by Eugène Sue
“To arms!” “Vengeance!”
Exclamations of horror kept chorus with the cries. Women, who, attracted by the noise, looked out of their windows, recoiled with horror as if anxious to escape the sight of some frightful vision.
Their hearts gripped with apprehension, and drops of sweat standing out upon their foreheads, the linendraper and his son realized that some horrible spectacle was approaching, and remained motionless upon their threshold.
Finally the procession hove in sight.
An innumerable mass of men in blouses, in bourgeois dress and also in the uniform of the National Guard, and brandishing guns, swords, knives and sticks, preceded a cart, that was slowly drawn by a horse, and that was surrounded by a number of men bearing torches.
In the cart lay heaped up a mass of corpses.
A tall man with a scarlet hat on his head, naked from the waist up, and his breast bleeding from a recent wound, stood erect in the front part of the cart, carrying aloft a burning flambeau, which he waved to right and left.
He might have been taken for the genius of Vengeance and of Revolution.
At each movement of his flambeau, he lighted with a ruddy glare to the left of him the bloodstained head of an old man, to the right the bust of a woman whose arms, like her bleeding head, half veiled by her disheveled hair, dangled down over the edge of the cart.
From time to time the man with the scarlet hat waved his torch and cried out in stentorian tones:
“They are butchering our brothers! Vengeance! To the barricades! To arms!”
And thousands of voices, trembling with indignation and rage, repeated:
“Vengeance! To the barricades! To arms!”
Whereupon thousands of arms, some equipped with weapons, others not, rose up toward the somber and threatening sky as if to take it to witness of the vengeful pledges.
In the meantime the exasperated mob that the funeral procession recruited in its passage went steadily on increasing. It passed as a bloody vision before the linendraper and his son. So painful was the first impression of both that they could not utter a word. Their eyes swam in tears at learning that the butchery of inoffensive and unarmed people had taken place upon the Boulevard of the Capuchins.
Hardly had the cart of corpses disappeared when Lebrenn seized one of the iron bars, used to fasten the shop window from within, brandished it over his head, and cried out to the indignant mass of people who were trooping by:
“Friends! Royalty throws us the gage of battle by butchering our brothers! Let the blood of the victims fall upon the head of that accursed royalty! To the barricades! Long live the Republic!”
Immediately the merchant and his son tore up the first paving stones. The man’s words and example produced a magic effect. From a thousand throats the answer came back:
“To arms! To the barricades! Long live the Republic!”
The next moment the people had invaded the neighboring houses, everywhere demanding arms, and levers and crowbars to tear up the pavement. Soon as the first row of cobblestones was removed, those who had neither iron bars, nor sticks, pulled up the pavement with their bare hands and nails.
Monsieur Lebrenn and his son were hard at work raising the barricade a few paces above their door when they were joined by George Duchene, the young carpenter, who arrived in the company of a score of armed men, the members of a demi-section of the secret society with which they, together with the linendraper, were affiliated.
Among these new recruits were the barrowman and the two truckmen who had brought the arms and munitions to the shop in the course of the afternoon. Dupont, who had driven the truck, was a mechanic; of the other two, one was a man of letters, the other an eminent scientist.
George Duchene approached Lebrenn as the latter, having stopped working on the barricade for a moment, stood at the door of his shop distributing arms and ammunition among the men of his own quarter upon whom he felt sure he could rely, while Gildas, the previous poltroonery of whom had been transformed into heroism from the instant the sinister cart of corpses passed before him, emerged from the cellar with several baskets of wine, which he poured out to the men at work at the barricade, to steel them to their task.
Clad in his blouse, George carried a carbine in his hand and a bunch of cartridges tied up in a handkerchief hanging from his belt. He said to the merchant:
“I did not arrive earlier, Monsieur Lebrenn, because we had to cross a large number of barricades. They are rising on all sides. I left Caussidiere and Sobrier behind — they are making ready to march upon the Prefecture; Lesserre, Lagrange, Etienne Arago are, at the earliest dawn, to march upon the Tuileries, and barricade Richelieu Street. Our other friends distributed themselves in various quarters.”
