Ordinarily, when an insurrection commences, when the shop-keeper hears the drum, the call to arms, the general alarm, he contents himself with the remark:--
"There appears to be a squabble in the Rue Saint-Martin."
Or:--
"In the Faubourg Saint-Antoine."
Often he adds carelessly:--
"Or somewhere in that direction."
Later on, when the heart-rending and mournful hubbub of musketry and firing by platoons becomes audible, the shopkeeper says:--
"It''s getting hot!
Hullo, it''s getting hot!"
A moment later, the riot approaches and gains in force, he shuts up his shop precipitately, hastily dons his uniform, that is to say, he places his merchandise in safety and risks his own person.
Men fire in a square, in a passage, in a blind alley; they take and re-take the barricade; blood flows, the grape-shot riddles the fronts of the houses, the balls kill people in their beds, corpses encumber the streets.
A few streets away, the shock of billiard-balls can be heard in the cafes.
The theatres open their doors and present vaudevilles; the curious laugh and chat a couple of paces distant from these streets filled with war.░思░兔░網░
Hackney-carriages go their way; passers-by are going to a dinner somewhere in town.