Mademoiselle happened. It was eleven in the morning when she reached the
Porte Banniere, and she sat three hours in her state carriage without
seeing a person. With amusing politeness, the governor of the city at last
sent her some confectionery,--agreeing with John Keats, who held that
young women were beings fitter to be presented with sugar-plums than with
one's time. But he took care to explain that the bonbons were not
official, and did not recognize her authority. So she quietly ate them,
and then decided to take a walk outside the walls. Her council of war
opposed this step, as they did every other; but she coolly said (as the
event proved) that the enthusiasm of the populace would carry the city for
her, if she could only get at them.
So she set out on her walk. Her two beautiful ladies-of-honor, the
Countesses de Fiesque and de Frontenac, went with her; a few attendants
behind. She came to a gate. The people were all gathered inside the
ramparts. "Let me in," demanded the imperious young lady. The astonished
citizens looked at each other and said nothing. She walked on,--the crowd
inside keeping pace with her. She reached another gate. The enthusiasm was
increased. The captain of the guard formed his troops in line and saluted
her. "Open the gate," she again insisted.
Pages:
173
174
175
176
177
178
179
180
181
182
183
184
185
186
187
188
189
190
191
192
193
194
195
196
197