On the evening which witnessed these events Lady Dorothea's “reception”
had been more than usually brilliant. Numbers had come to show of
how little moment they deemed this “street disturbance,” as they were
pleased to call it; others, again, were curious to pick up in society
the opinions formed on what was passing, among whom were several high
in the favor of the Court and the confidence of the Government. All, as
they arrived, had some little anecdote or adventure to relate as to the
difficulties which beset them on the way,--the distances which they were
obliged to travel, the obstructions and passwords and explanations which
met them at every turn. These were all narrated in the easy, jocular
tone of passing trifles, the very inconvenience of which suggested its
share of amusement.
As the evening wore on, even these became less frequent; the streets
were already thinning, and, except in some remote, unimportant parts of
the capital, the troops were in possession of all the thoroughfares. Of
course, the great topic of conversation was the bold stroke of policy
then enacting,--a measure which all pronounced wise and just, and
eminently called for.
To have heard the sentiments then uttered, the disparaging opinions
expressed of the middle and humbler classes, the hopelessness of ever
seeing them sufficiently impressed with their own inferiority, the
adulation bestowed on the monarch and all around him, one might really
have fancied himself back again at the Tuileries in the time of Louis
the Fourteenth. All agreed in deeming the occasion an excellent one to
give the people a salutary lesson; and it was really pleasant to see
the warm interest taken by these high and distinguished persons in the
fortunes of their less happy countrymen.
To Lady Dorothea's ears no theme could be more grateful; and she moved
from group to group, delighted to mingle her congratulations with those
around, and exchange her hopes and aspirations and wishes with theirs.
Kate Henderson, upon whom habitually devolved the chief part in these
“receptions,” was excited and flurried in manner; a more than ordinary
effort to please being dashed, as it were, by some secret anxiety, and
the expectation of some coming event. Had there been any one to watch
her movements, he might have seen the eagerness with which she listened
to each new account of the state of the capital, and how impatiently
she drank in the last tidings from the streets; nor less marked was the
expression of proud scorn upon her features, as she heard the insulting
estimate of the populace, and the vainglorious confidence in the
soldiery. But more than all these was her haughty indignation as she
listened to the confused, mistaken opinions uttered on every side as to
the policy of the Government and the benevolent intentions of the king.
Once, and only once, did she forget the prudent resolve she wished to
impose upon herself; but temper and caution and reserve gave way, as
she heard a very distinguished person amusing a circle around him by an
unfair and unfaithful portraiture of the great leaders of '92. It was
then, when stung by the odious epithet of _canaille_ applied to those
for whose characters she entertained a deep devotion, that she forgot
everything, and in a burst of indignant eloquence overwhelmed and
refuted the speaker. This was the moment, too, in which she replied to
Villemart by a word of terrible ferocity. Had the red cap of Liberty
itself been suddenly hoisted in that brilliant assemblage, the dread and
terror which arose could scarcely have been greater.
“Where are we?” cried the Marquise de Longueville. “I thought we were in
the Place de Vendôme, and I find myself in the Faubourg St. Antoine!”
“Does my Lady know that her friend and confidante is a Girondist of the
first water?” said an ex-Minister.
“Who could have suspected the spirit of Marat under the mask of Ninon de
l'Enclos?” muttered Villemart.
“What is this I hear, dearest Kate?” cried the Duchesse de Mirecourt,
as she drew the young girl's arm within her own. “They tell me you have
terrified every one,--that Madame de Soissons has gone home ill, and the
old Chevalier de Gardonnes has sent for his confessor.”
“I have been very rash, very foolish,” said Kate, as a deadly pallor
came over her; “but I could bear it no longer. Besides, what does it
matter? They 'll hear worse, and bear it too, before three days are
over.”
“Then it is all true?” cried the Duchess, eagerly. “You told Villemart
that when the Government spoke with grape-shot, the people replied with
the guillotine!”
“Not exactly,” said Kate, with a faint smile. “But are they all going?”
“Of course they are. You have frightened them almost to death; and I
know you only meant it for jest,--one of those little half-cruel jests
you were ever fond of. Come with me and say so,--come, dearest.” And she
drew her, as she spoke, into the crowded salon, now already a scene of
excited leave-taking. The brilliant company, however, fell back as they
came forward, and an expression of mingled dismay and compassion was
turned towards the young Duchess, who with a kind of heroic courage drew
Kate's arm closer within her own.
