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Martin. Every eye was turned in that direction; a profound upheaving
agitated the crowd; they rushed forward, they pressed against the
railings of the high pavements which border the cutting between the
theatres of the Porte St. Martin and the Ambigu. A moving mass was seen,
and an approaching light. Voices were singing. This formidable chorus
was recognized,
"
Aux armes, Citoyens; formez vos bataillons!"
Lighted torches were coming, it was the "Marseillaise," that other torch
of Revolution and of warfare which was blazing.
The crowd made way for the mob which carried the torches, and which were
singing. The mob reached the St. Martin cutting, and entered it. It was
then seen what this mournful procession meant. The mob was composed of
two distinct groups. The first carried on its shoulders a plank, on which
could be seen stretched an old man with a white beard, stark, the mouth
open, the eyes fixed, and with a hole in his forehead. The swinging
movement of the bearers shook the corpse, and the dead head rose and fell
in a threatening and pathetic manner. One of the men who carried him,
pale, and wounded in the breast, placed his hand to his wound, leant
against the feet of the old man, and at times himself appeared ready to
fall. The other group bore a second litter, on which a young man was
stretched, his countenance pale and his eyes closed, his shirt stained,
open over his breast, displaying his wounds. While bearing the two
litters the groups sang. They sang the "Marseillaise," and at each chorus
they stopped and raised their torches, crying, "To arms!" Some young men
waved drawn swords. The torches shed a lurid light on the pallid
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