“And the troops, George?”
“Several regiments fraternize with the National Guard and the people, and join in the shouts of ‘Long live the Reform!’ ‘Down with Louis Philippe!’ On the other hand, the Municipal Guard and two or three regiments of the line show themselves hostile to the movement.”
“Poor soldiers!” observed the merchant sadly. “They, like ourselves, are under the identical and fatal spell that arms brothers against one another. Well, let us hope this struggle will be the last. And your grandfather, George; did you succeed in making him feel at ease?”
“Yes, monsieur; I just come from him. Despite his great age and weakness, he wanted to accompany me. I finally managed to induce him to stay indoors.”
“My wife and daughter are yonder,” said the merchant, pointing toward the lattices on the first floor, through which the gleam of a lighted lamp could be seen. “They are busy preparing bandages and lint for the wounded. We shall set up a hospital in the shop.”
Suddenly the cry: “Stop thief!” “Stop thief!” resounded in the middle of the road, and a man who was running away as fast as his legs could carry him was seized by four or five workingmen in blouses and armed with guns. Among these a ragpicker with a long white beard, but still strong, was conspicuous. His clothes were in tatters, and, although he carried a musket under his arm he did not remove his pack from his shoulder. He was one of the first to seize the runaway, and now held him firmly by the collar, while a woman, running toward the group and panting for breath, cried:
“Stop thief! Stop thief!”
“Did this fellow rob you, my good woman?” asked the ragpicker.
“Yes, my good man,” she answered. “I was standing at my door. This man ran up and said to me: ‘The people are rising; we must have arms.’ ‘Monsieur, I haven’t any,’ I answered him. Thereupon he pushed me aside and went into my shop, despite all I could do, saying: ‘Well, if you have no arms, I shall take money to buy some.’ So saying, he opened my till, took out of it thirty-two francs that I had there, and a gold watch. I tried to hold him, but he drew a knife upon me — fortunately I parried the blow with my hand — here, see the cut I got. I cried for help, and he fled!”
The culprit was a good sized, robust, and well clad man, but of ignoble countenance. Hardened vice had left its indelible impress upon his wasted features.
“It is not true! I stole nothing!” he cried in a husky voice, struggling to avoid being searched. “Let me go! What does it concern you, anyhow?”
“That may concern us considerably, my young fellow!” answered the ragpicker, holding firm to his collar. “You stabbed this poor woman after robbing her of her money and a watch in the name of the people. Keep still! This demands an explanation.”
“Here is the watch, for one thing,” said a workingman after searching the thief.
“Can you identify it, madam?”
“I should think so, monsieur! It is old and heavy.”
“Correct!” replied the workingman. “Here it is, madam.”
“And in his vest,” said another workingman after searching another of the thief’s pockets, “six hundred-sou pieces and one forty-sou piece.”
“My thirty-two francs!” cried the tradeswoman. “T
hank you, my dear men, thank you!”
“That part being settled, my young fellow, you must now settle scores with us,” proceeded the ragpicker. “You stole and meant to commit murder in the name of the people, did you not? Answer!”
“What is all this pother about, my friends, are we engaged in a revolution, or are we not?” answered the thief in a hoarse voice and affecting a cynical laugh. “Well, then, let us break into the money boxes!”
“Is that what you understand by a revolution?” asked the ragpicker. “To break into the money boxes?”
“Well?”
“Accordingly, you believe the people rise in revolt for the purpose of stealing — brigand that you are?”
“What other purpose have you, then, in insurrecting, you pack of hypocrites? Is it, perhaps, for honor’s sake?” replied the thief brazenly.
The group of armed men, the ragpicker excepted, who stood around the thief, consulted for a moment in a low voice. One of them, noticing the door of a grocery store standing ajar went thither; two others went in another direction, saying:
“I think we would better tell Monsieur Lebrenn of this affair, and ask his opinion.”
