And in fact a sharp fusillade was heard without, towards the conclusion of the General’s harangue. The whole party was thrown into confusion; several ladies showed symptoms of fainting, and were incontinently received in the arms of their respective cavaliers.
The aspiring statesman had disappeared. Whether he got under a sofa, or up the chimney, I do not know, but he vanished utterly from my eyes. Monte-Christo was in a prodigious state of excitement.
“I have kept my word, you see,” he said: “this may be misconstrued in history, but I call upon you to bear witness that the revolution was a triumph of genius. O France!” continued he, filling his pocket with macaroons, “the hour of thine emancipation has come!”
Observing a middle-aged lady making towards the door without male escort, I thought it incumbent upon me to tender my services, in compliance with the suggestions of the gallant Lamoricière. I was a good deal obstructed, however, by Mr Hutton Bagsby, who, in extreme alarm, was cleaving to the skirts of my garments.
“Can I be of the slightest assistance in offering my escort to madame?” said I with a respectful bow.
The lady looked at me with unfeigned surprise.
“Monsieur mistakes, I believe,” said she quietly. “Perhaps he thinks I carry a fan. Look here”—and she exhibited the butt of an enormous horse-pistol. “The authoress of Lélia knows well how to command respect for herself.”
“George Sand!” I exclaimed in amazement.
“The same, monsieur; who will be happy to meet you this evening at an early hour, behind the barricade of the Rue Montmartre.”
“O good Lord!” cried Mr Hutton Bagsby, “here is a precious kettle of fish! They are firing out yonder like mad; they’ll be breaking into the houses next, and we’ll all be murdered to a man.”