THE THIRTY-FIRST OF MAY.
During the morning of the 31st of May, when the tocsin and beat of drum
had been sounding since the break of day, the battalion of the Faubourg
Saint Victor entered the Temple.
When all the usual formalities had been gone through, and the posts
distributed, the municipals on service arrived, bringing with them four
pieces of cannon in addition to those already forming the battery at
the gate of the Temple.
At the same time Santerre arrived, with his epaulets of yellow wool,
and a coat on which his patriotism was displayed by large spots of
grease. He reviewed the battalion, which was in a proper state, but on
counting the municipals, found only three.
"Why are there only three municipals?" inquired he; "and who is the bad
citizen who fails us?"
"The absent citizen, General, is not lukewarm," replied our old
acquaintance, Agricola; "for it is the secretary of the section
Lepelletier, the chief of the brave Thermopyles, the Citizen Maurice
Lindey."
"Well, well," said Santerre, "I know as well as yourself the patriotism
of the Citizen Maurice Lindey; but that will not deter me, if he is
not here in five minutes, from inscribing his name in the list of the
absent."
And Santerre passed on to other details.
A few paces from the general, at the moment he pronounced these words,
a captain of chasseurs and a soldier had stationed themselves, one
leaning against his gun, the other seated on a cannon.
"Did you hear?" said the captain to the soldier, in a low tone.
"Maurice has not yet arrived."
"Yes; but rest assured he will arrive, unless there should be a riot."
"In case he should not come," said the captain, "I will place you
sentinel on the staircase; and as she will probably ascend to the
tower, you will be able to speak a word to her."
At this moment a man, evidently a municipal from his tricolored scarf,
entered; but this man being a stranger to the captain and the chasseur,
they both regarded him attentively.
"Citizen General," said the new-comer, addressing Santerre; "I request
you to accept me in place of Citizen Maurice Lindey, who is ill. Here
is the medical certificate; in eight days it will be my turn to mount
guard. I now exchange with him; in eight days he will do duty for me,
as to-day I will for him."
"Provided the Capets and Capettes live eight days longer," said one of
the municipals.
Santerre replied by a slight smile to this pleasantry, and turning
toward Maurice's proxy,--
"Very good," said he; "sign the register, in lieu of Maurice Lindey,
and state in the column of observations the reason for this exchange."
The captain and chasseur exchanged looks of delight, mingled with
astonishment.
"In eight days," said they.
"Captain Dixmer," cried Santerre, "take your position in the garden
with your company."
"Come, Morand," said the captain to the chasseur his companion.
The drum sounded, and the company led by the master-tanner filed off in
the direction prescribed. They piled arms, and the company divided into
groups, which, according to their inclination, walked to and fro.
Their place of promenade was the same garden where, in the time of
Louis XVI., the royal family came sometimes to take the air. This
garden was naked, barren, and desolate, completely despoiled of trees,
flowers, or verdure of any kind.
At about five-and-twenty paces, or perhaps rather nearer that portion
of the wall built on the Rue Portefoin, was a species of cottage, which
the foresight of the municipality had established for the convenience
of the National Guard stationed at the Temple, who in days of riot,
when they were not permitted to go out of the grounds, found it an
accommodation to take their meals in this little cottage. The direction
of this little alehouse had been a matter of contention, till at length
concession was made in favor of an excellent patriot, the wife of a
suburban killed on the 10th of August, who bore the name of Plumeau.
This little cabin, built of planks and mud, rose in the middle of a
flower-bed, of which the bounds may still be recognized by a hedge
of dwarf box-trees. It was composed of a single chamber, twelve feet
square, under which extended a cave, the descent to which was by steps
rudely cut in the earth itself. Here the Widow Plumeau stowed away her
wine and provisions. This department was alternately managed by herself
and daughter, a girl of twelve or fifteen years of age.
Hardly established at their bivouac, the National Guards separated,
as we have said, some to saunter in the garden, while others chatted
with the hostess. Some amused themselves by criticising the designs
traced upon the walls, which were all meant to be of a patriotic
character,--such as the king pendent with this inscription, "Monsieur
Veto taking an air-bath;" or the king guillotined with this, "Monsieur
Veto spitting in the sack;" while others were giving gastronomical
orders to Madame Plumeau, according to the suggestions of their
different appetites. Among the latter were the captain and the chasseur
whom we have previously remarked.
"Ah, Captain Dixmer!" said the _cantinière_, "I have some famous Saumur
wine."
