The Parisians — Complete by Baron Edward Bulwer Lytton Lytton (best novels ever txt) 📕

The meetings of that Council had been so long suspended that Rameau had almost forgotten its existence. He gave orders to admit the conspirators. The two men entered, the Pole, tall, stalwart, and with martial stride—the Italian, small, emaciated, with skulking, noiseless, cat-like step, both looking wondrous threadbare, and in that state called “shabby genteel,” which belongs to the man who cannot work for his livelihood, and assumes a superiority over the man who can. Their outward appearance was in notable discord with that of the poet-politician—he all new in the last fashions of Parisian elegance, and redolent of Parisian prosperity and extrait de Mousseline!

“Confrere,” said the Pole, seating himself on the edge of the table, while the Italian leaned against the mantelpiece, and glanced round the room with furtive eye, as if to detect its innermost secrets, or decide where safest to drop a Lucifer-match for its conflagration,—“confrere,” said the Pole, “your country needs you—”

“Rather the cause of all countries,” interposed the Italian softly,—“Humanity.”

“Please to explain yourselves; but stay, wait a moment,” said Rameau; and rising, he went to the door, opened it, looked forth, ascertained that the coast was clear, then reclosed the door as cautiously as a prudent man closes his pocket whenever shabby-genteel visitors appeal to him in the cause of his country, still more if they appeal in that of Humanity.

“Confrere,” said the Pole, “this day a movement is to be made—a demonstration on behalf of your country—”

“Of Humanity,” again softly interposed the Italian. “Attend and share it,” said the Pole.

“Pardon me,” said Rameau, “I do not know what you mean. I am now the editor of a journal in which the proprietor does not countenance violence; and if you come to me as a member of the Council, you must be aware that I should obey no orders but that of its president, whom I—I have not seen for nearly a year; indeed I know not if the Council still exists.”

“The Council exists, and with it the obligation it imposes,” replied Thaddeus.

“Pampered with luxury,” here the Pole raised his voice, “do you dare to reject the voice of Poverty and Freedom?”

“Hush, dear but too vehement confrere,” murmured the bland Italian; “permit me to dispel the reasonable doubts of our confrere,” and he took out of his breast-pocket a paper which he presented to Rameau; on it were written these words:

“This evening May 24th. Demonstration.—Faubourg du Temple.—Watch events, under orders of A. M. Bid the youngest member take that first opportunity to test nerves and discretion. He is not to act, but to observe.”

No name was appended to this instruction, but a cipher intelligible to all members of the Council as significant of its president, Jean Lebeau.

“If I err not,” said the Italian, “Citizen Rameau is our youngest confrere.”

Rameau paused. The penalties for disobedience to an order of the President of the Council were too formidable to be disregarded. There could be no doubt that,—though his name was not mentioned, he, Rameau, was accurately designated as the youngest member of the Council. Still, however he might have owed his present position to the recommendation of Lebeau, there was nothing in the conversation of M. de Mauleon which would warrant participation in a popular emeute by the editor of a journal belonging to that mocker of the mob. Ah! but—and here again he glanced over the paper—he was asked “not to act; but to observe.” To observe was the duty of a journalist. He might go to the demonstration as De Mauleon confessed he had gone to the Communist Club, a philosophical spectator.

“You do not disobey this order?” said the Pole, crossing his arms.

“I shall certainly go into the Faubourg du Temple this evening,” answered Rameau, drily, “I have business that way.”

“Bon!” said the Pole; “I did not think you would fail us, though you do edit a journal which says not a word on the duties that bind the French people to the resuscitation of Poland.”

“And is not pronounced in decided accents upon the cause of the human race,” put in the Italian, whispering.

“I do not write the political articles in Le Seas Commun,” answered Rameau; “and I suppose that our president is satisfied with them since he recommended me to the preference of the person who does. Have you more to say? Pardon me, my time is precious, for it does not belong to me.”

“Eno’!” said the Italian, “we will detain you no longer.” Here, with a bow and a smile, he glided towards the door.

“Confrere,” muttered the Pole, lingering, “you must have become very rich!—do not forget the wrongs of Poland—I am their Representative—I—speaking in that character, not as myself individually—I have not breakfasted!”

Rameau, too thoroughly Parisian not to be as lavish of his own money as he was envious of another’s, slipped some pieces of gold in the Pole’s hand. The Pole’s bosom heaved with manly emotion: “These pieces bear the effigies of the tyrant—I accept them as redeemed from disgrace by their uses to Freedom.”

“Share them with Signor Raselli in the name of the same cause,” whispered Rameau, with a smile he might have plagiarised from De Mauleon.

The Italian, whose ear was inured to whispers, heard and turned round as he stood at the threshold.

“No, confrere of France—no, confrere of Poland—I am Italian. All ways to take the life of an enemy are honourable—no way is honourable which begs money from a friend.”

An hour or so later, Rameau was driven in his comfortable coupe to the Faubourg du Temple.

Suddenly, at the angle of a street, his coachman was stopped—a rough-looking man appeared at the door—__"Descends, mon petit bourgeois__.” Behind the rough-looking man were menacing faces.

Rameau was not physically a coward—very few Frenchmen are, still fewer Parisians; and still fewer no matter what their birthplace, the men whom we call vain—the men who over-much covet distinction, and over-much dread reproach.

“Why should I descend at your summons?” said Rameau, haughtily. “Bah! Coachman, drive on!”

The rough-looking man opened the door, and silently extended a hand to Rameau, saying gently: “Take my advice, mon bourgeois. Get out—we want your carriage. It is a day of barricades—every little helps, even your coupe!”

While this man spoke others gesticulated; some shrieked out, “He is an employer! he thinks he can drive over the employed!”

Some leader of the crowd—a Parisian crowd always has a classical leader, who has never read the classics—thundered forth, “Tarquin’s car! Down with Tarquin!” Therewith came a yell, “A la lanterne—Tarquin!”

We Anglo-Saxons, of the old country or the new, are not familiarised to the dread roar of a populace delighted to have a Roman authority for tearing us to pieces; still Americans know what is Lynch law. Rameau was