She was habited in a long dress of red stuff, surmounted by a cape; she wore a plumed hat, and a large sword at her side.
I touched M. Drouet’s arm.
“Oh!” said I; “who is that?”
“I am no wiser at present than yourself,” said he; “unless it is—yes, it is the famous Thèroigne de Méricourt.”
I had once or twice heard the name of the heroine of the 5th and 8th of October—the impetuous Liègoise, beautiful, but terrible; who, at Versailles, with a smile and soft voice, had ordered the regiments of Flanders to lay down their arms. An unhappy affection—the treason of an unfaithful one, had thrust her out from woman’s life. She had embraced the cause of the Revolution with transport. It was her last love. The unhappy woman was whipped by the Royalists in the Garden of the Tuileries, became insane, and died in Bicetre, or Charenton, I forget which, after twenty years of agony.
But at present she was young, pretty, proud, if not happy. Alas! her misplaced love had seared her heart.
Her entrance was great.
“There is the Queen of Sheba!” cried Camille Desmoulins, stammering more than ever.
Then, turning to Danton, “Rise up, Solomon,” said he; “and go and receive her Majesty!”