There was good reason to be nervous. As they waited for the chambers to be made ready, the deputies of the two assemblies, most of whom had been excluded from the previous day’s session, strolled about discussing the situation, joined by Parisians who had driven out to see what was going on. In the course of these discussions those hostile to any change grew firmer in their resistance, while supporters of the coup began to have second thoughts. Bonaparte had a total of about 6,000 troops at hand, some sitting around their stacked weapons in the courtyard giving evil looks to the deputies, those hated ‘lawyers’ and ‘chatterboxes’, others deployed in the grounds and the surrounding streets. He was determined to achieve his end constitutionally, so had no wish to use them, but their presence raised the hackles of many of the deputies, who muttered darkly about the threat of a military coup and bandied epithets such as ‘Caesar’ and ‘Cromwell’.
It was not until well after one o’clock that the Five Hundred were able to take their seats, in a flapping of scarlet Roman togas and plumed Polish caps. Lucien and his supporters were to persuade their assembly to nominate a commission to investigate the dangers threatening the Republic. But things got off to a bad start. Sensing what was afoot, the Jacobins among them began denouncing the incipient dictatorship, declaring that they would defend the constitution to the death. It was the kind of emotive language that swayed the majority in assemblies of the period, and a vote was carried to have every deputy renew their oath to it. That would take all day.
The Elders had already filed into the Gallery of Apollo in their blue togas, preceded by a band playing the Marseillaise. They were to take notice of the resignation of the three Directors, declare the government thereby dissolved, and appoint three consuls to prepare a new constitution. But the session had hardly opened when some of the deputies began questioning the legality of the previous day’s proceedings. One of the conspirators cleverly observed that the Elders could not debate anything until the Five Hundred had properly constituted themselves – which they had not, as they were still busy renewing their oaths. A letter was then read out from the secretary of the Directory to the effect that the government had ceased to exist. By half past three the entire legislative body of the French Republic had tied itself in a knot, and with every moment that passed the Jacobins’ influence grew in the Five Hundred, while Bonaparte’s supporters in the Elders, many of them moderates, grew increasingly uneasy.
In the damp room, hardly warmed by a smoking fire, where Bonaparte, his brother Joseph, Sieyès and the other leaders sat, ‘people looked at each other but did not speak’, according to one of those present. ‘It was as if they did not dare to ask and feared to reply.’ People began making excuses and slipping away. Bonaparte tried to hide his nerves by giving unnecessary orders and moving troops about. Every so often Lavalette would come and report on what was going on in the chambers.11
Outside, more and more people began to drift in from Paris. Jourdan and Augereau had also turned up, alert to the possibility of exploiting the situation for themselves. Augereau advised Bonaparte to abandon his plan. ‘The wine has been drawn, it must be drunk,’ Bonaparte replied. He sensed that if he were to remain inactive much longer his position would become untenable. Just before four o’clock he announced that he wished to speak to the Elders and, followed by a number of aides, entered their chamber. Their session had by then been suspended, but they gathered to hear what he had to say.12
Bonaparte was not a good speaker, often having difficulty in finding the right words. He was flustered and did not have a specific case to put, only a series of slogans which had proved sufficient up until now. ‘Allow me to speak to you with the frankness of a soldier,’ he began. He had, he told them, been minding his own business in Paris when they had called on him to defend the Republic. He had flown to their aid, and now he was being denounced as a Caesar and a Cromwell, a dictator. He urged them to act quickly, as there was no government and liberty was in peril. He was there to carry out their will. ‘Let us save liberty, let us save equality!’ he pleaded. At that point he was interrupted by the shout, ‘And what about the constitution?’ After a stunned silence, Bonaparte pointed out that they themselves and the Directory they had named had violated the constitution on at least three occasions, which was not tactful, and did not lend conviction to his main theme, to which he returned, plaintively assuring them that he was only there to uphold their authority and did not nourish any personal ambitions, and exhorting them to emulate Brutus should he ever betray their trust. His friends tried to restrain him, but many of the members of the assembly had been angered, and now began asking awkward questions. He carried on, growing more and more aggressive in tone and grasping at any words and phrases that came to mind, conjuring up visions of ‘volcanoes’, of ‘silent conspiracies’, and at one point defiantly warning them: ‘Remember that I march accompanied by the god of victory and the god of war!’ He ranted on incoherently until Bourrienne dragged him away by his coat-tails.13
