But although the States-General had met, for weeks it was impossible to do anything, for the nobles and clergy were thwarted in all they wished to do by the deputies of the people, called the Third Estate. The deputies had come to Versailles determined that their voice should be heard and obeyed.

In the midst of the trouble caused by the Third Estate the dauphin died, and for a little while the king and queen forgot the strife of nobles and deputies alike, while they grieved for the loss of their first-born son.

Even in his grief the king could not escape from the cares of his kingdom. The Third Estate sent demanding to see him, before his child was buried. Louis sobbed as he asked, Are there no fathers among these rough men, that I may not be left alone at such a time?

Among the deputies of the people was Mirabeau, a noble who had flung aside his title that he might sit with the commons and help the cause of the people.

Mirabeau was a great orator, that is, he had the gift of speech, so that when he spoke he swayed people this way or that as he wished.

It pleased him now to persuade the Third Estate to openly split up the States-General by giving itself a new name. Henceforth the deputies of the people should be called the National Assembly, and without their consent the nobles and clergy of the States-General should be unable to pass any measure. On the day of its birth the National Assembly was joined by more than a hundred of the clergy.

When Louis and his nobles heard of the new title which the Third Estate had adopted, they were startled. The National Assembly had an ominous sound to their ears. The deputies, led by Mirabeau, were growing too bold. It was time that they were taught a lesson. So the king ordered that the great hall in which the Third Estate had met should be closed, and none of the members allowed to enter.

Although the deputies had heard the king's order, they went at the usual time to the hall, not quite believing that they had been turned out.

The first thing they saw was carpenters at work putting up a platform, and the deputies were told that no one save the president and secretaries could be admitted, and they only to take away their papers.

As it happened, it was a cold damp morning, and the new National Assembly wandered about, getting ever more wet and more angry.

Courtiers looking out of the palace windows laughed as they watched the dejected deputies walking aimlessly hither and thither in the rain.

At length their president, aided by a Dr. Guillotine, whose name was soon to become famous, found in a forsaken tennis-court of Old Versailles an empty, unfurnished building. To this rough shelter the National Assembly hastened out of the cold and wet.

Here the deputies took an oath, known as the Oath of the Tennis-Court, by which they declared that they would never separate until they had done the work the people had sent them to do. This work was to reform the government of France.

A great crowd of people had followed the banished deputies to the tennis-court, and as they took the oath the cheers of the multitude rang out upon the chilly air.

The National Assembly was loyal in its attitude, for they did not believe it was Louis, but his foolish advisers, who had turned them out. So now, in their enthusiasm, they shouted, Long live the king! while the people answering, cried. Long live the king!

A few days later Louis himself went to meet the National Assembly. Among the members there were now a few nobles as well as clergy. These were led by the Duke of Orleans, who treacherously hoped to be raised to the post of Lieutenant-General of the Kingdom, and wrench all power from the hands of Louis

Near Mirabeau, whose harsh and ugly face wore a look of strength, sat the Marquis de La Fayette, who had fought but lately in the American War, and who had much to do in the struggle that had now begun between the king and his people. There sat also a small man, with smiling, unpleasant face, whose very name before long filled all who heard it with dismay. This was Robespierre.

When the king visited the Assembly, which so lately he had turned out into the rain, he found himself forced to grant all its demands. Having done so, however, he ordered the members to go home and never to meet again as the National Assembly.

At Louis's words the nobles cheered, but not a sound came from the deputies, and when the king and his nobles left the hall, the Third Estate did not move.

Soon a messenger from Louis arrived, and seeing the Assembly still seated, said sharply, You heard the king's orders?

Then Mirabeau, the orator with the ugly face which yet had power written on every line of it, jumped to his feet, and his voice rang clear and stern as he answered, Go tell those who sent you that we are here by the will of the people, and that we will only be driven out at the point of the bayonet.

The king's messenger hastily withdrew, and the National Assembly continued to meet, clergy and nobles from the States-General joining them at different times.

Louis was not strong enough to oppose so resolute an assembly long, and in June 1789 the three orders were, with his consent, united as one body.

Paris went wild with excitement. At Versailles men ran about in the dark with torches, shouting and cheering the king, the queen, and the dauphin. The people were sure that at last their troubles were over, and that soon there would be bread enough and to spare.

But the people rejoiced too soon. The queen, as well as many of the nobles and clergy, hated the deputies, and they soon convinced the king that he had been foolish to yield to their demands.

If he wished to keep any power at all he must use force, said Marie Antoinette, and Louis, weaker now than in the early days of his reign, yielded to the queen's advice. Soldiers were sent to seize Paris.

The Parisians could scarcely believe their eyes when they saw the soldiers. Still less could they believe that they had heard aright when it was whispered that the king meant to take no notice of the National Assembly, that he meant to rule himself, with the help of the nobles.

The nobles were, as you know, hated by the people, and among them all none was more hated than Foulon, who, when he was told that the people were hungry, brutally said, Let them eat grass.

Was it any wonder that the people were on fire with anger at the thought of being ruled by Foulon and such as he?

To arms! to arms! they shouted, and rushing to the Town Hall they speedily found for themselves pikes and muskets. Then, tearing up the pavements, they barricaded the city against the king's troops, and paraded the streets wearing ribbons of red, white and blue, which the women were hurriedly sewing into cockades.

These colours soon became known as the Tricolour, the emblem of the French Republic.

News travelled quickly to Versailles. The king heard that the Parisians had flown to arms, but knowing that his troops were not to be trusted, he sent no orders to disperse the mob. Many, indeed, of the royal troops had joined the people.

On July 14, 1789, as soon as day dawned, the mob, which had wandered restlessly through the streets all night, set out for the Bastille, the chief fortress and prison of Paris.

The Bastille seemed to the excited people a visible sign of the king's power. They made up their minds to destroy it.

To the Bastille! to the Bastille! The cry grew, until at length thousands of armed men were on their way to the grim old fortress.

The Governor of the Bastilie was brave but old, and not quite sure what to do against such a fierce and armed force.

After some hesitation he ordered the cannon to be turned upon them, but this only added to the fury of the crowd.

Then the governor, changing his mind, ordered the cannon to cease firing, and foolishly opened the great gates of the Bastilie, hoping to treat with the leaders of the mob.

But the crowd saw its opportunity, and rushing in at the gates began to destroy the huge building. In a short time it was in ruins.

The governor and his officers were ruthlessly murdered, and then the mob, mad with excitement, placed the heads of the hapless men on pikes, and carried them in triumph through the streets.

At Versailles nothing was known of what was being done at Paris. Only when all was over a noble rushed into the king's apartments and told him the terrible events of the day.

Why, that is a revolt, said the bewildered king.

Sire, answered the courtier, it is a revolution.

Louis , knowing that his army could not be trusted, was helpless, so he made up his mind to go to the Assembly to try to regain its confidence.

When Mirabeau heard that the king was coming, he bade the Assembly receive him in silence. But when Louis arrived, guarded only by his two brothers, and promised to recall the troops and to help the deputies to restore peace, the whole Assembly rose to its feet to cheer their king.

And it did more than cheer. When Louis left the hall, the Assembly accompanied its sovereign. Putting him in their midst, the deputies then joined their hands to form a guard, so that the people might not jostle him.

When they reached the palace, the queen came out on the balcony with the little dauphin and his sister. Then happy cries filled the air as the people shouted, Long live the king! long live the queen! For once again the people were sure that all was well.

The Parisians, hearing that the king had gone to the Assembly, demanded that he should also come to his capital.

So Louis, not sure that he would ever be allowed to return to Versailles, took the sacrament and set out for Paris.

Without a military guard, escorted only by about a hundred members of the Assembly, the king reached the city gates. Here the keys were brought to him, after which he rode on to the Town Hall, where a great crowd of armed men bade him welcome.

Louis was then constrained to listen to the chief orators of the Assembly until they had tired themselves out, after which, pinning a Tricolour cockade in the king's hat, they led him out on the balcony that the crowds might see that he was one of themselves.

Again the shouts of the people rang out, as they cried, Long live the king! long live the nation!

Louis's subjects were now content, and the king was free to go back to Versailles, where the queen welcomed him as one returned from the dead.

But although the mob cheered the king, it still cherished its anger against the nobles.

Foulon, the minister who had bade them eat grass if they were hungry, who had dared to raise the price of bread in the face of their misery, was alive. The very thought incensed the people.

