Versailles

As I stood at the gates of Versailles, I could just imagine what took place there two hundred and twenty years ago.  I close my eyes and try to visualize the chaos...

There is a sortie of varying people.  

There is a man.  He is full of choler and obviously not laconic, yelling at the top of his lungs with the other revolutionaries.  He will do whatever it takes to overcome Louis XVI; if he must usurp the king's money and wealth from the palace, that is exactly what he will do.  He seems to be one of the more salient members of the mob, leading the way with his fellow countrymen.

There is a woman holding her baby.  She is at the very back of the mob, and she is not exactly sure why she is there.  She is holding her precious baby against her chest and she is scared.  She is afraid that the government will detain her for perfidy, and she is scared of being part of a mob.  The woman gathers her confidence and refuses to cede to this side of her; she wants to change the country for her child and future generations to come.  This small inkling of uncertainty is overcome by her fervor for a democracy.

The mob is running to the gates of the ethereal palace, screaming in their argot.  It is ironic, really.  Most would think that the poor would be sycophants towards the king, the only one who would be able to exonerate them from their current state of poverty.  Instead they were envious of the king's luxurious lifestyle.  The palace looked strange and almost out of place being contrasted to such poverty.  King Louis XVI was a parvenu, constantly showing off his wealth and never letting the townspeople forget their low status.  How dare he live in such luxury while the rest of the country starves on the streets?  The answer was cryptic, no one was really sure what to believe anymore.  After all, the lifestyle that they had known for their entire lives was now suddenly changing in front of their eyes and in their hearts.

...I open my eyes and see the swarming tourists taking photos in the picturesque courtyard and lining up to get inside.  I am startled by the reality of my surroundings, for just a moment ago I was a living, breathing part of the French Revolution.  Perhaps this is a scene which a historian would find in a dossier of papers.  But for me, I would rather leave history up to the historians.