THE crowd was waiting; scorched by the burning July sun, they were trembling, mad with excitement. Gonchon's men had just joined those of Marat. The Faubourg St. Antoine had recognized and saluted its brother, the Faubourg St. Marceau.
Gonchon was at the head of his patriots. As to Marat, he had disappeared.
The aspect of the square was frightful.
On Billot's appearance the shouts redoubled.
“Well?” said Gonchon, going up to him.
“Well, the man is brave,” said Billot.
“What mean you by saying 'The man is brave'?” inquired Gonchon.
“I mean to say that he is obstinate.”
“He will not surrender the Bastille?”
“He will obstinately sustain the siege?”
“And you believe that he will sustain it long?”
“Be it so! Death he shall have!”
“But what numbers of men we are about to expose to death!” exclaimed Billot, doubting assuredly that God had given him the right which generals arrogate to themselves,—as do kings and emperors,—men who have received commissions to shed blood.
“Pooh!” said Gonchon, “there are too many in this world, since there is not bread enough for half the population. Is it not so, friends?” he asked, turning towards the crowd.
“Yes, yes!” they responded, with sublime self—abnegation.
“But the ditch?” observed Billot, inquiringly.
“It is only necessary that it should be filled up at one particular spot,” replied Gonchon, “and I have calculated that with the half of the bodies we have here we could fill it up completely; is it not so, friends?”
“Yes, yes!” repeated the crowd, with no less enthusiasm than before.
“Well, then, be it so!” said Billot, though completely overcome.
At that moment De Launay appeared upon the terrace, followed by Major De Losme and two or three officers.
“Begin!” cried Gonchon to the governor.
The latter turned his back without replying.
Gonchon, who would perhaps have endured a threat, could not endure disdain; he quickly raised his carbine to his shoulder, and a man in the governor's suite fell to the ground.
A hundred shots, a thousand musket—shots, were fired at the same moment, as if they had only waited for this signal, and marbled with white the gray towers of the Bastille.
A silence of some seconds succeeded this discharge, as if the crowd itself had been alarmed at that which it had done.
Then a flash of fire, lost in a cloud of smoke, crowned the summit of a tower; a detonation resounded; cries of pain were heard issuing from the closely pressed crowd; the first cannon—shot had been fired from the Bastille; the first blood had been spilled. The battle had commenced.
What the crowd experienced, which just before had been so threatening, very much resembled terror. That Bastille, defending itself by this sole act, appeared in all its formidable impregnability. The people had doubtless hoped that in those days, when so many concessions had been made to them, the surrender of the Bastille would be accomplished without the effusion of blood.
The people were mistaken. The cannon—shot which had been fired upon them gave them the measure of the Titanic work which they had undertaken.
A volley of musketry, well directed, and coming from the platform of the Bastille, followed closely on the cannon shot.
Then all was again silent for a while, a silence which was interrupted only by a few cries, a few groans, a few wails uttered here and there.
A shuddering, anxious movement could then be perceived among the crowd; it was the people who were picking up their killed and wounded.
But the people thought not of flying, or if they did think of it, they were ashamed of the feeling when they considered their great numbers.
In fact, the Boulevards, the Rue St. Antoine, the Faubourg St. Antoine, formed but one vast human sea; every wave had a head, every head, two flashing eyes, a threatening mouth.
In an instant all the windows of the neighborhood were filled with sharpshooters, even those which were out of gunshot.
Whenever a Swiss soldier or an Invalide appeared upon the terraces or in one of the embrasures, a hundred muskets were at once aimed at him, and a shower of balls splintered the corners of the stones behind which the soldier was sheltered.
But they soon got tired of firing at insensible walls. It was against human flesh that their balls were directed. It was blood that they wished to see spout forth whereever the balls struck, and not dust.
Numerous opinions were emitted from amid the crowd.
A circle would then be formed around the speaker, and when the people thought the proposal was devoid of sense, they at once left him.
A blacksmith proposed to form a catapult upon the model of the ancient Roman machines, and with it to make a breach in the walls of the Bastille.
