“You must know, sir,” replied a meagre-looking personage, whom I afterwards ascertained to be a barber, “that the liberty of the people is not yet secure. Last night, when we were in the cellar, a large body of the National Guard came, by orders of the Provisional Government, and ejected the whole of our compatriots from the upper stories of the Tuileries. This we hold to be a clear infraction of the charter, for all public buildings are declared to be the property of the people. Fortunately we escaped their notice, but being determined to reassert the rights of France, we have barricaded the staircase which leads to this hall, and are resolved to maintain our post.”
“Bravely spoken, old Saigne-du-nez!” cried the butcher; “and a jollier company you won’t find anywhere. Here are ladies for society, wine for the drinking, provisions to last us a week; and what would you wish for more? Cent mille haches! I doubt if Louis Philippe is enjoying himself half so much.”
“But really gentlemen—”
“Sacre, no mutiny!” cried the butcher; “don’t we know that the sovereign will of the people must be respected? There is thy friend there, as happy as may be; go round and profit by his example.”
Sure enough I discovered poor Bagsby extended in a corner of the hall. The orgies of last evening were sufficient to account for his haggard countenance and blood-shot eyes, but hardly for the multitudinous oaths which he ejaculated from time to time. Beside him sat a bloated poissarde, who was evidently enamoured of his person, and tended him with all that devotion which is the characteristic of the gentler sex. As it was beyond the power of either to hold any intelligible conversation, the lady contrived to supply its place by a system of endearing pantomime. Sometimes she patted Bagsby on the cheek, then chirupped as a girl might do when coaxing a bird to open its mouth, and occasionally endeavoured to insinuate morsels of garlic and meat between his lips.
“Oh, Mr Dunshunner! save me from this hag!” muttered Bagsby. “I have such a splitting headache, and she will insist on poisoning me with her confounded trash! Faugh, how she smells of eels! O dear! oh dear! is there no way of getting out? The barricades and the fighting are nothing compared to this!”
“I am afraid, Mr Bagsby,” said I, “there is no remedy but patience. Our friends here seem quite determined to hold out, and I am afraid that they would use little ceremony, did we make any show of resistance.”
“I know that well enough!” said Bagsby; “they wanted to hang me last night, because I made a run to the door: only, the women would not let them. What do you want, you old harridan? I wish you would take your fingers from my neck!”
“Ce cher bourgeois!” murmured the poissarde: “c’est un méchant drôle, mais assez joli!”