Taking the Bastile; Or, Pitou the Peasant

by Alexandre Dumas

  CHAPTER VII.

  THE FIRST BLOOD.

  Night was thickening as the two travelers reached La Villette, a suburbof Paris. A great flame rose before them. Billet pointed out the ruddyglare.

  "They are troops camping out," said Pitou; "Can't you see that, andthey have lighted campfires. Here are some, so that there may naturallybe more over yonder."

  Indeed, on attentively looking on the right, Father Billet saw blackdetachments marching noiselessly in the shadow of St. Denis Plain,horse and foot. Their weapons glimmered in the pale starry light.

  Accustomed to see in the dark from his night roaming in the woods,Pitou pointed out to his master cannon mired to the hubs in the swampyfields.

  "Ho, ho," muttered Billet: "something new is going on here. Look at thesparks yonder. Make haste, my lad."

  "Yes, it is a house a-fire. See the sparks fly," added the younger man.

  Maggie stopped; the rider jumped off upon the pavement and going up toa group of soldiers in blue and yellow uniforms, bivouacking under theroadside trees, asked:

  "Comrades, can you tell me what is the matter in Paris?"

  The soldiers merely replied with some German oaths.

  "What the deuce do they say?" queried Billet of his brother peasant.

  "All I can tell is that it is not Latin," replied the youth, tremblinggreatly.

  "I was a fool to apply to the _Kaiserlicks_ (_Kaiserlich_, ImperialAustrian grenadiers)?" muttered Billet, in his curiosity still standingin the middle of the road.

  "Bass on mit your vay," said an officer, stepping up; "Und bass brettytam queeck, doo!"

  "Excuse me, captain," said the farmer, "but I want to go into Paris."

  "Vat next?"

  "As I see you are between me and the turnpike bars, I feared I wouldnot be let go by."

  "Yah, you gan by go."

  Remounting, Billet indeed got on. But it was only to run in among theBercheny Hussars, swarming in La Villette. This time, as they were hisown countrymen, he got along better.

  "Please, what is the news from Paris?" he asked.

  "Why, it's your crazy Parisians, who want their Necker, and fire theirguns off at us, as if we had anything to do with the matter." Soreplied a hussar.

  "What Necker? have they lost him?" questioned Billet.

  "Certainly, the King has turned him out of office."

  "That great man turned out?" said the farmer with the stupor of apriest who hears of a sacrilege.

  "More than that, he is on the way to Brussels at present."

  "Then it is a joke we shall hear some laughing over," cried Billet ina terrible voice, without thinking of the danger he ran in preachinginsurrection amid twelve or fifteen thousand royalist sabres.

  Remounting Maggie, he drove her with cruel digs of the heel up tothe bars. As he advanced he saw the fire more plainly; a long columnrose from the spot to the sky. It was the barrier that was burning. Ahowling and furious mob with women intermixed, yelling and capering asusual more excitedly than the men, fed the flames with pieces of thebars, the clerk's office and the custom-house officers' property.

  On the road, Hungarian and German regiments looked on at thedevastation, with their muskets grounded, without blinking.

  Billet did not let the rampart of flame stop him: but urged Maggiethrough smoke and fire. She bravely burst through the incandescentbarrier; but on the other side was a compact crowd stretching from theouter town to the heart of the city, some singing, some shouting:

  "To arms!"

  Billet looked what he was, a good farmer coming to town on hisbusiness. Perhaps he roared "Make way there!" too roughly, but Pitoutempered it with so polite a "Make way, if you please!" that one appealcorrected the other. Nobody had any interest in staying Billet inattending to his business and they let him go through.

  Maggie had recovered her strength from the fire having singed her hideand all this unusual clamor worried her. Billet was obliged to hold herin now, in the fear of crushing the idlers classed before the town gateand the others who were as curiously running from the gates to the bars.

  Somehow or other they pushed on, till they reached the boulevard, wherethey were forced to stop.

  A procession was marching from the Bastile to the Royal FurnitureStores, the two stone knots binding the enclosure of Paris to itsgirth. This broad column followed a funeral barrow on which were placedtwo busts, one covered with crape, the other with flowers; the one inmourning was Necker's, the Prime Minister and eminently the Treasurer,dismissed but not disgraced; the flower-crowned bust was the Duke ofOrleans', who had openly taken the Swiss financier's part.

