Instead of waiting until the matin
bell should ring out from the old clock tower of the Palace of Justice,
she directed the signal to be given from the nearer belfry of St.
Germain l'Auxerrois. As the harsh sound rang through the air of that
warm summer night, it was caught up and echoed from tower to tower,
rousing all Paris from their slumbers.
Immediately from every quarter of that ancient city uprose a tumult as
of hell. The clanging of bells, the crashing doors, the rush of armed
men, the musket-shots, the shrieks of their victims, and high over all
the yells of the mob, fiercer and more pitiless than hungry wolves--made
such an uproar that the stoutest hearts shrank appalled, and the sanest
appear to have lost their reason. Women unsexed, men wanting but the
strength of the wild beast, children without a single charm of youth or
innocence, crowded the streets where rising day still struggled with
the glare of a thousand torches. They smelt the odor of blood, and,
thirsting to indulge their passions for once with impunity, committed
horrors that have become the marvel of history.
Within the walls of the Louvre, within the hearing of Charles and his
mother, if not actually within their sight, one of the foulest scenes of
this detestable tragedy was enacted. At daybreak, says Queen Margaret of
Navarre, her husband rose to go and play tennis, with a determination
to be present at the King's _lever_, and demand justice for the assault
on the admiral.
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