"But, Citizeness Plumeau, in my opinion, at least, the Saumur wine
is nothing without Brie cheese," replied the captain, who, before he
stated this opinion, had carefully looked round, and detected the
absence of his favorite viand.
"Ah! Captain, it is true; but the last morsel has been consumed."
"Well," said the captain, "no Brie cheese, no Saumur wine for me; and
remark, Citizeness Plumeau, my order would have been of some amount, as
I had intended to treat all my company."
"But, Captain, I ask you to wait only five minutes, and I will run and
procure some at the house of the citizen concierge who competes with
me, and who always has it. I shall pay very dear, and you, I am sure,
are too good a patriot not to compensate me."
"Yes, yes," replied Dixmer; "and in the mean time we will go down into
the vault, and select our own wines."
"Make yourself at home, Captain, pray do."
And the Widow Plumeau ran with all her might toward the lodge of the
concierge, while the captain and chasseur, provided with a light,
raised the trap-door, and descended into the cave.
"Good," said Morand, after an instant's inspection, "the cave extends
in the direction of Rue Portefoin. It is nine or ten feet in depth, and
there is no brickwork."
"What is the nature of the soil?" inquired Dixmer.
"Chalk; it is all made earth. These gardens have been turned over many
times. There is nowhere any rock."
"Be quick," cried Dixmer, "I hear the clogs of our _vivandière_; take
two bottles of wine and let us go up."
They both appeared at the trap-door as Madame Plumeau entered, carrying
the cheese so strenuously insisted upon by Dixmer, while several
chasseurs followed her, attracted by the favorable appearance of the
said cheese.
Dixmer did the honors; he offered twenty bottles of wine to his
company, while the Citizen Morand recounted the devotion of Curtius,
the disinterestedness of Fabricius, and the patriotism of Brutus and
Cassius,--histories almost as much appreciated as the Brie cheese and
the Anjou wine offered by Dixmer, which is not saying a little.
Eleven o'clock struck. At half-past, the sentinels were relieved.
"Does not the Austrian generally take her walk from twelve to one?"
asked Dixmer of Tison, who passed the cabin.
"From twelve to one, exactly," and he began to sing.
His song was received with a shout of laughter from the National Guard.
Dixmer immediately summoned those men in his company whose duty it
was to mount guard from half-past eleven o'clock till half-past one,
told them to hasten their breakfast, and made Morand take arms, in
order to place him, as had been agreed, on the highest story of the
tower, in the same turret behind which Maurice was hidden the day he
had intercepted the signs intended for the queen from the window on Rue
Portefoin. If any one had noticed Morand at the moment he received this
order, simple and expected as it was, he would have seen him grow pale
beneath the masses of his long black hair.
Suddenly a dull noise shook the courts of the Temple, and sounds were
heard in the distance like the roaring of a hurricane.
"What is that?" asked Dixmer of Tison.
"Oh!" replied the jailer, "it is nothing; some little uproar these
rascally Brissotins are making before they go to the guillotine."
The noise became more and more threatening, the roar of artillery was
heard, and a crowd of people rushed past, near the Temple, shouting,--
"Long live the Sections!" "Long live Henriot!" "Down with the
Brissotins!" "Down with the Rolandists!" "Down with Madame Veto!"
"Good!" said Tison, clapping his hands, "I will go and open the door
for Madame Veto, that without any disturbance she may enjoy the love
the people evince for her."
He approached the wicket of the turret-keep.
"Holloa, Tison!" cried a formidable voice.
"Yes, General," replied he, stopping short.
"No egress to-day," said Santerre; "the prisoners are not to quit their
chambers."
The order was peremptory.
"Good!" said Tison, "so much the less trouble."
Dixmer and Morand exchanged looks of disappointment; then waiting till
the hour for duty had struck (though nothing could now be attempted),
they both went to walk between the cabin and the wall running toward
Rue Portefoin. Morand began to measure the distance, taking geometrical
steps,--that is to say of three feet.
"What is the distance?" inquired Dixmer.
"Sixty to sixty-one feet," replied Morand.
"How many days will be required?"
Morand considered, then traced on the ground with a stick some
geometrical signs, which he immediately effaced.
"Seven days at least," said he.
"Maurice will be on guard in eight days," murmured Dixmer. "It is,
then, absolutely imperative that within eight days we should be
reconciled to Maurice."
The half-hour struck; Morand, sighing, resumed his musket, and
conducted by the corporal, went to relieve the sentinel who was
patrolling the platform before the tower.