Barnave’s features were marked, yet attractive and open; his manners polished, his language elegant; his bearing saddened by the aspect of so much beauty, so much majesty, and so great a reverse of fortune.  The king in the intervals of calm and silence frequently spoke to him, and discoursed of the events of the day.  Barnave replied, with the tone of a man devoted to liberty, but faithful still to the throne; and who in his plans of regeneration, never separated the nation from the throne.  Full of attention to the queen, Madame Elizabeth, and the royal children, he strove by every means in his power to hide from them the perils and humiliations of the journey.  Constrained, no doubt, by the presence of his rough colleague, Petion, if he did not openly avow the feeling of pity, admiration, and respect which had conquered him during the journey, he showed it in his actions, and a tacit treaty was concluded by looks.  The royal family felt that amidst this wreck of all their hopes they had yet gained Barnave.  All his subsequent conduct justified the confidence of the queen.  Audacious, when opposed to tyranny, he was powerless against weakness, beauty, and misfortune; and this lost him his life, but rendered his memory glorious.  Until then he had been only eloquent; he now showed that he possessed sensibility.  Petion, on the contrary, remained cold as a sectarian, and rude as a parvenu; he affected a brusque familiarity with the royal family, eating in the queen’s presence, and throwing the rind of fruit out of the window, at the risk of striking the king’s face.  When Madame Elizabeth poured him out some wine, he raised his glass without thanking her to show that he had enough.  Louis XVI. having asked him if he was in favour of the system of the two chambers, or for the republic—­“I should be in favour of a republic,” returned Petion, “if I thought my country sufficiently ripe for this form of government.”  The king, offended, made no reply, and did not once speak until they arrived at Paris.

The commissioners had written from Dormans to the Assembly, to inform them what road the king would take, and at what day and hour he would arrive.  The approach to Paris offered increasing danger, owing to the numbers and fury of the populace through which the king had to pass.  The Assembly redoubled its energy and precaution to assure the inviolability of the king’s person.  The people, too, recovered the sentiment of their own dignity before this great success fate granted them:  they would not dishonour their own triumph.  Thousands of placards were stuck on the walls—­“Whoever applauds the king shall be beaten; whoever insults him shall be hung.”  The king had slept at Meaux, and the commissioners advised the Assembly to sit permanently, in order to be in readiness for any unforeseen event that might take place on the king’s arrival at Paris; and the Assembly, consequently, did not dissolve.  The hero of the day, the author of