CHAPTER CVIII.

THE STORMING OF THE TUILERIES.

When Mirabeau died, constitutional monarchy in France lost its strongest support. Slowly, but with steady persistence, Robespierre assumed the place which he could only fill with the iron pertinacity of a fixed purpose. From the hour that his voice became potent in the National Assembly, commenced the fearful rush with which the nation hurled itself into anarchy, assassination, atheism, and such other fearful crimes as history shrinks from recording. Then legislation itself became anarchy, constitutions were made, rent to atoms, and made over again in solemn mockery. Everything grand, beautiful or good, was trampled under the feet of the multitude. Men who had ever worshipped God blasphemed him now. Women who had been devout, forgot even to respect themselves. As anarchy prevailed, morality, justice and religion disappeared. France was reeling like a drunken creature toward an abyss of blood from which an eternity of goodness can never lift her, unstained.

Struggle as she will, explain and apologise as she has, the power of an awful truth is upon her. Time itself will only deepen the ensanguined pages she has given to universal history. Terrified by the danger that surrounded him, the king and his family attempted to flee from the country he had ruled. But the red hand of the people was laid upon him, and he was dragged back to Paris worse than a prisoner. For a time he was insulted, watched and forced to become the very tool of his own enemies. After a martyrdom of humiliation, he was besieged in his palace by a band of marauders still more ferocious than the _Sans Culottes_ with whom they fraternized in hideous brotherhood. Privately sanctioned and organized by men who called themselves the government, this fearful riot, intended to drive the king into the arms of his worst foes, was commenced and carried out by a combination of the brigands of Paris with the Marsellaise, a herd of ferocious butchers, which had swarmed up from the lowest dregs of the country wherever a moral monster could be found. Surrounded by this army of fiends who broke into his presence, threatening death wherever they went, the king, to save his helpless family and faithful household from massacre, resolved to seek protection from the Assembly which was in session.

Surrounded by a few friends, girded in by hosts of foes, this unfortunate monarch took his first deliberate step to the scaffold. Followed by his wife, his sister, and his children, he passed from the palace into the grounds that partly surrounded it, hoping to make his way unmolested through the crowd. But the gates had been broken, and even here the mob swarmed around him with cruel taunts and brutal threats.

The fallen monarch walked through the withered leaves that rustled mournfully in his path, submitting to these scoffs and insults of the furious crowd with a look of infinite sorrow.

Marie Antoinette followed him in dread silence, leading the unconscious Dauphin by the hand, her face pale as death, her eyes burning with the hot tears she would not permit to fall. Now and then, her figure shrank from its queenly bearing as the crowd rained curses and hurled brutal insults on her in the presence of her child. But she uttered neither protest or appeal, when those ruthless hands snatched the watch from her bosom and tore her garments to get at the purse she was supposed to carry.

The innocent child, comprehending little of the horrors that surrounded him, amused himself by kicking the dead leaves about, laughing archly if they fluttered over the band of brigands, and looking up at his mother as if he had done something in her defence.

Among the crowd were many women, keener in their spite and far more ferocious than their fellow butchers, as unsexed women are sure to be, in a scene like that. Among them were several on horseback, recognized Amazons of the crowd, Theroigne de Mericourt, Louison Brisot, and, deeper in the throng, Madame Gosner. These women wore red caps on their heads, tri-colored scarfs across their bosoms, while the gleam of unsheathed swords pointed the commands they gave to the crowd. One forced the horse she rode through the mob, pointing her sword at the queen.

“Take the child from her, he belongs to the nation! Hurl him this way, my horse’s hoofs are impatient.”

The queen had not complained, but a shriek of agony broke from the mother, and snatching the boy to her bosom, she made a wild appeal for help.

“No, no, take me! trample _me_ down, but do not touch her or the child.”

It was the voice of a young girl, who sprang out of the crowd and threw herself before the queen, where she stood like a virgin priestess defending the altar at which she prayed.

“Ha, ha!” shouted the woman on horseback, “it is her protegée. I have seen her at St. Cloud, at the little Trianon. It is she who carries letters back and forth, between Dame Capet and the traitors. She dares to stand between the people of France and their vengeance. Fling the boy to me, and toss her to the Marsellaise.”

Marguerite Gosner stretched out her arms in wild appeal; her face was inspired, her blue eyes turned black and bright as stars.

“Will no one help me? Is all manhood left among the people of France!”

A man pressed his way through the crowd; a strong man, full of indomitable courage.

Marguerite flung up her clasped hands in an ecstasy of thanksgiving. It was monsieur Jacques.

This brave man snatched the Dauphin from his mother and held him up before the crowd, crying out in a voice that rang out trumpet-toned,

“Frenchmen do not war with children!”

A shout followed this brave act, and the cry ran from lip to lip.

“It is the foster-brother of Mirabeau. Let him have his way.”

Monsieur Jacques did have his way. Firm as a rock he walked before the queen, protecting her with his person and bearing the child in his arms. Marie Antoinette recognised in this man the person who had once saved her life, and would have imprudently thanked him. He saw the expression in her face, and with rude kindness bade her be silent. So the mournful procession passed on, and the king disappeared into the blackness of an awful future. While Monsieur Jacques was thus bravely occupied, Louison Brisot stooped down from her horse and pointing her sword at Marguerite, gave this order to a group of her followers.

“Seize her! Take her before the committee—you understand—I will be there; cautiously, cautiously! Neither this man, nor St. Just must know of it.”

She was obeyed. A few minutes after, two stout men had seized upon Marguerite, and were dragging her through the tumult, the smoke, and the horrible massacre which followed the king’s transit from his palace into the very citadel of his enemies.