It must not be thought for a moment that authority as represented by the Gendarmerie Nationale, regular or volunteer, in any way approved, let alone aided and abetted, the insurrectionary movements that were such a feature of the first two years of the Revolution. Authority did not even wink at them, did its best, in fact, to put a stop to these marches and raids on neighbouring châteaux which only ended in a number of broken heads, in loot and unnecessary violence, and a severe remonstrance from the government who had its eye on all property owned by ci-devants and strongly disapproved of its wanton destruction at the hands of an irresponsible mob.

Thus it was that as soon as Simon Pradel became aware of the imminence of the mischief contemplated against the aristos up at La Rodière, and thinking only of Cécile and her safety, he went straight to the Hotel de Ville and drew the attention of the Chief Commissary of the Gendarmerie to what was in the wind.

"Citizen Conty," he explained, "has inflamed everyone's temper to such an extent that there is hardly a man or woman in Choisy to-day who will not march up to La Rodière, and, even if they do not commit murder, will certainly destroy a great deal of property which rightly belongs to the nation."

He was clever enough to know that it was this argument that would prevail. The Chief Commissary looked grave. He was mindful of his own position, not to say his own head, and therefore took the one drastic course which was most likely to minimise the mischief. He gave it out through a proclamation blazoned by the town crier, that by order of the government there would be no Day of Rest this Sunday, and that the work in the factories would be carried on as usual. This meant that four-fifths of the male population of Choisy and one-third of its womenfolk would be kept at work until seven o'clock in the evening and that the plans for the afternoon's holiday would have to be considerably modified or abandoned altogether.

There was a great deal of dissatisfaction and much murmuring over this, but no man was bold enough to suggest revolt against a government degree. Anything approaching disobedience was very dangerous these days. The armaments factory of Choisy was one of the most important of its kind in Northern France. Every one knew, of course, that war with England was imminent, and to hamper the government at this juncture by shortage of arms was to court disaster, if not death.

In the Restaurant Tison, which was to be the starting point for the march on La Rodière, turbulence had given place to gloom. Even the troupe of musicians who were working with a will to try and revive drooping spirits failed to bring about that state of excitement so essential to the success of the proposed plan. Citizen Conty, too, had received his orders. "Let the people simmer down," the Chief Commissary had commanded, "the government does not want a riot in Choisy just now." Conty didn't care one way or the other. He was paid to carry out government orders, and knew how to steer clear of trouble if these happened to be contradictory. Louis Maurin the lawyer had assured him that in the end it would pay him better to give the aristos at La Rodière a little more rope, and, when the time was ripe, to denounce them as traitors, and if the accusation held and they were actually condemned he, Conty, would then be paid for his services at the usual rate: twenty, thirty livres, even fifty. Of course, there was Citizen Chauvelin to reckon with, an influential man and member of the new Committee of Public Safety who had unlimited powers, and Citizen Chauvelin had distinctly said that he desired a row at La Rodière not later than this day; he had even murmured under his breath: "We shall have some fun over that raid at La Rodière," and had added something about "English spies," which at the time-it was two days ago-had greatly intrigued Citizen Conty.

The latter fully expected Chauvelin to put in an appearance in the restaurant, and there to give him final orders as to who should be obeyed in this case, a member of the Committee of Public Safety, or a mere Chief Commissary of Gendarmerie. It was close on two o'clock already. The factory bell calling the workers back would ring in half an hour, and Conty was getting anxious.

