"By Jawve!" exclaimed Swinton. "It's that fellaw, Maynard. You
remember him, ladies? The fellaw who, at Newpawt, wan away after
gwosely insulting me, without giving me the oppawtunity of obtaining the
satisfaction of a gentleman?"
"Come, come, Mr Swinton," said Lucas, interposing. "I don't wish to
contradict you; but you'll excuse me for saying that he didn't exactly
run away. I think I ought to know."
The animus of Lucas's speech is easily explained. He had grown rather
hostile to Swinton. And no wonder. After pursuing the Fifth Avenue
heiress all through the Continental tour, and as he supposed with fair
prospect of success, he was once more in danger of being outdone by his
English rival, freshly returned to the field.
"My deaw Mr Lucas," responded Swinton, "that's all vewy twue. The
fellaw, as you say, wote me a lettaw, which did not weach me in proper
time. But that was no weason why he should have stolen away and left no
addwess faw me to find him."
"He didn't steal away," quietly rejoined Lucas.
"Well," said Swinton, "I won't argue the question. Not with you, my
deaw fwend, at all events--"
"What can it mean?" interposed Mrs Girdwood, noticing the ill feeling
between the suitors of Julia, and with the design of turning it off.
"Why have they arrested him? Can any one tell?"
"Pawhaps he has committed some kwime?" suggested Swinton.
"That's not likely, sir," sharply asserted Cornelia.
"Aw--aw. Well, Miss Inskip, I may be wong in calling it kwime. It's a
question of fwaseology; but I've been told that this Mr Maynard is one
of those wed wepublicans who would destwoy society, weligion, in shawt,
evewything. No doubt, he has been meddling heaw in Fwance, and that's
the cause of his being a pwisoner. At least I suppose so."
Julia had as yet said nothing. She was gazing after the arrested man,
who had ceased struggling against his captors, and was being hurried off
out of sight.
In the mind of the proud girl there was a thought Maynard might have
felt proud of inspiring. In that moment of his humiliation he knew not
that the most beautiful woman on the Boulevard had him in her heart with
a deep interest, and a sympathy for his misfortune--whatever it might
be. "Can nothing be done, mamma?"
"For what, Julia?"
"For him," and she pointed after Maynard. "Certainly not, my child.
Not by us. It is no affair of ours. He has got himself into some
trouble with the soldiers. Perhaps, as Mr Swinton says, political.
Let him get out of it as he can. I suppose he has his friends. Whether
or not, we can do nothing for him. Not even if we tried. How could
we--strangers like us?"
"Our Minister, mamma. You remember Captain Maynard has fought under the
American flag. He would be entitled to its protection. Shall we go the
Embassy?"
"We'll do nothing of the kind, silly girl. I tell you it's no affair of
ours. We shan't make or meddle with it. Come! let us return to the
hotel. These soldiers seem to be behaving strangely. We'd better get
out of their way. Look yonder! There are fresh troops of them pouring
into the streets, and talking angrily to the people?"
It was as Mrs Girdwood had said. From the side streets armed bands
were issuing, one after the other; while along the open Boulevard came
rolling artillery carriages, followed by their caissons, the horses
urged to furious speed by drivers who appeared drunk!
Here and there one dropped off, throwing itself into battery and
unlimbering as if for action. Before, or alongside them, galloped
squadrons of cavalry, lancers, cuirassiers, and conspicuously the
Chasseurs d'Afrique--fit tools selected for the task that was before
them.
All wore an air of angry excitement as men under the influence of
spirits taken to prepare them for some sanguinary purpose. It was
proclaimed by a string of watchwords passing occasionally between them,
"_Vive l'Empereur! Vive l'armee! A bas les canailles de deputes et
philosophes_!"
Each moment the turmoil increased, the crowd also augmenting from
streams pouring in by the side streets. Citizens became mingled with
the soldiery, and here and there could be heard angry shouts and
speeches of remonstrance.
All at once, and as if by a preconcerted signal, came the crisis. It
_was_ preconcerted, and by a signal only entrusted to the leaders.
A shot fired in the direction of the Madeleine from a gun of largest
calibre, boomed along the Boulevards, and went reverberating over all
Paris. It was distinctly heard in the distant Bastille, where the sham
barricades had been thrown up, and the sham-barricaders were listening
for it. It was quickly followed by another, heard in like manner.
Answering to it rose the shout, "_Vive l'Republique--Rouge et
Democratique_!"
But it was not heard for long. Almost instantaneously was it drowned by
the roar of cannon, and the rattling of musketry, mingled with the
imprecations of ruffians in uniform rushing along the street.
The fusillade commencing at the Bastille did not long stay there. It
was not intended that it should; nor was it to be confined to the _sans
culottes_ and _ouvriers_. Like a stream of fire--the ignited train of a
mine--it swept along the Boulevards, blazing and crackling as it went,
striking down before it man and woman blouse and bourgeoise, student and
shopkeeper, in short all who had gone forth for a promenade on that
awful afternoon. The sober husband with wife on one arm and child on
the other, the gay grisette with her student protector, the unsuspicious
stranger, lady or gentleman, were alike prostrated under that leaden
shower of death. People rushed screaming towards the doorways, or
attempted to escape through side streets. But here, too, they were met
by men in uniform. Chasseurs and Zouaves, who with foaming lips and
cheeks black from the biting of cartridges, drove them back before sabre
and bayonet, impaling them by scores, amidst hoarse shouts and fiendish
cachinnation, as of maniacs let forth to indulge in a wild saturnalia of
death!
And it continued till the pave was heaped with dead bodies, and the
gutters ran blood; till there was nothing more to kill, and cruelty
stayed its stroke for want of a victim!
A dread episode was that massacre of the Second of December striking
terror to the heart, not only of Paris, but France.