CHAPTER XIII.

THE NIGHT OF HORROR.

Marie Antoinette slept! The fearful excitement of the past day and

of the stormy evening, crowded with its events, had exhausted the

powers of the queen, and she had fallen into that deep, dreamless

sleep which sympathetic and gracious Nature sometimes sends to those

whom Fate pursues with suffering and peril.

Marie Antoinette slept! In the interior of the palace a deep calm

reigned, and Lafayette had withdrawn from the court in order to

sleep too. But below, upon this court, Revolution kept her vigils,

and glared with looks of hatred and vengeance to the dark walls

behind which the queen was sleeping.

The crown of France had for centuries sinned so much, and proved

false so much, that the love of the people had at last been

transformed into hate. The crown had so long sown the wind, that it

could not wonder if it had to reap the whirlwind. The crimes and

innovations which Louis XIV. and Louis XV. had sown upon the soil of

France, had created an abyss between the crown and the people, out

of which revolution must arise to avenge those crimes and sins of

the past upon the present. The sins of the fathers had to be visited

upon the children to the third and fourth generation.

Marie Antoinette did not know it; she did not see the abyss which

had opened between the crown and the people; the courtiers and

flatterers had covered it with flowers, and with the sounds of

festivity the cries of a distressed people had been drowned.

Now the flowers were torn away, the festive sounds had ceased, and

Marie Antoinette saw the abyss between the crown and the people; she

heard the curses, the raging cries of these exasperated men, who had

been changed from weak, obedient subjects into threatening,

domineering rebels. She looked with steady eye down into the abyss,

and saw the monster rise from the depths to destroy herself and her

whole house; but she would not draw back, she would not yield. She

would rather be dragged down and destroyed than meekly and miserably

to make her way to the camp of her enemies, to take refuge with

them.

Better to die with the crown on her head than to live robbed of her

crown in lowliness and in a, subject condition. Thus thought Marie

Antoinette, as at the close of that dreadful day she went to rest;

this was her prayer as she sank upon her couch:

"Give me power, O God, to die as a queen, if I can no longer live as

a queen! And strengthen my husband, that he may not only be a good

man, but a king too!"

With this prayer on her trembling lips, she had fallen asleep. But

when Campan stole on tiptoe to the queen's bed to watch her mistress

while she slept, Marie Antoinette opened her eyes again, and spoke

in her friendly way to her devoted servant.

"Go to bed, Campan," said she, "and the second maid must lie down

too. You all need rest after this evil day, and sleep is so

refreshing. Go, Campan, good-night!"

Madame de Campan had to obey, and stepped out into the antechamber,

where were the two other maids.

"The queen is asleep," she said, "and she has commanded us to go to

rest too. Shall we do so?"

The two women answered only with a shake of the head and a shrug of

the shoulders.

"I know very well that we are agreed," said Madame de Campan,

reaching her hand to them. "For us there must be no sleep to-night,

for we must watch the queen. Come, my friends, let us go into the

antechamber. We shall find Mr. Varicourt, who will tell us what is

going on outside."

On tiptoe the three women stole out into the second ante-chamber,

which was lighted only with a couple of glimmering wax tapers, and

in its desolate disorder, with the confusion of chairs, divans, and

tables, brought back sad recollections of the wild women who had on

the day before pressed into this apartment in their desire to speak

with the queen. Somebody had told them that this was the antechamber

of the queen, and they had withdrawn in order to go to the

antechamber of the king. But they now knew the way that led to the

apartments of the queen; they knew now that if one turned to the

left side of the palace, he would come at once into the apartments

occupied by the royal family, and that the queen occupied the

adjacent rooms, directly behind the hall of the Swiss Guard.

Madame de Campan thought of this, as she cast her glance over this

antechamber which adjoined the Swiss hall, and this thought filled

her with horror.

Varicourt had not yet come in; nothing disturbed the silence around

her, except the dreadful shouting and singing outside of the palace.

"Let us go back into the waiting-room," whispered her companions,

"it is too gloomy here. Only hear how they shout and laugh! O God,

it is a fearful night!"

"Yes, a fearful night," sighed Madame de Campan, "and the day that

follows it may be yet more fearful. But we must not lose our

courage. All depends upon our having decision, upon our defying

danger, and defending our mistress. And see, there comes Mr.

Varicourt," she continued, earnestly, as the door quickly opened,

and an officer of the Swiss guard came in with great haste.

"Tell us, my friend, what news do you bring us?"

"Bad news," sighed Varicourt. "The crowd is increasing every moment.

New columns have arrived from Paris, and not only the common people,

but the speakers and agitators are here. Everywhere are groups

listening to the dreadful speeches which urge on to regicide and

revolution. It is a dreadful, horrible night. Treachery, hatred,

wickedness around the palace, and cowardice and desertion pass out

from the palace to them, and open the doors. Many of the royal

soldiers have made common cause with the people, and walk arm in arm

with them around the square."

"And what do these dreadful men want?" asked Campan. "Why do they

encamp around the palace? What is their object?"

Mr. Varicourt sadly bowed his head, and a loud sigh came from his

courageous breast. "They want what they shall never have while I am

alive," he then said, with a decided look. "I have sworn fidelity to

the king and queen, and I shall keep it to death. My duty calls me,

for the hour of changing guards is near, and my post is below at the

great staircase which leads up here. We shall meet at daylight, if I

am then alive. But till then we shall do our duty. I shall guard the

grand staircase, do you guard the sleeping-room of the queen."

"Yes, we will do our duty," answered Madame de Campan, extending her

hand to him. "We will watch over those to whom we have devoted

ourselves, and to whom we have vowed fidelity. No one shall pass

into the chamber of the queen while we are alive, shall there?"

"Never," replied both of the women, with courageous decision.

"And no one shall ascend the great staircase so long as I live,"

said Varicourt. "Adieu now, ladies, and listen carefully to every

sound. If a voice calls to you, 'It is time,' wake the queen and

save her, for danger will then be right upon her. Hark, it is

striking three, that is the hour of changing guard. Farewell!"

He went quickly to the door, but there he stood still, and turned

once more around. His glance encountered that of his friend, and

Madame de Campan understood its silent language well, for she

hastened to him.

"You have something to say to me?"

"Yes," he whispered softly, "I have a presentiment that I shall not

survive the horrors of this night. I have one whom I love, who, as

you know, is betrothed to me. If I fall in the service of the king,

I ask you to see my Cecilia, and tell her that I died with her name

upon my lips! Tell her not to weep for me, but at the same time not

to forget me. Farewell."

He hurriedly opened the door and hastened away. Madame de Campan

repressed the tears which would fill her eyes, and turned to the two

maids.

"Now," said she, with decisive tones, "let us return to the waiting-

room and watch the door of the queen's chamber."

With a firm step she walked on, and the ladies followed. Without any

noise they entered the little hall, where in the mornings those

ladies of the court used to gather who had the right to be present

while the queen dressed herself. Madame de Campan locked the door

through which they had entered, behind her, drew out the key and hid

it in her pocket.

"No one will enter here with my will," said she. "Now we will place

chairs before the door of the sleeping-room, and sit there. We shall

then have erected a barricade before our queen, a wall which will be

as strong as any other, for there beat three courageous hearts

within it."

They sat down upon the chairs, whose high backs leaned against the

door of the queen's room, and, taking one another's hands, began

their hallowed watch.

All was still and desolate around them. No one of the women could

break the silence with a word or a remark. With dumb lips, with open

eyes, the three watchers sat and hearkened to the sounds of the

night. At times, when the roaring without was uncommonly loud and

wild, they pressed one another's hands, and spoke to one another in

looks; but when the sounds died away, they turned their eyes once

more to the windows and listened.

Slowly, dreadfully slowly moved the fingers of the great clock above

on the chimney. Madame de Campan often fixed her gaze upon it, and

it seemed to her as if time must have ceased to go on, for it

appeared to be an eternity since Varicourt had taken leave of her,

and yet the two longer fingers on the dial had not indicated the

fourth hour after midnight. But the pendulum still continued its

regular, even swinging; the time went forward; only every moment

made the horror, the fear of unknown danger seem like an eternity!

At last, slowly, with calm stroke, the hour began to strike four

o'clock. And amid the dreadful sounds outside the palace, the women

could recognize the deep tones of the great clock on the Swiss hall.

Four o'clock! One solitary, dreadful hour is passed! Three hours

more, three eternities before daylight comes!

But hark! what new, fearful noise without? That is no more the sound

of singing and shouting, and crying--that is the battle-cry-that is

the rattle and clatter of muskets. The three women sprang up, moved

as if by one thought, animated by one purpose. They moved the chairs

back from the door, ready, as soon as danger should approach, to go

into the chamber of the queen and awaken her. Campan then slipped

across the room to the door of the antechamber, which she had looked

before. She laid her ear to the key-hole, and listened. All was

still and quiet in the next room; no one was in the antechamber.

There was no immediate danger near, for Varicourt's voice had not

yet uttered the cry of warning.

But more fearful grew the noise outside. The crackle of musketry was

more noticeable, and every now and then there seemed to be heavy

strokes as if directed against the palace, sounding as if the people

were attempting to force the iron gate of the front court.

"I must know what is going on," whispered Campan, and with cool

decision she put the key into the door, turned it, entered the

antechamber, and flew to the window, where there was a view of the

whole court; and a fearful sight met her there. The crowd had broken

the gate, pressed into the court, and was surging in great masses

toward the palace doors. Here and there torches threw their glare

over these masses, disclosing men with angry gestures, and women

with streaming hair, swinging their arms savagely, and seeming like

a picture of hell, not to be surpassed in horror even by the

phantasms of Dante. Women changed to furies and bacchanalians,

roaring and shouting in their murderous desires; men, like blood-

thirsty tigers, preparing to spring upon their prey, and give it the

death-stroke; swinging pikes and guns, which gleamed horribly in the

glare of the torches; arms and fists bearing threatening daggers and

knives! All this was pressing on upon the palace--all these clinched

fists would soon be engaged in hammering upon the walls which

separated the king and queen from the people--the executioner from

his victim!

All at once there rang out a fearful, thundering cry, which made the

windows rattle, and called forth a terrible echo above in the

deserted hall; for through all these shrieks and howls, there

resounded now a piercing cry, such as only the greatest pain or the

most instant need can extort from human lips.

"That was a death-cry," whispered Madame de Campan, trembling, and

drawing back from the window. "They have certainly killed the Swiss

guards, who are keeping the door; they will now pour into the

palace. O God! what will become of Varicourt? I must know what is

going on!"

She flew through the antechamber and opened the door of the Swiss

hall. It was empty, but outside of it could be heard a confused,

mixed mass of sounds, cries, and the tramping as of hundreds and

hundreds of men coming on. Nearer and nearer came the sound, more

distinct every moment. All at once the door was flung open on the

other side of the Swiss hall, the door which led out, and Varicourt

appeared in it, pushed backward by the raging, howling mass. He

still sought to resist the oncoming tramp of these savage men, and,

with a movement like lightning, putting his weapon across the door,

he was able for one minute to hold the place against the tide--just

so long as the arms which held the weapon had in them the pulse of

life! Varicourt looked like a dying man; his uniform was torn and

cut, his face deathly pale, and on one side disfigured by the blood

which was streaming down from a broad wound in his forehead.

"It is time, it is time!" he cried, with a loud tremulous voice,

and, as he saw for an instant the face of Campan at the opposite

door, a flash of joy passed over his face.