“I am come to make an explanation, messieurs et mesdames,” said the
Duchess, with her most captivating smile; “pray vouchsafe me a hearing.
My friend--my dearest, best friend here--has, in a moment of sportive
pleasantry, suffered herself to jest--”
“It was a jest, then?” broke in Madame de Longueville, haughtily.
“Just as that is,” replied Kate, lifting her hand and pointing in the
direction whence came a terrible crash of artillery, followed by the
rattle of musketry.
“Let us go,--let us away!” was now heard in affrighted accents on every
side; and the splendid assemblage, with less of ceremony than might be
expected, began to depart. Lady Dorothea alone was ignorant of what had
occurred, and witnessed this sudden leave-taking with amazement. “You
are surely not afraid?” said she to one; “there is nothing serious in
all this.”
“She has told us the reverse, my Lady,” was the reply. “We should be
compromised to remain longer in her company.”
“Adieu, my Lady. I wish we left you in safer companionship.”
“Farewell, Madame, and pray be warned of your danger,” whispered
another.
“Your Ladyship may be called upon to acquit debts contracted by another,
if Mademoiselle continues a member of your family,” said Villemart, as
he bowed his departure.
“Believe me, Madame, none of us include _you_ in the terrible sentiments
we have listened to.”
These, and a vast number of similar speeches attended the leave-taking
of nearly each of her guests, till Lady Dorothea, confused, almost
stunned by reiterated shocks, sat silently accepting these mysterious
announcements, and almost imagining herself in all the bewilderment of a
dream.
Twice she made an effort to ask some explanation, but failed; and it was
only as the Duchesse de Mirecourt drew nigh to say farewell, that in a
faint, weak voice she said,--“Can you tell me what all are hinting at,
or am I only confusing myself with the terrible scenes without?”
“I 'd have prevented it had I been near. I only heard it when too late,
my Lady,” said the Duchess, sorrowfully.
“Prevented what?--heard what?” cried Lady Dorothea.
“Besides, she has often said as much amongst ourselves; we only laughed,
as indeed every one would do now, did not events present so formidable
an aspect.”
“Who is she you speak of? Tell me, I beseech you. What does this mean?”
“I am the culprit, my Lady,” said Kate, approaching with all the
quiet stateliness of her peculiar manner. “I have routed this gorgeous
assembly, shocked your most distinguished guests, and horrified all
whose sentiments breathe loyalty! I am sincerely sorry for my offence;
and it is a grave one.”
“_You--you_ have dared to do this?”
“Too true, madam,” rejoined Kate.
“How and to whom have you had the insolence--”
She stopped, overcome by passion; and Kate replied,--“To all who pleased
to listen, my Lady, I have said what doubtless is not often uttered in
such choice company, but what, if I mistake not greatly, their ears will
grow familiar with erelong.”
“Nay, nay,” said the Duchess, in a tone of apology, “the matter is not
so serious as all this. Every one now is terrified. This disturbance,
the soldiery, the vast crowds that beset the streets, have all produced
so much excitement that even a few words spoken at random are enough
to cause fear. It is one of Kate's fancies to terrorize thus over weak
minds. She has the cruel triumph of not knowing what fear is. In a word,
it is a mere trifling event, sure to be forgotten in the midst of such
scenes as we are passing through.”
This attempt at explanation, poured forth with rapid utterance, did not
produce on Lady Dorothea the conviction it was intended to impose, and
her Ladyship received the last adieus of the Duchess with a cold and
stately formality; and then, as the door closed after her, turned to
Kate Henderson, and said,--“I want _your_ explanation of all this. Let
me have it.”
“It is easily given, my Lady,” said Kate, calmly. And then, in a voice
that never trembled nor varied, she narrated briefly the scene which
had just occurred, not extenuating in the slightest her own share in the
transaction, or offering a single syllable of excuse.
“And you, being who and what you are, dared thus to outrage the best
blood of France!” exclaimed Lady Dorothea, trembling all over with
passion.
