On Sunday morning, July 12th, Nicholas persuaded Madeleine and
Gabrielle to attend high mass at the church of S. Eustache, for the
altar of which he had carved a figure of the Blessed Virgin and
Child; and, as he considered this his masterpiece, he was exceedingly
anxious that the little Normandy girl should see it. He had thrown out
vague hints on several previous occasions, but Madeleine had put them
aside at once; on this occasion she yielded, to the great delight of
Nicholas, whose round face beamed with satisfaction, which he also
expressed to Gabrielle by sundry friendly nods behind his sister's back.
Gabrielle had completely won the young man's heart by her delicacy
in refraining from joining the two other women in their chorus of
disparagement of Werner Stauffacher, Erni of Melchthal, Walter Fürst,
the great Tell, and, above all, of the illustrious Bruder Klaus.
Nay, further, she had actually listened to the story of Arnold von
Winkelried, without remonstrance, and she apparently derived real
pleasure from hearing the old corporal prose over his reminiscences of
Switzerland.
'What a magnificent country it must be!' said the girl once to Nicholas.
'Magnificent!' echoed the young man, throwing up his hands; 'oh,
mademoiselle, you really must see it some day.'
After mass, and after that Nicholas had pointed out all the principal
excellencies of his statue to Gabrielle, who tried hard to see them, in
order to please him, they left the church.
'And now,' said Madeleine, 'we have come this long trudge to gratify
you, let us go to the Palais Royal and visit my aunt Louison for my
pleasure. Gabrielle has never seen the gardens, and, now that we are
so close to the palace, we may just as well go on there. I propose we
have some refreshment at one of her tables, and then saunter into the
gardens of the Tuileries.'
'Very well,' said Nicholas, joyously; 'the day is so beautiful, I shall
be delighted. Ah! it will be only too charming.'
'You have become all at once very obliging,' said Madeleine, bluntly.
They made their way to the Palais Royal, where Madame Louison,
Madeleine's aunt, kept a restaurant. M. Louison, in a white apron,
white jacket and white cap, stood at the head of the staircase, which
descended to the kitchen, before which was a bar, with liqueurs and
syrups, presided over by madame.
'Well,' said the lady to Madeleine, 'I am ravished to see you;' then,
revolving on her heel, she abruptly charged on her husband,--'Coco!
what are you idling there for? Down with you into the depths at once.'
'But, mamma!'
'No "buts" and no "mammas" to me!' cried the lady; 'down, Coco, down.'
Immediately the white man vanished into the abyss.
'And how is that angel your mother?' asked Madame Louison. 'Some
one said she had suffered greatly from headache, and I have been
overwhelmed with distress. I am sure I quite soaked my pillow with
tears. Ah! what it is to have a sympathising heart, to feel more for
others than for one's self. I have not slept for three nights, thinking
of that angel Josephine, and her racked head. Well! what now, Coco?'
she twirled round again, as a vision of a white cap and shoulders
appeared behind her. 'Ah! you need not come slinking up without shoes,
thinking I should not hear you. Down, Coco, down to your duties.' And
the white cap and jacket dived once more into the depths. 'And the
corporal,' continued the lady; 'that magnificent man, that warrior,
that hero, the father of this young man, need I say more?'
'Aunt, his head and heart are in Switzerland still; need I say more?'
'Ah, in Switzerland, that magnificent, that superb country, that land
of resources, of wealth, of commerce. Mon Dieu! it is a country!' She
said this bowing to Nicholas.
'Aunt,' said Madeleine, 'I must introduce to you a friend, Mademoiselle
André.'
'Ah! André,' repeated Madame Louison; 'a name, historical and
illustrious; I have known Andrés,--three, four, five, many an André,
but all were excellent people. And whence does Mademoiselle André come?'
'From Normandy,' answered Madeleine.
