THE BARRICADES.
The streets were in a state of wild commotion. Every where we
encountered crowds of truculent working fellows, dressed in blouses and
armed with muskets, who were pressing towards the Boulevards. Sometimes
they passed us in hurried groups; at other times the way was intercepted
by a regular procession bearing torches, and singing the war-hymn of
Marseilles. Those who judge of the physical powers of the French people
by the specimens they usually encounter in the streets of Paris, are
certain to form an erroneous estimate. A more powerful and athletic race
than the workmen is scarcely to be found in Europe; and it was not, I
confess, without a certain sensation of terror, that I found myself
launched into the midst of this wild and uncontrollable mob, whose
furious gestures testified to their excitement, and whose brawny arms
were bared, and ready for the work of slaughter.
Considering the immense military force which was known to be stationed
in and around Paris, it seemed to me quite miraculous that no effective
demonstration had been made. Possibly the troops might be drawn up in
some of the wider streets or squares, but hitherto we had encountered
none. Several bodies of the National Guard, it is true, occasionally
went by; but these did not seem to be considered as part of the military
force, nor did they take any active steps towards the quelling of the
disturbance. At times, however, the sound of distant firing warned us
that the struggle had begun.
Poor Bagsby clung to my arm in a perfect paroxysm of fear. I had
cautioned him, as we went out, on no account to open his lips, or to
make any remarks which might serve to betray his origin. The creature
was quite docile, and followed in the footsteps of Monsieur Albert like
a lamb. That mysterious personage strode boldly forward, chuckling to
himself as he went, and certainly exhibited a profound knowledge of the
topography of Paris. Once or twice we were stopped and questioned; but a
few cabalistic words from our leader solved all difficulties, and we
were allowed to proceed amidst general and vociferous applause.
At length, as we approached the termination of a long and narrow street,
we heard a tremendous shouting, and the unmistakable sounds of conflict.
“Here come the Municipal Guards!” cried M. Albert, quickly. “These
fellows fight like demons, and have no regard for the persons of the
people. Follow me, gentlemen, this way, and speedily, if you do not wish
to be sliced like blanc-mange!”
With these words the ouvrier dived into a dark lane, and we lost no time
in following his example. I had no idea whatever of our locality, but it
seemed evident that we were in one of the worst quarters of Paris. Every
lamp in the lane had been broken, so that we could form no opinion of
its character from vision. It was, however, ankle-deep of mud—a
circumstance by no means likely to prolong the existence of my glazed
boots. Altogether, I did not like the situation; and, had it not been
for the guarantee as to M. Albert’s respectability, implied from his
acquaintance with Monte-Christo, I think I should have preferred
trusting myself to the tender mercies of the Municipal Guard. As for
poor Bagsby, his teeth were going like castanets.
“You seem cold, sir,” said Albert, in a deep and husky voice, as we
reached a part of the lane apparently fenced in by dead walls. “This is
a wild night for a Manchester weaver to be wandering in the streets of
Paris!”
“O Lord! you know me, then?” groaned Bagsby, with a piteous accent.
“Know you? ha, ha!” replied the other, with the laugh of the third
ruffian in a melodrama; “who does not know citizen Bagsby, the
delegate—Bagsby, the great champion of the League—Bagsby, the
millionnaire!”
“It’s not true, upon my soul!” cried Bagsby; “I am nothing of the kind.
I haven’t a hundred pounds in the world that I can properly call my
own.”
“The world wrongs you, then,” said Albert; “and, to say the truth, you
keep up the delusion by carrying so much bullion about you. I should
say, now, that the chain round your neck must be worth some fifty
louis.”
Bagsby made no reply, but clutched my arm with the grasp of a cockatoo.
“This is a very dreary place,” continued Albert, in a tone that might
have emanated from a sepulchre. “Last winter, three men were robbed and
murdered in this very passage. There is a conduit to the Seine below,
and I saw the bodies next morning in the Morgue, with their throats cut
from ear to ear!”
From a slight interjectional sound, I concluded that Bagsby was praying.
“These,” said the ouvrier, “are the walls of a slaughter-house: on the
other side is the shed where they ordinarily keep the guillotine. Have
you seen that implement yet, Mr Bagsby?”
“Mercy on us, no!” groaned the delegate. “Oh, Mr Albert, whoever you
are, do take us out of this place, or I am sure I shall lose my reason!
If you want my watch, say so at once, and, upon my word, you are
heartily welcome.”
“Harkye, sirrah,” said Monsieur Albert: “I have more than half a mind to
leave you here all night for your consummate impertinence. I knew you
from the very first to be a thorough poltroon; but I shall find a proper
means of chastising you. Come along, sir; we are past the lane now, and
at a place where your hands may be better employed for the liberties of
the people than your head ever was in inventing task-work at home.”
