Part 33 (1/2)

Instantly a pa.s.sage 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 doc.u.ment 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 hoa.r.s.e 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 Provisional Government were consulting with the friends of Henry V.--or again, that they were considering the question of a Regency--and that under such influences they should roar and yell, and thunder for admission at the gates, and burden the air with their shouts?

”No Bourbons! No kings! No Regency! Death--death to all kings! La Republique! La Republique! La Republique!”

At times, in terrific concert, would the thousands of uplifted throats roar forth the chorus of that startling canticle of '92:

”Vive la republique! Vive la republique!

Debout, peuple Francais! debout, peuple heroque!

Debout, peuple Francais! Vive la republique!”

Then the song would change and the mournful notes of the ”Death Hymn of the Girondins,”--”Mourir Pour la Patrie”--would swell in wild yet solemn cadence on the wintry blast:

DEATH HYMN OF THE GIRONDINS.

By the voice of the signal cannon, France calls her sons their aid to lend; ”Let us go,” the soldier cries, ”to battle!

'Tis our mother we defend!”

To die on Freedom's Altar--to die on Freedom's Altar!

'Tis the n.o.blest of fates; who to meet it would falter!