Astonishingly, Bonaparte felt he had galvanised his partisans among the Elders, and despatched Bourrienne to Paris to inform Josephine that all was going well. He also sent a message to a worried Talleyrand to the same effect. It is tempting to wonder whether the concussion he had suffered falling from his horse at Mortefontaine just over a week earlier might not have had something to do with his erratic behaviour and lack of judgement that day. It was with astonishing confidence that he now strode forth to confront the Five Hundred. He knew he would be facing a hostile chamber and was expecting trouble, so he took a few trusted grenadiers along as well as his aides.14
Hardly had he entered the orangery than shouts of ‘Down with the tyrant!’, ‘Down with the dictator!’ and ‘Outlaw!’ greeted him as the assembly rose to its feet in outrage at this military incursion. He was instantly assaulted by a multitude of deputies pressing in on him, shouting, shaking him by his lapels and pushing so hard that he momentarily lost consciousness. He was rescued by Murat, Lefèbvre and others, who kept the enraged deputies back with their fists, and by the grenadiers he had brought with him. The scuffle grew fierce, and a number of the members of the public in the spectators’ gallery fled through the windows. Bonaparte was eventually carried out, pale, struggling for breath, his head lolling to one side, barely conscious, pursued by cries of ‘Outlaw! Outlaw!’, which in the course of the Revolution had come to signify a condemnation to death. With his brother out of the way, Lucien did his best to calm tempers and to deflect a vote declaring him an outlaw, which would have put in question the allegiance of the troops. The assembly then got bogged down in discussion of what they should do next.15
Bonaparte had returned to his centre of operations. He seemed completely undone, making strange statements and at one point addressing Sieyès as ‘General’. He soon recovered himself, but for the rest of the day his words and actions remained disjointed and not entirely coherent. Those who were still with him had come to the conclusion that their purpose could no longer be achieved by constitutional means, and that it was time to resort to force. Murat and Leclerc were keen, but Bonaparte felt he needed an excuse, and attempted to obtain some kind of authority from the Elders to brandish against the Five Hundred.16
On hearing an erroneous report that he had been voted an outlaw by the Five Hundred, he drew his sword and, leaning out of the window, shouted, ‘To arms!’ The cry, taken up and repeated, flew through the ranks and the waiting troops mounted up and stood to. Bonaparte came out of the palace followed by his suite and asked for his horse. The fiery beast lent by Bruix had been frightened by the shouting, with the result that when he mounted it began rearing and bucking. After some less than heroic tussles with it, he rode up to the bewildered grenadiers of the legislative guard, who failed to show much interest. It was not until he reached the troops of the line and Sébastiani’s dragoons outside the courtyard that he elicited the desired enthusiasm. Riding up and down on his unruly mount he struck a heroic pose, venting his fury at the way
he had been treated by the Five Hundred, telling the troops that he had gone to them offering to save the Republic but had been attacked by these traitors, paid agents of Britain, who had brandished daggers and tried to murder him. His agitation had brought out a severe rash on his face, and while considering his next move he had scratched so hard that he had drawn blood, which now seemed to confirm the story of daggers raised against him – the rumour that he had been wounded flew through the ranks, the crowd and eventually all the way to Paris. Murat and Leclerc embellished the story and Sérurier, commanding the troops further out, told them that ‘The Elders are behind Bonaparte, but the Five Hundred tried to assassinate him.’17
Some members of the Five Hundred had been trying to rally the legislative guard, which was wavering. If Augereau or Jourdan had stepped forward then and taken command of it, they could have defeated the coup. But they merely hung about waiting for an opportunity for themselves. As five o’clock approached and a misty November dusk settled, the fate of the country hung in the balance. Yet most of its political class dithered and watched each other, waiting to see what would happen next rather than acting out of conviction.
