In the midst of all these people coming and going, I recognised, mounted on a little pony, M. Dampierre, our old chasseur of the Forest of Argonne. He knew me, and came to me, trying to force the line of guards on duty at the side of the gates.
It was I who repulsed him, because he did not count on my resistance.
“Pardon, M. le Comte,” said I; “you cannot pass!”
“Why can I not pass?” asked he.
“Because it is ordered that none shall be allowed to approach the King’s carriage.”
“Who gave that order?”
“Our Captain, M. Drouet.”
“A revolutionist!”
“Possibly so, M. le Comte; but he is our commander, and we are bound to obey him.”
“Is it forbidden to cry ‘Vive le Roi?’”