A few minutes later the demoiselle yawned. "The old fellow is too tiresome," she said; "let us go to the palace and get our bread."
Evidently the same thought moved the rest of the deputation. They began to file out, while President Meunier was still addressing them, with a restless scuffling of their feet, and a murmuring among themselves, "To the palace! To the palace!"
The last Tournay saw of Demoiselle Liberté she was pushing through the crowd that made way for her right willingly, while she cried out: "I will show you the bakery, my brave people; I am now on my way to interview the chief baker."
The forty thousand got their bread. They got their bread and more. They pressed in so close upon their monarch, they were so menacing, so determined in their way, that he promised to dismiss his royal Flanders regiment and go back to Paris with his beloved subjects. And so the hungry, sullen, desperate mob became a shouting, happy, victorious one. They cheered their monarch, who had sworn to be a father to his people; they cheered the royal family, even the queen; but most of all they cheered the loaves of bread which were distributed among the eager multitude. Every shop in the town was soon depleted of its stock, and all the bakers were working over-time to supply the food.
"Did I not tell you I would lead you where bread was plenty?" demanded the Demoiselle de la Liberté gayly of those gathered around. "The king is a capital baker; we have only to keep him with us and we shall have food at all times." And she dipped her crust in a cup of wine.
"We will take our baker back with us to Paris," cried one.
"Aye, and the baker's wife and his little boy," cried another. At this there was a laugh.
Tournay, who had aided in the distribution of the food, approached the group, relieved by the thought that all were satisfied and contented, at least for the moment.
"Ah, there is my handsome compatriot," exclaimed the demoiselle as soon as she set eyes upon him. "Wilt thou join us in our supper, compatriot?" she called out. She was seated carelessly on the truck of the gun-carriage, with a cup of wine in one hand and a half-loaf in the other, her face flushed with excitement. Unlike most of the women who stood about her, she was of graceful form, with hands and arms unblackened by hard toil, and the skin of her throat soft and white. She wore her red cap in a rakish manner on the side of her head, its tassel falling down over her forehead between her eyes. Every little while she would throw it back by a quick toss of the head.