Marchands, the echevins, and Marshal de l’Hopital, Governor of Paris—­all in the most intense anxiety.  She was brought into to great hall, but she would not sit down—­giving them her father’s letter, and then desiring that the town-guard should take up arms in all the quarters.  This was already done.  Then they were to send the Prince 2000 men, and to put 400 men under her orders in the Place Royale.  To all this they agreed; but when she asked them to give the Prince’s troops a passage through the city, they demurred, lest they should bring on themselves the horrors of war.

Again she commanded, she insisted, she raved, telling them that if they let the Prince’s army be destroyed those of M. de Turenne would assuredly come in and sack the city for its rebellion.

Marshal l’Hopital said that but for Mademoiselle’s friends, the royal army would never have come thither at all, and Madame de Nemours began to dispute with him, but Mademoiselle interfered, saying:  ’Recollect, while you are discussing useless questions the Prince is in the utmost danger;’ and, as we heard the cries of the people and beyond them the sharp rattle of musketry, she threatened them with appealing to the people.

She was really dignified in her strong determination, and she prevailed.  Evil as the whole conduct of the Prince had been, no doubt the magistrates felt that it would be a frightful reproach to let the flower of the gentlemen of France be massacred at their gates.  So again we went off towards the Port St. Antoine, hearing the firing and the shouts louder every minute, at the entrance of Rue St. Antoine we met M. Guitaut on horse-back, supported by another man, bare-headed, all unbuttoned, and pale as death.  ’Shalt thou die?’ screamed out Mademoiselle, as we passed the poor man, and he shook his head, though he had a great musket ball in his body.  Next came M. de Vallon, carried in a chair, but not too much hurt to call out:  ‘Alas, my good mistress, we are all lost.’

‘No, no,’ she answered; ‘I have orders to open a retreat.’

‘You give me life,’ he said.

More and more wounded, some riding, some on foot, some carried on ladders, boards, doors, mattresses.  I saw an open door.  It was that of Gneffier Verdon, Clement’s brother-in-law, and Darpent was assisting to carry in a wounded man whose blood flowed so fast that it made a stream along the pavement before the door.  Mademoiselle insisted on knowing who it was, and there was only too much time, for, in spite of our impatience and the deadly need, we could only move at a foot’s pace through the ghastly procession we were meeting.  The answer came back—­’It is the Count d’Aubepine.  He would bleed to death before he could be carried home, so M. Darpent has had him carried into his sister’s house.’

My heart was sick for poor Cecile.  ‘My brother-in-law!’ I said.  ‘Oh, Mademoiselle, I entreat of you to let me go to his aid.’