Orphans of the Storm Part 12

For the Storm--long brewing in seditious Palais Royal or seething faubourg, in the heart and conscience of patriot Dantons, the cunning of Robespierres, the wildness of Desmoulins fire-eaters, the starvation and misery of the people--struck the doomed country with full force.

In the outcome the fat King Louis XVI, the hapless royal family, and the whole supporting system of parasitic aristocracy, were hurled down into black nothingness! The upset released our characters from the horrors of prison immurement, only to plunge them in the more awful tyranny of the New Terror.

Early in midsummer the wildest rumors reached Paris that the Versailles government intended to put down the discontents by weight of sword. Armies were advancing on the city, 'twas averred--cannon and arms were being parked in the commanding squares; the King's faithful Allemands and Swiss were about to attack the representatives of the people and mow them down.

As a beehive, stirred by over-curious bear or by an invader's stick, seethes and swarms in milling fury before the myriads of angry occupants attack and overwhelm the intruder with their stings, so the seething populace mills in widening and ever widening circles, out to destroy--burn--slay. The ominous drum murmurs to the people of their ancient wrongs. Artisans pick up their nearest implements, the butcher his axe, the baker his rolling pin, the joiner his saw, the iron worker his mallet or crowbar, rus.h.i.+ng to join the homicidal throngs.

Vengeful leaders like Forget-Not urge them on, directing the milling ma.s.ses to the central places of the city.

At the Palais Royal gardens, later from the Cafe de Foy, Camille Desmoulins is in his glory. See him rus.h.i.+ng out, sibylline in face; his hair streaming, in each hand a pistol! He springs to a table: the police satellites are eyeing him; alive they shall not take him; not they alive, him alive.

[Ill.u.s.tration: DANTON WELCOMES LAFAYETTE AND JEFFERSON, THE REPRESENTATIVES OF AMERICA'S NEW-WON FREEDOM.]

"'Friends, shall we die like hunted hares? Us, meseems, only one cry befits: To arms! Let universal Paris, universal France, as with the throat of the whirlwind, resound: To arms! Friends (continues Camille) some rallying sign! c.o.c.kades, green one; the color of hope!' As with the flight of locusts, these green leaves; green ribands from the neighboring shops; all green things are s.n.a.t.c.hed and made c.o.c.kades of.... And now to Curtius' image shop there; to the boulevards; to the four winds, and rest not until France be on fire!"

Ancient flint-locks, pikes and lances are replevined, and dance high, minatory, over the heads of the mob. Storerooms of powder and musketry are broken into and swept clean. Behold, now, a still more astonis.h.i.+ng sight; a rus.h.i.+ng tide of women, impetuous, all-devouring, equipped with brooms and household tools, descending like a s...o...b..eak from all directions upon the Hotel de Ville. "And now doors fly under hatchets; the Judiths have broken the armory; have seized guns and cannon, three money-bags," and have fired the beautiful City Hall of King Henry the Fourth's time!

... And where the Storm breaks fiercest and the cry "Down with Tyrants!" most loudly sounds, there Danton the revolutionist, the pock-marked Thunderer, leads the way, whipping up new fury and moulding them to his will with his appeal 'gainst "Starvation--oppression--ages of injustice--vile prisons where innocent ones die under autocracy!"

Danton's voice shakes the world.

Thousands upon thousands of commoners gather for the attack on the hated symbol of royal authority, the prison fortress of Bastille.

Look! His impa.s.sioned eloquence touches the popular sympathies of the common soldiers who const.i.tute the royal guard. They lower their opposing bayonets, identify their cause with the people's, the exultant throng rushes past.

Hurrah! The Revolution shall sweep on. The King's foreign soldiery are the only loyal ones now. At the side of the Place de Greve the populace throw up barricades. The conflict twixt Kings.h.i.+p and democracy has begun.

The people have won more cannon and more small arms. They rake the loyalist Swiss and Germans with a murderous fire. The foreign troops fight to the last. They are killed or overwhelmed as the victorious commonalty take possession of the Square. Danton who has directed the proletariat is the popular hero.

Forget-Not has his share of the triumph too. "Come, my men," he yells.

"On to the Police Prefect's palace--let us avenge the wrongs of police tyranny!" For in this dreadful hour the baleful Jacques-Forget-Not remembers a private vengeance--his followers need no second urging to haste with him to sack and slaughter....

Fox-like, Maximilien Robespierre, the "people's advocate," has watched from a safe recess the issue of the battle. Not for him, the risking of his precious skin! Later, in the councils of the new democratic State, he shall sway men to his purposes....

