Ange Pitou

by Alexandre Dumas

  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.

  "Sir," said De Launay in his turn, throwing his head back with a haughty air, "you may perhaps acknowledge two kings; but I, the governor of the Bastille, know but one, and he is Louis, the Sixteenth of that name, who has affixed his name to a commission by virtue of which I command here, both men and things."

  "You are not, then, a citizen!" cried Billot in anger.

  "I am a French gentleman," said the governor.

  "Ah! that is true; you are a soldier, and you speak as a soldier."

  "You have said the word, sir," said De Launay, bowing. "I am a soldier, and I execute the orders I receive."

  "And I, sir," said Billot, "am a citizen, and my duty as a citizen being in opposition with your orders as a soldier, one of us two will die,—whether it be the one who obeys his orders, or the one who fulfils his duty."

  "It is probable, sir."

  "Then you are determined to fire upon the people?"

  "By no means—so long as they do not fire upon me.

  I have pledged my word to the envoys of Monsieur de Flesselles. You see that the guns have been drawn in, but at the first shot fired from the square upon my castle—"

  "Well, at the first shot?"

  "I will run to one of these guns,—this one, for instance,—I will myself wheel it to the embrasure, I will point it with my own hands, and I will fire it with the match you see standing here."

  "You?"

  "Yes, I."

  "Oh, if I believed that," said Billot, "before allowing you to commit such a crime—"

  "I have told you that I am a soldier, sir, and that I know nothing but my orders."

  "Well, then, look!" said Billot, drawing De Launay towards an embrasure, and pointing out to him alternately two different points, the Faubourg St. Antoine and the Boulevard, "yonder are those from whom in future you will receive your orders."

  And he showed De Launay two dark, dense, and howling masses, who, compelled to take the form of the Boulevards, undulated like an immense serpent, of which the head and the body could be seen, but the last rings of which were lost to sight, from the unevenness of the ground on which it crawled; and all that could be seen of the gigantic reptile was refulgent with luminous scales.

  It was the double troop, to which Billot had given rendezvous on the square of the Bastille,—the one led by Marat, and the other by Gonchon.

  On both sides they advanced, brandishing their arms and uttering the most terrific cries.

  De Launay turned pale at the sight, and raising his cane:—

  "To your guns!" cried he.

  Then, advancing towards Billot with a threatening gesture:—

  "And you, wretch!" he exclaimed, "you who have come here under the pretext of parleying with me while the others are advancing to the attack, do you know that you deserve to die?"

  And he half drew his sword from the cane which concealed it.

  Billot saw the movement, and, rapid as the lightning, seized De Launay by the collar and the waistband.

  "And you," said he, as he raised him from the ground, "you deserve that I should hurl you over the ramparts, to dash you in pieces against the sides of the ditch! But, God be thanked! I shall fight you in another manner!"

  At that moment an immense and universal clamor, ascending from below, and rushing through the air like the wild howlings of the hurricane, reached their ears, and Monsieur de Losme, the major of the Bastille, appeared upon the platform.

  "Sir," cried he, addressing himself to Billot, "sir, be pleased to show yourself; all those people yonder believe that some misfortune has befallen you, and they are calling for you."

  And in fact the name of Billot, which had been spread among the crowd by Pitou, was heard amidst the clamor.

  Billot had loosed his hold, and Monsieur de Launay sheathed his sword.

  Then there was a momentary hesitation between these three men; while cries calling for vengeance, and threatening shouts were heard.

  "Show yourself then, sir," said De Launay: "not that these clamors intimidate me, but that it may be known that I am a man who loyally keeps his word."

  Then Billot put his head between the battlements, making a sign with his hand.

  On seeing this, loud shouts of applause rose from the populace. It was, in a manner, the revolution rising from the forehead of the Bastille in the person of this man of the people, who was the first to trample on its platform as a conqueror.

  "'tis well, sir," then said De Launay; "all is now terminated between us; you have nothing further to do here. You are called for yonder: go down."

  Billot was sensible of this moderation in a man who had him completely in his power; he went down the same staircase by which he had ascended the ramparts, the governor following him.

  As to the major, he had remained there; the governor had given him some orders in a whisper.

  It was evident that Monsieur de Launay had but one desire, and this was that the bearer of the flag of truce should become his enemy, and that as quickly as possible.

  Billot walked across the courtyard without uttering a word. He saw the artillerymen standing by their guns. The match was smoking at the end of a lance.

  Billot stepped before them.

  "My friends," said he, "remember that I came to request your chief to prevent the spilling of blood, and that he has refused."

  "In the name of the king, sir," cried De Launay, stamping his foot "leave this place!"

  "Beware!" said Billot; "if you order me out in the name of the king, I shall come in again in the name of the people."

  Then, turning towards the guard—house, before which the Swiss were standing:—

  "Come, now," said he, "tell me for which side are you?"

  The Swiss soldiers remained silent.

  De Launay pointed with his finger to the iron gate.