  Billet, asking, learned that this was popular homage to the banker andhis defender.

  The farmer was born in a country where the Orleans family had beenvenerated for a century and more. He belonged to the Philosophical sectand consequently regarded Necker not only as a great minister but anapostle of humanity.

  There was ample to fire him. He jumped off his horse without clearlyknowing what he was about and mingled with the throng, yelling:

  "Long live the Duke of Orleans! Necker forever!"

  Once a man mixes with a mob his individual liberty disappears. He wasthe more easily carried on as he was at the head of the party.

  As they kept up the shouting, "Long live Necker--no more foreigntroops--down with the outlandish cutthroats!" he added his lusty voiceto the others.

  Any superiority is always appreciated by the masses. The shrill, weakvoice of the Parisian, spoilt by wine bibbing or want of proper food,was nowhere beside the countryman's fresh, full and sonorous roar, sothat without too much jostling, shoving and knocking about, Billetfinally reached the litter.

  In another ten minutes, one of the bearers, whose enthusiasm had beentoo great for his strength, gave up his place to him.

  Billet, you will observe, had got on.

  Only the propagator of Gilbert's doctrines a day before, he was now oneof the instruments in the triumph of Necker and the Duke of Orleans.

  But he had hardly arrived at his post than he thought of Pitou and theborrowed horse. What had become of them?

  While nearing the litter, Billet looked and, through the flare of thetorches accompanying the turn-out, and by the lamps illumining all thehouse windows, he beheld a kind of walking platform formed of half adozen men shouting and waving their arms. In the midst it was easy todiscern Pitou and his long arms.

  He did what he could to defend Maggie, but spite of all the horse wasstormed and was carrying all who could clamber on her back and hang onto the harness and her tail. In the enlarging darkness she resembledan elephant loaded with hunters going for the tiger. Her vast neck hadthree or four fellows established on it, howling: "Three cheers forOrleans and Necker--down with the foreigners!"

  To which Pitou answered: "All right, but you will smother Maggie amongye."

  The intoxication was general.

  For an instant Billet thought of carrying help to his friend and horsebut he reflected that he would probably lose the honor of bearing thelitter forever if he gave it up; he bethought him also of the bargainmade with Lefranc about swapping the horses, and anyhow, if the worsthappened, he was rich enough to sacrifice the price of a horse on thealtar of his country.

  Meanwhile the procession made way: turning to the left it went downMontmarte Street to Victoires Place. Reaching the Palais Royale, agreat throng prevented its passing on, a number of men with greenleaves stuck in their hats who were halloaing:

  "To arms!"

  Were these friends or foes? Why green cockades, green being the colorof Count Artois, the King's youngest brother?

  After a brief parley all was explained.

  On hearing of Necker's removal from office, a young man had rushed outof the Foy Coffeehouse, jumped on a table in the Palais Royale Gardens,and flourishing a pistol, shouted:

  "To arms!"

  All the loungers in the public strolling grounds took up the call.

  All the foreign
regiments in the French army were gathered roundthe capital. It looked like an Austrian invasion, as the regimentalnames grated on French ears. Their utterance explained the fear in themasses. The young man named them and said that the Swiss troops, campedin the Champs Elysees, with four field pieces, were going to march intothe city that night, with Prince Lambesq's Dragoons to clear the way.He proposed that the town defender should wear an emblem different fromtheirs and, plucking a horse-chestnut leaf, stuck it in his hat. Allthe beholders instantly imitated him so that the three thousand personsstripped the Palais Royale trees in a twinkling.

  In the morning the young man's name was unknown but it was celebratedthat night; it was Camille Desmoulins.

  Men recognized one another in the crowd, shook hands in token ofbrotherhood and all joined in with the procession.

  At Richelieu Street corner Billet looked back and saw the disappearanceof Maggie; the increase of curiosity during the halt was such that morehad been added to the poor animal's burden and she had sunk under thesurcharge.

  The farmer sighed. Then collecting his powers, he called out to Pitouthree times like the ancient Romans at the funeral of their king; hefancied a voice made reply out of the bowels of the earth but it wasdrowned in the confused uproar, ascending to heaven partly cheers andpartly threatening.

