On the morning of that terrible 10th of August, Madame Elizabeth, the King’s sister, who had been watching through the night, listening to the ringing of that bell which all the Royalists knew was the tocsin of murder,—this pure-hearted Elizabeth called to the Queen. “Sister,” she said, “come and see the sun rise.” And Marie Antoinette looked for the last time upon a sunrise (it was typically blood-red) which she was to see through the palace windows. To Rœderer, the deputy, was due the first suggestion of that act which was really the King’s abdication—that of abandoning the royal palace, and asking hospitality of the Parliament. “Place yourselves, madame,” he said, “in the care of the National Assembly. Your persons will then be as sacred as the constitution.” The constitution itself was to be a thing of the past in a few weeks. At five in the morning, the Queen had her children dressed and brought to her. The King himself, by his appearance, should have steeped the guard in confidence. He should have appeared in uniform. On the contrary, he appeared in a suit of violet silk—court mourning, in fact, without boots or spurs, in white silk stockings and pumps; while his hair presented an absurd spectacle, for it had not been dressed since the previous day; and while one side was still rounded and curled, the other was flat and ragged. He looked about smilingly, but with that vagueness in which no reliance can be placed. He was simply a good, stupid, amiable man. He kept apart, all his reign, making locks; he forgot his people, and he was weak enough to suppose his people would forget him. As for the Queen she was never more royal. “Take these!” she said, seizing a couple of pistols and forcing them into his hands; “and conquer or die with your friends.” The King however, handed them to a gentleman by his side, saying, “No; if I wore arms, the people might be angry.” A royal progress was made in the court-yard of the Tuileries, even in the palace-garden beyond. At first received with faint applause, the cries of hate soon overwhelmed the King, and it was with difficulty he gained the palace alone. The tocsin had now been calling to arms through many hours. Meanwhile, Danton, the man of blood, was maddening the people. “To arms!” he cried. “Do you not hear the call?” The infuriated people were now upon the palace. They attempted once more to burst the doors, while the artillerymen refused to fire upon the insurgents. And now the fatal, but inevitable, mistake was made. “Sire,” cried Rœderer to the King, “time presses. It is no longer entreaty we use, and only one means is left us. We ask your permission to use violence towards you; and, by force, to place you under the safety of the National Assembly.” The King still did not wish to leave the palace. He turned to the Queen. “Let us go.” Never again did the royal couple step beneath the roof of that palace. They left it for a barred prison—that barred prison for the scaffold.