“The people!  How I hate that phrase, in the sense in which it is now used,” said Larochejaquelin.  “A mob of blood-thirsty ruffians wishes to overturn the throne—­but what evidence have we that the people wish it.”

“The people, Henri, have been taught to wish it,” said de Lescure.

“No, Charles, the people of France have not been taught to wish it—­with all the teaching they have had, they do not wish it—­have they shewn any favour to the new priests whom the Revolution has sent to them; do they love much the Commissioners, who from time to time, come among them with the orders of the Assembly.  Do the people in the Bocage wish it?—­do they wish it in the Marais, Charette?—­do they wish it in Anjou and Brittany?  Danton, Robespierre, and Tallien wish it—­the mob of Paris wishes it—­but the people of France does not wish to depose their King.”

“But unfortunately,” said d’Autachamps, “it is Danton, Robespierre, and the mob of Paris who have now the supreme power, and for a time will have their way—­they who are wise will lie by till the storm has blown over.”

“And are we to remain quiet while we are robbed of every thing which we esteem as holy?” said Larochejaquelin; “are we all to acquiesce in the brutality of such men as Danton, for fear the mob of Paris should be too strong for us?”

“I for one, will not!” said Charette.

“Nor I,” said Larochejaquelin—­not while I have a sword to draw, and an arm to use it.  You are silent, Charles—­is a Republic so much to your mind, that you have not a word, or even a wish for your King?”

“You are too talkative, Henri,” replied the other; “will it not be well to think a little first before we proclaim definitively what we mean to do?  We do not even know as yet in what position Louis XVI. may find himself tomorrow—­he may be more firmly seated on his throne than he has been at any time since the Three Estates first met at Versailles.”

As he ceased speaking, the door opened, and Adolphe Denot entered, hot with walking fast, and with his whole dress disordered by pushing through the dense masses of the crowd.

“Speak, Adolphe,” said Henri, “have they decreed—­has it come to the vote?”

“Are they still sitting?” said Fleuriot; “Danton, I am sure would not have yielded so soon as this:—­if the chamber be closed, he must have been victorious.”

“The King,” said Denot, pausing for breath, “the King is to be taken to the Temple!”

There was a momentary silence among them all—­their worst fears had been realized—­the brute force of Paris had been triumphant.  The firmness of Roland, the eloquence of Vergniaud, the patriotism of Guadet had been of no avail.  The King of France—­the heir of so long a line of royalty—­the King, who had discarded the vices of his predecessors, and proved himself the friend of. the people, was to be incarcerated in the worst prison in Paris by the vote of that very Assembly which he had himself called into existence.