The firemen proposed to damp with their engines the priming of the cannon and extinguish the matches of the artillerymen, without reflecting that the most powerful of their engines could not throw water even to two—thirds the height of the walls of the Bastille.
A brewer who commanded the Faubourg St. Antoine, and whose name has since acquired a fatal celebrity, proposed to set fire to the fortress, by throwing into it a quantity of oil which had been seized the night before, and which they were to ignite with phosphorus.
Billot listened to all these mad—brained proposals one after the other. On hearing the last, he seized a hatchet from the hands of a carpenter, and advancing amid a storm of bullets, which struck down all around him numbers of men, huddled together as thickly as the ears in a field of wheat, he reached a small guard—house, near to the first drawbridge, and although the grape—shot was whizzing and cracking against the roof, he ascended it, and by his powerful and well—directed blows succeeded in breaking the chains, and the drawbridge fell with a tremendous crash.
During the quarter of an hour which this seemingly insensate enterprise had occupied, the crowd were breathless with excitement. At every report, they expected to see the daring workman fall from the roof. The people forgot the danger to which they were exposed, and thought only of the danger which this brave man was incurring. When the bridge fell, they uttered a loud, joyful cry, and rushed into the first courtyard.
The movement was so rapid, so impetuous, so irresistible, that the garrison did not even attempt to prevent it.
Shouts of frantic joy announced this first advantage to Monsieur de Launay.
No one even observed that a man had been crushed to atoms beneath the mass of wood—work. Then the four pieces of artillery which the governor had shown to Billot were simultaneously discharged with a frightful explosion, and swept the first courtyard of the fortress.
The iron hurricane traced through the crowd a long furrow of blood. Ten men shot dead, fifteen or twenty wounded, were the consequences of this discharge.
Billot slid down from the roof of the guard—house to the ground, on reaching which he found Pitou, who had come there he knew not how. Pitou's eyes were quick, as are those of all poachers. He had seen the artillerymen preparing to put their matches to the touch—holes of their guns, and, seizing Billot by the skirts of his jacket, jerked him violently towards him, and thus they were both protected by the angle of the wall from the effects of the first discharge.
From that moment the affair became serious. The tumult was frightful, the combat mortal. Ten thousand muskets were at once fired round the Bastille, more dangerous in their effect to the besiegers than to the besieged.
At length a cannon served by the French Guards had mixed its thunder with the rattling of the musketry.
The noise was frightful, but the crowd appeared to be more and more intoxicated by it; and this noise began to terrify even the besieged, who, calculating their own small number, felt they could never equal the noise which was then deafening them.
The officers of the Bastille felt instinctively that their soldiers were becoming disheartened. They snatched their muskets from them, and themselves fired them at the crowd.
At this moment, and amid the noise of artillery and musketry, amid the howlings of the crowd, as some of them were rushing to pick up the dead bodies of their companions to form of them a new incitement,—for their gaping wounds would cry aloud for vengeance against the besieged,—there appeared at the entrance of the first courtyard a small group of unarmed, quiet citizens. They made their way through the crowd, and advanced, ready to sacrifice their lives, protected only by a white flag, which preceded them, and which intimated that they were the bearers of a message to the governor. It was a deputation from the Hôtel de Ville. The electors knew that hostilities had commenced, and, anxious to prevent the effusion of blood, had compelled Flesselles to send new proposals to the governor.
The deputies came, therefore, in the name of the city, to summon Monsieur de Launay to cease firing; and, in order to guarantee at once the lives of the citizens, his own, and those of the garrison, to propose that he should receive one hundred men of the civic guard into the interior of the fortress.
This was the rumor which was spread as the deputies advanced. The people, terrified at the enterprise they had undertaken, the people, who saw the dead bodies of their companions carried out in litters, were quite ready to support this proposal. Let De Launay accept a half defeat, and satisfy himself with half a victory.
At their approach the fire of the second courtyard ceased. A sign was made to them that they might approach; and they accordingly advanced, slipping on the ensanguined pavement, striding over carcasses, and holding out their hands to the wounded.