And now the mob, re-enforced by many of the popular soldiery, seeks the Bastille. Our previous description of the system of lettres de cachet and the wholesale imprisonments without warrant of law, will have given readers some idea of the hate with which this fortress of injustice was commonly regarded. Many of the attackers, no doubt, had friends or relatives immured there. 'Twas the monstrous and visible crime of the Kings.h.i.+p--the object all had immediately in view when crying "Down with tyranny!"

In less than a day the Bastille falls. 'Tis but feebly defended by a few aged veterans and a handful of valiant Swiss. Their first fire kills some of the commoners and lashes the mob to fury. Up on the walls, bastions and parapets, away from the guns at the port holes, crawl some of the more daring attackers. Others bring cannon, preparing to carry the siege by cannonade, invest.i.ture and starvation.

The governor, seeing that it is a losing fight, parleys and yields.

But, instead of observing the terms of the honorable surrender and safe-conduct, the inrus.h.i.+ng mob slays and mutilates a number of the officers and defenders--the first inkling of what murder and rapine the Wild Beast of the Proletariat will commit!

"Set free the victims of the tyrants!" is the sole thought after the l.u.s.t of blood is satiated. The dungeons are opened, the prisoners brought forth, joy of reunion or pathos of sorrow is the result of these strange meetings, many of the victims being but the wrecks or shadows of their old selves.

"Set free the victims of tyranny!"

After the Bastille La Salpetriere, the famous female prison, is summoned. Already the inmates are on the qui vive of expectation. Mad and sane are flying about from cells to courtyard, and courtyard to barred windows, like birds in storm-flight.

Impatient, restless little Henriette, between the bars of her cage, is looking out wonderingly on a re-made world. What does it mean?

Release? the easy path to her lost Louise?

Pray Heaven it does--

CHAPTER XVII

PRISON DELIVERY--AND AN ENCOUNTER

The jailers deliver the keys; the mob pours tumultuously into the female prison. What cries of joy, what sobs of relief from the saner inmates, as they try to _think_ their new, almost incredible jail delivery! What stony, uncomprehending glances or what wild shrieks from the maniacal! Amid this confused throng Picard, who has entered with the crowd to wait upon his mistress, presents a comic figure. He has arrayed himself in the red-and-white striped garb of the proletariat, is trying his best to look a Revolutionary, though all he gets for it are kicks and wallops!

Sense and nonsense mix strangely in the proceedings of the mob. They set up a rude court headed by two h.o.r.n.y-handed butchers, the object of which is to separate the innocent from the guilty. But the new red-and-white c.o.c.kade--superseding the green c.o.c.kades of the first battle--is the best pa.s.sport to their favor. Inmates whose friends have provided them with these Revolutionary badges, are generally turned loose. Shouting and laughing in their glee, they dance out of the prison.

Picard has provided Henriette with his badge, whilst Sister Genevieve and the Doctor vouch to her good character. Henriette kisses the c.o.c.kade as a sign of fealty to the new order. The brawny judges let her pa.s.s. She runs merrily out past the harmless gauntlet of the friendly pikes and lances.

Not so Picard--That luckless valet tries to sneak out past the big chopper of the brawny butcher-judge.

Whir-r! The chopper descends in front of him, almost taking his head off!

Picard executes a strategic retirement to the rear. There! Isn't there seemingly a good chance to crawl out between the other guardian's legs, and thus escape?

Picard tries it.

Alas! the first butcher catches sight of Picard's be-tufted head protruding in this strange manner from under the crotch of his fellow.

The Man of Meat grasps Picard firmly by the collar and pulls him forth.

With the other hand he raises the axe to chop the offender's head off, thinks better of it, twirls Picard swiftly around, and using the flat of the chopper spanks the rear of the Picard anatomy, sending him sprawling into the limbo.

So that little Henriette's excursion into Freedom is unattended and alone. It is quite unlikely that she bothers about Picard at all.

"Louise! Rue de Brissac!" is the sole thought of her whirling little brain, as she speeds on.

Just where is the Frochards' cellar door? Certainly she has never noticed it in her frequent searches of the Pont Neuf district. But perhaps some one can tell her--She is in the Rue de Brissac now, almost at the spot where she herself was kidnapped and Louise was lost.

A good-looking daughter of the people comes hurrying by.

"Can you tell me where the Frochards live?" inquires Henriette eagerly.

The girl points to an almost indistinguishable trap-door, nearly covered with straw, in front of one of the houses. "There!" she says.

Henriette presses the newcomer to accompany her. "Sorry, I haven't a minute!" negatives the other, hastening off in spite of Henriette's efforts to detain her.

Henriette opens the trap-door of the cellar where the Frochards lodged, and peers within. Courageously she goes down the steps.

Sympathy and horror struggle in the thought of Louise being an inmate of this foul place.

What is her disgust then to encounter the wart-faced and moustachioed hag who is its proprietor! Quickly Henriette tells La Frochard of her information, and demands Louise.