Читать книгу Ashes of Empire - Robert William Chambers - Страница 4

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The throng outside the palace had swelled to menacing proportions; the gay cocked hats of the police glittered above a sombre sea of heads, threading the packed square with double strands of colour. The throng was not yet a mob; there were no rushes, no sullen retreats, no capricious stampedes, but it grew denser. Again and again the Imperial police pushed into the square only to be crushed back against the park railings by the sheer weight of the people. From the river a battalion of mutinous Mobiles advanced singing a deep swinging chorus through which the treble voices of the newsboys soared piercingly: “Extra! Extra! Frightful disaster in the north. Defeat of the French army at Sedan! Capture of the Emperor! Surrender of the army of Châlons! Terrible battle at Sedan! Extra! Extra!”

Across the bridge the people surged against the Palais Bourbon, receding, advancing, retreating, only to dash back again on the steel-barbed grille, a deluge of eager human beings, a chaos of white, tense faces and outstretched hands. And now over all swept a whirlwind of sound—of splendid sonorous song—the Marseillaise!

The crowd had become a mob. The Empire was at an end.

A short, fierce howl broke from the crowd which filled the rue de Rivoli from the Louvre to the Place de la Concorde, as an officer of the Imperial Guard appeared for a moment on the terrace above the Orangerie and attempted to speak. “Go back, go back!” shouted the mob. “Down with the Empire! Long live Republic! The Empress has betrayed Paris! Shame! Shame!” Somebody in the crush raised a gilded wooden eagle on a fragment of broken flagstaff and shook it derisively at the palace. “Burn it!” cried the mob; “we want no eagles now!”

In a moment the gilded eagle was on fire. A drummer of the National Guard reversed his drum and beat the charge; a young girl marched beside him, also beating a drum, her thin, white face set with a hard smile, her eyes flashing under knit brows. A compact mass of people hurled themselves against the garden grille, the iron eagle and the Imperial N were torn from the gilt gates amid a tempest of cheers; the railing crashed in, the mob was loose.

At that moment, through the alley of trees, a detachment of the Garde Impériale marched silently up and massed itself before the great gate of the Tuileries, waiting there, solid, motionless, with rifles at parade rest. The mob came to a sudden halt.

“Down with the Imperial Guard! Hurrah for the National Guard!” shouted the man with the blazing eagle, and he swung the flaming emblem of empire till it crackled and showered the air with sparks and burning flakes of tinsel.

The girl with the drum, sitting beside the parapet of the Orangerie, beat the rappel and laughed down at the Imperial Guard.

“Are you afraid?” she called in a clear, bantering voice. “I’ll give you a shot at my drum—you there, with the Crimea medal!”

A young ruffian from the outer boulevards climbed to the parapet beside her. “Silence!” shouted the crowd. “Listen to the Mouse!”

The Mouse, however, contented himself with thrusting out his tongue and making frightful grimaces at the Imperial Guard, while his two companions, “Mon Oncle” and “Bibi la Goutte,” alternately laughed and proffered menaces. Twice an officer advanced a little way along the alley of trees, summoning the crowd to fall back. The second time a young fellow in the uniform of the National Guard dragged himself from the crowd and nimbly mounted the parapet.

“You tell us to disperse,” he shouted in reply; “I tell you that we’ll go as soon as that flag comes down from the Tuileries.” Then he turned to the mob with violent gestures;

“Do you know why that flag is flying? It is because the Empress is still in the Tuileries. Is she to stay there?”

“No, no! Down with the Empress! To the palace, to the palace!” howled the mob.

The Mouse, who had climbed down inside the gardens, began to yell for pillage, but a drummer of the Imperial Guard kicked him headlong through the gate and burst out laughing. The crowd surged forward, only to fall back again before the levelled rifles of the troops.

“Get off the wall!” cried the officers, angrily, “you gamine there with your drum! Go back, or we fire!”

