CHAPTER XCIX.

FETE IN THE CHAMP DE MARS.

On the fourteenth of July, 1790, the city of Paris resolved to commemorate the taking of the Bastille, and all France was invited to rejoice with those who had laid this mighty fortress in ruins.

From a surface of two hundred thousand square miles came thousands on thousands of dusty and tired travelers, moving toward the capital, singly and in delegations, shouting hymns to liberty under the burning rays of a July sun.

These men came from the foot of the Alps, crowned with eternal snows; from the deep valleys of the Pyrenees, and the rugged regions of Cevinnes and Auvergne; from the low dreary lands washed by the waters of the Atlantic, and from the iron-bound coast of Bretagne. They came from the valley of the Rhone, where ancient Rome has left its imperishable monuments, and the vine-clad hills of Garonne; from the broad bosom of the Loire, and the banks of the Seine; from the forests of Ardennes; from the plains of Picardy and Artois; from every corner in France the people came forth rejoicing to join the grand jubilee at Paris.

The people of the city were making noble preparations for their patriotic guests. The grand ovation was to be given in the Champ de Mars, a large, open space lying between the military school and the Seine. The ground was turned into an amphitheatre by removing the earth from the center, and piling it around the circumference, forming it into seats of turf, tier above tier, until a space was secured larger by many times than the arenas old Rome ever gave to her gladiators.

Twelve thousand men worked day and night in this arena, but the impatience of the people was greater than their efforts. So the Parisians fell to work themselves. Men and women, rich and poor, priests and soldiers, came in sections, with banners and music, spades and barrows, to work while the day lasted. When the signal was given, they returned home singing and dancing by the light of their torches.

Before the day appointed the great amphitheatre was complete. In front of the military school was stretched a noble awning of purple cloth, ornamented with golden _fleur de lis_, and under this glittered the royal throne, with seats for the president of the Assembly and the deputies. In the center of the amphitheatre the people had built an altar ascended by broad steps, from which a great cross rose toward heaven with solemn significance.

At six o’clock on the fourteenth two grand spectacles were witnessed in Paris. The morning was cloudy, and the rain came down in torrents, but this had no power to check the enthusiasm of the people. They filled the streets by thousands on thousands, and the sun, had it shone that day, would have poured its light on more than three hundred thousand citizens seated patiently in the Champ de Mars, waiting for the ceremonies which were to commemorate their first great step toward the freedom they never learned how to use or keep. In the vast space on which they looked, fifty thousand soldiers were gathered, while three hundred priests, in white surplices and broad, tri-colored sashes, slowly surrounded the altar.

Beyond all this arose a second and more noble amphitheatre, of which the Champ de Mars was the center, Montmartre, St. Cloud, Mudon, and Sevres, swept in grand panorama around the basin in which Paris stands. Nearer yet, the quay of Chailet and the heights of Passy were crowded with eager spectators.

But at the sight of the Bastille a still more exciting scene presented itself. There, federates from eighty-three districts of France, each with the banner of its department, had assembled, prepared to march forth and meet their brethren of Paris, who waited for them at the Champ de Mars. Deputations from troops of the line, and sailors from the royal navy, were ready with drums, trumpets, and banners, to escort them through the city, in all the pomp of a grand military display.

Lafayette, mounted on a superb war steed and surrounded by a brilliant staff, took the lead, and the deputations defiled out from the Place de Bastille, amid the roar of cannon and the clash of military music which thrilled all Paris with expectation. From the ruined stronghold these guests of the nation poured into the streets and met a wild, riotous welcome as they passed. Black clouds gathered over them like the smoke of a hostile army, the rain came down in torrents, and the streets were ankle deep in mud; but all this was overborne by the unconquerable enthusiasm of a people who would read no evil omen in a lowering sky, and scarcely felt the torrents of rain that beat upon their heads as they crowded the pavement, the windows, and the house tops, to cheer their guests as they moved through the city.

At the Place Louis Quinze, the Assembly joined the procession which swept on with this vast stream of riotous human life, and merged itself, as great rivers seek the ocean, in the crowds already assembled at the Camp de Mars. Here thousands on thousands greeted them with a roar of welcome to which the boom of the cannon was but a hoarse accompaniment.

The king of France, with the queen, the dauphin, and such members of the court as still remained in Paris, entered the tent erected for them, and seated themselves under the purple canopy. They were greeted with a roar of artillery and wild shouts of welcome which must have, indeed, seemed a cruel mockery to a monarch who had been forced there to witness his own humiliation.

It was pitiful to see that forced smile on the proud lip of the queen, more pitiful even than the grave, sad face of her royal husband, who looked around at this vast concourse of people, guided, as he keenly felt, by his enemies, with a thrill of unutterable anguish. There was no sympathy with the scene among the courtiers, who regarded with grave anxiety, or scarcely suppressed scorn, the insane joy of a people whom they had been taught to despise, and were beginning to fear. The scene filled them with mingled apprehension and contempt.

Then three hundred priests in snow-white surplices and broad tri-colored sashes gathered close around the altar.

All was still now, for the Bishop of Autun was performing mass, and the people of France had not yet learned to scoff at all religion; so the voices of prayer, and the smoke of censors, rose up from the midst of that vast multitude in holy union, and for a little time, half a million of tumultuous revelers bowed before the cross of Christ, which arose sublimely in their midst.

When the mass was ended, the bishop lifted the oriflame of France on high, and blessed it with a solemnity that awoke a throb of hope in the heart of the queen; after this he blessed the banners of eighty-three departments, and laid them down amid a glorious burst of music from twelve hundred musicians, who ended the solemn service with the Te Deum.

Now the military crowded up to the altar; both land and sea forces flooding the sacred structure with superb coloring and rich flashes of gold. Lafayette led the staff of the Paris militia, and upon the crowded altar swore, in behalf of the troops and the federations, to be faithful to the nation, the laws, and the king. The murmur of this sacred oath ran from lip to lip till it had been echoed and re-echoed by the great multitude.

Then King Louis arose, pale and firm, with the dignity of a monarch, and the feelings of a martyr. Standing in front of his throne, he swore to maintain the constitution and laws which had already been accepted. As he finished, the queen came to his side, with the dauphin, a fair, smiling boy, in her arms. With a gleam of maternal pride she presented him to the people, and said with touching pathos, appealing to them through her motherhood,

“See, my son, he joins with myself in the oath his father has taken.”

These words were drowned by a burst of enthusiasm, loyal at least for the moment; and almost for the last time in her life, Marie Antoinette heard voices from every part of France shouting, “_Vive le Roi! Vive la reine! Vive le dauphin!_” Her heart throbbed, her beautiful eyes filled with tears, her face brightened into youth again. She turned her look upon the king and smiled—the dear old music of popular praise had never touched her so keenly as now. She had taken Mirabeau’s advice, and in good faith made an effort to assimilate with the people, who once loved her so well. She wore no jewels, her dress was simple and matronly, but, with that beautiful boy in her arms, she looked more royal than ever.

Then commenced a scene of indescribable hilarity. The crowd broke up, marching and dancing to wild bursts of music. Men and women defiled before the royal balcony, tossing words of endearment to the queen with airs of intense patronage. They called that beautiful woman by a hundred coarse and caressing names, and hurled advice to her with the gestures of women feeding poultry. Fishwomen from the market crowded to the throne, and called her mother, while they insisted upon shaking hands with the little Dauphin.