id="pgepubid00031">ON TERRIBLE AUGUST TENTH

Jean speedily availed himself of the invitation from Bonaparte to visit him. A few evenings after June twentieth, he went to the Rue Cléry, ascended to a room over the tobacconist's shop, and found Bonaparte reading by the light of a single candle. The room was empty of all but the barest necessities, and it was evident that its occupant was having a hard struggle to make ends meet. But Bonaparte seemed pleased at the visit of his new friend, and the two were soon engaged in lively conversation.

That night Jean heard the story of this young man's life. He told the eager, sympathetic lad how he had been born of a fine family in Corsica; how his father had lost all in the vain struggle for Corsican liberty; how he, Napoleon, a poor shy, proud boy had been sent to the military school at Brienne where he suffered agonies of wounded pride among his richer classmates; how at fifteen he had spent a year at the military school of Paris, suffering similar humiliation because of his poverty, and at sixteen was appointed second lieutenant of a regiment of artillery at Valence; how, soon after, his father died, leaving practically on his shoulders the responsibility of a mother, four brothers and three sisters! how he left the army and for a time devoted himself to straightening out his family affairs; how he had returned to the army, but encouraged by the breaking out of the Revolution in 1789, he had again attempted to aid in freeing Corsica, and for this reason had lost his place in the French army. Now he was hoping to regain it, but in the present disturbed condition of affairs, could obtain little attention from the authorities. In the meantime he was struggling along, poor as a church mouse, making the barest kind of a living by doing a little writing. All this information was not imparted at once, but came out by degrees in the course of their conversation. Jean drank it in with intense interest.

"But the tide will turn!" ended Bonaparte. "Something tells me that I was born under a fortunate star. Things will be different some day!" And catching the proud flash from his wonderful eyes, Jean had no doubt of it!

As the days went on, Jean was drawn by an irresistible fascination more and more into the society of "the thin young man," as he often spoke of him to Mère Clouet and Yvonne. One evening, as he ran up the stairs of Rue Cléry, number 548, Napoleon's first greeting was:

"I've something to tell you that will interest you, Jean! I've been to the Jacobins again. There's a bloody insurrection planned for August tenth! They are going to mob the palace, dethrone the King, seize the Dauphin, and make all the royal family prisoners. Santerre is at the head of it, and Danton, of course, at the bottom! You'd better look sharp for your royal friends!"

"Oh!" said Jean thankfully, "I'm so glad you warned me. I shall be there, at least, and see what I can do to help them! I can't of course do much, but—who knows!"

"But, see here, my lad," answered Bonaparte, laying his hand on the boy's shoulder, "you must not go alone! You are hardly more than a child yet, and these are perilous times. I'd be anxious for your safety. Promise me that you will not go without me! Together, we may be a protection for each other." Jean gave his word, deeply touched that his new friend should exhibit such thoughtfulness for his welfare.

Meanwhile, gloomy days had ensued for Louis Charles, royal Dauphin of France. His little garden where he longed to dig among the flower-beds and romp with Moufflet was forbidden him. Once only since the hateful day of June twentieth, he had gone there accompanied by his mother. But the shouts and threats of the crowd behind the fence, quickly drove them into the palace again for safety.

Distrust and suspicion were in the very air! For the people of Paris, like a sullen, angry dog that has obtained a bone only to have it snatched away again, felt that they had been defeated of their purpose on the day they besieged the Tuileries. They were laying dark plans to repeat the expedition, which this time, they vowed, should not fail. Just at present they were only lying in wait till the time should be fully ripe.

The Dauphin roamed from room to room in the castle, pressed his face to the windows and gazed with envy at the Park, brilliant with sunshine, and at the throngs of common people who were free to come and go as they pleased. He wondered whether Jean and Yvonne ever came to the garden now. Once he thought he distinguished the boy among the strolling crowds but he could not be sure. The King and Queen were preoccupied and sad. His aunt, Madame Elizabeth, was much with them, and had little time to give to his amusement. Even his sister sometimes forgot to romp and frolic with him as had been her wont. To all it was a season of breathless suspense.

And then the fatal day arrived. On the night of August ninth, after his supper, the Queen went to the Dauphin's room where he was being put to bed, to kiss him good-night. Tears stood in her eyes as she clasped him more closely than usual.

"But, Mother, you are crying!" he exclaimed. "Is anything the matter?"

"There is some danger, we have heard, but perhaps not immediate. You would not understand if I explained it, little son!"

"But can you not stay with me this evening?" he begged. "I am so lonesome, and everyone is so sad!"

"That I would love to do, but I must be with your father. He needs me most. Do not be afraid, for we shall be near you."

For a long time the boy lay sleepless, pondering his mother's words. What did it all mean, anyway! His childish mind strove in vain to comprehend why the French people should hate his parents so. There must certainly be something very wrong somewhere! Sleep refused to come to his tired little brain, and the hours passed slowly by.

Suddenly he was startled by the strokes of a bell sounding far across the city. It was the great tocsin of the Cordeliers Club, striking the general alarm. Immediately it was answered by bells from all sections, mingled with cannon-shots and the hoarse cries of an infuriated mob. Nearer and nearer came the racket, and then the tumult became general both within and without the palace. The Dauphin was hurriedly dressed, and joined his parents, sister and aunt in another room. The King alone seemed calm.

"Come," said he, "we must all visit the soldiers who are defending the palace and encourage them! Are you afraid, my son?"

"Indeed no, Father!" answered the boy. "Let us go at once!" and he seized the King's hand in his own. Down the stairs and from room to room they passed, the King, calm and gentle as ever, speaking words of encouragement to the few defenders who remained with them. The grand gallery of the palace was filled with the troops of the Swiss Guard. As the royal family passed, the captain snatched up the Dauphin, lifted the child high above his head, and shouted:

"Long live the King and the King's son!" Wild huzzas broke from every throat, but their enthusiasm was short-lived. For without was approaching a sinister clamour. Horrible cries, chiefly "The Crown or the King's head!" "Deposition or Death!" resounded on all sides. At that moment there burst into the room the procureur-general, who approached the king crying:

"Sire, the danger is beyond all expression! All Paris is in arms! Resistance is impossible! They demand that you resign the throne! It is death to you and yours if you refuse!" Louis XVI gave one last despairing look