Edmond Dantès
the night succeeding the sack of the Tuileries, the conquerors chose a
king and queen, and that, in the palace hall, was spread a banquet
composed of the viands found in the Royal kitchen and the wines found in
the Royal cellars. The queen, who was a soubrette more noticeable for
beauty than for cleanliness of person, garbed in Royal robes which she
well became, and with a coronet upon her stately brow, was seated in a
chair of state and received the most extravagant homage from her willing
subjects, while groups of gamins, in the long crimson liveries of the
Royal household, boisterously frolicked before the sans culotte court
amid roars of merriment.
CHAPTER XXIV.
A MEMORABLE NIGHT.
Generally, the rogues throughout Paris, intimidated by the awful,
immediate and certain penalty for crime, forsook, for the time, their
calling. A man who attempted to fire the Palais Royal was shot at the
Prefecture. Another, for a like attempt on buildings in the Rue Monceau,
met a like fate. In the Rue Richelieu lay the bodies of two thieves,
each with a ball through the breast, and over the aperture the word
"Thief" on a label. In like manner were eight more robbers executed at
once on the Place de la Madeleine. A woman of the street wrested a
bracelet from a lady's wrist; she was instantly seized by the bystanders
and shot. But for this summary punishment of malefactors by the people,
dreadful that night would have been the state of Paris, without laws to
enforce or a police to enforce them. It is true the Chateau of Neuilly
was sacked and burned, as well as the splendid villa of the Baron
Rothschild at Parennes; but both were supposed to be the property of the
King. It is true, also, that some rails on the Northern Railway were
torn up, and a viaduct between Paris and Amiens, and another between
Amiens and the frontier of Belgium were demolished; and that the
railway stations at St. Denis, Enghien and Pontoise and the bridge at
Asnieres had been destroyed; but all this was done to prevent the
concentration upon the citizens of Paris of additional Royal troops.
A workman entered a house and demanded bread. Meat and wine were offered
him. "No," was the reply, "bread and water are all I want."
Yet such was the scarcity of food that horses were killed and eaten at
the Hotel de Ville, on the third day of the Revolution.
"Arms--arms!" shouted a band of workmen, entering a house on the Rue
Richelieu. The proprietor, alarmed, shouted for help. "Do you think us
robbers?" was the indignant reply. "Give us your weapons!"
The weapons were given and the band retired; on the door they wrote,
"Here we received arms!"
At five o'clock, on the evening of the 24th of February, a proclamation
to the citizens of Paris, issued by the Provisional Government then in
session at the Hotel de Ville, declared the Revolution
accomplished--that eighty thousand of the National Guard and one hundred
thousand of the people were in arms--that order as well as liberty must
now be secured, and the people, with the National Guard, were appointed
guardians of Paris.
The effect of this proclamation was magical. Never was Paris so well
protected as on that night of the 24th of February, when, filled with
barricades, she had no police and was guarded by her citizens.
And how was constituted the Provisional Government whose power was thus
implicitly obeyed? It was founded by the people who obeyed it. This was
the only secret.
From the Chamber of Deputies to the Hotel de Ville proceeded the members
of the Provisional Government. They marched under a canopy of sabres,
pikes and bayonets into halls stained with blood and encumbered with the
slain, and there, at a small table, while the conflict between the two
Republics had already commenced, within an hour had they organized their
body by the nomination of Armand Marrast, of "Le National," Ferdinand
Flocon, of "La Reforme," Albert, a workman, and Louis Blanc, the editor
and author, as Secretaries of the Government; their first official act
was to issue a proclamation to the people.
The scenes witnessed the night which succeeded in Paris will never be
forgotten by those who witnessed them. Patrols promenaded the streets,
the men of the barricades slept upon their weapons, beside their works,
and through all that night ceaselessly toiled the press to spread over
all the world the news of the great events of the three past days in
Paris.
Upon the door of an edifice situated in the Rue Jean Jacques Rousseau--a
street which was filled with barricades of immense size and
strength--was posted a printed placard, "The Provisional Government,"
lighted by a single lamp. Entering the door with a vast multitude, and
ascending the dark and winding staircase, you found yourself in a large
room, dimly lighted and crowded with armed men.
It was the editorial apartment of the office of "La Reforme."
At a large and massive table sat a dozen persons most industriously
employed in writing. Around them, looking on, rose the rough, stern
faces of the men of the barricades, seeming still more rough and stern
by reason of the shadowy light; in the hands of all were weapons.
"A copy of the names of the members of the Provisional Government!" was
the incessant demand of these armed men, a demand which the dozen
writers at the table were unable even by most indefatigable industry to
supply as fast as made. And as fast as the demand was satisfied, the
armed men would hurry away, only to leave room for the crowds constantly
entering.
"A copy for the Hotel de Ville!" cried one.
"A copy for the Place Vendome!" shouted another.
"A copy for the Palais Bourbon!" screamed a third.
"Are there no printed copies left?" asked many.