One day they succeeded in capturing the old man, who was seventy-four years of age. Tying a bundle of grass on his back and a bundle of nettles round his neck, the mob dragged him with ropes to the Town Hall.

He must be judged. Yes, if the mob would but be patient. But it would listen to no one, not even to Bailly, the mayor of the city.

Heedless of the old man's cries, the rabble pushed Foulon impatiently out of the Town Hall, across the street to the nearest lamp or lantern, and there it hanged the man who had mocked at its hunger.

Still the people felt their vengeance was incomplete, so they fixed Foulon's head on a pike, first stuffing his mouth with grass, and carried it through the streets of Paris. Had the noble not bidden them eat grass?

From that day the cry à la lanterne (to the lantern) was no strange sound in the streets of Paris.

After Foulon's death, Charles, the brother of the king, as well as many of the nobles, felt that their lives were not safe in France, and they escaped to other lands.

It was selfish to leave their king, but it was treachery to sell their country as they tried to do when they went to foreign courts. For the French nobles begged the princes of Europe to send armies into France to conquer it, and to restore to them rank and riches.

The queen, too, was forsaken by her favourites. It is true that she bade them go where they would be safe, yet she had hoped that they would not all desert her. It is true that some of the nobles had begged her to leave France, but Marie Antoinette had too much of the pride and obstinacy of her mother to desert a difficult post. She determined to stay with the king.

It was not only in Paris that the people began to wreak their anger on the nobles. In the country the peasants rose against their lords, so that they were forced to fly from their castles and their palaces.

The National Assembly encouraged the rebellion of the people, for in August of this fateful year, 1789, it made a new law, by which all the rights of the nobles as well as their titles were taken away. There were no longer to be princes, dukes, marquises; henceforth every one was to be addressed as citizen or citizeness.

Louis , having now no soldiers and not too much courage, was forced to sign the new constitution or form of government planned by the National Assembly. In reality he lost the last trace of his kingly power thereby, placing it in the hands of the deputies of the people.

Soon after this a regiment was ordered to relieve the guards at Versailles. A great banquet was given by the guards to welcome the officers of the new regiment.

The king and queen went to the feast to show their pleasure at the arrival of the regiment. They were greeted with cheers, while the officers, being young and thoughtless, began to sing a well-known national song, O Richard, O my king, all the world deserteth thee.

Then, tearing the Tricolours from their hats, they flung them down, trampled upon them, and in their place put the white cockade, the emblem of the Bourbons.

When the people of Paris heard of the banquet and of the trampled Tricolours, they were roused to fury, which partly at least was due to their desperate hunger.

The king and the queen could feast, but they must starve or wait for hours outside a baker's shop, a long line of hungry folk, waiting to buy a loaf, if perchance their turn should come before the day was ended.

Starving women determined to go to Versailles. A banquet of bread, that they must have ere they would be content.

So, early in October, thousands of hungry women, many of them fishwives of the roughest manners, met together. Armed with tongs, brooms, rusty pistols, anything indeed that they could find, they set off for Versailles. Bread! Bread! they shouted as they marched along.

Having reached Versailles these hungry women broke into the hall of the National Assembly, crying, Bread! Bread! and demanding to be taken to the king.

After some delay five women were chosen and actually taken into the presence of Louis who received them graciously, and sent them away promising that bread should be sent into Paris.

The five women came back to the crowd, pleased to have seen the king, content with his gracious promises. But the others, cold and wet, weary, too, with long waiting, mocked at mere words. They must have the king's promise in writing.

La Fayette, Captain of the National Guard, now arrived at Versailles with his troops, followed by a great crowd of idle cruel men. The National Guard, as well as the mob, encamped for the night in the open squares and avenues of the town.

La Fayette believed he had guarded all the entrances to the palace, but he had left one door unwatched, and early in the morning some of the mob found it out and tried to enter the palace.

The soldiers inside the palace tried to push them back, and when they persisted, one of them fired among the crowd.

In a frenzy of rage the people then poured into the palace, heedless of the royal guard. Up the great staircases they ran, reaching at length the door of the queen's own bedroom.

Here the Swiss Guards held them back, while Marie Antoinette escaped by a secret passage to the king's apartments.

A moment later, killing two of the Swiss Guards, they forced their way into the queen's room, only to find it empty. In their anger they thrust their pikes into the bed from which the queen had but just fled.

Before more mischief was done. La Fayette arrived with his National Guard. He speedily cleared the mob out of the palace, and then persuaded the king to go out on the balcony that the people might see him.

Long live the king! cried some, as they looked at Louis, more kingly in the time of danger than ever he had been before. But others shouted fiercely, The king to Paris! the king to Paris!

Louis bowed his head to show that he was willing to go to the capital, and at that sign the cheering was redoubled.

Urged by La Fayette, the queen also stepped out on the balcony, holding her little son by the hand.

No children, yelled the mob, and Marie Antoinette obediently put the child behind her, and stood there, quiet and proud, facing the crowd who hated her. If she knew that there was danger, she showed no sign of fear.

Seeing her courage. La Fayette knelt to kiss her hand, and the people, moved, it may be, by her beauty or her bravery; shouted, Long live the queen!

The officers, who had so lately boasted of their loyalty and trampled the Tricolour under their feet, had been unable to do anything to help their king. If they had moved, their own soldiers, who had deserted to the National Guard, would have killed them.

Meanwhile the mob never ceased to shout, The king to Paris! the king to Paris! So the royal carriages were ordered, and at length Louis, Marie Antoinette, and their children set out for the capital. La Fayette riding close to the royal coach, which could move but slowly through the dense crowd that surrounded it.

The fishwives, too, formed part of the procession, all fear of starving forgotten. They were bringing the king with them, and now he would allow no minister to raise the price of bread.

So, marching gaily behind the royal coach, the women cried in their rough and ready way, We shall not starve any longer. We have got the Baker, the Baker's wife, and the Baker's little boy with us. They meant, as you know, the king, the queen, and the little dauphin.

Paris was reached at last. The king and queen were taken to the Town Hall, where, weary as they were, they were forced to listen to long and tedious speeches. When they were ended, the king gravely declared that he came with pleasure and with confidence among his people.

Then the king and queen went out in the torchlight and stood on the balcony, the king wearing no longer the Lilies of France, but the Tricolour. Once again the people appeared to be content.

As the long day drew to a close, the royal family was conducted to the Tuileries, which had long been unused, nor did the hurried preparations that had been made to receive the king hide its gloom.

Even the little dauphin, child as he was, felt the terror of its forlorn and empty look, and clung to his mother, crying, Everything is ugly here.

Louis lodged here, my son, and was content, answered the queen. We must not be more exacting than he.

Louis could not leave the gates of the Tuileries without being followed by a number of the National Guards. The same soldiers escorted him if he went to hunt, the chase during these dark days being his chief solace.

Many of the nobles had, you remember, deserted the king, and were now doing all they could to encourage foreign princes to invade France.

Rumours of armies that would overrun their country reached the ears of the French people, and made the nobles, or aristocrats as they were now called, more hated than ever.

Unfortunately the people believed not only that the king and queen were eager to see the foreign soldiers in France, but that they were actually in league with the aristocrats abroad. Thus the mob became ever more surly and suspicious.

In July 1790, as though to allay suspicion, Louis sent to the Assembly to say that he would visit it and pledge himself to support the new form of government which it had drawn up.

So on the 14th July, exactly a year after the Bastille had been rased to the ground, a great meeting was held in the Champ de Mars.

The Champ de Mars, which means the Field of the War God, was a large open space in Paris, on the left bank of the Seine.

Here the Assembly, the National Guards, and a great number of people gathered, to hear the king take a solemn oath to be true to the new Constitution.

Marie Antoinette and her little son were also present. As the Assembly in its turn swore to be faithful to Louis , the queen lifted the dauphin in her arms that all might see him and know that he, too, shared in the promises made by the Assembly to their king.

It was a day of great rejoicing, and when the royal family had gone back to the palace, the people stayed to dance upon the spot where, but a year before, that grim fortress, the Bastille, had stood.

The troubles of France were certainly drawing to a close, thought the people. But they did not know the bitterness that was in the heart of the king, the anger that was in the heart of the queen, because they had been forced to yield so many of their royal rights.

Until now Mirabeau had been the real head of the Assembly. Again and again his eloquence had restrained the more violent of the deputies. He was trusted both by the Republicans, as the fiercer reformers were called, and by the court.

