They took counsel
together: Dr. Pinel and the infamous jailers, who, under the name of
keepers, held them in horrible captivity, were pounced upon and overcome
in a twinkling. The strait-waistcoats were taken off from the wretched
captives languishing in the dungeons; the guardians were invested in
these shameful garments, and with triumphant laughter plunged under the
Douches. The gates of the prison were flung open, and they marched forth
in the blackness of the storm!
*****
On the third day, the cannonading was observed to decrease; only a gun
went off fitfully now and then.
*****
On the fourth day, the Parisians said to one another, "Tiens! ils sont
fatigues, les cannoniers des forts!"--and why? Because there was no more
powder?--Ay, truly, there WAS no more powder.
There was no more powder, no more guns, no more gunners, no more forts,
no more nothing. THE FORTS HAD BLOWN EACH OTHER UP. The battle-roar
ceased. The battle-clouds rolled off. The silver moon, the twinkling
stars, looked blandly down from the serene azure,--and all was
peace--stillness--the stillness of death. Holy, holy silence!
Yes: the battle of Paris was over. And where were the combatants? All
gone--not one left!--And where was Louis Philippe? The venerable Prince
was a captive in the Tuileries; the Irish Brigade was encamped around
it: they had reached the palace a little too late; it was already
occupied by the partisans of his Majesty Louis XVII.
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