Still a fourth whispered a few words in the ear of the ragpicker, who answered:
“I think so, too. It would be no more than he deserves. It may be a wholesome example. But while we wait, send me Flameche to help me mount guard over this bad Parisian.”
“Halloa, Flameche!” called a voice. “Come and help father Bribri hold a thief.”
Flameche ran to the ragpicker. He was a true Parisian gamin. Wan, frail, wasted away by want, the lad, who was gifted with an intelligent and bold face, was sixteen years of age, but looked only twelve. He wore a dilapidated pair of trousers, and old shoes to match, and a blue sack coat that hung in shreds from his shoulders; for weapon he carried a saddle-pistol. Flameche arrived jumping and leaping.
“Flameche,” said the ragpicker, “is your pistol loaded?”
“Yes, father Bribri. It is loaded with two marbles, three nails and a knuckle-bone — I rammed all my toggery into it.”
“That will do to settle the gentleman if he but budges. Listen, my friend Flameche — finger on trigger, and barrel in vest.”
“’Tis done, father Bribri.”
With these words Flameche neatly inserted the muzzle of his pistol between the shirt and the skin of the thief. Seeing that the latter tried to resist, Flameche added:
“Don’t fidget; don’t fidget; if you do you may cause Azor to go off.”
“Flameche means his dog of a pistol,” added father Bribri by way of translation.
“Frauds that you are!” cried the thief, carefully abstaining from moving, but beginning to tremble, although he made an effort to smile. “What do you propose to do? Come, now, be done with your fooling! I have had enough of it.”
“Wait a minute!” interjected the ragpicker. “Let us converse a spell. You asked me why we are in insurrection. I shall satisfy your curiosity. First of all, it is not to break into money boxes and loot shops. Mercy! A shop is to a merchant what a sack is to me. Each to his trade and his tools. We are in insurrection, my young fellow, because it annoys us to see old folks like myself die of hunger on the street like a stray dog when our strength to work is no more. We are in insurrection, my young fellow, because it is a torment to us to hear ourselves repeat the fact that, out of every hundred young girls who walk the streets at night, ninety-five are driven thereto by misery. We are in insurrection, my young fellow, because it riles us to see thousands of ragamuffins like Flameche, children of the Paris pavements, without hearth or home, father or mother, abandoned to the mercy of the devil, and exposed to become, some day or other, out of lack for a crust of bread, thieves and assassins, like yourself, my young fellow!”
“You need not fear, father Bribri,” put in Flameche; “you need not fear — I shall never need to steal. I help you and other traders in old duds to pack your sacks and dispose of your pickings. I treat myself to the best that the dogs have left over. I make my burrow in your bundle of old clothes, and sleep there like a dormouse. No fear, I tell you, father Bribri, I need not steal. As to me, when I insurrect, by the honor of my name! it is because it finally rasps upon me not to be allowed to angle for red fish in the large pond of the Tuileries — and I have made up my mind, in case we come out victors, to fish myself to death. Each one after his own fancy. Long live the Reform! Down with Louis Philippe!”
And turning to the thief who, seeing the five or six armed workingmen coming back, made an effort to slip away:
“Do not budge, mister! Or, if you do, I shall let Azor loose upon you.” Saying which he tightened his finger again on the trigger of his pistol.
“But what is it you have in mind to do with me?” cried the thief, turning pale at the sight of three of the workingmen, who were getting their guns ready, while another, coming out of the grocery that he had just before stepped into, brought with him a poster made of brown paper on which some lettering had been freshly traced with a brush dipped in blacking.
A dismal presentiment assailed the thief. He straggled to disengage himself and cried out:
“If you charge me with theft — take me before the magistrate.”
“Can not be done. The magistrate is just engaged marrying his daughter,” explained father Bribri calmly. “He is now at the wedding.”
“Besides, he has the toothache,” added Flameche; “he is at the dentist’s.”
“Take the thief to the lamp-post,” said a voice.
