Sentimental Education (Barnes & Noble Classics Series) (53 page)

“Come back! Come back!”

“Leave me alone!” replied the husband. “You can easily mind the concierge’s lodge by yourself. I ask, citizen, is this fair? I have on every occasion done my duty—in 1830, in ‘32, in ’34, and in ’39! To-day they’re fighting again. I must fight! Go away!”

And the concierge’s wife ended by yielding to his protests and to those of a National Guard near them—a man of forty, whose kindly face was adorned with a circle of blond beard. He loaded his gun and fired while talking to Frédéric, as cool in the midst of the outbreak as a horticulturist in his garden. A young lad in an apron was trying to coax this man to give him a few caps, so that he might make use of a gun he had, a fine fowling-piece which a “gentleman” had made him a present of.

“Grab some behind my back,” said the good man, “and keep yourself from being seen, or you’ll get yourself killed!”

The drums beat for the charge. Sharp cries, hurrahs of triumph burst forth. A continual ebbing to and fro made the multitude sway back and forth. Frédéric, caught between two thick masses of people, did not move an inch, all the time fascinated and exceedingly amused by the scene around him. The wounded who sank to the ground, the dead lying at his feet, did not seem like persons really wounded or really dead. The impression left on his mind was that he was watching a show.

In the midst of the surging throng, above the sea of heads, could be seen an old man in a black coat, mounted on a white horse with a velvet saddle. He held in one hand a green bough, in the other a paper, and he kept shaking them persistently; but at length, giving up all hope of being heard, he withdrew from the scene.

The soldiers of the infantry had gone, and only the municipal troops remained to defend the guard-house. A wave of dauntless spirits dashed up the steps; they were flung down; others came on to replace them, and the door resounded under blows from iron bars. The municipal guards did not give way. But a wagon, stuffed full of hay, and burning like a gigantic torch, was dragged up against the walls. Bundles of sticks were speedily brought, then straw, and a barrel of alcohol. The fire mounted up to the stones along the wall; the building began to send forth smoke on all sides like the crater of a volcano; and at its summit, between the balustrades of the terrace, huge roaring flames escaped with a harsh noise. The first story of the Palais-Royal was occupied by National Guards. Shots were fired through every window in the square; the bullets whizzed, the water of the fountain, which had been broken, was mingled with the blood, forming little pools on the ground. People slipped in the mud over clothes, military caps, and weapons. Frédéric felt something soft under his foot. It was the hand of a sergeant in a grey over-coat, lying face-down in the stream that ran along the street. Fresh bands of people were continually coming up, pushing the combatants towards the guard-house. The firing became more rapid. The wine-shops were open; people went into them from time to time to smoke a pipe and drink a glass of beer, and then came back again to fight. A lost dog began to howl. This made the people laugh.

Frédéric was shaken by the impact of a man falling on his shoulder groaning with a bullet through his back. At this shot, perhaps directed at himself, he felt enraged; and he was plunging forward when a National Guard stopped him.

“ ’Tis useless! the King has just gone! Ah! if you don’t believe me, go and see for yourself!”

This assurance calmed Frédéric. The Place du Carrousel looked tranquil. The Hotel de Nantes stood there as fixed as ever; and the houses in the rear; the dome of the Louvre in front, the long wooden gallery at the right, and the wasteland that ran unevenly as far as the sheds of the stall-keepers were, so to speak, steeped in the grey hues of the atmosphere, where indistinct murmurs seemed to mingle with the fog; while, at the opposite side of the square, a harsh light, falling through the parting of the clouds on the façade of the Tuileries, made all its windows look like white patches. Near the Arc de Triomphe a dead horse lay on the ground. Behind the railings groups consisting of five or six people were talking. The doors of the château were open, and the servants on the threshold allowed the people to enter.

Below stairs, in a kind of little parlour, bowls of
café au lait
were being served. A few of spectators sat down at the table jokingly; others remained standing, and amongst the latter was a hackney-coachman. He snatched up with both hands a jar full of powdered sugar, cast a restless glance right and left, and then began to eat voraciously, with his nose stuck right into the jar.

