During the morning of the 31st of May, when the tocsin and beat of drum had been sounding since the break of day, the battalion of the Faubourg Saint Victor entered the Temple.
When all the usual formalities had been gone through, and the posts distributed, the municipals on service arrived, bringing with them four pieces of cannon in addition to those already forming the battery at the gate of the Temple.
At the same time Santerre arrived, with his epaulets of yellow wool, and a coat on which his patriotism was displayed by large spots of grease. He reviewed the battalion, which was in a proper state, but on counting the municipals, found only three.
"Why are there only three municipals?" inquired he; "and who is the bad citizen who fails us?"
"The absent citizen, General, is not lukewarm," replied our old acquaintance, Agricola; "for it is the secretary of the section Lepelletier, the chief of the brave Thermopyles, the Citizen Maurice Lindey."
"Well, well," said Santerre, "I know as well as yourself the patriotism of the Citizen Maurice Lindey; but that will not deter me, if he is not here in five minutes, from inscribing his name in the list of the absent."
And Santerre passed on to other details.
A few paces from the general, at the moment he pronounced these words, a captain of chasseurs and a soldier had stationed themselves, one leaning against his gun, the other seated on a cannon.
"Did you hear?" said the captain to the soldier, in a low tone. "Maurice has not yet arrived."
"Yes; but rest assured he will arrive, unless there should be a riot."
"In case he should not come," said the captain, "I will place you sentinel on the staircase; and as she will probably ascend to the tower, you will be able to speak a word to her."
At this moment a man, evidently a municipal from his tricolored scarf, entered; but this man being a stranger to the captain and the chasseur, they both regarded him attentively.
"Citizen General," said the new-comer, addressing Santerre; "I request you to accept me in place of Citizen Maurice Lindey, who is ill. Here is the medical certificate; in eight days it will be my turn to mount guard. I now exchange with him; in eight days he will do duty for me, as to-day I will for him."
"Provided the Capets and Capettes live eight days longer," said one of the municipals.
Santerre replied by a slight smile to this pleasantry, and turning toward Maurice's proxy,--
"Very good," said he; "sign the register, in lieu of Maurice Lindey, and state in the column of observations the reason for this exchange."
The captain and chasseur exchanged looks of delight, mingled with astonishment.
"In eight days," said they.
"Captain Dixmer," cried Santerre, "take your position in the garden with your company."
"Come, Morand," said the captain to the chasseur his companion.
The drum sounded, and the company led by the master-tanner filed off in the direction prescribed. They piled arms, and the company divided into groups, which, according to their inclination, walked to and fro.
Their place of promenade was the same garden where, in the time of Louis XVI., the royal family came sometimes to take the air. This garden was naked, barren, and desolate, completely despoiled of trees, flowers, or verdure of any kind.
At about five-and-twenty paces, or perhaps rather nearer that portion of the wall built on the Rue Portefoin, was a species of cottage, which the foresight of the municipality had established for the convenience of the National Guard stationed at the Temple, who in days of riot, when they were not permitted to go out of the grounds, found it an accommodation to take their meals in this little cottage. The direction of this little alehouse had been a matter of contention, till at length concession was made in favor of an excellent patriot, the wife of a suburban killed on the 10th of August, who bore the name of Plumeau.
This little cabin, built of planks and mud, rose in the middle of a flower-bed, of which the bounds may still be recognized by a hedge of dwarf box-trees. It was composed of a single chamber, twelve feet square, under which extended a cave, the descent to which was by steps rudely cut in the earth itself. Here the Widow Plumeau stowed away her wine and provisions. This department was alternately managed by herself and daughter, a girl of twelve or fifteen years of age.
Hardly established at their bivouac, the National Guards separated, as we have said, some to saunter in the garden, while others chatted with the hostess. Some amused themselves by criticising the designs traced upon the walls, which were all meant to be of a patriotic character,--such as the king pendent with this inscription, "Monsieur Veto taking an air-bath;" or the king guillotined with this, "Monsieur Veto spitting in the sack;" while others were giving gastronomical orders to Madame Plumeau, according to the suggestions of their different appetites. Among the latter were the captain and the chasseur whom we have previously remarked.
"Ah, Captain Dixmer!" said the _cantinière_, "I have some famous Saumur wine."
