“He is forsworn.

  “He is an outlaw—­”

They cried out to me on every side,—­

“That is right!  Outlaw him.”

“Go on.”

I resumed the dictation.  Baudin wrote,—­

  “The Republican Representatives refer the People and the Army to Article
  68—­”

They interrupted me:  “Quote it in full.”

“No,” said I, “it would be too long.  Something is needed which can be placarded on a card, stuck with a wafer, and which can be read in a minute.  I will quote Article 110.  It is short and contains the appeal to arms.”

I resumed,—­

“The Republican Representatives refer the People and the Army to Article 68 and to Article 110, which runs thus—­’The Constituent Assembly confides the existing Constitution and the Laws which it consecrates to the keeping and the patriotism of all Frenchmen.’

  “The People henceforward and for ever in possession of universal
  suffrages and who need no Prince for its restitution, will know how to
  chastise the rebel.

  “Let the People do its duty.  The Republican Representatives are marching
  at its head.

  “Vive la Republique!  To Arms!”

They applauded.

“Let us all sign,” said Pelletier.

“Let us try to find a printing-office without delay,” said Schoelcher, “and let the proclamation be posted up immediately.”

“Before nightfall—­the days are short,” added Joigneaux.

“Immediately, immediately, several copies!” called out the Representatives.

Baudin, silent and rapid, had already made a second copy of the proclamation.

A young man, editor of the provincial Republican journal, came out of the crowd, and declared that, if they would give him a copy at once, before two hours should elapse the Proclamation should be posted at all the street corners in Paris.

I asked him,—­

“What is your name?”

He answered me,—­

“Milliere.”

Milliere.  It is in this manner that this name made its first appearance in the gloomy days of our History.  I can still see that pale young man, that eye at the same time piercing and half closed, that gentle and forbidding profile.  Assassination and the Pantheon awaited him.  He was too obscure to enter into the Temple, he was sufficiently deserving to die on its threshold.  Baudin showed him the copy which he had just made.

Milliere went up to him.

“You do not know me,” said he; “my name is Milliere; but I know you, you are Baudin.”

Baudin held out his hand to him.

I was present at the handshaking between these two spectres.

Xavier Durrieu, who was editor of the Revolution made the same offer as
Milliere.

A dozen Representatives took their pens and sat down, some around a table, others with a sheet of paper on their knees, and called out to me,—­