bly had not
pronounced the King's deposition by the evening of August 9th, the
drums should beat the general alarm at the stroke of midnight, and the
insurrection march against the Tuileries. The revolutionists were to
carry out their plan, and the Swiss to keep their word.

{275}

XXVII.

THE NIGHT OF AUGUST NINTH TO TENTH.

The night was serene, the sky clear and sown with stars. The calmness
of nature contrasted with the revolutionary passions that had been
unchained. On account of the heat, all the windows of the Tuileries
had been left open, and from a distance the palace could be seen
illuminated as if for a fete. It had just struck midnight. The
Revolution was executing the programme of the Cordeliers' section. The
tocsin was sounding all over the city. Everybody named the church
whose bell he thought he recognized. The people of the faubourgs were
out of bed in their houses. The drums mingled with the tocsin. The
revolutionists beat the general alarm, and the royalists the call to
arms.

No one was asleep at the Tuileries. There was no further question of
etiquette. The night reception in the royal bedchamber was omitted for
the first time. Certain old servitors, faithful guardians of
tradition, in vain recalled that it was not permissible to sit down in
the sovereign's apartments. The courtiers of the last hour seated
themselves in armchairs, on tables and consoles. Louis XVI. stayed
sometimes {276} in his chamber and sometimes in his Great Cabinet, also
called the Council Hall, where the assembled ministers received
constant tidings of what was happening without. The pious monarch had
summoned his confessor, Abbe Hebert, and shutting himself up with this
venerable priest, he besought from Heaven the resignation and courage
he needed to pass through the final crisis. Madame Elisabeth showed
the faithful Madame Campan the carnelian pin which fastened her fichu.
These words, surrounding the stalk of a lily, were engraved on it:
"Forget offences, pardon injuries."--"I fear much," said the virtuous
Princess, "that this maxim has little influence over our enemies, but
it must be none the less dear to us." Louis XVI. did not wear his
padded vest. "I consented to do so on the 14th of July," said he,
"because on that day I was merely going to a ceremony where an
assassin's dagger might be apprehended. But on a day when my party may
be forced to fight with the revolutionists, I should th