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We decided to remain. Only we thought we ought to take precautionary
measures.
Every species of devotion burst forth from the ranks of the Left around
us. A noteworthy member of the Assembly--a man of rare mind and of rare
courage--Durand-Savoyat--who from the preceding evening until the last
day constituted himself our doorkeeper, and even more than this, our
usher and our attendant, himself had placed a bell on our table, and had
said to us, "When you want me, ring, and I will come in." Wherever we
went, there was he. He remained in the ante-chamber, calm, impassive,
silent, with his grave and noble countenance, his buttoned frock coat,
and his broad-brimmed hat, which gave him the appearance of an Anglican
clergyman. He himself opened the entrance door, scanned the faces of
those who came, and kept away the importunate and the useless. Besides,
he was always cheerful, and ready to say unceasingly, "Things are
looking well." We were lost, yet he smiled. Optimism in Despair.
We called him in. Landrin set forth to him his misgivings. We begged
Durand-Savoyat in future to allow no one to remain in the apartments,
not even the Representatives of the People, to take note of all news and
information, and to allow no one to penetrate to us but men who were
indispensable, in short, as far as possible, to send away every one in
order that the goings and comings might cease. Durand-Savoyat nodded his
head, and went back into the ante-chamber, saying, "It shall be done."
He confined himself of his own accord to these two formulas; for us,
"
Things are looking well," for himself, "It shall be done." "It shall be
done," a noble manner in which to speak of duty.
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