The Reign of Terror 1793–1794: Leading the Angry Mob and Murdering Political Rivals. Part 10: La Guillotine
Louis XVI stood on the scaffold in the Place de la Révolution on the 21 January morning in 1793, high enough for the entire crowd (estimated between 80,000–100,000) to see the man whose death would bring peace to the nation, or so they thought. Five months prior, after the August Insurrection, Louis lost his position as monarch and yet the National Convention still put him on trial and voted for execution. He remained in the Temple prison from August 1792 to January 1793, yet the Convention and the angry mob obsessed over the idea that the only way to bring unity to the nation was for Louis’ head to roll. Louis’ trials with the newly formed National Convention began in early December 1792, which showcased over one hundred speeches and accusations presenting every fault at Louis’ feet, culminating in “thirty-five individual charges, some of them going back to 1789” (Hardman 1993, 226). Yet rationally the only thing that the Convention could indict Louis with was tyranny against the state for inviting the Austrian and Prussian armies to incite violence. By 21 January 1793, fear, revenge, and speculative/anticipatory accusations became one in the same, which required murder for the solution. In the Godless Republic political parties become the religion, political platforms become doctrine, cultural pressure becomes legalism, bipartisanship becomes abhorrent, and apostasy results in public shame and execution.
The First French Republic became official on 22 September 1792 and received much more praise and celebration than the news of victory from Valmy. In the span of three years France morphed from an absolute monarchy to constitutional monarchy, and a republic following Louis’ dethronement — ending the continuous Capetian dynasty begun in 987. After the Insurrection, the Legislative Assembly was at the will of the Paris Commune till elections were held for a new government: The National Convention. The Revolution achieved its goals of equality, laid out in the Declaration of the Rights of Man and the Citizen, and all men were able to vote for the members of the National Convention (whenever an 18th Century document mentions equality, it is only for white men). The 749-member governing body consisted of less than 30% left- and right-wing radicals, while those not associated with the Montagnard or Girondin parties were known as “the Plain” or contemptuously labeled “the Swamp” (Connor 2012, 110). Robespierre, Danton, and the Jacobin radicals from Paris sat on the left side in the hall, notably seated in the elevated section to be clearly heard and seen (this is where the Parisian radicals gained the moniker, le Montagne and les Montagnards — literally the mountain and the mountain men). Jean-Paul Marat, the ever-constant bloodthirsty revolutionary, approved of the Montagnard policy platforms but remained unassociated with any political party as a Convention member, and within a year’s time Marat’s influence would cause political parties to follow him. His association with the Montagnard’s demanded and active role in the Jacobin club debates outside the regular Convention hours, and the more Marat influenced, the more unity by bloodshed appeared reasonable.
September 20th marked the National Convention’s inauguration, the 21st marked Louis’ dethronement, the 22nd marked the First French Republic’s establishment, and from that moment it was a political battle for what version of liberté, égalité, and fraternité the French citizens were to follow. Seated on the right side, the Girondin party, supported a representative republic lead by the bourgeoisie because they had the money — seated on the left side, the Montagnard party, supported full democracy because they had the numerical superiority from the peoples’ votes, and they could always summon the angry mob to “assist” citizens in voting correctly. While the Girondins and Montagnards had sympathy for the urban poor in Paris, only Jean-Paul Marat truly represented them. Whatever the label may suit the moment, urban poor or angry mob, these were the Sans-Culottes — The ones forgotten during good times, the ones needed for violence during bad times, and the ones who never let a grudge loose without revenge. Marat perfectly explains the political situation in 1792 when he wrote:
Pushed to despair by excesses of tyranny, peoples have tried a hundred times to break their chains. They are always successful when an entire nation revolts against despotism. Such a case is extremely rare; it is much more common to see a nation split into two parties, one for and the other against the despot. When each of these parties is made up of a variety of social classes, the one that is against the despotism succeeds rather easily in crushing it, because in that case there are more advantages for the attackers in overthrowing it than there are for the defenders in maintaining it. Such was the case with the Swiss, the Dutch, the English, and the Americans. But that never happens when the plebeians — that is, the lower classes of the nation — are alone in the struggle against the upper classes. (Connor 2012, 111)