Under this protection the people form themselves into groups. The dead bodies and the wounded are carried out of the fortress; the blood alone remains, marbling with large purple spots the pavement of the courtyard.
The fire from the fortress had ceased. Billot was leaving it, in order to stop that of the besiegers. At the door he meets Gonchon,—Gonchon, altogether unarmed, exposing himself like one inspired, calm, as if he were invulnerable.
“Well,” inquired he of Billot, “what has become of the deputation?”
“It has gone into the fortress,” replied Billot; “order our men to cease firing.”
“It is useless,” said Gonchon, “they will not consent.”
“That matters not,” rejoined Billot; “it is our duty to make the attempt. Let us respect the usages of war, since we have become soldiers.”
Then, addressing himself to two men in the crowd, who appeared to command under him the whole of the assembled mass,—
“Go, Elie,—go, Hullin,” said he, “and see that not a musket—shot be fired.”
The two aides—de—camp rushed out, and, obeying the orders of their chief, pressed through the crowded masses, and soon the firing of the musketry diminished, and then ceased altogether.
A momentary quiet was established. Advantage was taken of it to attend to the wounded, the number of whom had already amounted to thirty—five or forty.
During this respite the prison clock struck two. The attack had begun at noon; the combat had already lasted two hours.
Billot had returned to his post, and it was Gonchon in his turn who followed him.
His eyes were turned anxiously towards the gate. His impatience was visible.
“What is the matter with you?” inquired Billot.
“The matter is,” replied Gonchon, “that if the Bastille is not taken within two hours from this time all is lost.”
“Because the court will be informed of the work we are about, and will despatch the Swiss to us, under Besenval, and Lambesq's dragoons; so that we shall then be caught between three fires.”
Billot was compelled to acknowledge that there was some truth in what Gonchon was saying.
At length the deputies reappeared. From their countenances it was evident they had obtained no concession.
“Well,” cried Gonchon, whose eyes sparkled with delight, “what did I tell you? Things that are predicted must happen. The accursed fortress is condemned!”
Then, without waiting even to put a question to the deputation, he sprang out of the first courtyard, crying,—
“To arms, my children!—to arms! The commandant refuses.”
And, in fact, the governor had scarcely read the letter from Flesselles, when his countenance brightened; and instead of acceding to the proposals which had been made to him, he exclaimed,—
“Gentlemen Parisians, you have insisted on a battle: and now it is too late to speak of treating.”
The bearers of the flag of truce persisted in urging their suit. They represented to De Launay all the evils which his defending the castle might entail; but he would not listen to them, and he concluded by saying to the deputation what he had said two hours before to Billot,—
“Leave the fortress, or I will have you shot.”
And the bearers of the flag of truce were compelled to depart.
On this occasion it was De Launay who resumed the offensive. He appeared burning with impatience.
Before the deputies had reached the gate of the courtyard, the Musette of Marshal Saxe played a tune, and three persons fell,—one of them dead, two others wounded.
One of the wounded was a French Guard; the other, one of the deputies.
On seeing a man whose office should have rendered him sacred, carried forth covered with blood, the crowd became more enraged than ever.
Gonchon's two aides—de—camp had returned to their places at his side; but each of them had had time to go home to change his dress.
It is true that one of them lived near the arsenal, the other in the Rue de Charonne.
Hullin, who had in the first place been a watchmaker at Geneva, then chasseur to the Marquis de Conflans, returned in his brilliant livery, which gave him the appearance of a Hungarian officer.
Elie, formerly an officer in the Queen's Regiment, had put on his uniform, which inspired the people with greater confidence, as it made them believe that the army was for them and with them.
The firing recommended with greater fury than ever; and at that moment the major of the Bastille, Monsieur de Losme, approached the governor.
He was a brave and faithful soldier; but there were some remains of the citizen in him, and he saw with much regret what had taken place, and above all, what was likely to ensue.
“Sir,” said he to De Launay, “we have no provisions, and of this you must be aware.”
