All was still now, for the Bishop of Autun was performing mass, and the people of France had not yet learned to scoff at all religion; so the voices of prayer, and the smoke of censors, rose up from the midst of that vast multitude in holy union, and for a little time, half a million of tumultuous revelers bowed before the cross of Christ, which arose sublimely in their midst. When the mass was ended, the bishop lifted the oriflame of France on high, and blessed it with a solemnity that awoke a throb of hope in the heart of the queen; after this he blessed the banners of eighty-three departments, and laid them down amid a glorious burst of music from twelve hundred musicians, who ended the solemn service with the Te Deum. Now the military crowded up to the altar; both land and sea forces flooding the sacred structure with superb coloring and rich flashes of gold. Lafayette led the staff of the Paris militia, and upon the crowded altar swore, in behalf of the troops and the federations, to be faithful to the nation, the laws, and the king. The murmur of this sacred oath ran from lip to lip till it had been echoed and re-echoed by the great multitude. Then King Louis arose, pale and firm, with the dignity of a monarch, and the feelings of a martyr. Standing in front of his throne, he swore to maintain the constitution and laws which had already been accepted. As he finished, the queen came to his side, with the dauphin, a fair, smiling boy, in her arms. With a gleam of maternal pride she presented him to the people, and said with touching pathos, appealing to them through her motherhood, “See, my son, he joins with myself in the oath his father has taken.” These words were drowned by a burst of enthusiasm, loyal at least for the moment; and almost for the last time in her life, Marie Antoinette heard voices from every part of France shouting, “_Vive le Roi! Vive la reine! Vive le dauphin!_” Her heart throbbed, her beautiful eyes filled with tears, her face brightened into youth again. She turned her look upon the king and smiled—the dear old music of popular praise had never touched her so keenly as now. She had taken Mirabeau’s advice, and in good faith made an effort to assimilate with the people, who once loved her so well. She wore no jewels, her dress was simple and matronly, but, with that beautiful boy in her arms, she looked more royal than ever. Then commenced a scene of indescribable hilarity. The crowd broke up, marching and dancing to wild bursts of music. Men and women defiled before the royal balcony, tossing words of endearment to the queen with airs of intense patronage. They called that beautiful woman by a hundred coarse and caressing names, and hurled advice to her with the gestures of women feeding poultry. Fishwomen from the market crowded to the throne, and called her mother, while they insisted upon shaking hands with the little Dauphin.