'Don't tell me she comes from Normandy,' said madame; 'of all the
provinces of France, the finest, the most superb, the most unfailing in
resources, the most wealthy, the most commercial, the most affluent in
men of money and talent, and in women,' she curtsied to Gabrielle, 'in
women of beauty.' Then sharply, 'Well, Coco!'
'I thought you called me, mamma!'
'No, Coco, you did not think so; down into your hole again, instantly,
Coco!' Then turning again to her visitors she proceeded, 'and what may
have brought Mademoiselle André to Paris? to Paris of all cities after
the charming Norman towns Rouen, and Caen, and Évreux! Ah! I blush for
the capital when I think of what the Norman cities must be, abodes of
industry and of virtue. Ah! I blush for the capital when I contrast the
morals of its citizens with those of Normandy, where all are good, all
are virtuous, all,' she curtsied to Gabrielle, 'all are angels.' Then,
glancing at Nicholas, she continued, 'and the Swiss, I should say that
none of our countrymen were their equals except the Normans, that race
of hardy, daring, enterprising incomparables! What will it please you
to order, Monsieur Nicholas?'
The young man gave his orders, and madame shouted down the chasm to
Coco, who, however, did not appear.
'Ah!' said the lady; 'that is the way with my good man. When he is
wanted, he is not within call; when not wanted, he is here.' She
caught up a broom and plunged down the stair or ladder or whatever it
was which descended to the kitchen, and presently, with a bound, up
the white man rose to the surface, followed more slowly and in more
dignified manner by his portly spouse.
'Mamma! no mamma! in pity!' he exclaimed, dancing to the other side of
the counter in white stockings and slippers down at the heel.
'Will you attend to business?' asked Madame Louison; 'will you at
once produce a little breakfast for these customers, will you conduct
yourself with propriety?'
'Oh, mamma! I assure you, I was only----'
'No excuse; down, down, Coco, and bring potage à la vermicelle--quick,
Coco, quick!'
'Oh stay! in pity!' he pleaded; 'let me look out of the doors for one
minute. Oh, what have we here! oh, mamma, you must come and see; there
is such excitement, such running to and fro. Come, come, come!'
'This instant, Coco; down, sir, down to your hole!'
But the scene without, in the gardens, was of sufficient attraction to
hold Coco immovable at the door, and make him deaf to the orders of his
spouse.
'What is the matter?' asked Madeleine.
'Mademoiselle, everything is the matter!' replied M. Louison; 'there is
a firework of excitement without. Oh! Camille the good, the facetious
Camille is on the table. Mamma, it is too much, I must go.'
And the white cap, white jacket, white apron, and white stockings
flitted like a pigeon past the window.
There was so much noise, such a rush of people, that it became apparent
to Madeleine, Nicholas, and Gabrielle, that some unusual cause of
excitement had occurred; they therefore ran outside, followed by Madame
Louison, whose interest, however, was entirely concentrated on her
run-away husband.
'Ah! there he is!' she exclaimed, pointing to a white speck in the
crowd, 'sapristi! but he shall catch it. Ah, ha! Coco!' she said in a
low tone, with a chuckle to herself; 'ah, ha! my Coco! will you do it
again, will you, will you?'
At the farther end of the gardens the crowd was densest. Thither
Madeleine hurried, drawing Gabrielle after her; Nicholas looked
hesitatingly about him and then followed. On a table, at which shortly
before some pleasure-takers had been sipping sugar and water, indeed,
standing among the tumblers, some of which were half empty, was
a tall slender young man, with long flowing hair reaching to his
shoulders, very abundant, glossy, and curled. His face was smooth and
clear-complexioned, his nose was straight and well shaped, his mouth
small and curled with a smile, and at every smile a dimple formed in
his girlish cheek. His large clear eye beamed with light. His brow
white and polished, without a furrow, was marked with prominent bumps
where phrenologists assert lie the organs of satire. He had falling
collars over a thick crimson handkerchief folded twice round his neck,
tied in a loose bow, and falling to his waist. His coat of sere-green
cloth was adorned with huge lappets which folded to his shoulders; his
waistcoat was white, and had also lappets.
