The keys of the Hôtel-de-Ville were cast down upon a table, yet they could not silence the clamour. He who stood accused of withholding them remained in the midst of a hall still reverberating with tidings from the Bastille; around him, cries of treason and vengeance answered one another, defying every attempt at explanation.
On 14 July 1789, the fortress entrusted to Governor Delaunay was besieged and taken. Champagnac traces the origins of the movement to the preceding night, when inhabitants of the faubourgs marched toward the Bastille. He records that instigators had already raised the cry for its capture, and that several provincial cahiers de doléances had demanded its destruction. His chronicle weaves together reported facts, rumours, and political opinions, which must be carefully disentangled.
At the Hôtel des Invalides, men had seized cannons and a vast store of muskets despite the resistance of the governor, M. de Sombreuil. The besiegers maintained that the guns of the Bastille threatened the city and that their fire had to be forestalled. Thuriot de la Rozière, an elector from a district assembly, demanded entry into the stronghold; Delaunay received him and walked the ramparts in conversation with him. The chronicle adds that they ultimately fell out and nearly came to blows, though it recounts this scene in the conditional mood, as a report for which it cannot fully vouch.
In the course of the morning, two government couriers were intercepted. The dispatches seized from them contained, according to Champagnac, an order directing Delaunay to hold firm until the arrival of reinforcements, expected that very evening on the outskirts of the capital. This intelligence transformed the defence of the fortress into the omen of an imminent assault. The report lent weight to the fury of those marching upon the citadel; yet it does not suffice to explain the confusion that subsequently overtook the men charged with guarding it.
The garrison was said to number thirty-two Swiss soldiers and eighty-two Invalides. Some claimed it had been suborned in advance and had signalled to the leaders of the advancing columns with prearranged signs. Others, in the account recorded by Champagnac, wished to capitulate, while those troops loyal to the Court prepared to repel the assault. Cannon shot was fired upon the men who had forced their way into the outer courtyard, killing several. From these divergent accounts, the chronicler deduces that the event was perhaps less a premeditated betrayal than a state of dreadful disorder. The capture of the fortress cannot be reduced to a single, clear decision: the accounts of the siege contradict one another even regarding the signals alleged to have preceded the opening of the gates.
The armed populace, soon joined by detachments of the Gardes-Françaises, pressed upon the fortress from every quarter. Delaunay, seeing no relief arrive, seized a match and sought, according to the source, to blow up the magazine. The garrison restrained him and compelled him to yield. A drawbridge was lowered; the assailants advanced, promising that no harm should be done, and the crowd surged into the courtyards. The Swiss managed to escape; the Gardes-Françaises shielded the Invalides when the latter were assailed.
Amidst this violent entry, a young woman, supposed to be the daughter of the governor, was seized and threatened with being burned alive. Champagnac names M. de Montigny, one of the besieged officers, as her father: seeing his child surrounded by flames, the man hastened down to her rescue and was struck by two musket balls. A man named Bonnemère succeeded in forcing back her captors. Later, Bailly rewarded this act with a civic crown and a sword, which the maiden presented publicly to her deliverer. The chronicle records these names and deeds; it does not, however, permit the resolution of all the conflicting accounts concerning the young woman’s identity.
Delaunay was discovered. The governor attempted to run himself through with a sword-cane, but the grenadier Arné wrenched the weapon from his grasp. Élie and Hulin, of the Gardes-Françaises, seized him and shielded him with their own bodies against the throng. They were themselves wounded in their efforts to honour their pledge to escort him to the Hôtel-de-Ville. Despite their exertions, the surge of the multitude swept them momentarily away from their prisoner. Delaunay, struggling desperately as death closed in, fell beneath their blows; shortly thereafter, his severed head was raised on a pike amidst triumphant shouts. The chronicle does not conceal the gulf between the resolve of his protectors and the fatal outcome of the march.
The major of the place, Delosme-Solbrai, was caught up in the same fury. Champagnac depicts him as the friend of the prisoners, having served as their comforter for twenty years. A former captive, the Marquis de Pelleport, threw himself into the throng, embraced the major, and declared that he owed him more than his life. Some in the crowd appeared moved; others cried out that an attempt was being made to cheat them of their prey. Pelleport was struck down as he sought to shield his benefactor. A companion of his felled the assailant, and both were set upon. Pelleport succeeded in reaching the steps of the Hôtel-de-Ville, where he collapsed insensible. Delosme-Solbrai was butchered, and his head paraded alongside that of Delaunay. The narrative here draws upon testimonies preserved by Champagnac; their pathos does not exempt the historian from attributing these particulars to his text.
