A few words of parting salutation passed, and all departed.
M. Dantès and Lamartine left the office in company.
"What say you, Edmond," asked Lamartine, "will your wife spare you long enough from her pillow to make with me a brief tour of the town?"
"Mercédès is rather exacting," said Dantès, with a laugh; "but if your fair lady will suffer your absence, mine must do the same, I fear."
"Well, then, let us first to the Hôtel de Ville, that grand centre of Paris in all that is revolutionary."
As the two friends passed along, conversing on the events of the day and the anticipations of the morrow, they were met, from time to time, by knots of men at the corners, eagerly recounting the incidents of the hour; the roll of drums was heard in the distance, and occasionally there came the heavy and measured tread of infantry, the clatter of cavalry and the lumbering of artillery, as they passed on their way. All the shops and cafés were closed. Many of the lamps were demolished, and others were not lighted, the gas being shut off. A fearful gloom brooded over the city. The winter wind swept sharply and cuttingly along the deserted streets, and rain, which froze as it fell, at intervals dashed down.
The Hôtel de Ville was encompassed by troops as the friends approached it.
"Is that a cannon?" asked Lamartine, pointing to a dark object that protruded from an embrasure of the edifice.
"It is!" replied Dantès.
"Then the revolution has, indeed, begun! Artillery in the streets of Paris!"