He had an interview with the queen after the meeting at the Champ de Mars, and, touched by her beauty and her sadness, he had forgotten that he was not a marquis, and bending low he had kissed her hand, saying, Madame, the monarchy is saved. And this rugged man, with his iron will and power of speech, might have been able, had he lived, to save the king, but early in 1791 Mirabeau died.

After the death of the great orator the National Assembly was dissolved. New deputies were chosen by the people and called the Legislative Assembly. In it sat Robespierre, Danton and Marat, three of the most violent Republicans in France. They, with others who shared their opinions, belonged to a club called the Club of the Jacobins, and were known as Red Republicans. Now that Mirabeau no longer lived to control the king's enemies, Louis felt that even his life was in danger, that there was safety only in flight.

So Louis and his queen determined to leave the country. Across the frontier an army awaited them, led by French nobles who had already fled from France.

At midnight, on June 20, 1791, the royal family set out from Paris. The little dauphin was disguised in his sister's clothes, but this was the only precaution taken to escape discovery.

Louis , well-meaning but often foolish, instead of driving quietly away in an ordinary coach, insisted on travelling in a new coach. He also ordered his couriers and bodyguard to wear their yellow liveries.

In spite of this the little company got safely out of the city. As they journeyed along as quickly as they dared, one of the horses' traces broke, and a whole hour was wasted before it was repaired.

On and on drove the fugitives. Each mile as it passed left the king more cheerful. He even ventured at last to put his head out of the window. Alas, although they did not suspect it, they had been recognised and were being followed.

But now that they were so near the French frontier no harm, they thought, could overtake them. Soon they would reach the troops and loyal servants who were waiting impatiently to welcome the hapless king.

At length the royal party reached a village called Varennes, close to the frontier. Here they expected fresh horses, which were actually ready on the farther bank of the river. But the yellow-liveried courier who had gone on before to find them, never dreamed of crossing the bridge to look for the horses. He reported to Louis that there were none to be found anywhere.

Drouet, for this was the name of the man who had pursued the fugitives, now also reached Varennes.

While the king tried in vain to make the sleepy postillions drive their horses one stage farther, Drouet alarmed the village, blocked and guarded the bridge.

Thus it was that when the postillions, urged by bribes and also by threats, drove sullenly on, it was too late. The bridge could no longer be crossed.

There, awaiting the travellers, was Drouet with the Mayor of Varennes, who demanded the travellers' passports. They must be examined before the coach could proceed.

The royal party not being allowed to go on, was forced to spend the night in the mayor's house. This delay was fatal. In the morning the troops sent by the Assembly reached the village, their officer carrying with him an order to arrest the royal fugitives.

As the warrant was handed to Louis , he read it and said sadly, There is no longer any King of France.

Soon the long journey back to Paris was begun. It was made bitter by the jeers and insults of those who thronged the road to see their captured king.

When at length the royal party was again in Paris they were taken back to the Tuileries, where both Louis and Mane Antoinette were now closely guarded. Sentinels were posted in the palace, and even in the bedrooms of the king and queen soldiers kept watch.

The princes of Europe heard of Louis's captivity with anger, and the King of Austria, with other sovereigns, demanded that he should be set free.

But the Red Republicans were in no mood to listen to princes. Their answer was to send three armies to the frontiers, lest the King of Austria with other princes should invade France and restore Louis to freedom.

Louis himself was forced to agree that the armies should be sent, but when the Assembly demanded that he should declare that all the emigrant nobles were traitors, he absolutely refused to do as they wished.

The mob heard of the king's brave refusal, for brave it was, yet it felt no admiration for his courage, but only anger because he had dared to defy the Assembly.

Again the people rose, as they had done when they marched to Versailles, and forced their way into the Tuileries, even into the room where Louis himself stood with his guards and a few friends.

Finding themselves in the presence of their king, the rough men shrank back for a moment abashed. Then, pressed forward by those behind, they took courage and shouted that Louis should do as the Assembly wished and denounce the nobles as traitors.

Brave and steadfast the king answered, This is not the time and place to do as you desire.

His courage awed the mob, and one of the men handed him a red cap, the symbol of liberty, and Louis put it on his head. The queen also was offered a red cap, which she put on the head of the little dauphin.

Seeing this the leader of the mob was touched, and said, Madame, this people loves you more than you think.

It was four o'clock in the afternoon when the mob entered the Tuileries; it was eight in the evening before the palace was free from its unwelcome guests.

Austrians, Germans, Prussians were approaching the frontiers of France, and it was rumoured that Louis and the queen were in secret communication with the Austrians.

The mere rumour was enough to disturb the Jacobins, who were the fiercest Republicans. They made up their minds that they must get rid of the king, that their country might be at peace.

It was determined to attack the Tuileries on August 10, 1792. This time the Jacobins resolved that the attack should not be left to the mob, for the Swiss Guard, who were devoted to the king and who were now guarding the palace, would soon scatter it.

So the Jacobins sent to Marseilles for soldiers who were known to stand the fiercest fire. In July 1792 the Marseillais set out on their march to Paris, and as they marched they sang a battle-song. Those who heard it could never forget its martial strains, and they called it after the soldiers who sang, The Marseillaise. The Marseillaise became the battle-song of the Revolution.

When the famous regiment reached Paris, the people rose, and on the 10th August followed it to the Tuileries, bringing with them cannon.

The Assembly was sitting when the attack began, but it had lost all power over the mob. Still it was necessary to get the king to a place of safety, lest the rabble should break into the palace.

At first Louis refused to believe there was danger, but as the shouts of the mob drew nearer and nearer, he consented to go with the queen and his children to take refuge with the members of the Assembly.

As he crossed the palace grounds—the dauphin, unconscious of danger, amusing himself by idly kicking a few fallen leaves—Louis could hear more clearly still the fierce cries of the Marseillais, the roar of cannon, the terrified screams of the mob.

Boldly the Swiss Guards defended the palace, not knowing that their king had left, nor, until an order reached them from Louis himself, did their firing cease.

Then, faithful to the end, although unable by their king's command to defend themselves, they were slaughtered at their post.

Thus the Tuileries was soon in the hands of the rebels, who roamed from room to room, plundering and destroying all that they touched.

Paris now belonged to the Jacobins. Without delay they declared that the king was no longer king, and he and his family were taken to a gloomy prison called the Temple. Here they were guarded day and night, nor were they allowed to leave their prison, save to walk in a small strip of garden that belonged to it.

Danton, one of the Jacobins, now determined that all the aristocrats who were left in France should be imprisoned or put to death.

The city gates were shut that none might escape, and all who were believed to favour the king were thrown into gaol.

A few weeks later the armies of Prussia and Austria crossed the frontiers of France. Paris was at once stricken with sudden panic, and hoisted a black flag on all the public buildings.

Then the Jacobins ordered the bells to be rung to assemble the people, that they might listen to their chosen leader, Danton.

He in his zeal warned the citizens that when they left the city to fight the foreign foe that had invaded their land, the Royalists who were now in prison would break loose. They were said to be armed, and if that were so, what would happen to those who were left at home—to mothers, wives, children?

It was enough. Danton had no need to say more. A Committee of General Safety was formed by the Jacobins, and a terrible time known as the September Massacres now began.

A band of cruel men paid by the Jacobins went from prison to prison. After a hasty trial, which was after all only a sham one, the prisoners were led out to the door of their prison.

There the band of ruffians, with pikes in their hands, fell upon the defenceless folk and cruelly murdered them. None were spared, neither the old nor the young, the strong nor the weak.

A beautiful duchess, known to be the friend of Marie Antoinette, was told to leave her cell. She begged for time to arrange her dress, but not a moment was she granted. Rough voices shouted to her, You have not far to go.

She was asked if she would swear to hate the king and queen, but loyally she answered that this she could not do. It is not in my heart, she said.

At once she was led to the prison door, cruel hands stretched out to seize her, and she was stabbed to death. Her head, fixed on a pike, was carried beneath the windows of the Temple, in the hope, perchance, that the poor queen might learn what had befallen her friend.

For four long days these dreadful deeds were done, and not only in Paris. All over France the peasants rose against the hated aristocrats, who for years had trampled them beneath their feet. Castles were burned, pleasure-grounds destroyed, aristocrats themselves put to death.

Moreover, in many towns an instrument called the guillotine was erected. Dr. Guillotine, a member of the Assembly, had suggested that this instrument should be used, and it was from him that it received its name, although he did not invent it. Death by it was quick, and therefore merciful.

In September there was again a new Assembly. Its first act was to declare that France was a republic, that royalty was abolished.