'It is Camille, the brave Camille Desmoulins!' said Madeleine; 'what is
the matter with him?'
The young man was violently agitated. He spoke with vehemence, and the
tears flowed from his brilliant eyes. 'My friends! my friends!' he
cried, in a clear, bell-like voice; 'Necker is dismissed; Necker, the
friend of the people, Necker, the friend of justice and liberty, has
been driven away, his ministry dissolved, and who do you think have
been appointed in their place? De Breteuil, De Broglie, Foulon, De la
Vauguyon, Berthier--men who hate you, men who detest liberty, men of
war; De Breteuil the great Blunderer, De Broglie the old Mars; Foulon,
who would make men eat hay because his horses eat it; Berthier, who
has sold his heart to the devil, who weeps blood. The dismissal of
Necker is the tocsin of a S. Bartholomew of patriots. The Swiss and
German battalions are ready to fall on us, and to massacre us. For your
wives, for your children! To arms, to arms!'
Every sentence had elicited cries and groans.
'To arms!' yelled Monsieur Louison. Immediately behind him was his
spouse, broom in hand. 'To arms!' he cried, snatching the weapon
from her grasp and brandishing it above his head,--you may see him
immortalised in Duplessi-Bertaux' sketch published a few days after.
'My friends!' cried Camille; 'I see there--and there, facing me, with
their eyes watching me, the tame tigers of the court, the spies and
satellites of the police. Never will I fall alive into their hands;' he
suddenly drew a pair of pistols from his pocket and cocked them; 'let
all the friends of liberty follow my example and protect themselves, or
the prisons will be gorged with the best patriots.'
He was interrupted by cries of enthusiasm; 'we will protect you, we
will kill the tigers.' Some men sprang upon the table and embraced him,
the tumblers were thrown down and broken, and the sugar and water was
poured over the gravel.
'What is to be done?' was shouted; 'how shall we know the friends of
liberty?'
'Let us adopt a cockade,' cried Camille; 'then we shall know those who
are on our side from our foes.'
'A cockade, a cockade!' was shouted.
'Ah! Camille, dear, brave Camille!' shrieked Monsieur Louison; 'I will
protect you. They shall pass over my body before they touch you.' And
he beat his way with the broom-handle through the crowd towards the
table.
'Coco!' screamed his wife; 'you fool, you ape! The potage à la
vermicelle will be burnt.'
'Damn the vermicelle!' exclaimed the white man, stationing himself like
a sentinel before the table; 'I tell you, woman, I will shed the last
drop of my potage--I mean my blood.'
'Never mind what you mean,' called his incensed wife; 'I will have
you down into your hole again.' She struggled after him, but found it
impossible to force her way through the crowd, being unprovided with a
weapon, and being corpulent, whilst Coco was lean.
'What colour will you have for your cockade?' asked Desmoulins, his
clear voice pealing above the hoarse mutterings of the excited people.
'Will you have green, the colour of hope, or the blue of Cincinnatus,
the colour of American liberty and of democracy?'
Some shouted, 'Do you choose, Camille!' Others cried 'blue,' but the
call of the majority was for green; 'green, green, the hue of Hope!'
The young man waited, the cries for blue ceased, and presently as with
one voice the whole heaving mass of people roared 'Green!'
'Very well, my friends, let green be the colour. Who will provide me
with ribbon?'
A few moments after a number of rolls of silk ribbon of various shades
of green were handed to him. A mercer's shop in the Palais Royal had
yielded up its stock, and, when money had been offered in payment, the
mercer had refused it.
Camille adorned his own cap with a rosette, placed it on his head, and
then proceeded to attach scraps of green ribbon to the hats which were
passed to him, and which M. Louison presented to him in order at the
end of his broom.
