"Let me pass!" cried the officer of the National Guard who led the people to the officer who led the troops.
"Impossible!"
"In the name of the people, I demand to pass!"
"In the name of the Law, you shall not!"
"The people command! Forward!" cried the National Guard.
"Present! Fire!" shouted the officer.
There was a roll of musketry--a shrill shriek rang along the Boulevard--the vast mass recoiled--the smoke floated off--sixty-three of the people of Paris lay weltering in their gore!
"The blow is struck at last!" cried M. Dantès, rushing across the Boulevard, pale and excited. "To arms, people of Paris, to arms!"
"To arms, to arms! Vengeance for our brothers!" was now the terrible cry that burst from the infuriated populace. The congratulation--the illumination--all was lost in the wild wish for vengeance.
At eleven o'clock that night an immense multitude, composed chiefly of workmen from the faubourgs, was coming down the Boulevard des Capucines. It was the largest and most regular throng yet seen. In front marched a platoon of men bearing torches and waving tri-color flags. Immediately behind walked an officer in the full uniform of the National Guard, with a drawn sword in his hand, whose slightest command was implicitly observed. Next came a tumbrel bearing the naked corpses of the slain, whose faces, mutilated by their wounds and disfigured by blood, glared horribly up, with open eyes, in the red torchlight that flared in the night blast around! Behind this awful display marched a dense mass of National Guards, succeeded by a countless mass of the people armed with, guns, swords, clubs and bars of iron, chanting forth in full chorus, not the inspiring Marseillaise or the Parisienne, but in awful concert sending upon the night air the deep and dreadful notes of the death-hymn of the Girondins, "Mourir pour la Patrie," intermingled with yells for vengeance.
Down the boulevards approach the multitude--more distinct becomes the dirge--more redly glare the torches--and, amid all, more deeply rumble the wheels of the death-cart on the pavement!
The funeral column reaches the corner of the Boulevard and the Rue Lepelletier--the death-hymn rises to a yell of fury--the officer of the National Guard turns the head of the column to the right--before it is an edifice conspicuous by its illumination of huge and blood-red lamps--it is the office of "Le National"--the crowd halts--one long loud shriek of "Vengeance!" goes up--it is succeeded by the thrilling notes of the Marseillaise from ten thousands lips, and "Marrast! Marrast!" is the shout that follows.
The windows of the front office were thrown up, and the editor, surrounded by friends, appeared. His speech was brief but fervid. He exhorted the people to be firm--to secure their rights beyond recall--and promised them ample retribution for past wrongs and security for future rights.