him.

On June 20, 1792, King Louis refused to sign two decrees which the
people wished him to sign, and with his refusal the storm of riot and
revolution burst forth again. An immense mob of shrieking, howling
people stormed the Tuileries, where no measures had been taken in
defence, and the king gave orders that the doors of the palace be flung
open and the people be allowed to pass in unhindered. In a few minutes
every inch of space in rooms and corridors and halls was filled with
the dense crowd. Only one room was locked, and in that room were the
king and queen, the Dauphin and his sister, Therese with a few loyal
friends. Therese was terrified and would have screamed with fright, but
the manly little Dauphin watching her, held back his own tears and kept
her terror under control by his words and manner, acting with the
dignity of a grown-up guardian.

Breathlessly, the little company gathered there listened to the sound
of an axe, doors were being battered down, the door of the royal
apartment was opened, and an officer of the National Guard knelt before
the King, beseeching him to show himself to the frenzied mob. The
expression on all faces, the sounds from without were too much for the
Dauphin's self-control. He burst into sobs and begged the queen to take
him to his room, and while Marie Antoinette was comforting him as best
she could, the king went out and stood in the middle of the hall,
surrounded by the rabble, speaking in quiet words, of his love for his
people. The crowd was delighted at this, but in the meantime, the still
greater crowd outside the palace surged through the hall and into the
room where the queen and her children were. The National Guards quickly
rolled a table up between the queen and the mob, and stood at either
side, ready to defend them. Only a table now separated the queen from
her enemies, but she was calm and courageous and stood proudly erect
with a child on either side of her, wide-eyed at the sights they saw.
Suddenly, the queen trembled with a deathly fear. Before her stood the
man whose brawny arm had reached through the paling to grasp the
Dauphin. Simon, the cobbler, stood there, hatred and desire for revenge
on his face, and Marie Antoinette knew with a quick instinct that this
man would bring no good to her child. Then the cries of the Jacobins
rent the air and they surged into the room with the fury of wild beasts
sure of their prey.

The queen lifted the Dauphin up a