At the end of it was the fence which
led into the little garden reserved for the royal family. Through
the iron gate, hard by, adorned with the arms of the kings of
France, Marie Antoinette entered an asylum, which had been saved to
the crown, free from the intrusion of the people, and she drew a
free breath when one of the lackeys closed the gate, and she heard
the key grate in the lock.
She stood still a moment to regain her composure, and then she felt
that her feet were trembling, and that she scarcely had the power to
go farther. It would have been a relief to her to have fallen there
upon her knees, and poured all her sorrows and trials into the ear
of God. But there were the lackeys behind her; there was her little
son, looking up to her with his great eyes; and there was that
dreadful cry coming up from the quay like the roaring of the sea.
The queen could not utter a word of grief or sorrow, she could not
sink to the ground in her weakness; she had to show a cheerful face
to her son, and a proud brow to her servants. God only could look
into her heart and see the tears which glowed there like burning
coals. Yet in all her sadness she had a feeling of triumph, of proud
satisfaction. She had preserved her freedom, her independence; she
was not Lafayette's prisoner! No, the Queen of France had not put
herself under the protection of the people's general; she had not
given him the power of watching her with his hated National Guard,
and of saying to them: "At this or that hour the queen takes her
walks, and, that she may recreate herself, we will protect her
against the rage of the people!"
No, she had defended herself, she had remained the queen all the
while, the free queen, and she had gained a victory over the people
by showing them that she did not fear them.
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