"The blow is struck at last!" cried M. Dantès, rushing across the Boulevard, pale and excited. "To arms, people of Paris, to arms!"
"To arms, to arms! Vengeance for our brothers!" was now the terrible cry that burst from the infuriated populace. The congratulation—the illumination—all was lost in the wild wish for vengeance.
At eleven o'clock that night an immense multitude, composed chiefly of workmen from the faubourgs, was coming down the Boulevard des Capucines. It was the largest and most regular throng yet seen. In front marched a platoon of men bearing torches and waving tri-color flags. Immediately behind walked an officer in the full uniform of the National Guard, with a drawn sword in his hand, whose slightest command was implicitly observed. Next came a tumbrel bearing the naked corpses of the slain, whose faces, mutilated by their wounds and disfigured by blood, glared horribly up, with open eyes, in the red torchlight that flared in the night blast around! Behind this awful display marched a dense mass of National Guards, succeeded by a countless mass of the people armed with, guns, swords, clubs and bars of iron, chanting forth in full chorus, not the inspiring Marseillaise or the Parisienne, but in awful concert sending upon the night air the deep and dreadful notes of the death-hymn of the Girondins, "Mourir pour la Patrie," intermingled with yells for vengeance.
Down the boulevards approach the multitude—more distinct becomes the dirge—more redly glare the torches—and, amid all, more deeply rumble the wheels of the death-cart on the pavement!
The funeral column reaches the corner of the Boulevard and the Rue Lepelletier—the death-hymn rises to a yell of fury—the officer of the National Guard turns the head of the column to the right—before it is an edifice conspicuous by its illumination of huge and blood-red lamps—it is the office of "Le National"—the crowd halts—one long loud shriek of "Vengeance!" goes up—it is succeeded by the thrilling notes of the Marseillaise from ten thousands lips, and "Marrast! Marrast!" is the shout that follows.
The windows of the front office were thrown up, and the editor, surrounded by friends, appeared. His speech was brief but fervid. He exhorted the people to be firm—to secure their rights beyond recall—and promised them ample retribution for past wrongs and security for future rights.
M. Garnier Pages, who stood at the side of Marrast, next addressed the people in the same strain, amid thunders of applause.
Making a detour to the office of "La Réforme," the multitude were addressed by M. Flocon, its editor; then, proceeding to the Place de la Bastille, the corpses were deposited at the foot of the Column of July, and the crowd dispersed.
The night that succeeded was an awful one. The streets, which an hour before blazed with the illumination, were dark. Barricades rose in every direction. At every corner shopmen, workmen, women, clerks and children were at work. The crash of falling trees, the clank of the lever and the pickaxe, the rattle of paving stones—these were the significant sounds that broke the stillness. Every tree on the whole line of the Boulevard was felled and every lamp-post overthrown; a barricade of immense strength rose at the end of the Rue Richelieu; the troops offered no resistance; they piled their arms, lighted their fires and bivouacked close beside the barricades. At the Hôtel de Ville the troops of the Line and the Chasseurs d'Afrique quietly ate their suppers, smoked their pipes and laid themselves down to sleep. On the Boulevard des Italiens appeared three regiments of the Line, a battalion of National Guards, a regiment of cuirassiers, and three field-pieces, with their caissons of ammunition. The horses were unharnessed by the people, the caissons opened, the ammunition distributed and the guns dragged off. The troops, guards and cuirassiers fraternized.