“And when was this?”
“Six days ago.”
“And where did they arrest him?”
“At Havre, where he had just landed.”
“How do you know all this?”
“I have received a letter from him.”
“Dated from Havre?”
“Yes.”
“And it was at Havre itself that he was arrested?”
“It was at Lillebonne.”
“Come now, child, do not feel angry with me, but give me all the particulars that you know. I swear to you that I will either leave my bones on the Place de la Bastille, or you shall see your father again.”
Sebastien looked at the farmer, and seeing that he spoke from his heart, his angry feelings subsided.
“Well, then,” said he, “at Lillebonne he had time to write in a book, with a pencil, these words:—
SEBASTIEN,—I have been arrested, and they are taking me to the Bastille. Be patient, hope, and study diligently.
LILLEBONNE, July 7, 1789.
P.S.—I am arrested in the cause of Liberty. I have a son in the College Louis-le-Grand, at Paris. The person who shall find this book is entreated, in the name of humanity, to get it conveyed to my son. His name is Sebastien Gilbert.
“And this book?” inquired Billot, palpitating with emotion.
“He put a piece of gold into this book, tied a cord round it, and threw it out of the window.”
“And—”
“The curate of the place found it, and chose from among his parishioners a robust young man, to whom he said:—
“‘Leave twelve francs with your family, who are without bread, and with the other twelve go to Paris; carry this book to a poor boy whose father has just been arrested because he has too great a love for the people.’
“The young man arrived here at noon yesterday, and delivered to me my father’s book. And this is the way I learned how my father had been arrested.”
“Come, come,” cried Billot, “this reconciles me somewhat to the priests. Unfortunately they are not all like this one. And this worthy young man,—what has become of him?”
“He set off to return home last night. He hoped to carry back with him to his family five francs out of the twelve he had brought with him.”
“Admirable! admirable!” exclaimed Pitou, weeping for joy. “Oh, the people have good feelings! Go on, Gilbert.”
“Why, now you know all.”
“Yes.”
“You promised me, if I would tell you all, that you would bring back my father to me. I have told you all; now remember your promise.”
“I told you that I would save him, or I should be killed in the attempt. That is true. And now, show me the book,” said Billot.
“Here it is,” said the boy, taking from his pocket a volume of the “Contrat Social.”
“And where is your father’s writing?”
“Here,” replied the boy, pointing to what the doctor had written.
The farmer kissed the written characters.
“And now,” said he, “tranquillize yourself. I am going to seek your father in the Bastille.”
“Unhappy man!” cried the principal of the college, seizing Billot’s hands; “how can you obtain access to a prisoner of State?”
“Zounds! by taking the Bastille!”
Some of the French Guards began to laugh. In a few moments the laugh had become general.
“Why,” said Billot, casting around him a glance flashing with anger, ” what then is in the Bastille, if you please?”
“Stone,” said a soldier.
“Iron,” said another.
“And fire,” said a third. “Take care, my worthy man: you may burn your fingers.”
“Yes, yes; you may burn yourself,” reiterated the crowd, with horror.
“Ah! Parisians,” shouted the farmer, “you have pickaxes, and you are afraid of stone! Ah! you have lead, and you fear iron! You have gunpowder, and you are afraid of fire! Parisians!—cowards! Parisians!—poltroons! Parisians!—machines for slavery! A thousand demons!—where is the man of heart who will go with me and Pitou to take the king’s Bastille? My name is Billot, a farmer of the Isle de France. Forward!”
Billot had raised himself to the very climax of audacity.
The crowd, rendered enthusiastic by his address, and trembling with excitement, pressed around him, crying, “To the Bastille!”
Sebastien endeavored to cling to Billot, but the latter gently pushed him back.