“I know it,” replied the governor.
“You also know that we have no orders.”
“I beg your pardon, Monsieur de Losme; my orders are to keep the gates of the Bastille closed, and it is for that purpose that the keys are intrusted to me.”
“Sir, the keys are used as well to open the gates as to close them. Beware that you do not cause the massacre of the whole of the garrison, without saving the castle,—two triumphs on the same day. Look at those men whom we are killing; they appear to spring up from beneath the pavement. This morning there were at first only five hundred of them; three hours ago there were ten thousand. They are more than sixty thousand now; to—morrow they will be a hundred thousand. When our guns shall be silenced, and it must at last end in that, they will be strong enough to take the Bastille with their hands.”
“You speak not like a soldier, Monsieur de Losme.”
“I speak like a Frenchman, sir. I say that his Majesty, not having given us any order,—I say that the Provost of the Merchants, having made us a proposal which was a very acceptable one, which was that of admitting a hundred men of the civil guard into the castle, you might, to avoid the evils which I foresee, accede to the proposal of Monsieur de Flesselles.”
“In your opinion, then, Monsieur de Losme, the power which represents the city of Paris is a power which we ought to obey?”
“In the absence of the direct authority of his Majesty, yes, sir, it is my opinion.”
“Well, then,” said De Launay, leading the major into a corner of the courtyard, “read that, Monsieur de Losme.”
And he handed him a small square piece of paper. The major read it.
Hold firm! I amuse the Parisians with cockades and promises. Before the close of the day, Monsieur de Besenval will send you a reinforcement.
DE FLESSELLES.
“How, then, did this note reach you, sir?” inquired the major.
“In the letter which the gentlemen of the deputation brought me. They thought they were delivering to me a request to surrender the Bastille, while they were delivering to me an order to defend it.”
“Go to your post, Monsieur de Losme, and do not leave it until I send for you.”
De Launay very quietly refolded the letter, and put it into his pocket. He then returned to his artillerymen and recommended them to fire low, and to take good aim.
The artillerymen obeyed, as Monsieur de Losme had obeyed.
But the fate of the fortress was predestined. No human power could delay its fulfilment.
To every cannon—shot the people replied by shouting,—
And while mouths were shouting, arms were vigorously acting.
Among the voices which shouted most energetically, among the arms which were acting the most efficaciously, were the voices and arms of Pitou and Billot.
Only each of them proceeded according to his different nature.
Billot, courageous and confident, had like a bull—dog, from the first rushed forward, defying balls and grapeshot.
Pitou, prudent and circumspect, like the fox, Pitou, endowed to a supreme degree with the instinct of self—preservation, made use of all his faculties to watch the danger and avoid it.
His eyes knew the embrasures which sent forth the most deadly fire; they distinguished the almost imperceptible movement of the brazen mouth which was about to be fired. He had learned to divine the precise moment when the battery gun was about to be fired across the drawbridge.
Then his eyes having performed their office, it was the turn of his limbs to work for their proprietor.
His shoulders were drawn in, his chest contracted, his whole body did not seem to offer a larger surface than a plank when seen edgeways.
In these movements of Pitou, of the chubby Pitou,—for Pitou was thin only in the legs,—there remained only a geometrical line, which had neither breadth nor thickness.
He had selected for his post a corner in the passage from the first drawbridge to the second, a sort of vertical parapet formed by jutting stones. His head was protected by one of these stones, his body by another, his knees by a third, and Pitou congratulated himself that nature and the art of fortification were thus so agreeably combined that a stone was given to him to protect each of the parts where a wound might have proved mortal.
From his corner, in which he was covered like a hare in its form, he now and then fired a shot, but merely for form's sake, for he had before him only walls and pieces of timber; but this evidently pleased Billot, who from time to time called out,—
“Fire, you lazy fellow, fire!”
And he, in his turn, would cry to Billot, but in order to calm his exuberant ardor instead of exciting it,—
“Don't expose yourself so much, Father Billot.”
