Marie shivered and gave a gasp of terror, but her aunt still smiled scornfully; she was really an amazing woman.

"What imbeciles!" she exclaimed; "they do not know who is their best friend."

"Nor care," said I, "they intend being their own friends this evening.

Stay there a moment while I see to things downstairs."

"Do not venture into the street, Albert," cried Marie, "you will be killed," and I promised to take no risks.

Collecting the servants, who were half dead through fright, I set them to work barricading the lower part of the house, and as soon as they had done all that was possible, I ran again up the stairs to the room which the ladies still occupied. By now the street was packed, and more than one dwelling house had been broken open. Out went costly furniture to be smashed into fragments by the howling rioters, and, "Down with Conde! Death to the friends of Conde!" echoed and re-echoed on all sides.

The mob moved nearer, and attacked the house on the opposite side of the street. Crash went the door, and the people rushed in with cries of triumph. We saw them appear in a room on a level with our own; the window was flung open, and a beautiful statue was hurled on to the pavement below. Down came rich hangings, costly pictures and gilded mirrors; the small articles only were stolen, the others were hacked and chopped and trampled to pieces underfoot.

"Madame," said I firmly, "you must delay no longer. For your niece's sake, if not for your own, you must attempt to escape."

A loud howl added force to my advice, and a dozen stalwart hands banged at our frail barricade. It could not resist long, and what chance would there be for us, when the rioters had swept it away?

"Down with the house! Burn it! Burn it! Have them out! Friends of Conde to the death! Room there for Pierre's club! Bravo, Pierre!"

"Madame," I cried pa.s.sionately, "listen to reason. Do you want this innocent girl killed before your eyes? These wild beasts will have no mercy."

"It is too late," she answered calmly, "and we both come from a race that knows how to die."

"It is not too late; there is still a chance. Get some clothes from the servants, and disguise yourselves; we can slip out at the back."

Even then I believe she would have stood her ground, but for Marie's evident terror. The poor girl could not conceal her dismay, and her eyes distended in fright as the hungry roar of the mob leaped from the street. Those in front hacked at the barrier: those behind urged on their fellows with deep-mouthed baying.

"In! In! Set it on fire! Death to Conde's friends!" they roared.

"Go!" said I sternly, pushing Madame Coutance out of the room, "and I pray that this poor girl's death is not laid to your account."

The terrified servants had already fled, but madame found some garments, in which the two dressed. I waited for them on the stairs, and my blood ran cold at the yells of the ravenous pack below. Crash!

Crash! The barrier was yielding! A few more stout blows and they would be upon us. A second, aye, even half a second might mean the difference to us between life and death.

"Quick! Quick!" I cried, as the ladies in their borrowed dresses ran from the room. "The barricade will fall at any moment!"

Half dragging, half supporting Marie, Madame Coutance and I ran swiftly along the landing, as, with the noise of a river in flood, the crowd burst into the hall.

"Down with Conde!"

The shout was appalling, and even Marie's aunt, for all her bravado, shrank at it. The sound of the savage voices urged us on, through the servants' quarters, down a narrow staircase, into the kitchen, and so to the yard beyond. The door was already wide open, and we pushed through to a side street. Just in time! A portion of the mob had swept round to the back of the house, and almost directly we found ourselves in the midst of the crowd, fighting, pushing, struggling, with all our might to force a way through.

Marie, poor girl, clung to me nervously in an almost fainting state, but her aunt walked boldly with head erect and her eyes flashing like stars. In spite of the terrible danger I could hardly repress a smile at sight of this high-born dame in her servant's dress, compelled to struggle with the _canaille_ like a woman of the markets. To make matters worse, we were forced to cry aloud, "Down with Conde!" which I did l.u.s.tily, but madame made many wry faces, and, but for her niece, would have refused outright. It was quite painful enough for her to hear others insulting the great hero.

Twice we were swung back to the door of the house, which was now completely wrecked; then, still surrounded by the mob, we were tossed, like floating straws, clear of the street. Since that night I have taken part in more than one fierce battle, but have never experienced the same feeling of horror as during that eventful struggle in the Rue Crillon.

The danger was not yet over; we had still some distance to walk, and every few yards we met groups of rioters hurrying to the work of destruction. Some cried, "Down with the Queen!" or "Down with the Parliament!" but most of them yelled "Down with Conde!" because for the moment that was the popular cry.

Just at first we walked rather briskly, but very soon Marie's pace became slower, she hung with greater weight on my arm, and I feared every moment she would faint; It was evident that unless she got better we should not reach St. Denis that night.

We were in a fairly quiet street when Madame Coutance suddenly exclaimed, "Let us rest a few minutes in this doorway. Marie, look up, child; there is nothing to fear now; we are safe here."

For answer, the girl, whose nerves were completely overwrought, shuddered and sobbed.

"Take me away," she cried, "oh, take me away. Back to Aunay; anywhere out of this horrible place."

"That is what we are going to do," I said soothingly. "I have a special permit which will pa.s.s us through the gate of St. Denis. But you must be strong and brave, or we shall not get there."

"I will try," she moaned, "I will try; but oh, it is horrible."

"Hush!" exclaimed her aunt sharply, "listen."

I had been too much occupied with Marie to pay attention to anything else, but now I distinctly heard the sound of voices on the other side of the door.

"Poor child," a woman was saying softly, "she is half dead with fright.

Let her come in, I say."

"But the rioters?" exclaimed a second person.

"Pouf! The street is clear enough. Take down the bar, Jules." Then we heard a sound as of a heavy bar being removed.

The door opened ever so slightly and a woman cried, "Quick, come in, before you are seen. Where is the poor girl? Cheer up, my little one, no one shall harm you here. Now, Jules, put up the bar again! Ah!

that is right. This way, monsieur," and she led us all into a tiny room, poorly furnished, but neat and clean.

She was a comely woman of middle age, rather short, with bright keen eyes, and pleasant face: her husband, Jules, was a ruddy-cheeked man, bald on the top of his head, but with a ring of stiff white hair which stood up like a fence.

"It is really very generous of you to risk so much for strangers," I began, but the woman would not let me finish.

"One cannot let a child die for want of a helping hand," said she briskly, "and as for these brigands, I would cut off all their heads at a blow. Ah, it is easy to see that you do not belong to the _canaille_."

I have had little experience of the sea, but as we sat in that room I think we must have felt like sailors who, after a stormy voyage, have glided into a peaceful harbour.

Both Jules and his wife were very attentive, especially to Marie, who was getting much calmer; they gave us food and drink, and offered to hide us in the house as long as we cared to stay.

"It is growing late," said they, "and you cannot go abroad to-night.

To-morrow----"

"The danger will be just as great," interrupted Madame Coutance. "We thank you for your kind offer, but, believe me, it will be better for us to depart now. Monsieur has a pa.s.s, and once outside the city we shall be safe."

"And to-morrow," said Marie, "it may be too late. Besides, you may get into trouble for hiding us, and then I should never forgive myself."

As far as my plans were concerned it was better to start at once, but I took no part in the discussion one way or the other, though feeling extremely pleased when Madame Coutance decided that we should sleep outside Paris.

The kindness of our good Samaritans, and the relief from the tumult, had done Marie so much good that she was ready to face the danger again, so, at the end of an hour, we prepared to start. I offered Jules a sum of money, but neither he nor his wife would take it, and we could only thank them, and hope they would not suffer for having afforded us a temporary refuge.

CHAPTER XXIII.