Meanwhile the mob was increasing in numbers and violence every moment, and, as the soldiers had received orders not to fire, the courtyard was soon filled with excited people who howled, and danced, and shouted for the King to be produced. Two or three times I glanced anxiously at Belloc, wondering how much longer his patience would last.
"Open the doors," cried the foremost rioters; "we will enter and see for ourselves where the King is."
"The King is in bed!" cried M. Belloc angrily.
"Ah! at St. Germain!" shouted a fellow dressed like a street hawker, but whose voice I recognised, "We are betrayed!"
It was very stupid to interfere, but I could not resist the chance.
"Ha! ha! friend Peleton, then for once you are on the wrong side!" I laughed. "Generally it is you who do the betraying."
The fellow rushed at me savagely, but the young Englishman drove him back, saying, "Down, dog! Keep with your kind! You are not wanted with honest men."
"Peace!" cried M. Belloc angrily, for he saw, what I did not, that the crowd was gradually working itself into a fit of passion.
Fortunately, just then the door was opened, and Raoul, coming outside, was immediately recognised as the messenger of the Duke of Orleans.
"The King!" they yelled; "Where is he?" "Have you seen him?" "Speak or we will pull the place down."