were more and more inclining to the side of Conde and the people.  Orleans was her own hereditary city.  Her father, as was his custom in great emergencies, declared that he was very ill and must go to bed immediately; but it was as easy for her to be strong as it was for him to be weak; so she wrung from him a reluctant plenipotentiary power; she might go herself and try what her influence could do.  And so she rode forth from Paris, one fine morning, March 27, 1652,—­rode with a few attendants, half in enthusiasm, half in levity, aiming to become a second Joan of Arc, secure the city, and save the nation.  “I felt perfectly delighted,” says the young girl, “at having to play so extraordinary a part.”

The people of Paris had heard of her mission, and cheered her as she went.  The officers of the army, with an escort of five hundred men, met her half way from Paris.  Most of them evidently knew her calibre, were delighted to see her, and installed her at once over a regular council of war.  She entered into the position with her natural promptness.  A certain grave M. de Rohan undertook to tutor her privately, and met his match.  In the public deliberation, there were some differences of opinion.  All agreed that the army should not pass beyond the Loire:  this was Gaston’s suggestion, and nevertheless a good one.  Beyond this all was left to Mademoiselle.  Mademoiselle intended to go straight to Orleans.  “But the royal army had reached there already.”  Mademoiselle did not believe it.  “The citizens would not admit her.”  Mademoiselle would see about that.  Presently the city government of Orleans sent her a letter, in great dismay, particularly requesting her to keep her distance.  Mademoiselle immediately ordered her coach, and set out for the city.  “I was naturally resolute,” she naively remarks.

Her siege of Orleans is perhaps the most remarkable on record.  She was right in one thing; the royal army had not arrived:  but it might appear at any moment; so the magistrates quietly shut all their gates, and waited to see what would happen.

Mademoiselle happened.  It was eleven in the morning when she reached the Porte Banniere, and she sat three hours in her state carriage without seeing a person.  With amusing politeness, the governor of the city at last sent her some confectionery,—­agreeing with John Keats, who held that young women were beings fitter to be presented with sugar-plums than with one’s time.  But he took care to explain that the bonbons were not official, and did not recognize her authority.  So she quietly ate them, and then decided to take a walk outside the walls.  Her council of war opposed this step, as they did every other; but she coolly said (as the event proved) that the enthusiasm of the populace would carry the city for her, if she could only get at them.