Diplomacy

In the innermost angle between the ramparts and the river, shut off from
the rest of Paris by the decaying courts and enceintes of these forsaken
palaces, stood the Arsenal. Destroyed in great part by the explosion of
a powder-mill a few years earlier, it was in the main new; and by reason
of its river frontage, which terminated at the ruined tower of Billy, and
its proximity to the Bastille, it was esteemed one of the keys of Paris.
It was the appanage of the Master of the Ordnance, and within its walls
M. de Biron, a Huguenot in politics, if not in creed, who held the office
at this time, had secured himself on the first alarm. During the day he
had admitted a number of refugees, whose courage or good luck had led
them to his gate; and as night fell--on such a carnage as the hapless
city had not beheld since the great slaughter of the Armagnacs, one
hundred and fifty-four years earlier--the glow of his matches through the
dusk, and the sullen tramp of his watchmen as they paced the walls,
indicated that there was still one place in Paris where the King's will
did not run.

In comparison of the disorder which prevailed in the city, a deadly quiet
reigned here; a stillness so chill that a timid man must have stood and
hesitated to approach. But a stranger who about nightfall rode down the
street towards the entrance, a single footman running at his stirrup,
only nodded a stern approval of the preparations. As he drew nearer he
cast an attentive eye this way and that; nor stayed until a hoarse
challenge brought him up when he had come within six horses' lengths of
the Arsenal gate. He reined up then, and raising his voice, asked in
clear tones for M. de Biron.