Journal

Those ungrateful rats. We give and we give. But we can only give so much. If we give more, we will be peasants ourselves. How can they be so rude? We give them a place to live. We protect them from other countries and they want more? Now I must move my family out of Paris, maybe even out of the country. The damned riot broke open that prison. I could hear the raucousness from my bedroom window: cannons, yelling, and the glow of fire in the sky. The next morning, my good friend the Marquis told me that they were taking a leave and ready to go to Arbre de Terre, our summer home. I have sent forth the horsemen to prepare for our arrival, but we shall not leave until this evening as there are many in the street with a pistol or sharp steel ready to slit the throat of royal blood.

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