CHAPTER IX.
POPULAR JUSTICE.
When, attracted by the growing tumult, Monsieur Lebrenn, his son andGildas reached the door of the shop, the street was already filled witha large crowd.
Windows were flying open and inquisitive heads appeared at them.Presently a flickering reddish glare lighted the house fronts. A vastand swelling flood of people was rushing by. Some preceded, othersaccompanied the sinister illumination. The uproar grew more and moreviolent. Now and then, rising above the din, the angry cries could beheard:
"To arms!" "Vengeance!"
Exclamations of horror kept chorus with the cries. Women, who, attractedby the noise, looked out of their windows, recoiled with horror as ifanxious to escape the sight of some frightful vision.
Their hearts gripped with apprehension, and drops of sweat standing outupon their foreheads, the linendraper and his son realized that somehorrible spectacle was approaching, and remained motionless upon theirthreshold.
Finally the procession hove in sight.
An innumerable mass of men in blouses, in bourgeois dress and also inthe uniform of the National Guard, and brandishing guns, swords, knivesand sticks, preceded a cart, that was slowly drawn by a horse, and thatwas surrounded by a number of men bearing torches.
In the cart lay heaped up a mass of corpses.
A tall man with a scarlet hat on his head, naked from the waist up, andhis breast bleeding from a recent wound, stood erect in the front partof the cart, carrying aloft a burning flambeau, which he waved to rightand left.
He might have been taken for the genius of Vengeance and of Revolution.
At each movement of his flambeau, he lighted with a ruddy glare to theleft of him the bloodstained head of an old man, to the right the bustof a woman whose arms, like her bleeding head, half veiled by herdisheveled hair, dangled down over the edge of the cart.
From time to time the man with the scarlet hat waved his torch and criedout in stentorian tones:
"They are butchering our brothers! Vengeance! To the barricades! Toarms!"
And thousands of voices, trembling with indignation and rage, repeated:
"Vengeance! To the barricades! To arms!"
Whereupon thousands of arms, some equipped with weapons, others not,rose up toward the somber and threatening sky as if to take it towitness of the vengeful pledges.
In the meantime the exasperated mob that the funeral processionrecruited in its passage went steadily on increasing. It passed as abloody vision before the linendraper and his son. So painful was thefirst impression of both that they could not utter a word. Their eyesswam in tears at learning that the butchery of inoffensive and unarmedpeople had taken place upon the Boulevard of the Capuchins.
Hardly had the cart of corpses disappeared when Lebrenn seized one ofthe iron bars, used to fasten the shop window from within, brandished itover his head, and cried out to the indignant mass of people who weretrooping by:
"Friends! Royalty throws us the gage of battle by butchering ourbrothers! Let the blood of the victims fall upon the head of thataccursed royalty! To the barricades! Long live the Republic!"
Immediately the merchant and his son tore up the first paving stones.The man's words and example produced a magic effect. From a thousandthroats the answer came back:
"To arms! To the barricades! Long live the Republic!"
The next moment the people had invaded the neighboring houses,everywhere demanding arms, and levers and crowbars to tear up thepavement. Soon as the first row of cobblestones was removed, those whohad neither iron bars, nor sticks, pulled up the pavement with theirbare hands and nails.
Monsieur Lebrenn and his son were hard at work raising the barricade afew paces above their door when they were joined by George Duchene, theyoung carpenter, who arrived in the company of a score of armed men, themembers of a demi-section of the secret society with which they,together with the linendraper, were affiliated.
Among these new recruits were the barrowman and the two truckmen who hadbrought the arms and munitions to the shop in the course of theafternoon. Dupont, who had driven the truck, was a mechanic; of theother two, one was a man of letters, the other an eminent scientist.
George Duchene approached Lebrenn as the latter, having stopped workingon the barricade for a moment, stood at the door of his shopdistributing arms and ammunition among the men of his own quarter uponwhom he felt sure he could rely, while Gildas, the previous poltrooneryof whom had been transformed into heroism from the instant the sinistercart of corpses passed before him, emerged from the cellar with severalbaskets of wine, which he poured out to the men at work at thebarricade, to steel them to their task.
Clad in his blouse, George carried a carbine in his hand and a bunch ofcartridges tied up in a handkerchief hanging from his belt. He said tothe merchant:
"I did not arrive earlier, Monsieur Lebrenn, because we had to cross alarge number of barricades. They are rising on all sides. I leftCaussidiere and Sobrier behind--they are making ready to march upon thePrefecture; Lesserre, Lagrange, Etienne Arago are, at the earliest dawn,to march upon the Tuileries, and barricade Richelieu Street. Our otherfriends distributed themselves in various quarters."
