fire, and messengers were
sent to bring in national guards from the country round. At first
Sauce beguiled the king over a bottle of wine, and then introduced a
travelled fellow-townsman who identified him. A scene of emotion
followed, and loyal citizens pressed their sovereign in their arms.
They talked of escorting him to Montmedy, a hundred strong, and Lewis,
ready to believe them, declared he would be content with fifty. As
night wore on, a number of officers collected: Choiseul and Goguelat,
after their long ride from Pont de Somme-Vesle; the Count de Damas
from Clermont; and at last Deslon, a captain of the German horse that
Bouille chiefly trusted. Choiseul's men, and some of those quartered
at Varennes, were faithful, and it was thought possible to clear the
street. Urged by the queen, Damas wished to attempt it, and long after
he assured an English friend that he regretted that he did not lead
the charge, in defiance of the king's optimism, and of his reluctance
to be saved by the sword. He said to Deslon in German, "Mount and
attack!" But Deslon saw that it was too late. Goguelat threatened to
cut his way out, and was unhorsed by a pistol shot.

Drouet was master of the situation. It was he who managed the
hesitating soldiers and the hesitating townsmen. At five in the
morning Romeuf and Baillon arrived, with Lafayette's order, and the
decree of the sovereign Assembly. There was no more illusion then
about pursuing the journey, and all the king's hope was that he might
gain time for Bouille to deliver him. Bouille was at Stenay, twenty
miles off. He spent the night watching the road, with his arm through
his horse's bridle. Long after every possible allowance for delay, his
son came up with the tidings of Varennes. The trumpets roused the
Royal Germans, but their colonel was hostile, and precious hours were
lost. Bouille gave all his money to his men, told them what manner of
expedition they were on, told them that their king was a prisoner, and
led them to the rescue. It was past nine when he reached the height
that looks down on the valley of the Aire. The horses were tired, the
bridge was barricaded, the fords were unknown. All was quiet at
Varennes, and the king was already miles away on the road to Clermont.
It was the end of a bright dream, and of a career which had been noted
for unvarying success.

As the unhappy man, who had so narrowly missed the prize, turned his
horse's head in the direction of e