'The ribbon is expended, my friends,' called Camille; 'fetch me some
more.'
'There is no more to be got,' shouted some one in the crowd.
'No more ribbon!' exclaimed Camille; 'well, let us take leaves from the
trees and pin them to our caps.'
Instantly lads and men began to climb the young trees and tear down
the branches. Each bough was seized upon before it touched the ground,
and the foliage was torn off by eager hands. Some of the leaves were
trampled under foot, and more were clamoured for. The crowd had been
gathering thicker every moment, pouring in from the streets, and the
whole garden was densely packed with men and women. The words of the
orator were flung along the mob, from voice to voice; the mob swayed
and roared, and cheered, like one living body, not as an assemblage of
individuals each with a will and thoughts of his own.
In half an hour the trees of the Palais Royal were stripped of their
leaves and looked bare and wintry.
From a modeller's shop opening on the gardens, a wax bust of the
popular ex-minister was produced, and was passed along above the heads
of the crowd. Some one flung a black crape veil over it.
'Forth into the streets,' was called. And the multitude rolled out
into the Rue de Richelieu. Suddenly, with a cry of exultation, Madame
Louison pounced upon her spouse, and carried him off to her shop.
Nicholas caught a glimpse of him ineffectually struggling, like a white
moth in a spider's clutches, as the lady drew him down into the hole he
usually inhabited. Nicholas drew Gabrielle's arm through his, and she
clung to him, otherwise she would have been swept away.
'We must escape as soon as possible,' said the young man; 'do not let
go your hold, Gabrielle--I beg your pardon, Mademoiselle André. You
must excuse me if I squeeze your arm, but I am so afraid of losing
you.'
'Where is Madeleine?'
'Madeleine can take care of herself.'
'But where is she?'
'There--a little ahead of us; she has been drifted forward, we must try
to reach her and link her on to us; it will not do to separate.'
'Can we not escape yet?'
'No. Impossible; I wish we could, but the crowd is too dense. We must
rejoin Madeleine first, or she will not know what has become of us.'
The sun glared down on the moving torrent of angry life. It was like
a viscous stream of lava poured from a volcano; the sun flashed on
bayonets, axes, large knives which had been attached to poles and made
into rude pikes.
The flashes from the weapons, as the sun lit them, resembled leaping
flames above the lava flood. The heat began to dissolve the wax bust,
the black crape attracted the heat unnecessarily, and it slowly
dissolved into a shapeless mass. Nevertheless it was borne along, its
bearers being unconscious of the transformation that was being effected
in their idol.
The stream pursued its course along the streets of S. Martin, S. Denis,
and S. Honoré, and spread out into a tossing lake in the Place Vendôme,
where lived several of the revenue-farmers, but not Foulon, whose house
was in the Rue du Temple.
Here was drawn up a detachment of dragoons, which charged the people,
and drove them back into the streets that opened on the square. A
French guardsman was trampled under the feet of the horses and killed.
Nicholas took the opportunity of the dissolution of the compact mass to
disengage himself and Gabrielle from the mob, and to escape with her
down the street before the Convent of the Feuillants.
'Where is Madeleine?' asked Gabrielle.
'Madeleine!' exclaimed Nicholas, standing still and looking round; 'I
really do not know where she is. But it does not matter; let us go into
the gardens of the Tuileries. It was her wish, you may remember, that
we should go there after our visit to the Palais Royal, and doubtless
she will make the best of her way there in the expectation of meeting
with us.'
They entered the beautiful gardens before the palace, and Gabrielle
would have admired the flowers at any other time, but her nerves had
been somewhat shaken by the excitement she had gone through, and she
asked Nicholas to let her sit down on the first seat they came to.
'I am so frightened, Monsieur Nicholas,' said she; 'I fear something
must have happened to Madeleine; I heard the people crying out that
some one was killed.'