"And the troops, George?"
"Several regiments fraternize with the National Guard and the people,and join in the shouts of 'Long live the Reform!' 'Down with LouisPhilippe!' On the other hand, the Municipal Guard and two or threeregiments of the line show themselves hostile to the movement."
"Poor soldiers!" observed the merchant sadly. "They, like ourselves, areunder the identical and fatal spell that arms brothers against oneanother. Well, let us hope this struggle will be the last. And yourgrandfather, George; did you succeed in making him feel at ease?"
"Yes, monsieur; I just come from him. Despite his great age andweakness, he wanted to accompany me. I finally managed to induce him tostay indoors."
"My wife and daughter are yonder," said the merchant, pointing towardthe lattices on the first floor, through which the gleam of a lightedlamp could be seen. "They are busy preparing bandages and lint for thewounded. We shall set up a hospital in the shop."
Suddenly the cry: "Stop thief!" "Stop thief!" resounded in the middle ofthe road, and a man who was running away as fast as his legs could carryhim was seized by four or five workingmen in blouses and armed withguns. Among these a ragpicker with a long white beard, but still strong,was conspicuous. His clothes were in tatters, and, although he carried amusket under his arm he did not remove his pack from his shoulder. Hewas one of the first to seize the runaway, and now held him firmly bythe collar, while a woman, running toward the group and panting forbreath, cried:
"Stop thief! Stop thief!"
"Did this fellow rob you, my good woman?" asked the ragpicker.
"Yes, my good man," she answered. "I was standing at my door. This manran up and said to me: 'The people are rising; we must have arms.''Monsieur, I haven't any,' I answered him. Thereupon he pushed me asideand went into my shop, despite all I could do, saying: 'Well, if youhave no arms, I shall take money to buy some.' So saying, he opened mytill, took out of it thirty-two francs that I had there, and a goldwatch. I tried to hold him, but he drew a knife upon me--fortunately Iparried the blow with my hand--here, see the cut I got. I cried forhelp, and he fled!"
The culprit was a good sized, robust, and well clad man, but of ignoblecountenance. Hardened vice had left its indelible impress upon hiswasted features.
"It is not true! I stole nothing!" he cried in a husky voice, strugglingto avoid being searched. "Let me go! What does it concern you, anyhow?"
"That may concern us considerably, my young fellow!" answered theragpicker, holding firm to his collar. "You stabbed this poor womanafter robbing her of her money and a watch in the name of the people.Keep still! This demands an explanation."
"Here is the watch, for one thing," said a workingman after searchingthe thief.
"Can you identify it, madam?"
"I shou
ld think so, monsieur! It is old and heavy."
"Correct!" replied the workingman. "Here it is, madam."
"And in his vest," said another workingman after searching another ofthe thief's pockets, "six hundred-sou pieces and one forty-sou piece."
"My thirty-two francs!" cried the tradeswoman. "Thank you, my dear men,thank you!"
"That part being settled, my young fellow, you must now settle scoreswith us," proceeded the ragpicker. "You stole and meant to commit murderin the name of the people, did you not? Answer!"
"What is all this pother about, my friends, are we engaged in arevolution, or are we not?" answered the thief in a hoarse voice andaffecting a cynical laugh. "Well, then, let us break into the moneyboxes!"
"Is that what you understand by a revolution?" asked the ragpicker. "Tobreak into the money boxes?"
"Well?"
"Accordingly, you believe the people rise in revolt for the purpose ofstealing--brigand that you are?"
"What other purpose have you, then, in insurrecting, you pack ofhypocrites? Is it, perhaps, for honor's sake?" replied the thiefbrazenly.
The group of armed men, the ragpicker excepted, who stood around thethief, consulted for a moment in a low voice. One of them, noticing thedoor of a grocery store standing ajar went thither; two others went inanother direction, saying:
"I think we would better tell Monsieur Lebrenn of this affair, and askhis opinion."
Still a fourth whispered a few words in the ear of the ragpicker, whoanswered:
"I think so, too. It would be no more than he deserves. It may be awholesome example. But while we wait, send me Flameche to help me mountguard over this bad Parisian."
"Halloa, Flameche!" called a voice. "Come and help father Bribri hold athief."
Flameche ran to the ragpicker. He was a true Parisian gamin. Wan, frail,wasted away by want, the lad, who was gifted with an intelligent andbold face, was sixteen years of age, but looked only twelve. He wore adilapidated pair of trousers, and old shoes to match, and a blue sackcoat that hung in shreds from his shoulders; for weapon he carried asaddle-pistol. Flameche arrived jumping and leaping.
"Flameche," said the ragpicker, "is your pistol loaded?"