It was determined by the new Assembly, or Convention as it was called, that Louis should be brought to trial, though Danton and Marat would gladly have put him to death at once.

When he was brought before his judges Louis was brave and quiet. He denied the charges brought against him, and his advocates defended him zealously, but in vain.

Danton, that fierce Jacobin, said, The kings of Europe threaten us. Let us cast down at their feet as the gauntlet of battle the head of a king. His followers had made up their minds that the head should be that of Louis

Without the hall the mob shouted fiercely, demanding that the tyrant, as they called the king, should be put to death. Within the Assembly there were some who, had they dared, would have saved the king.

When the members were asked to vote, a large number declared that Louis Capet, as they called the king, was guilty of trying to rob the nation of its liberty. A much smaller number voted that his punishment should be death. And this sentence was decreed to be carried out in twenty-four hours.

It was a cruel fate that had overtaken the honest, well-intentioned king, who, if he had but known how, might so easily have kept the love of his people. Not for his own mistakes, so much as for the sins of his fathers, was Louis put to death.

At eight o'clock on the morning of January 21, 1793, the king was led to the place of execution. The evening before he had said good-bye to his wife and-children, nor would he ask to see them again. But they heard the trampling of feet, the beating of drums, and they knew he had gone from them for ever.

Quietly, with no sign of fear, Louis mounted the scaffold.

Be silent, drummers, he cried, and then, as they obeyed, he spoke to the multitude. Frenchmen, he said, I die innocent, I pardon my enemies, I desire that France——

But the king's last words were lost, for the drums again began to beat.

Son of St. Louis, ascend to heaven, said the priest who was with him to the last, and at his words the executioner did his dreadful work, and King Louis was no more.

Long live the Nation! long live the Republic! shouted the people as they turned away from the terrible scene.

England showed her horror of the deed by ordering the French ambassador to leave London, an act which would probably be followed by war. Russia ordered all Frenchmen to leave her dominions within twenty days. Austria again invaded France.

But worse than her foreign foes were those France had at home, where the members of Convention were quarrelling among themselves.

To quell these disorders a Committee of Public Safety was formed, and on this committee sat Danton, Marat, Robespierre.

These men, along with six others, had the power of imprisoning and putting to death any one whom they suspected of even venturing to dislike the Republic.

The Convention was meanwhile holding its meetings in the hall of the Tuileries. Among its members there were some who were not such keen Republicans as were the members of the Committee of Public Safety. It would be well, said Danton, to get rid of these weak persons.

So the Tuileries was surrounded by troops, and the members suspected by Danton were dismissed from the Convention, and many of them were afterwards beheaded.

These Republicans who were not so fierce as the Jacobins were called Girondists.

Some of the Girondists escaped from Paris to the and prepared to return in force to the capital to fight against the Jacobins. Many of the scattered Royalists joined the Girondists and so strengthened their own cause.

Marat, who had been one of the most determined to see Louis beheaded, was now overtaken by a speedy vengeance.

Charlotte Corday, a beautiful young French girl, had often heard of the cruelty of Marat. She believed that her country would be saved if Marat was dead.

And so, brooding and brooding over the thought, she at length made up her mind that she herself would free her country from the cruel tyrant.

In July 1798 she left her home and travelled to Paris.

Marat was ill and was forced to spend much of his time in a hot bath to ease his pain. Charlotte, when she reached his house, was told that he was too ill to see any one.

But having determined to see the Jacobin, Charlotte Corday would take no denial. She went a second time to Marat's door and begged to see him, saying that she had important secrets which she must tell to him alone. Marat, in his bath, heard what the girl said, and called to her to come in.

Charlotte did not hesitate, she loved her country too well.

Eagerly she entered the house, and being admitted to Marat's presence, she told him the names of some pretended traitors. Then, as he turned aside to write down their names, she pulled her dagger from its hiding-place and stabbed, as she verily believed, the tyrant of France.

Marat screamed for help, and Charlotte Corday, who had not tried to escape, was at once arrested and soon after executed. She showed no fear as she was taken to her death, going to it calm and smiling, as one who had done her duty.

But Charlotte Corday had not accomplished what she had hoped by the death of Marat. His removal only left room for Robespierre and his terrible Council of Ten to begin the Reign of Terror.

This Council of Ten began its reign by imprisoning those suspected of disloyalty to the Government.

In a few days the prisons were full, and to make room for others the guillotine was kept constantly at work.

Prisoners were taken for trial before the Committee of Public Safety. But as had happened earlier in the year the trial was a mock one, batches of seventy or eighty prisoners being taken at the same time from the prison to the place of execution.

No one dare trust another. A friend might at any time accuse his friend, a servant his master. Spies were in every household. Innocent and guilty suffered together, while noble ladies were thrown into prison with those who had been brought up in miserable hovels.

Marie Antoinette had been in prison ever since she had been taken to the Temple with Louis Her captivity was now drawing to a close.

She had changed greatly since sorrow had fallen upon her. Her hair, which had once been golden, was now quite white, much of her beauty, too. was gone, but she had grown quiet and patient, and no murmur at her treatment ever crossed her lips. She had her little son and daughter with her, and the poor queen spent her days teaching her children and working beautiful embroidery.

But in July 1793 her children were taken from her, and the dauphin was given into the charge of a rough and cruel shoemaker called Simon. Then, indeed, the queen thought that her heart would break.

At first she would watch hour after hour from the window of the Temple, that she might catch a glimpse of her little son as he was taken for his daily walk. Before long, however, she was removed from the Temple to a dark and gloomy prison. Here no candle was given to her, and even her needlework was taken away. Thus with no work for her hands, no occupation for her tired heart, the long days slipped by slowly and unheeded.

In October 1793 she was summoned before the Council of Ten and condemned to death. It was with little sorrow that she heard her sentence. Life had ceased to be of any worth when her son was taken from her.

Never was Marie Antoinette more a queen than when she stepped upon the scaffold and, quiet and brave, laid her head upon the block. In another moment her sufferings were ended.

After the queen's death, Elizabeth, the sister of Louis Philip of Orleans, who had voted for the king's death, and thousands of others, known and unknown, were hurried to the scaffold.

To add to the misery of the people, if that indeed was possible, the Jacobins now gave orders that prayers should no longer be offered in any church, that Sunday should no longer be observed. And in the cathedral of Notre Dame, where the people had ever gone to worship God, the Jacobins ordered an image of the Goddess of Reason to be set up and worshipped. When, as well as all these changes, the names of the days and months of the year had been altered, the Jacobins believed that a new world had sprung into being.

The Council of Ten was growing weary of bloodshed, all save one, and that one was Robespierre. Little by little the other members began to fear this terrible man, to think that if he lived much longer even their lives would not be safe.

Lest, therefore, he should cause their fall, the Council resolved to accuse him as a tyrant.

When they tried to arrest him Robespierre resisted, and, rather than submit to be taken prisoner, he attempted to shoot himself, but the bullet only entered his jaw.

After a mock trial, such as he had himself given to others, the tyrant was condemned and taken to the guillotine. With Robespierre's death the Reign of Terror came to an end. A few days later the Convention ordered the prison doors to be opened, the prisoners to be set free.

But there was one little prisoner to whom the opening of the doors could do no good, and this was the dauphin, Louis , as some few people called him.

As you know, the little prince had been taken from his mother and given into the charge of a shoemaker called Simon.

The child, who had always been loved and cared for, was now cuffed and kicked, taught to drink and swear, until his health was ruined and his mind was wellnigh a blank.

After about six months of such cruel treatment Simon gave up his post, and Robespierre sent no one to take his place.

The little dauphin was left in a cell, unwashed and neglected. Often he had barely enough to eat. When Robespierre was put to death, some of the less fierce Republicans remembered the little prince, and he was put under the care of respectable people. Even now, however, he was kept as a prisoner and treated harshly, though not with the cruelty Simon had used.

In May 1794 the child became seriously ill, and a doctor was sent to visit him. His nurses paid him but scant attention, while his sister, who lived in the same house, was not allowed to see her brother.

It is said by some historians that the prince died in June, that at the end happiness stole into the child-heart and he heard heavenly music and the voice of his mother. But others tell us that the child escaped from his gaolers and lived quietly for many years after he was believed to be dead.

They had, indeed, won more for their country than had Louis , who, you remember, spent most of his long reign trying to gain new dominions for France.

At home, too, the Republicans won a great victory at Toulon, a port near to Marseilles. The citizens of Toulon were Royalists and determined, with the help of English and Spanish fleets, to hold the town against the Republican troops. They might have succeeded had it not been for a young lieutenant of twenty years old, who was with the Republican troops.