“Perhaps, my Lady, if I sought for an apology, it would be in the fact
of being who and what I am.”
“And do you imagine that after conduct such as this, after exposing me
to a partnership in the shame that attaches to yourself, that you are
any longer to enjoy the shelter of my roof?”
“It never occurred to me to think of that, madam,” said Kate, with an
ill-repressed scorn.
“Then it is for _me_ to remind you of it,” said her Ladyship, sternly.
“You shall, first of all, write me an humble apology for this vulgar
tirade, this outrage upon my company, and then you shall leave the
house. Sit down there, and write as I shall dictate to you.”
Kate seated herself with an air of implicit obedience at a
writing-table, and took up a pen.
“Write,” cried Lady Dorothea, sternly. “Begin, 'My Lady.' No. 'I
approach your Ladyship for the last time.' No, not that. 'If the sincere
sorrow in which I pen these lines.' No. Do it yourself. You best can
express the shame your heart should feel in such a moment. Let the words
be your own!”
Kate leaned over the paper and wrote rapidly for a few seconds. Having
finished, she read over the lines, and seemed to reflect on them.
“Show me that paper!” cried Lady Dorothea, impatiently. But, without
obeying the command, Kate said,--“Your Ladyship will not be able to
leave Paris for at least forty hours. By that time the Monarchy will
have run its course in France. You will probably desire, however, to
escape from the scenes of turbulence sure to ensue. This will secure you
a free passage, whichever road you take.”
“What raving is all this?” said Lady Dorothea, snatching the paper
from her hand, and then reading aloud in French,-- “'The authorities
are required to aid and tender all assistance in their power to Lady
Dorothea Martin and all who accompany her, neither giving nor suffering
any opposition to be given to her or them in the prosecution of their
journey.'
(Signed) “Jules Lagrange,
“'Minister of Police _ad interim_'
“And this in your own hand, too!” exclaimed Lady Dorothea,
contemptuously.
“Yes, madam; but it will entitle it to the seal of the Prefecture, and
entitle _you_ to all that it professes.”
“So that I have the honor to shelter within my walls a chief of this
insurrection,--if it be worthy of such a name; one in the confidence of
this stupid _canaille_, who fancy that the fall of a Monarchy is like a
row in a _guinguette!_”
“Your Ladyship is no longer in a position to question me or arraign
my actions. Before two days are over, the pageant of a king will have
passed off the stage, and men of a different stamp take the direction
of affairs. One of these will be he whose name I have affixed to that
paper,--not without due warranty to do so. Your Ladyship may or may not
choose to avail yourself of it.”
“I spurn the imposition,” said Lady Dorothea, tearing it in fragments.
“So poor a cheat could not deceive _me_. As for yourself--”
“Oh, do not bestow a thought upon _me_, my Lady. I can suffice for my
own guidance. I only wait for morning to leave this house.”
“And it is to a city in such a state as this you would confide yourself.
Truly, mademoiselle, Republicanism has a right to be proud of you. You
are no half-convert to its principles.”
“Am I again to say, my Lady, that your control over me has ceased?”
“It has not. It shall not cease till I have restored you to the humble
roof from which I took you,” said Lady Dorothea, passionately. “Your
father is our creature; he has no other subsistence than what we
condescend to bestow on him. He shall know, when you re-enter his doors,
why and for what cause you are there. Till that time come, you are, as
you have been, in my service.”
“No, my Lady, the tie between us is snapped. Dependence is but a sad
part at the best; but so long as it is coupled with a certain show of
respect it is bearable. Destroy _that_, and it is mere slavery, abject
and degrading. I cannot go back to your Ladyship's service.” And she
gave to the last word an emphasis of intense scorn.
“You must and you shall,” said Lady Dorothea. “If _you_ are forgetful
of what it is your duty to remember, I am not. Here you shall remain;
without,” added she, in an accent of supreme contempt, “your counsel and
direction shall be sought after by the high and mighty individuals who
are so soon to administer the affairs of this nation.”
