Vox Meditantis

The Bastille Fortress, Paris – 14th July 1789

The morning light filters through the narrow window of my chambers, casting long shadows across the oak desk where I now sit with trembling hands. Outside, the roar grows ever louder—a sound unlike anything I have heard in my thirteen years as Governor of this fortress. It is not the usual clamour of Paris streets, but something altogether more primal, more terrible.

I have taken up my quill to pen what may well be my final letter, though I know not to whom I shall address it. Perhaps to my dear Thérèse, though she is safe in the countryside. Perhaps to His Majesty, though I fear my words may never reach him. Or perhaps simply to myself, as a man drowning grasps at any floating timber.

The mob beyond our walls demands surrender, demands the keys, demands our powder stores. They speak of liberty and revolution with voices that crack like thunder. But I am Bernard-René de Launay, and I have served the Crown faithfully for thirty-seven years. I know my duty.

Yet as I sit here, listening to their chants grow more fevered, I find myself compelled to write down what I know to be absolutely certain—those truths that no revolutionary fervor can shake, no matter how the world may seem to crumble around me.

First certainty: The divine right of kings is absolute and inviolable.

His Most Christian Majesty Louis XVI rules by the grace of Almighty God, as did his forefathers before him. This truth was established before the foundation of the world, written in the very fabric of creation. I have sworn an oath upon the Holy Cross to defend this principle, and no earthly power can release me from that sacred bond. The rabble outside may shout of popular sovereignty, but they are as children playing at governance, ignorant of the celestial order that places kings above common men.

A tremendous crash echoes from the courtyard below. I pause in my writing, my hand instinctively moving to the hilt of my sword. Through the window, I can see smoke rising from the outer buildings. The sounds of musket fire have grown more frequent.

Second certainty: The hierarchy of society reflects God’s own design.

From time immemorial, men have been divided into those who pray, those who fight, and those who work. I am of the second estate, born to command and to serve the Crown with honour. The nobles, the clergy, and the common people each have their appointed place, their sacred duties. To upset this order is to invite chaos and damnation. What transpires beyond these walls is not revolution but rebellion against the natural order itself.

“Monsieur le Gouverneur!” Lieutenant Deflue’s voice carries from the corridor, urgent and strained. “The people have taken the outer courtyard!”

I set down my quill and rise, my joints protesting after the long, sleepless night. “Hold fast to your positions,” I call back. “We shall not surrender this fortress whilst I draw breath.”

But as I return to my desk, I notice my hand shakes as I lift the quill once more.

Third certainty: The Bastille is impregnable.

These walls have stood for four centuries, weathering siege and storm alike. Built by Charles V, strengthened by successive monarchs, this fortress has never fallen to assault. Our walls are eight feet thick, our towers command every approach. We have thirty-two veteran guards, each a man of proven courage. Though we are few against the multitude, we hold the advantage of position and preparation.

Yet even as I write these words, I can hear the splintering of wood from somewhere below, and the shouting grows ever closer.

Fourth certainty: Honour demands that a gentleman keep his word.

I have given my parole as an officer and a nobleman. When I accepted this position, I pledged to defend this fortress with my life if necessary. A gentleman’s word is his bond, more precious than gold, more sacred than life itself. Better to die with honour intact than to live as a faithless cur. The revolutionaries may speak of new oaths and fresh allegiances, but they know nothing of the true meaning of fidelity.

Fifth certainty: The common people cannot govern themselves.

History teaches us that democracy leads inevitably to chaos and ruin. Look to the ancients—Athens fell to mob rule, Rome collapsed when the rabble seized power. The common folk are like children, easily swayed by passion and oratory, lacking the education and temperament for statecraft. They require the firm hand of their betters to guide them, as a father guides his children. This present madness will pass, and they will return, chastened, to their proper stations.

Another explosion rocks the fortress, closer this time. Dust falls from the ceiling, and I can hear running footsteps in the corridors. The sounds of battle have penetrated even here, to the heart of our stronghold.

Sixth certainty: Faith in Providence sustains the righteous.

The Almighty sees all and judges justly. Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I shall fear no evil, for He is with me. The just cause cannot ultimately fail, though it may suffer temporary setbacks. I have made my confession this morning and taken the sacrament from Father Moreau. My soul is prepared for whatever Providence may decree.

“Monsieur le Gouverneur!” The voice is different now—Sergeant Major Losme-Salbray, a man I have trusted these many years. “The main gate… they have brought cannons!”

Cannons. My hand pauses over the paper. They have cannons trained upon my fortress.

Seventh certainty: A soldier’s duty transcends personal fear.

I have faced death before, in service to His Majesty during the Seven Years’ War. A true officer does not count the cost but does what honour demands. Fear is the province of lesser men—cowards and civilians who have never known the weight of command. I shall not shame my ancestors or my regiment by showing the white feather now.