At the bottom of the great staircase a man was writing his name in a register.

Frédéric was able to recognise him by his back. “Hello, Hussonnet!”

“Yes, ’tis I,” replied the Bohemian. “I am introducing myself at Court. This is a good joke, isn’t it?”

“Suppose we go upstairs?”

And they went up to the Salle des Maréchaux. The portraits of those illustrious generals, save that of Bugeaud, which had been pierced through the stomach, were all intact. They were represented leaning on their sabres with a gun-carriage behind each of them, and in majestic postures in contrast with the circumstances. A large clock proclaimed it was twenty minutes past one.

Suddenly the “Marseillaise” resounded. Hussonnet and Frédéric bent over the banisters. It was the mob. They rushed up the stairs, shaking with a dizzying, wave-like motion bare heads, helmets, red caps, bayonets, shoulders with such impetuosity that some people disappeared in this swarming mass, which was mounting up like a river compressed by an equinoctial tide, driven by an irresistible impulse with a continuous roar. When they got to the top of the stairs, they scattered, and their chant died away. Nothing more could be heard but the tramp of all the shoes intermingled with the babble of many voices. The crowd contented themselves with looking about them inoffensively. But, from time to time, an elbow, cramped for room, broke through a pane of glass, or else a vase or a statue rolled from a table down on the floor. The wall panelling creaked under the pressure of people against it. Every face was flushed; the perspiration was rolling down their faces in large beads. Hussonnet made this remark:

“Heroes don’t smell very nice.”

“Ah! you are annoying,” returned Frédéric.

And, pushed forward in spite of themselves, they entered a room in which a canopy of red velvet stretched across the ceiling. On the throne below sat a worker with a black beard, his shirt gaping open, a jolly air, and the stupid look of a baboon. Others climbed up the platform to sit in his place.

“What a myth!” said Hussonnet. “There you see the sovereign people!”

The armchair was lifted up on the hands of a number of people and passed across the hall, swaying from one side to the other.

“By Jove, ’tis like a boat! The Ship of State is tossing about in a stormy sea! Let it dance the cancan! Let it dance the cancan!”

They had drawn it towards a window, and in the midst of hisses, they launched it out.

“Poor old chap!” said Hussonnet, as he saw it falling into the garden, where it was speedily picked up in order to be carried to the Bastille and burned.

Then a frenzied joy burst forth, as if, instead of the throne, a future of boundless happiness had appeared; and the people, less through a spirit of vindictiveness than to assert their right of possession, broke or tore the mirrors, the curtains, the chandeliers, the sconces, the tables, the chairs, the stools, all of the furniture, including the albums of drawings, and the needlework baskets. Since they had triumphed, they were entitled to amuse themselves! The common herd ironically wrapped themselves up in lace and cashmere. Gold fringe was twined round smock sleeves. Hats with ostrich feathers adorned blacksmiths’ heads, and ribbons of the Legion d’honneur served as waistbands for prostitutes. Each person satisfied his or her whim; some danced, others drank. In the queen’s apartment a woman gave a gloss to her hair with pomade. Behind a folding-screen two lovers were playing cards. Hussonnet pointed out to Frédéric an individual who was smoking a clay pipe with his elbows resting on a balcony; and the delirious frenzy resounded with a continuous crash of broken porcelain and pieces of crystal, which, as they rebounded, made sounds like the keys of a harmonica.

Then their fury took on a darker note. An obscene curiosity made them rummage through all the dressing-rooms, all the alcoves and open all the drawers. Ex-convicts thrust their arms into the beds in which princesses had slept, and rolled around on the top of them, as consolation for not being able to rape them. Others, with sinister faces, roamed about silently, looking for something to steal, but too great a multitude was there. Through the doorways of the suites of apartments could be seen only a dark mass of people between the gilding of the walls under a cloud of dust. Everyone was panting. The heat became more and more suffocating; and the two friends, afraid of being stifled, seized the opportunity of making their way out.

In the antechamber, standing on a heap of garments, appeared a prostitute as a statue of Liberty, motionless, her grey eyes wide open—a fearful sight.

