Stationed close to the benches, of which we had an excellent view, I had been awaiting with impatience the arrival of the King and Queen, of whose personal appearance I had formed my own ideas, which I am bound to say were very far from the truth.
The King was not sufficiently kingly. The Queen was too much a queen.
While the King was bowing to the people, and seating himself in the midst of the cries of “Vive le Roi!” M. de Talleyrand, the lame bishop, the Mephistopheles to another Faust, whose name was Napoleon, proceeded, attended by two hundred priests, to the altar of the country. All wore tri-colored sashes.
The regimental bands strike up, but are scarcely heard. But forty pieces of cannon, discharged at the same time, command silence.
The taking of the oath followed.
Three hundred thousand hands are uplifted at one and the same time on the Champ de Mars. The rest of France was joined in spirit to those who swore in the name of all.
They had hoped that the King would descend from his seat, mount the altar, and there, holding up his hand, swear in the sight of all his people.
They were mistaken. The King swore from his seat, placed in the shadow—in fact, almost hidden. The idea that struck the hearts of all, was that the King swore with regret, and without intending to keep the oath that he had taken.
This was the oath that all knew beforehand, but which few could hear, thanks to the fashion in which the King spoke:—
“I, King of the French, swear to the nation to employ all the power which has been delegated to me by constitutional law, in maintaining the constitution and executing the laws.”