Terrified and bewildered by the scenes that met me, I reached the citadel of St. Pierre, over which the tricolor had replaced the white banner of the Bourbons. I was compelled to proceed there on foot, under a burning sun; for when I inquired at the hotel for a carriage, I was insulted as an "aristocrat." On reaching the gate of the fortress, I found the guard in a state of disorder and intoxication, seated under a verandah, smoking Havannah cigars, and drinking sangaree. I requested one to lead me to their commander.
"What commander do you mean?" stammered one.
"The commandant," said I indignantly; "M. de Mazancy, Chevalier of St. Louis, and Sieur de St. Valliere."
"Who the devil are you talking about, citoyenne?" asked a tipsy corporal with an oath; "we know of no such man, as the assembly has abolished all such trumpery and orders of nobility."
"Ma belle" said another, "you mean old Citizen Mazancy, whom we have sent to the gamelle—where, par Dieu, he has before sent me and many a better man."
"A bas les aristocrats—vive la nation—vive la Ligne!" cried one or two others reeling round me.
Paris seemed to have followed me over the sea, for the wretches now seized me with great rudeness.
"Ouf, my little coquette," said one, tearing off my head-dress, "is this the latest fashion from Paris?"
I burst into tears, as I knew not what was in futurity for my father or myself, if such were the state of his garrison, in which he had maintained a discipline worthy of the proverbial Colonel de Martinet of the Régiment du Roi; and, indeed, that officer had always been my father's favorite model. The tipsy corporal was about to insist on kissing me, when he was roughly thrust aside by a tall dark officer, in whom, by his fierce eyes, enormous moustache, and cicatriced forehead, I recognized Thibaud, the son of our old steward at St. Valliere.
"Rouvigny," I exclaimed; "help me, M. de Rouvigny," while the soldiers uttered a half-tipsy shout of mockery and anger at the intrusion of an epaulette.