“The men of the Faubourg de Gloire have the Cour des Princes! Hurrah for the Faubourg de Gloire!” Again a mighty roar shook the very roofs of the houses.
Another court of the palace had fallen!
The sun caught the bronze of the cannons in the square and they flashed like scarlet fire through the iron-grey smoke clouds.
“The men of the Faubourg Saint-Marceau have taken over the Cour des Suisses!”
The last court of the Tuileries was in the hands of the people.
Lisle stood still in the sunshine watching the end of all that had made up his life. He was too young and inexperienced to realize very much beyond the things that he had always known, quiet cherishing of old traditions handed down, riches, beauty, unthinking narrowness. His king and queen were in hiding in the back confines of the Tuileries. The great palace itself was given over to the people who had taken it with bayonet and gun. The roar of the cannons and of the thousands of voices meant a good-by to the old ways. Lisle stood there like a statue, his hands clenched at his sides, tears stinging his eyelids, his gold hair ablaze in the sun. Then, suddenly, almost without knowing it, he raised his voice and cried with all his might:
“God save King Louis!”
He had hardly cried the last word before he was seized from the cart and half dragged, half carried at a swift pace down a side street off the rue Royale, opposite which the cart had been standing. His captor turned a corner swiftly, and then another, and puffing and gasping for breath, he finally pushed Lisle under a gabled doorway where they could not be seen from the street. Lisle’s blue eyes flashed fire into quiet brown ones. His captor was a short, fat man in a snuff-colored cloak and wide hat. He had a round, kindly face and, in spite of the situation, he was smiling.
“Take your hand off me. You are not to touch me!”
Lisle was so angry that he spoke with difficulty and his companion was so blown that he could only puff and pant. He looked furtively around the arched doorway of the deserted shop.