bulk of the money, with the help of Ary Scheffer, Horace Vernet, and Colonel Fabvier. After making his decision, the director confided in his friend, the prison chaplain, so that he could share the burden of this secret with someone who was absolutely safe. But his trust was misplaced, and the clergyman made haste to reveal everything to the prefect of police. The director and the surgeon were arrested, and a sum of 10,000 francs was seized. The rest, saved by a medical student, was returned to the secret committee. Other plans were made to rescue the prisoners on the way between the prison and the place of execution. Determined men had been stationed at various spots. But the density of the crowd and the magnitude of military and police forces made it necessary to abort the operation, as a similar attempt to save Louis XVI had had to be aborted on January 21, 1793.
A few years earlier, having contributed to Napoleon’s abdication, Lafayette returned to La Grange and to his trees, flowers, and well-tended stables filled with animals of high quality. He had many visitors. In the eyes of people who did not like the regime of Louis XVIII, he took on the figure of the patriarch of the opposition. The king detested him but let nothing of his aversion show directly. Decazes and the constitutional party were searching for a middle way between democratic monarchy and counterrevolution, but the path was narrow. In principle, the government had nothing against freedom, but it strongly feared possible excesses, particularly in the press. People came from all over France and from abroad to see Lafayette in La Grange. Some came to ask for advice, others were impelled by curiosity. During the day, his heavy boots tramped through the damp earth and the manure of the stables, but in the evening, he was an impeccably dressed and dazzling host, with a refined courtesy that had disappeared with the Ancien Régime and that the Restoration had been unable to bring back. His conversation, because of the wealth of his memories and his frankness, was treasured by all who listened to him.
It is not surprising that he was urged to again play a role in public life commensurate with his talent and experience. In 1817, he failed to win a seat in the Assembly, but a year later, he was offered a chance to run by three departments, Seine, Seine-et-Marne, and Sarthe. He chose Sarthe, and received 569 out of 1,055 votes.
On the opening day of the session, he maintained an icy silence when cries of “Vive le roi” rang out, and he did not take to the podium until March 22, 1819. The liberal opposition, which consisted of 28 deputies, some of whom were well known and courageous, such as Manuel, d’Argenson, de Schonen, and Perier, had found in Lafayette—a constant enemy of despotism, whether it came from the Bourbons or from Bonaparte—a spokesman who was already legendary.
He was involved in all the battles for freedom. He defended Abbé Grégoire, former constitutional bishop, who had been elected as a deputy from Isère, but whose mandate the reactionary majority succeeded in invalidating. He demanded the complete application of the 1814 Charter, which the government continually interpreted narrowly so that it gradually lost any content.
He opposed the manipulation of the poll tax to favor the wealthy, whereas he wanted to broaden suffrage and eventually make it universal. Each of his appearances set off sneers and insults from the conservative benches. Every position he took, every attitude he adopted was taken by the mass of his opponents as a provocation. Was he a statue looking for a pedestal, even if that turned out to be a scaffold, as Laffitte (who had nothing against him) said to him one day? Lafayette answered, “Perhaps”; and there is no reason, considering his past conduct, to question his sincerity.
Perhaps this dark vision of his fate is a reason explaining his affiliation to the Charbonnerie and his accession to the haute vente. But it was not the only one. Lafayette, with his optimistic, enthusiastic, and slightly naïve temperament, had not grown suspicious with age. He easily accepted arguments that went in the direction of what he hoped for. Associates had likely made him dream of a great coup whose success would be strongly consolidated if, by agreeing to give his public support on the day of victory, he revealed that he himself was in the front rank of conspirators. When the parliamentary path seemed blocked, he had agreed to join the struggle, and we know the results. The failure of the conspiracies of the Bazar, Saumur, and Belfort, and especially the tragic end of the Four Sergeants of La Rochelle made him recognize the vanity and danger of conspiracies, and he returned to open and public action to the extent permitted by the Charter and its partisan interpretation by the Villèle government.
In 1823, he opposed the policy of support for Ferdinand VII of Spain, who had been driven out by the Cortes, and whom France restored to the throne through military intervention.
In March, he defended with particular vigor his colleague the liberal deputy Manuel, who after having attacked the policy of intervention in Spain, refused to leave the podium when he was threatened with expulsion from the Chamber, and who allowed himself to be expelled by the gendarmes only after the National Guard had refused the order to arrest him.
The Chamber was dissolved on December 24, 1823. In the election of February 25, 1824, Lafayette was defeated, 184 to 152, in Meaux, the constituency including La Grange, by his conservative opponent, Baron Pinteville de Cernon.
More than rest, at sixty-seven, the former general and former deputy needed to change his ideas. To do this, he chose to return to the source.