"Mercédès is rather exacting," said Dantès, with a laugh; "but if your fair lady will suffer your absence, mine must do the same, I fear."
"Well, then, let us first to the Hôtel de Ville, that grand centre of Paris in all that is revolutionary."
As the two friends passed along, conversing on the events of the day and the anticipations of the morrow, they were met, from time to time, by knots of men at the corners, eagerly recounting the incidents of the hour; the roll of drums was heard in the distance, and occasionally there came the heavy and measured tread of infantry, the clatter of cavalry and the lumbering of artillery, as they passed on their way. All the shops and cafés were closed. Many of the lamps were demolished, and others were not lighted, the gas being shut off. A fearful gloom brooded over the city. The winter wind swept sharply and cuttingly along the deserted streets, and rain, which froze as it fell, at intervals dashed down.
The Hôtel de Ville was encompassed by troops as the friends approached it.
"Is that a cannon?" asked Lamartine, pointing to a dark object that protruded from an embrasure of the edifice.
"It is!" replied Dantès.
"Then the revolution has, indeed, begun! Artillery in the streets of Paris!"
"Behind each column of the portico of the Chamber of Deputies this day frowned a concealed cannon!" was the significant response.
The friends turned off from the Hôtel de Ville, and, crossing the right branch of the Seine, were under the deep shadows of Nôtre Dame. But all was tranquil and still. Only the howlings of the wintry blast were heard through the towers and architectural ornaments of the old pile. Up the Rue St. Jacques, into the Quartier Latin, they then proceeded, but the students and the grisettes seemed to be fast asleep. Turning back, they passed the Fish Market, and here a large body of cavalry had bivouacked. Patrols marched to and fro; officers in huge dark cloaks smoked, laughed and chatted, regardless of the morrow. The friends went on. All was dark in the faubourg which succeeded. Not a light gleamed, save, in some lofty casement, the fainting candle of the worn-out needlewoman or of the overtasked student.
"Ah!" exclaimed Lamartine, as they passed one of these flickering lights, "who knows what plotting head and ready hand may be beside that candle? Who knows of the weapon burnished, the cartridge filled and the sabre sharpened by that light for the morrow?"
"The morrow!" exclaimed M. Dantès; "that morrow decides the fate of France!"