"Save the queen! They will murder her!" [Varicourt's last words.--

See "Memoires de Madame de Campan," vol. ii., p. 77. ]

Madame de Campan hastily closed the door, drew the great bolt, and

then sprang through the antechamber into the waiting-room, and

bolted its door too. Then, after she had done that--after she had

raised this double wall between the sleeping queen and the raging

mob--she sank upon her knees like one who was utterly crushed, and

raised her folded hands to heaven.

"Have mercy on his soul, O God! take him graciously to heaven!"

whispered she, with trembling lips.

"For whom are you praying?" asked the two women, in low voices,

hurrying up to her. "Who is dead?"

"Mr. Varicourt," answered Campan, with a sigh. "I heard his death-

cry, as I was bolting the door of the antechamber. But we cannot

stop to weep and lament. We must save the queen!"

And she sprang up from her knees, flew through the room, and opened

the door leading to the queen's chamber.

At that moment a fearful crash was heard, then a loud shout of

triumph in the outer antechamber.

"The queen! We want the heart of the queen!"

"They have broken down the door of the antechamber--they are in the

waiting-room!" whispered Campan. "There is no time to be lost. Come,

friends, come!"

And she hastened to the bed of the queen, who was still lying in

that heavy, unrefreshing sleep which usually follows exhaustion and

intense excitement.

"Your majesty, your majesty, wake!"

"What is it, Campan?" asked Marie Antoinette, opening her eyes, and

hastily sitting up in bed. "Why do you waken me? What has happened?"

The fearful sounds without, the crashing of the door of the little

waiting-room, gave answer. The rough, hard voices of the exasperated

women, separated now from the queen by only one thin door, quickly

told all that had happened.

Marie Antoinette sprang from her bed. "Dress me quick, quick!"

"Impossible! There is no time. Only hear how the gunstocks beat

against the door! They will break it down, and then your majesty is

lost! The clothes on without stopping to fasten them! Now fly, your

majesty, fly! Through the side-door-through the OEil de Boeuf!"

Madame de Campan went in advance; the two women supported the queen

and carried her loose clothes, and then they flew on through the

still and deserted corridors to the sleeping-room of the king.

It was empty--no one there!

"O God! Campan, where is the king? I must go to him. My place is by

his side! Where is the king?"

"Here I am, Marie, here!" cried the king, who just then entered and

saw the eager, anxious face of his wife. "I hurried to save our most

costly possessions!"

He laid the dauphin, only half awake, and lying on his breast, in

the arms which Marie Antoinette extended to him, and then led her

little daughter to her, who had been brought in by Madame Tourzel.

"Now," said the king, calmly, "now that I have collected my dearest

treasures, I will go and see what is going on."

But Marie Antoinette held him back. "There is destruction,

treachery, and murder outside. Crime may break in here and overwhelm

us, but we ought not to go out and seek it."

"Well," said the king, "we will remain here and await what comes."

And turning to his valet, who was then entering, Louis continued:

"Bring me my chocolate, I want to take advantage of the time to

breakfast, for I am hungry!"

"Sire, now? shall we breakfast now?" asked the queen, amazed.

"Why not?" answered Louis calmly. "If the body is strengthened, we

look at every thing more composedly and confidently. You must take

breakfast too, Marie, for who knows whether we shall find time for

some hours after this?"

"I! oh, I need no breakfast," cried Marie Antoinette; and as she saw

Louis eagerly taking a cup of chocolate from the hands of a valet,

and was going to enjoy it, she turned away to repress the tears of

anger and pain which in spite of herself pressed into her eyes.

"Mamma queen," cried the dauphin, who was yet in her arms, "I should

like my breakfast too. My chocolate--I should like my chocolate

too!"

The queen compelled herself to smile, carried the child to its

father, and softly set him down on the king's knee.

"Sire," said she, "will the King of France teach his son to take

breakfast, while revolution is thundering without, and breaking

down, with treasonable hands, the doors of the royal palace? Campan,

come here--help me arrange my toilet; I want to prepare myself to

give audience to revolution!"

And withdrawing to a corner of the room, the queen finished her

toilet, for which her women fortunately had in their flight brought

the materials.

While the queen was dressing and the king breakfasting with the

children, the cabinet of the king began to fill. All Louis's

faithful servants, then the ministers and some of the deputies, had

hurried to the palace to be at the side of the king and queen at the

hour of danger.

Every one of them brought new tidings of horror. St. Priest told how

he, entering the Swiss room, at the door leading into the

antechamber of the queen, had seen the body of Varicourt covered

with wounds. The Duke de Liancourt had seen a dreadful man, of

gigantic size, with heavy beard, the arms of his blouse rolled up

high, and bearing a heavy hatchet-knife in his hand, springing upon

the person of the faithful Swiss, in order to sever his head from

his body. The Count de Borennes had seen the corpse of the Swiss

officer, Baron de Deshuttes, who guarded the iron gate, and whom the

people murdered as they entered. The Marquis de Croissy told of the

heroism with which another Swiss, Miomandre of St. Marie, had

defended the door between the suites of the king and queen, and had

gained time to draw the bolt and barricade the door. And during all

these reports, and while the cabinet was filling more and more with

pale men and women, the king went composedly on dispatching his

breakfast.

The queen, who had long before completed her toilet, now went up to

him, and with gentle, tremulous voice conjured him to declare what

should be done--to come at last out of this silence, and to speak

and act worthy of a king.

Louis shrugged his shoulders and set the replenished cup which he

was just lifting to his mouth, on the silver waiter. At once the

queen beckoned to the valet Hue to come up.

"Sir," said she, commandingly, "take these things out. The king has

finished his breakfast."

Louis sighed, and with his eye followed the valet, who was carrying

the breakfast into the garde-robe.

"Now, sire," whispered Marie Antoinette, "show yourself a king."

"My love," replied the king, quietly, "it is very hard to show

myself a king when the people do not choose to regard me as one.

Only hear that shouting and yelling, and then tell me what I can do

as a king to bring these mad men to peace and reason?"

"Sire, raise your voice as king; tell them that you will avenge the

crimes of this night, take the sword in your hand and defend the

throne of your fathers and the throne of your son, and then you will

see these rebels retire, and you will collect around you men who

will be animated with fresh courage, and who will take new fire from

your example. Oh, sire, disregard now the pleadings of your noble,

gentle heart; show yourself firm and decided. Have no leniency for

traitors and rebels!"

"Tell me what I shall do," murmured the king, with a sigh.

Marie Antoinette stooped down to his ear. "Sire," whispered she,

"send at once to Vincennes, and the other neighboring places. Order

the troops to come hither, collect an army, put yourself at its

head, march on Paris, declare war on the rebellious capital, and you

will march as conqueror into your recaptured city. Oh, only no

yielding, no submission! Only give the order, sire; say that you

will do so, and I will summon one of my faithful ones to give him

orders to hasten to Vincennes."

And while the queen whispered eagerly to the king, her flashing

glance sped across to Toulan, who, in the tumult, had found means to

come in, and now looked straight at the queen. Now, as her glance

came to him as an unspoken command, he made his way irresistibly

forward through the crowd of courtiers, ministers, and ladies, and

now stood directly behind the queen.

"Has your majesty orders for me?" he asked, softly. She looked

anxiously at the king, waiting for an answer, an order. But the king

was dumb; in order not to answer his wife, he drew the dauphin

closer to him and caressed him.

"Has your majesty commands for me?" asked Toulan once more.

Marie Antoinette turned to him, her eyes suffused with tears, and

let Toulan see her face darkened with grief and despair.

"No," she whispered, "I have only to obey; I have no commands to

give!"

"Lafayette," was now heard in the corridor--"General Lafayette is

coming!"

The queen advanced with hasty steps toward the entering general.

"Sir," she cried, "is this the peace and security that you promised

us, and for which you pledged your word? Hear that shouting without,

see us as if beleaguered here, and then tell me how it agrees with

the assurances which you made to me!"

"Madame, I have been myself deceived," answered Lafayette. "The most

sacred promises were made to me; all my requests and propositions

were yielded to. I succeeded in pacifying the crowd, and I really

believed and hoped that they would continue quiet; that--

"Sir," interrupted the queen, impatiently, "Whom do you mean by

'they?' Of whom are you speaking in such tones of respect?"

"Madame, I am speaking of the people, with whom I came to an

understanding, and who promised me to keep the peace, and to respect

the slumbers of your majesty."

"You are not speaking of the people, but of the rebels, the

agitators," cried Marie Antoinette, with flashing eyes. "You speak

of high traitors, who break violently into the palace of the king;

of murderers, who have destroyed two of our faithful subjects. Sir,

it is of such crime that you speak with respect; it is with such a

rabble that you have dealt, instead of ordering your soldiers to cut

them down."

"Madame," said Lafayette, turning pale, "had I attempted to do that,

your majesty would not have found refuge in this chamber. For the

anger of the mob is like the lightning and thunder of the tempest,

it heeds neither door nor bolt, and if it has once broken loose,

nothing can restrain or stop it."

"Oh," cried the queen, with a mocking laugh, "it is plain that Mr.

Lafayette has been pursuing his studies in America, at the

university of revolutions. He speaks of the people with a deference

as if it were another majesty to bow to."

"And in that Lafayette is right," said the king, rising and

approaching them. "Hear the yell, madame! it sounds like the roaring

of lions, and you know, Marie, that the lion is called the king of

beasts. Tell us, general, what does the lion want, and what does his

roaring mean?"

"Sire, the enemies of the royal family, the agitators and rebels,

who have within these last hours come from Paris, have urged on the

people afresh, and kindled them with senseless calumnies. They have

persuaded the people that your majesty has summoned hither the

regiments from all the neighboring stations; that you are collecting

an army to put yourself at its head and march against Paris."

Louis cast a significant look at his wife, which was answered with a

proud toss of her head.

"I have sought in vain," continued Lafayette, "to make the poor,

misguided men conscious of the impossibility of such a plan."

"Yet, sir," broke in Marie Antoinette, fiercely, "the execution of

this plan would save the crown from dishonor and humiliation!"

"Only, madame, that it is exactly the execution of it which is

impossible," answered Lafayette, gently bowing.

"If you could give wings to the soldiers of the various garrisons

away from here, the plan might be good, and the army might save the

country! But as, unfortunately, this cannot be, we must think of

other means of help, for your majesty hears the danger knocking now

at the door, and we must do with pacificatory measures what we

cannot do with force."

"How will you use pacificatory measures, sir?" asked Marie

Antoinette, angrily.

Lafayette cast upon her a sad, pained look, and turned to the king.

"Sire," said he, with loud, solemn voice, "sire, the people are

frightfully carried away. Stimulating speeches have driven them to

despair and to madness. It is only with difficulty that we have

succeeded in keeping the mob out of the palace, and closing the door

again. 'Paris shall be laid in ashes!' is the horrible cry which

drives all these hearts to rage, and to which they give

unconditional belief!"

"I will show myself to the people," said Louis. "I will tell them

that they have been deceived. I will give them my royal word that I

have no hostile designs whatever against Paris."

General Lafayette sighed, and dropped his head heavily upon his

breast.

"Do you counsel me not to do this?" asked the king, timidly.

"Sire," answered the general, with a shrug, "the people are now in

such an excited, unreasonable state, that words will no longer be

sufficient to satisfy them. Your majesty might assure them ever so

solemnly that you entertain no hostile intentions whatever against

Paris, and that you will not call outside help to your assistance,

and the exasperated people would mistrust your assurances! For in

all their rage the people have a distinct consciousness of the

crimes they are engaged in committing in creating this rebellion

against the crown, and they know that it were not human, that it

were divine, for your majesty to forgive such crimes, and therefore

they would not credit such forgiveness."