"Yes, father Bribri. It is loaded with two marbles, three nails and aknuckle-bone--I rammed all my toggery into it."
"That will do to settle the _gentleman_ if he but budges. Listen, myfriend Flameche--finger on trigger, and barrel in vest."
"'Tis done, father Bribri."
With these words Flameche neatly inserted the muzzle of his pistolbetween the shirt and the skin of the thief. Seeing that the lattertried to resist, Flameche added:
"Don't fidget; don't fidget; if you do you may cause Azor to go off."
"Flameche means his dog of a pistol," added father Bribri by way oftranslation.
"Frauds that you are!" cried the thief, carefully abstaining frommoving, but beginning to tremble, although he made an effort to smile."What do you propose to do? Come, now, be done with your fooling! I havehad enough of it."
"Wait a minute!" interjected the ragpicker. "Let us converse a spell.You asked me why we are in insurrection. I shall satisfy your curiosity.First of all, it is not to break into money boxes and loot shops. Mercy!A shop is to a merchant what a sack is to me. Each to his trade and histools. We are in insurrection, my young fellow, because it annoys us tosee old folks like myself die of hunger on the street like a stray dogwhen our strength to work is no more. We are in insurrection, my youngfellow, because it is a torment to us to hear ourselves repeat the factthat, out of every hundred young girls who walk the streets at night,ninety-five are driven thereto by misery. We are in insurrection, myyoung fellow, because it riles us to see thousands of ragamuffins likeFlameche, children of the Paris pavements, without hearth or home,father or mother, abandoned to the mercy of the devil, and exposed tobecome, some day or other, out of lack for a crust of bread, thievesand assassins, like yourself, my young fellow!"
"You need not fear, father Bribri," put in Flameche; "you need notfear--I shall never need to steal. I help you and other traders in oldduds to pack your sacks and dispose of your pickings. I treat myself tothe best that the dogs have left over. I make my burrow in your bundleof old clothes, and sleep there like a dormouse. No fear, I tell you,father Bribri, I need not steal. As to me, when I insurrect, by thehonor of my name! it is because it finally rasps upon me not to beallowed to angle for red fish in the large pond of the Tuileries--and Ihave made up my mind, in case we come out victors, to fish myself todeath. Each one after his own fancy. Long live the Reform! Down withLouis Philippe!"
And turning to the thief who, seeing the five or six armed workingmencoming back, made an effort to slip away:
"Do not budge, mister! Or, if you do, I shall let Azor loose upon you."Saying which he tightened his finger again on the trigger of his pistol.
"But what is it you have in mind to do with me?" cried the thief,turning pale at the sight of three of the workingmen, who were gettingtheir guns ready, while another, coming out of the grocery that he hadjust before stepped into, brought with him a poster made of brown paperon which some lettering had been freshly traced with a brush dipped inblacking.
A dismal presentiment assailed the thief. He straggled to disengagehimself and cried out:
"If you charge me with theft--take me before the magistrate."
"Can not be done. The magistrate is just engaged marrying his daughter,"explained father Bribri calmly. "He is now at the wedding."
"Besides, he has the toothache," added Flameche; "he is at thedentist's."
"Take the thief to the lamp-post," said a voice.
"I tell you that I demand to be taken to the magistrate!" repeated thewretch, struggling violently to free himself, and he began to shout:
"Help! Help!"
"If you can read, read this," said one of the workingmen, holding up theposter before the thief. "If you can not read, I shall read it for you:
"SHOT AS A THIEF."
"Shot?" stammered the fellow growing livid. "Shot? Mercy! Help!Assassins! Murder! Watchmen, murder!"
"An example must be set for the likes of you, in order that they may notdishonor the Revolution!" explained father Bribri.
"Now, down on your knees, you scoundrel!" ordered a blacksmith who stillhad his leathern apron on. "And all of you, my friends, get your gunsready! Down on your knees!" he repeated to the thief, throwing him downon the ground.
The wretch sank upon his knees in a state of such utter collapse andterror that, crouching upon the pavement, he could only extend his handsand mutter in an almost inaudible voice:
"Oh, mercy! Not death!"
"You fear death! Wait, I shall bandage your eyes," said the ragpicker.
And letting down his sack from his shoulders, father Bribri took a largepiece of cloth out of it and threw it over the condemned man who, on hisknees and gathered into a lump, was almost wholly covered therewith.Soon as that was done, the ragpicker stepped quickly back.
Three shots were fired at once.
Popular justice was done.
A few minutes later, fastened under his arms to the lamp-post, thecorpse of the bandit swung to the night breeze with the poster attachedto his clothes:
"Shot as a thief."