The loud roll of a drum, followed by the louder clank of sabres and
musketry, here startled the speakers; and Kate, hastening to the window,
opened it, and stepped out upon the balcony. Day was just dawning; a
gray half-light covered the sky, but the dark shadows of the tall
houses still stretched over the Place. Here, now, the troops were all in
motion; a sudden summons having roused them to form in rank. The hasty
character of the movement showed that some emergency was imminent,--a
fact confirmed by the frequent arrival and departure of orderlies at
full speed.
After a brief interval of preparation the infantry formed in column,
and, followed by the artillery and cavalry, moved out of the Place at
a quick step. The measured tramp of the foot-soldiers, the clattering
noise of the train and the dragoons could be heard long after they had
passed out of sight; and Kate stood listening eagerly as to what would
come next, when suddenly a man in plain clothes rode hastily from one of
the side-streets into the centre of the Place. He looked around him for
a moment or two, and then disappeared. Within a few seconds after, a
dull, indistinct sound seemed to rise from the ground, which swelled
gradually louder and louder, and at last grew into the regular footfall
of a great multitude moving in measured time; and now a vast crowd
poured into the Place, silent and wordless. On they came from the
various quarters that opened into the square,--men, for the most part
clad in blouses or in the coarse garb of laborers. They were armed
either with musket or sword, and in many instances wore the cross-belt
of the soldier. They proceeded at once to barricade the square at its
opening into the Rue de la Paix,--a work which they accomplished with
astonishing speed and regularity; for, while Kate still looked, a
formidable rampart was thrown up across the entire street, along which a
line of armed men was stationed, every one of whom, by his attitude and
gesture, betrayed the old discipline of a soldier's life. Orders were
given and obeyed, movements made, and dispositions effected, with
all the regularity and precision of regular troops; and by the ready
obedience of all, and the steady attitude observed, it was easy to see
that these men were trained to arms and to habits of discipline. Not
less evident was it that they who commanded them were not new to such
duties. But, more important than all such signs was the fact that here
and there through the mass might be seen the uniform of a soldier, or
the epaulette of an officer, showing that desertion to the ranks of the
people had already begun.
Kate was so occupied in attentive observation of the scene that she had
not noticed the arrival of another person in the apartment, and whose
voice now suddenly attracted her. It was Martin himself, hastily aroused
from his bed by his servant, who in great alarm told him that the
capital was in open revolt, the king's troops beaten back, and the
people victorious everywhere. “There 's not a moment to lose,” cried
he; “we must escape while we can. The road to Versailles is yet in
possession of the troops, and we can take that way.”
Lady Dorothea, partly overcome by the late scene, partly stunned by the
repeated shocks she experienced, made no reply whatever; and Martin,
judging from the expression of her features the anxiety she was
suffering, hastily added, “Let me see Kate Henderson,--where is she?”
Lady Dorothea merely pointed towards the balcony, but did not utter a
word.
“Oh, have I found you?” said Martin, stepping out upon the balcony. “You
see what is doing,--I might say what is done,” added he; “for I believe
the game is well-nigh decided. Nothing but an overwhelming force will
now crush this populace. We must get away, and at once. Will you give
the orders? Send for post-horses; tell them to pack up whatever they
can,--direct everything, in fact. My Lady is too ill,--too much overcome
to act, or think of anything. Our whole reliance is upon you.” While he
was yet uttering these broken, disjointed sentences, he had drawn Kate
by the arm within the room, and now stood beside Lady Dorothea's chair.
Her Ladyship raised her head and fixed her eyes upon Kate, who sustained
the gaze calmly and steadily, nor by the slightest movement displayed
one touch of any emotion. The glance, at first haughty and defiant,
seemed at length to grow weaker under the unmoved stare of the young
girl, and finally she bent down her head and sat as though overcome.
“Come, Dora,” said Martin, kindly, “rouse yourself; you are always equal
to an effort when necessity presses. Tell Kate here what you wish, and
she 'll do it.”
“I want no aid,--no assistance, sir. Miss Henderson is her own
mistress,--she may do what, or go where she pleases.”
Martin made a sign to Kate not to mind what he believed to be the mere
wandering of an over-excited brain; and then bending down over the
chair, said, “Dear Dora, we must be active and stirring; the people will
soon be masters of the capital,--for a while, at least,--and there is no
saying what excesses they will commit.”
