Then, in a moment, with the rapidity of lightning, on the little bridge of St. Catherine, by the borders of the ditch, the waters of which pass under the bridge, a horrible scene took place, which I saw in all its dreadful details, but was unable to oppose.
The peasant who had fired the shot, followed by about forty men, caught up the Comte de Haus, dealt him a blow with his sabre, and then unhorsed him. I saw no more. I heard the report of about twenty guns, into the suffocating smoke of which I dashed.
They were firing at M. de Dampierre.
I arrived too late. Had I reached the mob sooner, it would have been to have died with him, for I could not have saved him.
His body was riddled with bullets, and gashed with bayonets; his face, scratched by the peasants’ hob-nailed boots, was unrecognisable.
His watch was dashed to pieces by a ball which had penetrated his fob.
There was nothing to be done. I threw my gun over my shoulder, and, with tears in my eyes and sweat on my brow, I rejoined my rank.
The royal berlin continued its route slowly and sorrowfully under a sweltering sun, along that unbending route which crosses like a pencil line that sorrowful portion of France called the Paltry Land.
