“But, mamma,” said he, “Mouflet is not the one who has done wrong. Why should the poor dog be punished? Oh, please set him free and put me in his place!”
Delighted as the Queen was at this proof of the Prince’s sense of justice, and gladly as she would have pardoned him, she felt that for the sake of discipline she must not yield to her feelings, and replied gravely: “Very well, since you feel that you deserve the punishment, I will not prevent you from enduring it. You may release poor Mouflet and be locked up in his place for an hour.”
Rejoiced at this decision, the Prince accepted his sentence at once and even extended it beyond the allotted time. But this was not all. In the solitude of his prison he began to reflect upon his behavior, and told himself that even though he had atoned for his fault the wrong had not yet been righted. He resolved that as soon as he was at liberty he would go to the garden, get the flute from its hiding-place, and give it back to his playmate with a request for forgiveness. A loving glance, a tender caress from his mother, were the rewards of his victory over himself; and these signs that he was forgiven made the little Prince so happy and contented that for the rest of the day he was the most polite and well-behaved of boys and gave not the slightest occasion for a word or even a look of reproof.
Some days later, on the fourteenth of July, 1790, a great fête was held on the Champ de Mars[3] in Paris, as in all the other cities of France, to celebrate the inauguration of the new régime. The storm of the Revolution which had broken out in the previous year seemed to have passed away with this celebration, and there was a general feeling of hope and cheerful expectancy even among the opponents of the new order of things. All the people, without distinction of rank or class, had contributed to the erection of a huge amphitheatre-like structure built around the Champ de Mars, and in its construction had treated one another like members of one great family. Even the heavy gusts of rain which ushered in the long-talked-of day failed to dampen the ardor of the deputies and the vast throng of people assembled there. The endless processions followed each other in perfect order; and at last the sun burst forth triumphantly from the mists and rain clouds. First, Lafayette[4] mounted the steps of the high altar erected under the open sky, where Talleyrand,[5] Bishop of Autun, with sixty priests, read the Mass and consecrated the banners of the eighty-three districts of France, and swore, with the colors of Paris in his hand, in the name of the National Guard and the army of France, to be true to the law and the King; then the President of the National Assembly, rising from his seat at the right of the King, took the same oath; and finally the King himself arose and swore with uplifted arms to use all the power bestowed on him by the law and the new Constitution for their maintenance. At this instant, while cannon thundered and trumpets blared, loud shouts arose. The Queen, who was on a raised dais beside the throne, carried away by the excitement of the moment, lifted her son, the Dauphin, high in her arms to show him to the people and also to let him share in the oaths. The lovely child, smiling and radiant, stretched out his innocent arms as though to invoke a blessing from Heaven upon France, whereat the multitude that witnessed the charming sight broke forth into cheers and deafening huzzas that rent the ragged clouds and penetrated to the heavens above.
The envoys of the people thronged about the little Dauphin to offer him their loyalty and homage, which the Prince received with such grace and childish dignity that the enthusiasm broke out afresh, and thousands of hearts vowed unswerving allegiance to this child whose innocent breast seemed to harbor no thoughts but those of peace and good-will to men. The King and Queen embraced each other, many eyes were filled with tears, and a general reconciliation seemed to have closed forever the abyss of the Revolution which had threatened to engulf unhappy France.
These were still sunny days; but, alas! they were the last to shine upon the well-meaning King and his unfortunate consort. Fate had doomed them to misfortune, and “misfortune travels swiftly.”
Chapter II
The Night of Varennes[6]
Soon after the celebration of the new régime, the Hydra of the Revolution, which had been for a short time trodden into the dust, again lifted its poisonous head. Those evil geniuses of France, Robespierre, Marat, and Danton, vied with one another in their efforts to disturb the peace of the country which had been secured with such difficulty, and by calumnies against the King to sow the seeds of hatred and distrust of him among the people.
They succeeded only too well. The National Assembly issued an unprecedented order to the effect that the King should not absent himself from Paris for more than twenty-four hours; and if he should leave the kingdom, and not return at the request of the Assembly, he should be deposed.
Notwithstanding this order, the King determined on a journey to St. Cloud. At eleven o’clock in the morning he attempted to start, but his carriage was immediately surrounded by a dense throng of people. A troop of mutinous soldiers locked the doors of the palace, and with threats and shouts levelled their bayonets at the breasts of the horses. All Lafayette’s efforts to appease the tumult were in vain, and after two hours of struggle and dispute, during which the King was forced to bear the grossest insults and abuse, he was obliged to return to his apartments.