So little impression had Merl's gloomy forebodings made upon Captain
Martin, that he actually forgot everything that this shrewd gentleman
predicted, and only partially recalled them when the conversation the
next morning at the Club turned on the disturbed state of the capital.
People in “society” find it excessively difficult to believe in anything
like an organized opposition to the authorities of a government. They
are so accustomed to hear of street assemblages being scattered by a few
soldiers, mobs routed by a handful of mounted policemen, that they are
slow to imagine how any formidable movement can take its rise in such a
source. But the maladies of states, like those of the human frame,
are often mere trifles in their origin; chance, and the concurrence of
events swell their importance, till they assume an aspect of perhaps
greater menace than they deserve. This is essentially the case in
revolutionary struggles, where, at the outset, none ever contemplates
the extent to which the mischief may reach. The proclamation of the
“Ordinances,” as they were called, had produced a great excitement
in Paris. Groups of men in every street were gathered around some one
reading aloud the violent commentaries of the public papers; thoughtful
and stern faces were met at every corner; a look of expectancy--an
expression that seemed to say, What next?--was perceptible on all sides.
Many of the shops were half closed, and in some the objects of great
value were withdrawn to places of greater security. It was clear to see
that men apprehended some great crisis; but whence it should come, or by
whose instrumentality promoted, none seemed able to guess. Now and then
a mounted orderly would ride by at a smart trot, or a patrol party
of dragoons dash past; and the significant glance that followed them
indicated how full of meaning these signs appeared.
The day passed in this state of anxious uncertainty; and although the
journals discussed the condition of the capital as full of danger and
menace, an ostentatious announcement in the “Moniteur” proclaimed Paris
to be tranquil. In society--at least in the world of fashion and high
life--there were very few who would have disputed the official despatch.
“Who and what were they who could dispute the King's Government? Who and
where were there either leaders or followers? In what way should they
attempt it? The troops in and around Paris numbered something over forty
thousand, commanded by an old Marshal of the Empire, now the trustiest
adherent of royalty. The days of Mirabeaus and Robespierres and Dantons
had passed away; nor were these times in which men would like to recall
the reigns of terror and the guillotine.” So they reasoned--or, if the
phrase be too strong, so they talked--who lounged on soft-cushioned
ottomans, or moved listlessly over luxurious carpets; all agreeing that
it would be treasonable in the Ministers to retreat or abate one jot of
the high prerogative of the Crown. Powdered heads shook significantly,
and gold-embroidered vests heaved indignantly at the bare thought that
the old spirit of '95 should have survived amongst them; but not one
dreamed that the event boded seriously, or that the destinies of a great
nation were then in the balance.
It is but five-and-twenty years ago; and how much more have we learned
of the manufacture of revolutions in the interval! Barricades and street
warfare have become a science, and the amount of resistance a half-armed
populace can offer to a regular force is as much a matter of certainty
as a mathematical theorem. At that period, however, men were but in
the infancy of this knowledge; the traditions of the Great Revolution
scarcely were remembered, and, for the most part, they were
inapplicable.
What wonder, then, if people in society smiled scornfully at the
purposeless masses that occasionally moved past beneath their windows,
shouting with discordant voices some fragments of the “Marseillaise,”
or, as they approached the residence of any in authority, venturing
on the more daring cry of “Down with the Ordinances!” The same tone of
haughty contempt pervaded the “Club.” Young men of fashion, little given
to the cares of political life, and really indifferent to the action of
laws which never invaded the privileges of the play-table, or curtailed
one prerogative of the “Coulisses,” felt an angry impatience at all the
turbulence and riot of the public streets.
In a magnificently furnished salon of the Club a number of these young
men were now assembled. Gathered from every nation of Europe,--many of
them bearing names of high historical interest,--they were, so far as
dress, air, and appearance went, no ignoble representatives of the
class they belonged to. The proud and haughty Spaniard, the fierce-eyed,
daring-looking Pole, the pale, intellectual-faced Italian, the courteous
Russian, and the fair-haired, stalwart Saxon were all there; and,
however dissimilar in type, banded together by the magic influence of
the “set” they moved in, to an almost perfect uniformity of sentiment
and opinion.
