Ange Pitou by Alexandre Dumas part one

“Yes; and when you have once got in, you will find there Monsieur de Dreux Brézé, who will have you shoved out of doors.”

“Who will have me shoved out of doors?”

“Yes; he wished to do that to the National Assembly altogether. It is true that he did not succeed; but that is a stronger reason for his being in a furious rage, and taking his revenge on you.”

“Very well; then I will apply to the Assembly.”

“The road to Versailles is intercepted.”

“I will go there with my three thousand men.”

“Take care, my dear sir. You would find on your road some four or five thousand Swiss soldiers and two or three thousand Austrians, who would make only a mouthful of you and your three thousand men. In the twinkling of an eye you would be swallowed.”

“Ah! the devil! What ought I to do, then?”

“Do what you please; but do me the service to take away your three thousand men who are beating the pavement yonder with their pikes, and who are smoking. There are seven or eight thousand pounds of powder in our cellars here. A single spark might blow us all up.”

“In that case, I think, I will neither address myself to the King nor to the National Assembly. I will address myself to the nation, and we will take the Bastille.”

“And with what?”

“With the eight thousand pounds of powder that you are going to give me, Monsieur Provost.”

“Ah, really!” said Flesselles, in a jeering tone.

“It is precisely as I say, sir. The keys of the cellars, if you please.”

“Hey! you are jesting, sure!” cried the provost.

“No, sir, I am not jesting,” said Billot.

And seizing Flesselles by the collar of his coat with both hands,—”The keys,” cried he, “or I call up my men.”

Flesselles turned as pale as death. His lips and his teeth were closed convulsively; but when he spoke, his voice was in no way agitated, and he did not even change the ironical tone he had assumed.

“In fact, sir,” said he, “you are doing me a great service by relieving me from the charge of this powder. I will therefore order the keys to be delivered to you, as you desire. Only please not to forget that I am your first magistrate, and that if you have the misfortune to conduct yourself towards me before others in the way you have done when alone with me, an hour afterwards you would be hanged by the town guards. You insist on having this powder?”

“I insist,” replied Billot.

“And you will distribute it yourself?”

“Myself.”

“And when?”

“This very moment.”

“Your pardon. Let us understand each other. I have business which will detain me here about a quarter of an hour, and should rather like, if it is the same to you, that the distribution should not be commenced until I have left the place. It has been predicted to me that I shall die a violent death; but I acknowledge that I have a very decided repugnance to being blown into the air.”

“Be it so. In a quarter of an hour, then. But now, in my turn, I have a request to make.”

“What is it?”

“Let us both go close up to that window.”

“For what purpose?”

“I wish to make you popular.”

“I am greatly obliged; but in what manner?”

“You shall see.”

Billot took the provost to the window, which was open, and called out to his friends in the square below.

“My friends,” said he, “you still wish to take the Bastille, do you not?”

“Yes, yes, yes!” shouted three or four thousand voices.

“But you want gunpowder, do you not?”

“Yes! gunpowder! gunpowder!”

“Well, then, here is his honor the provost, who is willing to give us all he has in the cellars of the Hôtel de Ville. Thank him for it, my friends.”

“Long live the Provost of the Merchants! Long live Monsieur de Flesselles!” shouted the whole crowd.

“Thanks, my friends: thanks for myself, thanks for him,” cried Billot.

Then, turning towards the provost:—

“And now, sir,” said Billot, “it is no longer necessary that I should take you by the collar, while here alone with you, or before all the world; for if you do not give me the gunpowder, the nation, as you call it, the nation will tear you to pieces.”

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