A guard of soldiers was instantly called in, and the melancholy cortège left the palace. The Swiss troops and the loyalist gentlemen, who filled the apartments, looked on in consternation and despair. There was no apparent escape for them, and they seemed to be abandoned to their fate. As the king was crossing the threshold he thought of his friends, and his heart seemed to misgive him. He hesitated, stopped, and, turning to M. Roederer, said, "What is to become of our friends who remain behind?" M. Roederer pacified the king by assuring him, though falsely, that by throwing aside their arms and their uniform they would be able to escape in safety.
They then entered the Garden and crossed it, unopposed, between the two files of bayonets. The leaves of autumn strewed the paths, and the young dauphin amused himself in kicking them as he walked along. It is characteristic of the mental infirmities of the king that in such an hour he should have remarked, "There are a great many leaves. They fall early this year."
When they arrived at the door at the foot of the staircase which led to the hall of the Assembly, they found an immense crowd of men and women there blocking up the entrance. "They shall not enter here," was the cry; "they shall no longer deceive the nation. They are the cause of all our misfortunes. Down with the veto! Down with the Austrian woman! Abdication or death!"
"Sire," said one, in compassionate tones to the king, "Don't be afraid. The people are just. Be a good citizen, sire, and send the priests and your wife away from the palace."
The soldiers endeavored to force their way through the crowd, and, in the struggle, the members of the royal family were separated from each other. A stout grenadier seized the dauphin and raised him upon his shoulders. The queen, terrified lest her child was to be taken from her, uttered a piercing shriek. But the grenadiers pressed forward through the crowd, and, entering the hall with the king and queen, placed the prince royal on the table of the Assembly.
The illustrious Girondist M. Vergniaud was in the chair. The king approached him and said,
"I have come hither to prevent a great crime. I thought I could not be safer than with you."
"You may rely, sire," Vergniaud replied, "on the firmness of the Assembly. Its members have sworn to die in supporting the rights of the people and the constituted authority."
The king took his seat. There were but few members present. A mournful silence pervaded the hall as the deputies, with saddened countenances and sympathetic hearts, gazed upon the king, the queen, Madame Elizabeth, the beautiful young princess, and the dauphin, whom the queen held by the hand. All angry feelings died in presence of the melancholy spectacle, for all felt that a storm was now beating against the throne which no human power could allay.