It became all too clear for Marat and the Sans-Culottes that the new republic would no longer need their violent services now that the King was dethroned, but the new republic would soon find themselves succumbed to the grave mistake of ignoring the Sans-Culottes’ pain. Whenever the suffering are unheard or unrepresented, anger and violence are sure to follow. Over the past three years, Marat garnered an infamous mystique, especially since he was constantly in and out of hiding from the authorities for seditious writings. It came to the point that some believed him to be a phantom or boogeyman, but once elected to the Convention, Marat commanded a daunting presence. The Girondins quickly accused Robespierre, Danton, and Marat of attempting to establish a dictatorship and taunted Marat till he spoke on 25 September. Marat began his speech by saying, “I have a great number of personal enemies in this assembly,” to which many replied, “All of us! All of us!” (Connor 2012, 114). Marat continued to explain that Robespierre and Danton have no intentions of establishing a dictatorship. While Marat stood at the podium, Girondin members reminded the Convention that there were still arrest warrants on sedition for Marat, which the Montagnards clamored that those warrants were issued by the discredited Lafayette and were nullified. The Girondins then presented an edition of Ami du Peuple, Marat’s journal, and read the portion which Marat wanted the angry mob to incite an insurrection on the Convention itself, which the Girondin’s motioned a vote to arrest Marat for sedition while he was on the podium. Marat quickly explained that the words of sedition were outdated and read from one of his most recent publications which supported the Convention, then in dramatic and theatrical fashion, Marat pulled out a pistol and pointed it at his own head and proclaimed, “If you had passed an arrest decree against me, this gun would have removed me from the rage of my persecutors — I would have blown my brains out at this very podium!” (Connor 2012, 115). The primary reason why the vote to arrest Marat did not pass was not they thought he was innocent, but because of fear from sans-culotte retaliation. The Convention during this time was not a closed meeting and citizens from Paris could view the deliberations from the balconies and outer wings. The last thing the Convention wanted was for Marat to become a martyr by their hands, which many of the delegates from the “Plain” realized the power of Marat’s infamous influence over the people.
Although Louis was recently dethroned and the Battle of Valmy won, the threat of and Austro-Prussian invasion still loomed. With Louis still alive, there was always a chance for his imminent return to power and the massacre for every revolutionary. A change in fortune occurred for the Convention, the minister Roland found the famous Armoire de Fer stashed away in the wall paneling at the Tuileries Palace (Hardman 1993, 225). A strongbox to hold letters and valuables, the Armoire de Fer became the primary focus for the King’s indictment; however, the armoire’s contents hardly sufficed as a smoking gun, but it was enough to suffice for the Convention’s hatred towards Louis. The Convention found that Louis continued to pay his royal guards even though they fled the country and joined the émigré army. This could be seen as benevolence on the part of the king, simply assisting those who used to protect him, yet the Convention viewed this as treason and inciting a counterrevolution. The other and more shocking revelation from the armoire was the King’s correspondence with Honoré Gabriel Riqueti, Comte de Mirabeau. The Count of Mirabeau was an early Revolution political icon, leader of the Third Estate, and three days after the famous Tennis Court Oath he told the Master of Ceremonies at the Royal Sessions, “we will leave our seats only by the force of bayonets” (Epstein 1970, 578). A tremendous orator for the National Assembly and president of the Jacobin Club, Mirabeau quickly became the key leader in the early Revolution, only to succumb to illness and pass away in 1791. When the National Convention revealed the contents of the Armoire de Fer, it was a great shock to see Mirabeau’s correspondence with the King and his actions as intermediary for the King and the National Assembly. Although dead, Mirabeau was quickly discredited, his bust within the Jacobin Club smashed, and because of his secret dealings with the King, the angry mob grew suspicious of anyone who questioned the Revolution. Mirabeau’s greatest achievement was also his greatest problem; he placed the good of the nation above the political party. His attempt to build a peaceful constitutional monarchy in 1790 directly contradicted the cultural demands of 1792.
