“Of the people of Paris. But who knows at present what is the will of the people of France?” observed Lamartine.
There was an interval of silence. The noise of the multitude without sounded like the murmuring of the ocean. Ledru-Rollin went on:
“What the people want is the Republic at once, the Republic without waiting.”
“The Republic without any delay?” said Lamartine, covering an objection in this interpretation of Ledru-Rollin’s words.
“We are provisional,” returned Ledru-Rollin, “but the Republic is not!”
M. Crémieux took the pen from Lamartine’s hands, scratched out the word “provisional” at the end of the third line and wrote beside it: “actual.”
“The actual government? Very well!” said Ledru-Rollin, with a slight shrug of the shoulder.
The seal of the City of Paris was on the table. Since 1830 the vessel sailing beneath a sky starred with fleurs-de-lys and with the device, Proelucent clarius astris, had disappeared from the seal of the City. The seal was merely a circle with the words “Ville de Paris” in the centre. Crémieux took the seal and stamped the paper so hastily with it that the words appeared upside down.
But they did not sign this rough draught. Their whereabouts had been discovered; an impetuous stream was surging against the door of the office in which they had taken refuge. The people were calling, ordering, them to go to the meeting-hall of the Municipal Council.
There they were greeted by this clamour: “The Republic! Long live the Republic! Proclaim the Republic!” Lamartine, who was at first interrupted by the cries, succeeded at length with his grand voice in calming this feverish impatience.