"Because it would have placed my people in danger," answered Jean, simply.
"Well, you're a plucky one! And you certainly did for that old Coudert, so I've been told. They said it was an accident, but I have my suspicions about that! But say! Do you know, that old Coudert, that sneaking La Souris, lodges right up there!" and he pointed to the window of a small house facing on the Rue du Dauphin. "He'll hear fine work to-day,—perhaps he'll see it too. Who knows!" Then he proceeded to explain to Jean the workings of the great gun.
All that morning the opposing forces were quiet, except for some light skirmishing, and so it continued into the afternoon. Jean saw no more of Bonaparte, and began to grow restless, wondering if there was really to be any battle. But at four o'clock a roar of musketry from the direction of the Hotel de Noailles was answered by another roar, and the business of the day began! In all his young life, Jean had never witnessed so confusing an affair. He could understand little of what others were doing, but he kept his attention closely on Prevôt, handing him ramrod, cotton or powder, as he directed. The big cannon, with a companion close beside it pointed directly down the short street to the steps of the church which were now crowded with Sectionists. In the windows of the houses all along the street, Sectionists were hiding with their death-dealing muskets. The cannon, however, had not yet been fired. Suddenly up rode Bonaparte.
"On the steps of St. Roch! Fire!" he commanded, and the two guns poured forth a great volley of iron, mowing down the human harvest before them like scythes. The semi-circle of Sectionists on the church steps seemed to sink to the ground in a body for an instant, then more sprang forward and filled the vacant spaces. Jean's heart grew sick at the sight of this carnage, but he worked away at his duties, the perspiration streaming down his face and matting his black curls. Just as Prevôt was about to touch the match for the second charge, he clapped his hand to his side, gave a low groan, and sank in a heap by the gun.
Jean's heart fairly stood still with horror and pity, but some blind instinct caused him to look up at one of the houses. There in a window, stood, or rather hung, La Souris, his rat's face twisted into a horrible smile, a smoking musket in his hands. He was about to reload for another charge, and it was evident that the effort cost him considerable suffering in his scorched back. As Jean still looked, he finished and pointed the musket directly at the boy by the gun. The natural instinct of self-preservation prompted this untried lad to take to his heels and get to shelter at once, but a second thought brought back Bonaparte's final warning,—"Stick to the gun, lad, if it costs you your life!"
"I'll stick!" he muttered, and clinched his teeth on the determination. Seizing the match from Prevôt's relaxed grasp, he blew on it to rekindle its flame, while he watched out of the corner of his eye the careful aim that La Souris was striving to accomplish with his none too steady grip. Then he laid that match to the touchhole and another rain of iron swept down the street. At this moment a regiment of Volunteers turned into the Rue du Dauphin at a run.
"Charge the steps of St. Roch!" ordered Bonaparte, appearing again very near the guns. As the regiment charged down the street with fixed bayonets, Bonaparte turned his eyes to Jean, and saw the boy standing bravely by the gun, but with his eyes fixed in agony on a window above and close by. Following his glance, the general quickly perceived the cause of his distress. La Souris, having by this time arranged his aim to his satisfaction, was just about to pull the trigger.
It took Bonaparte but a second to snatch a musket from a passing soldier, aim it at the window—and fire! Citizen Coudert's musket clattered from the window to the ground, and he himself dropped from sight on the other side of the sill, and was seen and heard no more! After that the general wheeled his horse, galloped down the Rue de Rivoli, and Jean was left alone, dazed and thankful.
The remainder of the conflict he could never describe, for he did not see it. The Rue du Dauphin was swept clear of the enemy; if any Sectionists remained alive on the steps of St. Roch, they had taken refuge within the church, and the tide of battle surged to another quarter, raging down the Rue St. Honoré.
Jean, having temporarily no work to do, turned his attention to Prevôt, whom he found to his joy not killed outright, but severely wounded in the thigh. It took him a long time to revive the unconscious gunner, and he had but just accomplished it when he heard resounding from the Park of the Tuileries terrific huzzas and cries of "Victory! Victory to the Convention!" Unable longer to contain his curiosity, he left Prevôt and rushed across the park to see what was going on. He was just in time to behold Bonaparte, escorted by Barras, enter the Tuileries in triumph to announce to the Convention the utter defeat of the Sectionists. When Napoleon Bonaparte came out again, he was General-in-chief of the Army of the Interior! Thus ended the famous fifth of October, 1795, better known, according to the reckoning of the Revolution, as the Thirteenth Vendémiaire!