Margot was bearing as many people as could manage to get upon her back, her croup, her neck; Margot looked in the obscurity of the night, which always magnifies the appearance of objects, like an elephant loaded with hunters going to attack a tiger.
Five or six furious fellows had taken possession of Margot’s broad back, vociferating, “Long live Necker!”
“Long live the Duke of Orleans!”
“Down with the foreigners!” to which Pitou replied,-“You will break Margot’s back!” The enthusiasm was general.
Billot for a moment entertained the idea of rushing to the aid of Pitou and poor Margot; but he reflected that if he should only for a moment resign the honor of carrying one of the corners of the bier, he would not be able to regain his triumphal post. Then he reflected that by the barter he had agreed to with old Lefranc, that of giving him Cadet for Margot, Margot belonged to him, and that, should any accident happen to Margot, it was, after all, but an affair of some three or four hundred livres, and that he, Billot, was undoubtedly rich enough to make the sacrifice of three or four hundred livres to his country.
During this time the procession kept on advancing; it had moved obliquely to the left, and had gone down the Rue Montmartre to the Place des Victoires. When it reached the Palais Royal some great impediment prevented its passing on. A troop of men with green leaves in their hats were shouting “To arms!”
It was necessary to reconnoitre. Were these men who blocked up the Rue Vivienne friends, or enemies? Green was the color of the Count d’Artois. Why, then, these green cockades?
After a minute’s conference all was explained. On learning the dismissal of Necker, a young man had issued from the Café Foy, had jumped upon a table in the garden of the Palais Royal, and taking a pistol from his breast, had cried, “To arms!”
On hearing this cry, all the persons who were walking there had assembled round him, and had shouted, “To arms!”
We have already said that all the foreign regiments had been collected around Paris. One might have imagined that it was an invasion by the Austrians. The names of these regiments alarmed the ears of all Frenchmen; they were Reynac, Salis Samade, Diesbach, Esterhazy, Rœmer; the very naming of them was sufficient to make the crowd understand that they were the names of enemies. The young man named them; he announced that the Swiss were encamped in the Champs Élysées, with four pieces of artillery, and that they were to enter Paris the same night, preceded by the dragoons commanded by Prince Lambesq. He proposed a new cockade which was not theirs, snatched a leaf from a chestnuttree and placed it in the band of his hat. Upon the instant every one present followed his example. Three thousand persons had in ten minutes unleaved the trees of the Palais Royal.
That morning no one knew the name of that young man; in the evening it was in every mouth.
That young man’s name was Camille Desmoulins. The two crowds recognized each other as friends; they fraternized, they embraced each other, and then the procession continued on its way. During the momentary halt we have just described, the curiosity of those who had not been able to discover, even by standing on tiptoe, what was going on, had overloaded Margot with an increasing burden. Every inch on which a foot could be placed had been invaded, so that when the crowd again moved on, the poor beast was literally crushed by the enormous weight which overwhelmed her.
At the corner of the Rue Richelieu Billot cast a look behind him; Margot had disappeared.
He heaved a deep sigh, addressed to the memory of the unfortunate animal; then, soon recovering from his grief, and calling up the whole power of his voice, he three times called Pitou, as did the Romans of ancient times when attending the funeral of a relative. He imagined that he heard, issuing from the centre of the crowd, a voice which replied to his own, but that voice was lost among the confused clamors which ascended towards the heavens, half threatening, half with applauding acclamations.