Paris had just heard of the disaster at Sedan. A republic had been
declared. All France was wavering on the brink of this madness which
lasted until after the Commune. From one end of the country to the other
everybody was playing soldier.
Cap-makers became colonels, fulfilling the duties of generals; revolvers
and swords were displayed around big, peaceful stomachs wrapped
in flaming red belts; little tradesmen became warriors commanding
battalions of brawling volunteers, and swearing like pirates in order to
give themselves some prestige.
The sole fact of handling firearms crazed these people, who up to
that time had only handled scales, and made them, without any reason,
dangerous to all. Innocent people were shot to prove that they knew how
to kill; in forests which had never seen a Prussian, stray dogs, grazing
cows and browsing horses were killed.
Each one thought himself called upon to play a great part in military
affairs. The cafes of the smallest villages, full of uniformed
tradesmen, looked like barracks or hospitals.
The town of Canneville was still in ignorance of the maddening news from
the army and the capital; nevertheless, great excitement had prevailed
for the last month, the opposing parties finding themselves face to
face.
The mayor, Viscount de Varnetot, a thin, little old man, a conservative,
who had recently, from ambition, gone over to the Empire, had seen a
determined opponent arise in Dr. Massarel, a big, full-blooded man,
leader of the Republican party of the neighborhood, a high official in
the local masonic lodge, president of the Agricultural Society and of
the firemen's banquet and the organizer of the rural militia which was
to save the country.
In two weeks, he had managed to gather together sixty-three volunteers,
fathers of families, prudent farmers and town merchants, and every
morning he would drill them in the square in front of the town-hall.
When, perchance, the mayor would come to the municipal building,
Commander Massarel, girt with pistols, would pass proudly in front of
his troop, his sword in his hand, and make all of them cry: “Long live
the Fatherland!” And it had been noticed that this cry excited the
little viscount, who probably saw in it a menace, a threat, as well as
the odious memory of the great Revolution.
On the morning of the fifth of September, the doctor, in full uniform,
his revolver on the table, was giving a consultation to an old couple,
a farmer who had been suffering from varicose veins for the last seven
years and had waited until his wife had them also, before he would
consult the doctor, when the postman brought in the paper.
M. Massarel opened it, grew pale, suddenly rose, and lifting his hands
to heaven in a gesture of exaltation, began to shout at the top of his
voice before the two frightened country folks:
“Long live the Republic! long live the Republic! long live the
Republic!”
Then he fell back in his chair, weak from emotion.
And as the peasant resumed: “It started with the ants, which began to
run up and down my legs---” Dr. Massarel exclaimed:
“Shut up! I haven't got time to bother with your nonsense. The Republic
has been proclaimed, the emperor has been taken prisoner, France is
saved! Long live the Republic!”
Running to the door, he howled:
“Celeste, quick, Celeste!”
The servant, affrighted, hastened in; he was trying to talk so rapidly,
that he could only stammer:
“My boots, my sword, my cartridge-box and the Spanish dagger which is on
my night-table! Hasten!”
As the persistent peasant, taking advantage of a moment's silence,
continued, “I seemed to get big lumps which hurt me when I walk,” the
physician, exasperated, roared:
“Shut up and get out! If you had washed your feet it would not have
happened!”
Then, grabbing him by the collar, he yelled at him:
“Can't you understand that we are a republic, you brass-plated idiot!”
But professional sentiment soon calmed him, and he pushed the bewildered
couple out, saying:
“Come back to-morrow, come back to-morrow, my friends. I haven't any
time to-day.”
As he equipped himself from head to foot, he gave a series of important
orders to his servant:
“Run over to Lieutenant Picart and to Second Lieutenant Pommel, and tell
them that I am expecting them here immediately. Also send me Torchebeuf
with his drum. Quick! quick!”
When Celeste had gone out, he sat down and thought over the situation
and the difficulties which he would have to surmount.
The three men arrived together in their working clothes. The commandant,
who expected to see them in uniform, felt a little shocked.
“Don't you people know anything? The emperor has been taken prisoner,
the Republic has been proclaimed. We must act. My position is delicate,
I might even say dangerous.”
