"Madam, Dr. Gilbert is right; the King is still loved, he will make a speech and disarm these furies."
"But who will apprise the King? he is in Meudon Woods and the ways may be blocked."
"Will your Majesty see in me not the courtier but the man of war?" returned the Count, simply. "A soldier is made to be slain."
He did not wait for an answer or to hear the sigh, but rapidly went out and, mounting a guardman's horse, sped away for Meudon.
The sky was menacing and rain began to dot the dust, but Versailles was filling with people who had heard a noise like approaching thunder.
The soldiers took up their muskets slowly and the horseguards got into the saddle with the hesitation of the soldier when his adversaries are beneath his notice.
What could be done against women who had thrown down their weapons on the road and had scarce the power to drag themselves into the town? Half way they had divided eight loaves found at Sevres—thirty-two pounds of bread among seven thousand!
Maillard had accompanied them and induced the last who were armed to lay aside their weapons at the first houses of the place. He suggested that they should sing "Long live Henry Fourth!" to show that they had no ill feelings against royalty. They sang in a feeble whine.
Great was the amazement at the palace, where the harpies and Furies were expected, to see the tottering singers, hunger giving the giddiness of intoxication, pressing their haggard, thinned, livid, blotched and dusty faces against the gilded bars of the gates, and hanging on by their bony hands. From the weird groups came wails and howls while the dull eyes emitted sparks.
Now and again the hands let go the bars to be brandished in threat or held out imploringly.