Some mischievous lad outside cast a club at the side window of the hall,
and the quartered arms of Ste. Luce, De Rohan, and their kin fell with
sharp, jangling notes on the floor and on the heads of the crowd.
"Halt, I say!" The voice rang out of the gloom, strong and commanding.
The marquis's sword was out. "Draw, my charming thief. _Morituri te
salutant_!"
"What?" cried Francois--"what is that?"
"Nothing. We are about to die; that is all. Let us send some couriers
to Hades. You should have gone away. Now you are about to die."
Francois drew his long rapier. He was strangely elated. "We are going
to die, Toto." The dog barked furiously. "Keep back!" cried his
master. Then he heard Pierre Despard's shrill voice cry out: "Surrender,
Citizen Ste. Luce, or it will be worse for thee." The mob screamed:
"Despard! Despard!" He was hustled forward, amid renewed shouts,
cries, crash of falling vases, and jangling clatter of broken glass.
The reluctant leader tried to keep near to the door. The mob was of
other mind. He was thrust through the press to the foot of the stair,
with cries of "Vive Despard! Vive Despard!" The people on the stair,
fearing no resistance, were pushed up, shouting, "_A bas les emigres!_"
"Now, then!" cried the marquis. "Get back there, dogs!" The two blades
shot out. A man fell; another, touched in the shoulder, screamed, and
leaped over the balustrade; the rest fell away, one man on another, with
shrieks and groans. Francois caught a lad climbing on the outside of
the gilded rail, and, with a laugh, threw him on the heads of those
below. A joy unknown before possessed the thief--the lust of battle, the
sense of competency. He took in the whole scene, heart, mind, and body
alive as never before.
"_Sang de St. Denis_! You are a gallant man. But we are lost. They
will be on our backs in a moment; I hear them." Amid a terrible din,
stones and sticks flew. A pebble struck the marquis in the face.
"_Dame!_" he cried, furious, and darted down a step or two, the quick
rapier mercilessly stabbing here and there. One madder than the rest
set a torch to a priceless tapestry. It flared up, lighting the great
space and the stair, and doing in the end no harm. Despard, terrified,
was pushed forward to the edge of the fallen bodies on the staircase.
"Surrender!" he called out in a shriek of fear, for here before him were
the two men he most dreaded on earth. The noise was indescribable. The
butcher beat with the iron gauntlet on a shield beside him; then he
threw the steel glove at Francois. It flew high. There was a cry from
the space behind. The little boy screamed shrilly, "They have killed my
mama!"
Francois looked behind him. There was now light enough, and too much.
He saw the woman lying, a convulsed, tumbled heap, on the stair. The
marquis glanced behind him, and lost his cool quietude. He ran down the
stair, stabbing furiously. A half-dozen dead and wounded lay before
him. In an instant he was back again beside Francois, his face bleeding
from the stones and sticks thrown at him. Francois was standing, tall
and terrible in his anger, a pistol in his hand.
"Shall I kill him, monsieur?"
"By Heaven, yes!"
The pistol resounded terribly in the vaulted space, and the brute who
had thrown the gauntlet, swaying, screamed shrilly, and tumbled--dead.
"Give me your hand!" cried the marquis. "Thank you, monsieur; the devil
hath a recruit. Now follow me. Let us kill and die. To hell with this
rabble!"
"Wait," cried Francois, and, running down the steps, put out a long arm
and caught Despard. He hauled him savagely after him, calling out,
"Hold the stair a moment!" In an instant he was on the landing above,
with his prey. His sword he let fall, and set a pistol to Despard's
head. The terror of the trapped Jacobin was pitiful. He prayed for
life. He would let them all go; he would--he would. Francois swung him
round to face the suddenly silenced mob. "Keep still, or I will scatter
your brains, fool! Tell them to go! Tell them to go, or, _sang de
Dieu!_ thou art a dead man!"