“Do not offend Miss Henderson, sir,” interposed Lady Dorothea; “she has
equal confidence in their valor and their virtue.”
“What does this mean?--when did she fall into this state?” asked he,
eagerly. And although only spoken in a whisper, Lady Dorothea overheard
them, and said,--“Let _her_ tell you. She can give you the very fullest
explanation.”
“But, Dora, this is no time for trifling; we are here, in the midst of
an enraged populace and a maddened soldiery. There, listen!--that was
artillery; and now, hear!--the bells of the churches are sounding the
alarm.”
“They are ringing the knell of the Monarchy!” said Kate, solemnly.
A hoarse, wild shout--aery like that of enraged wild beasts--arose
from the Place beneath, and all rushed to the window to see what had
occurred. It was a charge of heavy cavalry endeavoring to force the
barricade; and now, vigorously repulsed by the defenders, men and horses
were rolling on the ground in terrible confusion, while on the barricade
itself a hand-to-hand conflict was raging.
“Sharp work, by George!” said a voice behind Kate's shoulder. She turned
and saw Captain Martin, who had just joined them unobserved.
“I thought you many a mile away,” said Kate, in a whisper.
“So I should have been,” replied he, in the same tone, “but I was n't
going to lose this. I knew it was to come off to-day, and I thought it
would have been a thousand pities to be absent.”
“And are your wishes, then, with these gallant fellows?” said she,
eagerly. “Do I hear you aright, that it was to aid them you remained?
There! see how they bear down on the soldiery; they will not be
restrained; they are crossing the barricade, and charging with the
bayonet. It is only for liberty that men can fight thus. Oh that I were
a man, to be amongst them!”
A stray shot from beneath here struck the architrave above their heads,
and sent down a mass of plaster over them.
“Come, Dora, this is needless peril,” said Martin, drawing her within
the room. “If you will not leave this, at least do not expose yourself
unnecessarily.”
“But it is exactly to get away--to escape while there is time--that I
came for,” said the Captain. “They tell me that the mob are getting the
best of it, and, worse again, that the troops are joining them; so,
to make sure, I 've sent off Fenton to the post for horses, and I 'm
expecting him every moment. But here he is. Well, have you got the
horses?”
“No, sir: the horses have all been taken by the people to mount
orderlies; the postmaster, too, has fled, and everything is in
confusion. But if we had horses the streets are impassable; from here to
the Boulevard there are no less than five barricades.”
“Then what is to be done?” cried Martin.
“They say, sir,” replied Fenton, “that by gaining the outer Boulevard on
foot, carriages and horses are easily found there, to reach Belleville,
St. Germain, or Versailles.”
“He is right,” said the Captain; “there is nothing else to be done. What
do _you_ think?” said he, addressing Kate, who stood intently watching
the movements in the Place beneath.
“Yes; do you agree with this plan?” asked Martin, approaching her.
“Look!” cried she, eagerly, and not heeding the question; “the troops
are rapidly joining the people,--they come in numbers now,--and yonder
is an officer in his uniform.”
“Shame on him!” exclaimed Lady Dorothea, indignantly.
“So say I too,” said Kate. “He who wears a livery should not assume the
port and bearing of a free man. This struggle is for liberty, and should
only be maintained by the free!”
“How are we to pass these barricades?” cried Martin, anxiously.
“I will be your guide, sir, if that be all,” said Kate. “You may trust
me. I promise no more than I can perform.”
“She speaks truly,” said Lady Dorothea. “Alas that we should see the day
when we cannot reject the aid!”
“There is a matter I want to speak to you about,” said Martin,
drawing his father aside, and speaking in a low, confidential tone.
“Massingbred--Jack Massingbred--is now here, in my room. I know all
about my mother's dislike to him, and _he_ knows it; indeed, he has as
much as owned to me that he deserved it all. But what is to be done? We
cannot leave him here.”
“How came he to be here?” asked Martin.
“He accompanied me from the Club, where, in an altercation of some sort,
he had just involved himself in a serious quarrel. He came here to be
ready to start this morning for Versailles, where the meeting was to
take place; but indeed he had no thought of accepting shelter under
our roof; and when he found where he was, it was with the greatest
difficulty I could persuade him to enter. None of us anticipated such a
serious turn of affairs as this; and now, of course, a meeting will be
scarcely possible. What are we to do with him?”