This lieutenant was given the place of the commander of the artillery, who had been wounded. He placed his cannon in the best available positions, and soon ball after ball came crashing down upon the fleets, the enemy's forts, and into the town itself, striking ships and buildings alike with deadly skill.

It was impossible for the citizens to stay longer in the town, and as many as were able took refuge on board the English fleet.

But wherever the ships moved the cannon-balls still followed them, until at length the commander was forced to withdraw, and Toulon was in the hands of the Republican troops.

The young man, whose quick eye had seen what should be done, was no other than Napoleon Bonaparte. This, his first great success, took place in 1793.

His next feat was in Paris, on the Day of the Sections, as it was called.

The scattered Royalists had, you remember, joined the Girondists. They, two years later, marched toward Paris, their armies divided into bands or sections. Their aim was to overthrow the Government.

Napoleon Bonaparte was not given the actual command of the Republican troops, which was in the hands of Paul Barras, but Barras knew the young man's ability and made him his lieutenant.

Once again a glance from his keen searching eyes showed the young general what it was necessary to do to win the day. Sending for guns, he placed them in a position to command the streets and bridges leading to the Tuileries.

As the army of the Royalists advanced in sections along the streets toward the palace, followed by the rabble, Napoleon ordered his cannon to fire.

Down the crowded streets crashed the deadly shot, killing both armed men and terrified unarmed men and women. No escape was possible, and the Royalists and Girondists were soon mown down as grass. In a few hours the Royalist plot to take Paris was completely crushed, and to Napoleon Bonaparte belonged the glory of the Day of the Sections, as it was called.

Napoleon reaped promotion as well as glory, for in a short time the young soldier was given the command of the French army in Italy.

A few days after his promotion Napoleon married Josephine, a beautiful and fascinating woman. In days to come her charming manners and wonderful gift of conversation were a great help to her famous husband.

I conquer provinces, Napoleon was used to say, but Josephine wins hearts.

From this time, 1796, the story of France is really the story of the life of Napoleon Bonaparte.

But before I tell you of his wonderful adventures, let me tell you something about his boyhood.

Napoleon Bonaparte was born in Corsica in August 1769. Corsica is a little island covered with trees, lying about fifty miles off the west coast of Italy.

As Napoleon grew up he learned to love his island home and to hate the French who had conquered his nation. For many years, indeed, he hated the very name of France.

From the time he was quite a little boy, Napoleon wished to be a soldier. He liked, too, to imitate soldiers in every possible way, playing mimic battles with his playmates and drilling his elder brother Joseph, as though Joseph were the recruit, he the officer.

When Napoleon went off to school in the morning his mother gave him a slice of white bread to eat by the way.

But the boy would have no dainties. He wished to have only the coarse brown bread which was all that real soldiers had to eat. And the first soldier the little fellow met was given the slice of white bread in exchange for a hunch of brown bread.

The lad's favourite lessons were geography and arithmetic, and he would often scribble sums on his nursery walls as well as draw rough figures of soldiers marching to battle.

Even in play-hours Napoleon was haunted by his love of arithmetical problems.

Once, while he was quite young, he mounted a pony and rode off to a windmill. When he reached it he jumped gaily from his little steed, and then, with the gravity of a sage, asked the miller how much corn the mill ground in an hour. Being told, he sat down to find out how much could be done in a day, in a week. Having solved his problem he hastily mounted and rode home again, to be welcomed with joy by his mother.

His mother Letizia took great pains to curb her son's hasty temper.

She passed over none of our faults, said Napoleon when he was grown up, but he said it without resentment, knowing that she had trained him and his brother with love as well as severity.

All his life Napoleon was proud of his mother and of all that she had done for him. Nor did he fear to say so shortly before his death.

It is to my mother, to her good precepts and upright example, that I owe my success and any great thing I have accomplished. My mother was a superb woman, a woman of ability and courage. Such was the fine tribute Napoleon Bonaparte paid to his mother Letizia.

When Napoleon was nine years old his parents determined that he and Joseph should be sent away to school, Joseph to be trained as a priest, Napoleon as a soldier. But as the boys, being Corsicans, spoke only Italian, they went at first together to the college of Autun, that Napoleon might learn to speak French before going on to the military school at Brienne.

Letizia wept as she said good-bye to her two elder boys, but they soon forgot the pain of leaving home, there was so much to see and to hear on their journey.

On the first day of the new year, 1779, the travellers reached the college of Autun.

Napoleon was now in France, the country he had learned to hate, and in a college where he and his brother were looked on as foreigners by the French boys, who teased and laughed at them for being Corsicans, for belonging to a conquered country.

Napoleon, young as he was, could ill brook a slighting word about his beloved island home, and his hasty temper made him no favourite with his new companions.

In April, Napoleon left Autun to go to the military school at Brienne. Only those of noble birth and without fortune were admitted to this school, where the expenses of the students were paid by the King of France.

It had been hard to leave home, it was perhaps even harder now to say good-bye to Joseph, the last link with Corsica, and to go away alone to Brienne. For you must remember that Napoleon was still only nine years old.

At Brienne Napoleon did not easily make friends with the boys. He was shy and, they thought, sulky, not joining in their games, but spending his playtime in reading. One of his favourite books was Plutarch's Lives, which he read in French.

The book enthralled the lad. As he read of the heroes of whom Plutarch tells, he dreamed that he was reading of his own Corsican hero, Paoli, who had tried to save his country from the yoke of France.

Although the patriot had been forced to flee to England for safety. Napoleon did not believe he would always have to remain in exile.

Paoli will return, he would sometimes say, and as soon as I have strength I will go to help him, and perhaps together we shall be able to shake the odious yoke from off the neck of Corsica.

At Brienne each student had a small piece of ground given to him, for, to dig, to sow, to weed is healthy exercise for boys.

Napoleon dug his little plot with great eagerness, but he did not plant in it seeds, but shrubs, which he surrounded with a paling. To this retreat Napoleon stole to read unseen and undisturbed, while the other boys played games and weeded their gardens.

After he had been at Brienne four or five years Napoleon grew more friendly with the other boys. He even became leader of their games, and when they played at battles their captain.

One severe winter, when snow lay thick upon the ground Napoleon said to his comrades, Let us build fortresses of snow.

This was quickly done. Then Napoleon divided the boys into two armies, one to defend, the other to attack the forts.

Day after day, as long as the snow lasted, the battle raged, Napoleon, as captain, directing now the assault, now the defence.

In 1784 Napoleon's training at Brienne came to an end, and he was sent to the military school at Paris.

At Brienne monks had been the boy's schoolmasters, at Paris Napoleon was among real soldiers. He always worked hard, but now he redoubled his efforts, so that soon he might be ready to join the army.

In a year he passed his examinations, and was then made a lieutenant in one of the finest regiments.

The lieutenant was still young, only sixteen, and the army rules compelled him to wear his school uniform, but—and what boy would not have gloried in the fact?—he was now allowed to have a sword buckled to his side.

Then, being in the French army, Napoleon began to think of France as his own country, although he never forgot his love for Corsica.

Soon after, being appointed commander of the French army in Italy in 1795, Napoleon left France to begin his new duties.

The army was encamped at Nice, and here the young commander soon joined it. He found the French Soldiers ragged and hungry, cold and hopeless.

It was scarcely strange that the troops should look with surprise, touched with scorn, at the young officer who had been sent to command them. He was so small, so thin, was all they thought as their first glance fell upon Napoleon. But as they looked again and caught the keen and searching glance of their new general, they knew that he was one to lead and to command.

His first words won their hearts. Soldiers, he cried, looking straight into the starving, hopeless faces of his men, Soldiers, you are hungry, you are naked. The Government owes you much, but can do nothing for you. I will lead you into the most fruitful plains in the world. Rich provinces, great cities will be in your power. There you will find honour and glory and riches. Soldiers of the army of Italy, will you lack courage?

As they listened to Napoleon's glowing words the soldiers forgot their cold and hunger. And when they found that on the march Napoleon shared their hardships, that always he was at the point of danger, risking his life as though he were a common soldier, they began to love and worship their young commander. Soon there was nowhere that they would not follow if he led the way.

At Nice, after his arrival, he had almost at once disbanded a regiment for disobeying orders, and stem discipline and just punishments won the respect of the men as well as their devotion.