"How well General Lafayette knows how to interpret the thoughts of

this fanatical rabble, whom he calls 'the people!' "ejaculated the

queen, with a scornful laugh. At this instant a loud, thundering cry

was heard below, and thousands upon thousands of voices shouted,

"The king! We want to see the king!"

Louis's face lighted up. With quick step he hurried to the window

and raised it. The people did not see him at once, but the king saw.

He saw the immense square in front of the palace, which had been

devoted to the rich equipages of the nobility, occupied by the

humbler classes--the troops of his staff marching up in their gala

uniforms--he saw it filled with a dense mass of men whom Lafayette

had called "the people," whom the queen had termed a "riotous

rabble," surging up and down, head pressed to head, here and there

faces distorted with rage, eyes blazing, fists clinched, arms bare,

and pikes glistening in the morning light, while a great roar, like

that which comes from the sea in a tempest, filled the air.

"You are right, Lafayette," said the king, who looked calmly at this

black sea of human life--"you are right, this is the people; there

are here probably twenty thousand men, and Heaven defend me from

regarding all as criminals and rabble! I believe--"

A tremendous shout now filled the air. The king had been seen, some

one had noticed him at the open window, and now all heads and all

looks were directed to this window, and twenty thousand voices

cried, "Long live the king! Long live the king!"

Louis turned with a proud, happy look to the gentlemen and ministers

who stood near him, Marie Antoinette having withdrawn to the

farthest corner of the room, where, throwing her arms around both of

the children, and drawing them to her bosom, she had sunk into a

chair.

"What do you say now, gentlemen?" asked the king.

"Did they not want to make me believe that my good people hate their

king, and wish him ill? But when I show myself to them, hear how

they shout to greet me!"

"To Paris!" was now the roar of the mob below. "We want the king

should go to Paris!"

"What do they say? What do they want?" asked Louis, turning to

Lafayette, who now stood close beside him.

"Sire, they are shouting their wishes to you, that you and the royal

family should go to Paris."

"And you, general, what do you say?" asked the king.

"Sire, I have taken the liberty already to say that words and

promises are of no more avail to quiet this raving, maddened people,

and to make them believe that you have no hostile designs against

Paris."

"But if I go to Paris and reside there for a time, it is your

opinion, as I understand it, that the people would be convinced that

I have no evil intentions against the city--that I should not

undertake to destroy the city in which I might live. That is your

meaning, is it not?"

"Yes, sire, that is what I wanted to say."

"To Paris, to Paris!" thundered up from below. "The king shall go to

Paris!"

Louis withdrew from the window and joined the circle of his

ministers, who, with their pale faces, surrounded him.

"Gentlemen," said the king, "you are my counsellors. Well, give me

your counsel. Tell me now what I shall do to restore peace and

quiet."

But no one replied. Perplexed and confused they looked down to the

ground, and only Necker found courage to answer the king after a

long pause.

"Sire," he said, "it is a question that might be considered for days

which your majesty has submitted to us, and on its answer depends,

perhaps, the whole fate of the monarchy. But, as you wish to know

the opinions of your ministers, I will venture to give mine: that it

would be the safest and most expedient course for your majesty to

comply with the wishes of the people, and go to Paris!"

"I supposed so," whispered the king, dropping his head.

"To Paris!" cried the queen, raising her head. "It is impossible.

You cannot be in earnest in being willing to go of your own accord

down into the abyss of revolution, in order to be destroyed there!

To Paris!"

"To Paris!" was the thundering cry from below, as if the words of

the queen had awakened a fearful, thousand-voiced echo. "To Paris!

The king and the queen shall go to Paris!"

"And never come from there!" cried the queen, with, bursting tears.

"Speak, Lafayette!" cried the king. "What do you think?"

"Sire, I think that there is only one way to restore peace and to

quiet the people, and that is, for your majesty to go to-day with

the royal family to Paris."

"It is my view, too," said Louis, calmly. "Then go, Lafayette, tell

the people that the king and queen, together with the dauphin and

the princess, will journey today to Paris."

The simple and easily spoken words had two very different effects in

the cabinet on those who heard them. Some faces lightened up with

joy, some grew pale with alarm; there were sighs of despair, and

cries of fresh hope. Every one felt that this was a crisis in the

fate of the royal family--some thinking that it would bring

disaster, others deliverance.

The queen alone put on now a grave, decided look; a lofty pride

lighted up her high brow, and with an almost joyful expression she

looked at her husband, who had been induced to do something--at

least, to take a decisive step.

"The king has spoken," she said, amid the profoundest silence, "and

it becomes us to obey the will of the king, and to be subject to it.

Madame de Campan, make all the preparations for my departure, and do

it in view of a long stay in Paris!"

"Now, Lafayette," asked the king, as the general still delayed in

the room, "why do you not hasten to announce my will to the people?"

"Sire," answered Lafayette, solemnly, "there are moments when a

people can only be pacified by the voice either of God or of its

king, and where every other human voice is overwhelmed by the

thunder of the storm!"

"And you think that this is such a moment?" asked the king. "You

think that I ought myself to announce to the people what I mean to

do?"

Lafayette bowed and pointed to the window, which shook even then

with the threatening cry, "The king! We will see the king! He shall

go to Paris! The king, the king!"

Louis listened awhile in thoughtful silence to this thundering

shout, which was at once so full of majesty and horror; then he

quickly raised his head.

"I will follow your advice, general," said he, calmly. "I will

announce my decision to the people. Give me your hand, madame, we

will go into the balcony-room. And you, gentlemen, follow me!"

The queen took the hand of her husband without a word, and gave the

other to the little dauphin, who timidly clung to her, while her

daughter Therese quietly and composedly walked near them.

BOOK III

CHAPTER XIV.

TO PARIS.

Without speaking a word, and with hasty steps, the royal couple,

followed by the ministers and courtiers, traversed the two adjoining

apartments, and entered the balcony-room, which, situated at the

centre of the main building, commanded a wide view of the inner

court and the square in front of it.

The valet Hue hastened, at a motion from the king, to throw open the

great folding doors, and the king, parting with a smile from Marie

Antoinette, stepped out upon the balcony. In an instant, as if the

arm of God had been extended and laid upon this raging sea, the

roaring ceased; then, as soon as the king was recognized, a

multitudinous shout went up, increasing every moment, and sending

its waves beyond the square, out into the adjoining streets.

"The king! Long live the king!"

Louis, pale with emotion and with tears in his eyes, went forward to

the very edge of the balcony, and, as a sign that he was going to

speak, raised both hands. The motion was understood, and the loud

cries were hushed which now and then burst from the mighty mass of

people. Then above the heads of the thousands there who gazed

breathlessly up, sounded the loud, powerful voice of the king.

"I will give my dear people the proof that my fatherly heart is

distrusted without reason. I will journey to-day with the queen and

my children to Paris, and there take up my residence. Return

thither, my children, I shall follow you in a few hours and come to

Paris!"

Then, while the people were breaking out into a cry of joy, and were

throwing arms, caps, and clothes up into the air, Louis stepped back

from the balcony into the hall.

Instantly there arose a new cry below. "The queen shall show

herself! We want to see the queen! The queen! the queen! the queen!"

And in tones louder, and more commanding, and more terrible every

moment, the summons came in through the balcony door.

The queen took her two children by the hand and advanced a step or

two, but the king held her back.

"Do not go, Marie," he cried, with trembling voice and anxious look.

"No, do not go. It is such a fearful sight, this raging mass at

one's feet, it confuses one's senses. Do not go, Marie!"

But the cry below had now expanded into the volume of a hurricane,

and made the very walls of the palace shake.

"You hear plainly, sire," cried Marie Antoinette; "there is just as

much danger whether we see or do not see it. Let me do, therefore,

what you have done! Come, children!"

And walking between the two little ones, the queen stepped out upon

the balcony with a firm step and raised head, followed by the king,

who placed himself behind Marie Antoinette, as if he were a sentinel

charged with the duty of protecting her life.

But the appearance of the whole royal family did not produce the

effect which Louis had, perhaps, anticipated. The crowd did not now

break out into snouts of joy.

They cried and roared and howled: "The queen alone! No children! We

want no one but the queen! Away with the children!"

It was all in vain that Louis advanced to the edge of the platform;

in vain that he raised his arms as if commanding silence. The sound

of his voice was lost in the roar of the mob, who, with their

clinched fists, their pikes and other weapons, their horrid cry, so

frightened the dauphin that he could not restrain his tears.

The royal family drew back and entered the apartment again, where

they were received by the pale, trembling, speechless, weeping

courtiers and servants.

But the mob below were not pacified. They appeared as though they

were determined to give laws to the king and queen, and demand

obedience from them.

"The queen! we will see the queen!" was the cry again and again.

"The queen shall show herself!"

"Well, be it so!" cried Marie Antoinette, with cool decision, and,

pressing through the courtiers, who wanted to restrain her, and even

impatiently thrusting back the king, who implored her not to go, she

stepped out upon the balcony. Alone, without any one to accompany

her, and having only the protection which the lion-tamer has when he

enters the cage of the fierce monsters--the look of the eye and the

commanding mien!

And the lion appeared to be subdued; his fearful roar suddenly

ceased, and in astonishment all these thousands gazed up at the

queen, the daughter of the Caesars, standing above in proud

composure, her arms folded upon her breast, and looking down with

steady eye into the yawning and raging abyss.

The people, overcome by this royal composure, broke into loud shouts

of applause, and, during the continuance of these thousand-voiced

bravos, the queen, with a proud smile upon her lips, stepped back

from the balcony into the chamber.

The dauphin flew to her with open arms and climbed up her knee.

"Mamma queen, my dear mamma queen," cried he, "stay with me, don't

go out again to these dreadful men, I am afraid of them--oh, I am

afraid!"

Marie Antoinette took the little boy in her arms, and with her cold,

pale lips pressed a kiss upon his forehead. For one instant it

seemed as if she felt herself overcome by the fearful scene through

which she had just passed--as if the tears which were confined in

her heart would force themselves into her eyes. But Marie Antoinette

overcame this weakness of the woman, for she felt that at this hour

she could only be a queen.

With the dauphin in her arms, and pressing him closely to her heart,

she advanced to the king, who, in order not to let his wife see the

tears which flooded his face, had withdrawn to the adjoining

apartment and was leaning against the door.

"Sire," said Marie Antoinette, entering the room, and presenting the

dauphin to him, "sire, I conjure you that, in this fearful hour, you

will make one promise to me."

"What is it, Marie?" asked the king, "what do you desire?"

"Sire, by all that is dear to you and me," continued the queen, "by

the welfare and safety of France, by your own and by the safety of

this dear child, your successor, I conjure you to promise me that,

if we ever must witness such a scene of horror again, and if you

have the means to escape it, you will not let the opportunity pass,"

[Footnote: The very words of the queen.--See Beauchesne, "Louis

XVI., sa Vie," etc., p 145.]

The king, deeply moved by the noble and glowing face of the queen,

by the tones of her voice, and by her whole expression, turned away.

He wanted to speak, but could not; tears choked his utterance; and,

as if he were ashamed of his weakness, he pushed the queen and the

dauphin back from him, hastened through the room, and disappeared

through the door on the opposite side.

Marie Antoinette looked with a long, sad face after him, and then

returned to the balcony-room. A shudder passed through her soul, and

a dark, dreadful presentiment made her heart for an instant stop

beating. She remembered that this chamber in which she had that day

suffered such immeasurable pain--that this chamber, which now echoed

the cries of a mob that had this day for the first time prescribed

laws to a queen, had been the dying-chamber of Louis XIV. [Footnote:

Historical.--See Goncourt, "Marie Antoinette," p. 195.] A dreadful

presentiment told her that this day the room had become the dying-

chamber of royalty.