“Ask him frankly to join us if we obtain the horses.”
“But my mother?”
“I 'll speak to her,--but it were better you did it, Harry. These are
not times to weigh scruples and balance difficulties. I don't myself
think that Massingbred treated us fairly, but it is not now I 'd like to
remember it. There, go; tell her what you have told me, and all will be
well.”
The Captain drew nigh Lady Dorothea, and, leaning over her chair,
whispered to her for some minutes. At first, a slight gesture of
impatience burst from her, but afterwards she seemed to hear him calmly
and tranquilly.
“It would seem as though the humiliations of this night are never to
have an end,” said she, with a sigh. “But I'll bear my share of them.”
“Remember,” said the other, “that it was by no choice of _his_ he came
here. His foot was on the threshold before he suspected it.”
“Miss Henderson sent me, my Lady,” said a servant, entering hastily, “to
say that there is not a minute to be lost. They are expecting an attack
on the barricade in the Rue de la Paix, and we ought to pass through at
once.”
“By whose orders?” began she, haughtily; then, checking herself
suddenly, and in a voice weak and broken, added: “I am ready. Give me
your arm, Harry, and do not leave me. Where is Mr. Martin?” asked she.
“He is waiting for your Ladyship at the foot of the stairs with another
gentleman,” said the servant.
“That must be Massingbred, for I told them to call him,” said the
Captain.
When Lady Dorothea, supported by the arm of her son, had reached
the gate, she found Martin and Massingbred standing to receive them,
surrounded by a numerous escort of servants, each loaded with some
portion of the family baggage.
“A hasty summons, sir,” said she, addressing Massingbred, and thus
abruptly avoiding the awkwardness of a more ceremonious meeting. “A
few hours back none of us anticipated anything like this. Will it end
seriously, think you?”
“There is every prospect of such, madam,” said he, bowing respectfully
to her salutation. “Every moment brings fresh tidings of defection among
the troops, while the Marshal is paralyzed by contradictory orders.”
“Is it always to be the fate of monarchy to be badly served in times of
peril?” said she, bitterly.
“It is very difficult to awaken loyalty against one's convictions of
right, madam. I mean,” added he, as a gesture of impatience broke from
her, “that these acts of the king, having no support from his real
friends, are weak stimulants to evoke deeds of daring and courage.”
“They are unworthy supporters of a Crown who only defend what they
approve of. This is but Democracy at best, and smacks of the policy
which has little to lose and everything to gain by times of trouble.”
“And yet, madam, such cannot be the case here; at least, it is assuredly
not so in the instance of him who is now speaking with Miss Henderson.”
And he pointed to a man who, holding the bridle of his horse on his arm,
walked slowly at Kate's side in the street before the door.
“And who is he?” asked she, eagerly.
“The greatest banker in Paris, madam,--one of the richest capitalists of
Europe,--ready to resign all his fortune in the struggle against a rule
which he foresees intended to bring back the days of a worn-out, effete
monarchy, rather than a system which shall invigorate the nation, and
enrich it by the arts of commerce and trade.”
“But his name--who is he?” asked she, more impatiently.
“Charles Lagrange, madam.”
“I have heard the name before. I have seen it somewhere lately,” said
she, trying to remember where and how.
“You could scarcely have paid your respects at Neuilly, madam,
without seeing him. He was, besides, the favored guest at Madame de
Mirecourt's.”
“You would not imply, sir, that the Duchess condescended to any sympathy
with this party?”
“More than half the Court, madam, are against the Crown; I will not say,
however, that they are, on that account, for the people.”
“There! she is making a sign to us to follow her,” said Martin, pointing
towards Kate, who, still conversing with her companion, motioned to the
others to come up.
“It is from that quarter we receive our orders,” said Lady Dorothea,
sneeringly, as she prepared to follow.
“What has she to do with it?” exclaimed the Captain. “To look at her,
one would say she was deep in the whole business.”
A second gesture, more urgent than before, now summoned the party to
make haste.
