'What is the matter?' asked Madeleine.
'Mademoiselle, everything is the matter!' replied M. Louison; 'there is a firework of excitement without. Oh! Camille the good, the facetious Camille is on the table. Mamma, it is too much, I must go.'
And the white cap, white jacket, white apron, and white stockings flitted like a pigeon past the window.
There was so much noise, such a rush of people, that it became apparent to Madeleine, Nicholas, and Gabrielle, that some unusual cause of excitement had occurred; they therefore ran outside, followed by Madame Louison, whose interest, however, was entirely concentrated on her run-away husband.
'Ah! there he is!' she exclaimed, pointing to a white speck in the crowd, 'sapristi! but he shall catch it. Ah, ha! Coco!' she said in a low tone, with a chuckle to herself; 'ah, ha! my Coco! will you do it again, will you, will you?'
At the farther end of the gardens the crowd was densest. Thither Madeleine hurried, drawing Gabrielle after her; Nicholas looked hesitatingly about him and then followed. On a table, at which shortly before some pleasure-takers had been sipping sugar and water, indeed, standing among the tumblers, some of which were half empty, was a tall slender young man, with long flowing hair reaching to his shoulders, very abundant, glossy, and curled. His face was smooth and clear-complexioned, his nose was straight and well shaped, his mouth small and curled with a smile, and at every smile a dimple formed in his girlish cheek. His large clear eye beamed with light. His brow white and polished, without a furrow, was marked with prominent bumps where phrenologists assert lie the organs of satire. He had falling collars over a thick crimson handkerchief folded twice round his neck, tied in a loose bow, and falling to his waist. His coat of sere-green cloth was adorned with huge lappets which folded to his shoulders; his waistcoat was white, and had also lappets.
'It is Camille, the brave Camille Desmoulins!' said Madeleine; 'what is the matter with him?'
The young man was violently agitated. He spoke with vehemence, and the tears flowed from his brilliant eyes. 'My friends! my friends!' he cried, in a clear, bell-like voice; 'Necker is dismissed; Necker, the friend of the people, Necker, the friend of justice and liberty, has been driven away, his ministry dissolved, and who do you think have been appointed in their place? De Breteuil, De Broglie, Foulon, De la Vauguyon, Berthier—men who hate you, men who detest liberty, men of war; De Breteuil the great Blunderer, De Broglie the old Mars; Foulon, who would make men eat hay because his horses eat it; Berthier, who has sold his heart to the devil, who weeps blood. The dismissal of Necker is the tocsin of a S. Bartholomew of patriots. The Swiss and German battalions are ready to fall on us, and to massacre us. For your wives, for your children! To arms, to arms!'
Every sentence had elicited cries and groans.
'To arms!' yelled Monsieur Louison. Immediately behind him was his spouse, broom in hand. 'To arms!' he cried, snatching the weapon from her grasp and brandishing it above his head,—you may see him immortalised in Duplessi-Bertaux' sketch published a few days after.