Twenty years after
“I want to go into Master Broussel’s house, captain,” replied Friquet,
in that wheedling way the “gamins” of Paris know so well how to assume
when necessary.
“And on what floor does he live?” asked Comminges.
“In the whole house,” said Friquet; “the house belongs to him; he
occupies the second floor when he works and descends to the first to
take his meals; he must be at dinner now; it is noon.”
“Good,” said Comminges.
At this moment the door was opened, and having questioned the servant
the officer learned that Master Broussel was at home and at dinner.
Broussel was seated at the table with his family, having his wife
opposite to him, his two daughters by his side, and his son, Louvières,
whom we have already seen when the accident happened to the
councillor—an accident from which he had quite recovered—at the bottom
of the table. The worthy man, restored to perfect health, was tasting
the fine fruit which Madame de Longueville had sent to him.
At sight of the officer Broussel was somewhat moved, but seeing him bow
politely he rose and bowed also. Still, in spite of this reciprocal
politeness, the countenances of the women betrayed a certain amount of
uneasiness; Louvières became very pale and waited impatiently for the
officer to explain himself.
“Sir,” said Comminges, “I am the bearer of an order from the king.”
“Very well, sir,” replied Broussel, “what is this order?” And he held
out his hand.
“I am commissioned to seize your person, sir,” said Comminges, in the
same tone and with the same politeness; “and if you will believe me you
had better spare yourself the trouble of reading that long letter and
follow me.”
A thunderbolt falling in the midst of these good people, so peacefully
assembled there, would not have produced a more appalling effect. It
was a horrible thing at that period to be imprisoned by the enmity of
the king. Louvières sprang forward to snatch his sword, which stood
against a chair in a corner of the room; but a glance from the worthy
Broussel, who in the midst of it all did not lose his presence of mind,
checked this foolhardy action of despair. Madame Broussel, separated by
the width of the table from her husband, burst into tears, and the
young girls clung to their father’s arms.
“Come, sir,” said Comminges, “make haste; you must obey the king.”
“Sir,” said Broussel, “I am in bad health and cannot give myself up a
prisoner in this state; I must have time.”
“It is impossible,” said Comminges; “the order is strict and must be
put into execution this instant.”
“Impossible!” said Louvières; “sir, beware of driving us to despair.”
“Impossible!” cried a shrill voice from the end of the room.
Comminges turned and saw Dame Nanette, her eyes flashing with anger and
a broom in her hand.
“My good Nanette, be quiet, I beseech you,” said Broussel.
“Me! keep quiet while my master is being arrested! he, the support, the
liberator, the father of the people! Ah! well, yes; you have to know me
yet. Are you going?” added she to Comminges.
The latter smiled.
“Come, sir,” said he, addressing Broussel, “silence that woman and
follow me.”
“Silence me! me! me!” said Nanette. “Ah! yet one wants some one besides
you for that, my fine king’s cockatoo! You shall see.” And Dame Nanette
sprang to the window, threw it open, and in such a piercing voice that
it might have been heard in the square of Notre Dame:
“Help!” she screamed, “my master is being arrested; the Councillor
Broussel is being arrested! Help!”
“Sir,” said Comminges, “declare yourself at once; will you obey or do
you intend to rebel against the king?”
“I obey, I obey, sir!” cried Broussel, trying to disengage himself from
the grasp of his two daughters and by a look restrain his son, who
seemed determined to dispute authority.
“In that case,” commanded Comminges, “silence that old woman.”
“Ah! old woman!” screamed Nanette.
And she began to shriek more loudly, clinging to the bars of the
window:
“Help! help! for Master Broussel, who is arrested because he has
defended the people! Help!”
Comminges seized the servant around the waist and would have dragged
her from her post; but at that instant a treble voice, proceeding from
a kind of _entresol_, was heard screeching:
“Murder! fire! assassins! Master Broussel is being killed! Master
Broussel is being strangled.”
It was Friquet’s voice; and Dame Nanette, feeling herself supported,
recommenced with all her strength to sound her shrilly squawk.
Many curious faces had already appeared at the windows and the people
attracted to the end of the street began to run, first men, then
groups, and then a crowd of people; hearing cries and seeing a chariot
they could not understand it; but Friquet sprang from the _entresol_ on
to the top of the carriage.
“They want to arrest Master Broussel!” he cried; “the guards are in the
carriage and the officer is upstairs!”
The crowd began to murmur and approached the house. The two guards who
had remained in the lane mounted to the aid of Comminges; those who
were in the chariot opened the doors and presented arms.
“Don’t you see them?” cried Friquet, “don’t you see? there they are!”
The coachman turning around, gave Friquet a slash with his whip which
made him scream with pain.
“Ah! devil’s coachman!” cried Friquet, “you’re meddling too! Wait!”
And regaining his _entresol_ he overwhelmed the coachman with every
projectile he could lay hands on.
