The gates were closed; the soldiers, scanty in numbers but well disciplined, stood at their posts, eyeing the frenzied mob with contempt.
Some of the students at once opened fire; the soldiers replied, and, the target being so broad, every bullet lodged somewhere.
Inside the building Count Latour was holding a council of war, and the members, fearful lest in the growing excitement the monarchy itself should be swept away, prevailed on him to issue the order to cease firing.
This of course paralyzed the action of the loyal troops, both at the hôtel and at the barracks, while the spirits of the rebels were proportionately raised.
From the conversation of those near me, I gathered that their surprise was equal to their delight, but they gave no thought to the humanity of those in power.
The fearful cry, "Death to Latour!" was again raised. The gates were threatened. The soldiers, prevented from firing by the order of the council, were unable to act. Fresh bodies of rioters came swarming from various directions. The pressure grew terrible; the gates--I suppose, as I could see nothing--gave way; the courtyard was filled with the noisy, shouting, bloodthirsty pack; the doors of the great building were smashed like glass; and the crowd, screaming and struggling, surged up the broad staircase.
At the first rush some were thrown violently against the outer walls; others, by no power of their own, were carried into the interior of the building, and fate so willed that I belonged to the latter portion. The name of the gallant old count was on the lips of every one, as if he were responsible for all the ills in the world, so easy is it to inflame the passions of a mob which does not think for itself.
It was on the first landing that we received a slight check.
A few National Guards, still loyal to their pledges, attempted to stem the human torrent. Their success was only momentary, and they were borne back, but not dispersed.
Here the crowd broke up, some running one way, some another, but all intent on killing Count Latour.