Front matter (continued 3)

The bishop looked at the curé and mused. Lindet said no more.

After a protracted silence, De Narbonne said, in a low voice: 'It is too late; the die is cast.'

He led the way into the other room.

As Lindet bowed his farewell, the bishop held out his hand to him, and said, 'Thank you.'

When the door closed upon the curé, he returned to the table at which Foulon and Berthier were seated, and said:—'The new ministry will have to be composed without me; I am resolved not to serve.'

CHAPTER XXX.

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!'