“Take care of yourself, Monsieur Billot, there is a cannon pointed at you; there, I have just heard them cocking the Musette.”
And scarcely had Pitou uttered these words, so full of foresight, than the cannon belched forth its grape—shot, sweeping the passage between the bridges.
Notwithstanding all these injunctions, Billot performed prodigies of strength and activity, but of perfect inutility. Not being able to shed his blood,—and assuredly it was not his fault,—he shed large and abundant drops of perspiration.
Ten times did Pitou seize him by the skirts of his jacket, and pulled him to the ground in spite of his great strength, at the moment when a discharge would have assuredly swept him off.
But each time Billot jumped up again, not only like Antæus with renewed strength, but with some new idea.
At one time this idea consisted in venturing upon the platform of the bridge to hack at the beams which the chains upheld, as he had before done.
Then Pitou uttered fearful howls to restrain the farmer, and finding that his howling was of no avail, he would rush from his place of safety to him, crying,—
“Monsieur Billot, my dear Monsieur Billot, why, Madame Billot will be a widow if you go on in this way.”
And the Swiss soldiers could be seen, aiming their muskets obliquely through the embrasure of the Musette, to hit the audacious man who was endeavoring to reduce their bridge to chips.
At another time he called upon his men to bring up a cannon to destroy the head—work of the bridge; but then the Musette was fired, the gunners retreated, and Billot remained alone to load the gun and fire it, which again brought out Pitou from his retreat.
“Monsieur Billot,” cried he, “Monsieur Billot, in the name of Mademoiselle Catherine I conjure you, reflect a moment. Should you get yourself killed, Mademoiselle Catherine will be an orphan.”
And Billot yielded to this reason, which appeared to have much more influence on his mind than the first.
At length the fruitful imagination of the farmer gave birth to another idea.
He ran towards the square, crying,—
Pitou considered that that which was good would be rendered excellent by being doubled. He followed Billot, vociferating,—
And immediately ten carts were brought.
“Some straw and some dry hay!” cried Billot.
“Some straw and some dry hay!” reiterated Pitou.
And almost instantly two hundred men came forward, each carrying a truss of straw or hay.
They were obliged to call out that they had ten times more than they wanted. In an hour there was a heap of forage which would have equalled the height of the Bastille.
Billot placed himself between the shafts of a cart loaded with straw, and instead of dragging it, he pushed it on before him.
Pitou did the same, without knowing what it could be for, but thinking that he could not do better than to imitate the farmer.
Elie and Hullin divined Billot's intention. They each seized a cart and pushed it before them into the courtyard.
They had scarcely entered, when they were assailed by a discharge of grape—shot. They heard the balls strike with a whizzing sound among the straw or hay, or against the wood—work of the carts; but none of the assailants received a wound.
As soon as this discharge was over, two or three hundred men with muskets rushed on behind those who were pushing forward the carts, and, sheltered by those moving ramparts, they lodged themselves beneath the apron of the bridge itself.
There Billot drew from his pocket a flint, a steel, and some tinder, formed a match by rubbing gunpowder on paper, and set fire to it.
The powder ignited the paper, and the paper ignited the straw and hay.
Each formed a torch for himself, and the four carts were simultaneously set fire to.
The flames reached the apron, caught the timbers with their sharp teeth, and ran along the wood—work of the bridge.
A shout of joy then uttered from the courtyard was taken up by the crowd in the Square St. Antoine, and reiterated with deafening clamors. They saw the smoke rising above the walls, and they hence imagined that something fatal to the besieged was occurring.
In fact the red—hot chains detached themselves from the beams. The bridge fell half broken and half destroyed by fire, smoking and cracking. The firemen rushed forward with their engines, and soon extinguished the flames upon the bridge.
The governor ordered the Invalides to fire upon the people, but they refused.
The Swiss alone obeyed; but they were not artillerymen; they were therefore obliged to abandon the guns.
The French Guards, on the contrary, seeing that the artillery was silenced, brought up their gun and planted it before the gate; their third shot shivered it to pieces.
