fact was, he seemed quite right in appealing to the rustics; the Federalists whom the King welcomed seemed to bring love for royalty along with enthusiasm for the National Assembly.
Unhappily the King, dull and neither poetical nor chivalric, met the cheers coolly.
Unfortunately, also, the Queen, too much of a Lorrainer to love the French and too proud to greet common people, did not properly value these outbursts of the heart.
Besides, poor woman, she had a spot on her sun: one of those gloomy fits which clouded her mind.
She had long loved Count Charny, lieutenant of the Royal Lifeguards, but his loyalty to the King, who had treated him like a brother in times of danger, had rendered him invulnerable to the woman's wiles.
Marie Antoinette was no longer a young woman and sorrow had touched her head with her wing, which was making the threads of silver appear in the blonde tresses – but she was fair enough to bewitch a Mirabeau and might have enthralled George Charny.
But, married to save the Queen's reputation to a lady of the court, Andrea de Taverney, he was falling in love with her, she having loved him at first sight, and this love naturally fortified his tacit pledge never to wrong his sovereign.
Hence the Queen was miserable, and all the more as Charny had departed on some errand for the King of which he had not told her the nature.
Probably this was why she had played the flirt with Mirabeau. The genius had flattered her by kneeling at her feet. But she too soon compared the bloated, heavy, leonine man with Charny.
George Charny was elegance itself, the noble and the courtier and yet more a seaman, who had saved a war-ship by nailing the colors to the mast and bidding the crew fight on.
In his brilliant uniform he looked like a prince of battles, while Mirabeau, in his black suit, resembled a canon of the church.
The fourteenth of July came impassibly, draped in clouds and promising rain and a gale when it ought to have illumined a splendid day.
But the French laugh even on a rainy day.
Though drenched with rain and dying of hunger, the country delegates and National Guards, ranked along the main street, made merry and sang. But the population, while unable to keep the wet off them, were not going to let them starve. Food and drink were lowered by ropes out of the windows. Similar offerings were made in all the thoroughfares they passed through.
During their march, a hundred and fifty thousand people took places on the edges of the Field of Mars, and as many stood behind them. It was not possible to estimate the number on the surrounding hills.
Never had such a sight struck the eye of man.
The Field was changed in a twinkling of the plain into a pit, with the auditorium holding three hundred thousand.
In the midst was the Altar of the Country, to which led four staircases, corresponding with the faces of the obelisk which overtowered it.
At each corner smoked incense dishes – incense being decreed henceforth to be used only in offerings to God.
Inscriptions heralded that the French People were free, and invited all nations to the feast of Freedom.
One grand stand was reserved for the Queen, the court and the Assembly. It was draped with the Red, White and Blue which she abhorred, since she had seen it flaunt above her own, the Austrian black.
For this day only the King was appointed Commander-in-chief, but he had transferred his command to Lafayette who ruled six millions of armed men in the National Guards of France.
The tricolor surmounted everything – even to the distinctive banners of each body of delegates.
At the same time as the President of the Assembly took his seat, the King and the Queen took theirs.
Alas, poor Queen! her court was meager: her best friends had fled in fright: perhaps some would have returned if they knew what money Mirabeau had obtained for her; but they were ignorant.
She knew that Charny, whom she vainly looked for, would not be attracted by the power or by gold.
She looked for his younger brother, Isidore, wondering why all the Queen's defenders seemed absent from their post.
Nobody knew where he was. At this hour he was conducting his sweetheart, Catherine, daughter of the gloomy farmer Billet, to a house in Bellevue, Paris, for refuge from the contumely of her sisters in the village and the wrath of her father.
Who knows, though, but that the heiress to the throne of the Caesars would have consented to be an obscure peasant girl to be loved by George again as Isidore loved the farmer's daughter.
She was no doubt revolving such ideas when Mirabeau, who saw her with glances, half thunderous weather, half sunshine, and could not help exclaiming:
"Of what is the royal enchantress thinking?"
She was brooding over the absence of Charny and his love died out.
The mass was said by Talleyrand, the French "Vicar of Bray," who swore allegiance to all manner of Constitutions himself. It must have been of evil augury. The storm redoubled as though protesting against the false priest who burlesqued the service.
Here followed the ceremony of taking the oath. Lafayette was the first, binding the National Guards. The Assembly Speaker swore for France; and the King in his own name.
When the vows were made in deep silence, a hundred pieces of artillery burst into flame at once and bellowed the signal to the surrounding country.
From every fortified place an immense flame issued, followed by the menacing thunder invented by man and eclipsing that of heaven if superiority is to be measured by disasters. So the circle enlarged until the warning reached the frontier and surpassed it.
When the King rose to declare his purpose the clouds parted and the sun peered out like the Eye of God.
"I, King of the French," he said, "swear to employ all the power delegated to me by the Constitutional Law of the State to maintain the Constitution."
Why had he not eluded the solemn pledge as before; for his next step, flight from the kingdom, was to be the key to the enigma set that day. But, true or false, the cannon-fire none the less roared the oath to the confines. It took the warning to the monarchs:
"Take heed! France is afoot, wishing to be free, and she is ready like the Roman envoy to shake peace or war, as you like it, from the folds of her dress."
CHAPTER III.
WHERE THE BASTILE STOOD
Night came: the morning festival had been on the great parade ground; the night rejoicing was to be on the site where the Bastile had stood.
Eighty-three trees, one for each department of France, were stuck up to show the space occupied by the infamous states-prison, on whose foundation these trees of liberty were planted. Strings of lamps ran from tree to tree. In the midst rose a large pole, with a flag lettered: "Freedom!"
Near the moats, in a grave left open on purpose were flung the old chains, fetters, instruments of torture found in it, and its clock with chained captives the supporters. The dungeons were left open and lighted ghastly, where so many tears and groans had been vainly expanded.
