Just as Armand had started a new rumor—that he himself had suddenly disappeared, perhaps dragged off to the Bastille—a more shocking piece of news arrived: Necker, the king's finance minister, had been dismissed and exiled.
Necker's departure was seen as a sign that the king was about to launch a full-scale crackdown on the Third Estate's resistance. He had served as France's finance minister twice.
During his first term as finance minister, he had won widespread favor among the urban poor by opposing free trade in grain. (With free trade in grain, rising prices were all but inevitable amid the successive natural disasters, and this would of course seriously harm the interests of the poorest people.)
He had pioneered the method of keeping the state's finances afloat through borrowing, thereby avoiding tax increases. This also pleased the wealthy members of the upper Third Estate.
Yet in 1781, to defend his fiscal policies, he had actually published a report on the French government's finances, revealing the budget deficit and the annual stipends paid to the privileged classes. The disclosure of these two figures caused a political storm. Poor people who had never even touched a single Louis d'or in their entire lives saw the astronomical sums the great nobles spent. The queen, Marie Antoinette, in particular, had spent 766,000 francs just to renovate the Petit Trianon where she lived! And in just one year, the queen had given her favorite, Madame de Polignac, 500,000 francs! They looked at these figures, then at their own empty rice sacks, and were naturally furious.
Thus Queen Marie, who had won all of Paris's cheers when she had first become queen, acquired the nickname "Madame Deficit." And Necker, who had sparked the storm, was naturally dismissed.
But later, the budget deficit grew worse and worse, and borrowing became increasingly difficult. (At the time, interest on French government bonds had climbed to nearly twenty percent, yet the government still couldn't borrow enough.) The pressure to repay the debt only grew, until it became a bottomless pit in the budget. Meanwhile, the privileged classes refused tooth and nail to pay taxes. (In this respect, things were rather like the United States today.) Louis XVI had no choice but to bring Necker back. But Necker wasn't God; he couldn't say, "Let there be Louis d'or," and make Louis d'or appear.
So Necker could only propose taxing the privileged classes. The clergy and nobles naturally used tradition as a shield once more, declaring that any tax on the privileged classes required authorization from the Estates-General. The privileged classes had assumed that Louis XVI wouldn't dare convene the Estates-General. They had never imagined that Louis XVI, desperate for money, would actually call it into session.
At the Estates-General, Necker helped the Third Estate secure more representatives and win the right to vote on financial matters according to the number of representatives, rather than by estate. So, in the hearts of Parisians, Necker's dismissal meant that the king had decided to take the Third Estate's side no longer. In everyone's eyes, it was even a sign that the king was preparing to use force to suppress the people.
"We can't just sit here and wait to die. We can't wait for the king's foreign mercenaries to come with those bandits and slaughter and plunder us. We have to stand up, take up arms, and get ready to fight. Put on cockades so we can recognize one another. We'll defend ourselves, our wives and children, and our property." In front of a café in the Palais-Royal, a man was delivering an impassioned speech.
"How strange. Doesn't Desmoulins usually have a stutter? How come he isn't stuttering today?" The speaker was clearly very familiar with Desmoulins, who was giving the speech.
"That's right. Talking to Desmoulins used to be such a struggle. He'd even rather find a piece of paper and write than speak. Today... let's hear what he has to say first." Another man chimed in.
"This dismissal is the warning bell for a St. Bartholomew's Day massacre of the patriots! And today, our friend Armand Lavoisier, the playwright who created the immortal Spartacus, has disappeared! We all know what this disappearance means. He couldn't be anywhere else. Those spies of the king, those vicious dogs, must have dragged him off to the Bastille!" The impassioned Desmoulins continued shouting. He suddenly pulled two pistols from the pocket of his green coat. "Follow me! We're going to arm ourselves!"
The crowd roared its approval.
"We're with you! We're coming!"
And so they all went together.
Where to? To the arms shop, of course. Desmoulins led the people to the nearest arms shop. Seeing so many people approaching menacingly, the shopkeeper hurried to shut the door. But Desmoulins was faster. He bounded forward, thrust out a hand to block the door as it was closing, and the crowd surged inside.
"Shopkeeper, are you a member of the Third Estate? Are you a citizen of Paris?" Desmoulins shouted.
"Of course. Of course I am," the shopkeeper answered, his face pale as a sheet.
