The carriages pursued their journey amidst a torrent of abuse, and the clamour of the people recommenced at every turn of the wheel.  It was a Calvary of sixty leagues, every step of which was a torture.  One gentleman, M. de Dampierre, an old man, accustomed all his life to venerate the king, having advanced towards the carriage to show some marks of respectful compassion to his master, was instantly massacred before their eyes, and the royal family narrowly escaped passing over his bleeding corpse.  Fidelity was the only unpardonable crime amongst this band of savages.  The king and queen, who had already made the sacrifice of their lives, had summoned all their dignity and courage, in order to die worthily.  Passive courage was Louis XVI.’s virtue, as though Heaven, who destined him to suffer martyrdom, had gifted him with heroic endurance, that cannot resist, but can die.  The queen found in her blood and her pride sufficient hatred for the people, to return with inward scorn the insults with which they profaned her.  Madame Elizabeth prayed mentally for divine assistance; and the two children wondered at the hatred of the people they had been taught to love, and whom they now saw only a prey to the most violent fury.  The august family would never have reached Paris alive, had not the commissioners of the Assembly, who by their presence overawed the people, arrived in time to subdue and control this growing sedition.

The commissioners met the carriages between Dormans and Epernay, and read to the king and people the order of the Assembly, giving them the absolute command of the troops and national guards along the line; and which enjoined them to watch not only over the king’s security, but also to maintain the respect due to royalty, represented in his person.  Barnave and Petion hastened to enter the king’s carriage, to share his danger, and shield him with their bodies.  They succeeded in preserving him from death, but not from outrage.  The fury of the people, kept aloof from the carriages, found vent further off; and all persons suspected of feeling the least sympathy were brutally ill-treated.

An ecclesiastic having approached the berlin, and exhibited some traces of respect and sorrow on his features, was seized by the people, thrown under the horses’ feet, and was on the point of being massacred before the queen’s eyes, when Barnave, with a noble impulse, leant out of the carriage.  “Frenchmen,” exclaimed he, “will you, a nation of brave men, become a people of murderers?” Madame Elizabeth, struck with admiration at his courageous interference, and fearing lest he might spring out, and be in his turn torn to pieces by the people, held him by his coat whilst he addressed the mob.  From this moment the pious princess, the queen, and the king himself conceived a secret esteem for Barnave.  A generous heart amidst so many cruel ones inspired them with a species of confidence in the young depute.  They had known him only as a leader of faction, and by his voice heard amidst all their misfortunes; and they were astonished to find a respectful protector in the man whom they had hitherto looked upon as an insolent foe.