“I vote that any man be fined ten Louis that alludes, however remotely,
to this confounded question again,” cried Count Gardoni, rising
impatiently from his chair and approaching a card-table.
“And I second you!” exclaimed a Polish prince, with a Russian decoration
at his button-hole.
“Carried _nem. con._” said Captain Martin, seating himself at the
play-table. “And now for the 'Lansquenet.'” And in a moment every seat
was occupied, and purses of gold and pocket-books of bank-notes were
strewed over the board. They were all men who played high; and the game
soon assumed the grave character that so invariably accompanies large
wagers. Wonderfully little passed, except the terms of the game itself.
Gambling is a jealous passion, and never admits its votaries to wander
in their attention. And now large sums passed from hand to hand, and all
the passions of hope and fear racked heads and hearts around, while a
decorous silence prevailed; or, when broken, some softly toned voice
alone interrupted the stillness.
“Are you going, Martin?” whispered the young French Count de Nevers, as
the other moved noiselessly back from the table.
“It is high time, I think,” said Martin; “this is my seventeenth night
of losing,--losing heavily, too. I'm sick of it!”
“Here 's a chance for you, Martin,” said a Russian prince, who had just
assumed “the bank.” “You shall have your choice of color, and your own
stake.”
“Thanks; but I'll not be tempted.”
“I say red, and a thousand francs,” cried a Neapolitan.
“There 's heavier play outside, I suspect,” said Martin, as a wild,
hoarse shout from the streets re-echoed through the room.
“A fine,--a fine,--Martin is fined!” cried several around the table.
“You have n't left me wherewithal to pay it, gentlemen,” said he,
laughing. “I was just about to retire, a bankrupt, into private life.”
“That's platoon fire,” exclaimed the Pole, as the loud detonation of
small arms seemed to shake the very room.
“Czernavitz also fined,” cried two together.
“I bow in submission to the Court,” said the Pole, throwing down the
money on the table.
“Lend _me_ as much more,” said Martin; “it may change my luck.” And with
this gambler's philosophy, he again drew nigh the table.
This slight interruption over, the game proceeded as before. Martin,
however, was now a winner, every wager succeeding, and every bet he made
a gain.
“There's nothing like a dogged persistence,” said the Russian. “Fortune
never turns her back on him who shows constancy. See Martin, now; by
that very resolution he has conquered, and here we are, all cleared
out!”
“I am, for one,” cried an Italian, flinging his empty purse on the
table.
“There's my last Louis,” said Nevers. “I reserve it to pay for my
supper.”
“Martin shall treat us all to supper!” exclaimed another.
“Where shall it be, then?” said Martin; “here, or at my own quarters?”
“Here, by all means,” cried some.
“I 'm for the Place Vendôme,” said the Pole, “for who knows but we shall
catch a glimpse of that beautiful girl, Martin's 'Belle Irlandaise.'”
“I saw her to-night,” said the Italian, “and I own she _is_ all you say.
She was speaking to Villemart, and I assure you the old Minister won't
forget it in a hurry. Something or other he said about the noise in the
street drew from him the word _canaille_. She turned round at once and
attacked him. He replied, and the controversy grew warm; so much so,
that many gathered around them to listen, amongst whom I saw the Duc
de Guiche, Prince du Saulx, and the Austrian Minister. Nothing could be
more perfect than her manner,--calm, without any effrontery; assured,
and yet no sacrifice of delicacy. It was easy to see, too, that the
theme was not one into which she stumbled by an accident; she knew every
event of the Great Revolution, and used the knowledge with consummate
skill, and, but for one slip, with consummate temper also.
“What was the slip you allude to?” cried the Russian.