The girl with the drum regarded them ironically and clicked her drum-sticks; the young officer of the National Guard beside her cursed the troops and shouted: “Tell your Empress to go! Who is she to sit in the Tuileries? Who sent the army to Sedan? Who betrayed the nation to the Prussians? Tell your Empress to go while she can! Do you think the people are blind and deaf? Do you think the people forget? Tell her to take herself and family out of the land she sold to Bismarck! Then let her remember the city she betrayed—the people who watch and wait for Prussian shells cowering in the cellars of devastated homes—here in the city she sold!”

The crowd shouted hoarsely and pressed to the gate again. The young orator’s fierce eyes shone with a hate so intense that the troops thought him mad. And perhaps he was, this fanatic who in days to come would prove his brainless bravery to an insurgent city and die under the merciless sabres of Thiers’ gendarmes.

“Capt Flourens,” said an officer of the Imperial Guard, “if you do not call off your mob, their blood will be on your head. Shame on you! You disgrace your uniform!”

“Captain de Sellier,” replied Flourens fiercely, “to-morrow, if the Prussian army halts before Paris, I will be the first to face it, for the honour of France. But I will not face it for the Empire. Shall Paris fight for the woman who sold France? Shall France do battle for a rotten dynasty tottering to ruin?—a dynasty that seeks to pull down the motherland with it into the abyss of corruption and cowardice and treachery. The Prussians are here! Let them come. But before we face them let us cleanse ourselves from that which brought us to destruction. Down with the Empire!”

He ceased and stepped back. The girl beside him swung her drum to her hip, sprang up, and, facing the troops, began to sing:

“Ça ira! Ça ira!”

A thunder of cheering answered her; the steel stanchions of gate and grille were wrenched out; the mob was armed.

The Imperial Guard hesitated, then fell back slowly, as old General Mellinet galloped up, glittering with orders, sashed and spurred, his face crimson with anger.

“It is well,” he shouted, shaking his clenched fist at the crowd;—“it is well for you that her gracious Majesty commands that not one drop of blood shall be spilled to protect this palace! Cowards, go back to your kennels! The Empress is leaving the palace!”

He walked his splendid bay horse straight up to the shattered gate; a straw in the balance would decide his fate and he knew it.

“You, gentlemen,” he said violently, “are here on a vile errand. Are you not blushing for your uniform, Captain Flourens? And you, Monsieur Victorien Sardou, with your clay mask of a face,—and you Armand Gouzien—”

For a second rage choked him.

“What do you want of me, gentlemen?” he said, controlling his passion with an effort. “I have made a promise and you will find that I will keep it. If General Trochu has deserted the Empress, make the most of it. Let God deal with him. As for me, I am here to stay. Say so to your mob.”

At this moment came a roar from the crowd outside; “The Empress has gone! The Empress has gone! To the palace! To the palace! The Empress has gone!”

The crowd started forward. Then, as the soldiers silently brought their rifles to a charge, the people fell back, crushing and trampling in their hurry to regain the pavement.

“Look out, Bourke,” said a young man, in English, dragging his companion away from the gate: “there’ll be a panic if the troops fire. Come on; let’s get out of this.”

“Look,” said his comrade, eagerly, “look, they’ve lowered the flag on the cupola! Do you see, Jim? The Empress has left the Tuileries!”

The crowd saw it too, and a tumult arose, answered by vociferous cheering from the packed masses in the rue de Rivoli;

“Vive la Republique! Down with the Empire!”

“Hurrah for the republic!” shouted Bourke, laughing and waving his hat. “Harewood, why the devil don’t you cheer?”

Malet and Shannon, two fellow correspondents, passed and called out to them in English: “Hello, you fellows; it’s all over. The Empress has gone!”

“Wait for us,” motioned Bourke. But already the others were lost in the crowd, which now began to pour along the face of the park parapets towards the river.

Bourke, his arm linked in Harewood’s, struggled for a while to keep his course to the rue Royale, but the pressure and shouting and torrents of dust confused him and he let himself go.

“Confound it!” he gasped, “this is almost a stampede. Keep your feet, Jim, if you want to live to get out. I hope the Empress is safe.”

“Where are our horses?” asked Harewood, struggling to keep with his comrade.

“In the arcade of the Continental. Good heavens, Jim, this crush is frightful,” he said, seizing a bar of the railing behind them. “Climb up and over: it is the only way!”

