At first it appeared certain that there would be a terrible conflict between the mob and the soldiers, but the officer, by a lucky hit, not only saved my life—at least for the time—but cajoled the crowd into good humour.
"Is this the fellow who slew Condé?" he asked, to which came an answering chorus of "Yes, yes! Down with the murderer!"
Until that moment I had no idea what my supposed crime was, and the officer's question filled me with horror. Condé dead! and I charged with murder! It seemed monstrous, impossible. But the officer was speaking, and I must try to understand.
"Do you want all who were in the plot punished?" and again there broke out an assenting yell.
"Then let me remove this lad, you imbeciles! If you knock him on the head now, it will be all over: while, if he is imprisoned, the authorities will soon discover his accomplices."
This suggestion met with a torrent of applause, and the ruffians offered no further resistance to the soldiers, who, forming in a body, marched me downstairs into the court where they had left their horses. I was immediately placed on one and firmly bound; the troopers mounted, the officer issued his orders, and we set off accompanied by the mob.
The city was in a state of seething excitement, which increased wherever our procession came in view. The people, pouring from the houses in thousands, blocked the roads until they became almost impassable, and the leader of the horsemen was in despair. Every one wished to see the wretch who had murdered Condé, and numbers shook their fists at me and cried, "Kill the assassin!"
Some, however, regarded me as a martyr, and angry cries against the soldiers, mingled with shouts of "Down with Condé!" began to be heard. At one spot in particular a determined rush was made by a number of burly ruffians directed by a little man from the window of a corner house. I recognised my late gaoler, Pillot, and was glad that he had escaped, though much afraid that his attempted rescue would only make the authorities more certain of my guilt.
Two or three soldiers were knocked over, but the rush was stayed, and after this the friends of De Retz, for such I concluded them to be, confined their attention chiefly to threats. Still the danger of an outbreak was considerable, and the officer in charge, fearful of the consequences, decided to convey me to the Bastille.
By riding through the less frequented streets, and breaking into a trot wherever such a course was possible, we gradually drew ahead of our undesirable escort, and at length turned into the famous avenue. Throughout the journey I had anxiously scanned the faces of the multitude, hoping to see Raoul, or D'Arçy, or my English friend, John Humphreys. But I had not recognised a single acquaintance, and now my heart sank as we halted before the first massive gate, guarded by sentries.