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               [Illustration: _Happy days in the garden_]

                    _Life Stories for Young People_

                                  THE
                             LITTLE DAUPHIN

                     _Translated from the German of
                            Franz Hoffmann_

                                   BY
                            GEORGE P. UPTON
_Translator of “Memories,” author of “Upton Handbooks on Music,” editor
            “Autobiography of Theodore Thomas,” etc., etc._

                        WITH FOUR ILLUSTRATIONS

                  [Illustration: A. C. McCLURG & CO.]

                                CHICAGO
                          A. C. McCLURG & CO.
                                  1905

                               Copyright
                          A. C. McClurg & Co.
                                  1905
                      Published September 16, 1905

                THE UNIVERSITY PRESS, CAMBRIDGE, U.S.A.

                          Translator’s Preface

The story of Louis Charles, second son of Louis XVI and Marie
Antoinette, is one of the most pathetic in the history of royalty, and
has an added interest because of the attempts of many romancers and some
historical writers to raise doubts as to his fate. The brief space of
the little Dauphin’s life is measured by the awful period of the French
Revolution and Reign of Terror. Franz Hoffmann, the writer of the
original (which was published under the title of “Ein Königssohn,” or,
“A King’s Son”), follows the ordinarily accepted version that the
Dauphin was separated from the King and Queen and confined in the
Temple, and that after their execution he was deliberately and cruelly
allowed to waste away in body and become the victim of hopeless disease,
remaining thus until death ended his sufferings and the inhuman
barbarity of his keepers. In the course of his narrative the author
touches upon the most striking events of the Revolution, that “dreadful
remedy for a dreadful disease,” as it has been called, and brings out in
strong relief the character of the well-meaning but weak King and
imperious Queen, as well as that of the brutal cobbler Simon, the
Dauphin’s keeper; but the principal interest centres in the pathetic
figure of the little prince. The historic doubts raised as to the
Dauphin’s fate also lend interest to the tale. One of these has to do
with the identity of Naundorff, who passed himself off as the Duke of
Normandy, the Dauphin’s title, and the other with the Rev. Eleazar
Williams of Green Bay, Wisconsin, missionary among the Indians. The
claims put forth by friends of Williams attracted widespread attention
and provoked much discussion in this country and France, half a century
ago, because of the extraordinary coincidences attaching to the alleged
identity. It is the generally accepted verdict of history, however, that
the Dauphin was the victim of the Revolution and died in the Temple in
1795, and as such he appears in these pages. The details of his fate can
never be stated with accuracy, so involved and uncertain is the tragic
mystery, but Hoffmann’s narrative is undoubtedly correct in its general
outlines. There are almost as many different versions as there are
histories of that thrilling period.

                                                                G. P. U.

Chicago, 1905

                                Contents

  I Sunny Days                                                        11
  II The Night of Varennes                                            30
  III In the Temple                                                   65
  IV Separation from his Mother                                       79
  V The Cobbler Simon                                                 93
  VI The End of Sorrows                                              126
    Appendix                                                         149

                         List of Illustrations

  Happy days in the garden                                _Frontispiece_
                                                           _Facing page_
  The King’s last farewell                                            76
  The Cobbler and his little victim                                  120
  The Dauphin and the sparrows                                       138

                           The Little Dauphin

                               Chapter I
                               Sunny Days

Within the grounds of the Tuileries,—that splendid palace of the King of
France,—at the end of a terrace overlooking the water, there was, in
1790, a small garden surrounded by a neat trellis and adjoining a
pavilion occupied by the Abbé Daveaux, tutor of the Dauphin, or Crown
Prince, Louis Charles.[1]

On a certain bright July morning in that year a handsome, graceful boy
about five years old entered this garden. He was richly and carefully
dressed, and was accompanied by a small detachment of soldiers in the
uniform of the National Guard, who followed him on foot to the gate in
the trellis and stationed themselves there as sentinels. The boy bowed
courteously to them and said, smiling: “I am sorry, gentlemen, my garden
is so small I cannot have the pleasure of receiving you in it, but I
will do the best I can,” and quickly gathering a handful of flowers, he
proceeded to distribute them among his escort with such winning
sweetness that the bearded soldiers could scarcely restrain their
emotion.