“They’ll shoot you from the palace!” cried a dozen voices.

“I rather be shot than squashed!” replied Bourke, clambering up and over the gilded railing.

In a moment Harewood sprang to the turf beside him, panting and perspiring.

“Now!” motioned Bourke, and they glided across the terrace of the Orangerie, and let themselves down into the street, dirty, bruised and breathless.

At the end of the street toward the Place de la Concorde, a mob, flourishing clubs and knives, was vainly trying to scale the parapets of the gardens, shouting: “Death! Death to the Empress!” But a squad of police held the parapets and hammered the more venturesome of the people with the flats of their swords. Several line soldiers and Mobile officers joined the police; on the other hand the throngs increased every moment, and their angry shouts swelled to a solid roar: “Death to the Empress! Remember Sedan!”

Among a group of frightened pedestrians who had been blocked on the quay between both mobs, were two ladies. Bourke caught a glimpse of their light summer gowns as he crept along by the quay wall. One of the ladies carried a covered basket, which she held close to her breast. Both were in helpless consternation, daring neither to proceed nor to return to the quay alone, where already the mob had seized the Batteau Mouche, crying, “On to Saint Cloud!”

“See those girls!” cried Bourke. “They’ll get into that crush in a moment. Jim, they’ll be trampled!”

Harewood started across the street just as the young lady who carried the basket turned and hastened toward the Louvre, where a cab stood near the gutter. Her companion followed, running ahead in her anxiety and calling to the cab driver, who, however, shook his head, refusing to move.

As Harewood came up, the girl who carried the basket shrank back, looking at him with startled eyes, but he raised his hat, and then turned to the cabman. “We want you,” he said, sharply.

“I am engaged. I was told to wait for the Austrian ambassador,” said the driver, adding impudently: “Are you his excellency, Monsieur Metternich?”

“You must take these ladies,” said Harewood. “They can’t stay here—the police may fire at any moment.”

“Monsieur,” said the cabby, sarcastically, “can I pass that mob with my cab?”

“You can pass,” insisted Bourke, “to the Place Saint Germain—l’Auxerrois. We’ll lead the horse.” He laid one hand on the bit.

Before the cabman could protest, Harewood flung open the door, saying; “Mesdames, there is no time to lose!”—while Bourke scowled back at the driver and shook his fist. “Pig of a cabman,” he whispered, “drive slowly or I’ll push you into the river.”

Harewood was laughing as he closed the cab door and stepped to the other side of the horse.

“Now, Bourke,” he said, “touch up your jehu!”

Bourke uttered another awful threat and signalled the cabby. The latter obeyed with a despairing grimace, and the horse moved off along the quay, the two young fellows walking on either side of the horse’s head.

In a moment they were in the crowd that surrounded the gate of the Carrousel, but the crowd was not very compact and they threaded their way slowly, amid cheering and singing and savage yells, “Death! Death to the Empress!”

“Poor thing!” said Harewood. “Hang these ragamuffin cutthroats! Go slowly, Bourke. Hello, what’s up now?”

From a stairway on the south colonnade of the Louvre a group of ladies and gentlemen were issuing. Hurriedly they traversed the court to the street gate, where a mob of loungers stood, staring up at the gray façade. As one of the party, a lady heavily veiled in crêpe, stepped out to the sidewalk, a gamin clinging to the gate piped up shrilly:

“That’s the Empress!”

Instantly one of the gentleman in attendance seized the urchin by one ear and boxed the other soundly, saying, “I’ll teach you to shout, ‘Vive la Prusse!’”

For a moment the knot of idlers laughed. Then some one in the crowd said distinctly: “All the same, that is the Empress.”

A silence followed, broken by a single voice, low but perfectly distinct: “Death to the Empress!”

There was a restless movement, a quick pressing forward of wicked faces, a shuffle of heavy shoes. In a second the crowd doubled itself as if by magic; voices rose, harsh and ominous. Somebody struck the iron railing with a steel-banded club. Bourke, standing close to the gutter by the cab, felt the door pushed outward and he turned, alarmed, as both young girls sprang out. One of them ran to the Empress and motioned toward the cab.