So that the army might travel quickly and take the enemy unawares. Napoleon trained his soldiers to march without provisions and to leave even their tents behind. Shelter and food they would find in plenty in the cities they conquered.

I cannot tell you of all Napoleon's battles, for before a year had passed he had fought more than twelve times and had beaten several Austrian armies.

But on May 1, 1796, the terrible passage of the Bridge of Lodi took place, and of that I must tell you.

Napoleon, who was marching on Milan, had forced the Austrians to retreat before him to the river Adda.

To cross the river it was necessary to pass over a wooden bridge called the Bridge of Lodi. The rearguard of the Austrian army was ordered to hold the bridge against Napoleon and his men.

So it was that when the French general reached the river, he saw on the opposite side the Austrian guns, which were trained upon the bridge.

It was plain it would be no easy matter to cross the narrow but swift-flowing river.

Yet Napoleon never hesitated. He ordered his cannon to be placed opposite that of the enemy. They, seeing that Napoleon meant to attempt to cross the bridge, tried to destroy it.

But they tried in vain, the French fire being so persistent that the Austrians were forced to retreat.

Napoleon then, choosing a column of his most seasoned troops, ordered them to press forward to take the bridge.

It was impossible, he was told. But with his superb confidence Napoleon declared that there was no such word as impossible in the French language.

Thus encouraged, the chosen troop hurled itself upon the bridge, only to be met by a storm of fire from the Austrian cannon.

The foremost soldiers fell, while those behind pressed forward only to be mown down as grass.

Yet, dauntless as before, others pressing forward took the place of those who fell until the middle of the bridge was reached. Here they too perished before the fierce hail of shot and shell by which they were assailed.

Those who were left hesitated. For one short moment it seemed that the attempt to take the Bridge of Lodi was going to prove a failure.

But Napoleon seized a flag and himself urged his men forward. One of his officers, called Lannes, dashed on, followed closely by his men, and in a few moments more the bridge was in the hands of the French, and the Austrians were fleeing in all directions.

So terrible had been the slaughter that Napoleon in after-days would often speak of the terrible passage of Lodi.

It was after this great victory that the French soldiers, proud of their brave young general, gave him the title by which he was henceforth often called. The Little Corporal indeed became, after the taking of the Bridge of Lodi, more than ever the idol of the army.

Even when it seemed that Napoleon was caught in a trap by his enemies and would have to yield, his amazing confidence and daring found a simple way of escape.

So it happened when the Austrians had been defeated by Napoleon on the battlefield of Lonato. A corps of about four thousand of the enemy managed to escape to the hills, and as they wandered about they met a much smaller force of French soldiers, with the Little Corporal in their midst.

The Austrian officer at once sent an envoy bearing a flag of truce to Napoleon, to bid him and his men surrender.

As was usual, the envoy was led blindfold into the presence of the general. When the bandage was removed he was startled to find himself in the presence of the French commander, who was surrounded by all his officers.

With flashing eyes and haughty voice Napoleon declared that a summons to surrender when he was in the midst of his army was an insult. He then bade the envoy hasten back to the Austrian camp to warn his superior officer, that if he did not at once lay down his arms he and his men would be shot.

So bewildered were the Austrians by this bold demand that they believed Napoleon had his entire force at his back, and they hastily did as they were bid and laid down their arms.

You can picture to yourself the indignation and dismay of the Austrian officer when he found out that he had been tricked, that while he had had four thousand men Napoleon had had only twelve hundred, and might easily have been captured.

As the conqueror made his way through the north of Italy many of the princes paid heavy sums of money to purchase peace.

But Napoleon demanded more than money. To please the Parisians he took from the Italian cities many of their most beautiful pictures and statues, and sent them home to glorify the Louvre.

In November 1796 another great battle was fought at Arcola, a village which was approached on the west by a great stretch of marshland. Here, as at Lodi, it was necessary for the French to take a bridge that crossed the river Adige.

So fierce was the Austrian fire as the French approached the bridge that the bravest of Napoleon's men fell back before it.

Then the Little Corporal did even more than he had done at Lodi. Seizing a flag, he himself led his men across the bridge, and he had reached the middle when an officer fell dead at his side.

A small company of French soldiers, seeing the danger in which their beloved leader stood, dragged him backward, hoping to take him to some less perilous spot.

In their effort they were hampered by the enemy, who succeeded in pushing them into the marsh on the west of Arcola.

But at the sight of their general's danger, the French made a desperate stand and repulsed the Austrians, while Louis Bonaparte, one of Napoleon's brothers, rescued the Little Corporal from the swamp.

For two days the battle raged, and then on the third Napoleon once again wrested the victory from his foe.

It is told that after this long battle Napoleon found one of his sentinels asleep at his post.

The Little Corporal lifted the soldier's musket and stood at attention until the weary man awoke and saw to his dismay who was keeping watch in his place.

Nothing could save him from the most severe punishment, thought the soldier. But he was mistaken. Napoleon knowing that he had been worn out, forgave him, and won the unfailing devotion of his sentry.

Many more were the victories won by Napoleon over the Austrians, until at length, in the autumn of 1797, a treaty was made at Campo-Formio. By this treaty France received Belgium and the provinces bordering on the Rhine.

Citizens and peasants alike greeted him as though he were a king. Every one was anxious to do honour to the conqueror.

The welcome he received was such as might well have satisfied the most ambitious. But Napoleon was not greatly moved by the admiration of the crowd. He knew too well how easily it might change to hatred.

This same unthinking crowd, he said, under a slight change of circumstances, would follow me just as eagerly to the scaffold."

The directors at Paris, who had made Napoleon commander of the army in Italy, soon grew jealous of the favour the people showed to the Little Corporal.

Rumours reached them that the soldiers thought that the general whom they idolised should become King of France. After that the one idea of the directors was to get Napoleon out of the country again as soon as possible.

So, in 1798, the great general was made commander-in-chief of the army which was meant to conquer England. But Napoleon knew that he was not yet strong enough to conquer England, so he determined instead to go on a great expedition to Egypt. If he could win that country he would be able to spoil Britain's trade with India, and to conquer that country was ever his great desire.

In May 1798 a great fleet was fitted out, and Napoleon sailed from Toulon with a splendid army, which included many of his bravest and best-disciplined soldiers.

Nelson, the great English admiral, was cruising in the Mediterranean, keeping a sharp look-out for the French. But a great storm arose and many of the British ships were damaged, and the fleet was forced to take refuge in a port. And while the English fleet was in the port Napoleon sailed away out of Nelson's reach.

Taking the island of Malta on the way, the French at length, in the beginning of July, came in sight of Alexandria.

After a short but sharp struggle the city was taken and the French flag hoisted on her walls. Leaving soldiers to hold the town. Napoleon then marched on toward Cairo, which was in the hands of the Mamelukes.

The Mamelukes were slaves who had long ago either been taken prisoners of war or had been bought as slaves in the market-places of their own homes, which lay hidden here and there among the Caucasus Mountains. They had been trained as soldiers from the time that they were quite little children, and at first, when they were carried into Egypt, they were made the Sultan's bodyguard.

Before they had been long in their new home they became so powerful that it was no unusual thing for a Mameluke himself to become the Sultan of Egypt.

By the time that Napoleon came to Egypt much of their power had been taken from them by the Turks. They were still, however, fierce and terrible warriors.

Over the burning sand, the sun pouring its rays relentlessly upon them, the French soldiers marched. Parched by thirst, sometimes attacked by snakes, they were little able to repulse the wandering tribes by which they were attacked.

The heat made the thirst of the troops intolerable. Even when they reached a well, it was usually to find that the Arabs had filled it with stones and that it would be possible to get water only after hours of toil. Even brave officers gave themselves up to despair, and in their misery tore off their cockades, murmuring threats of rebellion.

But neither the heat nor the clamour of his men disturbed the Little Corporal. Unheeding the discontent of his soldiers, he marched before them, his uniform on as usual, while they, so intense was the heat, had flung off most of their garments.

One of his officers, bolder than the others, even dared to taunt Napoleon, saying to him, Well, general, are you going to take us to India thus?

No, I would not undertake that with such soldiers as you, answered Napoleon quickly.

After that the officers were less ready to let the general hear their complaints.

At length the weary march was over, and the army reached the banks of the Nile and was able to quench its thirst. It then took up its position near the Pyramids. These were the tombs of the ancient kings of Egypt, which had stood silent, unchanged, during many hundred years. As the French awaited the onslaught of the Mamelukes, who were also encamped near the Pyramids and were preparing to attack the rash invaders, Napoleon rode up and down the ranks of his army. Soldiers, he cried, reining up before them and pointing to the Pyramids, from these summits forty centuries watch your actions.

