The barricade fired.

The smoke filled the street; when it cleared away, there could be seen a dozen men on the ground, and the soldiers falling back in disorder by the side of the houses.  The leader of the barricade shouted, “They are falling back.  Cease firing!  Let us not waste a ball.”

The street remained for some time deserted.  The cannon recommenced fining.  A shot came in every two minutes, but always badly aimed.  A man with a fowling-piece came up to the leader of the barricade, and said to him, “Let us dismount that cannon.  Let us kill the gunners.”

“Why!” said the chief, smiling, “they are doing us no harm, let us do none to them.”

Nevertheless the sound of the bugle could be distinctly heard on the other side of the block of houses which concealed the troops echelloned on the Square of Saint Martin, and it was manifest that a second attack was being prepared.

This attack would naturally be furious, desperate, and stubborn.

It was also evident that, if this barricade were carried, the entire street would be scoured.  The other barricades were still weaker than the first, and more feebly defended.  The “middle class” had given their guns, and had re-entered their houses.  They lent their street, that was all.

It was therefore necessary to hold the advanced barricade as long as possible.  But what was to be done, and how was the resistance to be maintained?  They had scarcely two shots per man left.

An unexpected source of supply arrived.

A young man, I can name him, for he is dead—­Pierre Tissie,[19] who was a workman, and who also was a poet, had worked during a portion of the morning at the barricades, and at the moment when the firing began he went away, stating as his reason that they would not give him a gun.  In the barricade they had said, “There is one who is afraid.”

Pierre Tissie was not afraid, as we shall see later on.

He left the barricade.

Pierre Tissie had only his knife with him, a Catalan knife; he opened it at all hazards, he held it in his hand, and went on straight before him.

As he came out of the Rue Saint Sauveur, he saw at the corner of a little lonely street, in which all the windows were closed, a soldier of the line standing sentry, posted there doubtlessly by the main guard at a little distance.

This soldier was at the halt with his gun to his shoulder ready to fire.

He heard the step of Pierre Tissie, and cried out,—­

“Who goes there?”

“Death!” answered Pierre Tissie.

The soldier fired, and missed Pierre Tissie, who sprang on him, and struck him down with a blow of his knife.

The soldier fell, and blood spurted out of his mouth.

“I did not know I should speak so truly,” muttered Pierre Tissie.

And he added, “Now for the ambulance!”

He took the soldier on his back, picked up the gun which had fallen to the ground, and came back to the barricade.  “I bring you a wounded man,” said he.