“Hasten, madame,” she said, “here is a cab.”

Before the crowd comprehended what was being done the Empress had passed them, followed by another lady and two gentlemen.

“Good heavens,” muttered Harewood to Bourke, “it is the Empress and Madame Le Breton.”

The Empress laid one hand on the cab window, then drew back and said: “I would not wish to take your cab if you also are in danger.”

With one foot on the carriage step she looked back at the young girls, appearing utterly oblivious of the risk she herself ran.

“Hasten, madame,” they cried. “We are in no danger! Ah, hasten, madame!”

Both of the gentlemen in waiting urged the Empress to enter, but she refused, and looked steadily at the crowd, which was now closing round the little group. Then she quietly stooped and kissed the girls.

“Thank you,” she said, “I accept, my children.”

Bourke and Harewood had recognized her two escorts as the Italian minister and the Austrian ambassador. And, while the Empress and her lady in waiting entered the cab, Bourke said in English:

“Go quickly, gentlemen; these young ladies are safe with us. God knows why the mob does not attack you!”

Monsieur de Metternich turned, cool and collected, and bowed to Bourke. The Empress leaned from the cab window and looked at the young girls standing together, white and frightened.

“Will you tell me your name?”

They seemed not to understand, and Harewood said:

“Quick, the Empress asks your names?”

“I—I—am Yolette Chalais—and this is Hildé, my sister,” stammered one of the girls. As she spoke, in her embarrassment the basket dropped from her hands, the lid flew open, and three white pigeons whirled out, fluttering through the crowd, that scattered for a moment, trying to see what had happened.

“Now!” cried Bourke, as the two diplomats jumped into the cab and slammed the door. The cabman seized his reins and lashed savagely at his horse, the crowd stumbled back shrieking, and, before they understood, the cab dashed away in a torrent of dust and flying pebbles.

In his excitement Bourke laughed aloud, crying: “Jim! Jim! What a fool of a mob! Well, of all the bloodless revolutions I ever heard of! Look! Here come some troops, too. The thing is over!”

The thing was nearly over. Even the Saint Germain omnibuses were running now, halting as usual for passengers in front of the beautiful church opposite, and to one of these omnibuses Bourke and Harewood conducted the two young ladies who had given up their cab to the Empress of France. Nobody interfered with them, nobody seemed to notice them except a pasty-visaged young man with pale, pig-like eyes who nodded hastily to Bourke and walked away.

“That was Speyer, the war correspondent for that German-American sheet,” said Bourke to Harewood. “I didn’t know he was in Paris.”

Harewood frowned and said nothing until their disconcerted but grateful charges were safely seated in the omnibus. Then Bourke said several civil things in well-intentioned French.

Both young men offered to act as further escort, were timidly thanked but unmistakably discouraged, and they finally stood back, raising their hats as the omnibus started.

“Thank you again for all you have done,” said Hildé. Yolette inclined her head with pretty reticence; the driver cracked his whip and the three horses moved off at a trot.

Harewood stared after the vehicle until it disappeared. Bourke lighted a cigarette, smiled quietly, and said: “Come on, Jim.”

As they turned into the rue de Rivoli Harewood began: “Hildé Chalais—that’s one of them—I don’t know which. Pretty, isn’t she? I mean the one with the dark eyes. Wonder whether we’ll see them again. Sorry they lost their pigeons. Nice girls—don’t you think so? They live out on the rue d’Ypres. We’ll pass their house next week when we go to Saint Cloud by the Porte Rouge.”

Harewood laughed easily and walked on in silence. Life was very pleasant at times—even delightful when lighted by a pair of deep hazel eyes.

“I wonder—I wonder—” he muttered.

“What?” asked Bourke.

“Nothing—only that one with the brown eyes—plucky little thing to give up her cab—eh, Cecil?”

“Yes.”

“Well, if we go to Saint Cloud, we’ll go by way of the rue d’Ypres.”

“And there you’ll stay?” asked Bourke, scornfully.

“What? I? What for?”

Bourke yawned in his face and said wearily: “Because, Jim, I never knew you to miss making an ass of yourself when the devil sent the opportunity.”