We now emerged into an open court, lighted by a solitary lamp. It was
apparently deserted, but, on a low whistle from Monsieur Albert, some
twenty or thirty individuals in blouses rushed forth from the doorways
and surrounded us. I own I did not feel remarkably comfortable at the
moment; for although it was clear to me that our guide had merely been
amusing himself at the expense of Bagsby, the apparition of his
confederates was rather sudden and startling. As for Bagsby, he
evidently expected no better fate than an immediate conduct to the
block.
“You come late, _mon capitaine_,” said a bloused veteran, armed with a
mattock. “They have the start of us already in the Rue des Petits
Champs.”
“Never mind, _grognard_! we are early enough for the ball,” said M.
Albert. “Have you every thing ready as I desired?”
“All ready—spades, levers, pickaxes, and the rest.”
“Arms?”
“Enough to serve our purpose, and we shall soon have more. But who are
these with you?”
“Fraternisers—two bold Englishmen, who are ready to die for freedom!”
“_Vivent les Anglais, et à bas les tyrans!_” shouted the blouses.
“This citizen,” continued Albert, indicating the unhappy Bagsby, “is a
Cobdenist and a delegate. He has sworn to remain at the barricades until
the last shot is fired, and to plant the red banner of the emancipated
people upon its summit. His soul is thirsting for fraternity. Brothers!
open to him your arms.”
Hereupon a regular scramble took place for the carcass of Mr Hutton
Bagsby. Never surely was so much love lavished upon any human creature.
Patriot after patriot bestowed on him the full-flavoured hug of
fraternity, and he emerged from their grasp very much in the tattered
condition of a scarecrow.
“Give the citizen delegate a blouse and a pickaxe,” quoth Albert, “and
then for the barricade. You have your orders—execute them. Up with the
pavement, down with the trees; fling over every omnibus and cab that
comes in your way, and fight to the last drop of your blood for France
and her freedom. Away!”
With a tremendous shout the patriots rushed off, hurrying Bagsby along
with them. The unfortunate man offered no resistance, but the agony
depicted on his face might have melted the heart of a millstone.
Albert remained silent until the group were out of sight, and then burst
into a peal of laughter.
“That little man,” said he, “will gather some useful experiences
to-night that may last him as long as he lives. As for you, Mr
Dunshunner, whose name and person are well known to me, I presume you
have no ambition to engage in any such architectural constructions?”
I modestly acknowledged my aversion to practical masonry.
“Well, then,” said the ouvrier, “I suppose you are perfectly competent
to take care of yourself. There will be good fun in the streets, if you
choose to run the risk of seeing it; at the same time there is safety in
stone walls. ’Gad, I think this will astonish plain John! There’s
nothing like it in his _Lives of the Chancellors_. I don’t want,
however, to see our friend the delegate absolutely sacrificed. Will you
do me the favour to inquire for him to-morrow at the barricade down
there? I will answer for it that he does not make his escape before
then; and now for Ledru Rollin!”
With these words, and a friendly nod, the eccentric artisan departed, at
a pace which showed how little his activity had been impaired by years.
Filled with painful and conflicting thoughts, I followed the course of
another street which led me to the Rue Rivoli.
Here I had a capital opportunity of witnessing the progress of the
revolution. The street was crowded with the people shouting, yelling,
and huzzaing; and a large body of the National Guard, drawn up
immediately in front of me, seemed to be in high favour. Indeed, I was
not surprised at this, on discovering that the officer in command was no
less a person than my illustrious friend De la Pailleterie. He looked as
warlike as a Lybian lion, though it was impossible to comprehend what
particular section of the community were the objects of his sublime
anger. Indeed, it was rather difficult to know what the gentlemen in
blouses wanted. Some were shouting for reform, as if that were a
tangible article which could be handed them from a window; others
demanded the abdication of ministers—rather unreasonably I thought,
since at that moment there was no vestige of a ministry in France;
whilst the most practical section of the mob was clamorous for the head
of Guizot. Presently the shakos and bright bayonets of a large
detachment of infantry were seen approaching, amidst vehement cries of
“Vive la Ligne!” They marched up to the National Guard, who still
maintained their ranks. The leading officer looked puzzled.
“Who are these?” he said, pointing with his sword to the Guard.
“I have the honour to inform Monsieur,” said Monte-Christo, stepping
forward, “that these are the second legion of the National Guard!”
“Vive la Garde Nationale!” cried the officer.
“Vive la Ligne!” reciprocated the Marquis.
Both gentlemen then saluted, and interchanged snuff-boxes, amidst
tremendous cheering from the populace.