In the Five Hundred, Lucien had done what he could to calm things down, but the shouting match continued, so in the end he made a histrionic gesture, taking off his toga and cap, untying his gold-fringed sash and laying them down as a sign that liberty had been silenced and he could no longer preside over the proceedings. At the same time he sent one of the assembly’s inspectors with a message for his brother to act immediately. This gave Bonaparte his excuse.
He ordered a captain to take ten grenadiers with him and rescue the president of the Five Hundred. The captain carried out his task, bringing out a dishevelled and haggard Lucien. He was greeted with acclamations. He asked for a horse, which an obliging dragoon provided, and then rode through the ranks beside his brother, telling the troops that the majority of the Five Hundred had been terrorised by a handful of dagger-wielding fanatics in British pay into defying the Council of Elders and declaring its defender and emissary General Bonaparte an outlaw. As president of the Five Hundred, he assured the troops that these deputies had put themselves outside the law by their behaviour, and ordered them to deliver the well-meaning majority from the clutches of these monsters who ‘are no longer the representatives of the people, but the representatives of the dagger’. He then took a sword from an officer and, putting the point to his brother’s breast, solemnly swore that he would kill him if he were ever to raise a finger against the liberty of the French people.18
The legislative guard appeared convinced. They could hear the enthusiasm of the troops of the line behind them, and as the traditional drum-roll that sounded the attack thundered around the palace, Murat formed up a column of grenadiers and led them with bayonets fixed into the building. As the sound of the drum beating the charge crashed into the orangery, some of the Five Hundred climbed onto their benches and began swearing to defend the Republic and the constitution, while others followed the spectators out of the conveniently low windows. Pandemonium broke out as the troops entered the orangery. Murat marched towards the president’s podium and declared in a loud voice that the Five Hundred was dissolved and then, turning to the soldiers: ‘Chuck this lot out of here!’ The grenadiers did not use unnecessary force, only manhandling a few of the more recalcitrant in order to carry them off the premises, and within a few minutes the now darkened building had been cleared.19
With their colleagues of the Five Hundred fleeing or skulking in the grounds, the Elders were jerked into life by Lucien, who appeared in their chamber, denounced a member of the Five Hundred who had come to complain, and with tears in his eyes related a version of events worthy of Rousseau. In order to demonstrate that all was well, the assembly then dealt with a couple of matters which had been on the order of the day.
