“I am quite well.  You may be easy about me.  If we could only forget where we are and how we came here, we ought to be satisfied with the feelings of the people, especially this morning.  I hope, if bread does not fall short, that many things will return to their proper order.  I speak to the people, militia, fish-women, and all:  all offer me their hands; I give them mine.  In the Hotel de Ville I was personally well received.  The people this morning begged us to remain here.  I answered them, speaking for the king, who was by my side, that it depended on themselves whether we remained; that we desired nothing better; that all animosities must be laid aside; that the slightest renewal of bloodshed would make us flee, with horror.  Those who were nearest to me swore that all that was over.  I told the fish-women to go and tell others all that we had just said to one another.[2]”

And a day or two later, on the 10th, even while giving fuller expression to her feelings of unhappiness, and of disgust at the events of the past week, as to which she assures Mercy that “no description could be exaggerated; on the contrary, that any account must fall far short of what the king and she had seen and experienced,” she yet repeats that “she hopes to bring back to a right feeling the honest and sound portion of the citizens and people.  Unhappily, however,” as she adds, “they are not the most numerous body.  Still, with gentleness and unwearied patience, she may hope that at least she shall succeed in doing away with the horrible distrust which occupies every mind, and which has dragged the king and herself into the gulf in which they are at present.”  So keen at this time was her feeling that one principal cause of their miseries was the unjust distrust which the citizens in general conceived of the views and designs of the court, that she desires Mercy not to try to see her; and, while she describes the scantiness of the accommodation which her attendants had as yet been able to provide for her, so that Madame Royale had a bed in her dressing-room, and the little dauphin was in her own room, she finds advantage in these arrangements, inconvenient as they were, since they prevented any suspicion from arising that she was giving audiences which she desired to keep secret.

She did not overrate the impression which she had made on the people; and her faithful attendant, Madame Campan, has preserved more minute details of the events of the 7th than she herself reported to the embassador.  She was hardly dressed when a huge crowd collected on the terrace under her window, shouting for her to show herself; and, when she came forward, they began to accost her in a mingled tone of expostulation and menace.  “She must drive away the courtiers who were the ruin of kings.  She must love the inhabitants of her good city.”  She replied “that she had always felt so toward them; she had loved them while at Versailles; she should continue to love them at Paris.”  “Ah,”