lon the very
wildest of confusions.

From the windows the peasantry could now be seen, by the light of their
torches, marching up the long avenue that fronted the Chateau, and
headed by a single drum on which the bearer did no more than beat the
step. They were a fierce, unkempt band, rudely armed--some with scythes,
some with sickles, some with hedge-knives, and some with hangers; whilst
here and there was one who carried a gun, and perhaps a bayonet as well.
Nor were there men only in the rebellious ranks. There were an almost
equal number of women in crimson caps, their bosoms bare, their heads
dishevelled, their garments filthy and in rags--for the tooth of poverty
had bitten deeply into them during the past months.

As they swung along to the rhythmical thud of the drum, their voices
were raised in a fearful chorus that must have made one think of the
choirs of hell, and the song they sang was the song of Rouget de l'Isle,
which all France had been singing these twelve months past:

"Aux armes, citoyens!
Formez vos bataillons.
Allons, marchons!
Qu'un sang inpur
Abreuve nos sillons!"

Ever swelling as they drew nearer came the sound of that terrible
hymn to the ears of the elegant, bejewelled, bepowdered company in the
Chateau. The gates were reached and found barred. An angry roar went up
to Heaven, followed by a hail of blows upon the stout, ironbound oak,
and an imperious call to open.

In the courtyard below the Marquis had posted the handful of servants
that remained faithful--for reasons that Heaven alone may discern--to
the fortunes of the house. He had armed them with carbines and supplied
them with ammunition. He had left them orders to hold off the mob from
the outer gates as long as possible; but should these be carried, they
were to fall back into the Chateau itself, and make fast the doors.
Meanwhile, he was haranguing the gentlemen--some thirty of them, as we
have seen--in the salon and urging them to arm themselves so that they
might render assistance.

His instances were met with a certain coldness, which at last was given
expression by the most elegant Vicomte d'Ombreval--the man who was about
to become his son-in-law.

"My dear Marquis," protested the young man, his habitually supercilious
mouth looking even more supercilious than usual as he now spoke, "I beg
that you will consider what you are proposing. We are your guests, we
others, and you ask us to defend your ga