THEN those who were insulting the remains of Foulon left their sanguinary game, to rush forward in pursuit of a new vengeance.
The adjacent streets immediately disgorged a large proportion of that howling mob, who hurried from the square with upraised knives and menacing gestures, towards the Rue St. Martin, to meet the new funeral procession.
The junction having been accomplished, both parties were equally eager to return to the square.
Some of those ingenious persons whom we have seen upon the Place de Grève presented to the son-in-law the head of Foulon on the end of a pike.
Monsieur Berthier was coming along the Rue St. Martin with the commissary. They were then just crossing the Rue St. Merry.
He was in his own cabriolet,—a vehicle which at that period was considered as eminently aristocratic; a vehicle which more than any other excited popular animadversion; for the people had so often complained of the reckless rapidity with which they were driven, either by young fops or dancing-girls who drove themselves, and which, drawn by a fiery horse, sometimes ran over, but always splashed, the unfortunate pedestrian.
Berthier, in the midst of all the shouts, the hootings, and the threats of the infuriate mob, was talking tranquilly with the elector Rivière,—the commissary sent to Compiègne to save him, but who, being abandoned by his colleague, had with much difficulty saved himself.
The people had begun with the cabriolet; they had turned off the head of it, so that Berthier and his companion were completely exposed, not only to the view, but to the blows of the populace.
As they moved onwards, his misdeeds were related to him, commented upon, and exaggerated by the popular fury.
“He wished to starve Paris,” cried one.
“He had the rye and wheat cut when it was green; and then, a rise in the price of corn having taken place, he realized enormous sums.”
“Not only did he do that,” said they, “which was enough in itself, but he was conspiring.”
In searching him, they had found a pocket-book. In this pocket-book were incendiary letters, orders for massacre, proof that ten thousand cartridges had been distributed to his agents; so said the crowd.
These were all monstrous absurdities; but as is well known, the mob, when in a paroxysm of rage, gives out as positive facts the most absurd improbabilities.
The person whom they accused of all this was a man who was still young, not being more than from thirty to thirty-two years of age, elegantly dressed, almost smiling, though greeted every moment by injurious epithets and even blows. He looked with perfect indifference at the infamous placards which were held up to him, and without affectation continued his conversation with Rivière.
Two men, irritated at his assurance, had wished to terrify him, and to diminish this self-confidence. They had mounted on the steps, on each side of the cabriolet, and each of them placed the point of his bayonet on Berthier's breast.
But Berthier, brave even to temerity, was not to be moved by such a trifle. He had continued to converse with the elector as if those two muskets were but inoffensive accessories to the cabriolet.
The mob, profoundly exasperated by this disdain, which formed so complete a contrast to the terror of Foulon,—the mob roared around the vehicle, and waited with impatience for the moment when instead of a threat they might inflict a wound.
It was then that Berthier had fixed his eyes on a misshapen and bloody object, which was held up and danced before him, and which he suddenly recognized as the head of his father-in-law, and which the ruffians who bore it held down close to his lips.
They wished to make him kiss it.
Monsieur Rivière, indignant at this brutality, pushed the pike away with his hand.
Berthier thanked him by a gesture, and did not even deign to turn round to follow this hideous trophy with his eyes. The executioners carried it behind the cabriolet, holding it over Berthier's head.
They thus arrived on the Place de Grève; and the prisoner, after unheard-of efforts by the civic guards, who had been re-assembled in some order, was delivered into the hands of the electors of the Hôtel de Ville.
A dangerous charge, a fearful responsibility, which made Lafayette once more turn pale, and poor Bailly's heart swell almost to breaking.
The mob, after having hacked away for a while at the cabriolet, which had been left at the foot of the front steps, again placed itself in the most advantageous positions, kept guard on all the issues from the building, made all its preparations, and placed new ropes in the pulleys of the lamp-posts.
Billot, at the sight of Berthier, who was tranquilly ascending the great staircase of the Hôtel de Ville, tore his hair, and could not restrain himself from weeping bitterly.
Pitou, who had left the river's bank, and had come on the quay again when he thought that Foulon's execution had been accomplished; Pitou, terrified, notwithstanding his hatred for Monsieur Berthier, guilty in his eyes not only of all the mob reproached him with, but also of having given gold buckles to Mademoiselle Catherine,—Pitou crouched down sobbing behind a bench.
During this time Berthier had entered the grand Hall of Council as coolly as if all the tumult had reference to some other person, and quietly conversed with the electors.
He knew the greater portion of them, and was even intimate with some of them.
The latter avoided him with the instinctive terror with which timid minds are inspired by the contact of an unpopular man.