Lucien turned his mind to wrapping up the business legally, which required a vote by the Five Hundred. He had with him those deputies who had been behind the coup, but he needed more. It was by then quite dark, and soldiers were sent out into the park and the surrounding streets, taverns and hostelries in search of any members of the Five Hundred who had not yet made their escape. Even coaches returning to Paris were searched for the reluctant and often terrified representatives of the people. The number thus assembled varies according to different accounts, from thirty to a hundred, but it was certainly far below the required quorum of 200.20
They were brought back to the orangery, where among the overturned benches and chairs, by the light of a few candles, Lucien guided them through the formalities of denouncing and excluding the sixty-two of their colleagues who had supposedly tried to ‘terrorise’ them, followed by a vote of thanks to Bonaparte and the soldiers who had delivered them. They proceeded to constitute a commission which in turn nominated as the executive power three provisional consuls: Sieyès, Ducos and Bonaparte. At around four o’clock in the morning, by the light of guttering candles they solemnly swore fidelity ‘to the sovereignty of the people, to the one and indivisible French Republic, to equality, liberty and to representative government’. The Five Hundred also nominated an interim legislative commission, and decreed the recess of the two legislative assemblies until 20 February 1800.21
This was then communicated to the Elders, who took an inordinate amount of time nominating a commission to consider the facts and report on them, holding a symbolic debate and then voting on it. The two assemblies then issued a joint declaration to the effect that they had saved liberty and the Republic.22
A bulletin composed by Fouché had already been read out in all the Paris theatres, informing the audiences that during the session of the two chambers Bonaparte had nearly perished from an assassination attempt, but had been saved by ‘the spirit of the Republic’, the génie de la République, and was on his way back to the capital. Printed notices composed earlier by Roederer were going up all over the city, giving a similar version of events and hailing Bonaparte as the saviour of France. In his own description of the events of the day, twenty daggers had been raised above his head to strike him dead. A grenadier whose uniform had been torn in the scuffle would be turned into a hero who had shielded the general with his body.23
Back at Saint-Cloud, to which many of those who had decided to distance themselves earlier that day had by now returned, followed by others drawn by the lure of a rising power, Bonaparte read out a proclamation in the grand style. ‘On my return to Paris I found division in every branch of government, and consensus only on the fact that the Constitution was half-dead and could not protect liberty. Each of the factions came to me in turn, confided their plans, unveiled their secrets and asked for my support; I refused to be the man of any faction,’ he declared, basing the legitimacy of his assumed power on the totality of the nation. He went on to say that conservative and liberal ideas could now take their place alongside other principles.24
He had understood that the prime concern of most of the nation was the desire for peace. ‘It is peace that we have just conquered,’ he announced. ‘That is what must be announced in all the theatres, published in all the papers, and repeated in prose, verse and even in songs.’ The troops marching back to their barracks sang ‘Ça Ira’, the most bloodcurdling of all the revolutionary ditties, but the Jacobin deputies were fleeing the capital or in hiding – Fouché’s police were already on their trail. Like the events of the day, it was all rather confused, but one thing was certain – the Revolution was over.25
Bonaparte drove back to Paris at five o’clock in the morning with Bourrienne, Lucien, General Gardanne and Sieyès, who were dropped off one by one before the carriage reached the rue de la Victoire. According to Bourrienne they were all tired and pensive. When they were alone, Bonaparte allegedly broke the silence to admit to having said a great many stupid things in the course of the day. ‘I prefer talking to soldiers than to lawyers,’ he said. ‘Those buggers intimidated me.’26
When he got home Josephi
ne was still awake, and he sat on the bed for hours reflecting on the day’s events. She told him that his mother and Pauline had rushed over in a state of great agitation: they had been at the theatre, where the performance was interrupted and the author of the play came on stage to announce that Bonaparte had survived an assassination attempt and saved France.27
19
The Consul
The next day, 11 November 1799, was a décadi, a republican Sunday. The weather was mild and it was raining. At ten o’clock, citizen consul Bonaparte left home in civilian dress, and was driven through empty streets to the Luxembourg in a carriage escorted by six dragoons. He went directly to Sieyès’ apartment, where the two of them discussed the situation for over an hour. Shortly before twelve they were joined by Ducos, and all three crossed the courtyard to the council chamber in the main building, where some of the principal supporters of the coup had gathered.
Bonaparte tried to strike a solemn note as he thanked them for their support, but the effect was, according to Roederer, ‘painful’: he struggled to find the right words, committing a number of malapropisms, and his turn of phrase was abrupt, as though he were giving commands on a battlefield. They were going to need more than fine phrases. They had toppled the Directory and declared themselves the rulers of France, but that was about as far as it went. The notices that had been plastered on the walls of Paris proudly announced the beginning of a new order, but that remained so much wishful thinking. For all the talk of Bonaparte the Saviour, cynics assumed that five Directors had been replaced by three consuls who would govern with much the same levels of honesty and competence. Bonaparte was determined to prove them wrong.1
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