'That was a man,' said the young man. 'I saw the horses tread him down,
it made me turn sick and giddy. The hoof of one horse cut open his head
just behind the ear, and the skull must have been crushed, for the
brain burst out as the horse trod his head down. Did you see nothing of
that?'
'No, no; I am thankful I did not.'
'I am rather taller than most of these French fellows; and as the man
fell there was a lane formed between the heads, and I saw it all.'
'When do you think Madeleine will be here?'
'I really cannot guess, but I hope before long.'
'And you are certain no harm has befallen her?'
'Harm befall Madeleine!' exclaimed Nicholas; 'that is an impossibility.
You never saw such a girl as that is for keeping out of danger herself,
though she will go into the midst of what is perilous to other people.'
'Oh,' sighed Gabrielle, 'how I wish that I were out of Paris, and back
in peaceful Bernay. And yet that cannot be.'
'I cannot say that I wish it,' said Nicholas, simply.
'But why not?' asked Gabrielle with equal simplicity.
Nicholas looked at her, with his great blue eyes wide open, and nodded.
'There!' said he, pointing to one of the flowers in a garden-bed before
them, 'that plant grows wild in my country.'
'Is your country very quiet; or have you such troubles as we have here?'
'Oh no! Switzerland is perfectly peaceful; ever since the great Werner
Stauffacher, Erni of Melchthal, and Walter Fürst, formed their league
against the tyrants who held the people in chains, we have been free,
and happy, and tranquil.'
'Then you had great troubles once?'
'Yes, there was the terrible struggle for freedom.'
'Perhaps the troubles here are part of our struggle.'
'No doubt; and then, when the bonds are burst, and despotism is at an
end, you will have peace.'
'Oh, Monsieur Nicholas! how I wish that time had come!'
'No doubt.'
'And is your country more beautiful than my Normandy?'
'Oh, ten thousand times more beautiful.'
'But you have not seen Normandy.'
'No, but I know enough,' he nodded towards her, 'to be well assured
that if you were given the choice between Switzerland and Normandy you
would say, Switzerland for ever! You have no lakes.'
'But there are ponds.'
'Ponds!' exclaimed Nicholas, 'what are ponds?'
'And we have forests.'
'Ah! plantations.'
'And we have beautiful hills. Above Bernay there is Mont Bouffey--'
'Mole-hills,' said Nicholas.
'No, indeed,' urged Gabrielle; 'there is a windmill on top of it.'
'A windmill!' echoed Nicholas; 'and you call that a hill, a "mont."
Heaven bless you, my dear Gabrielle, a "mont" with a windmill on the
top of it! Lord enlighten you! a "mont," indeed! a windmill on top of
it. Just heavens! how unequal are men's lots! here am I, who have seen
real mountains, and there is Gabrielle, who has never seen anything but
a little lump of earth with a windmill on the top of it. I dare say
that Mont Bouffey has no rocks.'
'N-n-o,' answered Gabrielle, her childish opinion of Mont Bouffey
greatly dashed by the contempt poured over it by the young Swiss.
'A "mont" without rocks, an earthy pimple! To think that you and ten
thousands, thousands of other living persons, and persons with souls,
too, should never have seen real mountains soaring into the clouds and
glittering with eternal snows. It is a thought to make me serious,'
said Nicholas, shaking his head. 'It is something to make one feel very
grateful to Heaven, that out of millions of poor benighted French, only
perhaps the corporal and I have seen snowy mountains.'
He was silent; and Gabrielle, looking furtively into his face, saw that
he was making an act of thanksgiving to the Almighty for having given
him a privilege which had been denied to so many.
'Wonderful,' mused Nicholas; 'wonderful indeed!'
Then he asked, 'And can you reconcile yourself to die without having
seen anything more like a mountain than that pimple with a windmill on
the top?'
'Please, kind Monsieur Nicholas, do not tease me about the Mont
Bouffey, or I shall joke you about the Bruder----'
'No, no, no,' he interrupted with earnestness, catching her hand,
and staring into her eyes with an appealing expression of distress.
