“You have not asked for the children,” said Marguerite. “If you are so strong this afternoon, perhaps you can bear to speak to them.” And they were sent for, and presently made their appearance from the river-side, full of what they had been seeing and doing. They told how one cannon was fired when the hour struck at which the royal procession was to set out, and another when the whole array was to be formed in the Champ de Mars, and others to represent the taking of the oath by the king, by the representatives of the parliament, and by Lafayette in the name of the people. “And what is all this for?” asked the old man. “It is a beautiful spectacle, no doubt; but there were no such things in my time as the king and the people swearing at the same altar.” “The people make the king swear, and some of them do not think he likes it,”—observed Julien, unmindful of his mother’s signs. Pauline went on, “No more than he liked being brought prisoner from Versailles, and having his guards’ heads cut off.” The little girl was terrified at the effect of her words. She in vain attempted to make up for them by saying that the king and queen were very well now; and that the people did not expect to be starved any more, and that everybody was to be very happy after this day. The loyal old man said he should never be happy any more; and groaned and wept himself into a state of exhaustion from which he did not revive, though he lived two or three days longer. “I wish,—I wish—” sobbed poor Pauline, “that the people had never meddled with the king——” “Or the king with the people,” said Julien, “for that was the beginning of it all.” “I am sure so do I,” said Marguerite, sighing. “It is little comfort to say, as Antoine does, that the world cannot roll on without crushing somebody.” “If that somebody puts himself in the way, uncle said,” observed Julien. “Everybody has been in the way, I think, my dear. All France is crushed.” “Not quite, mamma. Uncle Antoine and Mr. Steele are sitting between the two big vines, and they say that everybody will be buying wine now that buying and selling are going to begin again.” It was very true that the young men were enjoying their favourite retreat to the utmost; gilding it with the sunshine of their expectations, and making it as musical with the voice of hope as with the gay songs which were wafted from the revellers below. They were not a little pleased when their anticipations were countenanced by a letter from Charles which reached his wife on the day of her father’s death, and was not the less in accordance with her feelings for having been written before tidings of the old man’s illness had reached Paris, and being, as usual, hopeful and happy.