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.