Like a pale, bloody corpse, the Future passed before her eyes, and,

with that lightning speed which accompanies moments of the greatest

excitement, all the old dark warnings came back to her which she had

previously encountered. She thought of the picture of the slaughter

of the babes at Bethlehem, which decorated the walls of the room in

which the dauphin passed his first night on French soil; then of

that dreadful prophecy which Count do Cagliostro had made to her on

her journey to Paris, and of the scaffold which he showed her. She

thought of the hurricane which had made the earth shake and turn up

trees by their roots, on the first night which the dauphin had

passed in Versailles. She thought too of the dreadful misfortune

which on the next day happened to hundreds of men at the fireworks

in Paris, and cost them their lives. She recalled the moment at the

coronation when the king caught up the crown which the papal nuncio

was just on the point of placing on his head, and said at the same

time,

"It pricks me." [Footnote: Historical.]And now it seemed to her to

be a new, dreadful reason for alarm, that the scene of horror, which

she had just passed through, should take place in the dying-chamber

of that king to whom France owed her glory and her greatness.

"We are lost, lost!" she whispered to herself. "Nothing can save us.

There is the scaffold!"

"With a silent gesture, and a gentle inclination of her head, the

queen took her leave of all present, and returned to her own

apartments, which were now guarded by Lafayette's soldiers, and

which now conveyed no hint of the scene of horror which had

transpired there a few hours before.

Some hours later two cannon were discharged upon the great square

before the palace. They announced to the city of Versailles that the

king, the queen, and their children, had just left the proud palace-

-were then leaving the solitary residence at Versailles--never to

return!

From the lofty tower of the church of St. Louis, in which recently

the opening of the States-General had been celebrated, the bell was

just then striking the first hour after mid-day, when the carriage

drove out of the great gate through which the royal family must pass

on its way to Paris. A row of other carriages formed the escort of

the royal equipage. They were intended for the members of the

States-General. For as soon as the journey of the king to Paris was

announced, the National Assembly decreed that it regarded itself as

inseparably connected with the person of the king, and that it would

follow him to Paris. A deputation had instantly repaired to the

palace, to communicate this decree to the king, and had been

received by Louis with cordial expressions of thanks.

Marie Antoinette, however, had received the tidings of these

resolves of the National Assembly with, a suspicious smile, and an

angry flash darted into her eyes.

"And so, the gentlemen of the Third Estate have gained their point!"

cried she, in wrath. "They alone have produced this revolt, in order

that the National Assembly may have a pretext for going to Paris.

Now, they have reached their goal! Yet do not tell me that the

revolution is ended here. On the contrary, the hydra will now put

forth all its heads, and will tear us in pieces. But, very well! I

would rather be torn to pieces by them than bend before them!"

And, with a lofty air and calm bearing, Marie Antoinette entered the

great coach in which the royal family was to make the journey to

Paris. Near her sat the king, between them the dauphin. Opposite to

them, on the broad, front seat, were their daughter Therese, the

Princess Elizabeth, and Madame de Tourzel, governess of the royal

children. Behind them, in a procession, whose end could not be seen,

followed an artillery train; then the mob, armed with pikes, and

other weapons-men covered with blood and dust, women with

dishevelled hair and torn garments, the most of them drunken with

wine, exhausted by watching during the night, shouting and yelling,

and singing low songs, or mocking the royal family with scornful

words. Behind these wild masses came two hundred gardes du corps

without weapons, hats, and shoulder-straps, every one escorted by

two grenadiers, and they were followed by some soldiers of the Swiss

guard and the Flanders regiment. In the midst of this train rattled

loaded cannon, each one accompanied by two soldiers. But still more

fearful than the retinue of the royal equipage were the heralds who

preceded it--heralds consisting of the most daring and defiant of

these men and women, impatiently longing for the moment when they

could announce to the city of Paris that the revolution in

Versailles had humiliated the king, and given the people victory.

They carried with them the bloody tokens of this victory, the heads

of Varicourt and Deshuttes, the faithful Swiss guards, who had died

in the service of their king. They had hoisted both these heads upon

pikes, which two men of the mob carried before the procession.

Between them strode, with proud, triumphant mien, a gigantic figure,

with long, black beard, with naked blood-flecked arms, with flashing

eyes, his face and hands wet with the blood with which he had imbued

himself, and in his right hand a slaughter-knife which still dripped

blood. This was Jourdan, who, from his cutting off the heads of both

the Swiss guards, had won the name of the executioner--a name which

he understood how to keep during the whole revolution.[Footnote:

Jourdan, the executioner, had, until that time, been a model in the

Royal Academy of Painting and Sculpture.]

Like storm-birds, desirous to be the first to announce to Paris the

triumph of the populace, and impatient of the slow progress of the

royal train, these heralds of victory, bearing their bloody banner,

hastened on in advance of the procession to Paris. In Sevres they

made a halt--not to rest, or wait for the oncoming train--but to

have the hair of the two heads dressed by friseurs, in order, as

Jourdan announced with fiendish laughter to the yelling mob, that

they might make their entrance into the city as fine gentlemen.

While before them and behind them these awful cries, loud singing

and laughing resounded, within the carriage that conveyed the royal

family there was unbroken silence. The king sat leaning back in the

corner, with his eyes closed, in order not to see the horrid forms

which from time to time approached the window of the carriage, to

stare in with curious looks, or with mocking laughter and

equivoques, to heap misery on the unfortunate family.

The queen, however, sat erect, with proud, dignified bearing,

courageously looking the horrors of the day in the face, and not a

quiver of the eyelids, nor a sigh, betraying the pain that tortured

her soul.

"No, better die than grant to this triumphing rabble the pleasure of

seeing what I suffer! Better sink with exhaustion than complain."

Not a murmur, not a sigh, came from her lips; and yet, when the

dauphin, after four hours of this sad journey, turned with a

supplicatory expression to his mother, and said to her with his

sweet voice, "Mamma queen, I am hungry," the proud expression

withdrew from the features of the queen, and two great tears slowly

ran down over her cheeks.

At last, after a ride of eight hours, the frightful train reached

Paris. Not a window in all the streets through which the royal

procession went was empty. In amazement and terror the people of the

middle class gazed at this hitherto unseen spectacle--the King and

the Queen of France brought in triumph to the capital by the lowest

people in the city! A dumb fear took possession of those who

hitherto had tried to ignore the revolution, and supposed that every

thing would subside again into the old, wonted forms. Now, no one

could entertain this hope longer; now, the most timid must confess

that a revolution had indeed come, and that people must accustom

themselves to look at it eye to eye.

Slowly the train moved forward--slowly down the quay which extends

along by the garden of the Tuileries. The loungers who were in the

garden hurried to the fence, which then bordered the park on the

side of the quay, in order to watch this frightful procession from

this point: to see an unbridled populace dash in pieces the

prescriptive royalty of ages.

Scorn and the love of destruction were written on most of the faces

of these observers, but many were pale, and many quivered with anger

and grief. In the front ranks of the spectators stood two young men,

one of them in simple civilian's costume, the other in the uniform

of a sub-lieutenant. The face of the young officer was pale, but it

lightened up with rare energy; and with his noble, antique profile,

and flaming eyes, it enchanted every look, and fixed the attention

of every one who observed him.

As the howling, roaring mob passed him, the young officer turned to

his companion with an expression of fiery indignation. "0 God," he

cried, "how is this possible? Has the king no cannon to destroy this

canaille? " [Footnote: His own words.--See Beauchesne, vol. i.,p.

85.]

"My friend," answered the young man, smiling, "remember the words of

our great poet Corneille: 'The people give the king his purple and

take it back when they please. The beggar, king only by the people's

grace, simply gives back his purple to the people.' "

"Ah!" cried the young lieutenant, smiling, "what once has been

received should be firmly held. I, at least, if I had once received

the purple by the people's grace, would not give it back. But come,

let us go on, it angers me to see this canaille, upon which you

bestow the fine name of 'the people.'" He hastily grasped the arm of

his friend, and turned to a more solitary part of the garden of the

Tuileries.

This young sub-lieutenant, who saw with such indignation this

revolutionary procession pass him, and whom destiny had appointed

one day to bring this revolution to an end--this young lieutenant's

name was Napoleon Bonaparte.

The young man who walked at his side, and whom, too, destiny had

appointed to work a revolution, although only in the theatrical

world, to recreate the drama--this young man's name was Talma.

CHAPTER XV.

MAMMA QUEEN.

"Every thing passes over, every thing has an end; one must only have

courage and think of that," said Marie Antoinette, with a gentle

smile, as on the morning after her arrival in Paris, she had risen

from her bed and drunk her chocolate in the improvised sitting-room.

"Here we are installed in the Tuileries, and have slept, while we

yesterday were thinking we were lost, and that only death could give

us rest and peace again."

"It was a fearful day," said Madame de Campan, with a sigh, "but

your majesty went through it like a heroine."

"Ah, Campan," said the queen, sadly, "I have not the ambition to

want to be a heroine, and I should be very thankful if it were

allowed me from this time on to be a wife and mother, if it is no

longer allowed me to be a queen."

At this instant the door opened; the little dauphin, followed by his

teacher, the Abbe Davout, ran in and flew with extended arms to

Marie Antoinette.

"Oh, mamma queen!" cried he, with winning voice, "let us go back

again to our beautiful palace; it is dreadful here in this great,

dark house."

"Hush, my child, hush!" said the queen, pressing the boy close to

her. "You must not say so; you must accustom yourself to be

contented everywhere."

"Mamma queen," whispered the child, tenderly nestling close to his

mother, "it is true it is dreadful here, but I will always say it so

low that nobody except you can hear. But tell me, who owns this

hateful house? And why do we want to stay here, when we have such a

fine palace and a beautiful garden in Versailles?"

"My son," answered the queen with a sigh, "this house belongs to us,

and it is a beautiful and famous palace. You ought not to say that

it does not please you, for your renowned great-grandfather, the

great Louis XIV., lived here, and made this palace celebrated all

over Europe."

"Yet I wish that we were away from here," whispered the dauphin,

casting his large blue eyes with a prolonged and timid glance

through the wide, desolate room, which was decorated sparingly with

old-fashioned, faded furniture.

"I wish so, too," sighed Marie Antoinette, to herself; but softly as

she had spoken the words, the sensitive ear of the child had caught

them.

"You, too, want to go?" asked Louis Charles, in amazement. "Are you

not queen now, and can you not do what you want to?"

The queen, pierced to the very heart by the innocent question of the

child, burst into tears.

"My prince," said the Abbe Davout, turning to the dauphin, "you see

that you trouble the queen, and her majesty needs rest. Come, we

will take a walk."

But Marie Antoinette put both her arms around the child and pressed

its head with its light locks to her breast.

"No," she said, "no, he does not trouble me. Let me weep. Tears do

me good. One is only unfortunate when she can no longer weep; when--

but what is that?" she eagerly asked, rising from her easy-chair.

"What does that noise mean?"

And in very fact in the street there were loud shouting and crying,

and intermingled curses and threats.

"Mamma," cried the dauphin, nestling close up to the queen, "is to-

day going to be just like yesterday?" [Footnote: The very words of

the dauphin.--See Beauchesne, vol. i.]

The door was hastily opened, and the king entered.

"Sire," asked Marie, eagerly advancing toward him, "are they going

to renew the dreadful scenes of yesterday?"

