tumultuous sea, which dashed its raging black waves into all the
streets debouching on the square, and was filling all Paris with its
roar, its swell, its thunder roll. Yes, all Paris was there, in
order to look upon Marie Antoinette, who, at this hour, was not the
queen, but the fair woman; the happy mother who, with the pride of
the mother of the Gracchi, desired no other protection and no other
companionship than that of her two sons; who, her hand resting upon
the shoulder of her daughter, needed no other maid of honor to
appear before the people in all the splendor and all the dignity of
the Queen of France and the true mother.

Yes, all Paris was there in order to greet the queen, the woman, and
the mother, and out of thousands upon thousands of throats there
sounded forth the loud ringing shout, "Long live the queen! Long
live Marie Antoinette! Long live the fair mother and the fair
children of France!"

Marie Antoinette felt herself deeply moved by these shouts. The
sight of the faces animated with joy, of the flashing eyes, and the
intoxicated peals of laughter, kindled her heart, drove the blood to
her cheeks, and made her countenance beam with joy, and her eyes
glisten with delight. She rose from her seat, and with a gesture of
inimitable grace took the youngest son from the arms of the nurse,
and lifted him high in the air, in order to display this last token
of her happiness and her motherly pride to the Parisians, who had
not yet seen the child. The little hat, which had been placed
sideways upon the high toupet of her powdered head, had dropped upon
her neck; the broad lace cuffs had fallen back from the arms which
lifted the child into the air, and allowed the whole arm to be seen
without any covering above the elbow.