He reflected for a few moments before his bewildered subordinates, then
he continued:
“We must act and not hesitate; minutes count as hours in times like
these. All depends on the promptness of our decision. You, Picart, go to
the cure and order him to ring the alarm-bell, in order to get together
the people, to whom I am going to announce the news. You, Torchebeuf
beat the tattoo throughout the whole neighborhood as far as the hamlets
of Gerisaie and Salmare, in order to assemble the militia in the public
square. You, Pommel, get your uniform on quickly, just the coat and
cap. We are going to the town-hall to demand Monsieur de Varnetot to
surrender his powers to me. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“Now carry out those orders quickly. I will go over to your house with
you, Pommel, since we shall act together.”
Five minutes later, the commandant and his subordinates, armed to the
teeth, appeared on the square, just as the little Viscount de Varnetot,
his legs encased in gaiters as for a hunting party, his gun on his
shoulder, was coming down the other street at double-quick time,
followed by his three green-coated guards, their swords at their sides
and their guns swung over their shoulders.
While the doctor stopped, bewildered, the four men entered the town-hall
and closed the door behind them.
“They have outstripped us,” muttered the physician, “we must now wait
for reenforcements. There is nothing to do for the present.”
Lieutenant Picart now appeared on the scene.
“The priest refuses to obey,” he said. “He has even locked himself in
the church with the sexton and beadle.”
On the other side of the square, opposite the white, tightly closed
town-hall, stood the church, silent and dark, with its massive oak door
studded with iron.
But just as the perplexed inhabitants were sticking their heads out of
the windows or coming out on their doorsteps, the drum suddenly began
to be heard, and Torchebeuf appeared, furiously beating the tattoo. He
crossed the square running, and disappeared along the road leading to
the fields.
The commandant drew his sword, and advanced alone to half way between
the two buildings behind which the enemy had intrenched itself, and,
waving his sword over his head, he roared with all his might:
“Long live the Republic! Death to traitors!”
Then he returned to his officers.
The butcher, the baker and the druggist, much disturbed, were anxiously
pulling down their shades and closing their shops. The grocer alone kept
open.
However, the militia were arriving by degrees, each man in a different
uniform, but all wearing a black cap with gold braid, the cap being the
principal part of the outfit. They were armed with old rusty guns, the
old guns which had hung for thirty years on the kitchen wall; and they
looked a good deal like an army of tramps.
When he had about thirty men about him, the commandant, in a few words,
outlined the situation to them. Then, turning to his staff: “Let us
act,” he said.
The villagers were gathering together and talking the matter over.
The doctor quickly decided on a plan of campaign.
“Lieutenant Picart, you will advance under the windows of this town-hall
and summon Monsieur de Varnetot, in the name of the Republic, to hand
the keys over to me.”
But the lieutenant, a master mason, refused:
“You're smart, you are. I don't care to get killed, thank you. Those
people in there shoot straight, don't you forget it. Do your errands
yourself.”
The commandant grew very red.
“I command you to go in the name of discipline!”
The lieutenant rebelled:
“I'm not going to have my beauty spoiled without knowing why.”
All the notables, gathered in a group near by, began to laugh. One of
them cried:
“You are right, Picart, this isn't the right time.”
The doctor then muttered:
“Cowards!”
And, leaving his sword and his revolver in the hands of a soldier, he
advanced slowly, his eye fastened on the windows, expecting any minute
to see a gun trained on him.
When he was within a few feet of the building, the doors at both ends,
leading into the two schools, opened and a flood of children ran out,
boys from one side, girls from the ether, and began to play around the
doctor, in the big empty square, screeching and screaming, and making so
much noise that he could not make himself heard.
As soon as the last child was out of the building, the two doors closed
again.
Most of the youngsters finally dispersed, and the commandant called in a
loud voice:
“Monsieur de Varnetot!”
A window on the first floor opened and M. de Varnetot appeared.
The commandant continued:
“Monsieur, you know that great events have just taken place which
have changed the entire aspect of the government. The one which you
represented no longer exists. The one which I represent is taking
control. Under these painful, but decisive circumstances, I come, in the
name of the new Republic, to ask you to turn over to me the office which
you held under the former government.”