Through the Place, crowded as it was by an armed and excited multitude,
way was rapidly made for the little party who now issued from the door
of the hotel. Kate Henderson walked in front, with Massingbred at her
side talking eagerly, and by his gestures seeming as though endeavoring
to extenuate or explain away something in his conduct; next came Lady
Dorothea, supported between her husband and her son, and while walking
slowly and with faltering steps, still carrying her head proudly erect,
and gazing on the stern faces around her with looks of haughty contempt.
After them were a numerous retinue of servants, with such effects as
they had got hurriedly together,--a terror-struck set, scarcely able to
crawl along from fear.
As they drew nigh the barricade, some men proceeded to remove a heavy
wagon which adjoined a house, and by the speed and activity of their
movements, urged on as they were by the orders of one in command, it
might be seen that the operation demanded promptitude.
“We are scarcely safe in this,” cried the officer. “See! they are making
signs to us from the windows,--the troops are coming. If you pass out
now, you will be between two fires.”
“There is yet time,” said Kate, eagerly. “Our presence in the street,
too, will delay them, and give you some minutes to prepare. And as for
ourselves, we shall gain one of the side-streets easily enough.”
“Tie your handkerchief to your cane, sir,” said the officer to
Massingbred.
“My flag is ready,” said Jack, gayly; “I only hope they may respect it.”
“Now--now!” cried Kate, with eagerness, and beckoning to Lady Dorothea
to hasten, “the passage is free, and not a second to be lost!”
“Are you not coming with us?” whispered Martin to her, as they passed
out.
“Yes; I'll follow. But,” added she, in a lower tone, “were the choice
given me, it is here I 'd take my stand.”
She looked full at Massingbred as she spoke, and, bending down his head,
he said, “Had it been your place, it were mine also!”
“Quick,--quick, my Lady,” said Kate. “They must close up the passage at
once. They are expecting an attack.” And so saying, she motioned rapidly
to Martin to move on.
“The woman is a fiend,” said Lady Dorothea; “see how her eyes sparkle,
and mark the wild exultation of her features.”
“Adieu, sir,--adieu!” said Kate, waving her hand to one who seemed the
chief of the party. “All my wishes are with you. Were I a man, my hand
should guarantee my heart.”
“Come--come back!” cried the officer. “You are too late. There comes the
head of the column.”
“No, never--never!” exclamed Lady Dorothea, haughtily; “protection from
such as these is worse than any death.”
“Give me the flag, then,” cried Kate, snatching it from Massingbred's
hand, and hastening on before the others. And now the heavy wagon had
fallen back to its place, and a serried file of muskets peeped over it.
“Where's Massingbred?” asked the Captain, eagerly.
“Yonder,--where he ought to be!” exclaimed Kate, proudly, pointing
to the barricade, upon which, now, Jack was standing conspicuously, a
musket on his arm.
The troops in front were not the head of a column, but the advanced
guard of a force evidently at some distance off, and instead of
advancing on the barricade, they drew up and halted in triple file
across the street. Their attitude of silent, stern defiance--for it was
such--evoked a wild burst of popular fury, and epithets of abuse and
insult were heaped upon them from windows and parapets.
“They are the famous Twenty-Second of the Line,” said the Captain, “who
forced the Pont-Neuf yesterday and drove the mob before them.”
“It is fortunate for us that we fall into such hands,” said Lady
Dorothea, waving her handkerchief as she advanced. But Kate had already
approached the line, and now halted at a command from the officer. While
she endeavored to explain how and why they were there, the cries and
menaces of the populace grew louder and wilder. The officer, a
very young subaltern, seemed confused and flurried; his eyes turned
constantly towards the street from which they had advanced, and he
seemed anxiously expecting the arrival of the regiment.
“I cannot give you a convoy, Mademoiselle,” he said; “I. scarcely know
if I have the right to let you pass. We may be attacked at any moment;
for aught I can tell, _you_ may be in the interests of the insurgents--”
“We are cut off, Lieutenant,” cried a sergeant, running up at the
moment. “They have thrown up a barrier behind us, and it is armed
already.”
“Lay down your arms, then,” said Kate, “and do not sacrifice your brave
fellows in a hopeless straggle.”
