This was the most terrible part to me of all. We were
no longer looking on to save life, but firing on the loyal and on the
army where my son was. Suppose the brave boy had broken away and
ridden on! I was foolish enough to feel as if they were aiming at
his heart when the fire and smoke burst from the mouths of those old
brass guns, and the massive tower seemed to rock under our feet, and
the roar was in our ears, and Madame de Fiesque and the other ladies
screamed in chorus, and when the smoke rolled away from before our
eyes we could see that the foremost ranks were broken, that all had
halted, and that dead and wounded were being picked up.
In very truth that prompt decision of Mademoiselle's saved the
Prince's army. Turenne could not send on his troops in the face of
the fire of the Bastille, and, for aught he knew, of the resistance
of all his army through the Porte St. Antoine without the loss of one
wounded man or a single gun. Mademoiselle, having seen the effect of
her cannon, came down again to provide for wine and food being sent
to the exhausted soldiers, who had been fighting all day in such
scorching heat that we heard that at the first moment of respite, M.
le Prince hurried into an orchard, took off every fragment of
clothing, and rolled about on the grass under the trees to cool
himself after the intolerable heat.
Just as I emerged from the court of the Bastille, some one touched
me, and said, 'Pardon me, Madame,' and, looking round, I saw M.
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