'Poor little friend, I will do for you what I can, but that is not much. Now let us to bed.' CHAPTER XXII. On the 4th of May, the opening of the States-General was inaugurated by a solemn procession and service at Versailles. The king, the queen, the whole court and the deputies of the three orders assembled in the church of Notre Dame to hear chanted the 'Veni Creator.' The hymn ended, the procession formed in the church, and passed out at the great door, crossed the market-place and the Rue de la Pompe, traversed the Place d'Armes, entered the Avenue de Sceaux, which did not, as now, extend in its full breadth to the Place, but was blocked in the middle by buildings; thence into the Rue de Satory, and so to the Cathedral of S. Louis. The French and Swiss guards lined the way, the walls of the houses were hung with tapestries and costly damasks, and the whole length of the streets along which the court and deputies were to walk was laid down with crimson carpets. The balconies were hung with garlands, banners were suspended from the windows, and triumphal arches spanned the road. At intervals, bands of music were placed, and everywhere were grouped orange-trees and exotics from the Versailles palace gardens. Crowds filled every vantage-point; windows, galleries, roofs, presented visions of beaming faces, and as far as the eye could see up the streets appeared heads. The Place d'Armes was densely thronged, and the people were allowed to enter within the rails enclosing the Court of the Ministers, and to cling to every bar, and cluster in ranks on every step of the palace front. The first in the procession were the five hundred and fifty deputies of the Third Estate in black suits, white falling cravats, and black silk cloaks. As the head of this sable line appeared, a female voice exclaimed: 'Ah, mon Dieu! there is surely a funeral!' The speaker was Madame Deschwanden, whom the interest of the day had attracted, along with Madeleine, to Versailles. 'A funeral, ah a funeral!' was echoed by several on all sides; then Madeleine raising her voice answered, 'A funeral, yes. They are burying abuses,' which raised a laugh. 'Who can that be, that little pale man, with parboiled eyes? My faith! he is a cripple, he is deformed, they help him along, or he would not be able to walk. I wonder who he is?' Madeleine did not know, none of those around knew. It was George Couthon, deputy for the Puy de Dôme. 'And there!' A thunder of cheers rent the air as a large-built man, his huge head covered with a heap of shaggy hair, a massive forehead, dark well-arched brows and large luminous eyes, but with the lower portion of the face scarred with eruptions, fleshy and coarse, emerged from the church of Our Lady. 'Mirabeau! vive Mirabeau!' was roared by the crowd, caps were tossed into the air, handkerchiefs were waved from every window, and flower bunches fell at his feet, cast by fair hands from the balconies.