The people strongly objected to the King’s continuing his route, and had resolved to send a courier to the National Assembly to know its sentiments. In fact, a citizen of Varennes, an M. Maugin, surgeon by profession, had started at full speed for Paris. M. de Goguelot saw that there was not an instant to lose; he dashed from the house, and found M. de Malmy at the door. “Monsieur,” he said, “you live here, therefore you know this part of the country. A man, come what will, must set out for Stenay to advise M. de Bouillé of the predicament in which the King is placed, and return with a sufficient force to rescue him.” “I will go myself,” said M. de Malmy. And sticking his spurs into his horse, he set off at a gallop. At M. Gerbaut’s door, he saw a file of National Guards, who commanded him to stop. “All very well,” replied M. de Malmy; “but I intend to go on.” “Not you, more than another!” cried an officer, seizing his horse by the bridle. “If you advance another step,” said M. Roland, the commander of the National Guard, cocking a pistol, “I will shoot you.” M. de Malmy, without reply, spurred his horse right on to him. M. Roland fired off the pistol so close that the flame blinded M. de Malmy’s horse, at the same time as the bullet passed through the fleshy part of the horseman’s arm. The frightened animal reared, and fell back upon his master. From the chamber where I was engaged in watching the King, I heard the pistol-shot, the fall of the horse and man, and the scream of a woman. I recognised the voice of Mdlle. Sophie. I dashed down stairs, and arrived in time to see her throw herself on the breathless, and, as she thought, dead body of M. de Malmy. “Réné, Réné!” she cried. “Help me—oh, help me!” I rushed out of the house, took M. de Malmy in my arms, and, at the moment when he tried to stand, I took him into the house, and laid him on M. Gerhaut’s bed. “He is dead—he is dead! They have killed him, the wretches!” cried the unhappy and despairing girl, who was covered with the blood which had flowed from his wound. At this moment, M. de Malmy opened his eyes. “He is not dead, Mdlle. Sophie,” cried I. “Oh!” said she. And she threw herself prostrate on the bed. “Leave me—leave me!” said M. de Malmy, making an effort to lift himself up. “I must go and seek M. de Bouillé.” Pain and weakness compelled him to fall back again. “In the name of heaven, stay there, Alphonse!” cried Mdlle. Sophie. “Do not move, or you will uselessly throw away your life. You owe me somewhat; grant me that favor.” “I must,” said the young man. “I think that my leg is broken.” “Réné, Réné! I pray, I implore you, my friend—my brother—run for a surgeon!” “Immediately!” said I, dashing out into the street. But it was impossible to move. The crowd had become something fearful. “Hussars!” cried M. de Goguelot, “are you for the King or the nation?” They all replied, “For the nation!” “The others?”