“Please give this bouquet to Guérin. He is a real man; he is épatant—do please send him these flowers,” cried a brilliant demi-mondaine from Maxim’s, holding forth a bouquet of weird orchids. “Alas, madame,” replied the facetious officer; “alas, not even a bouquet from paradise could I possibly allow to pass.”
Ominous sounds in the rue de Chabrol. The thud and the clanking of the firemen’s hose as it was dragged towards No. 12; the increased hissing of the steam-engines; the impatient clatter of the horses’ hoofs; the bolting and barring of doors, and the putting up of shutters in those few houses where residents remained. Ominous, too, the consultations (carried on in a low voice) between M. Lépine and the various officials. Then the flash of lanterns, the smoke pouring forth from the funnels of the steam-engines, the stench of the disinfectants, those shadowy figures still on the roof of Fort Chabrol; and Jules Guérin still at his window in his sombrero, still smoking cigarettes unconcernedly, still calmly watching the preparations for the attack.
“It is sinister,” cried a journalist.
“So all is ready,” rang out the voice of the Chief of the Police. Briskly stepping forward, M. Lépine thus addressed Jules Guérin: “It is a quarter to four o’clock. If, at four o’clock, you do not surrender, we shall use force.”
Jules Guérin smoked on.
Still nearer to the Fort came the pompiers, dragging their hose. The plan was that they should deluge the massive building with water, while their colleagues with the shining hatchets should break down the door. A last consultation between M. Lépine and the officials. He held his watch in his hand. Five minutes to four o’clock. The neighing of a restive horse. Shouts and song from behind the barrier. Again, the clanking of the hose. Three... two... minutes to four. Jules Guérin, striking a match, lighted a new cigarette.
“He means to fight. It will be appalling,” exclaimed a journalist.
“Jules Guérin, it is four o’clock,” cried M. Lépine, again stepping forward. Without a word, the man in the sombrero banged down the window, and a few moments later the shadowy figures of his assistants disappeared from the roof.
“I thought so, but I wasn’t sure—no, I wasn’t sure,” said M. Lépine—when the heavy oak door swung open!