“Take care,” said a Jacobin; “France is not yet ripe for a republic.”
“If she is not ripe for a republic,” cried Camille Desmoulins—for that was the man to whom the voice I recognised belonged—“how is it that she is rotten for monarchy?”
“To the vote—to the vote!” all cried.
They voted, and, with almost perfect unanimity, declared that the obnoxious phrase should be cut out. Then, in the enthusiasm which followed this vote, they all swore neither to recognise Louis XVI nor any other King.
On the morrow, Sunday, it was arranged that the people, forewarned by notice posted on the walls, should go to sign the petition on the altar.
“Still, citizen, we lack one thing.”
“What is that?” asked Camille Desmoulins.
“It is to have the law on our side.”
“We have it; since the Assembly have suspended the King, we have deposed him.”
“We must get from the Hotel de Ville an authorization to hold the meeting to-morrow.”