Camille Demulen Biography

Camille Demulen Lenotra, who during his lifetime should put a monument for his labors on the history of the French revolution and the debunking of many “giants and glorious leaders”, did not spare Camilla Demulen. For all his softness, a cruel thing is his essay about him! Demulen was born and grew up in a pious and patriarchal province, "in one of the most decent cities, where life proceeded without any events and shocks, where they lived cheaply and simply, satisfying and carefree." Demulen was the son of a modest judge, a man in all respects of an invisible, albeit venerable, faithful servant of his king.

What pushed him into revolutionary paths? And how did it happen that the name of this Zaiki is glorious and until now? He was born in the year, in Giza. He was taken to Paris to study: “In order to alleviate his very limited budget a little, the judge cleared up a scholarship for his first -born in the college of Louis the Great.” And here is the first thing that contributed to the revolutionary fate of Camilla: the scholasticism, which reigned in those days in education and often poisoned people with false, invented feelings and thoughts.

Demulen himself admitted: “We were raised in the prosperity of the ancient heroes of the republic, penetrating enthusiasm for the Capitol, we could not help but feel horror before the Versailles cannibals, these gentlemen judged not Louis XVI, but the ancient“ tyrant ”. They imitated the wild virtues of Brutus and Cato. Human life was not in the right to count on the mercy of these classics, accustomed to pagan hecatombs.

A member of the convention, a roasting, who walked along the street naked, prenatically considered himself a truly ancient person, I think that the lark was a big blank and far from a naive scoundrel. And all the same, in general, Lenotr is right: every time has its infection. In the year, Demulen wrote to his father: “You guessed that I would be a Roman, dubbed me Lucia, Sulpicia, Camilla,” of course, these lines were unusually stupid and ridiculous, and even more so that Demulen at that time was already twenty -nine years old at that time and was then not obsessed with Roman dreams.

And yet there is even a share of involuntary, infection. Next year, his ardor increased even more: he raised such a whore in the house, praising the benefits of freedom and having seen despotism that one day a certain important guest who came to the judge on the case “scooped up the boy by the ears and threw him out the door.” And so it went: “More and more, in love with Athens and Sparta, he came home for the holidays and ridiculed provincial customs with great contempt, and once at the same part of the dinner he even reached the table, crushing the wipe and crystal, and began to yell, call for weapons, of course, there was a share of sincerity, although there was a very low property: Camille was a very low.

Zaika, ugly face, poverty, ambitious, greedy to the benefits of earthly, “sweet -hearted”, as Russian men say. And having finished the course and enlisted a lawyer, Demulen "rushed into the whirlpool of Parisian life." But the struggle for existence turned out to be so difficult and cruel in this whirlpool that Demulen later never said that he had to experience him, and his biographers are involuntarily stingy in his information about his Parisian life for the year, when a political accident made a demagogic journalist from him.

However, several of his letters to his father were preserved, and they are irrefutable prove what this revolutionary and Romanian and Roman, ashamed of the poverty and the Roman, were subsequently silent about so stubbornly. He lived these five years either with his father on bread, then in Paris - almost without any bread, of course. Then he sometimes performed in the courts.

But how many of these performances were there? And the father, and the former himself is always in a constrained position and did not at all approve of either the image of his thoughts or his idle life - how could his father help him? And so, in order not to starve to starve, Camilla had to rewrite some judicial papers, and when there was no correspondence, he rode to feed on his homeland or wrote desperate letters to his father, he dreamed of family happiness inaccessible to him, about protected quiet joys, he was all ready to give him a beautiful, childbearing, rich in the existing one The social system woke up in it, he squeezed his fists with the rabies of the beggar, the unemployed he felt that his hour was coming.

He rushes into his native Giz, dreaming of getting into voters, he seeks that he is brought into lists, prays his father to collect voices in his favor, because he, Camill, is burning with selfless love for the people. But the father refuses all intervention in politics, and Camille fails. With a crushed heart, he returns to Paris, full of hatred of fellow citizens, “these antipodes of philosophy and patriotism”, which, of course, would be completely different if they had chosen him, and with fierce envy to his school comrade Robespierre, whom Arras sent his deputy, and again pours out his sorrows in his letters to his father.He rubbed to Mirabeau, settled in his Versailles and writes: “We have become big friends, we have lunch in an exquisite society, Necker, grabbing a pistol from his pocket, mourning thunder and lightning on the heads of imaginary spies, shouts about the nabat of Bartholomew’s night and Paris falls asleep under the rumble of uprisings, which then does not subside for 7 years, and Demulen returns to his closet with the famous feather, whether his pen preserves the dignity of him - just to talk about him!

But his material divisions are still bad from his hands. And again, he writes again to his father: - All newspapers smoke Fimiam for me. But fame only increases my natural shame to detect my poverty, in which I can’t even confess Mirabeau, publishers puff me up and the noise caused by my pamphlets put me on all my lenders to pray you to send me six louidors. I want to use the moment of my fame - to get a job in an apartment, to have the right to add myself to the lists for the election.

Are you so cruel that you will refuse me a sheet in bed and a couple? Just think that my fate depends on the situation, on the apartment! I have an apartment, I would have long been the chairman, the commandant of the district, the electoral from the Paris Commune, and instead of all this I am only a well -known writer, for whom it is easier to make a revolution than to achieve fifty louidors from my father at once, I had a breath of my own apartment all my life, and by your mercy I have only a furniture camerka, you are always saying that I still have brothers.

Yes, but there is a big difference between us, - nature gave me wings send me a bed or give me the opportunity to buy it here. Is it really enough for you to refuse me? In Paris, I am already known, they confer to me about important events, they invite me to dinners, I just do not get the apartment. I beg you, help me, send me a bed or six louidors! What could an old man think about his son, who had recently wrote to him that he was a Roman, Spartan?

How to combine the "wings" of his son and his thirst for the bed? Nevertheless, the father’s heart finally trembled: the money was sent, and Camille settled near Odeon, founded the newspaper “Uprising in France” and soon went uphill even more. After him, the terror was natural.

He makes fun of his victims in advance and ridicules so that they will no longer cause pity, but alas, she did not forget him. She carried him higher as a growing wave, on which he himself wanted to get so on once, and having shifted, brutally pushed away from herself. Robespierre himself was a chaff at his wedding. However, when the republic was proclaimed when Danton, already the minister, called him to the post of general secretary, when he entered the brilliant palace on Vandom's Square by his arm with his Lucille, the former Camille woke up in him again, he thought that now the Giza’s good townsfolk should have ended with envy, in short, “this terrible man, this literary loafer, this literary loafer, this literary loafer, this literary loafer, this literary loafer.

The revolutionary feuilletonist was to become the victim of the very revolution that he also lowered from the chain