“It was when Villemart, after a boastful enumeration of the superior
merits of his order, called them the 'Enlighteners of the People.'
“'You played that part on one occasion,' said she; 'but I scarcely
thought you 'd like to refer to it.'
“'How so? When do you mean?' asked he.
“'When they hung you to the lanterns,' said she, with the energy of
a tigress in her look. Pardié! at that moment I never saw anything so
beautiful or so terrible.”
A loud uproar in the street without, in which the sound of troop-horses
passaging to and fro could be distinguished, now interrupted the
colloquy. As the noise increased, a low, deep roar, like the sound of
distant thunder, could be heard, and the Pole cried out,--“Messieurs les
Sans-culottes, I strongly advise you to turn homewards, for, if I be not
much mistaken, here comes the artillery.”
“The affair may turn out a serious one, after all,” broke in the
Italian.
“A serious one!” echoed the Pole, scornfully. “How can it? Forty
battalions of infantry, ten thousand sabres, and eight batteries; are
they not enough, think you, to rout this contemptible herd of street
rioters?”
“There--listen! It has begun already!” exclaimed Martin, as the sharp
report of fire-arms, quite close to the windows, was followed by a
crash, and then a wild, mad shout, half rage, half defiance.
“There's nothing for it, in these things, but speedy action,” said
the Pole; “grape and cavalry charges to clear the streets, and rifle
practice at anything that shows itself at the windows.”
“It is so easy, so very easy, to crush a mob,” said the Russian, “if you
only direct your attention to the leader,--think of nothing but _him_.
Once you show that, whatever may be the fate of others, death must be
his, the whole assemblage becomes a disorganized, unwieldy mass, to be
sabred or shot down at pleasure.”
“Soldiers have no fancy for this kind of warfare,” said De Nevers,
haughtily; “victory is never glorious, defeat always humiliation.”
“But who talks of defeat?” exclaimed the Pole, passionately. “The
officer who could fail against such an enemy should be shot by a
court-martial. We have, I believe, every man of us here, served; and
I asked you, what disproportion of force could suggest a doubt of
success?”
As he spoke, the door of the room was suddenly opened, and a young
man, with dress all disordered, and the fragment of a hat in his hand,
entered.
“What, Massingbred!” cried one, “how came you to be so roughly handled?”
“So much for popular politeness!” exclaimed the Russian, as he took up
the tattered remains of a dress-coat, and exhibited it to the others.
“Pardon me, Prince,” replied Massingbred, as he filled a glass of
water and drank it off, “this courtesy I received at the hands of the
military. I was turning my cab from the Boulevard to enter this street,
when a hoarse challenge of a sentry, saying I know not what, attracted
my attention. I drew up short to learn, and then suddenly came a rush
of the people from behind, which terrified my horse, and set him off at
speed; the uproar increasing, the affrighted animal dashed madly onward,
the crowd flying on every side, when suddenly a bullet whizzed past my
head, cutting my hat in two; a second, at the same instant, struck my
horse, and killed him on the spot, cab and all rolling over as he fell.
How I arose, gained my legs, and was swept away by the dense torrent of
the populace, are events of which I am very far from clear. I only know
that although the occurrence happened within half an hour ago, it seems
to _me_ an affair of days since.”
“You were, doubtless, within some line of outposts when first
challenged,” said the Pole, “and the speed at which you drove was
believed to be an arranged plan of attack, for you say the mob followed
you.”
“Very possibly your explanation is the correct one,” said Massingbred,
coolly; “but I looked for more steadiness and composure from the troops,
while I certainly did not anticipate so much true courtesy and kindness
as I met with from the people.”
“Parbleu! here's Massingbred becoming Democrat,” said one. “The next
thing we shall hear is his defence of a barricade.”
“You'll assuredly not hear that I attacked one in such company as
inflicted all this upon me,” rejoined he, with an easy smile.