Then the Mamelukes, shouting strange wild battle-cries, rushed like a whirlwind upon the solid squares of the French army.

The steady fire that received them swept the fierce horsemen aside, until at length, leaving their comrades slain in heaps, the Mamelukes turned to flee.

Thus in July 1798 the battle of the Pyramids was won by the French, and Napoleon entered Cairo in triumph.

Soon after this great victory Napoleon was thunderstruck to hear that his fleet, which had been sailing in the Bay of Aboukir, had been attacked and defeated by Nelson at the battle of the Nile. It was a serious blow, for it left Napoleon with his army cut off from France.

But he was too good a general to show his soldiers how much the destruction of his fleet disturbed him.

A little later he defeated the Turks with great slaughter at the battle of Aboukir.

Many of the enemy threw themselves into the sea to escape the terrible attack of the French cavalry.

After the battle was over. Napoleon, hearing that he was needed at home, resolved to leave his army and go back to France. His soldiers, had they known that their great commander meant to leave them, might have proved restive. So one night in the month of August, when it was dark save for the light of the stars, Napoleon stole away and embarked at Alexandria. With some difficulty his ships escaped the English, who were cruising about in the hope of capturing French boats, and in October 1799 Napoleon reached Paris after an absence of about fifteen months.

They were quarrelling with each other, while a council made up of five hundred members, and therefore called the Council of the Five Hundred, was in confusion. France was in dire need of a ruler, and a strong one. Napoleon saw that here was the opportunity which his ambition had long desired.

So one day, in November 1799, the great general went to St. Cloud, for it was there that the Council of the Five Hundred was sitting.

Napoleon had enemies as well as friends among the members. No sooner did his enemies see him enter the hall than they shouted, Death to the tyrant! Down with the dictator!

For a moment Napoleon seemed disturbed by these cries, but he quickly made up his mind to act.

The council evidently meant to dispute his claim to rule France. Then it must be turned out!

So without more ado Napoleon called his soldiers, who had been posted outside, to come and empty the hall.

As they advanced with fixed bayonets, the Five Hundred forgot their dignity and fled from the room. Through the doors, out of the windows, any way by which they could, the quaking members sought to escape from the stem soldiers of the general.

That same evening Napoleon was chosen First Consul by a few of the scattered Five Hundred. Henceforth the Corsican was the ruler of France.

Being First Consul, Napoleon went to live at the palace of the Tuileries, and delighted every one by his splendid entertainments. These were made the more perfect by the presence of his wife, the charming and beautiful Josephine.

It was not long before the First Consul grew weary of the gaiety of the palace. He wished to be again on the battlefield at the head of his great army.

So in 1800 he once more left France to set out for Italy, where he hoped to reconquer the cities which the French had lost while their Little Corporal was in Egypt.

To reach Italy Napoleon determined to take his army over the Alps by the Great St. Bernard pass.

It was a perilous undertaking, for at places there was not a path but only a mere ledge, so narrow that should a soldier take one false step he would fall into the abyss beneath. At any moment, too, an avalanche might descend and destroy the whole army. Yet along these narrow ledges and up the steepest precipices the soldiers toiled, oppressed by the weight of their armour, sometimes forced to take the cannon from their carriages and drag them over the worst part of the ascent.

But when most discouraged the soldiers had only to look at Napoleon, seated on a mule, clad in the grey overcoat which to the army already seemed part of himself, to feel that with such a leader no obstacle could be too great for them.

At the summit of the pass the army was welcomed by the monks who lived in the famous hospice of St. Bernard.

Tables were spread out of doors for the soldiers, with bread and cheese as well as wine. These refreshments had been sent on by Napoleon that his troops might be revived after their terrible climb. But the monks of St. Bernard in their charity added to the plentiful supply provided by the general.

The descent was as difficult and perilous as the ascent had been, but at length it too was over, and seven days after the soldiers had begun their toilsome march they poured down into the plain of Italy and Napoleon marched toward Milan.

Here, where he was hailed as a deliverer by those who had suffered from the Austrians, the First Consul spent a few days rearranging his army. He then marched toward the village of Marengo, from which a small body of French soldiers had already driven the enemy.

As Napoleon approached, he found the Austrians already prepared to meet him on the plain of Marengo. Here, on June 14, 1800, a great battle took place, the Austrian army being nearly twice as large as the French.

Early on the morning of the 14th the Austrians succeeded in retaking the village of Marengo. Lannes, one of Napoleon's bravest officers, although fighting desperately, was forced gradually to retire.

At that moment Napoleon rode hastily from the rear and threw a company of his own guards upon the enemy. While the enemy was thus checked, Lannes was able to rally his men.

By two in the afternoon it seemed as though the French would be defeated. In spite of all they could do, in spite of the encouragement of the First Consul, the day was almost lost, when, by rare good fortune, a young French general named Desaix arrived on the field with fresh troops. The battle is lost, he is reported to have said to Napoleon, but there is time to gain another.

Encouraged by the appearance of reinforcements, the French attacked the enemy with new courage, while the Austrians, having thought that the day was already theirs, were taken by surprise.

Volley after volley of musketry was sent in among the startled Austrians by the Ninth Light Infantry, which was the name of Desaix' regiment.

Suddenly the men saw their general fall to the ground. Then with a terrible cry they rushed forward to avenge their leader's death. From that day, so great were the deeds they did, the regiment of the Ninth Light Infantry was called The Incomparable.

One more unexpected charge of cavalry, then the Austrians gave way and fled. The French had won the hardly fought battle of Marengo.

Napoleon was grieved when he heard that Desaix had perished.

If only I could have embraced Desaix upon the battlefield, he said regretfully, I should have made him Minister of War and a prince too, had it been in my power.

The blow given to the Austrians at Marengo was so great that they begged for peace, to which Napoleon agreed. But war soon broke out again, and the terrible battle of Hohenlinden was fought in December 1800. Then once again the Austrians sued for peace, which Napoleon granted to them on condition that all northern Italy should again be given back to France.

But although the First Consul was worshipped by many of the people, he was hated by some. His chief enemies were among the Royalists and the Jacobins.

The Royalists hated him because he was now a king in all but name, the Jacobins because he was the head of the Republic. Plots were even made against his life.

Once, as he was driving to the opera, a barrel which had been filled with gunpowder was placed on the road by which he must pass. But his carriage got safely by before it exploded and Napoleon escaped, though when the explosion did take place many innocent people suffered in his stead.

The Royalists wished to kill the First Consul that the brother of Louis might be placed on the throne.

One of their plots was discovered, and the Duke of Enghien, who belonged to the house of Conde, was shot, although it was not proved that he had anything to do with the attempt to kill Napoleon.

The princes of Europe were very angry that Napoleon had dared to put this great noble to death. But the friends of the First Consul said it was time to make Napoleon king, so that a Bourbon might never again sit on the throne of France.

Before long the French deputies and Senate agreed that it would be well that Napoleon should be crowned. Of the army and of the people he was already the idol, and they believed no honour too great for their hero.

So in December 1804 the Pope, at the request of the Virst Consul, journeyed toward Paris.

Napoleon determined to meet Pius before he reached the capital. He therefore went off for a day's hunting, and on his homeward way, radiant with health and power, he leaped from his horse and awaited the Pope's carriage. As he drove up to the spot on which Napoleon stood, Pius ordered his carriage to stop. Then the old man, clad in white and wearing on his feet only white silk shoes, alighted on the cold damp ground.

As Napoleon welcomed his guest, the general's carriage drove up. The doors on either side were opened, the Pope entering on the left while the First Consul took the seat of honour on the right.

Soon after his arrival the ceremony for which the Pope had come to France took place. Amid the greatest pomp, and clad in the richest robes, the Emperor Napoleon and the Impress Josephine mounted the steps of the new carriage provided for the great occasion and drove to the cathedral.

Here the emperor and the empress were anointed with holy oil. Then, as the Pope took the crown to place it on the emperor's head. Napoleon, reaching out his hand, himself placed the crown upon his own head.

The ceremony was over, and loud shouts of Long live the emperor! rent the air.

A year later Napoleon was in Milan cathedral, for he wished to be crowned King of Italy as well as Emperor of the French.

As he placed the iron crown of the Italian kings upon his head the emperor said, as the ancient kings of Lombardy had been used to do at their coronation, God hath given it me; beware who touches it!

