The postilions who had hitherto been lashing their horses, stopped, as if stricken by a cannon-shot.
The Queen felt, without doubt, that it was a moment for decisive action.
“Order them! Command them!” she cried, to the King.
The King put his head out of the carriage window.
“Who are you, sir,” said he, “that you dare to give orders here?”
“A simple citizen, sire,” replied M. Drouet; “but,” continued he, raising himself in his stirrups, and stretching out his arm, “I speak in the name of the nation and of the law. Postilions! not a step farther, on your lives!”
“Postilions!” cried the King, “to the ‘Grand Monarque!’ It is I who command you!”
“To the ‘Grand Monarque!’” cried the three gentlemen.
“Postilions!” cried M. Drouet, “you know me well, and are accustomed to obey me. I am Jean Baptiste Drouet, postmaster at St. Menehould.”
M. de Valory saw the indecision of the postilions—ten men stopped by one. He saw that it was necessary to slay that one, and, drawing his couteau de chasse, he went at him.