"On the contrary, Marie, they are going to bring to their reckoning

those who occasioned the scenes of yesterday," answered the king. "A

deputation from the Court of Chatelet have come to the Tuileries,

and desire of me an authorization to bring to trial those who are

guilty, and of you any information which you can give about what has

taken place. The mob have accompanied the deputation hither, and

hence arise these cries. I am come to ask you, Marie, to receive the

deputation of Chatelet."

"As if there were any choice left us to refuse to see them,"

answered Marie Antoinette, sighing. "The populace who are howling

and crying without are now the master of the men who come to us with

a sneer, and ask us whether we will grant them an audience. We must

submit!"

The king did not answer, but shrugged his shoulders, and opened the

door of the antechamber. "Let them enter," he said to the

chamberlains there.

The two folding doors were now thrown open, and the loud voice of an

officer announced, "The honorable judges of Chatelet!"

Slowly, with respectful mien and bowed head, the gentlemen, arrayed

in their long black robes, entered the room, and remained humbly

standing near the door.

Marie Antoinette had advanced a few steps. Not a trace of grief and

disquiet was longer to be seen in her face. Her figure was erect,

her glance was proud and full of fire, and the expression of her

countenance noble and majestic. She was still the queen, though not

surrounded by the solemn pomp which attended the public audiences at

Versailles. She did not stand on the purple-carpeted step of the

throne, no gold-embroidered canopy arched over her, no crowd of

brilliant courtiers surrounded her, only her husband stood near her;

her son clung to her side, and his teacher, the Abbe Davout, timidly

withdrew into the background. These formed all her suite. But Marie

Antoinette did not need external pomp to be a queen; she was so in

her bearing, in every look, in every gesture. With commanding

dignity she allowed the deputation to approach her, and to speak

with her. She listened with calm attention to the words of the

speaker, who, in the name of the court, gave utterance to the deep

horror with which the treasonable actions of the day before had

filled him. He then humbly begged the queen to give such names of

the rioters as might be known to her, that they might be arrested,

but Marie Antoinette interrupted him in his address.

"No, sir," she cried, "no, never will I be an informer against the

subjects of the king." [Footnote: Marie Antoinette's own words.--See

Goncourt, "Marie Antoinette," pp. 196, 197.]

The speaker bowed respectfully. "Then let me at least beg of you, in

the name of the High-Court of the Chatelet, to give us your order to

bring the guilty parties to trial, for without such a charge we

cannot prosecute the criminals who have been engaged in these acts."

"Nor do I wish you to bring any one to trial," cried the queen, with

dignity. "I have seen all, known all, and forgotten all! Go,

gentlemen, go! My heart knows no vengeance; it has forgiven all

those who have wounded me. Go!" [Footnote: Ibid]

With a commanding gesture of her hand, and a gentle nod of her head,

she dismissed the deputation, who silently withdrew.

"Marie," said the king, grasping the hand of his wife with unwonted

eagerness, and pressing it tenderly to his lips, "Marie, I thank you

in the name of all my subjects. You have acted this hour not only as

a queen, but as the mother of my people."

"Ah, sir," replied the queen, with a sad smile, "only that the

children will not believe in the love of their mother--only that

your subjects do not consider me their mother, but their enemy."

"They have been misguided," said the king. "Evil-minded men have

deceived them, but I hope we shall succeed in bringing the people

back from their error."

"Sire," sighed Marie Antoinette, "I hope for nothing more; but,"

added she, with still firmer voice, "I also fear nothing more. The

worst may break over me--it shall find me armed!"

The side-door now opened, and Madame de Campan entered.

"Your majesty," said she, bowing low, "a great number of ladies from

the Faubourg St. Germain are in the small reception-room. They wish

to testily their devotion to your majesty."

"I will receive them at once," cried Marie Antoinette, with an

almost joyful tone. "Ah, only see, husband, the consolations which

misfortune brings. These ladies of the Faubourg St. Germain formerly

cut me; they could not forget that I was an Austrian. To-day they

feel that I am the Queen of France, and that I belong to them.

Pardon me, sire, for leaving you."

She hastened away with a rapid step. The king looked after her with

an expression of pain. "Poor queen," he whispered to himself, "how

much she is misjudged, how wrongly she is calumniated! And I cannot

change it, and must let it be."

He sank with a deep sigh, which seemed much like a groan, into an

arm-chair, and was lost in painful recollections. A gentle touch on

his hand, which rested on the side-arm of the chair, restored him to

consciousness. Before him stood the dauphin, and looked gravely and

thoughtfully out of his large blue eyes up into his father's face.

"Ah, is it you, my little Louis Charles?" said the king, nodding to

him. "What do you want of me, my child?"

"Papa king," answered the boy, timidly, "I should like to ask you

something--something really serious!"

"Something really serious!" replied the king. "Well, what is it? Let

me hear!"

"Sire," replied the dauphin, with a weighty and thoughtful air,

"sire, Madame de Tourzel has always told me that I must love the

people of France very much, and treat every one very friendly,

because the people of France love my papa and my mamma so much, and

I ought to be very grateful for it. How comes it then, sire, that

the French people are now so bad to you, and that they do not love

mamma any longer? What have you both done to make the people so

angry, because I have been told that the people are subject to your

majesty, and that they owe you obedience and respect? But they were

not obedient yesterday, and not at all respectful, your subjects,

were they? How is this, papa?"

The king drew the little prince to his knee, and put his arm around

the slight form of the boy. "I will explain it to you, my son," he

said, "and listen carefully to what I say to you."

"I will, sire," answered the boy eagerly, "I at least am an obedient

subject of my king, for the Abbe Davout has told me that I am

nothing but a subject of your majesty, and that, as a son and a

subject, I must give a good example to the French people, how to

love and obey the king. And I love you very much, papa, and I am

just as obedient as I can be. But it seems as though my good example

had made no difference with the other subjects. How comes that

about, papa king?"

"My son," answered Louis, "that comes because there are bad men who

have told the people that I do not love them. We have had to have

great wars, and wars cost a deal of money. And so I asked money of

my people--just as my ancestors always did."

"But, papa," cried the dauphin, "why did you do that? Why did you

not take my purse, and pay out of that? You know that I receive

every day my purse all filled with new francs, and--but then," he

interrupted himself, "there would be nothing left for the poor

children, to whom I always give money on my walks. And, oh! there

are so many poor children, so very many, that my purse is empty

every day, when I return from my walk, and yet I give to each child

only one poor franc-piece. So your people have money, more money

than you yourself?"

"My child, kings receive all that they have from their people, but

they give it all back to the people again; the king is the one

appointed by God to govern his people, and the people owe respect

and obedience to the king, and have to pay taxes to him. And so, if

he needs money, he is justified in asking his subjects for it, and

so does what is called 'laying taxes' upon them. Do you understand

me?"

"Oh! yes, papa," cried the child, who had listened with open eyes

and breathless attention, "I understand all very well. But I don't

like it. It seems to me that if a man is king, every thing belongs

to him, and that the king ought to have all the money so as to give

it to the people. They ought to ask HIM, and not he THEM!"

"In former and more happy times it was so," said the king, with a

sigh. "But many kings have misused their power and authority, and

now the king cannot pay out money unless the people understand all

about it and consent!"

"Have you given out money, papa, without asking the people's leave?

Was that the reason they came to Versailles yesterday, and were so

wicked, ah! so very wicked? For those bad men-they were the people,

were they not?"

"No, my son," answered Louis, "I hope they were not the people. The

people cannot come to me in such great masses; they must have their

representatives. The representatives of the people I have myself

called to me; they are the States-General, which I assembled at

Versailles. I asked of them money for the outlays which I had to

make for the people, but they asked things of me that I could not

grant, either for my own sake, or for yours, my son, who are some

day to be my successor. Then wicked men came and stirred up the

people, and told them that I did not love the people any more, and

that I wanted to trouble my subjects. And the poor people have

believed what these evil advisers and slanderers have told them, and

have been led astray into making the riot against me. But every

thing will come out right again, and my subjects will see that I

love them, and am ready to share every thing with them. That is the

reason I have come to Paris, to live here among my people. It is

certainly not so pleasant as in Versailles; our rooms are not so

fine and convenient, and we do not have the beautiful gardens here

that we had there. But we must learn to be contented here, and put

up with what we have. We must remember that there is no one in Paris

better than we, and that the Parisians must acknowledge that the

king loves them, for he has given up his beautiful Versailles, in

order to live with them, and share all their need, and all the

disagreeable things which they have to bear."

"Papa king, I have understood every thing, and I am very much

ashamed that I have complained before. I promise you, sire," he

continued, with earnest mien, and laying his hand upon his breast,

"yes, sire, I promise you, that I will take pains to give the people

a good example, and to be really good and kind. I will never

complain again that we are living in Paris, and I will take pains to

be happy and contented here."

And the dauphin kept his word. He took pains to be contented; he

said not another word about the old pleasant life at Versailles, but

appeared to have forgotten all about ever having been anywhere but

in this great, desolate palace, with its halls filled with faded

tapestry; stately, solemn furniture, their golden adornments having

grown dim, and their upholstery hard; he seemed never to have known

any garden but this, only one little corner of which was set apart

for the royal family, and through the iron gate of which threatening

words were often heard, and spiteful faces seen.

One day, when the dauphin heard such words, and saw such faces

beyond the paling, he shrank back, and ran to his mother, earnestly

imploring her with trembling voice to leave the garden, and go into

the palace. But Marie Antoinette led him farther into the garden,

instead of complying with his wish. In the little pavilion which

stood at the corner of the enclosure on the side of the quay, she

sat down, and lifting her boy up in her arms, set him before her on

the marble table, wiped away his tears with her handkerchief, and

tenderly implored him not to weep or feel badly any more.

"If you weep, my child," she said, sadly, as the dauphin could not

control his tears, "if you weep, I shall have no courage left, and

it will be as dark and dreary to me as if the sun had gone down. If

you weep, I should want to weep with you; and you see, my son, that

it would not be becoming for a queen to weep. The wicked people, who

want to hurt our feelings, they find pleasure in it, and therefore

we must be altogether too proud to let them see what we suffer. I

have this pride, but when I see you suffer it takes away all my

strength. You remember our ride from Versailles here, my son? How

the bad men who surrounded us, mocked at me and said foul things to

me! I was cold and calm, but I could not help weeping, my child,

when you complained of being hungry."

"Mamma," cried the child, with flashing eyes, "I will never complain

again, and the bad men shall never have the pleasure of seeing me

weep."

"But good men, my child, you must always treat kindly, and behave

very prettily to them."

"I will do so," answered the dauphin, thoughtfully. "But, mamma

queen, tell me who the good men are!"

"You must believe, Louis, that all men are good, and therefore you

must be kind to all. If then they despise your goodness or

friendliness, and cast it from them, it will not be your fault, and

our heavenly Father and your parents will be pleased with you."

"But, mamma," cried the prince, and a shadow passed over his pure,

beautiful child's face, "but, mamma, I cannot see that all men are

good. When they were abusing us, and cursing us, and speaking bad

words at us in the carriage, and were talking so angrily at you,

dear mamma, the men were not good, and I never could treat them

friendly if they should come again."

"They will not come again, Louis. No, we will hope that the bad men

will not come again, and that those who come to see us here are good

men; so be very kind and polite to everybody, that all may love you,

and see that their future king is good and polite, even while a

child."

"Good?" cried the boy, spiritedly. "I will be good and polite to

everybody, that you may be satisfied with me. Yes, just for that

will I be so."

Marie Antoinette pressed the pretty boy to herself, and kissed his

lips. Just then an officer entered and announced General Lafayette

and Bailly, the mayor of Paris.

"Mamma," whispered the prince, as the two gentlemen entered--"

mamma, that is the general that was at Versailles, then. I can never

be kind to him, for he belongs to the bad men."

