Charles Lever - The Martins Of Cro' Martin, Vol. II (of II)

A loud uproar in the street without, in which the sound of troop-horses passaging to and fro could be distinguished, now interrupted the colloquy. As the noise increased, a low, deep roar, like the sound of distant thunder, could be heard, and the Pole cried out, – “Messieurs les Sans-culottes, I strongly advise you to turn homewards, for, if I be not much mistaken, here comes the artillery.”

“The affair may turn out a serious one, after all,” broke in the Italian.

“A serious one!” echoed the Pole, scornfully. “How can it? Forty battalions of infantry, ten thousand sabres, and eight batteries; are they not enough, think you, to rout this contemptible herd of street rioters?”

“There – listen! It has begun already!” exclaimed Martin, as the sharp report of fire-arms, quite close to the windows, was followed by a crash, and then a wild, mad shout, half rage, half defiance.

“There’s nothing for it, in these things, but speedy action,” said the Pole; “grape and cavalry charges to clear the streets, and rifle practice at anything that shows itself at the windows.”

“It is so easy, so very easy, to crush a mob,” said the Russian, “if you only direct your attention to the leader, – think of nothing but him . Once you show that, whatever may be the fate of others, death must be his, the whole assemblage becomes a disorganized, unwieldy mass, to be sabred or shot down at pleasure.”

“Soldiers have no fancy for this kind of warfare,” said De Nevers, haughtily; “victory is never glorious, defeat always humiliation.”

“But who talks of defeat?” exclaimed the Pole, passionately. “The officer who could fail against such an enemy should be shot by a court-martial. We have, I believe, every man of us here, served; and I asked you, what disproportion of force could suggest a doubt of success?”

As he spoke, the door of the room was suddenly opened, and a young man, with dress all disordered, and the fragment of a hat in his hand, entered.

“What, Massingbred!” cried one, “how came you to be so roughly handled?”

“So much for popular politeness!” exclaimed the Russian, as he took up the tattered remains of a dress-coat, and exhibited it to the others.

“Pardon me, Prince,” replied Massingbred, as he filled a glass of water and drank it off, “this courtesy I received at the hands of the military. I was turning my cab from the Boulevard to enter this street, when a hoarse challenge of a sentry, saying I know not what, attracted my attention. I drew up short to learn, and then suddenly came a rush of the people from behind, which terrified my horse, and set him off at speed; the uproar increasing, the affrighted animal dashed madly onward, the crowd flying on every side, when suddenly a bullet whizzed past my head, cutting my hat in two; a second, at the same instant, struck my horse, and killed him on the spot, cab and all rolling over as he fell. How I arose, gained my legs, and was swept away by the dense torrent of the populace, are events of which I am very far from clear. I only know that although the occurrence happened within half an hour ago, it seems to me an affair of days since.”

“You were, doubtless, within some line of outposts when first challenged,” said the Pole, “and the speed at which you drove was believed to be an arranged plan of attack, for you say the mob followed you.”

“Very possibly your explanation is the correct one,” said Massingbred, coolly; “but I looked for more steadiness and composure from the troops, while I certainly did not anticipate so much true courtesy and kindness as I met with from the people.”

“Parbleu! here’s Massingbred becoming Democrat,” said one. “The next thing we shall hear is his defence of a barricade.”

“You’ll assuredly not hear that I attacked one in such company as inflicted all this upon me,” rejoined he, with an easy smile.

“Here’s the man to captivate your ‘Belle Irlandaise,’ Martin,” cried one. “Already is he a hero and a martyr to Royal cruelty.”

“Ah! you came too late to hear that,” said the Pole, in a whisper to Massingbred; “but it seems La Henderson became quite a Charlotte Corday this evening, and talked more violent Republicanism than has been heard in a salon since the days of old Égalité.”

“All lights must be extinguished, gentlemen,” said the waiter, entering hastily. “The street is occupied by troops, and you must pass out by the Rue de Grenelle.”

“Are the mobs not dispersing, then?” asked the Russian.

“No, your Highness. They have beaten back the troops from the Quai Voltaire, and are already advancing on the Louvre.”

“What absurdity!” exclaimed the Pole. “If the troops permit this, there is treason amongst them.”

“I can answer for it there is terror, at least,” said Massingbred. “All the high daring and spirit is with what you would call the Sans-culottes.”

“That a man should talk this way because he has lost a cab-horse!” cried the Pole, insolently.

“There are men who can bear the loss of a country with more equanimity, – I know that,” whispered Massingbred in his ear, with all the calm sternness of an insult.

“You mean this for me? ” said the Pole, in a low voice.

“Of course I do,” was the answer.

“Where? – when? – how?” muttered the Pole, in suppressed passion.

“I leave all at your disposal,” said Massingbred, smiling at the other’s effort to control his rage.

“At Versailles, – to-morrow morning, – pistols.”

Massingbred bowed, and turned away. At the same instant the waiter entered to say that the house must be cleared at once, or all within it consent to remain close prisoners.

“Come along, Martin,” said Massingbred, taking his arm. “I shall want you to do me a favor. Let us make our escape by the Rue de Grenelle, and I ‘ll engage to pilot you safely to your own quarters.”

“Has anything passed between you and Czernavitz?” asked Martin, as they gained the street.

“A slight exchange of civilities which requires an exchange of shots,” said Jack, calmly.

“By George! I ‘m sorry for it. He can hit a franc-piece at thirty paces.”

“So can I, Martin; and, what’s more, Anatole knows it. He’s as brave as a lion, and it is my confounded skill has pushed him on to this provocation.”

“He ‘ll shoot you,” muttered Martin, in a half revery.

“Not impossible,” said Massingbred. “He’s a fellow who cannot conceal his emotions, and will show at once what he means to do.”

“Well, what of that?”

“Simply, that if he intends mischief I shall know it, and send a bullet through his heart.”

Little as Martin had seen of Massingbred, – they were but Club acquaintances of a few weeks back, – he believed that he was one of those smart, versatile men who, with abundance of social ability, acquire reputation for higher capacity than they possess; but, above all, he never gave him credit for anything like a settled purpose or a stern resolution. It was, then, with considerable astonishment that he now heard him avow this deadly determination with all the composure that could vouch for its sincerity. There was, however, little time to think of these things. The course they were driven to follow, by by-streets and alleys, necessitated a long and difficult way. The great thoroughfares which they crossed at intervals were entirely in the possession of the troops, who challenged them as they approached, and only suffered them to proceed when well satisfied with their account. The crowds had all dispersed, and to the late din and tumult there had succeeded the deep silence of a city sunk in sleep, only broken by the hoarse call of the sentinels, or the distant tramp of a patrol.