ate, or in the court, all day long. It was late ere
Albert came--he had been waiting for him, and whispered, as he alighted,
'Stay here to-night to take care of your sisters--don't go home.' Albert
looked at him with astonishment; he had, indeed, perceived symptoms of
some commotion, but fancied, as most of Paris did, that it would be
directed against the Temple. 'What is your meaning?' said he. 'I entreat
you to stay here--you will be near your sisters; and if there be need for
another hand, mine shall not be far off--very well!--we shall be there.'
Albert pressed him with questions, but could extract nothing; and after
giving the man some money, persisted; in returning home as usual."

"All know the frightful story of the day after this. Albert's anxiety for
us makes him brave every danger, and he comes to us again. The first
person he sees at our door is Jaquemart, in the costume of the most
atrocious of bandits; our ladies had not dared to bid him go away, but his
appearance made them tremble. 'I did not desire you to come hither, but to
stay here,' he said; 'why have I not been obeyed?' 'Why do you speak
so--was this house particularly menaced?' 'I know nothing of that--at such
a moment one should fear everything.'"

"We heard groans, weeping, all Paris had not been at _the massacre_. It
was late. They pressed Albert to stay, but he would not. He promised,
however, to come back next morning.----That day he was obliged to stay
at home till about three o'clock, arranging and burning papers. He then
came out to visit us, and found himself in the midst of crowds of men,
drunken and bloody; many were naked to the waist, their breasts covered
with blood. They carried fragments of clothing on their pikes and
sabres--their faces were inflamed, their eyes haggard, the whole scene
hideous. These groups became more and more frequent and numerous as he
advanced. In mortal anxiety for us, he determined to push through
everything, and, urging his horse to its speed, reached at length the
front of the Hotel Beaumarchais. There he was stopped by an immense
crowd--always the same figures naked and bloodstained, but here their
looks were those of enraged fiends. They shout, they scream, they sing,
they dance--the saturnalia of hell. On seeing Albert's cabriolet, they
redoubled their cries--'An aristocrat! give it him, give it him!' In a
moment the cabriolet is surrounded, and from the midst of the crowd an
object rises and moves tow