At the Hôtel-de-Ville, another accusation was taking shape against Flesselles, the provost of the merchants. He was reproached with having promised arms without ever delivering them. In an overcrowded hall, the electors endeavoured to justify his conduct, while men arriving from the fighting entered bearing the wounded, the dying, and the prisoners. Anger made little distinction between the explanations offered by the accused and the rumours already in circulation. Flesselles declared, according to the narrative, that he ought to withdraw since he had incurred the suspicion of his fellow citizens. An elector taxed him with failing to deliver the keys to the storehouse containing the arms and artillery. He drew them from his pocket and laid them upon the table.
Debate ensued regarding where he should be conveyed: to the Châtelet, to the Palais-Royal, or held under guard as a hostage. The crowd seized upon the Palais-Royal, as though the very name prefigured his condemnation. Flesselles descended the staircase amidst a hostile escort which, until that moment, had stayed its hand. He addressed those around him, seeking to convince them that he could vindicate his conduct. At the foot of the steps, an unknown man stepped forward and discharged a pistol into him. The multitude pressed in upon his body; his head was severed and borne aloft on a pike.
A letter said to have been found in Delaunay’s pocket allegedly showed Flesselles promising to beguile the Parisians with cockades and hollow assurances while awaiting the arrival of regular troops. Champagnac notes that several historians have contested the authenticity of this document. It must therefore remain what it is: an accusation reported and debated, not definitive proof of the provost’s treason. Two Invalides, likewise denounced as traitors, were hanged from a lantern bracket; that dreadful spectacle would soon become a rallying cry of popular vengeance. As intelligence and rumour became indistinguishable, suspicion assumed the force of a sentence executed upon the public square.
A few days later, on 22 July, the Place de Grève became once more the theatre of summary executions. Foulon, a former intendant whom the source portrays as harsh and rapacious, had been arrested at Viry after having spread a false report of his own death. He was accused of having declared that the people ought to eat hay. Stinging nettles were tied about his neck, thistles thrust into his hand, and a truss of hay strapped to his back before he was dragged to Paris. His son-in-law, Berthier de Sauvigny, was arrested at Compiègne under alleged orders from the Commune which, according to Champagnac, had never been issued; the Commune dispatched urgent orders for the prisoner’s release, yet could not secure his liberty.
Foulon was exposed to the fury of the crowd when Berthier was brought near the capital. Lafayette had prevailed upon the assembly to grant the old man a trial, but the electors summoned shrank from assuming such a burden under those conditions. Bailly and Lafayette were ultimately designated to act. While the general sought to pacify the gathering, Foulon applauded one of his remarks. A onlooker construed this gesture as proof of collusion between them. The mob surged forward; Lafayette endeavoured to shield Foulon, but the prisoner was torn from his grasp and hanged from a street-lamp. His head was severed and fixed upon a pike. When Berthier arrived, the gory trophy was thrust before his eyes, though he failed at first to recognise the features of his father-in-law. Brought into the Hôtel-de-Ville, he gave vent to his indignation; wrenching himself free for a moment, he snatched a weapon and defended himself valiantly before being overpowered and slain.
Champagnac maintains that the arrests of Foulon and Berthier were engineered by personal enemies, whereas the fury that overwhelmed them was spontaneous. This interpretation remains the chronicler’s own and cannot convert these two murders into lawful sentences. Bailly and Lafayette, who had opposed the slaughter, were overcome with grief and indignation; Lafayette resigned his command of the National Guard, resuming it only after the most urgent entreaties.
During those July days, the demand for weapons, the dread of impending assault, and the fall of the Bastille inaugurated an era wherein rumour could condemn before any magistrate had heard the defence of the accused. Flesselles had laid the keys upon the table; they did not suffice to disarm those who already held his guilt to be beyond dispute. Thus ended the days that Champagnac gathers around the Bastille and the Hôtel-de-Ville—not with a judicial sentence, but with a crowd that had made itself both judge and executioner.