“Honestly, soul of my soul! honestly, but yet by the face thou didst once think so fair; thinkest thou THAT now?”
“Yes, Fillide, more fair than ever. But what meanest thou?”
“There is a painter here—a great man, one of their great men at Paris, I know not what they call them; but he rules over all here,—life and death; and he has paid me largely but to sit for my portrait. It is for a picture to be given to the Nation, for he paints only for glory. Think of thy Fillide’s renown!” And the girl’s wild eyes sparkled; her vanity was roused. “And he would have married me if I would!—divorced his wife to marry me! But I waited for thee, ungrateful!”
A knock at the door was heard,—a man entered.
“Nicot!”
“Ah, Glyndon!—hum!—welcome! What! thou art twice my rival! But Jean Nicot bears no malice. Virtue is my dream,—my country, my mistress. Serve my country, citizen; and I forgive thee the preference of beauty. Ca ira! ca ira!”
But as the painter spoke, it hymned, it rolled through the streets,—the fiery song of the Marseillaise! There was a crowd, a multitude, a people up, abroad, with colours and arms, enthusiasm and song,—with song, with enthusiasm, with colours and arms! And who could guess that that martial movement was one, not of war, but massacre,—Frenchmen against Frenchmen? For there are two parties in Marseilles,—and ample work for Jourdan Coupe-tete! But this, the Englishman, just arrived, a stranger to all factions, did not as yet comprehend. He comprehended nothing but the song, the enthusiasm, the arms, and the colours that lifted to the sun the glorious lie, “Le peuple Francais, debout contre les tyrans!” (Up, Frenchmen, against tyrants!)
The dark brow of the wretched wanderer grew animated; he gazed from the window on the throng that marched below, beneath their waving Oriflamme. They shouted as they beheld the patriot Nicot, the friend of Liberty and relentless Hebert, by the stranger’s side, at the casement.
“Ay, shout again!” cried the painter,—“shout for the brave Englishman who abjures his Pitts and his Coburgs to be a citizen of Liberty and France!”
A thousand voices rent the air, and the hymn of the Marseillaise rose in majesty again.