“Come nearer to me, my child.”
“What is it that you want with me?” said young Sebastien to Billot.
“Do you wish to take him away?” cried the principal, terrified at the aspect of two armed men, one of whom—the one who had spoken to young Gilbert—was covered with blood.
The boy, on his side, looked with astonishment at these two men, and was endeavoring, but uselessly, to recognize his foster-brother, Pitou, who had grown so immeasurably tall since he last saw him, and who was altogether metamorphosed by the warlike accoutrements he had put on.
“Take him away!” exclaimed Billot, “take away Monsieur Gilbert’s son, and lead him into all this turmoil,—expose him to receiving some unhappy blow! Oh! no, indeed!”
“Do you see, Sebastien,” said the principal, “do you see, you furious fellow, that even your friends will have nothing to do with you? For, in short, these gentlemen appear to be your friends. Come, gentlemen, come, my young pupils, come, my children,” cried the poor principal, “obey me—obey me, I command you—obey me, I entreat you.”
“Oro obtestorque,” said Pitou.
“Sir,” said young Gilbert, with a firmness that was extraordinary in a youth of his age, “retain my comrades, if such be your pleasure; but as to me, do you understand me, I will go out.”
He made a movement towards the gate; the professor caught him by the arm.
But he, shaking his fine auburn curls upon his pallid forehead,—
“Sir,” said he, “beware what you are doing. I am not in the same position as your other pupils. My father has been arrested, imprisoned; my father is in the power of the tyrants.”
“In the power of the tyrants!” exclaimed Billot; “speak, my child; what is it that you mean?”
“Yes, yes,” cried several of the scholars, “Sebastien is right; his father has been arrested; and since the people have opened the prisons, he wishes they should open his father’s prison too.”
“Oh, oh!” said the farmer, shaking the bars of the gate with his herculean arms, ” they have arrested Doctor Gilbert, have they? By Heaven! my little Catherine, then, was right!”
“Yes, sir,” continued young Gilbert, “they have arrested my father, and that is why I wish to get out, why I wish to take a musket, why I wish to fight until I have liberated my dear father.”
And these words were accompanied and encouraged by a hundred furious voices, crying in every key:—
“Arms! arms! let us have arms!”
On hearing these cries, the crowd which had collected in the street, animated in its turn by an heroic ardor, rushed towards the gate to give liberty to the collegians.
The principal threw himself upon his knees between his scholars and the invaders, and held out his arms with a supplicating gesture.
“Oh, my friends! my friends!” cried he, “respect my children!”
“Do we not respect them?” said a French Guard. “I believe we do, indeed. They are fine boys, and they will do their exercise admirably.”
“My friends! my friends! These children are a sacred deposit which their parents have confided to me; I am responsible for them; their parents calculate upon me; for them I would sacrifice my life; but, in the name of Heaven! do not take away these children!”
Hootings, proceeding from the street, that is to say, from the hindmost ranks of the crowd, replied to these piteous supplications.
Billot rushed forward, opposing the French Guards, the crowd, the scholars themselves:—
“He is right, it is a sacred trust; let men fight, let men get themselves killed, but let children live; they are seed for the future.”
A disapproving murmur followed these words.
“Who is it that murmurs?” cried Billot; “assuredly, it cannot be a father. I who am now speaking to you, had two men killed in my arms; their blood is upon my shirt. See this!”
And he showed his shirt and waistcoat all begrimed with blood, and with a dignified movement which electrified the crowd.
“Yesterday,” continued Billot, “I fought at the Palais Royal; and at the Tuileries, and this lad also fought there, but this lad has neither father nor mother; moreover, he is almost a man.”