The Shadow of Great Britain

In the spring of 1832, despite three months of cholera that had halted people’s spirits and cast a grim pall over their fervent emotions, Paris remained in a state of long-standing tension ready to erupt at any moment.

This great city was like a cannon, with gunpowder loaded, just waiting for a spark to ignite it. In June 1832, that spark fell as expected—General Lamarck died.

General Lamarck was a distinguished and accomplished man. He exhibited the courage needed during both the Imperial Era and the Bourbon Restoration: bravery on the battlefield and courage on the podium. His eloquent speech was as sharp as his youthful valor; people felt his words were like a sword. Like his predecessor, Foy, after raising the flag of command, he also raised the banner of freedom.

His death was anticipated. The people feared his death as a loss, and the government feared it as a crisis. This death brought grief. Like any suffering, grief could transform into rebellion.

June 5th was set as the day for General Lamarck’s funeral. As the first rays of morning light glistened on the Seine River, the suburb of Saint Anthony, through which the funeral procession would pass, began to churn like boiling water.

This chaotic area with crisscrossing streets was bustling with activity. People armed themselves as best they could. Some carpenters took the clamps from their workbenches to pry open doors.

One person turned the hook used for making shoe soles into a dagger by removing and sharpening it.

A nearby carpenter saw this and rose to leave. His companion asked, “Where are you going?”

“I don’t have a weapon.”

“Where do you plan to get one?”

“At the construction site. I need to fetch my compasses.”

A delivery man, having bought wine for ten sous, chatted with every worker he saw, “Do you have a weapon?”

“No.”

“Go to Feuilly’s house; he lives between the Montreuil Gate and the Charenton Gate. You can get weapons there, guns and ammunition too.”

At Barthelemy’s shop near the Throne Gate and at Capel’s small wine tavern, one could see many solemn-faced men drinking. They gathered in groups, speaking in hushed tones.

“Did you bring a gun?”

“It’s in my sleeve. And you?”

“In the inner pocket of my shirt.”

After finishing their drinks, the workers began to gather at the street corner of Bercy, awaiting a man named Lemaire, the republican liaison in the suburb of Saint-Marceau. All commands were openly communicated, with no attempt at secrecy. Everyone knew that Paris was on the verge of another revolution.

That morning, the sky alternated between clearing and raining. General Lamarck’s coffin, surrounded by the Army honor guard, made its way through Paris. Like the workers, the tension in the government’s minds was stretched taut.

The Army honor guard escorting the coffin was clearly not of normal scale—two battalions, with mourning ribbons on their drums, and soldiers marching with guns reversed. Following closely were ten thousand National Guardsmen with swords at their waists, their artillery units accompanying the coffin. The hearse was drawn by a band of youths, and officers from the Hôtel des Invalides followed, holding laurel branches symbolizing peace and tranquility.

Along the route, an endless crowd surged behind the procession, heads moving like ants.

Members of the Society of Friends of the People, students from the law, medical, and literary colleges, various exiles, striking carpenters, stonemasons, and printers. Flags of Spain, Italy, Germany, and Poland, tricolor banners and many others.

They shouted loudly, some waving sticks, others brandishing sabers, still others openly slapping the handguns at their waists. Sometimes chaotic, sometimes in formation, they moved with one heart.

On balconies, windowsills, rooftops, along the streets, and in the trees, men, women, and children watched with anxiety filling their eyes as this armed crowd passed by.

At Place Louis Quinze, four squadrons of carbine cavalry were on standby, everyone mounted, with long guns and short cannons, bullets in the chambers, and cartridge bags on the saddles filled to the brim.

In the Latin Quarter and Jardin des Plantes, the Great Paris Police Hall security force, led by Victor, stood guard in sections along the streets.

A squadron of dragon cavalry was stationed at the Paris wine market; half of the Twelfth Light Cavalry Regiment was on alert at Grenelle Square, the other half dispatched to fortify the Bastille.

The Sixth Dragon Cavalry Regiment was stationed at the Celestine Barracks, the courtyard of the Louvre Museum was packed with artillery units, and the rest of the troops were on standby in the barracks.

And this didn’t even account for the regiments outside the suburbs of Paris.

If anything went wrong, the anxious government was ready to bring down twenty-four thousand urban soldiers and thirty thousand suburban soldiers on the angry populace at any moment.

While the government was mobilizing its forces, all sorts of rumors circulated within the funeral procession.

Some whispered about conspiracies of the Orthodox Party, while others from the Bonaparte Party discussed the Duke of Reichstadt of Austria—Napoleon’s son, the King of Rome. They held high hopes that he would step forward to lead the French people to restore the glory of the Empire.

Someone quietly informed everyone that later today, two recruited foremen would open the gates of the weapons factory from the inside for the populace. This news instantly ignited the crowd, eager to undertake violent yet noble actions.