FullReads

After he had stood for a time signalling with the lantern, and gazing out into the darkness, he suddenly raised himself upright, put down the lantern, and raised the speaking-trumpet to his mouth. Holding on to the stone balustrade, he turned to the southern tower, and cried “Hullo! Francis! Hallo!”

After a while a reply came through the darkness.

“Qui vive?”

“Mont-joie–Saint-Denis.”

“Sacre!” answered the other. “Ring the great bell! Ring, for heaven’s sake!”

The watchman remained standing for a while looking at the coloured lights on the church tower of St. Cloud. In order to be quite certain, he repeated his signal, and received for answer: “Right understood.”

The old man sighed “Thy will be done, O Lord!” He was on the point of returning to the turret-chamber, when the wind blew so violently, that he had to seize the arm of the horned monster in order to stand fast. But the figure had got loose; it yielded, and moved a little.

“He too!” muttered the old man to himself. “Nothing stands fast, everything slips; nothing remains on which to support oneself.” He crouched down in order not to be blown away, and so stooping, as he walked, reached the door of the turret-chamber, which he flung open.

“The Revolution is over,” he called out to the bookcase.

“What do you say?”

“The Revolution is over! Come out, sire.”

He laid hold of the bookcase, and opened it like a door on its hinges. It concealed a neat little room furnished in the style of Louis XV. Out of it stepped a man of about thirty, with pale delicate features and a melancholy aspect.

“Sire,” said the bookbinder in a humble voice, “now your time is come, and mine runs out. I do not exactly know what has happened on this eighteenth of Brumaire in Saint Cloud, but one thing I know: Buonaparte has taken the helm.”

“Jaques,” answered the nobleman, “I do not wish to hurt your feelings, but I cannot conceal my joy.”

“Don’t conceal it, sire! You have saved me from the scaffold, and I have saved you; let us thank each other, and be quits.”

“To think that this bloody drama is ended–that this madness….”

“Sire, don’t speak so.”

His eyes began to sparkle, but he quickly changed his tone. “Let us eat our last meal together, but in love like fellow-men; let us talk of the past, and then part in peace. This evening we are still brothers, but to-morrow you are the lord and I am the servant.”

“You are right. To-day I am an emigrant, tomorrow I am a count.”

The old man brought out a cold fowl, a cheese, and a bottle of wine, and both took their places at the table.

“This wine, sire, was bottled in ’89. It has a history, and therefore….”

“Have you no white wine? I do not like red.”

“Is it the colour you dislike?”

“Yes, it looks like blood! You have lost a wife and four sons.”

“Why should I weep for them? They fell on the field of honour.”

“The scaffold!”

“I call the scaffold the field of honour! But you want white wine! Good! You shall have it. You prefer the colour of tears; I prefer that of blood!”

He opened a bottle of white wine: “Suum cuique! Tastes differ. We can now breathe again, and sleep quietly at night. That was the hardest thing to bear during this last decade–the loss of sleep at night. The fear of death was worse than death itself.”

“The worst for us–pardon the expression–was to see the State and society turned topsyturvy, and brutality enthroned.”

“Wait a little! Louis XIV paid two gentlemen of the chamber twenty thousand livres yearly to examine and carry away his night stool every morning. The Sansculottes could not be coarser than that. Marie Antoinette used to go and spend the night drinking with her boon-companions, so that she returned home about eleven o’clock the next morning exhausted; that was coarse conduct for such a fine lady.”

“You may draw the long bow to-night, Jaques; but to-morrow take care of your head! You ought not to speak so of these high personages who have suffered a martyr’s death.”