The tocsin had completed its dismal task. Every village had sent its contingent. Four or five thousand men encumbered the streets of Varennes.
About seven in the morning, two men arriving by the Clermont road, and bestriding horses flecked with foam, pushed their way through the multitude.
The shouts of the people announced something new to the King.
Soon the door opened, and admitted an officer of the National Guard.
It was the same Rayon, who, whilst snatching a moment’s rest at Châlons, sent on an express to St. Menehould.
He entered the royal chamber fatigued, excited, almost mad, without a cravat, and with his hair unpowdered.
“Ah, sire,” said he, in a hoarse voice—“our wives, our children! They slaughter them at Paris, sire; you will not go much further. The interest of the State—”
And he fell, almost fainting, into an arm-chair.
“Well, sir,” said the Queen, taking his hand, and showing him the Dauphin and Madame Royale sleeping on the bed, “am I not a mother, too?”
“In short, sir,” said the King, “what have you to announce to me?”