"But, Citizeness Plumeau, in my opinion, at least, the Saumur wine is nothing without Brie cheese," replied the captain, who, before he stated this opinion, had carefully looked round, and detected the absence of his favorite viand.
"Ah! Captain, it is true; but the last morsel has been consumed."
"Well," said the captain, "no Brie cheese, no Saumur wine for me; and remark, Citizeness Plumeau, my order would have been of some amount, as I had intended to treat all my company."
"But, Captain, I ask you to wait only five minutes, and I will run and procure some at the house of the citizen concierge who competes with me, and who always has it. I shall pay very dear, and you, I am sure, are too good a patriot not to compensate me."
"Yes, yes," replied Dixmer; "and in the mean time we will go down into the vault, and select our own wines."
"Make yourself at home, Captain, pray do."
And the Widow Plumeau ran with all her might toward the lodge of the concierge, while the captain and chasseur, provided with a light, raised the trap-door, and descended into the cave.
"Good," said Morand, after an instant's inspection, "the cave extends in the direction of Rue Portefoin. It is nine or ten feet in depth, and there is no brickwork."
"What is the nature of the soil?" inquired Dixmer.
"Chalk; it is all made earth. These gardens have been turned over many times. There is nowhere any rock."
"Be quick," cried Dixmer, "I hear the clogs of our _vivandière_; take two bottles of wine and let us go up."
They both appeared at the trap-door as Madame Plumeau entered, carrying the cheese so strenuously insisted upon by Dixmer, while several chasseurs followed her, attracted by the favorable appearance of the said cheese.
Dixmer did the honors; he offered twenty bottles of wine to his company, while the Citizen Morand recounted the devotion of Curtius, the disinterestedness of Fabricius, and the patriotism of Brutus and Cassius,--histories almost as much appreciated as the Brie cheese and the Anjou wine offered by Dixmer, which is not saying a little.
Eleven o'clock struck. At half-past, the sentinels were relieved.
"Does not the Austrian generally take her walk from twelve to one?" asked Dixmer of Tison, who passed the cabin.
"From twelve to one, exactly," and he began to sing.
His song was received with a shout of laughter from the National Guard. Dixmer immediately summoned those men in his company whose duty it was to mount guard from half-past eleven o'clock till half-past one, told them to hasten their breakfast, and made Morand take arms, in order to place him, as had been agreed, on the highest story of the tower, in the same turret behind which Maurice was hidden the day he had intercepted the signs intended for the queen from the window on Rue Portefoin. If any one had noticed Morand at the moment he received this order, simple and expected as it was, he would have seen him grow pale beneath the masses of his long black hair.
Suddenly a dull noise shook the courts of the Temple, and sounds were heard in the distance like the roaring of a hurricane.
"What is that?" asked Dixmer of Tison.
"Oh!" replied the jailer, "it is nothing; some little uproar these rascally Brissotins are making before they go to the guillotine."
The noise became more and more threatening, the roar of artillery was heard, and a crowd of people rushed past, near the Temple, shouting,--
"Long live the Sections!" "Long live Henriot!" "Down with the Brissotins!" "Down with the Rolandists!" "Down with Madame Veto!"
"Good!" said Tison, clapping his hands, "I will go and open the door for Madame Veto, that without any disturbance she may enjoy the love the people evince for her."
He approached the wicket of the turret-keep.
"Holloa, Tison!" cried a formidable voice.
"Yes, General," replied he, stopping short.
"No egress to-day," said Santerre; "the prisoners are not to quit their chambers."
The order was peremptory.
"Good!" said Tison, "so much the less trouble."
Dixmer and Morand exchanged looks of disappointment; then waiting till the hour for duty had struck (though nothing could now be attempted), they both went to walk between the cabin and the wall running toward Rue Portefoin. Morand began to measure the distance, taking geometrical steps,--that is to say of three feet.
"What is the distance?" inquired Dixmer.
"Sixty to sixty-one feet," replied Morand.
"How many days will be required?"
Morand considered, then traced on the ground with a stick some geometrical signs, which he immediately effaced.
"Seven days at least," said he.
"Maurice will be on guard in eight days," murmured Dixmer. "It is, then, absolutely imperative that within eight days we should be reconciled to Maurice."
The half-hour struck; Morand, sighing, resumed his musket, and conducted by the corporal, went to relieve the sentinel who was patrolling the platform before the tower.