So vast and disorderly was the procession that it was nine o’clock at night before it reached Paris.  Bailly again met the royal carriage at the barrier, and, re-assuming the tone of coarse insult which he had adopted on the king’s previous visit, had the effrontery to describe the day so full of horror to every one, and of humiliation and agony to those whom he was addressing, as a glorious day.  It was at such moments as these that Louis’s impassibility assumed the character of dignity.  He disdained to notice the mayor’s insolence, and briefly answered that it was always with pleasure and with confidence that he found himself among the inhabitants of his good city of Paris.  He proceeded to the Hotel de Ville, where the council of civic magistrates was sitting; and where the president addressed him in language which afforded a marked contrast to that of the mayor, calling him “an adored father who had come to visit the place where he could meet with the greatest number of his children.”  And it seemed as if Bailly himself had become in some degree ashamed of his insolence; for now, when Louis desired him, in reply to the president’s address, to repeat the answer which he had made to him at the barrier, he merely said that the king had come with pleasure among the Parisians.  “The king, sir,” interrupted the queen, “added, ‘and with confidence.’” “Gentlemen,” said Bailly, “you hear her majesty’s words.  You are happier in doing so than if I myself had uttered them.”  The whole company burst into one rapturous cheer, and at their request the king and queen showed themselves for a few minutes at the windows, beneath which, late as the hour was, a vast multitude was still collected, which received them with vociferous cheers.  And then the royal family, quitting the Hotel, drove to the Tuileries, where their attendants had been hastily making such preparations as a few hours allowed for their reception.

Since the completion of the Palace at Versailles the Tuileries had been almost deserted.[10] The paint and gilding were tarnished, the curtains were faded, many most necessary articles of furniture were altogether wanting; and the whole was so shabby that it attracted the notice of even the little dauphin.  “How bad, mamma,” said he, “every thing looks here.”  “My boy,” she replied, “Louis XIV. lived here comfortably enough.”  But they had not yet decided on making it their permanent residence.  La Fayette, who had tried to induce the king to promise to do so, had been distinctly refused; and for some days Louis did not make up his mind.  But, after a time, the fear, if he should propose to return, to Versailles, of being met by an opposition on the part of the Assembly or the civic magistrates, which he might be unable to surmount, or, if he should again settle there, of his absence from the city furnishing a pretext for fresh tumults, caused him to announce his intention of making Paris his principal abode for the future.  He gave orders for the removal of some furniture and of the queen’s library to the Tuileries; and, with something of the apathy of despair, began to reconcile himself to his new abode and his changed position.