But my heart pounds like a drum as I write these words, and I find myself thinking of Thérèse’s gentle face, of the children we might have had in different times.

Eighth certainty: The fortress contains sufficient stores to withstand a lengthy siege.

We have powder and shot aplenty, enough to hold out for weeks if necessary. The King’s forces will surely come to relieve us before our supplies run low. Marshal de Broglie commands twenty thousand troops in the vicinity of Paris. They need only march to our aid, and this rabble will scatter like leaves before the wind.

Yet no relief column has appeared upon the horizon, though the sun climbs higher in the sky.

Ninth certainty: My men will remain loyal to their oaths.

These are soldiers of the King, veterans who have served faithfully for years. They understand duty and honour as well as any man. Deflue, Losme-Salbray, Marquis, Bequard—each has sworn the same oath I have sworn. We are bound together by more than mere salary; we are brothers in service to the Crown.

A terrible silence has fallen over the fortress. The musket fire has ceased, and even the roar of the crowd seems muted. This quiet is somehow more ominous than all the previous noise.

Tenth certainty: I shall not betray my trust.

Come what may, I shall not surrender the keys of this fortress to rebels and traitors. Better to die in the ruins than to live as a betrayer of my King. My honour is all I truly possess in this world, and I shall not barter it away for mere life. Let them come—I shall meet them with sword in hand and my duty undone.

The door to my chambers bursts open. Losme-Salbray stands there, his face pale as parchment, his uniform torn and bloodied.

“Monsieur,” he gasps, “they have breached the inner court. The men… some of the men have opened the gates.”

I stare at him, the quill falling from nerveless fingers. “Impossible. Our walls…”

“The walls hold, but the gates are open. Some of our own men—they have turned, Monsieur. They speak of joining the people’s cause.”

Through my window, I can see them now—a great tide of humanity pouring through the breach. Men and women with crude weapons, faces wild with revolutionary fervor. They surge through my courtyards like flood water, unstoppable, inexorable.

I look down at my list, at these ten certainties I have penned with such conviction. In this moment, as the sound of their feet thunders on the stairs below, each one crumbles to dust.

The divine right of kings? They care nothing for God’s anointed.

The natural hierarchy? They speak of equality as gospel truth.

My impregnable fortress? Already fallen.

My honour? What honour is there in dying for a cause the very people reject?

The incapacity of common folk? Yet here they stand, victorious through their own effort.

Divine providence? If God sides with the righteous, what does this defeat say of my cause?

My duty as a soldier? But what if the true betrayal lies in serving an unjust master?

My stores and supplies? Useless if my own men will not fight.

The loyalty of my soldiers? Already broken by the same force that breaks my certainties.

My resolve not to surrender? Even now my hand trembles, reaching for the keys.

They are coming up the stairs now. I can hear individual voices, see torches through the crack beneath my door. In moments, they will be here.

I take up the keys from their hook upon the wall—these symbols of my authority, my trust, my certainty. The metal feels cold and unfamiliar in my palm, as though I hold them for the first time.

Perhaps certainty itself is the greatest illusion of all. Perhaps the only truth is that the world changes, that what seems eternal endures but for a season, that even the mightiest fortress must fall when its time has come.

The door splinters. Faces peer through—not the faces of monsters as I had imagined, but of men and women, some young, some old, all burning with a fire I do not understand but can no longer deny.

“Citizen Governor,” one of them calls—a blacksmith by his appearance, his arms thick with honest labour. “Will you surrender the fortress to the people of Paris?”

I look at him, this common man who dares address me as an equal, who speaks of the people as though they were sovereign. Six hours ago, I would have struck him down for such impertinence. Now I find I have no words.

The keys hang heavy in my hand. Behind me lies the wreckage of everything I believed eternal. Before me stands something new, something I cannot name but can no longer resist.

I have spent a lifetime certain of so many things. Now, in this moment that will define history, I am certain of nothing save this: the old world is ending, and I am too much a part of it to survive into the new.

With hands that no longer shake, I hold out the keys.

“The fortress,” I say quietly, “belongs to the people.”

The certainties of Bernard-René de Launay die with those words. What rises from their ashes, I shall not live to see.

The End

On 14th July 1789 the Bastille fortress fell to Parisian insurgents after roughly four hours of assault, freeing just seven prisoners yet costing at least 98 attackers and six defenders their lives and sealing Governor Bernard-René de Launay’s fate. Built in the 1370s as a royal fortress-prison, its capture symbolised the collapse of absolute monarchy; within three weeks the National Constituent Assembly abolished feudal dues, and by August adopted the Declaration of the Rights of Man. The storming echoed Britain’s earlier Glorious Revolution of 1688 yet sparked far wider upheaval, inspiring subsequent European uprisings. Celebrated annually as Bastille Day since 1880, it endures as a global emblem of popular sovereignty.

Bob Lynn | © 2025 Vox Meditantis. All rights reserved.