Meanwhile, matters grew worse and worse. Something had to be done or France would become utterly bankrupt. "Call a States-General," cried the people. They were bolder now. America had begun her War for Independence, and they were eager to follow the example.

Now the States-General was a gathering together of men from every city and town in the kingdom; whether they were rich or poor, they were allowed to speak. So that if the King consented to call a States-General, it meant that the people themselves, through the delegates—men whom they chose—would have at last a voice in the government.

Louis the Sixteenth consented, much against the will of the Court; and the Queen, Marie Antoinette, wept. She was afraid of the power it gave to the people. But the whole nation rejoiced, for not only had Louis consented to the States-General, but he decreed that the delegates chosen by the people should exceed in number the delegates of the nobles and clergymen. This meant that the people could outvote the nobles. Power was already theirs to govern, and they meant to keep it. The aristocrats were very angry indeed with Louis. Many of them, foreseeing the coming trouble, made ready for flight.

Upon the fifth of May 1789 the States-General was held at Versailles, but this new lift toward freedom brought little peace with it. The King did foolish things, and the Queen, understanding very little about politics, did not help him to set matters right.

For months famine and want had been sending thousands of miserable starving creatures to Paris, where they hoped find food. Now this rabble, among whom were thieves and robbers and murderers, was only waiting for the least excuse to plunder and pillage and riot.

Lack of bread soon gave them excuse. They came in hordes to the palace of Versailles. "Give us bread! Give us bread! O ye who spend our money!" they cried. The Queen could hear their terrible voices shouting underneath her windows: "Down with the Austrian! She is the cause of all our troubles!" All through the night the fierce mob surged round the palace gates, shrieking horrid words, threatening desperate deeds.

Towards four in the morning, the Queen was awakened by an attendant. "Save yourself, Madame, while there is yet time!" At the same time, a soldier called out, "Save the Queen! They come to kill her!" She fled to the King's apartment and found her frightened children there, half-awake and shivering.

The General La Fayette entered. "There is only one way to calm them and save your lives, Madame," he said; "it is to let them see you."

"No children! The Austrian!" cried the voices outside.

"They mean to kill me," whispered the Queen as if to herself.

"Madame, it is the only way," answered La Fayette.

Without a word, Marie Antoinette went to the little balcony outside the apartment, and stood there in full sight of the angry people. At first there was silence; then some one cried, "To Paris, to Paris with them!"

To Paris they had to go, the whole royal family in the royal carriage, followed by as strange and ugly-looking a crowd as ever you might wish to see. Beggars, bandits, robbers, soldiers, and women more terrible and fierce than the men, all marched together, singing, "Cheer up, friends! We shall no longer starve! We bring the baker, the baker's wife, and the baker's little boy," meaning, of course, the King, Queen, and little Dauphin.

Even the Republicans, however, could not deny that through all the rough treatment, in spite of the insults that were heaped on her as time went on, the Queen ever bore herself nobly and behaved with true courtesy and kindness to her gaolers. For although they were not called prisoners, the royal family were allowed no freedom, but were kept in the palace of the Tuileries.

In fact, the government when it made laws now paid little or no attention to the King, while every now and then the wild mob would assail the Tuileries gates and keep the Queen in constant terror.

On the fourteenth of July 1789 the nation declared its independence, and ever since has made merry upon that day in honour of its freedom. After this, the King and Queen were in danger from the mob morning, noon, and night. The Queen steadily refused to leave her husband and children and save her life, as she might have done. The whole family did try to escape, and managed to leave Paris, but were captured and brought back again.

By this time, the most of the nobles had fled to other countries and were doing their best to gather together an army to rescue their King and Queen. But there was little hope for them. Already the National Assembly, as the government was called, had found out that the mob was the real King in Paris; and the mob, led by a few violent men, was going mad with hatred and revenge.

They raised up a guillotine in a large square in the city, called the Square of the Revolution, where they brought the nobles and gentlefolk, both men and women, whom they had captured, and there they cut off their heads without mercy. No man's life was safe in those days. The King was put in prison, the Queen also and her children, and there they awaited their certain death.

It need not be told that they waited patiently and bravely. Both Louis and Marie Antoinette had done foolish things in their lives, and sometimes thoughtless and cruel things, but they knew how to meet death bravely. Louis went first to the guillotine and died as a gentleman should, forgiving his enemies their sin against him. And afterwards Queen Marie Antoinette followed. She, too, went uncomplaining and with a good heart, so that even her cruel captors were abashed at her heroism.

So France marched on her terrible way towards Freedom, a Republic with the whole of Europe against her to keep her from her goal. And so much blood did these poor mad people shed that very soon there was no government, no ruler at all in France, and only the army was left to uphold the nation; and of the army and its doings you shall hear in the next story.