The governor had gone up to the platform of the castle to see whether the promised reinforcement was approaching, when he found himself suddenly enveloped in smoke. It was then that he precipitately descended and ordered the artillerymen to fire.
The refusal of the Invalides exasperated him. The breaking down of the gate made him at once comprehend that all was lost.
Monsieur de Launay knew that he was hated. He felt that there was no salvation for him. During the whole time that the combat had lasted, he had matured the idea of burying himself beneath the ruins of the Bastille.
At the moment he felt assured that all further defence was hopeless, he snatched a match from the hand of one of the artillerymen, and sprang towards the cellar which served as a powder—magazine.
“The powder! the powder!” cried twenty terrified voices; “the powder! the powder!”
They saw the burning match in the governor's hand.
They guessed his purpose. Two soldiers rush forward and cross their bayonets before his breast just at the moment when he had opened the door.
“You may kill me,” said De Launay, “but you cannot kill me quick enough to prevent me letting this match fall among the powder—casks; and then besieged and besiegers will all be blown to atoms.”
The two soldiers stopped. Their bayonets remained crossed before De Launay's breast, but De Launay was still their commander, for all felt that he had their lives in his power. His action had nailed every one to the spot on which he stood. The assailants perceived that something extraordinary was happening. They looked anxiously into the courtyard, and saw the governor threatened and threatening in his turn.
“Hear me,” cried De Launay to the besiegers; “as surely as I hold this match in my hand, with which I could exterminate you all, should any one of you make a single step to enter this courtyard, so surely will I set fire to the powder.”
Those who heard these words imagined that they already felt the ground tremble beneath their feet.
“What do you wish; what do you ask?” cried several voices with an accent of terror.
“I wish a capitulation,” replied De Launay, “an honorable capitulation.”
The assailants pay but little attention to what the governor said; they cannot credit such an act of despair; they wish to enter the courtyard. Billot is at their head. Suddenly Billot trembles and turns pale; he just remembers Dr. Gilbert.
As long as Billot had thought only of himself, it was a matter of little importance to him whether the Bastille was blown up, and he blown up with it; but Gilbert's life must be saved at any cost.
“Stop!” exclaimed Billot, throwing himself before Elie and Hullin; “stop, in the name of the prisoners!”
And these men who feared not to encounter death themselves retreated, pale and trembling, in their turn.
“What do you demand?” they cried, renewing the question they had previously put to the governor by his own men.
“I demand that you should all withdraw,” replied De Launay, fiercely. “I will not accept any proposal, so long as there remains a single stranger in the Bastille.”
“But,” said Billot, “will you not take advantage of our absence to place yourself again in a state of defence?”
“If the capitulation is refused, you shall find everything in the state it now is,—you at that gate, I where I am now standing.”
“You pledge your word for that?”
“On the honor of a gentleman.”
Some of them shook their heads.
“On the honor of a gentleman,” reiterated De Launay.
“Is there any one here who can still doubt, when a gentleman has pledged his honor?”
“No, no, no!” repeated five hundred voices.
“Let paper, pen, and ink be brought here to me.”
The orders of the governor were instantly obeyed.
XXVII. Then, turning towards the assailants:—
Billot, Hullin, and Elie set the example, and were the first to withdraw.
De Launay placed the match by his side, and began writing the capitulation on his knee.
The Invalides and the Swiss soldiers who felt that their existence depended on the result, gazed at him, while he was writing, with a sort of respectful terror.
De Launay looked round before allowing his pen to touch the paper. He saw that the courtyard was free of all intruders.
In an instant the people outside were informed of all that had happened within the fortress.
As Monsieur de Losme had said, the population seemed to spring up from beneath the pavement. One hundred thousand men surrounded the Bastille.
They were no longer merely laborers and artisans, but citizens of every class had joined them. They were not merely men in the prime of life, but children and old men had rushed forward to the fight.
And all of them had arms of some description, all of them shouted vehemently.
Here and there among the groups was to be seen a woman in despair, with hair dishevelled, wringing her hands, and uttering maledictions against the granite giant.