The tumult now began to increase; the street was not able to contain
the spectators who assembled from every direction; the crowd invaded
the space which the dreaded pikes of the guards had till then kept
clear between them and the carriage. The soldiers, pushed back by these
living walls, were in danger of being crushed against the spokes of the
wheels and the panels of the carriages. The cries which the police
officer repeated twenty times: “In the king’s name,” were powerless
against this formidable multitude—seemed, on the contrary, to
exasperate it still more; when, at the shout, “In the name of the
king,” an officer ran up, and seeing the uniforms ill-treated, he
sprang into the scuffle sword in hand, and brought unexpected help to
the guards. This gentleman was a young man, scarcely sixteen years of
age, now white with anger. He leaped from his charger, placed his back
against the shaft of the carriage, making a rampart of his horse, drew
his pistols from their holsters and fastened them to his belt, and
began to fight with the back sword, like a man accustomed to the
handling of his weapon.
During ten minutes he alone kept the crowd at bay; at last Comminges
appeared, pushing Broussel before him.
“Let us break the carriage!” cried the people.
“In the king’s name!” cried Comminges.
“The first who advances is a dead man!” cried Raoul, for it was in fact
he, who, feeling himself pressed and almost crushed by a gigantic
citizen, pricked him with the point of his sword and sent him howling
back.
Comminges, so to speak, threw Broussel into the carriage and sprang in
after him. At this moment a shot was fired and a ball passed through
the hat of Comminges and broke the arm of one of the guards. Comminges
looked up and saw amidst the smoke the threatening face of Louvières
appearing at the window of the second floor.
“Very well, sir,” said Comminges, “you shall hear of this anon.”
“And you of me, sir,” said Louvières; “and we shall see then who can
speak the loudest.”
Friquet and Nanette continued to shout; the cries, the noise of the
shot and the intoxicating smell of powder produced their usual
maddening effects.
“Down with the officer! down with him!” was the cry.
“One step nearer,” said Comminges, putting down the sashes, that the
interior of the carriage might be well seen, and placing his sword on
his prisoner’s breast, “one step nearer, and I kill the prisoner; my
orders were to carry him off alive or dead. I will take him dead,
that’s all.”
A terrible cry was heard, and the wife and daughters of Broussel held
up their hands in supplication to the people; the latter knew that this
officer, who was so pale, but who appeared so determined, would keep
his word; they continued to threaten, but they began to disperse.
“Drive to the palace,” said Comminges to the coachman, who was by then
more dead than alive.
The man whipped his animals, which cleared a way through the crowd; but
on arriving on the Quai they were obliged to stop; the carriage was
upset, the horses carried off, stifled, mangled by the crowd. Raoul, on
foot, for he had not time to mount his horse again, tired, like the
guards, of distributing blows with the flat of his sword, had recourse
to its point. But this last and dreaded resource served only to
exasperate the multitude. From time to time a shot from a musket or the
blade of a rapier flashed among the crowd; projectiles continued to
hail down from the windows and some shots were heard, the echo of
which, though they were probably fired in the air, made all hearts
vibrate. Voices, unheard except on days of revolution, were
distinguished; faces were seen that only appeared on days of bloodshed.
Cries of “Death! death to the guards! to the Seine with the officer!”
were heard above all the noise, deafening as it was. Raoul, his hat in
ribbons, his face bleeding, felt not only his strength but also his
reason going; a red mist covered his sight, and through this mist he
saw a hundred threatening arms stretched over him, ready to seize upon
him when he fell. The guards were unable to help any one—each one was
occupied with his self-preservation. All was over; carriages, horses,
guards, and perhaps even the prisoner were about to be torn to shreds,
when all at once a voice well known to Raoul was heard, and suddenly a
great sword glittered in the air; at the same time the crowd opened,
upset, trodden down, and an officer of the musketeers, striking and
cutting right and left, rushed up to Raoul and took him in his arms
just as he was about to fall.
“God’s blood!” cried the officer, “have they killed him? Woe to them if
it be so!”
And he turned around, so stern with anger, strength and threat, that
the most excited rebels hustled back on one another, in order to
escape, and some of them even rolled into the Seine.
“Monsieur d’Artagnan!” murmured Raoul.
“Yes, ’sdeath! in person, and fortunately it seems for you, my young
friend. Come on, here, you others,” he continued, rising in his
stirrups, raising his sword, and addressing those musketeers who had
not been able to follow his rapid onslaught. “Come, sweep away all that
for me! Shoulder muskets! Present arms! Aim——”
At this command the mountain of populace thinned so suddenly that
D’Artagnan could not repress a burst of Homeric laughter.
“Thank you, D’Artagnan,” said Comminges, showing half of his body
through the window of the broken vehicle, “thanks, my young friend;
your name—that I may mention it to the queen.”
Raoul was about to reply when D’Artagnan bent down to his ear.
“Hold your tongue,” said he, “and let me answer. Do not lose time,
Comminges,” he continued; “get out of the carriage if you can and make
another draw up; be quick, or in five minutes the mob will be on us
again with swords and muskets and you will be killed. Hold! there’s a
carriage coming over yonder.”
Then bending again to Raoul, he whispered: “Above all things do not
divulge your name.”
“That’s right. I will go,” said Comminges; “and if they come back,
fire!”
“Not at all—not at all,” replied D’Artagnan; “let no one move. On the
contrary, one shot at this moment would be paid for dearly to-morrow.”
Comminges took his four guards and as many musketeers and ran to the