"Hush! my child-hush!" whispered the queen. "For God's sake, do not

let anybody hear that. No, no, General Lafayette does not belong to

our enemies, he means well toward us. Treat him kindly, very kindly,

my child."

And Marie Antoinette took her son by the hand, and, with a smile

upon her lips, went to meet the two gentlemen, in order to inquire

the reason for their appearing at this unwonted time and place.

"Madame," said General Lafayette, "I have come to ask your majesty

whether you will not have the goodness to let me know the hours in

which you may wish to visit the park and the garden, that I may make

my arrangements accordingly."

"That means, general," cried the queen, "that it is not to depend

upon my free-will when and at what times I am to walk in the park,

but it will be allowed me only at certain hours, just as prisoners

are allowed to take their walks at certain hours."

"I beg your pardon, madame," said the general, with great respect;

"your majesty will graciously believe, that to me, the peace and

security of your exalted person is sacred above every thing, and

that I regard it as my first duty to protect you against every

insult, and every thing that may be disagreeable."

"And so it has come to that," cried Marie Antoinette, angrily. "The

Queen of France must be protected against insults and disagreeable

things. She is not to go out when she will into her park, because

she has to fear that, if General Lafayette has not previously made

his special preparations, the people will insult her. But if this is

so, sir, why do you not close the gates of the park? It is royal

property, and it probably will be allowed to the king to defend his

private property from the brutality of the rabble. I will myself,

general, see to it that I be protected from insults, and that, at

any time when it pleases me, I may go into the park and the inner

gardens. I will ask his majesty the king to allow the gates of the

park and. the promenade on the quay to be closed. That will close

every thing, and we shall at least gain the freedom thereby of being

able to take walks at any time, without first sending information to

General Lafayette."

"Madame, I expected that you would answer me so," said Lafayette,

sadly, "and I have therefore brought M. de Bailly with me, that he

might join me in supplicating your majesty to graciously abstain

from taking measures of violence, and not to further stir up the

feelings of the people, already so exasperated."

"And so you are of this opinion, sir?" asked Marie Antoinette,

turning to M. Bailly. "You, too, regard it as a compulsory measure,

for the king to claim his own right, and to keep out of his property

those who insult him."

"Your majesty, the king is, unfortunately, not free to make use of

this right, as you call it."

"You will not say, sir, that if it pleases the king not to allow

evil-disposed persons to enter the park of the Tuileries, he has not

the right to close the gates?"

"Madame, I must indeed take the privilege of saying so," answered M.

de Bailly, with a gentle obeisance. "King Henry IV. gave the

Parisians the perpetual privilege of having the park of the

Tuileries open to them always, and free to be used in their walks.

The palace of the Tuileries was, as your majesty knows, originally

built by Queen Catherine de Medicis, after the death of her husband,

for the home of her widowhood. All sorts of stories were then

current about the uncanny things which were said to occur in the

park of the Tuileries. They told about laboratories in which Queen

Catherine prepared her poisons; of a pavilion in which there was a

martyr's chamber; of subterranean cells for those who had been

buried alive; and all these dreadful stories made such an impression

that no one dared approach this place of horrors after sunset. But

when Queen Catherine had left Paris, and King Henry IV. resided in

the Louvre, he had this dreaded Tuileries garden, with all its

horrors, opened to the Parisians, and out of the queen's garden he

made one for the people, in order that the curse which rested upon

it might be changed into a blessing."

"And now you suppose, Mr. Mayor, that it would change the blessing

into a curse again, if we should want to close the gates that Henry

IV. opened?"

"I do fear it, madame, and therefore venture to ask that the right

to enter the Tuileries gardens may not be taken from the people, nor

their enjoyment interfered with."

"Not the people's enjoyment, only ours, is to be interfered with,"

cried Marie Antoinette, bitterly. "They are doubtless right who call

the people now the real king of France, but they forget that this

new king has usurped the throne only by treachery, rebellion, and

murder, and that the wrath of God and the justice of man 'will one

day hurl him down into the dust at our feet. In this day I hope, and

until then I will bear in patience and with unshaken courage what

fate may lay upon me. The wickedness and brutality of men shall at

least not intimidate me, and fear shall not humiliate me to the

state of a prisoner who takes her walks under the protection of M.

de Lafayette, the general of the people, at appointed hours."

"Your majesty," cried Lafayette, turning pale.

"What is your pleasure?" interrupted the queen, with a proud

movement of her head. "You were a gentleman, and knew the customs

and. mode of our court before you went to America. Has the want of

manners there so disturbed your memory that you do not know that it

is not permitted to speak in the presence of the queen without being

asked or permitted by her to do so?"

"General," cried the dauphin, at this instant, with loud, eager

voice, running forward to Lafayette, and extending to him his little

hand--" general, I should like to salute you. Mamma told me that I

must be kind to all those who are good to us and love us, and just

as you were coming in with this gentleman, mamma told me that

General Lafayette does not belong to our enemies, but means well to

us. Let me, therefore, greet you kindly and give you my hand." And

while saying so and smiling kindly at the general, he raised his

great blue eyes to the face of his mother an instant with a

supplicatory expression.

Lafayette took the extended hand of the prince, and a flush of deep

emotion passed over his face that was just before kindling with

anger. As if touched with reverence and astonishment, he bent his

knee before this child, whose countenance beamed with innocence,

love, and goodness, and pressed to his lips the little hand that

rested in his own.

"My prince," said be, deeply moved, "you have just spoken to me with

the tongue of an angel, and I swear to you, and to your exalted

royal mother, that I will never forget this moment; that I will

remember it so long as I live. The kiss which I have impressed upon

the hand of my future king is at once the seal of the solemn vow,

and the oath of unchangeable fidelity and devotion which I

consecrate to my king and to the whole royal family, and in which

nothing shall make me waver; nothing, not even the anger and the

want of favor of my exalted queen. Dauphin of France, you have to-

day gained a soldier for your throne who is prepared to shed his

last drop of blood for you and your house, and on whose fidelity and

devotion you may continually count."

With tears in his eyes, his brave, noble face quivering with

emotion, Lafayette looked at the child that with cheeks all aglow

and with a pleasant smile was gazing with great, thoughtful child's

eyes up to the strong man, who placed himself so humbly and

devotedly at his feet. Behind him stood M. de Bailly, with bended

head and folded hands, listening with solemn thoughtfulness to the

words of the general, upon whose strong shoulders the fate of the

monarchy rested, and who, at this time, was the mightiest and most

conspicuous man in France, because the National Guard of Paris was

still obedient to him, and followed his commands.

Close by the dauphin stood the queen, in her old, proud attitude,

but upon her face a striking change had taken place. The expression

of anger and suspicion which it had before displayed had not

completely disappeared. The cloud which had gathered upon her lofty

forehead was dissipated, and her face shone out bright and clear.

The large, grayish-blue eyes, which before had shot angry darts, now

glowed with mild fire, and around her lips played an instant that

fair, pleasant smile which, in her happier days, had often moved the

favorites of the queen to verses of praise, and which her enemies

had so often made a reproach to her.

When the general ceased there was silence--that eloquent, solemn

silence which accompanies those moments in which the Genius of

History hovers over the heads of men, and, touching them with its

pinions, ties their tongues and opens the eyes of the spirit, so

that they can look into the future, and, with presaging horror, read

all the secrets of coming time as by a flash of lightning.

Such a critical moment in history was that in which Lafayette, at

the feet of the dauphin, swore eternal fidelity to the monarchy of

France in the presence of the unfortunate mayor of Paris, who was

soon to seal his loyalty with his own blood, and in presence of the

queen, whose lofty character was soon to make her a martyr.

The moments passed by, then Marie Antoinette bowed to Lafayette with

her gracious smile.

"Rise, general," she said, in gentle tones, "God has heard your

oath, and I accept it in the name of the French monarchy, my

husband, my son, and myself. I shall always continue mindful of it,

and I hope that you will also. And I beg you, too," she continued,

in a low voice, and with a deep flush upon her face, "I beg you to

forgive me if I have hitherto cast unworthy reproaches upon you. I

have lived through so many sad and dreadful days, that it will be

set down to my favor if my nerves are agitated and easily excited. I

shall probably learn to accept evil days with calmness, and to bow

my head patiently beneath the yoke which my enemies are laying upon

me! But still I feel the injury, and the proud habits of my birth

and life war against it. But only wait, and I shall become

accustomed to it."

While saying this she stooped down to the dauphin and kissed his

golden hair. A tear fell from her eyes upon the forehead of her son,

and glittered there like a star fallen from heaven. Marie Antoinette

did not see it, did not know that the tear which she was trying to

conceal was now glistening on the brow of her son--on that brow

which was never to wear any other diadem than the one that the tears

of love placed on his innocent head.

"Heaven defend your majesty ever being compelled to become

accustomed to insult!" cried Lafayette, deeply moved. "I hope we

have seen our worst days, and that after the tempest there will be

sunshine and bright weather again. The people will look back with

shame and regret upon the wild and stormy scenes to which they have

allowed themselves to be drawn by unprincipled agitators; they will

bow in love and obedience before the royal couple who, with so much

confidence and devotion, leave their beautiful, retired home at

Versailles, in order to comply with the wish of the people and come

to Paris. Will your majesty have the goodness to ask the mayor of

Paris, and he will tell you, madame, how deeply moved all the good

citizens of Paris are at the truly noble spirit which prompted you

to refuse to initiate an investigation respecting the night of

horrors at Versailles, and to bring the ringleaders to justice."

"Is it true, M. de Bailly?" asked the queen, eagerly. "Was my

decision approved? Have I friends still among the people of Paris?"

"Your majesty," answered M. de Bailly, bowing low, "all good

citizens of Paris have seen with deep emotion the noble resolve of

your majesty, and in all noble and true hearts the royal words are

recorded imperishably, which your majesty spoke to the judges of the

Chatelet, 'I have heard all, seen all, and forgotten all!' With

tears of deep feeling, with a hallowed joy, they are repeated

through all Paris; they have become the watchword of all the well-

inclined and faithful, the evangel of love and forgiveness for all

women, of fidelity and devotion for all men! It has been seen and

confessed that the throne of France is the possessor not only of

goodness and beauty, but of forgiveness and gentleness, and that

your majesty bears rightly the title of the Most Christian Queen.

These nine words which your majesty has uttered, have become the

sacred banner of all true souls, and they will cause the golden days

to come back, as they once dawned upon Paris when the Dauphin of

France made his entry into the capital, and it could be said with

truth to the future queen, Marie Antoinette, 'Here are a hundred

thousand lovers of your person.'"

The queen was no longer able to master her deep emotion. She who had

had the courage to display a proud and defiant mien to her enemies

and assailants, could not conceal the intensity of her feeling when

hearing words of such devotion, and uttered a cry, then choked with

emotion, and at length burst into a torrent of tears. Equally

astonished and ashamed, she covered her face with her hands, but the

tears gushed out between her white tapering fingers, and would not

be withheld. They had been so long repressed behind those proud

eyelids, that now, despite the queen's will, they forced their way

with double power and intensity.

But only for a moment did the proud-spirited queen allow herself to

be overcome by the gentle and deeply-moved woman; she quickly

collected herself and raised her head.