  Still the train proceeded. All the stores were closed; but all windowswere open, and thence fell encouragement on the marchers farther tofrenzy them.

  At Vendome Square, an unforeseen obstacle checked the march.

  Like the logs rolling in a freshet which strike up against the piles ofa bridge and rebound, the leaders recoiled from a detachment of a RoyalGerman Regiment. These were dragoons, who, seeing the mob surge intothe square from St. Honore Street, relaxed the reins of their chargers,impatient at having been curbed since five o'clock, and they dashed onthe people at full speed.

  The bearers of the litter received the first shock, and were knockeddown when it was overthrown. A Savoyard, before Billet, was the firstto rise. He picked up the effigy of Prince Orleans, and fixing it onthe top of his walking stick, waved it above his head, crying: "Longlive the Duke of Orleans!" whom he had never seen, and "Hurrah forNecker!" whom he did not know from Adam.

  Billet was going to do the same with Necker's bust, but he wasforestalled. A young dandy in elegant attire had been watching it,the easier for him than Billet as he was not burdened with the barrowpoles, and he sprang for it the moment it reached the ground.

  Up it went on the point of a pike, and, set close to the other, servedas rallying-point for the scattered processionists.

  Suddenly a flash lit up the square. At the same instant bang went thereport, and the bullets whistled. Something heavy struck Billet inthe forehead so that he fell, believing that he was killed. But as hedid not lose his senses, and felt no hurt except pain in the head, heunderstood that at the worst he was merely wounded. He slapped his handto his brow and perceived it was but a bump there, though his palm wassmeared with blood.

  The well-dressed stripling in front of the farmer had been shot in thebreast; it was he who was slain and his blood that had splashed Billet.The shock the latter felt was from Necker's bust, falling from want ofa holder, on the farmer's head.

  He uttered a shout, half rage, half horror.

  He sprang aloof from the youth, writhing in the death-gasp. Thosearound fell back in like manner, and the yell which he gave, repeatedby the multitude, was prolonged in funeral echoes to the last groups inSt. Honore Street.

  This shout was a new proof of revolt. A second volley was heard: anddeep gaps in the throng showed where the projectiles had passed.

  What indignation inspired in Billet, and what he did in the gush ofenthusiasm, was to pick up the blood-spattered bust, wave it over hishead, and cheer with his fine manly voice in protest at the risk ofbeing killed like the patriotic fop dead at his feet.

  But instantly a large and vigorous hand came down on the farmer'sshoulder and so pressed him that he had to bow to the weight. He triedto wrest himself from the grasp, but another fist, quite as strong andheavy, fell on his other shoulder. He turned, growling, to learn whatkind of antagonist was this.

  "Pitou?" he cried.

  "I am your man--but stop a little and you will see why."

  Redoubling his efforts he brought the resisting man to his kneesand flat on his face. Scarcely was this done than a second volleythundered. The Savoyard bearing the Orleans bust came down in his turn,hit by a ball in the thigh.

  Then they heard iron on the paving stones--the dragoons charged for thesecond time. One horse, furious and shaking his mane like the steed inthe Apocalypse, jumped over the unhappy Savoyard, who felt the chill ofa lance piercing his chest as he fell on Billet and Pitou.

  The whirlwind rushed to the end of the street, where it engulfed itselfin terror and death! Nothing but corpses strewed the ground. All fledby the adjacent streets. The windows banged to. A lugubrious silencesucceeded the cheers and the roars of rage.

  For an instant Billet waited, held by the prudent peasant; then,feeling that the danger went farther away, he rose on one knee whilethe other, like the hare in her form, pricked up his ear only withoutraising his head.

  "I believe you are right, Master," said the young man; "we have arrivedwhile the soup is hot."

  "Lend me a hand."

  "To help you out of this?"

  "No: the young exquisite is dead, but the Savoyard is only in a swoon,I reckon. Help me get him on my back. We cannot leave so plucky afellow here to be butchered by these cursed troopers."

  Billet used language going straight to Pitou's heart; he had no answerbut to obey. He took up the warm and bleeding body and loaded it likea bag of meal on to the robust farmer's back. Seeing St. Honore Streetlooked clear and deserted, he took that road to the Palais Royale withhis man.