“I tell you that I demand to be taken to the magistrate!” repeated the wretch, struggling violently to free himself, and he began to shout:
“Help! Help!”
“If you can read, read this,” said one of the workingmen, holding up the poster before the thief. “If you can not read, I shall read it for you:
“SHOT AS A THIEF.”
“Shot?” stammered the fellow growing livid. “Shot? Mercy! Help! Assassins! Murder! Watchmen, murder!”
“An example must be set for the likes of you, in order that they may not dishonor the Revolution!” explained father Bribri.
“Now, down on your knees, you scoundrel!” ordered a blacksmith who still had his leathern apron on. “And all of you, my friends, get your guns ready! Down on your knees!” he repeated to the thief, throwing him down on the ground.
The wretch sank upon his knees in a state of such utter collapse and terror that, crouching upon the pavement, he could only extend his hands and mutter in an almost inaudible voice:
“Oh, mercy! Not death!”
“You fear death! Wait, I shall bandage your eyes,” said the ragpicker.
And letting down his sack from his shoulders, father Bribri took a large piece of cloth out of it and threw it over the condemned man who, on his knees and gathered into a lump, was almost wholly covered therewith. Soon as that was done, the ragpicker stepped quickly back.
Three shots were fired at once.
Popular justice was done.
A few minutes later, fastened under his arms to the lamp-post, the corpse of the bandit swung to the night breeze with the poster attached to his clothes:
“Shot as a thief.”
CHAPTER X.
ON THE BARRICADE.
SHORTLY AFTER THE execution of the thief day began to dawn.
Presently the men who were stationed on the lookout at the corners of the streets in the neighborhood of the barricade, that now reached almost as high as the first story windows of the linendraper’s house, were seen falling back; after firing their pieces, they cried out “To arms!”
Almost immediately after, the drums, silent until then, were heard to beat the charge, and two companies of the Municipal Guards turned in from a side street and marched resolutely upon the barricade. Instantaneously the interior of the improvised fortress was filled with defenders.
Monsieur Lebrenn, his son, George Duchene and their friends took their posts and held their
guns in readiness.
Father Bribri, who was a great lover of tobacco, foreseeing that he might soon not have leisure to take his pinch of snuff, inhaled a last load out of his pouch, seized his musket and knelt down in front of a species of loophole that was contrived between several cobblestones, while Flameche, pistol in hand, climbed up the ledges like a cat, in order to reach the summit of the barricade.
“Will you come down, you imp, and not make a target of your nose!” cried out the ragpicker, pulling Flameche by the leg. “You will be shot to dust.”
“No fear, father Bribri!” replied Flameche, tugging away, and finally succeeding in slipping from the old man’s grip. “This is gratis — I wish to treat myself to a first salvo, face to face — and have a good look at things.”
And raising half his body above the barricade, Flameche stuck out his tongue to the Municipal Guard, which was approaching at the double quick.
Addressing the combatants who surrounded him, Monsieur Lebrenn said:
“Those soldiers are, after all, our brothers. Let us make one last attempt to avoid the effusion of blood.”
“You are right — try again, Monsieur Lebrenn,” came from the bare-armed blacksmith as he flipped the stock of his gun with his nail; “but it will be love’s labor lost — as you will see.”
The merchant climbed to the top of the heap of cobblestones. Standing there, with one hand resting upon his gun, and waving a handkerchief with the other, he signalled to the approaching soldiers that he wished to speak to them.
The drums of the detachment ceased beating, rolled the order for silence, and all listened.
At one of the windows on the first floor of the merchant’s house his wife and daughter stood partly concealed behind the blinds, which they had slightly opened. They stood side by side, holding their breath, pale, but calm and resolute. They did not remove their eyes from Lebrenn as he was addressing the soldiers with his son — who had closely followed his father up the barricade in order, if necessary, to cover him with his own body — standing beside him, gun in hand. George Duchene was about to join the two when he suddenly felt himself violently plucked back by his blouse.