  Billot wished to make a last effort.

  "Sir," said he to De Launay, "in the name of the nation! in the name of your brothers!"

  "Of my brothers! You call my brothers those men who are howling, 'Down with the Bastille!' 'Death to its governor!' They may be your brothers, sir, but most assuredly they are not mine!"

  "In the name of humanity, then!"

  "In the name of humanity, which urges you on to come here, with a hundred thousand men, to cut the throats of a hundred unfortunate soldiers shut up in these walls."

  "And by surrendering the Bastille you would be doing precisely that which would save their lives."

  "And sacrifice my honor."

  Billot said no more to him. This logic of the soldier completely overcame him; but turning to the Swiss and Invalides:—

  "Surrender, my friends!" cried he; "it is still time.

  In ten minutes it will be too late."

  "If you do not instantly withdraw, sir," in his turn cried De Launay, "on the word of a gentleman, I will order you to be shot!"

  Billot paused a moment, crossed his arms over his chest in token of defiance, exchanged a last threatening glance with De Launay, and passed through the gate.

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  Chap
ter XVII

  The Bastille

  THE crowd was waiting; scorched by the burning July sun, they were trembling, mad with excitement. Gonchon's men had just joined those of Marat. The Faubourg St. Antoine had recognized and saluted its brother, the Faubourg St. Marceau.

  Gonchon was at the head of his patriots. As to Marat, he had disappeared.

  The aspect of the square was frightful.

  On Billot's appearance the shouts redoubled.

  "Well?" said Gonchon, going up to him.

  "Well, the man is brave," said Billot.

  "What mean you by saying 'The man is brave'?" inquired Gonchon.

  "I mean to say that he is obstinate."

  "He will not surrender the Bastille?"

  "No."

  "He will obstinately sustain the siege?"

  "Yes."

  "And you believe that he will sustain it long?"

  "To the very death."

  "Be it so! Death he shall have!"

  "But what numbers of men we are about to expose to death!" exclaimed Billot, doubting assuredly that God had given him the right which generals arrogate to themselves,—as do kings and emperors,—men who have received commissions to shed blood.

  "Pooh!" said Gonchon, "there are too many in this world, since there is not bread enough for half the population. Is it not so, friends?" he asked, turning towards the crowd.

  "Yes, yes!" they responded, with sublime self—abnegation.

  "But the ditch?" observed Billot, inquiringly.

  "It is only necessary that it should be filled up at one particular spot," replied Gonchon, "and I have calculated that with the half of the bodies we have here we could fill it up completely; is it not so, friends?"

  "Yes, yes!" repeated the crowd, with no less enthusiasm than before.

  "Well, then, be it so!" said Billot, though completely overcome.

  At that moment De Launay appeared upon the terrace, followed by Major De Losme and two or three officers.

  "Begin!" cried Gonchon to the governor.

  The latter turned his back without replying.

  Gonchon, who would perhaps have endured a threat, could not endure disdain; he quickly raised his carbine to his shoulder, and a man in the governor's suite fell to the ground.

  A hundred shots, a thousand musket—shots, were fired at the same moment, as if they had only waited for this signal, and marbled with white the gray towers of the Bastille.

  A silence of some seconds succeeded this discharge, as if the crowd itself had been alarmed at that which it had done.

  Then a flash of fire, lost in a cloud of smoke, crowned the summit of a tower; a detonation resounded; cries of pain were heard issuing from the closely pressed crowd; the first cannon—shot had been fired from the Bastille; the first blood had been spilled. The battle had commenced.

  What the crowd experienced, which just before had been so threatening, very much resembled terror. That Bastille, defending itself by this sole act, appeared in all its formidable impregnability. The people had doubtless hoped that in those days, when so many concessions had been made to them, the surrender of the Bastille would be accomplished without the effusion of blood.

  The people were mistaken. The cannon—shot which had been fired upon them gave them the measure of the Titanic work which they had undertaken.

  A volley of musketry, well directed, and coming from the platform of the Bastille, followed closely on the cannon shot.

  Then all was again silent for a while, a silence which was interrupted only by a few cries, a few groans, a few wails uttered here and there.

  A shuddering, anxious movement could then be perceived among the crowd; it was the people who were picking up their killed and wounded.

  But the people thought not of flying, or if they did think of it, they were ashamed of the feeling when they considered their great numbers.

  In fact, the Boulevards, the Rue St. Antoine, the Faubourg St. Antoine, formed but one vast human sea; every wave had a head, every head, two flashing eyes, a threatening mouth.

  In an instant all the windows of the neighborhood were filled with sharpshooters, even those which were out of gunshot.

  Whenever a Swiss soldier or an Invalide appeared upon the terraces or in one of the embrasures, a hundred muskets were at once aimed at him, and a shower of balls splintered the corners of the stones behind which the soldier was sheltered.