In the months leading up to Louis’ execution, the National Convention held many debates on what to do about the King. Clearly the King was guilty of treason and tyranny with his continued correspondence with the enemies of France, and the Armoire de Fer only assisted the hysteria that once the Austro-Prussian armies occupied Paris, Louis would reclaim the throne. The first of many debates decided whether Louis was guilty of the accusations and how to conduct the King’s trial. Contrary to the popular argument, Robespierre delivered his famous speech in front of the Convention claiming:
Louis cannot be judged, he has already been judged. He has been condemned, or else the Republic is not blameless. To suggest putting Louis XVI on trial, in whatever way, is a step back towards royal and constitutional despotism; it is a counter-revolutionary idea; because it puts the Revolution itself on the dock. After all, if Louis can be put on trial, Louis can be acquitted; he might be innocent. Or rather, he is presumed to be until he is found guilty. But if Louis is acquitted, if Louis can be presumed innocent, what becomes of the Revolution? (Doyle 2002, 194–195)
It was Robespierre’s right-hand man, Louis Antoine de Saint-Just, who argued that the people already found the King guilty upon the 10 August Insurrection, yet a trial allowed the National Convention to remain virtuous instead of regicidal. Finally, after much deliberation, King Louis XVI was summoned to the National Convention on 11 December 1792. In front of the delegates and crowd, Louis still commanded a majestic presence with a somber yet confident appearance. The motion to put the king on trial began when Marat spoke on the Convention floor on 6 December saying, “Let the death of the tyrant be voted upon by voice roll-call vote, and let the vote be taken publicly” (Connor 2012, 122). With a voice vote, this allowed everyone to see where each delegate stood in terms of their devotion to the Revolution. Over on hundred speeches were heard at the King’s trial, many of the argument going back to 1789. Many accusations were dismissed simply because Louis did not break the law at that time frame. For instance, he was accused of sending troops to Paris in 1789 which caused the hysteria that led to the Fall of the Bastille. Although illegal for the king to do this in 1792, Louis replied, “At that time I could order troops to march where I pleased” (Hardman 1993, 227). The argument for Louis’ defense to the allegations is that the Constitution of 1791 clearly states that the punishment for the king’s crimes is dethronement, which already occurred — making the trial pointless. After several days Louis was summoned before the Convention again, seemingly defeated and after several more speeches, Louis addressed the Convention:
You have just heard the arguments for my defence; I shall not repeat them. Speaking to you perhaps for the last time I declare to you that my conscience reproaches me with nothing and that my counsel have told you nothing but the truth. I have never feared a public examination of my conduct; but my heart is rent at finding in the indictment the imputation that I wished to shed the blood of the people and above all that the misfortunes of 10 August should be attributed to me. I confess that the manifold proofs I have given at all times of my love for the people and the manner in which I have always conducted myself seemed to me sufficient proof that I took little heed of exposing myself to spare its blood and to remove such an imputation from me forever. (Hardman 1993, 229)
Louis would be sent back to his prison in the Temple, “the great medieval fortress originally built by the Knights Templar” (Tackett and Strick 2015, 233), contemplating his fate with the short valuable time that remained. While in prison, Louis read many books, particularly David Hume’s The History of England from the Invasion of Julius Caesar to the Revolution of 1688. Louis studied the trial of Charles I of England, and how Charles I disbanded the English Parliament three times by 1629 when he finally decided to rule as an absolute monarch. His tumultuous reign led to a civil war in 1642, which led to his defeat in 1646 and execution in 1648. Louis found comfort in reading how Charles handled himself while on trial in front of the English Parliament and Oliver Cromwell. Similar to Charles I, Louis was put on trial to receive the death penalty — and similar to Charles I, if Louis did not have his head, he could not return to the throne. Louis was not as strong minded or charismatic as Charles, and Hume’s History of England, “could not have told Louis how to save his life but it did show him how to die” (Blanning 2007, 201).
