It was the afternoon of the 25th when they came in sight of Paris.  So great had been Marie Antoinette’s mental sufferings that in those few days her hair had turned white; and fresh and studied humiliations were yet in store for her.  The carriage was not allowed to take the shortest road, but was conducted some miles round, that it might be led in triumph down the Champs Elysees, where a vast mob was waiting to feast their eyes on the spectacle, whose display of sullen ill-will had been bespoken by a notice prohibiting any one from taking off his hat to the king, or uttering a cheer.  The National Guard were forbidden to present arms to him; and it seemed as if they interpreted this order as a prohibition also against using them in his defense; for, as the carriage approached the palace, a gang of desperate ruffians, some of whom were recognized as among the most ferocious of the former assailants of Versailles, forced their way through their ranks, pressed up against the carriage, and even mounted on the steps.  Barnave and Latour Maubourg, fearing that they intended to break open the doors, placed themselves against them; but they contented themselves with looking in at the window, and uttering sanguinary threats.  Marie Antoinette became alarmed—­not for herself, but for her children.  They had so closed up every avenue of air that those within were nearly stifled, and the youngest, of course, suffered most.  She let down a glass, and appealed to those who were crowding round:  “For the love of God,” she exclaimed, “retire; my children are choking!” “We will soon choke you,” was the only reply they vouchsafed to her.  At last, however, La Fayette came up with an armed escort, and they were driven off; but they still followed the carriage up to the very gate of the palace with yells of insult.  And it had a stranger follower still:  behind the royal carriage came an open cabriolet, in which sat Drouet, with a laurel crown on his head,[3] as if the chief object of the procession wore to celebrate his triumph over his king.

The mob was even hoping to add to its impressiveness by the slaughter of some immediate victims—­not of the king and queen, for they believed them to be destined to public execution; but they were eager to massacre the faithful Body-guards, who had been brought back, bound, on the box of the carriage; and they would undoubtedly have carried out their bloody purpose had not the queen remembered them, and, as she was dismounting, entreated Barnave and La Fayette to protect them.  Though during the last three days many things had had their names altered,[4] the Tuileries had been spared.  It was still in name a royal palace, but those who now entered it knew it for their prison.  The sun was setting, the emblem of the extinction of their royalty, as they ascended the stairs to find such rest as they might, and to ponder in privacy for this one night over their fatal disappointment, and their still more fatal future.