And then, like a coward, he got into a carriage with Monsieur and drove off, while M. de Beaufort, in a mercer’s shop, acted general to the mob, who filled the whole place. It was a regular storm. Flags with ‘Arret d’Union’ were displayed, shots fired, the soldiers got into the houses and aimed in at the windows, logs of wood smeared with fat were set fire to before the doors so as to burn them down.
Clement, who was a depute for his arrondissement, had, while this was going on, been getting together the younger and stronger men with the guard, to make a barricade of benches, tables, and chairs; and they defended this for a long time, but ammunition failed them, and the barricade began to give way amid the shouts of the mob. The poor old men crouching in the halls were confessing to the cures, expecting death every moment; but, happily, even that long July evening had an end; darkness came down on them, and there were no lights. The mob went tumbling about, at a greater loss than the deputies and magistrates, who did at least know the way. Clement, with a poor old gouty echevin on his arm, struggled out, he knew not how, into one of the passages, where a fellow rushed at them, crying, ‘Down with the Mazarins!’ but Clement knew by his voice that he was no soldier or bandit, but a foolish artisan, and at haphazard said: ‘Come, come, my good lad, none of this nonsense. This gentleman will give you a crown if you will help him out.’
The man obeyed directly, muttering that he only did as others did; and when they had got out into the street, Clement, finding himself not far from the place where the lights and voices showed him that some one was in command, managed to get to the mercer’s shop with the poor old echevin, where he found M. de Beaufort, with his hair shining in the lamplight, his yellow scarf, and his long white feather, hanging over the features that were meant to be like an angel’s. When Clement, in aftertimes, read the Puritan poet Milton’s PARADISE LOST, he said he was sure that some of the faces of the fallen spirits in Pandemonium had that look of ruined beauty that he saw in the King of the Markets on that night.
Some of the town councilors who had got out sooner had gone to entreat the Duke of Orleans to stop the massacre, but he would Do nothing but whistle, and refer them to his nephew De Beaufort. They were standing there, poor men, and he tapping his lip with his cane, stroking down his moustache, and listening to them with a sneer as they entreated him not to let their fellows perish. And then among them stood up Clement, with his old echevin by his side. He was resolved, he said, and began ‘Son of Henri IV., will you see the people perish whom he loved from the bottom of his heart? Yes, Monsieur, you inherit the charm by which he drew hearts after him, and was a true king of men! Will you misuse that attraction to make them fly at one another’s throats? In the name of the great Henri and his love for his people, I appeal to you to call off yonder assassins.’
He had so far prevailed that Beaufort muttered something about not knowing things had gone so far, and assured the magistrates round him of his protection. He even went to the door and told some of his prime tools of agitation that it was enough, and that they might give the signal of recall; but whether things had gone too far, or whether he was not sincere, the tumult did not quiet down till midnight. After all, the rogues had the worst of it, for two hundred bodies of theirs were picked up, and only three magistrates and twenty-five deputies, though a good many more were hurt.
Clement saw his old echevin safe home, left word at our house that he was unhurt, but did not come in; and at Maison Verdon, no one had even guessed what danger he was in, for all the attention of the household was spent on the wounded men, one of whom died that night.
Things got worse and worse. Eustace was very anxious to leave Paris before the summer was over, lest bad weather should make him unable to travel. The year he had put between himself and Millicent had more than run out; and besides, as he said to me, he would not expose himself again to undergo what he had endured in his former illness, since he could have no confidence that my mother, and even Margaret, might not be driven to a persecution, which, if his senses should fail him, might apparently succeed. ‘Nor,’ said he, ‘can I leave you unprotected here, my sister.’
We lingered, partly from the difficulty of getting horses, and the terrible insecurity of the roads, partly from the desire to get Clement to attend to Cardinal de Retz’s warning and escape with us. There was no difficulty on his mother’s account. She was longing to enter Port Royal, and only delayed to keep house for him, with many doubts whether she were not worldly in so doing; but he still felt his voice and presence here in the Hotel de Ville a protest, and he could not give up the hope of being of use to his country.
Meantime, M. de Nemours recovered from his wound only to be killed in a duel by M. de Beaufort, his brother-in-law; the Prince of Conde’s rage at his defeat threw him into a malignant fever; the Duke of Orleans was in despair at the death of his only son, a babe of five years old; the Fronde was falling to pieces, and in the breathing time, Eustace obtained a pass from our own King, and wrote to Solivet, who was with the royal army outside, to get him another for himself and me—explaining that he was bound by his promise to Madame van Hunker, and that his health was in such a state that my care was needful to him.
Solivet answered the letter, sending the passport, but urging on him to remain at Paris, which would soon be at peace, since Mazarin was leaving the Court, and a general amnesty was to be proclaimed if the gates of Paris were opened to the King without the Cardinal.