As time went on the general depression of spirits became more and more accentuated. Even the popular tunes, "Il était une bergère," or "Sur le pont d'Avignon," failed to bring forth the usual lusty response. The people sat at table, finishing their meagre fare, whispering, planning and grumbling. It would have been such fun to march in a body to La Rodière as one had done four years ago, and there was always something to pick up in a place of that sort, something for the larder or the cellar, not to mention things that one could sell presently to the Jew pedlars from Paris. And this afternoon would have been a perfect opportunity for the expedition. It was cold, and snow had ceased to fall. If one only could have made a start at two o'clock, one would have had a couple of hours daylight for the affair. Now, as things were, with work at the factory kept up till seven o'clock, what could anyone do? It would be pitch dark at five, with no moon and possibly a heavy fall of snow; and what was more: if the whole thing was put off those aristos up at La Rodière would certainly be warned by then of what awaited them and would get themselves safely out of the way. That was the general drift of conversation round the trestle tables of the Restaurant Tison. Conty could hear them all talking. He glanced repeatedly up at the clock hoping to see the trim figure of Citizen Chauvelin appear in the doorway. Once the workers had gone back to the factory it would be too late to carry out the original plan, which had been approved of by Chauvelin, and Conty didn't relish the idea of having to shoulder the responsibility of what might or might not occur in that case. He would have preferred to receive final orders from a member of an influential committee, one who alone could issue orders over the head of the Chief Commissary.

It was then with a feeling of intense relief that precisely at twenty minutes past two he saw the sable-clad figure of Chauvelin working his way towards him through the crowd.

"Well? And what have you done?" Chauvelin queried curtly, and refused the chair which Conty had obsequiously offered him.

"You have heard the proclamation, Citizen?" Conty responded; "about work at the factory this afternoon?"

"I have. But I am asking you what you have done."

"Nothing, Citizen. I was waiting for you."

"You didn't carry out my orders?"

"I hadn't any, Citizen."

"Two days ago I gave you my commands to prepare the way for an armed raid on the château as soon as I was back in Choisy. Yesterday I sent you word that I would be back to-day. But I see no sign of a raid being orgainzed either by you or anyone else."

"The decree was only promulgated a couple of hours ago. All the able-bodied men and women will have to go back to work in a few minutes; there was nothing to be done."

"How do you mean? There was nothing to be done? What about all these people here? I can see at least a hundred that do not work in the factory, more than enough for what I want."

Conty gave a contemptuous shrug.

"The halt and the maimed," he retorted acidly; "the weaklings and the women. I thought every moment you would come, Citizen Chauvelin, and issue a counter decree giving the workers their usual Day of Rest. As you didn't come, I didn't know what to do."

"So you let them all get into the doldrums."

"What could I do, Citizen?" Conty reiterated sullenly. "I had no orders."

"You had no initiative, you mean? If you had you would have realized that if half the population of Choisy will in a moment or two go to work, the other half will still be here and ready for any mischief."

"Those bumpkins . . .!"

"Yes, louts and muckworms and cinderwenches. And let me tell you, Citizen Conty, that it is not for you to sneer at such excellent material, rather see that you utilize it as I directed you to do in the name of the government who know how to punish slackness as well as to reward energy."

Having said this, Chauvelin turned his back abruptly on the discomfited Conty and made for the door. Even as he did so an outside bell clanged out the summons for the workers to return to the factory. There was a general hubbub, chairs pushed aside and scraping against the stone floor, the tramp of feet all making for the door, voices shouting from one end of the room to the other. And right through the din, there came to Chauvelin's ears, at the very moment that he passed through the swing-doors, a sound that dominated ever other, just a prolonged merry, irritatingly inane laugh.

Muttering and grumbling, the workers filed out of the restaurant, and in straggling groups made their way across the Grand' Place. A few remained behind-a couple hundred or so: there was Hector the cobbler, who had lost a leg last year at Valmy, and Marius the wig-maker, who had only one hand where-with to ply his trade; and there was Jean, who suffered from epilepsy, and Anatole, who was half-witted, and Jacques, who was just a dwarf. There were men who were over fifty, and youths who were not yet fourteen, and, of course, there were the women. Conty looked about him, and in his mind agreed with what Citizen Chauvelin had said. Here was excellent material for a well-organized insurrection, and now that the responsibility was no longer his, he would know how to utilize it.

Hardly had the last able-bodied man gone out of the place than Citizen Conty had climbed on the top of the table, and begun his harangue by apostrophizing the musicians.

