Besides grammar, Louis studied Italian, which he could speak and read fluently; he also studied Latin, and some of the sentences he translated have been preserved, such as "True friends are useful to princes." "I know a prince who easily flies into a passion." "Flatterers are very dangerous to princes." From these sentences it is evident that the Abbé was trying to teach his clever little scholar more than one thing at a time. Louis was also taught arithmetic, geometry and geography, this last by means of a huge hollow globe lit by a lantern, which had been invented for the special use of the Dauphin, by a celebrated professor in the University of Paris. Louis also was trained in all sorts of athletic sports and when he was seven years old was sturdy of body and far more mature of mind than many older boys. At seven, according to the court custom of France, he was obliged to be given into the care of a governor. The people wished to choose this governor and named several candidates who were utterly unworthy of the position, but they were obliged to set aside their wishes and accept a man named by the king, who also himself continued to superintend his son's education.
At this time the clouds of political disaster were again hanging over the palace, and even the Dauphin could see and feel the uneasiness that surrounded him.
On June 20, 1792, King Louis refused to sign two decrees which the people wished him to sign, and with his refusal the storm of riot and revolution burst forth again. An immense mob of shrieking, howling people stormed the Tuileries, where no measures had been taken in defence, and the king gave orders that the doors of the palace be flung open and the people be allowed to pass in unhindered. In a few minutes every inch of space in rooms and corridors and halls was filled with the dense crowd. Only one room was locked, and in that room were the king and queen, the Dauphin and his sister, Thérèse with a few loyal friends. Thérèse was terrified and would have screamed with fright, but the manly little Dauphin watching her, held back his own tears and kept her terror under control by his words and manner, acting with the dignity of a grown-up guardian.
Breathlessly, the little company gathered there listened to the sound of an axe, doors were being battered down, the door of the royal apartment was opened, and an officer of the National Guard knelt before the King, beseeching him to show himself to the frenzied mob. The expression on all faces, the sounds from without were too much for the Dauphin's self-control. He burst into sobs and begged the queen to take him to his room, and while Marie Antoinette was comforting him as best she could, the king went out and stood in the middle of the hall, surrounded by the rabble, speaking in quiet words, of his love for his people. The crowd was delighted at this, but in the meantime, the still greater crowd outside the palace surged through the hall and into the room where the queen and her children were. The National Guards quickly rolled a table up between the queen and the mob, and stood at either side, ready to defend them. Only a table now separated the queen from her enemies, but she was calm and courageous and stood proudly erect with a child on either side of her, wide-eyed at the sights they saw. Suddenly, the queen trembled with a deathly fear. Before her stood the man whose brawny arm had reached through the paling to grasp the Dauphin. Simon, the cobbler, stood there, hatred and desire for revenge on his face, and Marie Antoinette knew with a quick instinct that this man would bring no good to her child. Then the cries of the Jacobins rent the air and they surged into the room with the fury of wild beasts sure of their prey.
The queen lifted the Dauphin up and set him on a table and whispered to him that he must not grieve or fear or cry, but be a man now, and the child smiled and kissed her hand. Just then a drunken woman flung a red cap—the cap worn by the Jacobins—on the table, and commanded the queen, on pain of death, to put it on.
Calmly, the queen turned to a general standing beside her and told him to place it on her head.
The general, pale with rage at the insult, obeyed in silence and the woman howled with pleasure. But in a moment, the general took the cap off the queen's hair and laid it on the table.
Ever since the King had vetoed the bills, the people had called the King, Monsieur Veto; Marie Antoinette, Madame Veto, and the Dauphin, Little Veto, and now from all sides burst forth the cry, "The red cap for the Dauphin! The tri-colour for little Veto!"
"If you love the nation," cried the woman to the Queen, "put the red cap on your son."
The Queen motioned to one of the ladies to put the red cap on the child, and he, not understanding whether it was a joke or not, stood there in easy grace, as handsome a little prince as ever a nation had.