Pitou was supporting Billot. No shot had struck him. He had not been wounded in any way; but his fall had somewhat confused the worthy farmer.
Ropes were thrown to them; poles were held out to them.
Pitou caught hold of a pole, Billot a rope.
Five minutes afterwards they were carried in triumph by the people, and eagerly embraced, notwithstanding their muddy state.
One man gives Billot a glass of brandy, another stuffs Pitou’s mouth full of sausages, and gives him wine to wash them down.
A third rubs them down with straw, and wishes to place them in the sun to dry their clothes.
Suddenly an idea, or rather a recollection, shot through the mind of Billot. He tears himself away from their kind cares and rushes into the Bastille.
“To the prisoners!” cried he, “to the prisoners!”
“Yes, to the prisoners!” cried Pitou, in his turn, bounding after the farmer.
The crowd, which until then had thought only of the executioners, shuddered when thinking of their victims.
They with one shout repeated: “Yes, yes, yes,—to the prisoners!”
And a new flood of assailants rush through the barriers, seeming to widen the sides of the fortress by their numbers, and bearing liberty with them to the captives.
A dreadful spectacle then offered itself to the eyes of Billot and Pitou. The excited, enraged, maddened throng had precipitated themselves into the courtyard. The first soldier they had met was at once hacked to pieces.
Gonchon had quietly looked on. Doubtless he had thought that the anger of the people, like the currents of great rivers, does more harm when any impediment is thrown in its way to arrest it than if allowed tranquilly to flow on.
Elie and Hullin, on the contrary, had thrown themselves before the infuriated executioners. They prayed, they supplicated, uttering the sublime lie that they had promised life and safety to the whole garrison.
The arrival of Billot and Pitou was a reinforcement to them.
Billot, whom they were avenging, Billot was living, Billot was not even wounded. The plank had turned under his feet, and that was all; he had taken a mudbath, and nothing more.
It was, above all, against the Swiss that the people were particularly enraged; but the Swiss were nowhere to be found. They had had time to put on gray frocks, and they were taken either for servants or for prisoners.
The mob hurled large stones at the dial of the clock, and destroyed the figures of the two captives which supported it. They rushed to the ramparts to mutilate the cannon which had vomited forth death upon them. They even wreaked their vengeance on the stone walls, tearing their hands in endeavoring to displace them. When the first of the conquerors were seen upon the platform, all those who had remained without the fortress, that is to say, a hundred thousand men, shouted with clamorous joy,—
“The Bastille is taken!”
This cry resounded through Paris, and spread itself over the whole of France, as if borne with the rapidity of eagle’s wings.
On hearing this cry all hearts were softened, all eyes shed tears, all arms were extended. There were no longer any contending parties; there were no longer any inimical castes. All Parisians felt that they were brothers, all men felt that they were free.
A million of men pressed one another in a mutual embrace.
Billot and Pitou had entered the Bastille, following some and followed by others; what they wished for was, not to claim their share in the triumph; it was the liberty of the prisoners.
When crossing the courtyard of the government house, they passed near a man in a gray coat, who was standing calmly, his hand resting on a gold—headed cane.
This man was the governor. He was quietly waiting either that his friends should come to save him, or that his enemies should come to strike him down.
Billot, on perceiving him, recognized him, uttered a slight exclamation of surprise, and went straight to him.
De Launay also recognized Billot. He crossed his arms and waited, looking at the farmer with an expression that implied,—”
Let us see: is it you that will give me the first blow?”
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