“And who are these?” continued the officer, pointing to the blouses on
the pavement.
“These are the people,” replied Monte-Christo.
“They must disperse. My orders are peremptory,” said the regular.
“The National Guard will protect them. Monsieur, respect the people!”
“They must disperse,” repeated the officer.
“They shall not,” replied Monte-Christo.
The moment was critical.
“In that case,” replied the officer, after a pause, “I shall best fulfil
my duty by wishing Monsieur a good evening.”
“You are a brave fellow!” cried the Marquis, sheathing his sabre; and in
a moment the warriors were locked in a brotherly embrace.
The effect was electric and instantaneous. “Let us all fraternise!” was
the cry; and regulars, nationals, and blouses, rushed into each others’
arms. The union was complete. Jacob and Esau coalesced without the
formality of an explanation. Ammunition was handed over by the troops
without the slightest scruple, and in return many bottles of _vin
ordinaire_ were produced for the refreshment of the military. No man who
witnessed that scene could have any doubt as to the final result of the
movement.
Presently, however, a smart fusillade was heard to the right. The cry
arose, “They are assassinating the people! to the barricades! to the
barricades!” and the whole multitude swept vehemently forward towards
the place of contest. Unfortunately, in my anxiety to behold the
rencontre in which my friend bore so distinguished a part, I had pressed
a little further forwards than was prudent, and I now found myself in
the midst of an infuriated gang of workmen, and urged irresistibly
onwards to the nearest barricade.
“Thou hast no arms, comrade!” cried a gigantic butcher, who strode
beside me armed with an enormous axe; “here—take this;” and he thrust a
sabre into my hand; “take this, and strike home for _la Patrie_!”
I muttered my acknowledgments for the gift, and tried to look as like a
patriot as possible.
“_Tête de Robespierre!_” cried another. “This is better than paying
taxes! _A bas la Garde Municipale! à bas tous les tyrans!_”
“_Tête de Brissot!_” exclaimed I, in return, thinking it no unwise plan
to invoke the Manes of some of the earlier heroes. This was a slight
mistake.
“_Quoi? Girondin?_” cried the butcher, with a ferocious scowl.
“_Non; corps de Marat!_” I shouted.
“_Bon! embrassez-moi donc, camarade!_” said the butcher, and so we
reached the barricade.
Here the game was going on in earnest. The barricade had been thrown up
hastily and imperfectly, and a considerable body of the Municipal
Guard—who, by the way, behaved throughout with much intrepidity—was
attempting to dislodge the rioters. In fact, they had almost succeeded.
Some ten of the insurgents, who were perched upon the top of the pile,
had been shot down, and no one seemed anxious to supply their place on
that bad eminence. In vain my friend the butcher waved his axe, and
shouted “_En avant!_” A considerable number of voices, indeed, took up
the cry, but a remarkable reluctance was exhibited in setting the
salutary example. A few minutes more, and the passage would have been
cleared; when all of a sudden, from the interior of a cabriolet, which
formed a sort of parapet to the embankment, emerged a ghastly figure,
streaming with gore, and grasping the _drapeau rouge_. I never was more
petrified in my life—there could be no doubt of the man—it was Hutton
Bagsby!
For a moment he stood gazing upon the tossing multitude beneath. There
was a brief pause, and even the soldiers, awed by his intrepidity,
forebore to fire. At last, however, they raised their muskets; when,
with a hoarse scream, Bagsby leaped from the barricade, and alighted
uninjured on the street. Had Mars descended in person to lead the
insurrection, he could not have done better.
“_Ah, le brave Anglais! Ah, le député intrépide! A la rescousse!_” was
the cry, and a torrent of human beings rushed headlong over the
barricade.
No power on earth could have resisted that terrific charge. The
Municipal Guards were scattered like chaff before the wind; some were
cut down, and others escaped under cover of the ranks of the Nationals.
Like the rest, I had leaped the embankment; but not being anxious to
distinguish myself in single combat, I paused at the spot where Bagsby
had fallen. There I found the illustrious delegate stretched upon the
ground, still grasping the glorious colours. I stooped down and examined
the body, but I could discover no wound. The blood that stained his
forehead was evidently not his own.
I loosened his neckcloth to give him air, but still there were no signs
of animation. A crowd soon gathered around us—the victors were returning
from the combat.
“He will never fight more!” said the author of the Mysteries of Paris,
whom I now recognised among the combatants. “He has led us on for the
last time to victory! Alas for the adopted child of France! _Un vrai
héros! Il est mort sur le champ de bataille!_ Messieurs, I propose that
we decree for our departed comrade the honours of a public funeral!”