“Poor child!” the Queen replied. “You but repeat what you have been told. Why should I make the people miserable? Though not born a Frenchwoman, my children are French, and I shall never see my native land again. I was happy when you loved me!” The girl’s head fell. “I did not know you,” she said; “and I see now that you are good!” And now Santerre—good name for a leader of the people—approached. “Take the cap off the child!” he cried; “don’t you see that he is stifling?” The crowd was tremendous. And approaching the Queen he whispered, “You have some awkward friends here. I know of some who would serve you better.” This was the first intimation the Queen really had that there was a party amongst the people actually willing to raise the royal family they had so utterly degraded. Five hours that torture lasted before the palace was cleared. The King and Queen had also been forced to put the national cockades upon their heads. When once more the royal house was free, the unhappy people could scarcely find strength with which to embrace. Several of the members of the National Assembly wept. To one, Merlin, the Queen said, “You weep, sir.” “Yes, madame,” he replied, gravely; “I weep over the misfortunes of the woman, the wife, and the mother; but, beyond this, my heart is stone. I hate kings and queens.” These words were the key-stone to French feeling. Louis XVI and his wife were driven to the block, not as a man and a wife, as father and mother—but as _King_ and _Queen_. CHAPTER XLIX. THE KING QUITS THE TUILERIES. The National Assembly had ordered the provinces to send 20,000 troops to Paris. With them they brought the revolutionary hymn, the “Marseillaise.” It was written and composed by a young artillery officer, named De Lisle. It was completed at the piano, after a night’s bout. He fell asleep over the instrument, and at length awakening, gradually recalled the air and words of a song, the fierceness of which sent more French men and women to the block than did any other motive. That song drove revolutionary France mad, and took from the royal family all hope of mercy. The royal family, however, were still at the Palace of the Tuileries; and while they remained there, the semblance of royalty was kept up—albeit, in fact, they were utterly prisoners. The Queen, early in August, still utterly relied upon Lafayette, who did not disguise his desire to retain the monarchy, under a protectorate—he himself to be the Protector. “Mistrust Lafayette,” had said Mirabeau; but the Queen’s faith was strong, and her confidence hastened events. However, one Gaudet, only twenty years of age, was rising to power amongst the Girondists; and he having intimated that he felt great interest in the royal family, matters were so managed that he had an interview with Marie Antoinette, who, poor lady, took him by the hand, and led him to the little cot in which her child was sleeping.