After busying himself for some time in this way, the boy took from a
corner one of the small but handsomely finished garden tools that had
evidently been specially adapted to his use, and went industriously to
work removing the weeds which had sprung up among the flowers, and
spading the soil of a small bed to prepare it for setting out some young
plants which he had brought with him in a pretty little basket. He
worked with such energy and absorption that beads of perspiration stood
on his forehead, and he did not observe that his tutor, the Abbé
Daveaux, had entered the little garden and was watching his labors with
loving interest.

“That will do, my Prince,” said the Abbé, finally. “You must not fatigue
yourself too much or you will not be able to give proper attention to
your lessons.”

The boy immediately laid down his tool and with a bright smile greeted
his tutor, who gently brushed the clustering curls from his flushed
face. As he stood there, glowing with health and breathless from the
exercise which had brought a bright color to his cheeks, with the frank,
fearless glance of his great blue eyes shaded by dark lashes, the wide,
fair brow, the fresh red lips, the dimple in his rounded chin, and the
almost angelic expression of innocence on his face—it would have been
hard to find a lovelier child. His figure was slender and delicate, his
motions full of grace and vivacity, while in his manner and bearing
there was something noticeably distinguished, combined with a confiding
trustfulness that won all hearts.

Universally admired for his beauty and beloved for his nobility of mind,
his tender heart, and the sweet friendliness he showed to all with whom
he came in contact, this boy was Louis Charles, Dauphin of France,
destined in the ordinary course of events to be the future ruler of one
of the mightiest kingdoms of the world. Tenderly beloved by his parents,
the unfortunate King Louis the Sixteenth and the imperious Grand Duchess
Marie Antoinette[2]; surrounded by all the pomp and splendor of a
kingdom, and sheltered with loving solicitude from every shadow of evil,
as yet he had known only the sunny days of happy, careless childhood;
but already above him were gathering the dark clouds which were to
eclipse the sunshine of his life evermore and transform the serene
happiness of his parents into bitter trouble and untold misery. Alas!
what a cruel fate had destiny reserved for this beautiful boy whose blue
eyes looked out so bravely and trustfully upon the world! But of all
this he had little foreboding as he gave himself up to the full
enjoyment of his innocent happiness with all the light-hearted
unconsciousness of a child.

“Just see, M. Abbé, how busy I have been this morning!” said the boy,
after he had given the usual morning greetings to his tutor. “I have
taken out all the weeds and planted this bed with fine asters, which
will please my mother very much when they blossom. You know, M. Abbé,
how much she loves flowers!”

“I do, indeed, my Prince,” answered M. Daveaux, “and it is very nice and
thoughtful of you to take her a nosegay every morning; but I cannot
understand why you exert yourself to do all that digging, weeding,
watering, and planting when a gardener would do it for you in a few
moments.”

The little Prince shook his head earnestly. “No, no, M. Abbé,” he
replied after a moment’s reflection; “my father gave me this garden so
that I should have the care of it. And besides,” he added with a
charming smile, “I must make these flowers grow myself, because mamma
would not like them half so well if anyone else had done it.”

“You are right, my Prince,” said the Abbé, surprised and touched by the
boy’s remark, which showed so much affection for his mother. “Go on
planting your flowers, and I hope they may thrive entirely to your
satisfaction.”

“Oh, they are growing finely, M. Daveaux,” answered the Prince, proudly.
“You will see what a large bunch I can pick in just a moment”; and with
a zeal and energy inspired by his love for his mother he examined all
the flowers in his little garden, selected the largest and freshest
blossoms, and bound them into a bouquet which he arranged with much care
and taste.

“Look, M. Abbé,” said he, holding out his nosegay with childish triumph,
“do you not think my mother will be pleased with this? It makes me very
unhappy when the weather is bad and I cannot work in my garden, for how
can I be happy, M. Abbé, when I have not earned mamma’s first kiss with
my bouquet? But now I must go and feed my rabbits, and then hurry to her
with the flowers.”

In a corner of the garden there was a small enclosure walled in with
bricks, where some pretty tame rabbits were kept by the Prince. They
recognized him with evident pleasure, and came quickly at his call as he
bountifully distributed among them fresh cabbage leaves and carrots
provided for the purpose. After this visit to his pets, the Dauphin
turned back toward the palace to make his usual morning call on his
mother, but once more he was detained.

Before the iron railings that separated the garden from the open street
stood a poor woman, who was gazing at the Prince with longing eyes, but
had not ventured to address him. Perceiving instantly that she seemed to
be in trouble, he approached her and asked kindly: “What is the matter,
my good woman? Can I do anything for you?”

