“Hey!” cried Billot.
“And what do they want to do with the Bastille?”
“They want to demolish it.”
“And what the devil has the Bastille to do with the people? Was ever a man of the people put into the Bastille? The people, on the contrary, ought to bless every stone of which the Bastille is formed. Who are they who are put into the Bastille? Philosophers, men of science, aristocrats, ministers, princes,—that is to say, the enemies of the people.”
“Well, that proves that the people are not egotists.” retorted Billot.
“My friend,” said De Launay, with a shade of commiseration in his tone, “it is easy to perceive that you are not a soldier.”
“You are quite right. I am a farmer.”
“That you do not inhabit Paris.”
“In fact, I am from the country.”
“That you do not thoroughly know what the Bastille is.”
“That is true. I only know what I have seen of it,—that is to say, the exterior walls.”
“Well, then, come along with me, and I will show you what the Bastille is.”
“Ho! ho!” muttered Billot to himself, “he is going to lead me over some villanous trap—door, which will suddenly open under my feet, and then, good—night, Father Billot.”
But the intrepid farmer did not even blink, and showed himself ready to follow the governor of the Bastille.
“In the first place,” said De Launay, “you must know that I have powder enough in my cellars to blow up, not only the Bastille itself, but with it at least half of the Faubourg St. Antoine.”
“I know that,” tranquilly replied Billot.
“Very well; but now look at those four pieces of artillery.”
“I see them.”
“They enfilade the whole of this gallery, as you can also see; and this gallery is defended, first, by a guardhouse; secondly, by two ditches, which only can be crossed with the assistance of two drawbridges; and lastly, by a grated iron gate.”
“Oh, I do not say that the Bastille is badly defended,” calmly observed Billot; “all that I say is, that it will be well attacked.”
“Let us go on,” said De Launay.
Billot gave an assenting nod.
“Here is a postern which opens on the ditches,” said the governor; “look at the thickness of the walls.”
“Somewhere about forty feet.”
“Yes; forty at the bottom, and fifteen at the top. You see that, although the people may have good nails, they would break them against these stones.”
“I did not say,” rejoined Billot, “that the people would demolish the Bastille before taking it. What I said was, that they would demolish it after having taken it.”
“Let us go up the steps,” said De Launay.
“Let us go up.”
They went up some thirty steps.
The governor stopped.
“See,” said he, “here is another embrasure, which opens on the passage by which you wish to enter; this is only defended by a rampart gun, but it has already acquired a certain reputation. You know the song—
‘O my tender Musette,—
Musette, my only love.'”
“Certainly,” said Billot; “I do know it; but I do not think that this is the time to sing it.”
“Wait a moment. Well, Marshal Saxe called this small cannon his Musette, because it sung correctly the air he best liked. That is an historical detail.”
“Oh!” ejaculated Billot.
“Let us go up higher;” and they continued to climb up the stairs.
They soon reached a platform on the tower called La
Compté.
“Ah! ah!” ejaculated Billot.
“What is it?” inquired De Launay. “You have not had the cannon dismounted.”
“I have had them drawn in, that’s all.”
“You know that I shall tell the people that cannon are still here.”
“Tell them so.”
“You will not have them dismounted, then?”
“No.”
“Decidedly?”
“The king’s cannon are here by the king’s order, sir; they can only be dismounted by an order from the king.”
“Monsieur de Launay,” said Billot, feeling his thoughts rise within him according to the importance of the moment, “the real king, whom I counsel you to obey, is yonder.”
And he showed to the governor the gray crowd, some of whom were still covered with blood from the combat of the preceding evening, and whose undulating movements before the ditches made their arms gleam in the sunshine.