“Sing to us,” they cried, “the last song that shall echo round the walls of this accursed palace.”
And the little Montelaise, with a red cap on her fair hair, sang—“La Canaille.”
A formidable cry of “Long live the Republic!” followed the last refrain, and a solitary voice, lost in the crowd, sang out in answer, “Vivo Sant Gènt.”
Rose could not see for the tears which brimmed in her blue eyes and she became pale as death.
“Open, give her air!” they cried, seeing that she was about to faint.
Ah no! poor Rose, it was not air she needed, it was Monteux, it was Saint Gent in the mountains and the innocent joy of the fêtes of Provence.
The crowd, in the meanwhile, with its red flags went off shouting through the open door.
Over Paris, louder and louder, thundered the cannonade, sinister noises ran along the streets, prolonged fusillades were heard in the distance, the smell of petroleum was overpowering, and before very long tongues of fire mounted from the Tuileries up to the sky.
Poor little Montelaise! No one ever heard of her again.
(Almanach Provençal, 1873.)