Having now satisfied one part of his ambitions, Napoleon turned once more to his long-cherished scheme of invading England.

He had already begun to prepare for it by setting up a huge camp at Boulogne, and ordering a fleet to be built to carry his troops across the Channel.

But the English fleet guarded the coast and scoured the Channel with such vigilance that Napoleon was forced to see that his plans would never be successful.

Other countries, too, were showing signs of impatience with the emperor. Before long Austria and Russia, as well as Sweden and England, entered into a league against Napoleon, for they thought that unless his ambition was curbed, he would wish to add their crowns to those that were already his.

For a time the league seemed to have little effect on the emperor's course. In Austria he gained victory after victory, and at length entered Vienna in triumph.

Here he heard bitter news. The French fleet, as well as many Spanish vessels, had been utterly destroyed by Lord Nelson at the battle of Trafalgar in October 1805. This put an end to Napoleon's power on the sea.

As was perhaps natural, the emperor believed that had he but been present at the battle such a disaster would never have befallen France. He determined, however, that this misfortune should be forgotten through the glory of a great victory on land. So one cold foggy morning in December Napoleon met the Russian and Austrian armies on the plain of Austerlitz.

The Russians were in a strong position on the hills, but for some reason they left the heights and began to descend to the plain.

When the emperor saw what the enemy was doing he was pleased indeed, and with his usual confidence he remarked, In twenty-four hours they are mine.

In the fog the two armies had drawn nearer to each other than they knew. Suddenly the sun shone out, the mist lifted, and the French found themselves face to face with the enemy.

As Napoleon led his men to the attack he cried: Soldiers, this battle must be a thunder-clap.

For a time it seemed that for all his genius, and in spite of the devotion of his men, the emperor would be defeated.

But the bravery of Lannes helped to turn the tide of battle, and after four or five hours of fiercest struggle, the French had once again won the victory.

The battle of Austerlitz was one of the greatest of Napoleon's many victories. It took place on the first anniversary of his coronation. Those of the soldiers who escaped the terrible slaughter of that day often spoke of the cheerful omen that had braced their hearts for the battle. It was the Sun of Austeriitz.

After the battle was over, what was left of the Austrian and Russian armies wandered about the country more like bands of robbers than like the trained soldiers of a great army.

The famous English minister, William Pitt, was so troubled by the victory of Austeriitz, that his health, already feeble, grew worse, and soon afterwards he died.

But though the Powers leagued together against the emperor had been defeated, they did not mean to accept their defeat tamely.

Russia, aided now by Prussia, raised a large force and marched against the emperor. The chief commander of the Prussians was the Duke of Brunswick, a brave and gallant leader. Unfortunately his men were more used to peace than to war.

In October 1806 the armies met close to the town of Jena. Overlooking the town was a steep hill, on the top of which Napoleon ordered cannon to be placed.

Any one but the emperor would have thought it an feat to get cannon to the top of such a steep ascent, but as you have heard, impossible was a word unknown to Napoleon.

There was no pathway up the hill. A road had to be made, at places, through rocks that seemed impassable.

The soldiers, however, began to dig and to blast, cheered by the words and the presence of the emperor, who himself encouraged them in their difficult task.

After untiring industry the task was accomplished, soldiers and cannon both being in position at the top of the hill that commanded Jena.

The Prussians did not know that they would be attacked by the emperor himself. They thought that he was far away with the main body of his troops, and that at Jena they had to fight only a small division of the French army.

Frederick-William, their king, had not even waited to join his allies, while his army was no larger than he believed his enemy's to be.

Moreover, they had not the faintest idea that the French troops had made a road to the top of the Landgrafenberg, as the hill overlooking Jena was called.

Early in the morning the French were astir, and soon the guns on the height began to pour their deadly fire down upon the Prussian army.

The Prussians were startled, and before long were in confusion. Another battle was also being fought at Auerstadt, about twelve miles away, in which the Duke of Brunswick was slain. He was beloved by his men, who ever after wore black uniforms in memory of their gallant leader. His son, too, vowed that he would be revenged on the French for his father's death.

It was evening when the battle of Jena was over, and the emperor saw that the Prussians were flying in all directions, pursued by the French cavalry.

Then Napoleon, with the kindness which won the devotion of his men, rode over the battlefield, often dismounting give brandy to some wounded soldier.

If he found one alive where he least expected it, he gave way to a joy it is impossible to describe.

Having defeated the Prussians, the emperor marched with his army through their land, plundering and burning as he went. On, until he reached Berlin, he marched entering the city in triumph as a conqueror.

In spite of this stern decree Britain continued to send her goods to Europe, while even in France itself the emperor's command was not obeyed, many British goods being smuggled into the country.

The Berlin Decree did more to harm Napoleon's popularity than perhaps he guessed. Those who until now had admired, began to look coldly upon him. They felt that he was willing to sacrifice the welfare of his people to the glory, as he thought it, of humbling Britain.

Soon afterwards Napoleon went to Poland with his soldiers. The most important battle in this campaign, which did not always go well with the French, was that of Friedland, where many thousands of brave soldiers on both sides perished. Shortly afterwards Russia and Prussia concluded an armistice with the victor.

Napoleon and the two sovereigns then met at Tilsit. Here they each held their separate courts, giving splendid banquets and balls to which they invited one another.

But although the court was gay. Napoleon did not give all his time to pleasure. He took care to wring a promise from both the Czar of Russia and the King of Prussia that they would observe the Berlin Decree. His conquered foes were forced reluctantly to do as the French emperor demanded.

Since Napoleon had been made emperor, France had left the ideas of the Revolution far behind. In those terrible days, you remember, all titles were done away with, and every one, whatever his or her rank, was addressed as citizen or dtizeness.

But when Napoleon became great he bestowed titles on the members of his own family, to whom he was always kind, as well as on many of his brave soldiers.

Joseph, his eldest brother, was made King of Naples, while Louis, a younger one, received the crown of Holland. His soldiers were rewarded for their services not only by higher rank in the army, but by having bestowed on them the title of prince or duke.

Sometimes, as you have read, Napoleon made war for no other reason than that he wished to increase his own power and win new kingdoms for France.

When, however, in 1807 he declared war against Spain and Portugal, he said it was because, in defiance of the Berlin Decree, these countries had allowed British goods to enter their lands.

Portugal was easily taken by the French, while the King of Spain was forced to resign his crown. Napoleon then said that his brother Joseph should sit on the throne of Spain.

But the Spaniards refused to have a foreigner to rule over them. In their pride and indignation they rose and massacred every Frenchman they could, and declared they would fight to the death rather than have a foreign king sitting upon the Spanish throne.

As they could not fight alone against so powerful a nation as France, they appealed to England for help. This was the beginning of the Peninsular War, which did not end until the fall of the great Napoleon.

England answered the appeal of the Spanish people by sending to their help an army under the Duke of Wellington, who was then Sir Arthur Wellesley.

In 1809 fresh troops were sent to Spain under Sir John Moore, who was killed at the battle of Corunna, as you will remember reading in your English history.

Meanwhile in this same year another desperate battle was fought against the Austrians at Wagram, on the banks of the Danube.

The French took pains to conceal their movements before the battle, so that the enemy should not know at what point of the river or at what time they intended to cross.

One night, when the wind blew hard and the sky was dark, the emperor ordered his men to cross the river silently by a bridge formed of boats. While the French army was crossing, cannons were fired in another direction, and the Austrians believed that they would be attacked from the same direction as that from which the firing was heard.

Instead of this, the French fell from quite another quarter upon the white-coats, as the Austrians were often called from the colour of their uniforms, and they were defeated.

The Austrian emperor had suffered so many defeats that he was now in dire straits, and forced to accept whatever terms Napoleon should be pleased to offer.

Perhaps harder than yielding up a large part of his dominions, as the French emperor demanded, was the other condition, that he should give his daughter, Marie Louise, in marriage to his conqueror.

Napoleon was now in sight of the fulfilment of another of his ambitions, which was to marry the daughter of an emperor.

Josephine, whom he had loved, was to be put aside that he might satisfy his desire.

She had, as you know, helped her husband by her beauty and her conversation, and he had never cared greatly for any other woman. Yet now, so greatly was his ambition set on marrying the daughter of an emperor, Josephine was sent away.

Some time after the wedding, in March 1811, Marie Louise had a little son, and Napoleon, who had long wished for a child to succeed to the throne of France, was full of joy. The little baby was at once proclaimed King of Rome, for all Italy was now in the hands of the French emperor.