"They were gone long ago--twenty thousand copies," was the reply. "You
will see one at every corner. The demand was not expected. The printers
have just gone to sleep. They had not rested for fifty-two hours."
"Will 'La Reforme' appear in the morning?" asked another.
"Perhaps so," was the answer. "But all the people are worn out--writers
and compositors. Here is your copy of the names."
"Many thanks. Vive la Republique!"
With this shout, in concert with the same which constantly issued from a
hundred lips, the citizen folded up his precious document, and carefully
depositing it in his cap hurried off to communicate its contents to his
comrades of the neighboring barricade.
In another apartment of that same edifice were a large number of the
Republican party connected with "La Reforme."
"The Provisional Government is now in session," said one. "They will,
doubtless, make immediate provision for departments of State so
important as the post-office and the prefecture of police. Early
to-morrow a proclamation----"
"To-morrow may be too late," interrupted a large and muscular man. "The
post-office is more active than ever to-night. Every moment couriers are
arriving and departing. That powerful instrument remains in the hands of
the foes of our cause! Who may estimate the injury, the irreparable
injury which they may this night accomplish by its means!"
This man was Etienne Arago, brother of the great astronomer, and, for
sixteen years, celebrated as one of the boldest members of the
Republican party, as well as one of the bravest men in Paris.
"And the prefecture of police," observed another--"the present utter
derangement of all its functions may lead to most serious results.
Already those foes of freedom, Guizot and his colleagues, have been
suffered to secure their escape from the just indignation of an outraged
people. Delessert, the Prefect, has also fled!"
The man who said this was Marc Caussidiere, a well-known Republican.
"Citizens!" cried M. Gouache, "this state of things must continue no
longer. In the name of the people, I demand that Etienne Arago
immediately assume the charge of the post-office, as its director, and
that Marc Caussidiere fill the position of Prefect."
This demand was confirmed by acclamation, and committees for the
installation of the nominees into office at once accompanied them to
their respective departments.
The immense edifice of the post-office was surrounded by people, and its
numerous windows were flashing with lights. Within the utmost activity
seemed to prevail, and without couriers were leaving and arriving every
moment, and mail coaches were dashing up to discharge their burdens, or,
having received them, were dashing off.
"In the name of the people, entrance for Citizen Etienne Arago,
Republican director of the post-office!" shouted one of the committee.
Instantly a passage through the immense crowd in the courtyard was
cleared by the National Guard, and the director entered with his escort.
"In the name of the people, Citizen Dejean, you are dismissed," said
Etienne Arago, entering the private cabinet of the Director General.
"And who is to be my successor?" asked the astonished Count, rising to
his feet.
"In the name of the people, I am sent to displace and to succeed you,"
was the answer.
"But your commission, Monsieur?"
"Is here," pointing to the committee.
"Before I resign the direction of this department," said the Count after
some hesitation, "I must ask of you for some record of this act, bearing
your signature, to be deposited in the archives of the office."
"Certainly, Monsieur, your request is but reasonable," answered Arago,
seating himself in the official chair. And writing a few lines to which
he affixed his signature, he coolly handed the document to his
astonished predecessor. It contained notice of his own appointment by
the people, in place of the Count Dejean, dismissed.
The Count read and folded the paper, and having made a copy of it, which
he laid carefully in his porte-monnaie, he placed the original on file
among the papers of the day belonging to the department. Then,
courteously bowing, he took his hat and cane and marched out of the
building.
CHAPTER XXV.
THE PROVISIONAL GOVERNMENT.
In the Hotel de Ville, closely closeted, sat the Provisional Government
of France. Over that stern old citadel, over the dismantled Palace of
the Tuileries, from the tall summit of the Column of Vendome, over the
Hotel des Invalides and in the Place de la Bastille is seen a blood-red
banner, streaming out like a meteor on the keen north-western blast.
Eighty thousand armed men invest the Hotel de Ville, and wave on wave,
wave on wave, the living and stormy tide eddies and welters and dashes
around that dark old pile. All its avenues are held; its courts are
thronged; ordnance frowns from its black portals and against its gates;
drums roll--banners stream--bayonets glitter; and from those tens of
thousands of hoarse and stormy voices goes up but one shout of menace
and command:
"Vive la Republique! Vive la Republique! No kings! No Bourbons!
Down--down forever with the kings!"
And upward to that dark old pile of despotism, as to the temple of
Liberty herself, are turned those tens of thousands of swarthy faces,
dark with the smoke of battle, yet livid with excitement and
exhaustion--and as they realize that within those walls the question of
their fate and that of their country is then being settled--that from
that night's counsels in that vast and ancient edifice are to flow peace
and prosperity, and freedom and plenty, or else all the untold terrors
of anarchy, civil war, bloodshed, violence and strife--what wonder that
the sitting of the council seemed endless and their own impatience
became intolerable--that all imaginable doubts and fears and absurd
apprehensions took possession of their inflamed imaginations?--that at
one time the rumor should fly, and win credence as it flew, that the