This day awakened hope once more in the hearts of the king and queen.  They believed they had again found their subjects; and the people believed that they had again found their king.  All recollections of what had passed at Varennes seemed buried in oblivion; and popularity had one of those sudden blasts that drive away the clouds in the sky for a short space, and deceive even those who have learnt to mistrust them.  The royal family wished to enjoy it, and to let Madame and the dauphin profit by it; for these two infants knew nothing of the people save their fury; they had alone seen the nation through the bayonets of the 6th of October,—­the rags of the emeute,—­of the dust of the return from Varennes; the king wished they should now see them in a state of tranquillity and affection for him, for he taught his son to love the people, and not to avenge their offences towards him.  In the pangs he had suffered, the most bitter was rather the ingratitude of the nation, than his own personal humiliations; for, to be misconstrued by the nation, was, in his eyes, far more painful than to be persecuted by them.  One moment of justice on the part of public opinion made him forget two years of outrage.  He went that evening to the Theatre Italien with the queen, Madame Elizabeth, and his children.  The hopes to which the events of the day had given rise—­his words of that morning—­the expression of confidence and affection on his features—­the beauty of the two princesses—­the infantine grace of his children, produced on the spectators one of those impressions, where pity vies with respect, and enthusiasm softens the heart into veneration.

The theatre rang with applause mingled with sobs; every eye was fixed on the royal box, as though in mute reparation for so many insults offered to the king and his family.  The populace can never resist the sight of children, there are so many mothers in every crowd; the dauphin, a lovely child, seated on the lap of his mother, and absorbed in the play, repeated the gestures of the actors to his mother as though to explain the piece to her.  This careless tranquillity of innocence between the two storms—­this childish sport at the foot of a throne, so soon to become a scaffold—­this expansion of the heart of the queen, that had been so long closed to joy and security, filled every eye with tears, not excepting the king himself.

There are moments in every revolution when the most furious and enraged populace becomes gentle and compassionate; it is when it suffers nature and not policy to sway it; and instead of being a people, it becomes a man.  Paris had such an instant:  it was of short duration.

V.