He had scarcely entered the Hotel de la
Mule-Blanche, whither a large number of the wounded had been taken, when
a band of insurgents, chased by the soldiers like a herd of cattle, once
more rushed into the esplanade. The man with the sabre had fled; it was
the last contingents from the country who were being exterminated. There
was a terrible massacre. In vain did Colonel Masson and the prefect,
Monsieur de Bleriot, overcome by pity, order a retreat. The infuriated
soldiers continued firing upon the mass, and pinning isolated fugitives
to the walls with their bayonets. When they had no more enemies before
them, they riddled the facade of the Mule-Blanche with bullets. The
shutters flew into splinters; one window which had been left half-open
was torn out, and there was a loud rattle of broken glass. Pitiful
voices were crying out from within; "The prisoners! The prisoners!" But
the troops did not hear; they continued firing. All at once Commander
Sicardot, growing exasperated, appeared at the door, waved his arms, and
endeavoured to speak. Monsieur Peirotte, the receiver of taxes, with his
slim figure and scared face, stood by his side. However, another volley
was fired, and Monsieur Peirotte fell face foremost, with a heavy thud,
to the ground.
Silvere and Miette were still looking at each other. Silvere had
remained by the corpse, through all the fusillade and the howls of
agony, without even turning his head. He was only conscious of the
presence of some men around him, and, from a feeling of modesty, he drew
the red banner over Miette's breast.
Pages:
325
326
327
328
329
330
331
332
333
334
335
336
337
338
339
340
341
342
343
344
345
346
347
348
349