“On entering the House of Lords, he was leaning on the one side on the arm of his son, William Pitt, then only nineteen years of age, and on the other on that of his son-in-law, Lord Mahon. He was attired in his magnificent robes, which formed a derisive contrast to his own emaciated form. Pale as a spectre, his eyes half-extinguished beneath his languishing eyelids, he desired his friends to lead him to his usual seat on the bench appropriated to earls; while all the lords rose at his entrance, astounded at the unexpected apparition, and bowed to him in admiration, as the Roman Senate might have done had Tiberius, dead and forgotten, returned among them. He listened in silence and with profound attention to the speech of the Duke of Richmond, the mover of the proposition, and when he had concluded, Lord Chatham rose to reply.
“Then this dying man summoned up strength enough to speak for three whole hours; he found fire enough within his heart to lend lightning to his eyes; in his soul he found accents which stirred up the hearts of all who heard him.
“It is true that he was speaking against France; it is true that he was instilling into the minds of his countrymen the hatred which he felt; it is true that he had called up all his energies, all his fervent eloquence, to ruin and devour this country,—the hated rival of his own. He forbade that America should be recognized as independent; he forbade all sort of compromise; he cried, War! war! He spoke as Hannibal spoke against Rome, as Cato against Carthage! He declared that the duty of every loyal Englishman was to perish, ruined, rather than to suffer that a colony, even one single colony, should detach itself from the mother-country. Having concluded his peroration, having hurled his last threat, he fell to the ground as if thunder-stricken.
“He had nothing more to do in this world,—he was carried expiring from the house.
“Some few days afterwards he was dead.”
“Oh! oh!” cried both Billot and Pitou, simultaneously, “what a man this Lord Chatham was!”
“He was the father of the young man of thirty who is now occupying our attention,” pursued Gilbert. “Lord Chatham died at the age of seventy. If the son lives to the same age, we shall have to endure William Pitt for forty years longer. This is the man, Father Billot, with whom we have to contend; this is the man who now governs Great Britain; who well remembers the names of Lameth, of Rochambeau, and Lafayette; who at this moment knows the name of every man in the National Assembly; he who has sworn a deadly hatred to Louis XVI., the author of the treaty of 1778,—the man, in short, who will not breathe freely as long as there shall be a loaded musket in France and a full pocket. Do you begin to understand?”
“I understand that he has a great detestation of France; yes, that is true, but I do not altogether see your meaning.”
“Nor I,” said Pitou.
“Well, then, read these four words.” And he presented a paper to Pitou.
“English again,” cried Pitou.
“Yes; these are the words,—Don’t mind the money.”
“I hear the words, but I do not understand them,” rejoined Pitou.
Gilbert translated the words, and then:—
“But more than this: he farther on reiterates the same advice, for he says: ‘Tell them not to be sparing of money, and they need not send me any accounts.'”
“Then they are arming,” said Billot.
“No; they are bribing.”
“But to whom is this letter addressed?”
“To everybody and to nobody. The money which is thus given, thus strewn abroad, thus lavished, is given to peasants, to artisans, to wretches,—to men, in short, who will degrade our Revolution.”
Father Billot held down his head. These words explained many things.
“Would you have knocked down De Launay with the butt-end of a musket, Billot?”
“No.”
“Would you have killed Flesselles by firing a pistol at him?”
“No.”
“Would you have hanged Foulon?”
“No.”
“Would you have carried the still bleeding heart of Berthier and placed it on the table of the electors?”