These men smiled, because the ill they had not dared to commit, they would gladly see committed by the most inoffensive half of the human kind.
In about half an hour there were ten thousand women assembled on the Place de Grève.
These ladies, seeing that their numbers were sufficient, began to deliberate with their arms akimbo.
The deliberation was by no means a calm one; those who deliberated were for the most part porteresses, market-women, and prostitutes. Many of these women were royalists, and far from thinking of doing any harm to the king and queen, would have allowed themselves to be killed to serve them. The noise which was made by this strange discussion might have been heard across the river, and by the silent towers of Notre-Dame, which, after seeing so many things, were preparing themselves to see things still more curious.
The result of the deliberation was as follows:—
“Let us just go and burn the Hôtel de Ville, where so many musty papers are made out to prevent our eating our daily food.”
And in the Hôtel de Ville they were at that moment trying a baker who had sold bread to the poor under weight.
It will be easily comprehended that the dearer bread is, the more profitable is every operation of this nature; only the more lucrative it is, the more dangerous.
In consequence, the admirers of lamp-justice were only waiting for the baker with a new rope.
The guards of the Hôtel de Ville wished to save the unhappy culprit, and used all their strength to effect it. But for some time past it has been seen that the result but ill accorded with these philanthropic intentions.
The women rushed on these guards, dispersed them, made a forcible entry into the Hôtel de Ville; and the sack began.
They wished to throw into the Seine all they could find, and burn on the spot all that they could not carry away.
The men were therefore to be cast into the water, the building itself set fire to.
This was rather heavy work.
There was a little of everything in the Hôtel de Ville.
In the first place, there were three hundred electors.
There were also the assistants.
There were the mayors of the different districts.
“It would take a long time to throw all these men into the water,” said a sensible woman, who was in a hurry to conclude the affair.
“They deserve it richly, notwithstanding,” observed another.
“Yes; but we have no time to spare.”
“Well, then,” cried another, “the quickest way will be to burn them all, and everything with them.”
They ran about looking for torches, and to get fagots to set fire to the municipality. While this was doing, in order not to lose time, they caught an abbé, the Abbé Lefèvre d’Ormesson, and strung him up.
Fortunately for the abbé, the man in the gray coat was there; he cut the rope, and the poor abbé fell from a height of seventeen feet, sprained one of his feet, and limped away amid shouts of laughter from these Megæras.
The reason for the abbé being allowed to get away was that the torches were lighted, and the incendiaries had already these torches in their hands, and they were about to set fire to the archives; in two minutes the whole place would have been in a blaze.
Suddenly the man in the gray coat rushed forward and snatched torches and fagots out of the women’s hands; the women resisted. The man laid about him right and left with the lighted torches, setting fire to their petticoats; and while they were occupied in extinguishing them, he extinguished the papers which had already been ignited.
Who, then, is this man who thus opposes the frightful will of ten thousand furious creatures?
Why then, do they allow themselves to be governed by this man? They had half hanged the Abbé Lefèvre; they could hang that man more effectually, seeing that he would be no longer there to prevent them from hanging whom they pleased.
Guided by this reasoning, a frantic chorus arose from them, threatening him with death; and to these threats deeds were added.