She is some mother whose son the Bastille has just annihilated, some daughter whose father the Bastille has just levelled with the ground, some wife whose husband the Bastille has just exterminated.
But during some moments no sounds had issued from the Bastille, no flames, no smoke. The Bastille had become as silent as the tomb.
It would have been useless to endeavor to count the spots made by the balls which had marbled its surface. Every one had wished to fire a ball at the stone monster, the visible symbol of tyranny.
Therefore, when it was rumored in the crowd that the Bastille was about to capitulate, that its governor had promised to surrender, they could scarcely credit the report.
Amid this general doubt, as they did not yet dare to congratulate themselves, as they were silently awaiting the result, they saw a letter pushed forth through a loophole on the point of a sword. Only between this letter and the besiegers there was the ditch of the Bastille, wide, deep, and full of water.
Billot calls for a plank. Three are brought and are pushed across the ditch, but, being too short, did not reach the opposite side. A fourth is brought, which lodges on either side of the ditch.
Billot had them lashed together as he best could, and then ventured unhesitatingly upon the trembling bridge.
The whole crowd remained breathlessly silent; all eyes were fixed upon the man who appears suspended above the ditch, whose stagnant waters resemble those of the river Cocytus.
Pitou tremblingly seated himself on the edge of the slope, and hid his head between his knees.
His heart failed him, and he wept.
When Billot had got about two thirds of the way over the plank, it twisted beneath his feet. Billot extends his arms, falls, and disappears in the ditch.
Pitou utters a cry of horror and throws himself into the ditch, like a Newfoundland dog anxious to save his master.
A man then approached the plank from which Billot had just before been precipitated.
Without hesitation he walked across the temporary bridge. This man is Stanislaus Maillard, the usher of the Châtelet.
When he had reached the spot below which Pitou and Billot were struggling in the muddy ditch, he for a moment cast a glance upon them, and seeing that there was no doubt they would regain the shore in safety, he continued to walk on.
Half a minute afterwards he had reached the opposite side of the ditch, and had taken the letter which was held out to him on the point of a sword.
Then, with the same tranquillity, the same firmness of step, he recrossed the ditch.
But at the moment when the crowd were pressing round him to hear the letter read, a storm of musketballs rained down upon them from the battlements, and a frightful detonation was heard.
One only cry, but one of those cries which announce the vengeance of a whole people, issues from every mouth.
“Trust, then, in tyrants!” exclaimed Gonchon.
And then, without thinking any more of the capitulation, without thinking any more of the powder—magazine, without thinking of themselves or of the prisoners, without desiring, without demanding anything but vengeance, the people rushed into the courtyard, no longer by hundreds of men, but by thousands.
That which prevents the crowd from entering is no longer the musketry, but the gates, which are too narrow to admit them.
On hearing the detonation we have spoken of, the two soldiers who were still watching Monsieur de Launay threw themselves upon him; a third seized the match and extinguished it under his foot.
De Launay drew the sword which was concealed in his cane, and would have turned it against his own breast, but the soldiers plucked it from him and snapped it in two.
He then felt that all he could do was to abide the result; he therefore tranquilly awaited it.
The people rush forward; the garrison open their arms to them, and the Bastille is taken by assault,—by main force, without a capitulation.
The reason for this was that for more than a hundred years the royal fortress had not merely imprisoned inert matter within its walls, it had imprisoned thought also. Thought had thrown down the walls of the Bastille, and the people entered by the breach.
As to the discharge of musketry, which had taken place amid the general silence, during the suspension of hostilities,—as to this unforeseen aggression, as impolitic as it was murderous, it was never known who had ordered it, who had excited it, how it was accomplished.
There are moments when the destiny of a whole nation is being weighed in the scales of Fate. One of them weighs down the other. Every one already thinks he has attained the proposed end. Suddenly some invisible hand lets fall into the other scale the blade of a poniard or a pistol ball.
Then all changes, and one only cry is heard: “Woe to the vanquished!”