"I thank you, sir, I thank you," she said, breathing more freely,

"you have done me good, and these tears, though not the first which

grief and anger have extorted, are the first for a long time which

have sprung from what is almost joy. Who knows whether I shall ever

be able to shed such tears again! And who knows," she continued,

with a deep sigh, "whether I do not owe these tears more to your

wish to do me good, than to true and real gains? I bethink me now--

you say all good citizens of Paris repeat my words, all the well-

disposed are satisfied with my decision. But, ah! I fear that the

number of these is very small, and that the golden days of the past

will never return! And is not your appearance here to-day a proof of

this? Did you not come here because the people insult and calumniate

me, and because you considered it needful to throw around me your

protection, which is now mightier than the royal purple and the

lilies of the throne of France?"

"Madame, time must be granted to the misguided people to return to

the right way," said Lafayette, almost with a supplicating air.

"They must be dealt with as we deal with defiant, naughty children,

which can be brought back to obedience and submission better by

gentle speech and apparent concession than by rigidity and severity.

On this account I ventured to ask your majesty to intrust me for a

little while with the care of your sacred person, and, in order that

I may satisfy my duty, that you would graciously appoint the time

when your majesty will take your walks here in the park and garden,

so that I can make my arrangements accordingly."

"In order to make a fence out of your National Guards, protected by

which the Queen of France may not become visible to the hate of the

people, and behind which she may be secure against the attacks of

her enemies!" cried Marie Antoinette. "No, sir, I cannot accept

this! It shall at least be seen that I am no coward, and that I will

not hide myself from those who come to attack me!"

"Your majesty," said Bailly, "I conjure you, do this out of

compassion for us, for all your faithful servants who tremble for

the peace and security of your majesty, and allow M. de Lafayette to

keep the brutality of the people away from you, and protect you in

your walks."

"Sufficient, gentlemen," cried Marie Antoinette, impatiently. "You

now know my fixed resolve, and it is not necessary to discuss it

further. I will not hide myself from the people, and I will confront

them under the simple protection of God. Defended by Him, and

sustained by the conviction that I have not merited the hate with

which I am pursued, I will continue to meet the subjects of the king

fearlessly, with an unveiled head, and only God and my fate shall

judge between me and them! I thank you, gentlemen, for your zeal and

your care, and you may be sure that I shall never forget it. But now

farewell, gentlemen! It is growing cold, and I should like to return

to the palace."

"Will your majesty not have the kindness to allow us both to mingle

with your train, and accompany you to the palace?" asked Lafayette.

"I came hither, attended by only two lackeys, who are waiting

outside the pavilion," answered the queen. "You know that I have

laid aside the court etiquette which used to attend the queen upon

her walks, and which do not allow the free enjoyment of nature. My

enemies charge me with this as an offence, and consider it improper

that the Queen of France should take a walk without a brilliant

train of courtiers, and like any other human being. But I think that

the people ought not to be angry at this, and they may take it as a

sign that I am not so proud and unapproachable as I am generally

believed to be. And so farewell, gentlemen!"

She graciously waved her hand toward the door, and, with a gentle

inclination of her head, dismissed the two gentlemen, who, with a

sad bearing, withdrew, and left the pavilion.

"Come, my son," said the queen, "we will return to the palace."

"By the same way that we came, shall we not, mamma?" asked the

dauphin, taking the extended hand of the queen, and pressing it to

his lips.

"You will not weep again if the people shout and laugh?" asked Marie

Antoinette. "You will not be afraid any more?"

"No, I will not be afraid any more. Oh, you shall be satisfied with

me, mamma queen! I have paid close attention to all that you said to

the two gentlemen, and I am very glad that you did not allow M. de

Lafayette to walk behind us. The people would then have believed

that we are afraid, and now they shall see that we are not so at

all."

"Well, come, my child, let us go," said Marie Antoinette, giving her

hand to her son, and preparing to leave the pavilion.

But on the threshold the dauphin stopped, and looked imploringly up

into the face of his mother.

"I should like to ask you something, mamma queen."

"Well, what is it, my little Louis? What do you wish?"

"I should like to have you allow me to go alone, else the people

would believe that I am afraid and want you to lead me. And I want

to be like the Chevalier Bayard, about whom the Abbe talked with me

to-day. I want to be sans peur et sans reproche, like Bayard."

"Very well, chevalier," said the queen, with a smile, "then walk

alone and free by my side."

"No, mamma, if you will allow me, I will walk before you. The

knights always walk in advance of the ladies, so as to ward off any

danger which may be in the way. And I am your knight, mamma, and I

want to be as long as I live. Will you allow it, my royal lady?"

"I allow it! So go in front, Chevalier Louis Charles! We will take

the same way back by which we came."

The dauphin sprang over the little square in front of the pavilion,

and down the alley which led to the Arcadia Walk along the side of

the quay.

Before the little staircase which led up to this walk, he stopped

and turned his pretty head round to the queen, who, followed by the

two lackeys, was walking slowly and quietly along.

"Well, Chevalier Bayard," asked the queen, with a smile, "what are

you stopping for?"

"I am only waiting for your majesty," replied the child, gravely.

"Here is where my knightly service commences, for here it is that

danger begins."

"It is true," said the queen, as she stopped at the foot of the

steps and listened to the loud shouting which now became audible.

"One would think that a storm had been Sweeping over the ocean,

there is such a thundering sound. But you know, my son, that the

storms lie in God's hand, and that He protects those who trust in

Him. Think of that, my child, and do not be afraid!"

"Oh, I am not afraid!" cried the boy, and he sprang up the stairs

like a gazelle.

The queen quickened her steps a little, and seemed to be giving her

whole attention to her son, who went before her with such a happy

flow of spirits, and appeared to hear nothing of what was passing

around her. And yet, behind the fence which ran along the left side

of the Arcadia Walk all the way to the quay, was a dense mass of

people, head behind head, and all their blazing eyes were directed

at the queen, and words of hate, malediction, and threatening

followed her every step which she took forward.

"See, see," cried a woman, with dishevelled hair, which streamed out

from her round cap, and fell down over her red, angry face--" see,

that is the baker's woman, and the monkey that jumps in front of her

is the apprentice-boy! They can dress themselves up and be fine, for

all is well with them, and they can eat cakes, while we have to go

hungry. But wait, only wait! times will be different by and by, and

we shall see the baker-woman as hungry as we. But when we have the

bread, we will give her none--no, we will give her none!"

"No, indeed, we will give her none!" roared, and cried, and laughed,

and howled the mob. And they all pressed closer up to the fence, and

naked arms and clinched fists were thrust through the palings, and

threatened the queen, and the dauphin, who walked in front of his

mother.

"Will he be able to bear it? Will my poor boy not weep with fear and

anxiety? "That was the only thought of the queen, as she walked on

past the angry roars of the crowd. To the dauphin alone all her

looks were directed; not once did she glance at the fence, behind

which the populace roared like a pack of lions.

All at once the breath of the queen stopped, and her heart ceased

beating, with horror. She saw directly at the place where the path

turned and ran away from the fence, but where, before making the

turn, it ran very near the fence, the bare arm of a man extended

through the paling as far as possible, and stretching in fact half-

way across the path, as if it were a turnpike-bar stopping the way.

The eyes of the queen, when they fell upon this dreadful, powerful

arm, turned at once in deep alarm to the dauphin. She saw him

hesitate a little in his hurried course, and then go slowly forward.

The queen quickened her steps in order to come up with the dauphin

before he should reach the danger which confronted him. The people

outside of the fence, when they saw the manoeuvre of the man who was

forcing his arm still farther in, stopped their shouting and lapsed

into a breathless, eager silence, as sometimes is the case in a

storm, between the successive bursts of wind and thunder.

Every one felt that the touch of that threatening arm and that

little child might be like the contact of steel and flint, and

elicit sparks which should kindle the fires of another revolution.

It was this feeling which made the crowd silent; the same feeling

compelled the queen to quicken her steps, so that she was close to

the dauphin before he had reached this terrible turnpike-bar.

"Come here, my son," cried the queen, "give me your hand!"

But before she had time to grasp the hand of the little prince, he

sprang forward and stood directly in front of the outstretched arm.

"My God! what will he do?" whispered the queen to herself.

At the same instant, there resounded from behind the fence a loud,

mighty bravo, and a thousand voices took it up and cried, "Bravo!

bravo!"

The dauphin had stretched up his little white hand and laid it upon

the brown, clinched fist that was stretched out toward him, and

nodded pleasantly at the man who looked down so fiercely upon him.

"Good-day, sir!" he said, with a loud voice--"good-day!"

And he took hold with his little hand of the great hand of the man

and shook it a little, as in friendly salutation. "Little knirps,"

roared the man, "what do you mean, and how dare you lay your little

paw on the claws of the lion?"

"Sir," said the boy, smiling, "I thought you were stretching out

your hand to reach me with it, and so I give you mine, and say,

'Good-day, sir!'"

"And if I wanted, I could crush your hand in my fist as if it were

in a vise," cried the man, holding the little hand firmly.

"You shall not do it," cried hundreds and hundreds of voices in the

crowd. "No, Simon, you shall not hurt the child."

"Who of you could hinder me if I wanted to?" asked the man, with a

laugh. "See here, I hold the hand of the future King of France in my

fist, and I can break it if I want to, and make it so that it can

never lift the sceptre of France. The little monkey thought he would

take hold of my hand and make me draw it back, and now my hand has

got his and holds it fast. And mark this, boy, the time is past when

kings seized us and trod us down; now we seize them and hold them

fast, and do not let them go unless we will."

"Sir!" cried the queen, motioning back with a commanding gesture the

two lackeys who were hurrying up to release the dauphin from the

hand of the man, "sir, I beg you to withdraw your hand, and not to

hinder us in our walk."

"Ah! you are there, too, madame, the baker's wife, are you?" cried

the man, with a horrid laugh. "We meet once more, and the eyes of

our most beautiful queen fall again upon the dirty, pitiable face of

such a poor, wretched creature as, in your heavenly eyes, the

cobbler Simon is!"

"Are you Simon the cobbler?" asked Marie Antoinette.

"It is true, I bethink me now, I have spoken with you once before.

It was when I carried the prince here, for the first time, to Notre

Dame, that God would bless him, and that the people might see him.

You stood then by my carriage, sir!"

"Yes, it is true," answered Simon, visibly flattered. "You have, at

least, a good memory, queen. But you ought to have paid attention to

what I said to you. I am no 'sir,' I am a simple cobbler, and earn

my poor bit of bread in the sweat of my brow, while you strut about

in your glory and happiness, and cheat God out of daylight. Then I

held the hand of your daughter in my fist, and she cried out for

fear, merely because a poor fellow like me touched her."

"But, Mr. Simon, you see very plainly that I do not cry out," said

the dauphin, with a smile. "I know that you do not want to do me any

harm, and I ask you to be so good as to take away your arm, that my

mamma can go on in her walk."

"But, suppose that I do not do as you want me to?" asked the

cobbler, defiantly. "I suppose it would come that your mamma would

dictate to me, and perhaps call some soldiers, and order them to

shoot the dreadful people?"

"You know, Master Simon, that I give no such command, and never gave

any such," said the queen, quickly.

"The king and I love our people, and never would give orders to our

soldiers to fire upon them."

"Because you would not be sure, madame, that the soldiers would obey

your commands, if you should," laughed Simon. "Since we got rid of

the Swiss guards, there are no soldiers left who would let

themselves be torn in pieces for their king and queen; and you know

well that if the soldiers should fire the first shot at us, the

people would tear the soldiers in pieces afterward. Yes, yes, the

fine days at Versailles are past; here, in Paris, you must accustom

yourself to ask, instead of command, and the arm of a single man of

the people is enough to stop the Queen and the Dauphin of France."

"You are mistaken, sir," said the queen, whose proud heart could no

longer be restrained, and allow her to take this humble stand; "the

Queen of France and her son will no longer be detained by you in

their walk."