Therefore Berthier soon found himself almost alone with Bailly and Lafayette.
He made them relate to him all the particulars of Foulon's death. Then, shrugging his shoulders:—
“Yes,” said he, “I can understand it. They hate us, because we are the instruments with which royalty has tortured the people.”
“Great crimes are laid at your door, sir,” said Bailly, austerely.
“Sir,” replied Berthier, “if I had committed all the crimes with which I am reproached, I should be less or more than man,—a wild beast or a demon. But I shall be tried, I presume, and then the truth will be ascertained.”
“Well, then,” rejoined Berthier, “that is all I desire. They have my correspondence, and it will be seen whose orders I have obeyed; and the responsibility will fall on those to whom it rightly appertains.”
The electors cast their eyes upon the square, from which arose the most frightful clamor.
Berthier understood this mute reply.
Then Billot, pushing through the throng which surrounded Bailly, went up to the intendant, and offering him his huge honest hand:—
“Good-day, Monsieur de Sauvigny,” said he to him.
“How! is that you, Billot?” cried Berthier, laughing, and grasping firmly the hand which was held out to him. “What! you have come to Paris to join in these disturbances,—you, my worthy farmer, who used to sell your wheat so well in the market at Villers-Cotterets, Crépy, and Soissons?”
Billot, notwithstanding his democratic tendencies, could not but admire the tranquillity of this man, who could thus smile at a moment when his life was hanging by a thread.
“Install yourselves, gentlemen,” said Bailly to the electors; “we must now proceed to the examination of the charges against the accused.”
“Be it so,” said Berthier; “but I must warn you of one thing, gentlemen, and that is, that I am perfectly exhausted. For the last two days I have not slept. Today, from Compiègne to Paris, I have been pushed about, beaten, dragged along. When I asked for something to eat, they offered me hay, which is not excessively refreshing. Therefore, give me some place where I can sleep, if it. be only for an hour.”
At that moment Lafayette left the room for a short time, to ascertain the state of matters outside. He returned more dispirited than ever.
“My dear Bailly,” said he to the mayor, “exasperation is at its height; to keep Monsieur Berthier here would be exposing ourselves to a siege. To defend the Hôtel de Ville would be giving these furious madmen the pretext which they wish. Not to defend the Hôtel de Ville would be acquiring the habit of yielding every time we are attacked.”
During this time, Berthier had sat down, and then stretched himself at full length upon a bench.
He was preparing himself to sleep.
The desperate howls from below were audible to him, for he was near an open window; but they did not disturb him. His countenance retained the serenity of a man who forgets all, to allow sleep to weigh down his eyelids.
Bailly was deliberating with the electors and Lafayette.
Billot had his eyes fixed upon Berthier.
Lafayette was rapidly taking the votes of the electors; after which, addressing the prisoner, who was beginning to slumber:—
“Sir,” said he, “be pleased to get ready.”
Berthier heaved a sigh; then, raising himself on his elbow:—
“Ready for what?” he inquired.
“These gentlemen have decided that you are to be transferred to the Abbaye.”
“To the Abbaye? Well, be it so,” said the intendant. “But,” continued he, looking at the confused electors, whose confusion he readily comprehended,—“but, one way or the other, let us finish this.”
And an explosion of anger and furious impatience long restrained burst forth from the square.
“No, gentlemen, no,” exclaimed Lafayette; “we cannot allow him to depart at this moment.”
Bailly's kind heart and undaunted courage impelled him to come to a sudden resolution. He went down into the square with two of the electors, and ordered silence.
The people knew as well as he did what he was about to say; but as they were fully bent on committing another crime, they would not even listen to a reproach; and as Bailly was opening his lips to speak, a deafening clamor arose from the mob, drowning his voice before a single word could be heard.
Bailly, seeing that it would be impossible for him to proffer even a syllable, returned into the Hôtel de Ville pursued by cries of “Berthier! Berthier!”
But other cries resounded in the midst of those,—cries similar to those shrill notes which suddenly are heard in the choruses of demons by Weber or by Meyerbeer,—and these were, “To the lamp-post! to the lamp-post!”
On seeing Bailly come back pale and disheartened, Lafayette rushed out in his turn. He is young; he is ardent; he is beloved. That which the old man could not effect, his popularity being but of yesterday, he, Lafayette—he, the friend of Washington and of Necker,—would undoubtedly obtain at the first word.
But in vain was it that the people's general threw himself into the most furious groups. In vain did he speak in the name of justice and humanity. In vain was it that recognizing, or feigning to recognize, certain leaders of the people, did he supplicate them, grasping their hands, and endeavoring to allay their fury.
