Maria Antoinette / Makers of History

by John S. C. Abbott

Return to Paris.
Insults of the mob.
Massacre of M. Dampierre.

Preparations were immediately made to forward the captives to Paris, lest the troops of M. Bouillé, informed of their arrest, should come to their rescue. The king did every thing in his power to delay the departure, and one of the women of the queen feigned sudden and alarming illness at the moment all of the rest had been pressed into the carriages. But the impatience of the populace could not thus be restrained. With shouts and threats they compelled all into the carriages, and the melancholy procession, escorted by three or four thousand of the National Guard, and followed by a numerous and ever-increasing concourse of the people, moved slowly toward Paris. Hour after hour dragged heavily along as the fugitives, drinking the very dregs of humiliation, were borne by their triumphant and exasperated foes back to the horrors from which they had fled. The road was lined on either side by countless thousands, insulting the agonized victims with derision, menaces, and the most ferocious gestures. Varennes is distant from Paris one hundred and eighty miles, and for this whole distance, by night and by day, with hardly an hour's delay for food or repose, the royal family were exposed to the keenest torture of which the spiritual nature is in this world susceptible. Every revolution of the wheels but brought them into contact with fresh vociferations of calumny. The fury of the populace was so great that it was with difficulty that the guard could protect their captives from the most merciless massacre. Again and again there was a rush made at the carriages, and the mob was beaten back by the arms of the soldiers. One old gentleman, M. Dampierre, ever accustomed to venerate royalty, stood by the road side, affected by the profoundest grief in view of the melancholy spectacle. Uncovering his gray hairs, he bowed respectfully to his royal master, and ventured to give utterance to accents of sympathy. The infuriated populace fell upon him like tigers, and tore him to pieces before the eyes of the king and queen. The wheels of the royal carriage came very near running over his bleeding corpse.

Commissioners from Paris.
Noble character of Barnave.
Brutality of Pétion.

The procession was at length met by commissioners sent from the Assembly to take charge of the king. Ashamed of the brutality of the people, Barnave and Pétion, the two commissioners, entered the royal carriage to share the danger of its inmates. They shielded the prisoners from death, but they could not shield them from insult and outrage. An ecclesiastic, venerable in person and in character, approached the carriages as they moved sadly along, and exhibited upon his features some traces of respect and sorrow for fallen royalty. It was a mortal offense. The brutal multitude would not endure a look even of sympathy for the descendant of a hundred kings. They rushed upon the defenseless clergyman, and would have killed him instantly had not Barnave most energetically interfered. "Frenchmen!" he shouted, from the carriage windows, "will you, a nation of brave men, become a people of murderers!" Barnave was a young man of much nobleness of character. His polished manners, and his sympathy for the wrecked and ruined family of the king, quite won their gratitude. Pétion, on the contrary, was coarse and brutal. He was a Democrat in the worst sense of that abused word. He affected rude and rough familiarity with the royal family, lounged contemptuously upon the cushions, ate apples and melons, and threw the rind out of the window, careless whether or not he hit the king in the face. In all his remarks, he seemed to take a ferocious pleasure in wounding the feelings of his victims.

Approach to Paris.
Appalling violence.
Sufferings of the royal family.

As the cavalcade drew near to Paris, the crowds surrounding the carriages became still more dense, and the fury of the populace more unmeasured. The leaders of the National Assembly were very desirous of protecting the royal family from the rage of the mob, and to shield the nation from the disgrace of murdering the king, the queen, and their children in the streets. It was feared that, when the prisoners should enter the thronged city, where the mob had so long held undisputed sway, it would be impossible to restrain the passions of the multitude, and that the pavements would be defaced with the blood of the victims. Placards were pasted upon the walls in every part of the city, "Whoever applauds the king shall be beaten; whoever insults him shall be hung." As the carriages approached the suburbs of the metropolis, the multitudes which thronged them became still more numerous and tumultuous, and the exhibitions of violence more appalling. All the dens of infamy in the city vomited their denizens to meet and deride, and, if possible, to destroy the captured monarch. It was a day of intense and suffocating heat. Ten persons were crowded into the royal carriage. Not a breath of air fanned the fevered cheeks of the sufferers. The heat, reflected from the pavements and the bayonets, was almost insupportable. Clouds of dust enveloped them, and the sufferings of the children were so great that the queen was actually apprehensive that they would die. The queen dropped the window of the carriage, and, in a voice of agony, implored some one to give her a cup of water for her fainting child. "See, gentlemen," she exclaimed, "in what a condition my poor children are! one of them is choking." "We will yet choke them and you," was the brutal reply, "in another fashion." Several times the mob broke through the line which guarded the carriages, pushed aside the horses, and, mounting the steps, stretched their clenched fists in at the windows. The procession moved perseveringly along in the midst of the clashing of sabers, the clamor of the blood-thirsty multitude, and the cries of men trampled under the hoofs of the horses.

Arrival at the Tuileries.
Exertions of La Fayette.
Roar of the multitude.

It was the 25th of June, 1791, at seven o'clock in the evening, when this dreadful procession, passing through the Barrier de l'Étoile, entered the city, and traversed the streets, through double files of soldiers, to the Tuileries. At length they arrived, half dead with exhaustion and despair, at the palace. The crowd was so immense that it was with the utmost difficulty that an entrance could be effected. At that moment, La Fayette, who had been adopting the most vigorous measures for the protection of the persons of the royal family, came to meet them. The moment Maria Antoinette saw him, forgetful of her own danger, and trembling for the body-guard who had periled their lives for her family, she exclaimed, "Monsieur La Fayette, save the body-guard." The king and queen alighted from the carriage. Some of the soldiers took the children, and carried them through the crowd into the palace. A member of the Assembly, who had been inimical to the King, came forward, and offered his arm to the queen for her protection. She looked him a moment in the face, and indignantly rejected the proffered aid of an enemy. Then, seeing a deputy who had been their friend, she eagerly accepted his arm, and ascended the steps of the palace. A prolonged roar, as of thunder, ascended from the multitudinous throng which surrounded the palace when the king and queen had entered, and the doors of their prison were again closed against them.