surprise them; and Louise Chably, the speaker, who had selected the women, found only timid, modest words, with which to paint to the king the misfortune, the need, and the pitiable condition of the people, and with which to entreat his pity and assistance.

"Ah, my children," answered the king with a sigh, "only believe me, it is not my fault that you are miserable, and I am still more unhappy than you. I will give directions to Corbeil and D'Estampes, the controllers of the grain-stores, to give out all that they can spare. If my commands had always been obeyed, it would be better with us all! If I could do every thing, could see to it that my commands were everywhere carried into effect, you would not be unhappy; and you must confess, at least, that your king loves you as a father his children, and that nothing lies so closely at his heart as your welfare. Go, my children, and tell your friends to prove worthy of the love of their king, and to return peaceably to Paris." [Footnote: The king's own words.--See. A. de Beauchesne, "Louis XVI.. sa Vie, son Agonie, "etc., vol. i., p. 43.]

"Long live the king! Long live our father!" cried the touched and pacified women, as trembling and with tears in their eyes, they left the royal cabinet, in order to go to the women below, and announce to them what the king had said.

But the royal words found no response among the excited masses. "We are hungry, we want bread," shouted the women. "We are not going to live on words any more. The king shall give us bread, and then we shall see it proved that he loves us like a father; then we will go back to Paris. If the baker believes that he can satisfy us with words and fine speeches, he is mistaken."

"If he has no bread, he shall give us his wife to eat!" roared a man with a pike in his hand and a red cap on his head. "The baker's wife has eaten up all our bread, and it is no more than fair that we should eat her up now."

"Give us the heart of the queen," was now the cry, "give us the heart of the queen!"

Marie Antoinette heard the words, but she appeared not to be alarmed. With dignity and composure, she cast a look at the ministers and gentlemen, who, pale and speechless, had gathered around the royal couple.

"I know that this crowd has come from Paris to demand my head! I learned of my mother not to fear death, and I shall meet it with courage and steadfastness." [Footnote: The words of the queen.--See "Histoire de Marie Antoinette," p. 194.]

And firmly and fearlessly Marie Antoinette remained all this dreadful evening, which was now beginning to overshadow Versailles. Outside of the palace raged the uproar; revolutionary songs were sung; veiled forms, the leaders of the revolution, stole around, and fired the people with new rage against the baker and the baker's wife. Torches were lighted to see by, and the blood-red glare shone into the faces there, and tended to exasperate them still more. What dances were executed by the women, with torches in their hands! and the men roared in accompaniment, ridiculing the king and threatening the queen with death.

At times the torches threw their flickering glare into the windows of the palace, where were the ministers and servants of the king, in silent horror. Among all those counsellor of the king, there was at this time but one Man, Marie Antoinette! She alone preserved her steadfastness and discretion; she spoke to every one friendly, inspiriting words. She roused up the timid; at times she even attempted to bring the king to some decisive action, and yet she did not complain when she found herself unable to do so.

Once her face lighted up in hope and joy. That was when a company of deputies, headed by Toulan, entered the hall, to offer their services to the royal couple, and to ask permission to be allowed to remain around the king and queen.

But scarcely had this request been granted, when both the secretaries of the president of the National Assembly entered, warning the members, in the name of the president, to return at once to the hall and to take part in the night session which was to be held.

"They call our last friends away from us," murmured the queen, "for they want us to be entirely defenceless!"

All at once the cries on the square below were more violent and loud; musket-shots were heard; at the intervals between rose the thousand-voiced clamor, and at one time the thunder of a cannon. There was a rush of horses, and clash of arms, more musket-shots, and then the cry of the wounded.

The king had withdrawn to hold a last consultation with his ministers and a few faithful friends. At this fearful noise, this sound of weapons, this shout of victory, his first thought was of the queen. He rose quickly and entered the hall.

No one was there; the red glare of the torches was thrown from below into the deserted room, and showed upon the wall wondrous shadows of contorted human figures, with clinched fists and with raised and threatening arms.

The king walked hastily through the fearfully illuminated hall, called for the queen with a loud voice, burst into the cabinet, then into her sleeping-room, but no Marie Antoinette was to be found--no one gave reply to the anxious call of the king.

More dreadful grew the wild shrieks and howls, the curses and maledictions which came in from without.

The king sprang up the little staircase which led to the rooms of the children, and dashed through the antechamber, where the door was open that led to the dauphin's sleeping-room.

And here Louis stood still, and looked with a breath of relief at the group which met his tearful eyes. The dauphin was lying in his bed fast asleep, with a smile on his face. Marie Antoinette stood erect before the bed in an attitude of proud composure.

"Marie," said the king, deeply moved--"Marie, I was looking for you."

The queen slowly turned her head toward him and pointed at the sleeping prince.

"Sire," answered she calmly, "I was at my post." [Footnote: This conversation, as well as this whole scene, is historical.--See Beauchesne's "Louis XVII.," vol. i.]

Louis, overcome by the sublimity of a mother's love, hastened to his wife and locked her in his arms.

"Remain with me, Marie," he said. "Do not leave me. Breathe your courage and your decision into me."

The queen sighed and sadly shook her head. She had not a word of reproach; she did not say that she no longer believed in the courage and decision of the king, but she had no longer any hope.

But the doors of the room now opened. Through one came the maids of the queen and the governess of the dauphin; through the other, some gentlemen of the court, to call the king back into the audience- hall.

After the first panic, every one had come back to consciousness again, and all vied in devoting themselves to the king and the queen. The gentlemen brought word that something new had occurred, and that this was the cause of the dreadful tumult below upon the square. The National Guard of Paris had arrived; they had fraternized with the National Guard of Versailles, and with the people; they had been received by the women with shouts of applause, and by the men with a volley of musket-shots in salutation. General Lafayette had entered the palace to offer his services to the king, and he now asked for an audience.

"Come, madame," said Louis quickly, cheered up, "let us receive the general. You see that things are not so bad with us as you think. We have faithful servants yet to hasten to our assistance."

The queen made no reply. Quietly she followed the king into the hall, in which Lafayette, surrounded by the ministers and gentlemen, was standing. On the entrance of the royal couple, the general advanced to meet them with a reverential salutation.

"Sire," said Lafayette, with cheerful confidence--" sire, I have come to protect your majesties and the National Assembly against all those who shall venture to threaten you."

"Are you assured of the fidelity and trustworthiness of your troops?" asked the queen, whose flaming eyes rested upon Lafayette's countenance as if she wanted to read his utmost thoughts.

But these eyes did not confuse the cheerful calmness of the general.

"I know, madame, that I can rely upon the fidelity of my soldiers," answered he, confidently. "They are devoted to me to the death, and as I shall command them, they will watch over the security of the king and queen, and keep all injury from them."

The queen detected the touch of scorn in these loud-sounding words, but she pretended to believe them. At last she really did believe them, for Lafayette repeated emphatically that from this time nothing more was to be feared for the royal family, and that all danger was past. The guard should be chosen this night from his own troops; the Paris National Guard should restore peace again in Versailles, and keep an eye upon the crowds which had encamped upon the great square before the palace.

Lafayette promised well for his army, for the howling, shrieking women, for the cursing, raging men.

And the king was satisfied with these assurances of General Lafayette, and so, too, was Marie Antoinette at last.

Louis ordered the garde du corps to march to Rambouillet, and reserved only the necessary sentinels in the palace. In the immediate neighborhood the soldiers of Lafayette were stationed. The general once more made the rounds, and then, as if every thing was in a position of the greatest security, he went into the palace to spend the night there, and in peaceful slumbers to refresh himself for the labors of the day.

The king, too, had retired to his apartments, and the valets who had