"What mean you, rascals," he cried lustily, "by scraping your fiddles to give us nothing but sentimental ballads fit only for weaklings to hear? Our fine men have gone to work for their country, and here you are trying to make us sing about shepherdesses and their cats. Mordieu! have you never heard of the air that every patriotic Frenchman should know, an air that puts fire into our blood, not water: 'Allons enfants de le patrie! Le jour de gloire est arrivé!'"

At first the people did not take much notice of Conty; the men had gone and there was nothing much to do but go back to one's own hovels and mope there till they returned. But when presently the musicians, in response to the speaker's challenge, took up the strains of the revolutionary song, they straightened out their backs, turned about the better to hear the impassioned oratory which now poured from Citizen Conty's lips.

"Citizens," he bellowed, while the musicians stopped playing so as not to drown his voice, "while our able-bodied men toil and moil to forge the arms wherewith the soldiers of France will smite the enemies of our beloved country, shall we who cannot join them in this noble work sit still and do nothing to rid France of those other enemies of hers who are far more insidious and far more dangerous to her safety than the English or the Dutch? You know to what enemies I refer! It is to those ci-devants, noble seigneurs, to those aristos who for years, nay, for centuries, battened on the misery and the toil of the people, who grew richer and fatter year by year, while you and your fathers and your grandfathers before you starved so that they might eat, bore misery and disease so that they might wallow in good food and sprawl in down beds."

Murmurs of approval greeted this somewhat confused metaphor, while the musicians at a sign from Conty once more struck up the martial strain:

"Contre nous de la tyrannie,

L'étendard sanglant est levé!"

Conty put up his hand. Once again the musicians paused and once again the orator raised his voice, certain now that he held the attention of his audience. But this time he did not bellow. He began quietly with hardly any emphasis, to explain to them just how in the past the rich had lived and the poor had suffered, how they had all worked hard in order to provide the aristos up in their château with all those luxuries of which they themselves had not even a conception. They, the women, had worked their fingers to the bone sewing and washing and scrubbing; the men had endured kicks from horses, bites from dogs, thrashings from their masters, had contracted sickness, lost a limb or an eye, all in the service of aristos who had never done anything to alleviate their woes.

At the first mention of a château, the crowd began to prick up its ears. They knew all about a château. There was La Rodière up on the hill whither they would all have marched this afternoon had not the aristos cajoled the Chief Commissary into ordering the men to go to work even on the Day of Rest.

"Aux armes, citoyens !

Chargez vos bataillons!"

The musicians seemed a little uncertain of the tune at this point, but what did it matter? The crowd was getting into the right mood, and a hundred lusty throats soon put them in the right way.

"Chargez vos bataillons!" they sang, and banged on the tables with their hands or any tools that were handy.

Conty was in his element. He held all these poor, half-starved people in a fever by the magic of his oratory, and he would not allow their fever to cool down again. From an abstract reference to any château to the actual mention of La Rodière did not take him long. Now he was speaking of Dr. Pradel, the respected citizen of Choisy, the friend of the poor, who dared to express his political opinions in the presence of those arrogant ci-devants, and what had happened? He had been insulted, outraged, thrashed like a dog!

"And you, Citizens," he once more bellowed, "though the government has not called upon you to fashion bayonets and sabres, are you going to sit still and allow your sworn enemies, the enemies of France, to ride rough-shod over you now that our glorious revolution has levelled all ranks and brought the most exalted heads down under the guillotine? You have no sabres or bayonets, it is true, but you have your scythes and your axes and you have your fists. Are you going to sit still, I say, and not show those traitors up there on the hill that there is only one sovereignty in the world that counts and which they must obey, the sovereignty of the people?"

The magic words had their usual effect. A perfect storm of applause greeted them, and all at once they began to sing: "Allons enfants de la patrie!" and the musicians blew their trumpets and banged their drums and soon there reigned in the restaurant the sort of mighty row beloved by agitators.