She intrusted Count St. Priest,
minister of the interior, with a division of the guards in the inner
court of the palace. She inspired the timid women with hope. She
smiled at her children, who, timid and anxious at the confusion
which surrounded them, fled to the queen for refuge, and clung to
her.
Darker and darker grew the reports that came meanwhile to the
palace. They were the storm-birds, so to speak, that precede the
tempest. They announced the near approach of the people of Paris, of
the women, who were no longer unarmed, and who had been joined by
thousands of the National Guard, who, in order to give the train of
women a more imposing appearance, had brought two cannon with them,
and who, armed with knives and guns, pikes and axes, and singing
wild war-songs, were marching on as the escort of the women.
The queen heard all without alarm, without fear. She commanded the
women, who stood around her weeping and wringing their hands, to
withdraw to their own apartments, and protect the dauphin and the
princess, to lock the doors behind them and to admit no one--no one,
excepting herself. She took leave of the children with a kiss, and
bade them be fearless and untroubled. She did not look at them as
the women took them away. She breathed firmly as the doors closed
behind them.
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