  But they soon got tired of firing at insensible walls. It was against human flesh that their balls were directed. It was blood that they wished to see spout forth whereever the balls struck, and not dust.

  Numerous opinions were emitted from amid the crowd.

  A circle would then be formed around the speaker, and when the people thought the proposal was devoid of sense, they at once left him.

  A blacksmith proposed to form a catapult upon the model of the ancient Roman machines, and with it to make a breach in the walls of the Bastille.

  The firemen proposed to damp with their engines the priming of the cannon and extinguish the matches of the artillerymen, without reflecting that the most powerful of their engines could not throw water even to two—thirds the height of the walls of the Bastille.

  A brewer who commanded the Faubourg St. Antoine, and whose name has since acquired a fatal celebrity, proposed to set fire to the fortress, by throwing into it a quantity of oil which had been seized the night before, and which they were to ignite with phosphorus.

  Billot listened to all these mad—brained proposals one after the other. On hearing the last, he seized a hatchet from the hands of a carpenter, and advancing amid a storm of bullets, which struck down all around him numbers of men, huddled together as thickly as the ears in a field of wheat, he reached a small guard—house, near to the first drawbridge, and although the grape—shot was whizzing and cracking against the roof, he ascended it, and by his powerful and well—directed blows succeeded in breaking the chains, and the drawbridge fell with a tremendous crash.

  During the quarter of an hour which this seemingly insensate enterprise had occupied, the crowd were breathless with excitement. At every report, they expected to see the daring workman fall from the roof. The people forgot the danger to which they were exposed, and thought only of the danger which this brave man was incurring. When the bridge fell, they uttered a loud, joyful cry, and rushed into the first courtyard.

  The movement was so rapid, so impetuous, so irresistible, that the garrison did not even attempt to prevent it.

  Shouts of frantic joy announced this first advantage to Monsieur de Launay.

  No one even observed that a man had been crushed to atoms beneath the mass of wood—work. Then the four pieces of artillery which the governor had shown to Billot were simultaneously discharged with a frightful explosion, and swept the first courtyard of the fortress.

  The iron hurricane traced through the crowd a long furrow of blood. Ten men shot dead, fifteen or twenty wounded, were the consequences of this discharge.

  Billot slid down from the roof of the guard—house to the ground, on reaching which he found Pitou, who had come there he knew not how. Pitou's eyes were quick, as are those of all poachers. He had seen the artillerymen preparing to put their matches to the touch—holes of their guns, and, seizing Billot by the skirts of his jacket, jerked him violently towards him, and thus they were both protected by the angle of the wall from the effects of the first discharge.

  From that moment the affair became serious. The tumult was frightful, the combat mortal. Ten thousand muskets were at once fired round the Bastille, more dangerous in their effect to the besiegers than to the besieged.

  At length a cannon served by the French Guards had mixed its thunder with the rattling of the musketry.

  The noise was frightful, but the crowd appeared to be more and more intoxicated by it; and this noise began to terrify even the besieged, who, calculating their own small number, felt they could never equal the noise which was then deafening them.

&n
bsp; The officers of the Bastille felt instinctively that their soldiers were becoming disheartened. They snatched their muskets from them, and themselves fired them at the crowd.

  At this moment, and amid the noise of artillery and musketry, amid the howlings of the crowd, as some of them were rushing to pick up the dead bodies of their companions to form of them a new incitement,—for their gaping wounds would cry aloud for vengeance against the besieged,—there appeared at the entrance of the first courtyard a small group of unarmed, quiet citizens. They made their way through the crowd, and advanced, ready to sacrifice their lives, protected only by a white flag, which preceded them, and which intimated that they were the bearers of a message to the governor. It was a deputation from the Hôtel de Ville. The electors knew that hostilities had commenced, and, anxious to prevent the effusion of blood, had compelled Flesselles to send new proposals to the governor.

  The deputies came, therefore, in the name of the city, to summon Monsieur de Launay to cease firing; and, in order to guarantee at once the lives of the citizens, his own, and those of the garrison, to propose that he should receive one hundred men of the civic guard into the interior of the fortress.

  This was the rumor which was spread as the deputies advanced. The people, terrified at the enterprise they had undertaken, the people, who saw the dead bodies of their companions carried out in litters, were quite ready to support this proposal. Let De Launay accept a half defeat, and satisfy himself with half a victory.

  At their approach the fire of the second courtyard ceased. A sign was made to them that they might approach; and they accordingly advanced, slipping on the ensanguined pavement, striding over carcasses, and holding out their hands to the wounded.

  Under this protection the people form themselves into groups. The dead bodies and the wounded are carried out of the fortress; the blood alone remains, marbling with large purple spots the pavement of the courtyard.

  The fire from the fortress had ceased. Billot was leaving it, in order to stop that of the besiegers. At the door he meets Gonchon,—Gonchon, altogether unarmed, exposing himself like one inspired, calm, as if he were invulnerable.

  "Well," inquired he of Billot, "what has become of the deputation?"