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.
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