she only knew the people by its turbulence and rage.  The Dauphin, a child of seven years old, was seated on the table in front of the queen.  His innocent face, radiant with all the beauty of the Bourbons, expressed more surprise than fear.  He turned to his mother at every moment, raising his eyes towards her as though to read through her tears whether he should have confidence or alarm.  It was thus that the mob found the queen as it entered and defiled triumphantly before her.  The calming produced by the firmness and confidence of the king was already perceptible in the faces of the multitude.  The most ferocious of the men were softened in the presence of weakness—­beauty—­childhood.  A lovely woman, a queen, humiliated,—­a young innocent girl,—­a child, smiling at his father’s enemies, could not fail to awaken sensibility even in hatred.  The men of the suburbs moved on silent, and as if ashamed, before this group of humiliated greatness.  Some of them the more cowardly made as they passed derisive or vulgar gestures, which were a dishonour to the insurrection.  Their indignant accomplices checked them in their insolence, and made these dastards quit the room as speedily as possible.  Some even addressed looks of sympathy and compassion, others smiles, and others a few familiar words to the dauphin.  Conversations, half menacing, half respectful, were exchanged between the child and the throng.  “If you love the nation,” said a volunteer to the queen, “put the bonnet rouge on your son’s head.”  The queen took the bonnet rouge from this man’s hands, and placed it herself on the dauphin’s head.  The astonished child took these insults as play.  The men applauded, but the women, more implacable towards a woman, never ceased their invectives.  Obscene words, borrowed from the sinks of the fish-market, for the first time echoed in the vaults of the palace, and in the ears of these children.  Their ignorance in not comprehending their meaning saved them from this horror.  The queen, whilst she blushed to the eyes, did not allow her offended modesty to lessen her lofty dignity.  It was evident that she blushed for the people, for her children, and not for herself.  A young girl, of pleasing appearance and respectably attired, came forward and bitterly reviled in coarsest terms l’Autrichienne.  The queen, struck by the contrast between the rage of this young girl and the gentleness of her face, said to her in a kind tone, “Why do you hate me?  Have I ever unknowingly done you any injury or offence?” “No, not to me,” replied the pretty patriot; “but it is you who cause the misery of the nation.”  “Poor child!” replied the queen; “some one has told you so, and deceived you.  What interest can I have in making the people miserable?  The wife of the king, mother of the dauphin, I am a Frenchwoman by all the feelings of my heart as a wife and mother.  I shall never again see my own country.  I can only be happy or unhappy in France.  I was happy when you loved me.”