“Here's the man to captivate your 'Belle Irlandaise,' Martin,” cried
one. “Already is he a hero and a martyr to Royal cruelty.”
“Ah! you came too late to hear that,” said the Pole, in a whisper to
Massingbred; “but it seems La Henderson became quite a Charlotte Corday
this evening, and talked more violent Republicanism than has been heard
in a salon since the days of old Égalité.”
“All lights must be extinguished, gentlemen,” said the waiter, entering
hastily. “The street is occupied by troops, and you must pass out by the
Rue de Grenelle.”
“Are the mobs not dispersing, then?” asked the Russian.
“No, your Highness. They have beaten back the troops from the Quai
Voltaire, and are already advancing on the Louvre.”
“What absurdity!” exclaimed the Pole. “If the troops permit this, there
is treason amongst them.”
“I can answer for it there is terror, at least,” said Massingbred.
“All the high daring and spirit is with what you would call the
Sans-culottes.”
“That a man should talk this way because he has lost a cab-horse!” cried
the Pole, insolently.
“There are men who can bear the loss of a country with more
equanimity,--I know that,” whispered Massingbred in his ear, with all
the calm sternness of an insult.
“You mean this for _me?_” said the Pole, in a low voice.
“Of course I do,” was the answer.
“Where?--when?--how?” muttered the Pole, in suppressed passion.
“I leave all at your disposal,” said Massingbred, smiling at the other's
effort to control his rage.
“At Versailles,--to-morrow morning,--pistols.”
Massingbred bowed, and turned away. At the same instant the waiter
entered to say that the house must be cleared at once, or all within it
consent to remain close prisoners.
“Come along, Martin,” said Massingbred, taking his arm. “I shall want
you to do me a favor. Let us make our escape by the Rue de Grenelle, and
I 'll engage to pilot you safely to your own quarters.”
“Has anything passed between you and Czernavitz?” asked Martin, as they
gained the street.
“A slight exchange of civilities which requires an exchange of shots,”
said Jack, calmly.
“By George! I 'm sorry for it. He can hit a franc-piece at thirty
paces.”
“So can I, Martin; and, what's more, Anatole knows it. He's as brave
as a lion, and it is my confounded skill has pushed him on to this
provocation.”
“He 'll shoot you,” muttered Martin, in a half revery.
“Not impossible,” said Massingbred. “He's a fellow who cannot conceal
his emotions, and will show at once what he means to do.”
“Well, what of that?”
“Simply, that if he intends mischief I shall know it, and send a bullet
through his heart.”
Little as Martin had seen of Massingbred,--they were but Club
acquaintances of a few weeks back,--he believed that he was one of those
smart, versatile men who, with abundance of social ability, acquire
reputation for higher capacity than they possess; but, above all, he
never gave him credit for anything like a settled purpose or a stern
resolution. It was, then, with considerable astonishment that he now
heard him avow this deadly determination with all the composure that
could vouch for its sincerity. There was, however, little time to think
of these things. The course they were driven to follow, by by-streets
and alleys, necessitated a long and difficult way. The great
thoroughfares which they crossed at intervals were entirely in the
possession of the troops, who challenged them as they approached, and
only suffered them to proceed when well satisfied with their account.
The crowds had all dispersed, and to the late din and tumult there had
succeeded the deep silence of a city sunk in sleep, only broken by the
hoarse call of the sentinels, or the distant tramp of a patrol.
“It is all over, I suppose,” said Martin. “The sight of the
eight-pounders and the dark caissons has done the work.”
“I don't think so,” said Massingbred, “nor do the troops think so.
These mobs are not like ours in England, who, with plenty of individual
courage, are always poltroons in the mass. These fellows understand
fighting as an art, know how to combine their movements, arrange
the modes of attack or defence, can measure accurately the means
of resistance opposed to them, and, above all, understand how to be
led,--something far more difficult than it seems. In _my_ good borough
of Oughterard,--or yours, rather, Martin, for I have only a loan of
it,--a few soldiers--the army, as they would call them--would sweep the
whole population before them. Our countrymen can get up a row, these
fellows can accomplish a revolt,--there's the difference.”
