He entered the Hôtel de Ville, asking who was the chief of the municipality.
He was told it was the Provost of the Merchants, the mayor of Paris, Monsieur de Flesselles.
“Ah, ah!” cried he, with a dissatisfied air. “Monsieur de Flesselles, a noble, that is to say, an enemy of the people.”
“Why no,” they replied to him; “he is a man of talent.”
Billot ascended the staircase of the Hôtel de Ville.
In the ante-chamber he met an usher.
“I wish to speak with Monsieur Flesselles,” said he, perceiving that the usher was approaching him to ask him what he wanted.
“Impossible!” replied the usher; “he is now occupied in drawing up the lists of a militia force which the city is about to organize.”
“That falls out marvellously well,” observed Billot, “for I also am organizing a militia, and as I have already three thousand men enlisted, I am as good as Monsieur de Flesselles, who has not a single soldier yet afoot. Enable me, therefore, to speak with Monsieur de Flesselles, and that instantly. Oh, look out of the window, if you will!”
The usher had, in fact, cast a rapid glance upon the quays, and had perceived Billot’s men. He therefore hastened to inform the mayor, to whom he showed the three thousand men in question, as a postscript to his message.
This inspired the provost with a sort of respect for the person who wished to see him: he left the council-room and went into the ante-chamber, looking about for his visitor.
He perceived Billot, guessed that he was the person, and smiled.
“It was you who were asking for me, was it not?” said he.
“You are Monsieur de Flesselles, Provost of the Merchants, I believe?” replied Billot.
“Yes, sir. In what way, may I ask, can I be of service to you? Only speak quickly, for my mind is much occupied.”
“Good Monsieur Provost,” continued Billot, “how many powers are there in France?”
“Why, that is as people may choose to understand it, my dear sir,” replied Flesselles.
“Say it, then, as you yourself understand it.”
“Were you to consult Monsieur Bailly, he would tell you there is but one, the National Assembly; if you consult Monsieur de Dreux Brézé, he would also tell you there is but one—the king.”
“And you, Monsieur Provost,—of these two opinions, which is yours?”
“My own opinion, and above all at the present moment, is, that there is but one.”
“The assembly, or the king?” demanded Billot
“Neither the one nor the other; it is the nation,” replied Flesselles, playing with the frill of his shirt.
“Ah! ah! the nation!” cried the farmer.
“Yes; that is to say, those gentlemen who are waiting down yonder on the quay with knives and roasting-spits. The nation,—by that I mean everybody.”
“You may perhaps be right, Monsieur de Flesselles,” replied Billot, “and they were not wrong in telling me that you are a man of talent.”
De Flesselles bowed.
“To which of these three powers do you think of appealing, sir?” asked Flesselles.
“Upon my faith,” said Billot, “I believe that when one has anything very important to ask, a man had better address himself at once to God and not to his saints.”
“Which means to say that you are about to address yourself to the king.”
“I am inclined to do so.”
“Would it be indiscreet to inquire what it is you think of asking of the king?”
“The liberation of Doctor Gilbert, who is in the Bastille.”
“Doctor Gilbert?” solemnly asked Monsieur de Flesselles; “he is a writer of pamphlets, is he not?”
“Say a philosopher, sir.”
“That is one and the same thing, my dear Monsieur Billot. I think you stand but a poor chance of obtaining what you desire from the king.”
“And why so?”
“In the first place, because, if the king sent Doctor Gilbert to the Bastille he must have had reasons for so doing.”
“‘Tis well,” replied Billot; “he shall give me his reasons on the subject, and I will give him mine.”
“My dear Monsieur Billot, the king is just now very busy, and he would not even receive you.”
“Oh, if he does not receive me, I shall find some means of getting in without his permission!”