Not one of his words was listened to; not one or his gestures was understood; not one of the tears he shed was seen.
Repulsed step by step, he threw himself upon his knees on the front steps of the Hôtel de Ville, conjuring these tigers, whom he called his fellow-citizens, not to dishonor the nation, not to dishonor themselves, not to elevate to the rank of martyrs guilty men, to whom the law would award a degrading death, which degradation was a portion of their punishment.
As he persisted in his entreaties, he was at last personally threatened in his turn; but he defied all threats. Some of these furious wretches drew their knives, and raised them as if to strike.
He bared his breast to their blows, and their weapons were instantly lowered.
But if they thus threatened Lafayette, the threat was still more serious to Berthier.
Lafayette, thus overcome, re-entered the Hôtel de Ville as Bailly had done.
The electors had all seen Lafayette vainly contending against the tempest. Their last rampart was overthrown.
They decided that the guard of the Hôtel de Ville should at once conduct Berthier to the Abbaye.
It was sending Berthier to certain death.
“Come, then,” said Berthier, when this decision was announced.
And eying all these men with withering contempt, he took his station in the centre of the guards, after having thanked Bailly and Lafayette for their exertions, and in his turn, held out his hand to Billot.
Bailly turned away his face to conceal his tears, Lafayette to conceal his indignation.
Berthier descended the staircase with the same firm step with which he had ascended it.
At the moment that he appeared on the front steps, a furious howl assailed him, making even the stone step on which he had placed his foot tremble beneath him.
But he, disdainful and impassible, looked at all those flashing eyes calmly and unflinchingly, and shrugging his shoulders, pronounced these words:—
“What a fantastic people? What is there to make them howl thus?”
He had scarcely uttered these words, when he was seized upon by the foremost of the mob. They had rushed on to the front steps and clutched him, though surrounded by his guards. Their iron hands dragged him along. He lost his footing, and fell into the arms of his enemies, who in a second dispersed his escort.
Then an irresistible tide impelled the prisoner over the same path, stained with blood, which Foulon had been dragged over only two hours before.
A man was already seated astride the fatal lamp, holding a rope in his hand.
But another man had clung to Berthier, and this man was dealing out with fury and delirium blows and imprecations on the brutal executioners.
“You shall not have him! You shall not kill him!”
This man was Billot, whom despair had driven mad, and as strong as twenty men.
“I am one of the conquerors of the Bastille!”
And some of those who recognized him became less furious in their attack.
“Let him be fairly tried. I will be responsible for him. If he is allowed to escape, you shall hang me in his stead.”
Poor Billot! poor worthy man! The whirlwind swept him away,—him and Berthier,—as the water-spout carries away a feather or a straw in its vast spirals.
He moved on without perceiving anything. He had reached the fatal spot.
The thunderbolt is less swift.
Berthier, who had been dragged along backwards,—Berthier, whom they had raised up, seeing that they stopped, raised his eyes and perceived the infamous, degrading halter swinging above his head.
By an effort as violent as it was unexpected, he tore himself from the grasp of those who held him, snatched a musket from the hands of a National Guard, and inflicted several wounds on his self-appointed executioners with his bayonet.
But in a second a thousand blows were aimed at him from behind. He fell, and a thousand other blows from the ruffians who encircled him rained down upon him.
Billot had disappeared beneath the feet of the assassins.
Berthier had not time to suffer. His life's blood and his soul rushed at once from his body through a thousand gaping wounds.
Then Billot was witness to a spectacle more hideous than he had yet seen. He saw a fiend plunge his hand into the open breast of the corpse, and tear out the still smoking heart.
Then, sticking this heart, on the point of his sabre, he held it above the heads of the shouting mob, which opened before him as he advanced, carried it into the Hôtel de Ville, and laid it on the table of the grand council, where the electors held their sessions.
Billot, that man of iron nerve, could not support this frightful sight; he fell fainting against a post at about ten paces from the fatal lantern.
Lafayette, on seeing this infamous insult offered to his authority,—offered to the Revolution which he directed, or rather which he had believed he should direct,—Lafayette broke his sword, and threw it at the faces of the assassins.
Pitou ran to pick up the farmer, and carried him off in his arms, whispering into his ear:—
“Billot! Father Billot! take care; if they see that you are fainting, they will take you for his accomplice, and will kill you too. That would be a pity—so good a patriot!”
And thereupon he dragged him towards the river, concealing him as well as he was able from the inquisitive looks of some zealous patriots who were murmuring.
