his dreamy abstractions into the quivering air,
and the formula, "Liberty, Equality, and Fraternity," was caught up by
the titled aristocracy as a charming idyllic toy, while princes, dukes,
and marquises amused themselves with a dream of Arcadian simplicity, to
be attained in some indefinite way, in some remote and equally
indefinite future. It was all a masquerade. No reality, no sincerity,
no convictions, good or evil. The only thing that was real was that an
over-taxed, impoverished people was exasperated and--hungry.

Did the king need new supplies for his unimaginable luxuries, they were
taxed. Was it necessary to have new accessions to French "glory," in
order to allay popular clamor or discontent, they must supply the men
to fight the glorious battles, and the means with which to pay them.
Every burden fell at last upon this lowest stratum of the State; the
nobility and clergy, while owning two-thirds of the land, being nearly
exempt from taxation.

And yet the king and nobility of France, in love with Rousseau's
theories, were airily discussing the "rights of man"--wolves and foxes
coming together to talk over the sacredness of the rights of property,
or the occupants of murderers' row growing eloquent over the sanctity
of human life! How incomprehensible that among those quick-witted
Frenchmen there seems not one to have realized that the logical
sequence of the formula, "Liberty, Equality, and Fraternity," must be,
"Down with the Aristocrats!"

And so the surface which Richelieu had converted into adamant grew
thinner and thinner each day, until king and court danced upon a mere
gilded crust, unconscious of the abysmal fires beneath. Some of those
powdered heads fell into the executioner's basket twenty-five years
later. Did they recall this time? Did Madame du Barry think of it?
Did she exult at her triumph over de Pompadour, when she was dragged
shrieking and struggling to the guillotine?

Five years before the close of this miserable reign an event occurred
seemingly of small importance to Europe. A child was born in an
obscure Italian household. His name was Napoleon Bonaparte. His
birthplace, the island of Corsica, had only two months before been
incorporated with France. The fates even then were watching over this
child of destiny, who might, by a slight turn of events then imminent,
have been born a subject of Spain, or Germany, or of George III. of
England.

The impoverished Republ