'Yes,' they brought me word. 'A close carriage, no doubt containing
a state prisoner, had been escorted by dragoons on the way to the
Bastille.'
The man brought me back the answer, weeping. I scolded the fellow
well for thinking that these rogues SAYING Madame was at the
Bastille made it so, and yet it echoed my own alarm. I had at least
ascertained one point. She had not been transported to some solitary
castle in the country, but must be near at hand.
I must now go home, and see what help was to be had; but as they
would never let me pass the gates of Paris looking as I knew I must
look, I was obliged to ride back and meet the carriage, which had
bidden to follow us, and return to it in order to re-enter the city.
My mother was at St. Germain with our own Queen; who would be my
resource? I thought I had better first go home and see what Sir
Francis Ommaney's counsel would be, and whether he thought the
English ambassador, Sir Richard Browne, could give any help, though,
unfortunately, poor Meg was no longer an English subject. There was
consternation enough when I came in with my terrible news, but at
least there was common-sense, and not shrieking. Sir Francis
recommended me at once to dress myself to go to St. Germain, while he
would repair to the embassy, since Sir Richard was the most likely
person to be able to advise him. We also thought of sending a
courier to Solivet, who was with the army on the frontier; and I put
on a dress fit to obtain admission at St.
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