“Pitou!” he exclaimed.
“Yes, yes,” replied Pitou. “Down! down! and you will soon see.”
And redoubling his efforts, he managed to drag with him to the ground the opposing farmer.
No sooner had he forced Billot to lie down flat upon the pavement, than another discharge was heard. The Savoyard who was carrying the bust of the Duke of Orleans gave way in his turn, struck by a ball in the thigh.
Then was heard the crushing of the pavement beneath the horses’ hoofs; then the dragoons charged a second time; a horse, with streaming mane, and furious as that of the Apocalypse, bounds over the unfortunate Savoyard, who feels the cold steel of a lance penetrate his breast. He falls on Billot and Pitou.
The tempest rushed onward towards the end of the street, spreading, as it passed, terror and death. Dead bodies alone remained on the pavement of the square. All those who had formed the procession fled through the adjacent streets. The windows are instantly closed,-a gloomy silence succeeds to the shouts of enthusiasm and the cries of anger.
Billot waited a moment, still restrained by the prudent Pitou; he felt that the danger was becoming more distant with the noise, while Pitou, like a hare in its bed, was beginning to raise, not his head, but his ears.
“Well, Monsieur Billot,” said Pitou, “I think that you spoke truly, and that we have arrived here in the nick of time.”
“Come, now, help me!”
“And what to do,—to run away?”
“No. The young dandy is dead as a door-nail, but the poor Savoyard, in my opinion, has only fainted. Help me to put him on my back. We cannot leave him here, to be finished by those damned Germans.”
Billot spoke a language which went straight to Pitou’s heart. He had no answer to make but to obey. He took up the fainting and bleeding body of the poor Savoyard, and threw him, as he would have done a sack, across the shoulders of the robust farmer; who, seeing that the Rue St. Honoré was free, and to all appearance deserted, advanced with Pitou towards the Palais Royal.
1 The city of Paris is encircled by a wall, and at every entrance to it is a custom-house, where people coming from the country are obliged to give an account of the produce,—poultry, meal, butter, eggs, etc., —and pay the city dues upon them.—TRANSLATOR.
Chapter XI
The Night between the 12th and 13th of July
THE street had, in the first place, appeared empty and deserted to Billot and Pitou, because the dragoons, being engaged in the pursuit of the great body of the fugitives, had turned into the market of St. Honor, and had followed them up the Rue Louis—le—Grand and the Rue Gaillon. But as Billot advanced towards the Palais Royal, roaring instinctively, but in a subdued voice, the word “Vengeance!” men made their appearance at the corners of the streets, at the end of alleys, and from under the carriage gateways, who, at first, mute and terrified, looked around them, but being at length assured of the absence of the dragoons, brought up the rear of this funereal march, repeating, first in hollow whispers, but soon aloud, and finally with shouts, the word “Vengeance! vengeance!”
Pitou walked behind the farmer, carrying the Savoyard’s black cap in his hand.
They arrived thus, in gloomy and fearful procession, upon the square before the Palais Royal, where a whole people, drunk with rage, was holding council, and soliciting the support of French soldiers against the foreigners.
“Who are these men in uniform?” inquired Billot, on arriving in front of a company who were standing with grounded arms, stopping the passage across the square, from the gate of the palace to the Rue de Chartres.
“They are the French Guards!” cried several voices.
“Ah!” exclaimed Billot, approaching them, and showing them the body of the Savoyard, which was now a lifeless corpse,—”Ah! you are Frenchmen, and you allow us to be murdered by these Germans!”
The French Guards drew back with horror.
“Dead?” murmured a voice from within their ranks.
“Yes, dead! dead! assassinated!—he and many more besides!”
“And by whom?”