'Whatever you do, my dearest Gabrielle, do not joke about Bruder Klaus.
That man lived a miraculous life; for years he ate no food, and lived
in incessant prayer----'
'Tell me about the beauties of Switzerland,' said the girl, smiling;
for she had heard all about the hermit's marvellous life several times
already.
'Ah, Gabrielle!' exclaimed Nicholas, enthusiastically, 'you really must
see Switzerland, you must indeed. I should be miserable to think that
your beautiful eyes should never rest on its glories.'
'But how can I ever see it, M. Nicholas?'
'Oh, you can go there.'
'Indeed I cannot.'
'But you must. Look here,' and the lad turned round, and, still holding
the hand he had seized at the alarm about Bruder Klaus, he began to
explain a scheme, and indicate it with the finger of his disengaged
hand on the back of Gabrielle's. 'You see my father's time of service
is over in August; and then we are going to return to Switzerland.'
'Ah, but Madeleine declares that Madame Deschwanden is quite resolved
not to go there. And Madeleine is of the same mind.'
'Then,' said Nicholas, 'my father and I shall return.'
'And then I could not go with you two men,' said the girl, laughing
gaily.
'Oh!' exclaimed the young man, opening his great eyes very wide, 'that
is awkward, I never thought of that.'
'And do you not think it a little awkward sitting here waiting for
Madeleine?' asked Gabrielle.
'No,' answered Nicholas, promptly; 'certainly not, why should it be so?'
'The gardens are very full,' said Gabrielle; 'had we not better walk
about now, and look for Madeleine, instead of sitting here any longer
hand in hand?'
'Very well,' answered Nicholas, rising, but not relinquishing the hand.
Gabrielle, however, snatched it from him, and then rested it on his arm.
'Look,' said Nicholas, 'the soldiers are yonder, drawn up at the
entrance of the Champs Elysées.'
'I have heard the discharge of fire-arms,' said Gabrielle, 'but not in
that direction.'
'Alphonse!' exclaimed Nicholas to a friend who was passing, 'can you
tell me what is going on? I was with the mob that marched from the
Palais Royal to the Place Vendôme, and was there dispersed, which gave
me the opportunity of escaping; it was no fault of mine that I was in
the riot.'
'Nicholas, my brave!' said the young man accosted, 'you want zeal. But,
to be sure, you are a foreigner. In your own country you would be a
patriot.'
'To be sure,' answered Nicholas; 'mine is the land of patriots; have we
not Werner Stauffacher, Erni of Melchthal, Walter Fürst, and the great
and glorious Tell?'
'I have heard,' said Alphonse, 'that Tell is a myth--a fable.'
'A myth--a fable!' exclaimed Nicholas, dropping Gabrielle's arm in
the extremity of his dismay. 'Wilhelm Tell!' he raised his cap at the
name. 'I have seen the place where he shot the arrow; I have seen the
spot where his son stood with the apple on his head; I have worshipped
before the chapel where he leaped ashore from Gessler's boat.'
'Never mind him now,' said Alphonse, laughing; 'come along with me to
the Place Louis XV[1].'
'And tell me what has been going on. Hush! there is the rattle of guns
again.'
'Nicholas!' whispered Gabrielle. 'There! look there!'
She pointed to a shutter which was being carried on men's shoulders
through the gardens; over it was cast a sheet spotted with blood; the
sheet by its folds indicated the outline of a corpse beneath it.
Immediately after, the Royal German dragoons, who had been employed
in dispersing the mob, arrived in the Place Louis XV. As they passed
the barrack of the French guard, a volley of musketry was discharged
upon them from the windows, and several of the soldiers were unhorsed
and wounded. At the same moment, a crowd which had filled the Champs
Elysées, and some of the promenaders in the Tuileries gardens, rushed
upon the dragoons with bottles and stones, which they flung at them
with cries of anger and hatred.