The National Convention voted on four motions concerning Louis’ fate. The first motion on 14 January 1793: “Is Louis Capet, former King of the French, guilty of conspiring against liberty and an attempt against the safety of the State? Yes or no.” This motion received 691 for and none opposed (27 abstained). The second motion, which was an appeal to the people, was voted down on the 15th. On 17 January 1793 the third motion: deciding Louis’ penalty, resulted in a vote 361 for death and 360 against. The fourth motion was to decide on a reprieve of the bestowed punishment, but that was voted down on the 20th and Louis was given twenty-four hours’ notice of his execution (Hardman 1993, 229–230). 21 January 1793, at nine o’clock in the morning, the King was escorted from the Temple prison. It was customary for the executioner to cut the prisoners hair on the scaffold, but Louis asked if he could get his cut prior to leaving the Temple. The request was denied for fear that he would grab the scissors and kill himself. To the request denial Louis replied, “These men see daggers and poison everywhere, they fear I will kill myself. Alas they know me very badly; to kill myself would be weakness. No, since die I must I will die well!” (Hardman 1993, 231). Louis stepped out of the carriage at the Place de la Révolution and gazed at the new invention which would cause terror in the year to come: La Guillotine.
In 1789 Joseph-Ignace Guillotin proposed to the National Assembly that all French citizens should receive a more humane method of execution, and though invented by Antoine Louis, it became infamously named after its project overseer. The machine, the window, the barber, and the national razor all became common sobriquets for La Guillotine, which took its first victim (a thief/highway bandit) on 25 April 1792 and its last in 1977. Standing at 14 feet, the two pillars hold the heavy angled blade assembly high in the air as the victim is strapped (with their hands tied behind them) to the rocker, which lowers them like a chiropractic table and settles their head into a stockade. The executioner pulls the lever, the blade assembly quickly drops, and the victim’s head falls painlessly into the basket (no victim has ever complained whether the guillotine is painful)(Carvajal 2010). The national razor became an instant success and a spectacle for the angry mob as they gathered up close to cheer and be sprayed with blood. Interestingly, the people who usually took a front row seat were vengeful women enjoying the show while knitting. In Charles Dickins’ (2003, 387) final chapter of A Tale of Two Cities, he describes the scene when he writes, “in front of it, seated in chairs as in a garden of public diversion, are a number of women, busily knitting…the ministers of Sainte Guillotine are robed and ready. Crash! — A head is held up, and the knitting-women who scarcely lifted their eyes to look at it a moment ago when it could think and speak, count One.”
With his hands tied behind his back, Louis attempted to speak in front of the crowd saying, “People, I die an innocent man. I pardon those who have decided my death. I pray God that my blood will not come down upon France” (Tackett and Strick, 241). Only a few heard these words for the drum roll grew louder and louder. The executioner placed Louis on the plank and lowered his head into the stockade with difficulty for his neck was too fat. The King, out of fear let out a scream, and the blade assembly decapitated the French monarch. The people cheered, some dipped handkerchiefs in the pools of blood, and a few even put their hands in the blood and tasted it. What started three years prior with the Storming of the Bastille and the Woman’s March on Versailles was now complete. With the First French Republic established and King Louis executed, by all indication the Revolution should have ended on 21 January 1793, but the greatest problem with the angry mob is their greed and unquenchable thirst for total conformity. The greed for more European territory and the total conformity for the sans-culotte culture caused the Revolution to reach new heights of terror and murder, and the greed and total conformity would spark a counterrevolution in Western France.
References
Blanning, Tim. 2007. The Pursuit of Glory: The Five Revolutions That Made Modern Europe 1648–1815. London: Penguin Books.
Carvajal, Doreen. 2010. “Paris Gawks Again at the Guillotine.” The New York Times, May 7, 2010. https://www.nytimes.com/2010/05/08/arts/08iht-blade.html.
Conner, Clifford D. 2012. Jean Paul Marat: Tribune of the French Revolution. New York: Pluto Press.
Dickens, Charles. 2003. A Tale of Two Cities. Edited by Richard Maxwell. London: Penguin Books.
Doyle, William. 2002. The Oxford History of the French Revolution. 2nd ed. New York: University of Oxford Press.
Epstein, David M. 1970. “Mirabeau and The French Revolution: A Reappraisal.” The Historian 32, no. 4 (August): 576–94
Hardman, John. 1993. Louis XVI. New Haven; London: Yale University Press.
Tackett, Timothy, and James E. Strick. 2015. The Coming of the Terror in the French Revolution. Cambridge: Harvard University Press.
