The Martins Of Cro' Martin, Vol. II (of II). Lever Charles James

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СКАЧАТЬ me as much more,” said Martin; “it may change my luck.” And with this gambler’s philosophy, he again drew nigh the table.

      This slight interruption over, the game proceeded as before. Martin, however, was now a winner, every wager succeeding, and every bet he made a gain.

      “There’s nothing like a dogged persistence,” said the Russian. “Fortune never turns her back on him who shows constancy. See Martin, now; by that very resolution he has conquered, and here we are, all cleared out!”

      “I am, for one,” cried an Italian, flinging his empty purse on the table.

      “There’s my last Louis,” said Nevers. “I reserve it to pay for my supper.”

      “Martin shall treat us all to supper!” exclaimed another.

      “Where shall it be, then?” said Martin; “here, or at my own quarters?”

      “Here, by all means,” cried some.

      “I ‘m for the Place Vendôme,” said the Pole, “for who knows but we shall catch a glimpse of that beautiful girl, Martin’s ‘Belle Irlandaise.’”

      “I saw her to-night,” said the Italian, “and I own she is all you say. She was speaking to Villemart, and I assure you the old Minister won’t forget it in a hurry. Something or other he said about the noise in the street drew from him the word canaille. She turned round at once and attacked him. He replied, and the controversy grew warm; so much so, that many gathered around them to listen, amongst whom I saw the Duc de Guiche, Prince du Saulx, and the Austrian Minister. Nothing could be more perfect than her manner, – calm, without any effrontery; assured, and yet no sacrifice of delicacy. It was easy to see, too, that the theme was not one into which she stumbled by an accident; she knew every event of the Great Revolution, and used the knowledge with consummate skill, and, but for one slip, with consummate temper also.

      “What was the slip you allude to?” cried the Russian.

      “It was when Villemart, after a boastful enumeration of the superior merits of his order, called them the ‘Enlighteners of the People.’

      “‘You played that part on one occasion,’ said she; ‘but I scarcely thought you ‘d like to refer to it.’

      “‘How so? When do you mean?’ asked he.

      “‘When they hung you to the lanterns,’ said she, with the energy of a tigress in her look. Pardié! at that moment I never saw anything so beautiful or so terrible.”

      A loud uproar in the street without, in which the sound of troop-horses passaging to and fro could be distinguished, now interrupted the colloquy. As the noise increased, a low, deep roar, like the sound of distant thunder, could be heard, and the Pole cried out, – “Messieurs les Sans-culottes, I strongly advise you to turn homewards, for, if I be not much mistaken, here comes the artillery.”

      “The affair may turn out a serious one, after all,” broke in the Italian.

      “A serious one!” echoed the Pole, scornfully. “How can it? Forty battalions of infantry, ten thousand sabres, and eight batteries; are they not enough, think you, to rout this contemptible herd of street rioters?”

      “There – listen! It has begun already!” exclaimed Martin, as the sharp report of fire-arms, quite close to the windows, was followed by a crash, and then a wild, mad shout, half rage, half defiance.

      “There’s nothing for it, in these things, but speedy action,” said the Pole; “grape and cavalry charges to clear the streets, and rifle practice at anything that shows itself at the windows.”

      “It is so easy, so very easy, to crush a mob,” said the Russian, “if you only direct your attention to the leader, – think of nothing but him. Once you show that, whatever may be the fate of others, death must be his, the whole assemblage becomes a disorganized, unwieldy mass, to be sabred or shot down at pleasure.”

      “Soldiers have no fancy for this kind of warfare,” said De Nevers, haughtily; “victory is never glorious, defeat always humiliation.”

      “But who talks of defeat?” exclaimed the Pole, passionately. “The officer who could fail against such an enemy should be shot by a court-martial. We have, I believe, every man of us here, served; and I asked you, what disproportion of force could suggest a doubt of success?”

      As he spoke, the door of the room was suddenly opened, and a young man, with dress all disordered, and the fragment of a hat in his hand, entered.

      “What, Massingbred!” cried one, “how came you to be so roughly handled?”

      “So much for popular politeness!” exclaimed the Russian, as he took up the tattered remains of a dress-coat, and exhibited it to the others.

      “Pardon me, Prince,” replied Massingbred, as he filled a glass of water and drank it off, “this courtesy I received at the hands of the military. I was turning my cab from the Boulevard to enter this street, when a hoarse challenge of a sentry, saying I know not what, attracted my attention. I drew up short to learn, and then suddenly came a rush of the people from behind, which terrified my horse, and set him off at speed; the uproar increasing, the affrighted animal dashed madly onward, the crowd flying on every side, when suddenly a bullet whizzed past my head, cutting my hat in two; a second, at the same instant, struck my horse, and killed him on the spot, cab and all rolling over as he fell. How I arose, gained my legs, and was swept away by the dense torrent of the populace, are events of which I am very far from clear. I only know that although the occurrence happened within half an hour ago, it seems to me an affair of days since.”

      “You were, doubtless, within some line of outposts when first challenged,” said the Pole, “and the speed at which you drove was believed to be an arranged plan of attack, for you say the mob followed you.”

      “Very possibly your explanation is the correct one,” said Massingbred, coolly; “but I looked for more steadiness and composure from the troops, while I certainly did not anticipate so much true courtesy and kindness as I met with from the people.”

      “Parbleu! here’s Massingbred becoming Democrat,” said one. “The next thing we shall hear is his defence of a barricade.”

      “You’ll assuredly not hear that I attacked one in such company as inflicted all this upon me,” rejoined he, with an easy smile.

      “Here’s the man to captivate your ‘Belle Irlandaise,’ Martin,” cried one. “Already is he a hero and a martyr to Royal cruelty.”

      “Ah! you came too late to hear that,” said the Pole, in a whisper to Massingbred; “but it seems La Henderson became quite a Charlotte Corday this evening, and talked more violent Republicanism than has been heard in a salon since the days of old Égalité.”

      “All lights must be extinguished, gentlemen,” said the waiter, entering hastily. “The street is occupied by troops, and you must pass out by the Rue de Grenelle.”

      “Are the mobs not dispersing, then?” asked the Russian.

      “No, your Highness. They have beaten back the troops from the Quai Voltaire, and are already advancing on the Louvre.”

      “What absurdity!” exclaimed the Pole. “If the troops permit this, there is treason amongst them.”

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