'Nicholas, do let us escape,' said Gabrielle.
'Let us work our way back,' he answered. But this was not so easily
effected; the firing in the Place Louis XV had attracted towards the
end of the garden opening on it all who had been strolling among the
flower-beds, and fresh arrivals every moment made the barrier behind
them more and more impassable.
'We must wait our opportunity,' said Nicholas; 'hold tight to me. Do
not let go, on any consideration.'
'Where can Madeleine be?' asked the girl.
'Madeleine is there!' suddenly exclaimed the lad, pointing towards the
statue of Louis XV, which occupied the centre of the great octagonal
place. This open piece of ground had been adorned in the centre with
an equestrian statue of the king in bronze in 1763, by the provost of
Paris. At the angles of the pedestal were four figures of the cardinal
virtues, Temperance, Prudence, Fortitude, and Justice, 'over whose
heads,' said the wags, 'the king is trampling.' Among other sarcastic
epigrams the group had given rise to was this:--
'O la belle statue, O le beau piédestal!
Les Vertues sont à pied, le Vice est à cheval!'
Standing on this pedestal, with one arm around the leg of the bronze
horse, was Madeleine Chabry, her black hair flowing wildly over her
shoulders from beneath a peasant's scarlet cap, which had been handed
to her when in the scuffle in the Place Vendôme she had lost her
head-dress. Her gown was torn; one of the sleeves, that on the right
arm, had been ripped off, how and when Madeleine knew not. She held a
staff in her hand, headed with a knife and a bunch of green leaves.
Nicholas and Gabrielle could not hear her words, but they saw her
gesticulate violently and point to the gates of the Tuileries, and then
towards the soldiers. Those near her, however, caught up her cry, and
shouted to the crowd to back into the gardens, for the soldiers were
coming that way.
'Barricade them out!' was called from one to another; 'shut the gates!'
Then the answer came, 'We cannot; they will not stand back.'
'Ho, there! chairs, stalls, anything!'
'Chairs, benches, there,' was repeated; and instantly garden-seats,
benches, and tables, were passed over the heads of the crowd towards
the front.
'The soldiers are coming!' was cried again.
Madeleine disappeared from her perch. Next moment she reappeared at the
gates, assisting in barricading them with chairs and benches.
The people began rapidly to thin out and disperse in the gardens, as
the cry of the approach of the soldiers reached them.
'Now,' said Nicholas, 'back, Gabrielle, we must escape at once.' He
forced his way through the mob, dived under seats which were being
carried forward to form a barrier, and drew the girl out of the grounds
into the streets.
He was not a moment too soon. The sharp rattle of musketry and the
shrieks of the wounded reached them as they escaped.
By order of Besenval, the Prince de Lambesc, colonel of the dragoons,
had charged the people and driven them behind their barrier. This was
speedily demolished; over the broken fragments the German mercenaries
advanced with sabres drawn, and the people rolled back before them,
falling beneath the horses' feet, discharging stones, stocks, anything
that was ready at hand at the advancing line, cursing the prince and
the soldiers, but retreating rapidly before them. The line broke into a
trot and cleared the garden, leaving behind them trampled flower-beds,
fragments of benches, and prostrate men, women, and children, with
limbs broken and bleeding wounds.
As Nicholas and Gabrielle fled along the street towards the Rue S.
Antoine, they saw that the whole city was in commotion. All shops
were being shut except those of the armourers, where a busy trade was
carried on. Men and women went about bearing weapons and adorned with
the green cockade. Flying past them, not noticing them, with her hair
streaming behind her, and the red bonnet on one side, darted Madeleine,
crying to all,--'The Hôtel de Ville! To arms, to arms!' A few moments
later the great alarm-bell of the Hôtel de Ville pealed over the city
its sonorous threatening cry from brazen mouth and brazen tongue:--'To
arms, to arms!'
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 1: The present Place de la Concorde.]