They had taken three steps outside the chateau when a company of the National Guards, in greatcoats, advanced towards them, and, taking off their policemen’s-caps, and, at the same time, uncovering their heads, which were slightly bald, bowed very low to the people. The ragged victors were delighted with this show of respect. Hussonnet and Frédéric were not without experiencing a certain pleasure from it as well.

They were filled with excitement. They went back to the Palais-Royal. In front of the Rue Fromanteau, soldiers’ corpses were heaped up on the straw. They passed close to the dead without a single quiver of emotion, feeling a certain pride in being able to keep their composure.

The Palais overflowed with people. In the inner courtyard seven piles of wood were flaming. Pianos, chests of drawers, and clocks were hurled out through the windows. Fire-engines sent streams of water up to the roofs. Some vagabonds tried to cut the hose with their sabres. Frédéric urged a pupil of the Polytechnic School to interfere. The latter did not understand him, and, moreover, appeared to be half-witted. All around, in the two galleries, the populace, having taken possession of the wine-cellars, gave themselves up to a horrible drunken orgy. Wine flowed in streams and wetted people’s feet; ragamuffins drank out of the bottoms of bottles, and shouted as they staggered along.

“Come away out of this,” said Hussonnet; “I am disgusted with the people.”

All over the Orléans Gallery the wounded lay on mattresses on the ground, with purple curtains folded round them as coverlets; and the small shopkeepers’ wives and daughters from the quarter brought them broth and bandages.

“I don’t care what you think!” said Frédéric; “I consider the people sublime.”

The great vestibule was filled with a whirlwind of furious individuals. Men tried to ascend to the upper storys in order to complete its total destruction. National Guards, on the steps, strove to keep them back. The bravest was a guard who had a bare head, disheveled hair, and straps torn to pieces. His shirt was sticking out between his trousers and his coat, and he struggled desperately in the midst of the others. Hussonnet, who had sharp sight, recognised Arnoux from a distance.

Then they went into the Tuileries garden, so as to be able to breathe more freely. They sat down on a bench; and they remained for some minutes with their eyes closed, so much stunned that they had not the energy to say a word. The people who were passing came up to them and informed them that the Duchesse d’Orléans had been appointed Regent,
¹
and that it was all over. Everybody was experiencing that feeling of well-being which follows quick resolutions to crises, when at the windows of the attics in the chateau appeared men-servants tearing their liveries to pieces. They flung their torn clothes into the garden, as a mark of renunciation. The people hooted at them, and then they withdrew.

Frédéric and Hussonnet’s attention was distracted by a tall fellow who was walking quickly between the trees with a musket on his shoulder. A cartridge-belt was strapped around his red tunic; a handkerchief was wound round his forehead under his cap. He turned his head to one side. It was Dussardier; and casting himself into their arms:

“Ah! what good fortune, my poor old friends!” without being able to say another word, so much out of breath was he with fatigue.

He had been on his legs for the last twenty-four hours. He had been engaged at the barricades of the Latin Quarter, had fought in the Rue Rambuteau, had saved three dragoons’ lives, had entered the Tuileries with Colonel Dunoyer, and, after that, had gone to the Chamber, and then to the Hotel de Ville.

“I have come from there! all goes well! the people are victorious! the workmen and the employers are embracing one another. Ha! if you knew what I have seen! what brave fellows! what a fine sight it was!”

And without noticing that they were unarmed:

“I was quite certain of finding you there! It was a bit rough for a moment there—but it’s all over now!”

A drop of blood ran down his cheek, and in answer to the questions put to him by the two others:

“Oh! ’tis nothing! a slight scratch from a bayonet!”

“Still, you really ought to take care of yourself.”

“Pooh! I am sturdy! What does this signify? The Republic is proclaimed! We’ll be happy now! Some journalists, who were talking just now in front of me, said they were going to liberate Poland and Italy! No more kings! You understand? The entire land free! the entire land free!”

And with one comprehensive glance at the horizon, he spread out his arms in triumph. But a long line of men rushed over the terrace beside the water.

“Ah, dammit! I was forgetting. The forts are still occupied. I must be off. Good-bye!”

He turned round to cry out to them while brandishing his musket: