Marie Antoinette and Her Son

by L. Mühlbach

With flying steps she hurries on; Toulan does not venture to address her, and she has perhaps entirely forgotten his presence. She does not know that a faithful one is near her; she only knows that her children are in Versailles, and that she must go to them to protect them, and to the king too, to die with him, if it must be.

When they were not far from the great mall of the park at Versailles, the Count de St. Priest came running, and his frightened looks and pale face confirmed the news that Mr. Toulan had brought.

"Your majesty," cried the count, breathless, "I took the liberty of looking for your majesty at Trianon. Bad news has arrived."

"I know it," answered the queen, calmly. "Ten thousand women are marching upon Versailles, Mr. Toulan has informed me, and you see I am coming to receive the women."

All at once she stood still and turned to Toulan, who was walking behind her like the faithful servant of his mistress.

"Sir," said she, "I thank you, and I know that I may reckon upon you. I am sure that to-day as always you have thought upon our welfare, and that you will remain mindful of the oath of fidelity which you once gave me. Farewell! Do you go to the National Assembly. I will go to the palace, and may we each do our duty." She saluted Toulan with a gentle inclination of her head and with beaming looks of gratitude in her beautiful eyes, and then hurried on up the grand mall to the palace.

In Versailles all was confusion and consternation. Every one had lost his senses. Every one asked, and no one answered, for the only one who could answer, the king, was not there. He had not yet returned from the hunt in Meudon.

But the queen was there, and with a grand calmness and matchless grasp of mind she undertook the duties of the king. First, she sent the chief equerry, the Marquis de Cubieres, to meet the king and cause him to hasten home at once. She intrusted Count St. Priest, minister of the interior, with a division of the guards in the inner court of the palace. She inspired the timid women with hope. She smiled at her children, who, timid and anxious at the confusion which surrounded them, fled to the queen for refuge, and clung to her.

Darker and darker grew the reports that came meanwhile to the palace. They were the storm-birds, so to speak, that precede the tempest. They announced the near approach of the people of Paris, of the women, who were no longer unarmed, and who had been joined by thousands of the National Guard, who, in order to give the train of women a more imposing appearance, had brought two cannon with them, and who, armed with knives and guns, pikes and axes, and singing wild war-songs, were marching on as the escort of the women.

The queen heard all without alarm, without fear. She commanded the women, who stood around her weeping and wringing their hands, to withdraw to their own apartments, and protect the dauphin and the princess, to lock the doors behind them and to admit no one—no one, excepting herself. She took leave of the children with a kiss, and bade them be fearless and untroubled. She did not look at them as the women took them away. She breathed firmly as the doors closed behind them.