"Citizen Bonaparte!" he clamoured, hammering on that young man's closed door. "Come! come! They are about to assault the Tuileries! Here I am as I promised!" Bonaparte came out dressed, after what seemed an age to Jean, and the two hurried into the street and were instantly carried almost off their feet in the swirling human current sweeping toward the Tuileries. Men, women and children, chiefly of the lowest scum of Paris, carried pikes, knives, hatchets, bludgeons,—anything that might serve as a weapon of offence. "Death to the King!" "Down with the Austrian Wolf!" "To the guillotine with Royalty!" were the predominating cries.
Into the Rue St. Honoré, through the Pont Neuf and the Pont Royal they poured, ever increasing in numbers and ferocity. Almost without volition on their part, Bonaparte and Jean were carried along by the throng that swept through the Rue St. Honoré, and in the first faint dawn of morning, they, with the crowds, drove through the ill-guarded palace gates, and stood before the long windows. Pressed close to the wall of the palace, the two friends witnessed the departure of the royal family, and Jean even guessed at the meaning of the little Dauphin's despairing, backward looks.
"Citizen Bonaparte," he whispered, "I see plainly that we can do nothing now to help the royal ones, since they have placed themselves in the care of the National Assembly, and will probably be safe. But I would like to save that poor little fellow's pet, if it be possible. What do you think?"
Before Bonaparte could reply, there was an exchange of volleying shots between the outside mob, and the inner defenders. With a roar of exasperation, the rabble flung itself at the doors and windows using the hatchets, and when these gave way, the throng poured into the palace. For a moment Jean and Bonaparte were hurried along in the rush, and then at some sudden obstruction were forcibly separated, and Jean found himself alone amid a scene of indescribable confusion and danger.
The mob, first inhumanly butchered the Swiss Guard who had remained to defend the palace, then turned its attention to pillaging and destroying, with ruthless indiscrimination, the carefully hoarded treasures of this kingly mansion, and when this grew wearisome, attempted to set fire to different parts of the building. In such a reign of confusion, members of the mob frequently failed to discriminate among their victims, and often turned their weapons upon their own numbers.
Now Jean saw no reason for uselessly exposing himself to murder, and he looked about for the safest and most convenient place to hide. It occurred to him that the closet where he had placed Moufflet on that memorable twentieth of June, would afford the best shelter. Making his way through the crush with the greatest difficulty, he at last reached the room, and managed to slip unobserved into this retreat, closing the door and locking it on the inside. The space was small, and no sooner had he crouched down in the farthest corner, than he felt something warm and soft under his hand. For a moment it startled him, and then, with a stifled cry, he clasped the fluffy mass to his heart.
"Moufflet!" he breathed, and the dog licked his face in an ecstasy of delighted recognition. Then he realised that the Dauphin must have placed him once more in this retreat, when the first alarm was heard. He felt almost happy. Here was half his plan accomplished! Now if he could only find Bonaparte, and they could get away unharmed, all would be well. He was just about to emerge from his hiding-place with Moufflet under his coat, when horrible shouts filled the room, and he quickly decided to remain where he was.
"Search this room! Search this room!" shrieked hoarse voices. "There may be aristocrats hiding here!" Then someone pulled at the door of his retreat. "Here's a locked door!" called a rough fellow. "A hatchet,—quick!" The splintered wood fell in with a crash, and shrieking with delight, they dragged Jean out of the closet. Thirsting for blood, the ruffians cared not, by this time, whether he was an aristocrat or one of their own number. He was hiding!—that was enough! A bloody hand grasped his collar, and another with a meat-axe was raised over his head. Jean was too paralysed with terror to do anything but wonder just how long it would take that axe to descend, when suddenly he saw it dashed from his assailant's hand, and a well-known voice shouted:
