"Does the king know this?" asked Marie Antoinette. "Has any one told his majesty?"

"I should not have taken the liberty of speaking to your majesty about these things if the king had not authorized me," replied Count de la Marck, bowing. "His majesty recognizes it to be a necessary duty to gain Mirabeau to the throne, and he hopes to have in this matter the cooperation of his exalted wife."

Marie Antoinette sadly shook her head. "I will speak with his majesty about it," she said, with a sigh, "but only under circumstances of extreme urgency can I submit to this, I tell you in advance."

But the case was of extreme urgency, and when Marie Antoinette had seen it to be so, she kept her word and conformed to it, and commissioned Count de la Marck to tell his friend Mirabeau that the queen would grant him an audience.

But in order that this audience might be of advantage, it must be conducted with the deepest secrecy. No one ought to suspect that Mirabeau, the tribune of the people, the adored hero of the revolution—Mirabeau, who ruled the National Assembly, and Paris itself, whom the freest of the free hailed as their apostle and saviour, who with the power of his eloquence ruled the spirits of thousands and hundreds of thousands of men,—no one could suspect that the leader of the revolution would now become the devoted dependant upon the monarchy, and the paid servant of the king.

Two conditions Mirabeau had named, when Count de la Marck had tried to gain him over in the name of the king: an audience with the queen, and the payment of his debts, together with a monthly pension of a hundred louis-d'or.

"I am paid, but not bought," said Mirabeau, as he received his first payment. "Only one of my conditions is fulfilled, but what will become of the other?"

"And so you still insist on having an audience with the queen?" asked La Marck.

"Yes, I insist upon it," said Mirabeau, with naming eyes. "If I am to battle and speak for this monarchy, I must learn to respect it. If I am to believe in the possibility of restoring it, I must believe in its capacity of life; I must see that I have to deal with a brave, decided, noble man. The true and real king here is Marie Antoinette; and there is only one man in the whole surroundings of Louis XVI., and that is his wife. I must speak with her, in order to hear and to see whether she is worth the risking of my life, honor, and popularity. If she really is the heroine that I hold her to be, we will both united save the monarchy, and the throne of Louis XVI., whose king is Marie Antoinette. The moment is soon to come when we shall learn what a woman and a child can accomplish, and whether the daughter of Maria Theresa with the dauphin in her arms cannot stir the hearts of the French as her great mother once stirred the Hungarians." [Footnote:Mirabeau's own words.—See "Marie Antoinette et sa Famille." Far M. de Lescure. p. 478.]

"Do you then believe the danger is so great," asked La Marck, "that it is necessary to resort to extreme, heroic measures?"

Mirabeau grasped his arm with a sudden movement, and an expression of solemn earnestness filled his lion-like face. "I am convinced of it," he answered, "and I will add, the danger is so great, that if we do not soon meet it and in heroic fashion, it will not be possible to control it. There is no other security for the queen than through the reestablishment of the royal authority. I believe of her, that she does not desire life without her crown, and I am certain that, in order to keep her life, she must before all things preserve her crown. And I will help her and stand by her in it; and for this end I must myself speak with her and have an audience." [Footnote: Mirabeau's own words.—See Count de la Marck, "Mirabeau," vol. 21. p. 50.]

And Mirabeau, the first man in the revolution had his audience with Marie Antoinette, the dying champion of monarchy.

On the 3rd of July, 1790, the meeting of the queen and Mirabeau took place in the park of St. Cloud. Secrecy and silence surrounded them, and extreme care had been taken to let no one suspect, excepting a few intimate friends, what was taking place on this sequestered, leaf-embowered grass-plat of St. Cloud.

A bench of white marble, surrounded by high oleander and taxus trees, stood at the side of this grass-plat. It was the throne on which Marie Antoinette should receive the homage of her new knight. Mirabeau had on the day before gone from Paris to the estate of his niece, the Marchioness of Aragan. There he spent the night; and the next morning, accompanied by his nephew, M. de Saillant, he walked to the park of St. Cloud.

At the nether gate of the park, which had been left open for this secret visit, Mirabeau took leave of his companion, and extended him his hand.

"I do not know," he said, and his voice, which so often had made the windows of the assembly hall shake with its thunder, was now weak and tremulous, "I do not know why this dreadful presentiment creeps over me all at once, and why voices whisper to me, 'Turn, back, Mirabeau, turn back! Do not step over the threshold of this door, for there you are stepping into your open grave!' "

"Follow this voice, uncle, there is still time," implored M. de Saillant; "it is with me as it is with you. I, too, have a sad, anxious feeling!"

"May they not have laid snares for me here?" whispered Mirabeau, thoughtfully. "They are capable of every thing, these artful Bourbons. Who knows whether they have not invited me here to take me prisoner, and to cast me, whom they hold to be their most dangerous enemy, into one of their oubliettes, their subterranean dungeons? My friend," he continued, hastily, "wait for me here, and if in two or three hours I do not return, hasten to Paris, go to the National Assembly, and announce to them that Mirabeau, moved by the queen's cry of distress, has gone to St. Cloud, and is there held a prisoner."

"I will do it, uncle," said the marquis, "but I do not believe in any such treachery on the part of the queen or her husband. They both know that without Mirabeau they are certainly lost, and that he, perhaps, is able to save them. I fear something entirely different."

"And what do you fear?"

"I fear your enemies in the National Assembly," said M. de Saillant, and with a pained expression. "I fear these enraged republicans, who have begun to mistrust you since you have begun to speak in favor of royalty and mon archy, and since you have even ventured to defend the queen personally against the savage and mean attacks which Marat hurls against Marie Antoinette in his journal, the Ami du Peuplt."

"It is true," said Mirabeau, with a smile, "they have mistrusted me, these enraged republicans, since then, and they tell me that Petion, this republican of steel and iron, turned to Danton at the close of my speech, and said: 'This Mirabeau is dangerous to liberty, for there is too much of the blood of the count flowing through the veins of the tribune of the people. Danton answered him with a smile: 'In that case we must draw off the count's blood from the tribune of the people, that he may either be cured of his reactionary disease or die of it!'"

"And when they told Marat, uncle, that you had spoken angrily and depreciatingly of his attacks upon the queen, he raised his fist threateningly, and cried: 'Mirabeau is a traitor, who wants to sell our new, young liberty to the monarchy. But he will meet the fate of Judas, who sold the Saviour. He will one day atone for it with his head, for if we tap him for his treachery, we shall do for him what Judas did for himself. This Mirabeau Judas must take care of himself."

"And do you suppose that this disputatious little load of a Marat will hang me?" asked Mirabeau, with a scornful smile.

"I think that you must watch him," answered M. de Saillant. "Last evening, in the neighborhood of our villa, I met two disguised men, who, I would swear, were Perion and Marat; and on our way here, as I looked around, I feel certain that I saw these same disguised figures following us!"

"What if it be?" answered Mirabeau, raising himself up, and looking around him with a proud glance. "The lion does not fear the annoying insect that buzzes about him, he shakes it off with his mane or destroys it with a single stroke of his paw. And Mirabeau fears just as little such insects as Petion and Marat; they would much better keep out of his way. I will tread them under foot, that is all! And now, farewell, my dear nephew, farewell, and wait for me here!"

He nodded familiarly to his nephew, passed over the threshold, and entered the park, from whose entrance the popular indignation had long since removed the obnoxious words, De par la Reine, the garden belonging now to the king only because the nation willed it so.

Mirabeau hastened with an anxious mind and a light step along the walk, and again it seemed to him as if dark spirits were whispering to him, "Turn back, Mirabeau, turn back! for with every step forward you are only going deeper into your grave." He stopped, and with his hand-kerchief wiped away the drops of cold sweat which gathered upon his forehead.

"It is folly," he said, "perfect folly. Truly I am as tremulous as a girl going to her first rendezvous. Shame on you, Mirabeau, be a man!"

He shook his head as if he wanted to dispel these evil forebodings, and hastened forward to meet Count de la Marck, who appeared at the bending of the allee.

"The queen is already here, and is waiting for you, Mirabeau," said the marquis, with a slight reproach in his voice.

Mirabeau shrugged his shoulders instead of replying, and went on more rapidly. There soon opened in front of them a small grass-plat, surrounded by bushes, and on the bench opposite, the lady in the white, neat dress, with a straw hat on her arm, her hair veiled with black lace—that lady was Marie Antoinette.

Mirabeau stopped in his walk, and fixed a long, searching look upon her. When he turned again to his friend, his face was pale, and bore plain traces of emotion.

"My friend," whispered he to La Marck, "I know not why, but I have a strange feeling! I have not wept since the day on which my father drove me with a curse from the house of my ancestors, but, seeing yonder woman, I could weep, and an unspeakable sympathy fills my soul."

The queen had seen him, too, and had grown pale, and turned tremblingly to the king, who stood beside her, half concealed by the foliage.

"There is the dreadful man!" said Marie Antoinette, with a shudder. "My God! a thrill of horror creeps through all my veins, and if I only look at this monster, I have a feeling as though I should sicken with loathing!" [Footnote: The queen's own words. See "Madame du Campan," vol. II.]

"Courage, my dear Marie, courage," whispered the king. "Remember that the welfare of our future, and of our children, perhaps, depends upon this interview. See, he is approaching. Receive him kindly, Marie. I will draw back, for you alone shall have the honor of this day, and monarchy has in you its fairest representative."

"But remain so near me, sire, that you can hear me if I call for help," whispered Marie Antoinette.

The king smiled. "Fear nothing, Marie," he said," and believe that the danger for Mirabeau is greater than for you. The name of criminal will be fastened not to us, but to Mirabeau, if it shall be known that he has come to visit us here. I will withdraw, for there is Mirabeau."

And the king withdrew into the thicket, while Mirabeau stopped near the queen, and saluted her with a profound bow.

Marie Antoinette rose from her marble seat. At this moment she was not the queen giving an audience, but the anxious lady, advancing to meet danger, and desirous to mitigate it by politeness and smiles.

"Come nearer, count," said Marie Antoinette, still standing. But as he approached, the queen sank slowly upon the seat, and raised her eyes to Mirabeau, with an almost timid look, who now did not seem to her a monster, for his mien was disturbed, and his eyes, which had always been represented as so fearful, had a gentle, respectful expression.

"Count," said the queen, and her voice trembled a little "count, if I found myself face to face with an ordinary enemy, a man who was aiming at the destruction of monarchy, without seeing of what use it is for the people, I should be taking at this moment a very useless step. But when one talks with a Mirabeau, one is beyond the ordinary conditions of prudence, and hope of his assistance is blended with wonder at the act." [Footnote: The queen's own words.—See "Marie Antoinette et sa Famille" Par M. de Lescure, p. 484.]

"Madame," cried Mirabeau, deeply moved, "I have not come here as your enemy, but as your devoted servant, who is ready cheerfully to give his life if he can be of any service to the monarchy."

"You believe, then, that it is a question of life, or, if you prefer, of death, which stands between the French people and the monarchy?" asked the queen, sadly.

"Yes, I am convinced of that," answered Mirabeau. "But I still hope that we can answer the question in favor of the monarchy, provided that the right means are applied in season."

"And what, according to your views, are the right means, count?"

Mirabeau smiled and looked with amazement into the noble face of the queen, who, with such easy composure, had put into this one short question what for centuries had perplexed the greatest thinkers and statesmen to answer.

"Will your majesty graciously pardon me if I crave permission, before I answer, to put a question in like manner to my exalted queen?"

"Ask on, count," replied Marie Antoinette, with a gentle inclination of her head.

"Well, madame, this is my question: 'Does your majesty purpose and aim at the reestablishment of the old regime, and do you deem it possible to roll the chariot of human history and of politics backward?"

"You have in your question given the answer as well," said Marie Antoinette, with a sigh. "It is impossible to reerect the same edifice out of its own ruins. One must be satisfied if out of them a house can be built, in which one can manage to live."

"Ah, your majesty," said Mirabeau, with feeling, "this answer is the first ray of light which breaks through the heavy storm-clouds! The new day can be descried and hailed with delight! After hearing this noble answer of your majesty, I look up comforted, and the clouds do not terrify me longer, for I know that they will soon be past—that is, if we employ the right means."

"And now I repeat my question, count, What, according to your view, are the right means?"

"First of all, the recognition of what is wrong," answered Mirabeau, "and then the cheerful and honest will to do what is found to be necessary."

"Well, tell me, what is it that is wrong?"

Mirabeau bowed, and then began to speak to her in his clear, sharp way, which was at the same time so full of energy, of the situation of France, the relation of the various political parties to one another, to the court, and the throne. In strongly outlined sentences he characterized the chiefs of the political clubs, the leaders of the parties in the National Assembly, and spoke of the perilous goal which the demagogues, the men of the extreme Left, aimed at. He did not, from delicacy, speak the word "republican," but he gave the queen to understand that the destruction of the monarchy and the throne, the annihilation of the royal family, was the ultimate object aimed at by all the raving orators and leaders of the extreme Left.

The queen had listened to him with eager, fixed attention, and, at the same time, with a dignified composure; and the earnest, thoughtful look of her large eyes had penetrated and moved Mirabeau more and more, so that his words came from his lips like a stream of fire, and kindled a new hope even in himself.

"All will yet be well," he cried, in conclusion; "we shall succeed in contending with the hidden powers that wish to undermine your majesty's throne, and to take from the hands of your enemies these dangerous weapons of destruction. I shall apply all my power, all my eloquence to this. I will oppose the undertakings of the demagogues; I will show myself to be their public opponent, and zealously serve the monarchy, making use of all such means of help as are adapted to move men's minds, and not to trouble and terrify them, as if freedom and self-government were to be taken from them, and yet which will restore the credit and power of the monarchy."

"Are you, then, with honest and upright heart, a friend of ours?" asked Marie Antoinette, almost supplicatingly. "Do you wish to assist us, and stand by us, with your counsel and help?"

Mirabeau met her inquisitive and anxious look with a cordial smile, a noble and trustworthy expression of face. "Madame," he said, with his fine, resonant voice, "I defended monarchical principles when I saw only their weakness, and when I did not know the soul nor the thoughts of the daughter of Maria Theresa, and little reckoned upon having such an exalted mediator. I contended for the rights of the throne when I was only mistrusted, when calumny dogged all my steps, and declared me guilty of treachery! I served the monarchy, then, when I knew that from my rightful, but misled king, I should receive neither kindness nor reward. What shall I do now, when confidence animates my spirit, and gratitude has made my duties run directly in the current of my principles? I shall be and remain what I have always been, the defender of monarchy governed by law, the apostle of liberty guaranteed by the monarchy." [Footnote: Mirabeau's own words.—See "Memoires du Comte de Mirabeau," vol III., p. 290.]

"I believe you, count," cried Marie Antoinette, with emotion. "You will serve us with fidelity and zeal, and with your help all will yet be well. I promise yon that we will follow your counsels, and act in concord with you. You will put yourself in communication with the king; you will consult him about needful matters, and advise him about the things which are essential to his welfare and that of the people."

"Madame," replied Mirabeau, "I take the liberty of adding this to what has already been said. The most necessary thing is that the royal court leave Paris for a season!"

"That we flee?" asked Marie Antoinette, hastily. "Not flee, but withdraw," answered Mirabeau. "The exasperated people menace the monarchy, and therefore the threatened crown must for a while be concealed from the people's sight, that they may be brought back to a sense of duty and loyalty. And, therefore, I do not say that the court must flee; I only say it must leave Paris, for Paris is the furnace of the revolution! The royal court must withdraw, as soon as possible, to the very boundaries of France! It must there gather an army, and put it under the command of some faithful general, and with this army march against the riotous capital; and I will be there to smooth the way and open the gates!"

"I thank you, count, I thank you!" cried Marie Antoinette, rising from her seat. "Now, I doubt no more about the future, for my own thoughts coincide with those of our greatest statesmen! I, too, am convinced the court ought to leave Paris—that it must withdraw, in order to escape new humiliations, and that it ought to return only in the splendor of its power, and with an army to put the rebels to flight, and breathe courage into the timid and faithful. Oh! you must tell the king all this; you must show him that our removal from Paris is not only a means of salvation to the crown, but to the people as well. Your words will convince the noblest and best of monarchs; he will follow your counsels, and, thanks to you, not we alone, but the monarchy will be saved! No, go to the work, count! Be active in our behalf; bring your unbounded influence, in favor of the king and queen, to bear upon all spirits, and be sure that we shall be grateful to you so long as we live. Farewell, and remember that my eye will follow all your steps, and that my ears will hear every word which Mirabeau shall speak in the National Assembly."

Mirabeau bowed respectfully. "Madame," said he, "when your exalted mother condescended to favor one of her subjects with an audience, she never dismissed him without permitting the favored one respectfully to kiss her hand."

"It is true," replied Marie Antoinette, with a pleasant smile, "and in this, at least, I can follow the example of my great mother!"

And, with inimitable grace, the queen extended her hand to him. Mirabeau, enraptured, beside himself at this display of courtesy and favor, dropped upon his knee and pressed his lips to the delicate, white hand of the queen.

"Madame," cried he, with warmth, "this kiss saves the monarchy!" [Mirabeau's own words.—See "Memoires de Mirabeau," vol iv., p. 208.]

"If you have spoken the truth, sir," said the queen, with a sigh, rising and dismissing him, with a gentle inclination of her head.

With excited and radiant looks, Mirabeau returned to his nephew, who was waiting for him at the gate of the park.

"Oh!" said he, with a breath of relief, laying his hand upon the shoulder of Saillant, "what have I not heard and seen! She is very great, very noble, and very unhappy, Victor! But," cried he, with a loud, earnest voice, "I will save her—I will save her!" [Footnote: "Marie Antoinette et sa Famille," p 480.]

Mirabeau was in earnest in this purpose; and not because he had been bought over, but because he had been won—carried away with the noble aspect of the queen—did he become from this time a zealous defender of the monarchy, an eloquent advocate in behalf of Marie Antoinette. But he was not now able to restrain the dashing waves of revolution; he could not even save himself from being engulfed in these raging waves.

Mirabeau knew it well, and made no secret of the peril of his position. On the day when, before the division, he spoke in defence of the monarchy and the royal prerogative, and undertook to decide the question of peace or war—on that day he first announced himself openly for the king, and raised a storm of excitement and disgust in the National Assembly. Still he spoke right bravely in behalf of the crown; and while doing so, he cried, "I know well that it is only a single step from the capitol to the Tarpeian rock!"

Step after step! And these successive steps Mirabeau was soon to take. Petion had not in vain characterized Mirabeau as the most dangerous enemy of the republic. Marat had not asserted, without knowing what he said, that Mirabeau must let all his aristocratic blood flow from his veins, or bleed to death altogether! Not with impunity could Mirabeau encounter the rage of parties, and fling down the gauntlet before them, saying, at the same moment, "He would defend the monarchy against all attacks, from what side soever, and from what part soever of the kingdom they might come."

The leaders of the republican factions knew very well how to estimate the power of Mirabeau; they knew very well that Mirabeau was able to fit together the fragments of the crown which he had helped to break. And, to prevent his doing this, they knew that he must be buried beneath these fragments.

Soon after his interview with the queen—after his dissenting speech in behalf of the prerogative of the king—Mirabeau began to fail in health. His enemies said that it was only the result of over- exertion, and a cold which he had brought on by drinking a glass of cold water during a speech, in the National Assembly. His friends whispered about a deadly poison which had been mingled with this glass of water, in order to rid themselves of this powerful and dangerous opponent.

Mirabeau believed this; and the increasing torpor of his limbs, the pains which he felt in his bowels, appeared to him to be the sure indications of poison given him by his enemies.

The lion, who had been willing to crouch at the foot of the throne for the purpose of guarding it, was now nothing but a poor, sick man, whose voice was lost, and whose power was extinguished. For a season he sought to contend against the malady which was lurking in his body; but one day, in the midst of a speech which he was making in behalf of the queen, he sank in a fainting-fit, and was carried unconsciously to his dwelling. After long efforts on the part of his physician, the celebrated Cabanis, Mirabeau opened his eyes. Consciousness was restored, but with it a fixed premonition of his approaching death.

"I am dying!" he said, softly. "I am bearing in my heart the funeral crape of the monarchy. These raging partisans want to pluck it out, deride it, and fasten it to their own foreheads. And this compels them to break my heart, and this they have done!" [Footnote: Mirabeau's own words.—See "Memoires sur Mirabeau," vol. iv.,. p. 296.]

Yes, they had broken it—this great strong heart, in which the funeral crape of monarchy lay. At first the physician and his friends hoped that it might be possible to overcome his malady, but Mirabeau was not flattered by any such hope; he felt that the pains which were racking his body would end only with death.

After one especially painful and distressing night, Mirabeau had his physician Cabanis and his friend Count de la Marck summoned to his bed, and extended to them both his hands. "My friends," he said to them with gentle voice and with peaceful face, "my friends, I am going to die to-day. When one has been brought to that pass, there is only one thing that remains to be done: to be perfumed, tastefully dressed, and surrounded with flowers, so as to fall agreeably into that last sleep from which there is no waking. So, call my servants! I must be shaved, dressed, and nicely arrayed. The window must be opened, that the warm air may stream in, and then flowers must be brought. I want to die in the sunshine and flowers." [Footnote: Mirabeau's words.—See "Memoires sur Mirabeau," vol. iv., p. 298.]

His friends did not venture to oppose his last wish. The gladiator wanted to make his last toilet and be elaborately arrayed in order to fall in the arena of life as a hero falls, and even in death to excite the wonder and the applause of the public.

All Paris was in this last scene the public of this gladiator; all Paris had, in these last days of his battle for life, only one thought, "How is it with Mirabeau? Will he compel the dreadful enemy Death to retire from before him, or will he fall as the prey of Death?" This question was written on all faces, repeated in all houses and in all hearts. Every one wanted to receive an answer from that still house, with its closely-drawn curtains, where Mirabeau lived. All the streets which led thither were, during the last three days before his death, filled with a dense mass of men, and no carriage was permitted to drive through the neighborhood, lest it should disturb Mirabeau. The theatres were closed, and, without any consultation together, the merchants shut their stores as they do on great days of national fasting or thanksgiving.

On the morning of the fourth day, before life had begun to move in the streets of Paris, and before the houses were opened, a cry was heard in the great highways of the city, ringing up into all the houses, and entering all the agitated hearts that heard it: "Flowers, bring flowers! Mirabeau wants flowers! Bring roses and violets for Mirabeau! Mirabeau wants to die amid flowers!"

This cry awoke slumbering Paris the 2d of April, 1791, and, as it resounded through the streets, windows and doors opened, and hundreds, thousands of men hastened from all directions toward Mirabeau's house, carrying nosegays, bouquets, whole baskets of flowers. One seemed to be transferred from cool, frosty spring weather to the warm, fragrant days of summer; all the greenhouses, all the chambers poured out their floral treasures to prepare one last summer day for the dying tribune of the people. His whole house was filled with flowers and with fragrance. The hall, the staircase, the antechamber, and the drawing-room were overflowing with flowers; and there in the middle of the drawing-room lay Mirabeau upon a lounge, carefully dressed, shaved and powdered, as if for a royal festival. The most beautiful of the flowers, the fairest exotics surrounded his couch, and bent their variegated petals down to the pale, death-stricken gladiator, who still had power to summon a smile to his lips, and with one last look of affection to bid farewell to his weeping friends—farewell to the flowers and the sunlight!

On his lofty brow, on his smiling lips, there was written, after Death had claimed him, after the gladiator had fallen, "The dying one greets you!"

The day of his death was the day of his last triumph; and the flowers that all Paris sent to him, were to Mirabeau the parting word of love and admiration!

Four times daily the king had sent to inquire after Mirabeau's welfare, and when at noon, on the 2d of April, Count de la Marck brought the tidings of his death, the king turned pale. "Disaster is hovering over us," he said, sadly, "Death too arrays himself on the side of our enemies!"

Marie Antoinette was also very deeply moved by the tidings. "He wanted to save us, and therefore must die! The burden was too heavy, the pillar has broken under the weight; the temple will plunge down and bury us beneath its ruins, if we do not hasten to save ourselves! Mirabeau's bequest was his counsel to speedy and secret flight! We must follow his advice, we must remove from Paris. May the spirit of Mirabeau enlighten the heart of the king, that he may be willing to do what is necessary,—that he may be willing to leave Paris!"



CHAPTER XVIII.

REVOLUTION IN THE THEATRE.

All Paris was again in commotion, fear, and uproar. The furies of the revolution, the market-women, went howling again through the streets on the 20th of June, 1791, uttering their horrid curses upon the king and the Austrian woman, and hurling their savage words and dirty songs against Madame Veto, against la chienne d'Autriche.

Around the Tuileries stood in immense masses the corps of the National Guard, with grave and threatening mien, and with difficulty holding back the people, who were filling the whole broad square in front of the palace, and who could only with great effort be prevented from breaking through those strong cordons of guards who held both ends of the street leading to the Tuileries, and kept at least the middle of the way free and open.

It was a way for the king, the queen, and the royal family, who were to reenter Paris that day. Lafayette had, at the order of the National Assembly, gone with some regiments of the guard to Varennes, to conduct the king back to the capital. Thousands upon thousands had hurried out after him in order to observe this return of the representatives of monarchy, and to take part in this funeral procession!

For it was a funeral of the monarchy which was celebrated that day; and this great, heavy carriage, surrounded by soldiers, and the ribald, mocking populace—this great carriage, which now drove along the streets leading to the Tuileries, amid the thunder of cannon, and the peals of bells from towers, was the funeral car of monarchy.

The king, the queen, the royal children, the sister of the king, Madame Tourzel, and the two deputies whom the National Assembly had sent to Varennes to accompany the royal family, Petion and Barnave, were in this carriage.

They had tried to follow the advice of the dying Mirabean, and to save themselves from the revolution. That was the offence of this king and this queen, who were now brought back in triumph to the Tuileries, the palace of kings, and from that time a royal prison.

Tri-colored banners waved from all roofs and from all windows; placards were displayed everywhere, bearing in immense letters the words: "Whoever applauds the king shall be scourged; whover insults him shall be hanged!"

They had wished to escape, these unhappy ones, who are now brought back from Varennes, where they were identified and detained. Now they were returning, no longer the masters, but the prisoners of the French nation! The National Assembly had passed a decree, whose first article was: "The king is temporarily set aside from the functions of royalty;" and whose second and third articles were, "that so soon as the king and his family shall be brought back to the Tuileries, a provisional watch shall be set over him, as well as over the queen and the dauphin, which, under the command of the general-in-chief of the National Guard of Paris, shall be responsible for their safety and for their detention."

The king and the queen returned to Paris as prisoners, and Lafayette was their jailer. The master of France, the many-headed King of the French nation, was the National Assembly.

Sad, dreadful days of humiliation, of resignation, of perils and anxieties, now followed for the royal family, the prisoners of the Tuileries, who were watched day and night by spying eyes, and whose doors must remain open day and night, in order that officers on guard might look without hindrance into the apartments in which the prisoners of the French nation lived.

During the first week after the sad return, the spirit of the queen seemed to be broken, her energies to be impaired forever. She had no more hope, no more fear; she threw out no new plans for escaping, she neither worked nor wrote. She only sat still and sad for hours, and before her eyes passed the dreadful pictures of the time just gone by, presenting themselves with dreadful vividness, and in the recollection anguishing her spirit. She recalled the excitement and anxiety of the day which preceded the flight. She saw herself, as with trembling hands she put on the garments of one of her waiting- maids, and then disguised the dauphin in girl's clothes; she heard the boy asking anew, with his pleasant smile: "Are we going to play theatre, mamma queen?" Then she saw herself on the street alone, waiting without any protection or company for the carriage which was to take her up, after taking up at another place the king and the two children. She recalled the drive in the dark night, the heat in the close, heavy carriage, the dreadful alarm when suddenly, after a twelve hours' drive, the carriage broke, and all dismounted to climb the hill to the village which lay before them, and where they had to wait till the carriage could be repaired. Then the journey on, the delay in Varennea, the cry, "They are recognized." Then the confusion, the march, the anguish of the hours following, and finally that last hour of hope when, in the poor chamber of the shopkeeper Sauce, his wife standing near the bed on which the little prince slept, she conjured his wife to save the king and find him a hiding-place. Then she heard again before her ears the woman's hard voice answering her:

"Madame, it cannot be; I love my husband, too, and I also have children, but my husband were lost if I saved yours." Then she heard afresh the cries, the march; saw the arrival of the Paris regiments and the deputies whom the National Assembly sent to conduct the royal refugees back to Paris. Then she recalled the drive back, crowded into the carriage with the deputies, and the ribald populace roaring around. As she thought of all these things, a shudder ran through the form of the unhappy queen, and tears streamed unrestrainedly from her eyes.

But gradually she gained her composure and spirit, and even the daily humiliation and trials which she encountered awakened in her the fire and defiance of her earlier days.

The king and the queen were, after their return from Varennes, the prisoners of their own people, and the Tuileries formed the prison in which with never-sleeping cruelty the people watched their royal captives.

The chiefs of the battalions constituting the National Guard took turns in sentry duty over the royal couple. They had received the rigid order to constantly watch the royal family, and not to leave them for a moment alone. Even the sleeping-room of the queen was not closed to the espionage of the guards; the door to the drawing-room close by had always to be open, and in this drawing-room was the officer of the guard. Even in the night, while the queen lay in her bed, this door remained open, and the officer, sitting in an arm- chair directly opposite to the door, kept his eyes directed to the bed in which the queen sought to sleep, and wrestled with the pains and fear which she was too proud to show to her persecutors. The queen had stooped to make but one request; she had asked that at least in the morning, when she arose and dressed, she might close the doors of her sleeping-room, and they had been magnanimous enough to comply with her wish.[Footnote: "Histoire de Marie Antoinette," par Edmondet Jules de Goneourt, p. 861.]

But Queen Marie Antoinette had met all these humiliations, these disenchantments, and trials, full of hope of a change in her fortune. Her proud soul was still unbroken, her belief in the victory of monarchy under the favor of God animated her heart with a last ray of hope, and sustained her amid all her misfortune. She still would contend with her enemies for the love of this people, of whom she hoped that, led astray by Jacobins and agitators, they would at last confess their error, respect the voice of their king and queen, and return to love and regretfulness. And Marie Antoinette would sustain herself in view of the great day when the people's love should be given back; she would seek to bring that day back, and reconcile the people to the throne. On this account she would show the people that she cherished no fear of them; that she would intrust herself with perfect confidence to them, and greet them with her smiles and all the favor of former days. She would make one more attempt to regain her old popularity, and reawaken in their cold hearts the love which the people had once displayed to her by their loud acclamations. She found power in herself to let her tears flow, not visibly, but within her heart; to disguise with her smile the pain of her soul, and so she resolved to wear a cheerful and pleasant face, and appear again publicly in the theatre, as well as in open carriage-drives through the city.

They were then giving in the great opera-house Gluck's "Alceste," the favorite opera of the queen—the opera in which a few years before she had received so splendid a triumph; in which the public loudly encored, "Chantons, celebrons notre reine!" which the choir had sung upon the stage, and, standing with faces turned toward the royal box, had mingled their voices with those of the singers, and repeated in a general chorus, "Chantons, celebrons notre reine!"

"I will try whether the public remembers that evening," said Marie Antoinette, with a faint smile, to Mademoiselle de Bugois, the only lady who had been permitted to remain with her; "I will go this evening to the opera; the public shall at least see that I intrust myself with confidence to it, and that I have not changed, however much may have been changed around."

Mademoiselle de Bugois looked with deep sadness at the pale face of the queen, that would show the public that she had not altered, and upon which, once so fair and bright, grief had recorded its ineradicable characters, and almost extinguished its old beauty. Deeply moved, the waiting-lady turned away in order not to let the tears be seen which, against her will, streamed from her eyes.

But Marie Antoinette had seen them nevertheless. With a sad smile she laid her hand upon the shoulder of the lady-in-waiting. "Ah!" said she, mildly, "do not conceal your tears. You are much happier than I, for you can shed tears; mine have been flowing almost two years in silence, and I have had to swallow them! [Footnote: Marie Antoinette's own words.—See Goncourt, p. 264.]

"But I will not weep this evening," she continued, "I will meet these Parisians at least in composure. Yes, I will do more, I will try to smile to them. They hate me now, but perhaps they will remember then that once they truly loved me. There is a trace of magnanimity in the people, and my confidence will perhaps touch it. Be quick, and make my toilet. I will be fair to-day. I will adorn myself for the Parisians. They will not be my enemies alone who will be at the theatre; some of my friends will be there, and they at least will be glad to see me. Quick, mademoiselle, let us begin my toilet."

And with a liveliness and a zeal which, in her threatened situation, had something touching in it, Marie Antoinette arrayed herself for the public, for the good Parisians.

The news that the queen was to appear that evening at the theatre had quickly run through all Paris; the officer on duty told it at his relief to some of the guards, they to those whom they met, and it spread like wildfire. It was therefore very natural that, long before the curtain was raised, the great opera-house was completely filled, parquette, boxes, and parterre, with a passionately-excited throng. The friends of the queen went in order to give her a long- looked-for triumph; her enemies—and these the poor queen had in overwhelming numbers—to fling their hate, their malice, their scorn, into the face of Marie Antoinette.

And enemies of the queen had taken places for themselves in every part of the great house. They even sat in the boxes of the first rank, on those velvet-cushioned chairs which had formerly been occupied exclusively by the enthusiastic admirers of the court, the ladies and gentlemen of the aristocracy. But now the aristocracy did not dare to sit there. The most of them, friends of the queen, had fled, giving way before her enemies and persecutors; and in the boxes where they once sat, now were the chief members of the National Assembly, together with the leading orators of the clubs, and the societies of Jacobins.

To the box above, where the people had once been accustomed to see Princess Lamballe, the eyes of the public were directed again and again. Marie Antoinette had been compelled to send away this last of her friends to London, to have a conference with Pitt. Instead of the fair locks of the princess, was now to be seen the head of a man, who, resting both arms on the velvet lining of the box, was gazing down with malicious looks into the surging masses of the parterre. This man was Marat, once the veterinary of the Count d'Artois, now the greatest and most formidable orator of the wild Jacobins.

He too had come to see the hated she-wolf, as he had lately called the queen in his "Ami du Peuple," and, to prepare for her a public insult, sat drunk with vanity in the splendid box of the Princess Lamballe; his friends and confidants were in the theatre, among them Santerre the brewer, and Simon the cobbler, often looking up at Marat, waiting for the promised motion which should be his signal for the great demonstration.

At length the time arrived for the opera to begin, and, although the queen had not come, the director of the orchestra did not venture to detain the audience even for a few minutes. He went to his place, took his baton, and gave the sign. The overture began, and all was silent, in parquette and parterre, as well as in the boxes. Every one seemed to be listening only to the music, equally full of sweetness and majesty—only to have ears for the noble rhythm with which Gluck begins his "Alceste."

Suddenly there arose a dull, suppressed sound in parquette, parterre, and boxes, and all heads which had before been directed toward the stage, were now turned backward toward the great royal box. No one paid any more attention to the music, no one noticed that the overture was ended and that the curtain was raised.

Amid the blast of trumpets, the noise of violins and clarionets, the public had heard the light noise of the opening doors, had noticed the entrance of the officers, and this sound had made the Parisians forget even their much-loved music.

There now appeared in the open box-door a woman's form. The queen, followed by Mademoiselle de Bugois, advanced slowly through the great box to the very front. All eyes were directed to her, all looks searched her pale, noble face.

Marie Antoinette felt this, and a smile flitted over her face like the evening glow of a summer's day. With this smile and a deep blush Marie Antoinette bowed and saluted the public.

A loud, unbounded cry of applause resounded through the vast room. In the parquette and in the boxes hundreds of spectators arose and hailed the queen with a loud, pealing "Vive la reine!" and clapped their hands like pleased children, and looked up to the queen with joyful, beaming countenances.

"Oh, my faith has not deceived!" whispered Marie Antoinette into the ear of her companion. "The good Parisians love me still; they, like me, remember past times, and the old loyalty is awaking in them."

And again she bowed her thanks right and left, and again the house broke out into loud applause. A single, angry glance of Marat's little eyes, peering out from beneath the bushy brows, met the queen.

"Only wait," said Marat, rising from his seat and directing his glances at the parterre. There stood the giant Santerre, and not far from him Simon the cobbler, in the midst of a crowd of savage- looking, defiant fellows, who all looked at their leaders, while they, Santerre and Simon, directed their eyes up to the box of Marat.

The glance of the chief met that of his two friends. A scornful, savage expression swept over Marat's ash-colored, dirty face, and he nodded lightly to his allies. Santerre and Simon returned the nod, and they, turning to their companions, gave the signal by raising the right hand.

Suddenly the applause was overborne by loud whistling and shouting, derisive laughter, and wild curses.

"The civil war has begun!" cried Marat, rubbing his hands together with delight.

The royalists continued to applaud and to shout, "Vive la reine!" Their opponents tried to silence them by their hisses and whistling. Marat's face glowed with demoniacal pleasure. He turned to the boxes of the second tier, and nodded smilingly to the men who sat there. At once they began to cry, "The chorus, the chorus, let them sing, 'Chantons, celebrons notre reine!'"

"Very well," said Marat. "I am a good royalist, for I have trained the people to the cry."

"Sing, sing!" shouted the men to the performers on the stage—"sing the chorus, 'Chantons, celebrons notre reine!'"

And in the boxes, parquette, everywhere was the cry, "Sing the chorus, 'Chantons, celebrons notre reine!'"

"No," roared Santerre, "no, they shall not sing that!"

"No," cried Simon, "we will not hear the monkey-song!"

And hundreds of men in the parterre and the upper rows of boxes echoed the cry, "No, we will not hear the monkey-song!"

"The thing works well!" said Marat. "I hold my people by a thread, and make them gesticulate and spring up and down, like the concealed man in a Punch and Judy show."

The noise went on; the royalists would not cease their applause and their calls for the chorus, "Chantons, celebrons notre reine!" The enemies of the queen did not cease hissing and shouting, "We do not want to hear any thing about the queen; we will not hear the monkey- song!"

"Oh, would I had never come here!" whispered the queen, with tearful eyes, as she sank back in her armchair, and hid her face in her handkerchief.

Perhaps because the real royalists saw the agitation of the queen, and out of compassion for her were willing to give up the controversy—perhaps Marat had given a sign to the false royalists that they had had enough of shouting and confusion—at all events the cry "Vive la reine" and the call for the chorus died away suddenly, the applause ceased, and as the enemies of the queen had now no opposition to encounter, nothing was left to them but to be silent too.

"The first little skirmish is over!" said Marat, resting his bristly head on the back of his velvet arm-chair. "Now we will listen to the music a little, and look at the pretty theatre girls."

And in fact the opera had now begun; the director of the orchestra had taken advantage of the return of quiet to give a sign to the singers on the stage to begin at once, and with fortunate presence of mind his command was obeyed.

The public, wearied it may be with the shouting and noise, remained silent, and seemed to give its attention exclusively to the stage, the development of the plot, and the noble music.

Marie Antoinette breathed freely again; her pale cheeks began to have color once more, her eyes were again bright, and she seemed transported beyond the sore battles and dreadful discords of her life; she listened respectfully to the sweet melodies, and the grand harmonies of the teacher of her youth, the great Gluck. Leaning back in her armchair, she allowed the music to flow into her soul, and the recollection of past days awoke afresh in her mind. She dreamed of the days of her childhood: she saw herself again in Schonbrunn; she saw her teacher Gluck enter the blue music-room, in which she with her sisters used to wait for him; she saw the glowing countenance of her mother, the great Maria Theresa, entering her room, in order to give Gluck a proof of her high regard, and to announce to him herself that Marie Antoinette had betrothed herself to the Dauphin of France, and that she would soon bid her teacher farewell, in order to enter upon her new and brilliant career.

A low hum in the theatre awakened the queen from her reveries; she raised herself up and leaned forward, to see what was going on. Her glance, which was directed to the stage, fell upon the singer Clairval, who was just then beginning to give, with his wonderfully full and flexible voice, the great aria in which the friend comes to console the grief-burdened, weeping Queen Alceste, and to dry her tears by assuring her of the love of her faithful adherents. Clairval had advanced in the aria to that celebrated passage which had given to Marie Antoinette a half year before her last great triumph. It ran:

"Reine infortunee, ah! que ton coeur Ne soit plus navre de douleur! Il vous reste encore des amis!"

But scarcely had Clairval begun the first strophe when the thundering voice of Santerre called, "None of that, we will not hear the air!"

"No, we will not hear the air!" shouted hundreds and hundreds of voices.

"Poor Gluck," whispered Marie Antoinette, with tears in her eyes, "because they hate me, they will not even hear your music!"

"Sing it, sing it!" shouted hundreds and hundreds of voices from all parts of the house.

"No, do not sing it!" roared the others; "we will not hear the air."

And suddenly, above the cries of the contestants, rose a loud, yelling voice:

"I forbid the singer Clairval ever again singing this air. I forbid it in the name of the people!"

It was Marat who spoke these words. Standing on the arm-chair of the Princess de Lamballe, and raising his long arms, and directing them threateningly toward the stage, he turned his face, aglow with hate and evil, toward the queen.

Marie Antoinette, who had turned her head in alarm in the direction whence the voice proceeded, met with her searching looks the eyes of Marat, which were fixed upon her with an expression equally stern and contemptuous. She shrank back, and, as if in deadly pain, put her hand to her heart.

"0 God!" she whispered to herself, "that is no man, that is an infernal demon, who has risen there to take the place of my dear, sweet Lamballe. Ah, the good spirit is gone, and the demon takes its place—the demon which will destroy us all!"

"Long live Marat!" roared Santerre, and his comrades. "Long live Marat, the great friend of the people, the true patriot!"

Marat bowed on all sides, stepped down from the easy-chair, and seated himself comfortably in it.

Clairval had stopped in the air; pale, confused, and terrified, he had withdrawn, and the director whispered to the orchestra and the singers to begin the next number.

The opera went on, and the public again appeared to give itself during some scenes to the enjoyment of the music. But soon this short quiet was to be disturbed again. One of the singers, Madame Dugazont, a zealous royalist, wanted to give the queen a little triumph, and show her that, although Clairval had been silenced, the love and veneration of Dugazont were still alive and ready to display themselves.

Singing as the attendant of Alceste, Dugazont had these words to give in her part: "Ah! comme faime la reine, comme faime ma maitresse!"

She advanced close to the footlights, and turning her looks toward the royal box, and bowing low, sang the words: "Comme faime la reine, comme j'aime ma maitresse!"

And now, as if this had been the battle-cry of a new contest, a fearful din, a raging torrent of sound began through the whole house. At first it was a mixed and confused mass of cries, roars, hisses, and applause. Now and then single voices could be heard above the horrid chaos of sounds. "We want no queen!" shouted some.

"We want no mistress!" roared others; and mingled with those was the contrary cry, "Long live the queen! Long live our mistress!"

"Hi!" said Marat, full of delight, twisting his bony form up into all kinds of knots—" hi! this is the way they shout in hell. Satan himself would like this!"

More and more horrible, more and more wild became the cries of the rival partisans. Already embittered and exasperated faces were confronting each other, and here and there clinched fists were seen, threatening to bring a shouting neighbor to silence by the use of violence.

The queen, trembling in every limb, had let her head fall powerlessly on her breast, in order that no one might see the tears which ran from her eyes over her death-like cheeks.

"0 God," whispered she, "we are lost, hopelessly lost, for not merely our enemies injure us, and bring us into danger, but our friends still more. Why must that woman turn to me and direct her words to me? She wanted to give me a triumph, and yet she has brought me a new humiliation." Suddenly she shrank back and raised her head. She had caught the first tones of that sharp, mocking voice, which had already pierced her heart, the voice of that evil demon who now occupied the place of the good Princess Lamballe.

The voice cried: "The people of Paris are right. We want no queen! And more than all other things, no mistress! Only slaves acknowledge masters over them. If the Dugazont ventures to sing again, 'I love my queen, I love my mistress,' she will be punished as slaves are punished—that is, she will be flogged!"

"Bravo, Marat, bravo!" roared Santerre, with his savage rabble. "Bravo, Marat, bravo!" cried his friends in the boxes; "she shall be flogged!"

Marat bowed on all sides, and turned his eyes, gleaming with scorn and hatred, toward the royal box, and menaced it with his clinched fists.

"But not alone shall the singer be flogged," cried he, with a voice louder and sharper than before—"no, not alone shall the singer be flogged, but greater punishment have they deserved who urge on to such deeds. If the Austrian woman comes here again to turn the heads of sympathizing souls with her martyr looks, if she undertakes again to move us with her tears and her face, we will serve her as she deserves, we will go whip in hand into her box!" [Footnote: Goneourt's "Histoire de Marie Antoinette," p. 365.]

The queen rose from her chair like an exasperated lioness, and advanced to the front of the box. Standing erect, with flaming looks of anger, with cheeks like purple, she confronted them there—the true heir of the Caesars, the courageous daughter of Maria Theresa— and had already opened her lips to speak and overwhelm the traitor with her wrath, when another voice was heard giving answer to Marat.

It cried: "Be silent, Marat, be silent. Whoever dares to insult a woman, be she queen or beggar, dishonors himself, his mother, his wife, and his daughter. I call on you all, I call on the whole public, to take the part of a defenceless woman, whom Marat ventures to mortally insult.

You all have mothers and wives; you may, perhaps, some day have daughters. Defend the honor of woman! Do not permit it to be degraded in your presence. Marat has insulted a woman; we owe her satisfaction for it. Join with me in the cry, 'Long live the queen! Long live Marie Antoinette!'"

And the public, carried away with the enthusiasm of this young, handsome man, who had risen in his box, and whose slender, proud figure towered above all—the public broke into one united stirring cry: "Long live the queen! Long live Marie Antoinette!"

Marat, trembling with rage, his countenance suffused with a livid paleness, sank back in his chair.

"I knew very well that Barnave was a traitor," he whispered. "I shall remember this moment, and Barnave shall one day atone for it with his head."

"Barnave, it is Barnave," whispered the queen to herself. "He has rescued me from great danger, for I was on the point of being carried away by my wrath, and answering the monster there as he deserves."

"Long live the queen! Long live Marie Antoinette!" shouted the public.

Marie Antoinette bowed and greeted the audience on all sides with a sad smile, but not one look did she cast to the box where Barnave sat, with not one smile did she thank him for the service he had done her. For the queen knew well that her favor brought misfortune to those who shared it; that he on whom she bestowed a smile was the object of the people's suspicion.

The public continued to shout her name, but the queen felt herself exhausted, and drawing back from the front of the box, she beckoned to her companion. "Come," she whispered, "let us go while the public are calling 'Long live Marie Antoinette!' Who knows whether they will not be shouting in another minute, 'Away with the queen! we want no queen!' It pains my ear so to hear that, so let us go."

And while the public were yet crying, Marie Antoinette left the box and passed out into the corridor, followed by Mademoiselle Bugois and the two officers in attendance. But the corridor which the queen had to pass, the staircase which she had to descend in order to reach her carriage, were both occupied by a dense throng. With the swiftness of the wind the news had spread through Paris that the queen was going to visit the opera that evening, and that her visit would not take place without witnessing some extraordinary outbreak.

The royalists had hastened thither, to salute the queen, and at least to see her on the way. The curious, the idle, and the hostile- minded had come to see what should take place, and to shout as the majority might shout. The great opera-house had therefore not accommodated half who wanted to be present, and all those who had been refused admittance had taken their station on the stairway and the corridor, or before the main entrance. And it was natural that those who stood before the door should, by their merely being there, excite the curiosity of passers-by, so that these, too, stood still, to see what was going on, and all pressed forward to the staircase to see every thing and to hear every thing.

But the civil war which was raging within the theatre had given rise 'to battles outside as well; the same cries which had resounded within, pealed along the path of the queen. She could only advance slowly; closer and closer thronged the crowd, louder and louder roared around Marie Antoinette the various battle-cries of the parties, "Long live the queen!" "Long live the National Assembly! Down with the queen!"

Marie Antoinette appeared to hear neither the one nor the other of these cries. With proudly erected head, and calm, grave looks, she walked forward, untroubled about the crowd, which the National Guard before her could only break through by a recourse to threats and violence, in order to make a passage for the queen.

At last the difficult task was done; at last she had reached her carriage, and could rest upon its cushions, and, unobserved by spying looks, could give way to her grief and her tears. But alas! this consolation continued only for a short time. The carriage soon stopped; the Tuileries, that sad, silent prison of the royal family, was soon reached, and Marie Antoinette quickly dried her tears, and compelled herself to appear calm.

"Do not weep more, Bugois," she whispered. "We will not give our enemies the triumph of seeing that they have forced tears from us. Try to be cheerful, and tell no one of the insults of this evening."

The carriage door was opened, the queen dismounted, and, surrounded by National Guards and officers, returned to her apartments.

No one bade her welcome, no one received her as becomes a queen. A few of the servants only stood in the outer room, but Marie Antoinette had no looks for them. She had been compelled as a constitutional queen ought, to dismiss her own tried and faithful servants; her household had been reorganized, and she knew very well that these new menials were her enemies, and served as spies for the National Assembly. The queen therefore passed them without greeting, and entered her sitting-room.

But even here she was not alone; the door of the ante-room was open, and there sat the officer of the National Guard, whose duty of the day it was to watch her.

Marie Antoinette had no longer the right of being alone with her grief, no longer the right of being alone with her husband. The little corridor which ran from the apartments of the queen to those of the king, was always closed and guarded. When the king came to visit his wife, the guard came too and remained, hearing every word and standing at the door till the king retired. In like manner, both entrances to the apartments of the queen were always watched; for before the one sat an officer appointed by the National Assembly, and before the other a member of the National Guard stood as sentry.

With a deep sigh the queen entered her sleeping-room. The officer sat before the open door of the adjacent room, and looked sternly and coldly in. For an instant an expression of anger flitted over the face of the queen, and her lips quivered as though she wanted to speak a hasty word. But she suppressed it, and withdrew behind the great screen, in order to be disrobed by her two waiting-maids and be arrayed in her night-dress.

Then she dismissed the maids, and coming out from behind the screen, she said, loudly enough to be heard by the officer: "I am weary, I will sleep."

At once he arose, and turning to the two guards, who stood at the door of the anteroom, said:

"The queen is retiring, and the watch in the black corridor can withdraw. The National Assembly has given command to lighten the service of the National Guard, by withdrawing as much of the force as possible. As long as the queen is lying in bed, two eyes are enough to watch her, and they shall watch her well!"

The soldiers left the anteroom, and the officer returned to the entrance of the sleeping-room. He did not, however, sit down in the easy-chair before the door, but walked directly into the chamber of the queen.

Marie Antoinette trembled and reached out her hand for the bell which stood by her on the table.

"Be still, for God's sake, be still!" whispered the officer. "Make no noise, your majesty. Look at my face." And, kneeling before the queen, he raised his head and looked at her with an expression almost of supplication. "I am Toulan," he whispered, "the faithful servant of my queen. Will your majesty have the goodness to recall me? Here is a letter from my patroness, Madame de Campan, who speaks well for me. Will your majesty read it?"

The queen ran over the paper quickly and turned with a gentle smile to the officer, who was still kneeling before her, and who, in all her humiliation and misfortune, still paid her the homage due to majesty.

"Stand up, sir," she said, mildly. "The throne lies in dust, and my crown is so sadly broken, that it is no longer worth the trouble to kneel before it."

"Madame, I see two crowns upon your noble head," whispered Toulan— "the crown of the queen, and the crown of misfortune. To these two crowns I dedicate my service and my fidelity, and for them I am prepared to die. It is true, I can do but little for your majesty, but that little shall be faithfully done. Thanks to my bitter hatred of royalty, and my rampant Jacobinism, I have carried matters so far, that I have been put upon the list of officers to keep watch, and, therefore, once every week I shall keep guard before your majesty's sleeping-room."

"And will you do me the favor to so put your chair that I shall not see you—that during the night I may not always have the feeling of being watched?" asked the queen, in supplicant tones.

"No, your majesty," said Toulan, moved. "I will remain in my chair, but your majesty will prefer, perhaps, to turn the night into day, and remain up; as during my nights you will not be disturbed."

"What do you mean by that?" asked Marie Antoinette, joyfully.

"I mean, that, as during the day your majesty can never speak with the king without witnesses, we must call the night to our assistance, if you wish to speak confidentially to his majesty. Your majesty has heard, that during the night the watch is withdrawn from the corridor, and your majesty is free to leave your room and go to the chamber of the king."

A flash of joy passed over the countenance of the queen. "I thank you, sir—I thank you to-day as a wife; perhaps the day may come when I can thank you as a queen; I accept your magnanimous kindness. Yes, I will turn the night into day, and, thanks to you, I shall be able to spend several hours undisturbed with my husband and my children. And do you say that you shall be here quite often?"

"Yes, your majesty, I shall be here once every week at your majesty's order."

"Oh! I have lost the habit of ordering," said Marie Antoinette, with a pained look. "You see that the Queen of France is powerless, but she is not wholly unfortunate, for she has friends still. You belong to these friends, sir; and that we may both retain the memory of this day, I will always call you my faithful one."

No, the queen is not wholly unfortunate; she has friends who are ready, with her, to suffer; with her, if it must be, to die. The Polignacs are gone, but Princess Lamballe, whom the queen had sent to London, to negotiate with Pitt, has returned, in spite of the warnings and pleadings of the queen. Marie Antoinette, when she learned that the princess was on the point of leaving England, had written to her: "Do not come back at a moment so critical. You would have to weep too much for us. I feel deeply, believe me, how good you are, and what a true friend you are. But, with all my love, I enjoin you not to come here. Believe me, my tender friendship for you will cease only with death."

The warning of her royal friend had, meanwhile, not restrained Princess Lamballe from doing what friendship commanded. She had returned to France, and Marie Antoinette had, at least, the comfort of having a tender friend at her side.

No, the queen was not wholly unfortunate. Besides this friend, she had her children, too—her sweet, blooming little daughter, and the dauphin, the pride and joy of her heart.

The dauphin had no suspicion of the woes and misfortunes which were threatening them. Like flowers that grow luxuriantly and blossom upon graves, so grew and blossomed this beautiful boy in the Tuileries, which was nothing more than the grave of the old kingly glory. But the dauphin was like sunshine in this dark, sad palace, and Marie Antoinette's countenance lightened when her eye fell upon her son, looking up to her with his tender, beaming face. From the fresh, merry smile of her darling, she herself learned to smile again, and be happy.

Gradually, after the first rage of the people was appeased, the chains with which she was bound were relaxed. The royal family was at least permitted to leave the close, hot rooms, and go down into the gardens, although still watched and accompanied by the National Guard. They were permitted to close the doors of their rooms again, although armed sentries still stood before them.

There were even some weeks and months in this year 1791, when it appeared as if the exasperated spirits would be pacified, and the throne be reestablished with a portion of its old dignity. The king had, in a certain manner, received forgiveness from the National Assembly, while accepting the constitution and swearing—as indeed he could but swear, all power having been taken from him, and he being a mere lay-figure—that would control all his actions, and govern according to the expressed will of the National Assembly.

But the king, in order to make peace with his people, had even made this sacrifice, and accepted the constitution. The people seemed grateful to him for this, and appeared to be willing to return to more friendly relations. The queen was no longer insulted with contemptuous cries when she appeared in the garden of the Tuileries, or in the Bois de Boulogne, and it even began to be the fashion to speak about the dauphin as a miracle of loveliness and beauty, and to go to the Tuileries to see him working in his garden.

This garden of the dauphin was in the immediate neighborhood of the palace, at the end of the terrace on the river-side; it was surrounded with a high wire fence, and close by stood the little pavilion where dwelt Abbe Davout, the teacher of the dauphin. The dauphin had had in Versailles a little garden of his own, which he himself worked, planted, and digged, and from whose flowers he picked a bouquet every morning, to bring it with beaming countenance to his mamma queen.

For this painfully-missed garden of Versailles, the little garden on the terrace had to compensate. The child was delighted with it; and every morning, when his study-hours were over, the dauphin hastened to his little parterre, to dig and to water his flowers. The garden has, since that day, much changed; it is enlarged, laid out on a different plan, and surrounded with a higher fence, but it still remains the garden of the Dauphin Louis Charles, the same garden that Napoleon subsequently gave to the little King of Borne; the same that Charles X. gave to the Duke de Bordeaux, and that Louis Philippe gave to the Count de Paris. How many recollections cluster around this little bit of earth, which has always been prematurely left by its young possessors! One died in prison scarcely ten years old; another, hurried away by the tempest, still younger, into a foreign land, only lived to hear the name of his father, and see his dagger before he died. The third and fourth were hurled out by the storm-wind like the first two, and still wear the mantle of exile in Austria and England. And many as are the tears with which these children regard their own fate, there must be many which they must bestow upon the fate of their fathers. One died upon the scaffold, another from the knife of an assassin, a third from a fall upon the pavement of a highway; and the last, the greatest of them all, was bound, like Prometheus, to a rock, and fed on bitter recollections till he met his death.

This little garden, on the river-side terrace of the Tuileries park, which has come to have a world-wide interest, was then the Eldorado of the little Dauphin of Prance; and to see him behind the fence was the delight of the Parisians who used to visit there, and long for the moment when the glance of his blue eye fell upon them, and for some days and months had again become enthusiastic royalists.

When the prince went into his little garden, he was usually accompanied by a detachment of the National Guard, who were on duty in the Tuileries; and the dauphin, who was now receiving instruction in the use of weapons, generally wore himself the uniform of a member of the National Guard. The Parisians were delighted with this little guard of six years. His picture hung in all stores, it was painted on fans and rings, and it was the fashion, among the most elegant ladies of the Faubourg St. Germain, and among the market- women as well, to decorate themselves with the likeness of the dauphin. How his brow beamed, how his eye brightened, when, accompanied by his escort, of which he was proud, he entered his garden! When the retinue was not large, the prince took his place in the ranks. One day, when all the National Guards on duty were very desirous of accompanying him, several of them were compelled to stand outside of the garden. "Pardon me, gentlemen," said the dauphin; "it is a great pity that my garden is so small that it deprives me of the pleasure of receiving you all." Then he hastened to give flowers to every one who was near the fence, and received their thanks with great pleasure.

The enthusiasm for the dauphin was so great, that the boys of Paris envied their elders the honor of being in his service, and longed to become soldiers, that they might be in his retinue. There was, in fact, a regiment of boys formed, which took the name of the Dauphin's Regiment. The citizens of Paris were anxious to enroll the names of their sons in the lists of this regiment, and to pay the expenses of an equipment. And when this miniature regiment was formed, with the king's permission, it marched to the Tuileries, in order to parade before the dauphin.

The prince was delighted with the little regiment, and invited its officers to visit his garden, that they might see his flowers, his finest treasures. "Would you do us the pleasure to be the colonel of our regiment?" one of the officers asked the dauphin.

"Oh! certainly," he answered.

"Then you must give up getting flowers and bouquets for your mamma!" said one of the boys.

"Oh!" answered the dauphin, with a smile, "that will not hinder my taking care of my flowers. Many of these gentlemen have little gardens, too, as they have told me. Very well, they can follow the example of their colonel, and love the queen, and then mamma will receive whole regiments of flowers every day."

The majority of this regiment consisted, at the outset, of children of the highest ranks of society, and it was therefore natural that they, practiced in the most finished courtesy, should pay some deference to their young colonel.

But they were expressly forbidden showing any thing of this feeling toward their comrade. "For," said the king, "I want him to have companions who will stimulate his ambition; but I do not want him to have flatterers, who shall lead him to live to himself alone." Soon the number of little soldiers increased, for every family longed for the honor of having its sons in the regiment of the royal dauphin. The people used always to throng in great masses when this regiment went through its exercises in the Place de la Carrousel. It was a miniature representation of the French guards, with their three- cornered hats and white jackets; and nothing could be more charming than this regiment of blooming boys in their tasteful uniforms, and their little chief, the dauphin, looking at his regiment with beaming eyes and smiling lips.

The enthusiasm of the little soldiers of the Royal Dauphin Regiment for their colonel was so great, that they longed to give him a proof of their love. One day the officers of the regiment came into the Tuileries and begged the king's permission to make a present to the dauphin, in the name of the whole regiment. The king gladly acceded to their request—, and he himself conducted the little officers into the reception-room, where was the dauphin, standing at the side of his mother.

The little colonel hastened to greet them. "Welcome, my comrades, welcome!" cried he, extending his hand to them. "My mamma queen tells me that you have brought me something which will give me pleasure. But it gives me pleasure to see you, and nothing more is needed."

"But, colonel, you will not refuse our present?"

"Oh, certainly not, for my papa king says that a colonel is not forbidden taking a gift from his regiment. What is it?"

"Colonel, we bring you a set of dominoes," said a little officer, named Palloy, who was the speaker of the delegation—" a set of dominoes entirely made out of the ruins of the Bastile."

And taking the wrapper from the white marble box, bound with gold, he extended it to the dauphin, and repeated with a solemn face the following lines:

"Those gloomy walls that once awoke our fear Are changed into the toy we offer here: And when with joyful race the gift you view, Think what the people's mighty love can do." [Footnote: "De ces aff reux cachota, la terreur des Francais, Vous voyez les debris transformes en hoohets; Puissent-ils, en servant aux jeux de votre enfance, Du peuple vous prouver 1'amour et la puissance." Beauchesne, "Louis XVD. Sa Vie, sou Agonie," etc., vol. iv., p. 396.]

Poor little dauphin! Even when they wanted to do him homage, they were threatening him; and the present which affection offered to the royal child was at the same time a bequest of Revolution, which even then lifted her warning finger, and pointed at the past, when the hate of the people destroyed those "gloomy walls," which had been erected by kingly power.

In his innocence and childish simplicity, the dauphin saw nothing of the sting which, unknown even to the givers, lurked within this gift. He enjoyed like a child the beautiful present, and listened with eagerness while the manner of playing the game was described to him. All the stones were taken from the mantel of black marble in the reception-room of Delaunay, the governor of the Bastile, who had been murdered by the people. On the back of each of these stones was a letter set in gold, and when the whole were arranged in regular order, they formed the sentence: "Vive le Roi, vive la Reine, et M. le Dauphin." The marble of the box was taken from the altar-slab in the chapel. In the middle was a golden relief, representing a face.

"That is my papa king," cried the dauphin, joyfully, looking at the representation.

"Yes," replied Palloy, the speaker of the little company, "every one of us bears him in his heart. And like the king, you will live for the happiness of all, and like him you will be the idol of Prance. We, who shall one day be French soldiers and citizens, bring to you, who will then be our commander-in-chief and king, our homage as the future supporters of the throne which is destined for you, and which the wisdom of your father has placed under the unshakable power of law. The gift which we offer you is but small, but each one of us adds his heart to it." [Footnote: The very words of the little officer.]

"And I give all of you my heart in return for it," cried the dauphin, with a joyful eagerness, "and I shall take great pains to be good, and to learn well, that I may be allowed to amuse myself with playing dominoes."

And the little fellow fixed his large, blue eyes upon the queen with a tender look, took her hand and pressed it to his lips.

"My dear mamma queen," he said, caressingly, "if I am real good, and study hard, we can both play dominoes together, can't we?"

A sad smile played around the lips of the queen, and no one saw the distrustful, timid look which she cast at the box, which to her was merely the memorial of a dreadful day.

"Yes, my child," she replied, mildly, "we will play dominoes often together, for you certainly will be good and industrious."

She controlled herself sufficiently to thank the boys with friendly words for the present which they had made to the dauphin, and then the deputation, accompanied by the king and the little prince, withdrew. But as soon as they had gone, the smile died away upon her lips, and with an expression of horror she pointed to the box.

"Take it away—oh, take it away!" she cried, to Madame de Tourzel. "It is a dreadful reminder of the past, a terrible prophecy of the future. The stones of the Bastile, which the people destroyed, lie in this box! And the box itself, does it not look like a sarcophagus? And this sarcophagus bears the face of the king! Oh, the sorrow and woe to us unfortunate ones, who can not even receive gifts of love without seeing them obscured by recollections of hate, and who have no joys that have not bitter drops of grief mingled with them! The revolution sends us storm-birds, and we are to regard them as doves bringing us olive-branches. Believe me, I see into the future, and I discern the deluge which will drown us all!"



BOOK IV.

CHAPTER XIX.

JUNE 20 AND AUGUST 10, 1792.

Marie Antoinette was right. The revolution was sending its storm- birds to the Tuileries. They beat with their strong pinions against the windows of the palace; they pulled up and broke with their claws the flowers and plants of the garden, so that the royal family no longer ventured to enter it. But they had not yet entered the palace itself; and within its apartments, watched by the National Guard, the queen was at least safe from the insults of the populace.

No, not even there longer, for the storm-birds of the revolution beat against the windows, and these windows had once in a while to be opened to let in a little sunshine, and some fresh air. Marie Antoinette had long given up her walks in the garden of the Tuileries, for the rabble which stood behind the fence had insulted her so often with cries and acts, that she preferred to give up her exercise rather than to undergo such contemptuous treatment.

The king, too, in order to escape the scornful treatment of the populace, had relinquished his walks, and before long things came to such a pass that the dauphin was not allowed to visit his little garden. Marat, Santerre, Danton, and Robespierre, the great leaders of the people, had, by their threats against the royalists and their insurrectionary movements among the people, gained such power, that no one ventured to approach the garden of the prince to salute him, and show deference to the son of the king. The little regiment had been compelled, in order to escape the mockery and contempt, the hatred and persecution which followed them, to disband after a few months; and around the fence, when the dauphin appeared, there now stood none but men sent there by the revolutionists to deride the dauphin when he appeared, and shout their wild curses against the king and queen.

One day, when a crowd of savage women stood behind the fence, and were giving vent to their derision of the queen, the poor dauphin could not restrain his grief and indignation. With glowing cheeks and flaming eyes he turned upon the wild throng.

"You lie —oh, you lie!" he cried, with angry voice. "My mamma queen is not a wicked woman, and she does not hate the people. My mamma queen is so good, so good that—"

His tears choked his voice, and flowed in clear streams down over his cheeks. Ashamed, as it were, of this indication of weakness, the dauphin dashed out of the garden, and hastened so rapidly to the palace that the Abbe Davout could scarcely follow him. Weeping and sobbing, the dauphin passed through the corridor, but when they reached the broad staircase which led to the apartments where the queen lived, the dauphin stopped, suppressed his sobs, and hastily dried his eyes.

"I will not weep any more," he said, "it would trouble mamma. I beg you, abbe, say nothing to mamma. I will try to be cheerful and merry, for mamma queen likes much to have me so. Sometimes, when she is sad and has been weeping, I make believe not to notice it, and then I laugh and sing, and jump about, and then her beautiful face will clear up, and sometimes she even smiles a little. So, too, I will be right merry, and she shall notice nothing. You would not suspect that I have been weeping, would you?"

"No, my prince, no one would think you had," answered the abbe, looking with deep emotion into the great blue eyes which the dauphin turned up to his with an inquiring look.

"Well, then, we will go to my mamma queen," cried the dauphin, and he sprang forward and opened the door with a smile, and, half concealed behind the curtains, he asked, in a *jesting tone, whether he might have permission to enter her majesty's presence.

Marie Antoinette bade him heartily welcome, and opened her arms to him. The dauphin embraced her and pressed a glowing kiss upon her eyes and upon her lips.

"You are extraordinarily affectionate to-day, my little Louis Charles," said the queen, with a smile. "What is the cause of that?"

"That comes from the fact that to-day I have nothing to give you excepting kisses—not a single flower. They are all withered in my garden, and I do not like to go there any more, for there are no more bouquets to pluck for my dear mamma queen. Mamma, this is my bouquet."

And he kissed and caressed the queen afresh, and brought a glow to her eyes and a smile to her lips.

"Come now, my child, you see that the abbe is waiting, and I believe it is time for the study-hours to begin. "What comes first to-day?"

"We have first, grammar," answered the abbe, laying the needful books upon the little table at which the dauphin always took his lessons in the presence of the queen.

"Grammar!" cried the dauphin; "I wish it were history. That I like, but grammar I hate!"

"That comes because you make so many mistakes in it," said the abbe; "and, certainly, grammar is very hard."

The child blushed. "Oh, it is not on that account," he said. "I do not dislike grammar because it is hard, but merely because it is tedious."

"And I will wager that on that account you have forgotten what we went over in our last grammar hour. We were speaking of the three comparatives. But you probably do not remember them."

"You are mistaken," replied the dauphin, smiling. "In proof, hear me. If I say, 'My abbe is a good abbe,' that is the positive. If I say, 'My abbe is better than another abbe,' that is the comparative. And," he continued, turning his eyes toward the queen with an expression of intense affection, "if I say, 'My mamma is the dearest and best of all mammas,' that is the superlative." [Footnote: The dauphin's own words.—See Beauchesne's "Louis XVII.," vol. i., p. 133.]

The queen drew the boy to her heart and kissed him, while her tears flowed down upon his auburn curls.

On the next day, at the time of his accustomed walk, the queen went into the dauphin's room to greet him before he went into the garden.

"Mamma, I beg your permission to remain here," said the dauphin. "My garden does not please me any longer."

"Why not, my son," asked Marie Antoinette, "has any thing happened to you?"

"Yes, mamma," he answered, "something has happened to me. There are so many bad people always standing around the fence, and they look at me with such evil eyes, that I am afraid of them, and they scold and say such hard things. They laugh at me, and say that I am a stupid jack, a baker's boy that does not know how to make a loaf, and they call me a monkey. That angers me and hurts my feelings, and if I begin to cry I am ashamed of myself, for I know that it is very silly to cry before people who mean ill to us. But I am still a poor little boy, and my tears are stronger than I. And so I want you, mamma, not to let me go to the garden any more. Moufflet and I would a great deal rather play in my room. Come here, Moufflet, make your compliments to the queen, and salute her like a regular grenadier."

And smiling, he caught the little dog by the fore-paws, and made him stand up on his hind legs, and threatened Moufflet with his hand till he made him stand erect and let his fore feet hang down very respectfully.

The queen looked down with a smile at the couple, and laughed aloud when the dauphin, still waving his hand threateningly to compel the dog to stand as he was, jumped up, ran to the table, caught up a paper cap, which he had made and painted with red stripes, and put it on Moufflet's head, calling out to him: "Mr. Jacobin, behave respectfully! Make your salutations to her majesty the queen!"