A second amphitheatre in a semi-circle formed in the space between Chaillot and Passy accommodated more than a hundred thousand people. Anacharsis Clootz was right. This looked well for a federation of the world. We crossed the river by the wooden bridge thrown over it at Chaillot, and passing under the Arc de Triomphe, entered the Champ de Mars, and arranged ourselves in front of the altar of the country. The honors were for the provincial National Guard. We were removed only a hundred paces from the raised seats destined for the King, the Queen, and the National Assembly. All in a moment it began to rain. It was now eight o’clock, and as the King and Queen were not expected till ten, there was plenty of time to get both wet and cold. Some of the National Guards began to dance a farandole to keep the warmth in them; the example was contagious, the muskets were stacked, and each man choosing a partner from among the female spectators, the extraordinary spectacle of two thousand people dancing at one time commenced. At half-past ten the cannon announced the arrival of the King, and the drum recalled each man to his post. The female dancers were re-conducted to their friends, and the guard presented arms. The carriages of the King, Queen, and other dignitaries of the realm came at a foot pace. They stopped at the raised benches; the King, descending first, gave his hand to the Queen, and they took their respective places, accompanied by the Assembly. Now, not only had the day, but the moment arrived. Stationed close to the benches, of which we had an excellent view, I had been awaiting with impatience the arrival of the King and Queen, of whose personal appearance I had formed my own ideas, which I am bound to say were very far from the truth. The King was not sufficiently kingly. The Queen was too much a queen. While the King was bowing to the people, and seating himself in the midst of the cries of “Vive le Roi!” M. de Talleyrand, the lame bishop, the Mephistopheles to another Faust, whose name was Napoleon, proceeded, attended by two hundred priests, to the altar of the country. All wore tri-colored sashes. The regimental bands strike up, but are scarcely heard. But forty pieces of cannon, discharged at the same time, command silence. The taking of the oath followed. Three hundred thousand hands are uplifted at one and the same time on the Champ de Mars. The rest of France was joined in spirit to those who swore in the name of all. They had hoped that the King would descend from his seat, mount the altar, and there, holding up his hand, swear in the sight of all his people. They were mistaken. The King swore from his seat, placed in the shadow—in fact, almost hidden. The idea that struck the hearts of all, was that the King swore with regret, and without intending to keep the oath that he had taken. This was the oath that all knew beforehand, but which few could hear, thanks to the fashion in which the King spoke:—