"Hell is out, Citizens!" were his first connected words. Then—"Oh! they are mad, they are mad, and they are just behind me. Close the gates quickly, or they 'll be through!"
A bewildered group emitted Dangeau.
"What has happened, Citizen?" he asked steadily. "A riot? Like yesterday?"
"Like yesterday? No, ma foi, Citizen! Yesterday was child's play, a mere nothing; to-day they murder every one, and when they have murdered they tear in pieces. They have assassinated the Lamballe, and they are coming here for Capet's wife!"
"How many?" asked Dangeau sharply.
"How do I know!" and fat Butin wrung his hands. "The streets are full of them, leaping, and howling, and shouting like devils. Does the Citizen suppose I stayed to count them?—I, the father of a family!"
The Citizen supposed nothing so unlikely; in fact, his questions asked, he was not thinking of Butin at all. His brain was working quickly, clearly. Already he saw his course marked out, and, as a consequence, he assumed that command of the situation which is always ceded to the man who sees his way before him whilst his fellows walk befogged.
He sat at the table and wrote two notes, despatching one to the President of the Legislative Council and the other to the General Council of the Commune.
Then he announced their contents, speaking briefly and with complete assurance.
"I have written asking for six members of the Assembly and six of the Council, popular men who will assist us to control the mob. We shall, of course, defend the prisoners with our lives if necessary, but there must be no fighting unless as a last recourse. Where is the captain of the Guard?"
The officer came forward, saluting.
"You have—how many men?"
"Four hundred, Citizen."
"You can answer for them—their discipline, their nerve?"
"With my life!"
"Very well, attend to your instructions. Both sides of the great gates are to be opened."
"Opened, Citizen?" stammered the captain, whilst a murmur of dissatisfaction ran through the room.
Dangeau's brows made a dangerous straight line.
"Opened," he repeated emphatically. "Between the outer and inner doors you will draw up a double line of your steadiest men—unarmed."
It was only the officer's look which protested this time, but it quailed before Dangeau's glance of steel.
"You will place a strong guard beyond, out of sight. These men will be fully armed. All corridors, passages, and courts leading to the Tower will be held in sufficient force, but not a man is to make so much as a threatening gesture without orders. You will be so good as to carry out these instructions without delay. I shall join you at the gate."
The captain swung away, and Dangeau turned to his colleagues.
"I propose to try to bring the people to reason," he said; "if they will hear me, I will speak to them. If not—we can only die. The prisoners are a sacred trust, but to have to use violence in defending them would be fatal in the extreme, and every means must be taken to obviate the necessity. Legros, you are a popular man, and you, Meunier; meet the mob, fraternise with the leaders, promote a feeling of confidence. They must be led to feel that it is our patriotism which denies them, and not any sentiment of sympathy with tyrants."
There was a low murmur of applause as Dangeau concluded. He had acted so rapidly that these slow-thinking bourgeois had scarcely grasped the necessity for action before his plan was laid before them, finished to the last detail.
As he left the room, he had a last order to give: "Tell Cléry and Renault to keep the prisoners away from the windows"; and with that was on his way to the gates.
His instructions were being carried out expeditiously enough. The great gates stood wide, and he passed towards them through a double row of the National Guard. A sharp, scrutinising glance appeared to satisfy him. These were what he wanted—men who could face a mob, unarmed, as coolly as if they were on parade; men who would obey orders without thought or question. They stood, a solid embodiment of law and order, discipline, and decorum.
Dangeau took off his tri-coloured sash, borrowed a couple more, knotted them together, suspended them across the unbarred entrance, and, having requisitioned a chair, sat down on it, and awaited the arrival of the mob.
He had not long to wait.
They came, heralded by a dull, hideous roar: no longer the tiger howl of the unfleshed beast, but the devilish mirth of the same beast, full fed, but not yet sated, and of mood wanton as well as murderous. It would still kill, but with a refinement of cruelty. The pike-thrust was not enough. It would not suffice them to butcher the Queen—she must first kiss the livid lips of their other victim; she must be stripped, insulted, dragged alive through the Paris streets.
In this new mood they had stopped on their way to the Temple, broken into the trembling Clermont's shop, and forced that skilful barber to dress the Princesse de Lamballe's exquisite hair and rouge the bloodless cheeks.
The hair was piled high, and wreathed with roses; roses bloomed in the dead cheeks, beneath the lifeless violet of the loveliest eyes in France. Only the mouth drooped livid, ghastly, drained of delight. Clermont had done what he could. Even terror could not rob his fingers of their skill, but, as he muttered to himself, with shaking lips, "Am I, le bon Dieu, to make the dead live?" Rouge and rose-wreathed hair made Death more ghastly still, but the mob was satisfied, and tossing him a diamond buckle for his pains, they swung off again, the head before them.
It was thus that Dangeau saw them come. For a moment the blood ran thick and turgid through his brain, the next it cleared, and, though his heart beat fast, it was with the greatest appearance of calm that he mounted his improvised rostrum, and held up his hand in a gesture demanding silence.
The mob swept on unheeding; nearer, nearer, right on without check or pause, to the fragile ribbon that alone barred their way. Had Dangeau changed colour, had his eye flickered, or that outstretched arm quivered ever so little, they would have been on him—over him, and another massacre would have been written on the stained pages of History.
But Dangeau stood motionless; an unbearable tension held him rigid. His steady eyes—like steel with the sun on it—fixed the leader of the mob;—fixed him, held him, stopped him. A bare yard from the gates, the man who held the head aloft slackened speed, hesitated, and finally came to a standstill so close to Dangeau that a little of the scented powder in the Princess's hair fell down and whitened the sleeve of his outstretched arm. Like sheep, the silly crowd behind checked as their leader checked, and stopped as he had stopped.
Dangeau and he stood looking at one another. The man was a giant, black and hairy, stripped to the waist and a-reek with blood. Under a villainous, low brow his hot, small eyes winked and glared, shifted, and fell at last before the steadier gaze.
Dangeau turned a little, beckoning with his hand, and there was a momentary lull in the chorus of shouts, oaths, and obscene songs.
"What do you want?" he shouted.
The mob renewed its wild-beast howl.
Dangeau beckoned again.
"Let your leader speak," he called; and as the ruffian with the head was pleased to second his suggestion, he obtained a second interval in the storm.
"What