The royal army drew near; on July 1, 1652, Mademoiselle heard their drums beating outside.  “I shall not stay at home to-day,” she said to her attendants, at two in the morning; “I feel convinced that I shall be called to do some unforeseen act, as I was at Orleans.”  And she was not far wrong.  The battle of the Porte St. Antoine was at hand.

Conde and Turenne!  The two greatest names in the history of European wars, until a greater eclipsed them both.  Conde, a prophecy of Napoleon, a general by instinct, incapable of defeat, insatiable of glory, throwing his marshal’s baton within the lines of the enemy, and following it; passionate, false, unscrupulous, mean.  Turenne, the precursor of Wellington rather, simple, honest, truthful, humble, eating off his iron camp-equipage to the end of life.  If it be true, as the ancients said, that an army of stags led by a lion is more formidable than an army of lions led by a stag, then the presence of two such heroes would have given lustre to the most trivial conflict.  But that fight was not trivial upon which hung the possession of Paris and the fate of France; and between these two great soldiers it was our Mademoiselle who was again to hold the balance, and to decide the day.

The battle raged furiously outside the city.  Frenchman fought against Frenchman, and nothing distinguished the two armies except a wisp of straw in the hat, on the one side, and a piece of paper on the other.  The people of the metropolis, fearing equally the Prince and the King, had shut the gates against all but the wounded and the dying.  The Parliament was awaiting the result of the battle, before taking sides.  The Queen was on her knees in the Carmelite Chapel.  De Retz was shut up in his palace, and Gaston of Orleans in his,—­the latter, as usual, slightly indisposed; and Mademoiselle, passing anxiously through the streets, met nobleman after nobleman of her acquaintance, borne with ghastly wounds to his residence.  She knew that the numbers were unequal; she knew that her friends must be losing ground.  She rushed back to her father, and implored him to go forth in person, rally the citizens, and relieve Conde.  It was quite impossible; he was so exceedingly feeble; he could not walk a hundred yards.  “Then, Sir,” said the indignant Princess, “I advise you to go immediately to bed.  The world had better believe that you cannot do your duty, than that you will not.”

Time passed on, each moment registered in blood.  Mademoiselle went and came; still the same sad procession of dead and dying; still the same mad conflict, Frenchman against Frenchman, in the three great avenues of the Faubourg St. Antoine.  She watched it from the city walls till she could bear it no longer.  One final, desperate appeal, and her dastard father consented, not to act himself, but again to appoint her his substitute.  Armed with the highest authority, she hastened to the Hotel de Ville, where the Parliament was in irresolute session.  The citizens thronged round her, as she went, imploring her to become their leader.  She reached the scene, exhibited her credentials, and breathlessly issued demands which would have made Gaston’s hair stand on end.