The woman burst into tears. “Oh, my Prince,” she stammered, “I am very
poor and have a sick child at home,—it is a boy, my Prince, and just as
old as you,—and he is waiting anxiously for my return. But I cannot bear
to go back to him with empty hands!”

“Wait a moment,” replied the Prince, after he had convinced himself that
the woman was really poor and needy. “I am going to see my mother, and
will be back directly.”

With hasty steps he ran on, and disappeared in the palace; but in less
than ten minutes he was back again with a beaming face.

“Here, my good woman,” he said in his gentle voice, as he handed her a
bright new gold piece through the railings, “that is from my mother. And
this,” he added, snatching one of the finest roses from his garden,
“this is from me for your sick boy. I hope he will soon be well again”;
and before the astonished woman could utter her thanks the little
Dauphin had vanished again, hardly hearing the loud acclamations of the
crowd which had gathered outside the palings and witnessed his generous
deed.

At no time was the young Prince gayer or more charming than with his
mother, whom he adored above all the world. As she did not wish his mind
overtaxed with learning during his tender years, she taught him herself
the rudiments of his education before giving him into the hands of his
tutor, and nothing could equal the motherly care and solicitude she
bestowed on the task. If the boy became weary, the Queen would seat
herself at the piano or harp and play for him little melodies, full of
expression, which she had either learned or composed herself, observing
with pleasure that his ear was very sensitive to the charm of melody; or
she would sometimes read to him fairy tales, fables, or stories from
history, to which the little Prince listened with the liveliest
interest. Every emotion aroused by these appeals to his imagination
showed itself on his sensitive, animated features. Exclamations of
wonder or excitement occasionally escaped him at the recital of stirring
events or adventures which his mind could readily grasp; but whenever
anything escaped his comprehension or was not clear to him, his brow
clouded, and a stream of questions immediately followed. Nor was he
satisfied until he fully understood. At such times he often astonished
those about him with observations and reflections that awakened the
liveliest hopes for the future of the royal child,—hopes unhappily
doomed to be so soon blasted!

After the little Dauphin had made the poor woman happy with his gift, he
returned for a moment to his mother to thank her again for the gold
piece, and then went to give the King his morning greetings.

“What is this I hear, my dear Charles?” said the King, smiling and
shaking his finger at the Prince. “M. Hue has been telling me strange
things of you.” M. Hue was one of the Prince’s attendants.

“What things, papa?” asked the boy. “I don’t remember doing anything
bad.”

“No? Think well, Charles. Yesterday, while you were reciting your
lesson, you began to whistle. Did you not deserve a rebuke for that?”

The Prince colored. Then he answered quietly: “Yes, papa, I remember. I
repeated my lesson so badly that I whistled to myself.”

“Nevertheless you see it was heard,” replied the King. “You may be
forgiven for that, however, but we have not come to the end yet.
Afterwards you were in such high spirits that you tried to run away and
dash through the rose-bushes in the garden. M. Hue warned you, and said,
‘Monseigneur, a single one of those thorns might wound your face badly,
or even put out your eye!’ And what answer did Monseigneur make?”

Somewhat abashed, the Prince lowered his eyes. “I said: ‘It is the
thorny path that leads to glory!’ And is not that true, papa?”

The King’s face assumed a more serious expression. “Yes, yes, the
principle is right,” he answered, “but you have misapplied it, my child.
There is no glory in risking your eyesight merely to gratify a
mischievous impulse. If it had been a question of killing a dangerous
beast, of rescuing a human being from peril, in short, if you had risked
your life to save another, that might have been called glory; but your
act, Charles, was simply thoughtless and imprudent. Beside, child, you
had better wait and not talk of glory until you are able to read the
history of your ancestors and our French heroes like Guesclin, Bayard,
Turenne, and many others who have defended our crown with their blood.”

This mild but earnest exhortation made a deep impression on the heart of
the young Prince. He seized his father’s hand, kissed it, and said in a
low voice, “Very well, dear papa, after this I will find my glory in
following your counsels and in obeying you.”

“Then we are good friends again,” answered the King; “and now we will
look over your exercises for a few moments, so that M. Hue and M.
Daveaux may be pleased with you.”

