Men from the faubourgs were marching past armed with guns and old swords, some of them wearing red caps, and all singing the "Marseillaise" or the "Girondins." Here and there a National Guard was hurrying to join his mayoral department. Drums could be heard rolling in the distance. A conflict was going on at Porte Saint-Martin. There was something lively and warlike in the air. Frederick kept walking on without stopping. The excitement of the great city made him gay.
On the Frascati hill he got a glimpse of the Maréchale's windows: a wild idea occurred to him, a reaction of youthfulness. He crossed the boulevard.
The yard-gate was just being closed; and Delphine, who was in the act of writing on it with a piece of charcoal, "Arms given," said to him in an eager tone:
"Ah! Madame is in a nice state! She dismissed a groom who insulted her this morning. She thinks there's going to be pillage everywhere. She is frightened to death! and the more so as Monsieur has gone!"
"What Monsieur?"
"The Prince!"
Frederick entered the boudoir. The Maréchale appeared in her petticoat, and her hair hanging down her back in disorder.
["Ah! thanks! You are going to save me!] 'tis the second time! You are one of those who never count the cost!"
"A thousand pardons!" said Frederick, catching her round the waist with both hands.
"How now? What are you doing?" stammered the Maréchale, at the same time, surprised and cheered up by his manner.