The King rose first.
The Queen followed his example.
One of her women—whether naturally, or whether as an artifice, to gain time—fainted.
“They may cut me into pieces if they will,” said the Queen, “but I will not leave without one who has the misfortune to be my friend.”
“As you will—stay if you like,” said a man of the people, “At any rate, I will take the Dauphin.”
He took the royal child in his arms, and stepped towards the door.
The Queen seized the Dauphin from him, and descended the stairs, blushing.
All the family were filled with poignant anxiety. On arriving in the street, Madame Elizabeth perceived that half of the Queen’s hair had turned gray; the other half was to grow gray at the Conciergerie in a second night of agony, which was not, perhaps, more terrible than that which we have recounted.
They got into the carriage; the three gardes du corps mounted on the box.
M. de Goguelot, in the hope of bringing succor, had found means of escaping through the little passage situate at the back of the house of M. Sauce.