"But what is it you have in mind to do with me?" cried the thief, turning pale at the sight of three of the workingmen, who were getting their guns ready, while another, coming out of the grocery that he had just before stepped into, brought with him a poster made of brown paper on which some lettering had been freshly traced with a brush dipped in blacking.

A dismal presentiment a.s.sailed the thief. He straggled to disengage himself and cried out:

"If you charge me with theft--take me before the magistrate."

"Can not be done. The magistrate is just engaged marrying his daughter,"

explained father Bribri calmly. "He is now at the wedding."

"Besides, he has the toothache," added Flameche; "he is at the dentist's."

"Take the thief to the lamp-post," said a voice.

"I tell you that I demand to be taken to the magistrate!" repeated the wretch, struggling violently to free himself, and he began to shout:

"Help! Help!"

"If you can read, read this," said one of the workingmen, holding up the poster before the thief. "If you can not read, I shall read it for you:

"SHOT AS A THIEF."

"Shot?" stammered the fellow growing livid. "Shot? Mercy! Help!

a.s.sa.s.sins! Murder! Watchmen, murder!"

"An example must be set for the likes of you, in order that they may not dishonor the Revolution!" explained father Bribri.

"Now, down on your knees, you scoundrel!" ordered a blacksmith who still had his leathern ap.r.o.n on. "And all of you, my friends, get your guns ready! Down on your knees!" he repeated to the thief, throwing him down on the ground.

The wretch sank upon his knees in a state of such utter collapse and terror that, crouching upon the pavement, he could only extend his hands and mutter in an almost inaudible voice:

"Oh, mercy! Not death!"

"You fear death! Wait, I shall bandage your eyes," said the ragpicker.

And letting down his sack from his shoulders, father Bribri took a large piece of cloth out of it and threw it over the condemned man who, on his knees and gathered into a lump, was almost wholly covered therewith.

Soon as that was done, the ragpicker stepped quickly back.

Three shots were fired at once.

Popular justice was done.

A few minutes later, fastened under his arms to the lamp-post, the corpse of the bandit swung to the night breeze with the poster attached to his clothes:

"Shot as a thief."

CHAPTER X.

ON THE BARRICADE.

Shortly after the execution of the thief day began to dawn.

Presently the men who were stationed on the lookout at the corners of the streets in the neighborhood of the barricade, that now reached almost as high as the first story windows of the linendraper's house, were seen falling back; after firing their pieces, they cried out "To arms!"

Almost immediately after, the drums, silent until then, were heard to beat the charge, and two companies of the Munic.i.p.al Guards turned in from a side street and marched resolutely upon the barricade.

Instantaneously the interior of the improvised fortress was filled with defenders.

Monsieur Lebrenn, his son, George d.u.c.h.ene and their friends took their posts and held their guns in readiness.

Father Bribri, who was a great lover of tobacco, foreseeing that he might soon not have leisure to take his pinch of snuff, inhaled a last load out of his pouch, seized his musket and knelt down in front of a species of loophole that was contrived between several cobblestones, while Flameche, pistol in hand, climbed up the ledges like a cat, in order to reach the summit of the barricade.

"Will you come down, you imp, and not make a target of your nose!" cried out the ragpicker, pulling Flameche by the leg. "You will be shot to dust."

"No fear, father Bribri!" replied Flameche, tugging away, and finally succeeding in slipping from the old man's grip. "This is gratis--I wish to treat myself to a first salvo, face to face--and have a good look at things."

And raising half his body above the barricade, Flameche stuck out his tongue to the Munic.i.p.al Guard, which was approaching at the double quick.

Addressing the combatants who surrounded him, Monsieur Lebrenn said:

"Those soldiers are, after all, our brothers. Let us make one last attempt to avoid the effusion of blood."

"You are right--try again, Monsieur Lebrenn," came from the bare-armed blacksmith as he flipped the stock of his gun with his nail; "but it will be love's labor lost--as you will see."

The merchant climbed to the top of the heap of cobblestones. Standing there, with one hand resting upon his gun, and waving a handkerchief with the other, he signalled to the approaching soldiers that he wished to speak to them.

The drums of the detachment ceased beating, rolled the order for silence, and all listened.

At one of the windows on the first floor of the merchant's house his wife and daughter stood partly concealed behind the blinds, which they had slightly opened. They stood side by side, holding their breath, pale, but calm and resolute. They did not remove their eyes from Lebrenn as he was addressing the soldiers with his son--who had closely followed his father up the barricade in order, if necessary, to cover him with his own body--standing beside him, gun in hand. George d.u.c.h.ene was about to join the two when he suddenly felt himself violently plucked back by his blouse.

He turned and saw Pradeline. She had been running fast, as the redness of her cheeks and short breath denoted.

The defenders of the barricade had seen the young girl approach; they were surprised to see her among them. As she sought to push her way through the crowd in order to reach George, they said to her:

"Don't stay here, young woman; it is too dangerous a place."

"You here!" cried George stupefied at the sight of Pradeline.

"George, listen to me!" the girl said to him imploringly. "I went twice to your house yesterday, and failed to find you at home. I wrote to you that I would call again this morning. To keep my appointment I had to cross several barricades, and--"

"Stand back!" cried George, alarmed for her safety. "You will be shot--this is no place for you."

"George, I have come to render you a service--I--"

Pradeline could not finish her sentence. Lebrenn, who had in vain been parleying with the captain of the Munic.i.p.al Guards, turned around and cried out:

"They insist upon war! Very well, war it shall be! Wait for them to open fire--then return it."