“And have they any real, substantial grievance that demands such an
expiation?”
“Who knows?” said he, laughingly. “There never was a Government too bad
to live under,--there never was one exempt from great vices. Half the
political disturbances the world has witnessed have arisen from causes
remote from State Government; a deficient harvest, a dear loaf, the
liberty of the Press invaded,--a tyranny always resented by those who
can't read,--are common causes enough. But here we are now at the Place
Vendôme, and certainly one should say the odds are against the people.”
Massingbred said truly. Two battalions of infantry, with a battery of
guns in position, were flanked by four squadrons of Cuirassiers, the
formidable array filling the entire “Place,” and showing by their air
and attitude their readiness for any eventuality. A chance acquaintance
with one of the staff enabled Massingbred and Martin to pass through
their lines and arrive at their hotel.
“Remember,” said the officer who accompanied them, “that you are close
prisoners now. My orders are that nobody is to leave the Place under any
pretext.”
“Why, you can scarcely suspect that the Government has enemies in this
aristocratic quarter?” said Massingbred, smiling.
“We have them everywhere,” was the brief answer, as he bowed and turned
away.
“I scarcely see how I'm to keep my appointment at Versailles to-morrow
morning,” said Massingbred, as he followed Martin up the spacious
stairs. “Happily, Czernavitz knows me, and will not misinterpret my
absence.”
“Not to say that he may be unable himself to get there,” said Martin.
As he spoke, they had reached the door, opening which with his key, the
Captain motioned to Massingbred to enter.
Massingbred stopped suddenly, and in a voice of deep meaning said, “Your
father lives here?”
“Yes,--what then?” asked Martin.
“Only that I have no right to pass his threshold,” said the other, in
a low voice. “I was his guest once, and I 'm not sure that I repaid the
hospitality as became me. You were away at the time.”
“You allude to that stupid election affair,” said Martin. “I can only
say that I never did, never could understand it. My only feeling was
one of gratitude to you for saving me from being member for the
borough. Come along,” said he, taking his arm; “this is no time for your
scruples, at all events.”
“No, Martin, I cannot,” said the other. “I 'd rather walk up to one of
those nine-pounders there than present myself to your lady-mother--”
“But you needn't. You are _my_ guest; these are _my_ quarters. You shall
see nobody but myself till you leave this. Remember what the Captain
told us; we are prisoners here.” And without waiting for a reply, Martin
pushed him before him into the room.
“Two o'clock,” said Massingbred, looking at his watch; “and we are to be
at Versailles by eight.”
“Well, leave all the care of that to me,” said Martin; “and do you throw
yourself on the bed there, and take some rest. Without you prefer to sup
first?”
“No, an hour's sleep is what I stand most in need of; and so I 'll say
good-night.”
Massingbred said this less that he wanted repose than a brief interval
to be alone with his own thoughts. And now, as he closed his eyes to
affect sleep, it was really to commune with his own heart, and reflect
over what had just occurred.
Independently that he liked Czernavitz personally, he was sorry for a
quarrel at such a moment. There was a great game about to be played, and
a mere personal altercation seemed something small and contemptible in
the face of such events. “What will be said of us,” thought he, “but
that we were a pair of hot-headed fools, thinking more of a miserable
interchange of weak sarcasms than of the high destinies of a whole
nation? And it was _my_ fault,” added he to himself; “I had no right to
reproach him with a calamity hard enough to bear, even without its
being a reproach. What a strange thing is life, after all!” thought
he; “everything of greatest moment that occurs in it the upshot of an
accident,--my going to Ireland, my visit to the West, my election, my
meeting with Kate Henderson, and now this duel.” And, so ruminating, he
dropped off into a sound sleep, undisturbed by sounds that might well
have broken the heaviest slumber.