“Listen not to her, young man, but give heed to your honor and your
loyalty,” cried Lady Dorothea. “Is it against such an enemy as this
French soldiers fear to advance?”
“Forward!” cried the officer, waving his sword above his head. “Let
us carry the barricade!” And a wild yell of defiance from the windows
repeated the speech in derision.
“You are going to certain death!” cried Kate, throwing herself before
him. “Let _me_ make terms for you, and they shall not bring dishonor on
you.”
“Here comes the regiment!” called out the sergeant. “They have forced
the barricade.” And the quick tramp of a column, as they came at a run,
now shook the street.
“Remember your cause and your King, sir,” cried Lady Dorothea to the
officer.
“Bethink you of your country,--of France,--and of Liberty!” said Kate,
as she grasped his arm.
“Stand back!--back to the houses!” said he, waving his sword.
“Voltigeurs, to the front!”
The command was scarcely issued, when a hail of balls rattled through
the air. The defenders of the barricade had opened their fire, and with
a deadly precision, too, for several fell at the very first discharge.
“Back to the houses!” exclaimed Martin, dragging Lady Dorothea along,
who, in her eagerness, now forgot all personal danger, and only thought
of the contest before her.
“Get under cover of the troops,--to the rear!” cried the Captain, as he
endeavored to bear her away.
“Back--back--beneath the archway!” cried Kate, as, throwing her arms
around Lady Dorothea, she lifted her fairly from the ground, and carried
her within the deep recess of a _porte cochère_. Scarcely, however, had
she deposited her in safety, than she fell tottering backwards and sank
to the ground.
“Good Heavens! she is struck,” exclaimed Martin, bending over her.
“It is nothing,--a spent shot, and no more,” said Kate, as she showed
the bullet which had perforated her dress beneath the arm.
“A good soldier, by Jove!” said the Captain, gazing with real admiration
on the beautiful features before him; the faint smile she wore
heightening their loveliness, and contrasting happily with their pallor.
“There they go! They are up the barricade already; they are over
it,--through it!” cried the Captain. “Gallantly done!--gloriously done!
No, by Jove! they are falling back; the fire is murderous. See how they
bayonet them. The troops must win. They move together; they are like a
wall! In vain, in vain; they cannot do it! They are beaten,--they are
lost!”
“Who are lost?” said Kate, in a half-fainting voice.
“The soldiers. And there 's Massingbred on the top of the
barricade, in the midst of it all. I see his hat They are driven
back--beaten--beaten!”
“Come in quickly,” cried a voice from behind; and a small portion of the
door was opened to admit them. “The soldiers are retiring, and will kill
all before them.”
“Let _me_ aid you; it is _my_ turn now,” said Lady Dorothea, assisting
Kate to rise. “Good Heavens! her arm is broken,--it is smashed in two.”
And she caught the fainting girl in her arms.
Gathering around, they bore her within the gate, and had but time to bar
and bolt it when the hurried tramp without, and the wild yell of popular
triumph, told that the soldiers were retreating, beaten and defeated.
“And this to save me!” said Lady Dorothea, as she stooped over her. And
the scalding tears dropped one by one on Kate's cheek.
“Tear this handkerchief, and bind it around my arm,” said Kate, calmly;
“the pain is not very great, and there will be no bleeding, the doctors
say, from a gun-shot wound.”
“I'll be the surgeon,” said the Captain, addressing himself to the task
with more of skill than might be expected. “I 've seen many a fellow
struck down who did n't bear it as calmly,” muttered he, as he bent over
her. “Am I giving you any pain?”
“Not in the least; and if I were in torture, that glorious cheer outside
would rally me. Hear!--listen!--the soldiers are in full retreat; the
people, the noble-hearted people, are the conquerors!”
“Be calm, and think of yourself,” said Lady Dorothea, mildly, to her;
“such excitement may peril your very life.”
“And it is worth a thousand lives to taste of it,” said she, while her
cheek flushed, and her dark eyes gleamed with added lustre.
“The street is clear now,” said one of the servants to Martin, “and we
might reach the Boulevard with ease.”
“Let us go, then,” said Lady Dorothea. “Let us look to _her_ and think
of nothing till she be cared for.”