isten
to us.... You are a traitor. You have always deceived us, and you
deceive us still; the measure is full, and the people are tired of
being made your laughing-stock." The insolent butcher, who calls
himself the agent of the people, then reads a pretended petition which
is a mere tissue of recriminations and threats. Louis XVI. listens
with imperturbable sang-froid. He answers simply: "I will do what the
Constitution and the decrees ordain that I shall do." The noise begins
anew. It is a rain, a hail of insults.

Some individuals mistake Madame Elisabeth for Marie Antoinette. Her
equerry, M. de Saint-Pardoux, throws himself between her and the
furious wretches, who cry: "Ah! there is the Austrian woman; we must
have the Austrian!" and undeceives them by naming her.--"Why did you
not allow them to believe I am the Queen?" says the courageous
Princess; "perhaps you might have averted a greater crime." And,
putting aside a bayonet which almost touches her breast, "Take care,
Monsieur," she says gently, "you might hurt somebody, and I am sure you
would be sorry to do that." {203} The shouts redouble. The confusion
becomes terrible. It is with great difficulty that some grenadiers of
the National Guard defend the embrasure of the window where Louis XVI.
still stands immovable on his bench. Mingled with the crowd there are
inoffensive persons, who have come merely out of curiosity, and even
honest men who sincerely pity the King. But there are tigers and
assassins as well. One of them, armed with a club ending in a
sword-blade, tries to thrust it into the King's heart. The grenadiers
parry the blow with their bayonets. A market porter struggles long to
reach Louis XVI., against whom he brandishes a sabre. Several times
the wretched monarch seeks to address the crowd. His voice is lost in
the uproar. A municipal official, M. Mouchet, hoisting himself on the
shoulders of two persons, demands by voice and gesture a moment's
silence for the King and for himself. Vain efforts. The vociferations
of the crowd only increase. Here comes a long pole on the end of which
is a Phrygian cap, a _bonnet rouge_. The pole is inclined towards M.
Mouchet. M. Mouchet takes the cap and presents it to the King, who, to
please the crowd, puts it on his head.

Is it possible? That man on a bench, with the ignoble cap of a
galley-slave on his head, surrounded by a drunken and tattered rabble
who vomit filthy language, th