And with a quick movement she caught the dauphin, struck back at the

same moment the fist of the cobbler, snatched the boy away like

lightning, and passed by before Simon had time to put his arm back.

The people, delighted with this energetic and courageous action of

the queen--the people, who would have howled with rage, if the queen

had ordered her lackeys to push the cobbler back, now roared with

admiration and with pleasure, to see the proud-hearted woman have

the boldness to repel the assailant, and to free herself from him.

They applauded, they laughed, they shouted from thousands upon

thousands of throats, "Long live the queen! Long live the dauphin!"

and the cry passed along like wildfire through the whole mass of

spectators behind the fence, and all eyes followed the tall and

proud figure of the queen as she walked away.

Only the eyes of Simon pursued her with a malicious glare, and his

clinched fists threatened her behind her back.

"She shall pay for this!" he muttered, with a withering curse. "She

has struck back my hand to-day, but the day will come when she will

feel it upon her neck, and when I will squeeze the hand of the

little rascal so that he shall cry out with pain! I believe now,

what Marat has so often told me, that the time of vengeance is come,

and that we must bring the crown down and tread it under our feet,

that the people may rule! I will have my share in it. I will help

bring it down, and tread it under foot. I hate the handsome Austrian

woman, who perks up her nose, and thinks herself better than my

wife; and if the golden time has come of which Marat speaks, when

the people are the master, and the king is the servant, Marie

Antoinette shall be my waiting-maid, and her son shall be my

choreboy, and his buckle shall make acquaintance with my shoe-

straps!"

And while Master Simon was muttering this to himself, he was making

a way through the crowd with those great elbows of his, a slipping

along the fence, to be able to follow as long as possible the tall

figure of the queen, who was now leading the dauphin by the hand,

traversing the Arcadian Walk. At the end of it was the fence which

led into the little garden reserved for the royal family. Through

the iron gate, hard by, adorned with the arms of the kings of

France, Marie Antoinette entered an asylum, which had been saved to

the crown, free from the intrusion of the people, and she drew a

free breath when one of the lackeys closed the gate, and she heard

the key grate in the lock.

She stood still a moment to regain her composure, and then she felt

that her feet were trembling, and that she scarcely had the power to

go farther. It would have been a relief to her to have fallen there

upon her knees, and poured all her sorrows and trials into the ear

of God. But there were the lackeys behind her; there was her little

son, looking up to her with his great eyes; and there was that

dreadful cry coming up from the quay like the roaring of the sea.

The queen could not utter a word of grief or sorrow, she could not

sink to the ground in her weakness; she had to show a cheerful face

to her son, and a proud brow to her servants. God only could look

into her heart and see the tears which glowed there like burning

coals. Yet in all her sadness she had a feeling of triumph, of proud

satisfaction. She had preserved her freedom, her independence; she

was not Lafayette's prisoner! No, the Queen of France had not put

herself under the protection of the people's general; she had not

given him the power of watching her with his hated National Guard,

and of saying to them: "At this or that hour the queen takes her

walks, and, that she may recreate herself, we will protect her

against the rage of the people!"

No, she had defended herself, she had remained the queen all the

while, the free queen, and she had gained a victory over the people

by showing them that she did not fear them.

"Mamma," cried the dauphin, interrupting her in her painful and

proud thought--" mamma, there comes the king, there comes my papa!

Oh, he will be glad to hear that I was so courageous!"

The queen quickly stooped down and kissed him. "Yes, truly, my

little Bayard, yon have done honor to your great exemplar, and you

have really been a little chevalier sans peur et sans reproche. But,

my child, true bravery does not glory in its great deeds, and does

not desire others to admire them, but keeps silent and leaves it to

others to talk about them!"

"Mamma, I will be silent, too," cried the boy, with glowing eyes.

"Oh, you shall see that I can be silent, and not talk at all about

myself."

The king meanwhile, followed by some gentlemen and servants, was

coming forward with unaccustomed haste, and, in his eagerness to

reach his wife, he had not noticed the beds, but was treading under

foot the last fading flowers of autumn.

"You are here at last, Marie," said he, when he was near enough to

speak. "I wanted to go to meet you, to conduct you hither out of the

park. You were gone very long, and I worried about you."

"Why worried, sire?" asked the queen. "What danger could threaten me

in our garden?"

"Do not seek to hide any thing from me, Marie," said Louis, with a

sigh. "I know every thing! The hate of the people denies us any

longer the enjoyment of the open air! Lafayette and Bailly were with

me after they were dismissed by you. They told me that you had given

no favor to their united request, and that you would not grant to

General Lafayette the right to protect you while you are taking your

walks."

"I hope your majesty is satisfied with me," answered Marie

Antoinette. "You feel, like me, that it is a new humiliation for us

if we are to allow our very enjoyment of nature to be under the

control of the people's general, and if even the air is no longer to

be the free air for us!"

"I have only thought that in such unguarded walks you would be

threatened with danger," answered the king, perplexed. "Lafayette

has painted to me in such dark and dreadful colors, and I have so

painfully had to confess that he speaks the truth, that I could only

think of your safety, and take no other point of view than to see

you sheltered from the attacks of your enemies, and from the rage of

these factions. I have therefore approved Lafayette's proposal, and

allowed him to protect your majesty on your walks."

"But you have not fixed definite hours for my walks? You have not

done that, sire, have you?"

"I have indeed done that," answered the king, gently. "I am familiar

with your habits, and know that in autumn and winter you usually

take your walks between twelve and two, and in summer afternoons

between five and seven. I have therefore named these hours to

General Lafayette."

The queen heaved a deep sigh. "Sire," she said, softly, "you

yourself are binding tighter and tighter the chains of our

imprisonment. To-day you limit our freedom to two poor hours, and

that will be a precedent for others to continue what you have begun.

We shall after this walk for two hours daily under the protection of

M. de Lafayette, but there will come a time when this protection

will not suffice, and no security will be great enough for us. For

the royal authority which shows itself weak and dependent, and which

does not draw power from itself--the royalty which suffers its crown

to be borne up for it by the hands of others, confesses thereby that

it is too weak to bear the burden itself. Oh, sire, I would rather

you had let me break away from the rage of the people, while I might

be walking unguarded, than be permitted to take my daily walks under

the protection of M. de Lafayette!"

"You see every thing in too dark and sad a light," cried the king.

"Every thing will come out right if we are only wise and carefully

conform to circumstances, and by well-timed concessions and

admissions propitiate this hate and bring this enmity to silence."

The queen did not reply; she stooped down to the dauphin, and,

pressing a kiss upon his locks, whispered: "Now yon may tell every

thing, Louis. It is not longer necessary to keep silent about any

thing, for silence were useless! So tell of your heroism, my son!"

"Is it of heroism that you talk?" said the king, whose nice ear had

caught the words of the queen.

"Yes, of heroism, sire," answered Marie Antoinette. "But it is with

us as with Don Quixote; we believed that we were fighting for our

honor and our throne; now we must confess that we only fought

against windmills. I beg you now, sire, to inform General Lafayette

that it is not necessary to call out his National Guards on my

account, I shall not walk again!"

And the queen kept her word. Never again during the winter did she

go down into the gardens and park of the Tuileries. She never gave

Lafayette occasion to protect her, but she at least gained thereby

what Lafayette wanted to reach by his National Guard--she held the

populace away from the Tuileries. At first they stood in dense

masses day after day along the fence of the park and the royal

garden, but when they saw that Marie Antoinette would no more expose

herself to their curious and evil glances, they grew tired of

waiting for her, and withdrew from the neighborhood of the

Tuileries,--but only to repair to their clubs and listen to the

raving speeches which Marat, Santerre, and other officers, hurled

like poisoned arrows at the queen-only to go into the National

Assembly and hear Mirabeau and Robespierre, Danton, Chenier, Petion,

and all the rest, the assembled representatives of the nation,

launch their thundering philippics against a royalty appointed by

the grace of God, and causing the people to believe that it was a

royalty appointed by the wrath of God.

CHAPTER XVI.

IN ST. CLOUD.

The winter was passed--a sad dismal winter for the royal family, and

for Marie Antoinette in particular! None of those festivities, those

diversions, those simple and innocent joys, which are wont to adorn

the life of a woman and of a queen!

Marie Antoinette is no more a queen who commands, who sees around

her a throng of respectful courtiers, zealously listening to every

word that falls from her lips; Marie Antoinette is a grave solitary

woman, who works much, thinks much, makes many plans for saving the

kingdom and the throne, and sees all these plans shipwrecks on the

indecision and weakness of her husband.

Far away from the queen lay those happy times when every day brought

new joys and new diversions; when the dawn of a summer morning made

the queen happy, because it promised her a delightful evening, and

one of those charming idyls at Trianon. The brothers of the king,

the schoolmaster and mayor of Trianon, had left France and had

located themselves at Coblentz on the Rhine; the Polignacs had fled

to England; the Princess Lamballe, too, had, at the wish of the

queen, gone to negotiate with Pitt, in order to implore the all-

powerful minister of George III. to give to the oppressed French

crown more material and effectual support than was afforded by the

angry and bitter words which he hurled in Parliament against the

riotous and rebellious French nation. The Counts de Besenval and

Coigny, the Marquis de Lauzun, and Baron d'Adhemar, all the

privileged friends of the summer days at Trianon and the winter days

of Versailles, all, all, were gone.

They had fled to Coblentz, and were at the court of the French

princes. There they spun their intrigues, sought to excite a

European war against France; from there they hurled their flaming

torches into France, their calumnies against Queen Marie Antoinette,

the Austrian woman. She alone was accountable for all the

misfortunes and the disturbances of France, she alone had given

occasion for the distrust now felt against royalty. On her head fell

the curse and the burden of all the faults and sins which the French

court had for a hundred years committed. There must be a sacrificial

lamb, to be thrown into the arms glistening with spears and daggers,

of a revolution which thirsted for blood and vengeance, and Marie

Antoinette had to be the victim. In her bleeding heart the spirits

glowing with hate might cool themselves, and there the evil which

her predecessors had done, was to be atoned for. Many a wrong had

been done, and the French nation had, no doubt, a right to be angry

and to rage as does the lion for a long time kept in subjection,

when at last, touched too much by the iron of its keeper, it rises

in its wildness, and with withering greed, tears him in pieces from

whom it has suffered so long and so much. The French people rose

just as the incensed lion does, and determined to wreak their

vengeance on their keepers, on those whom they had so long called

their lords and rulers.

To pacify the lion some prey must be thrown to him, and to him who

thirsts for vengeance and blood, a human offering must be brought to

propitiate him.

Marie Antoinette had to be the offering to the lion! Her blood had

to flow for the sins of the Bourbons! On her all the anger, the

exasperation, the rage of the people must concentrate! She must bear

the blame of all the miseries and the needs of France! She must

satisfy the hunger for vengeance, in order that when the lion is

appeased it can be made placable and patient again, the chains put

on which he has broken in his rage--the chains, however, to which,

when his rage is past, he must again submit.

The queen, the queen is to blame for all! Marie Antoinette has

brought royalty into discredit; the Austrian woman has brought the

hatred of the French nation upon herself, and she must atone for it,

she alone!

Libels and calumnies are forged against the queen by those who were

once the friends and cavaliers of the queen--cavaliers no longer,

but cavillers now; the poisoned arrows are sent to France to be

directed against the head of the queen, to destroy first her honor

and good name, and then to make her a prey for scorn and contempt.

If the lion stills his rage and cools his hate with Marie Antoinette

as his victim, he will relax again and bow to his king, for it is

time for these royal princes to return to France and their loved

Paris once more.