The King, as well as the Queen, observed with pride the talents of his
son, and it afforded him much pleasure to be present during the lesson
hours and examine the exercises and copy-books. He frequently instructed
the Prince himself, and by his praise or censure encouraged in the boy a
habit of diligence and attention to what was being impressed upon his
mind. Together with his wife he guided the education of the young
Prince, and even continued the practice in later and less happy days,
when, deprived of his crown, he had to accustom himself to the gloom of
a prison cell.

Soon the Abbé Daveaux appeared, and the usual instruction in religion,
reading, history, and geography began. The Prince was particularly
attentive on this day, for his father’s gentle admonition had sunk deep
into his heart and spurred his zeal to the utmost.

“You have been very bright and industrious to-day, my Prince,” said M.
Daveaux, when study-time was over, “and I am glad, therefore, that I
have a pleasant piece of news for you.”

“What news?” asked the Prince, quickly.

“This,—that a company of small soldiers has been formed in Paris under
the name of ‘Regiment of the Dauphin,’ which wishes to have you for its
Colonel. I am sure you will accept this post of honor with pleasure.”

“Yes, indeed, if papa will allow me!” replied the Prince, with sparkling
eyes.

“Your papa,” answered the King himself, “has not only already given his
consent, but is willing for you to receive the young gentlemen who have
come to pay their respects to their new Colonel.”

“Come already? Where shall I find them?” asked the Prince, eagerly.

“In your garden,” replied the King. “M. Daveaux will be good enough to
accompany you.”

Beaming with joy, the Crown Prince hastened with his tutor to the
garden, where he greeted the little deputation, most of whom were not
more than four or five years older than himself, with graceful courtesy
and announced his readiness to accept the post of Colonel of their
regiment.

“Now it will be adieu to your flowers and the nosegays for your mamma, I
suppose?” said the Abbé.

“Oh, no!” returned the Dauphin, gayly, “reviewing my Grenadiers will not
prevent me from taking care of my flowers. Some of these young soldiers
have little gardens of their own; they will love the Queen, too, like
their Colonel, and in the future, instead of a single one, mamma will
receive a whole regiment of bouquets every day.”

The little soldiers loudly applauded their new commander’s speech, and
the best relations were at once established between them and continued
without a break for several weeks. His small Guards afforded the Prince
the greatest pleasure, until they were dispersed in the stormy times
which soon followed.

By this time the day was considerably advanced, and the Abbé was obliged
to remind his pupil that his mother would be waiting for him and he must
dismiss the envoys of the Regiment of the Dauphin. The Prince gave his
hand courteously to his little comrades and followed his tutor to the
Queen’s apartment. His reception, however, was by no means such as he
expected. His mother greeted him with a very serious face and gave him
only her cheek to kiss instead of the usual embrace. Prince Louis
Charles, who was acutely sensitive, perceived at once that something was
amiss and looked at his mother timidly and somewhat perplexed.

“What fault have I committed now, mamma?” he asked.

“Ah, the young gentleman’s conscience troubles him already,” replied the
Queen. “Perhaps he can tell me about the trick that was played on the
page who attended him yesterday on the terrace. I hope he will not
attempt to deny it!”

The Prince’s delicate face grew crimson, for he remembered very well to
what his mother referred. The day before, while they were walking
together, he had mischievously taken a flute from his companion’s pocket
and hidden it in a fir-tree on the terrace. In a faltering voice he
confessed his guilt.

“Very good,” said the Queen; “your confession mitigates your fault
somewhat, but nevertheless such pranks cannot be passed over without
punishment. It is out of the question, of course, to imprison the newly
appointed Colonel of a regiment, but there is Mouflet! Mouflet was with
you at the time. He was in a way the accomplice of his master, and since
that master may not be punished, Mouflet must suffer for him. Let
Mouflet be called and placed in arrest for two hours!”

Mouflet was a pretty little dog, dearly loved by the Prince, and on this
affection the Queen relied in her punishment of the Dauphin. Nor was she
mistaken as to its effect.

Confined in a dark little cabinet, deprived alike of his freedom and the
sight of his young master, poor Mouflet began to whine dolefully, to
scratch at the door, and finally to howl with all his might. His
lamentations found an echo in the tender heart of the real culprit and
filled it with pity and remorse. Weeping, he hastened to his mother and
tearfully kissed her hand.

