Two of the women forming the deputation were wounded close by his side.
Gilbert and De Charny threw themselves into the crowd. These two men—the one proceeding from the highest class of society, the other from the lowest-met, working in the same cause.
The one wishes to save the queen, from his ardent love for the queen; the other wishes to save the king, from his love for royalty.
On the gates being opened, the women rushed into the courtyard, and had thrown themselves into the ranks of the body-guards and those of the Flanders regiment. They threaten; they entreat; they caress. Who could resist women when they implore those whom they address in the name of their sisters, their mothers?
“Room, gentlemen, room for the deputation!” cried Gilbert.
And all the ranks immediately opened to allow Mounier to pass with the unhappy women he was about to present to the king.
The king, having been informed by De Charny, who had hastened to him, waited for the deputation in the room contiguous to the chapel.
It was Mounier who was to speak in the name of the Assembly.
It was Madeleine Chambry, the flower-girl, who had beaten the drum, who was to speak in the name of the women.
Mounier said a few words to the king, and presented to him the young flower-girl.
The latter stepped forward a pace or two and wished to speak, but could only utter these words:—
“Sire—bread!”
And she fell fainting to the ground.
“Help! help!” cried the king.
Andrée hurried forward, and handed her smelling-bottle to the king.
“Ah, Madame!” said De Charny to the queen, in a reproachful tone.
The queen turned pale and withdrew to her own apartment.
“Prepare the equipages,” said she; “the king and I are going to Rambouillet.”
During this time poor Madeleine Chambry was recovering her senses, and finding herself in the king’s arms, who was making her inhale the salts he held in his hand, she uttered a cry of shame, and wished to kiss his hand.
But the king prevented her.
“My lovely child,” said he, “allow me to embrace you; you are well worth the trouble.”
“Oh, Sire, Sire! since you are so kind,” said the young girl, “give an order—”
“What order?” inquired the king.
“An order to have wheat sent to Paris, so that famine may cease.”
“My dear child,” said the king, “I will willingly sign the order you request, but in truth I am afraid it will not be of much service to you.”
The king seated himself at a table and began to write, when suddenly a single musket-shot was heard, followed by a tolerably brisk fire of musketry.
“Ah, good God! good God!” exclaimed the king, “what can have happened? See what it is, Monsieur Gilbert.”
A second charge upon another group of women had been made; and this charge had brought about the isolated musket-shot and the volley which had been heard.
The isolated musket-shot had been fired by a man in the crowd, and had broken the arm of Monsieur de Savonnière, a lieutenant in the guards, at the moment when that arm was raised to strike a young soldier, who was behind a sentry-box, and who, with uplifted and unarmed hands, was protecting a woman who was on her knees behind him.
This musket-shot was replied to on the part of the guards by five or six shots from their carbines.
Two of the shots told. A woman fell dead.
Another was carried off seriously wounded.
The people became irritated; and in their turn two of the body-guards fell from their horses.
At the same instant, cries of “Room! room!” are heard; they were the men from the Faubourg St. Antoine, who were arriving, dragging with them three pieces of artillery, with they formed a battery opposite to the principal gate of the palace.
Fortunately the rain was falling in torrents; the match is uselessly applied to the touch-holes of these guns; the priming, completely sodden by the rain, does not ignite.
At this moment a voice whispers into the ear of Gilbert:—
“Monsieur de Lafayette is coming; he cannot be more than half a league from Versailles.”