"Good!" said Desmoulins. "The tyrant is plotting to use force to suppress the Third Estate's resistance, to loot and slaughter Paris! Shouldn't you do your part to defend the people of Paris?"
Everyone stared at the shopkeeper.
The shopkeeper sneaked a glance at the two pistols in Desmoulins's hands, then at the people behind him. In a trembling voice, he replied, "Of course... what you say... of course... I..." Compared to Desmoulins, he seemed more like the one with a stutter.
"Well said." Desmoulins patted the shopkeeper on the shoulder, then turned to shout to the crowd. "See how deeply this citizen understands what's right! He's willing to support us, willing to join us! Come on, everyone, arm yourselves! We'll fight for Paris, for liberty!"
Everyone hurriedly grabbed the weapons in the shop. One took a hunting rifle, another a spear... The shopkeeper watched them, wanting to stop them but not daring to do anything, so he could only stand there and watch. Just then, Desmoulins shoved a hunting knife into his hand. "Citizen, thank you for your generosity! Come on, let's go defend Paris together!"
The shopkeeper went with them, clutching the hunting knife, swept along by the crowd as they headed toward the next block. As they walked, everyone called out to others, inviting them to join, and their numbers swelled quickly. After they had gone about half a block, the shopkeeper gradually began to understand what was happening.
"Citizens, citizens! Turn right here and there's another arms shop. Many of us still have no weapons. Let's go there and arm ourselves!" the shopkeeper cried, holding his hunting knife high. Needless to say, the owner of that other arms shop was surely his sworn enemy.
So a group of unarmed people, along with several citizens carrying hunting rifles, followed the shopkeeper.
Sure enough, after turning the corner and walking barely a hundred paces, they came to an arms shop. But by then, its front door had already been shut.
"Open up! Open up!" The shopkeeper stepped forward and began pounding on the door with the hilt of his hunting knife, calling out over and over.
"We're not doing business today..." a trembling voice answered from behind the door.
"Open up! Citizen, you have a duty to support the people and defend Paris!" someone shouted.
"That's right! We need weapons to fight the tyrant! Open the door!" another person shouted.
"No... I'm not opening the door... This is my life's savings. I can't just hand it over to you!" the voice behind the door cried.
"Are you siding with the tyrant and opposing the people?" someone shouted angrily.
"Break the door down! Let's break it down!" someone else yelled.
Then people began battering the door.
"Stop!" the voice inside shouted. "If you don't stop, we'll shoot!"
But the people didn't stop.
"Bang!" A gunshot rang out from inside the shop, and one of the people battering the door clutched his leg and fell.
The people at the door scattered at once.
"That bastard must be a supporter of the tyrant!" someone shouted.
"Beat that scum to death!" more people shouted.
Several hunting rifles fired wildly at the door. In an instant, several holes appeared in it. Someone crept around to the side and kicked the door. It burst open—the shots had broken the bolt on the other side.
They all charged inside and saw a middle-aged man trying to load his hunting rifle with trembling hands. But his hands shook so badly that he spilled the gunpowder around the muzzle. When he saw everyone rush in, he dropped the rifle, straightened up, and turned to flee. But a spear thrust into his back, pinning him to the wall.
"Damn tyrant's lackey!" someone cursed as he rushed forward, grabbed the man by the hair, and swung his broad saber at his neck. But his technique was poor, and the blow failed to sever the man's spine and take off his head. Perhaps feeling humiliated by the botched strike, he swung wildly at the man's neck again and again before finally cutting off his head.
The man raised his blood-smeared face. With one blood-soaked hand, he lifted the severed head high, just as Perseus had raised Medusa's head.
"Look! This is what happens to the tyrant's lackeys!" he cried in a frenzy like a drunkard.
"He deserved to die!"
"That's what happens to the tyrant's lackeys!"
The crowd responded in the same tone.
In truth, people didn't need to drink or take anything else to get drunk with frenzy. All they needed was to be among a large crowd, united by some lofty cause.
"The whole family of a lackey like that deserves to die!" someone else shouted.
"Over here! It looks like there are more people!" another voice cried.
They headed toward the back room, but the shopkeeper stayed behind. He heard someone inside cry, "God, save us!"
Then someone shouted, "Even a lackey like that has a woman and children!"
"Kill them all! It's what they deserve!"
A few screams followed. Then several people emerged from the back room, their blood-smeared faces held high, shouting triumphantly, "Arm yourselves! Defend Paris!"
Before you continue