“But, mamma,” said he, “Mouflet is not the one who has done wrong. Why
should the poor dog be punished? Oh, please set him free and put me in
his place!”

Delighted as the Queen was at this proof of the Prince’s sense of
justice, and gladly as she would have pardoned him, she felt that for
the sake of discipline she must not yield to her feelings, and replied
gravely: “Very well, since you feel that you deserve the punishment, I
will not prevent you from enduring it. You may release poor Mouflet and
be locked up in his place for an hour.”

Rejoiced at this decision, the Prince accepted his sentence at once and
even extended it beyond the allotted time. But this was not all. In the
solitude of his prison he began to reflect upon his behavior, and told
himself that even though he had atoned for his fault the wrong had not
yet been righted. He resolved that as soon as he was at liberty he would
go to the garden, get the flute from its hiding-place, and give it back
to his playmate with a request for forgiveness. A loving glance, a
tender caress from his mother, were the rewards of his victory over
himself; and these signs that he was forgiven made the little Prince so
happy and contented that for the rest of the day he was the most polite
and well-behaved of boys and gave not the slightest occasion for a word
or even a look of reproof.

Some days later, on the fourteenth of July, 1790, a great _fête_ was
held on the Champ de Mars[3] in Paris, as in all the other cities of
France, to celebrate the inauguration of the new _régime_. The storm of
the Revolution which had broken out in the previous year seemed to have
passed away with this celebration, and there was a general feeling of
hope and cheerful expectancy even among the opponents of the new order
of things. All the people, without distinction of rank or class, had
contributed to the erection of a huge amphitheatre-like structure built
around the Champ de Mars, and in its construction had treated one
another like members of one great family. Even the heavy gusts of rain
which ushered in the long-talked-of day failed to dampen the ardor of
the deputies and the vast throng of people assembled there. The endless
processions followed each other in perfect order; and at last the sun
burst forth triumphantly from the mists and rain clouds. First,
Lafayette[4] mounted the steps of the high altar erected under the open
sky, where Talleyrand,[5] Bishop of Autun, with sixty priests, read the
Mass and consecrated the banners of the eighty-three districts of
France, and swore, with the colors of Paris in his hand, in the name of
the National Guard and the army of France, to be true to the law and the
King; then the President of the National Assembly, rising from his seat
at the right of the King, took the same oath; and finally the King
himself arose and swore with uplifted arms to use all the power bestowed
on him by the law and the new Constitution for their maintenance. At
this instant, while cannon thundered and trumpets blared, loud shouts
arose. The Queen, who was on a raised dais beside the throne, carried
away by the excitement of the moment, lifted her son, the Dauphin, high
in her arms to show him to the people and also to let him share in the
oaths. The lovely child, smiling and radiant, stretched out his innocent
arms as though to invoke a blessing from Heaven upon France, whereat the
multitude that witnessed the charming sight broke forth into cheers and
deafening huzzas that rent the ragged clouds and penetrated to the
heavens above.

The envoys of the people thronged about the little Dauphin to offer him
their loyalty and homage, which the Prince received with such grace and
childish dignity that the enthusiasm broke out afresh, and thousands of
hearts vowed unswerving allegiance to this child whose innocent breast
seemed to harbor no thoughts but those of peace and good-will to men.
The King and Queen embraced each other, many eyes were filled with
tears, and a general reconciliation seemed to have closed forever the
abyss of the Revolution which had threatened to engulf unhappy France.

These were still sunny days; but, alas! they were the last to shine upon
the well-meaning King and his unfortunate consort. Fate had doomed them
to misfortune, and “misfortune travels swiftly.”

                               Chapter II
                        The Night of Varennes[6]

Soon after the celebration of the new _régime_, the Hydra of the
Revolution, which had been for a short time trodden into the dust, again
lifted its poisonous head. Those evil geniuses of France, Robespierre,
Marat, and Danton, vied with one another in their efforts to disturb the
peace of the country which had been secured with such difficulty, and by
calumnies against the King to sow the seeds of hatred and distrust of
him among the people.

They succeeded only too well. The National Assembly issued an
unprecedented order to the effect that the King should not absent
himself from Paris for more than twenty-four hours; and if he should
leave the kingdom, and not return at the request of the Assembly, he
should be deposed.

Notwithstanding this order, the King determined on a journey to St.
Cloud. At eleven o’clock in the morning he attempted to start, but his
carriage was immediately surrounded by a dense throng of people. A troop
of mutinous soldiers locked the doors of the palace, and with threats
and shouts levelled their bayonets at the breasts of the horses. All
Lafayette’s efforts to appease the tumult were in vain, and after two
hours of struggle and dispute, during which the King was forced to bear
the grossest insults and abuse, he was obliged to return to his
apartments.

The little Dauphin, who had been eagerly looking forward to the journey
and making a thousand plans for his sojourn in St. Cloud, was much
grieved over this failure of his hopes. To divert his mind from the
disappointment, after he had returned to his room the Abbé Daveaux gave
him a volume of “The Children’s Friend,” by Berquin,[7] to look at. The
Prince opened it at random, and cried in astonishment: “Just see, M.
Abbé! what a curious thing! Look at this title, ‘The Little Captive’!
How strange!”

The child had foretold only too well in applying the name of little
captive to himself. He, as well as his parents, was in fact a prisoner
of the people and the National Assembly, and their numerous jailers
behaved so rudely and disrespectfully to them that the situation soon
became unbearable. The unvarying kindness and patience of the King
served only to multiply the complaints and calumnies of his enemies.
Even the Queen could no longer appear at her window without exposing
herself to insults and invectives. At last the yoke became so heavy that
nothing remained but to escape, or break it by force. The kindly heart
of the King shrank from the latter course, which could not be
accomplished without bloodshed, so the necessary preparations were made
for flight—the only recourse left him. It was determined to seek a
refuge in some frontier town and from there to carry on negotiations
with the arrogant Assembly.

The King was not entirely without loyal friends. By means of a secret
correspondence, an arrangement was made with the Marquis de Bouillé,[8]
a lieutenant-general at the head of an important army corps. The troops
in Champagne, Alsace, and Lorraine were placed under his command, and he
also guarded the frontier from Switzerland to the Moselle and the
Sambre. It was arranged between him and the King that the latter should
go to Montmédy, a strong post situated conveniently near the frontier.
The Marquis proposed, in order to lessen the danger, that the party
should separate, the Queen with the Dauphin going first; but the King
answered: “If we are to be saved, it must be together or not at all.”

On the 29th of April, 1791, the King wrote to M. Bouillé to procure a
coach for the journey, large enough to accommodate himself and his
entire family; but the general tried to persuade him to take, instead,
two small, light English travelling-carriages, such as were used at that
time, which would not attract attention. The King unfortunately would
not listen to this suggestion, a seemingly trivial circumstance, which
brought about disastrous results. Before he left Paris, he wished to
relieve the Marquis from any responsibility in the matter, and sent him
therefore a written order to station troops along the road from Châlons
to Montmédy, for the purpose of guarding the safety of the persons of
the King and his family.

Their departure was fixed for the night of June nineteenth, but was
deferred at the last moment by an unfortunate occurrence. One of the
Queen’s waiting-women, who, it was feared, might betray the plan if she
had the least suspicion of it, was dismissed from her service that very
day, so the journey was postponed for twenty-four hours. We shall soon
see how this fact also contributed to the failure of the ill-fated
undertaking.

Haste was imperative. The plan had already begun to excite suspicion;
for it had become necessary to take several persons into the secret, who
did not guard it with proper care. Even the lower domestics in the
Tuileries whispered of it among themselves, and the rumor, spreading
abroad, excited the populace to such a degree that the police were
formally notified. This report naturally resulted in the maintenance of
a still stricter surveillance over the palace. The royal family was
constantly watched in the most offensive way; the people even became so
bold as to lock the King and Queen in their own apartments at night; and
mattresses were placed before the doors for the guards to sleep on, so
that no one could leave the rooms without stepping over the bodies of
their jailers. This difficulty, however, had been foreseen, and an
effort made to surmount it. Some months before this, a door had been so
skilfully cut in the woodwork of the chamber occupied by the King’s
sister, Madame Élisabeth,[9] that only the closest scrutiny could
discover it. This door opened on a small staircase, which led to a
vaulted passage separating this room from that of the Queen. A similar
door had been made in the royal apartment, and both fitted with keys
which turned so easily they could be opened instantly, without noise or
delay. Finally, the precaution had been taken to conceal them by means
of large cupboards or presses, that opened on both sides and hid the
secret doors without preventing passage through them. In this way one
room could be easily reached from the other, and by means of the
passage, access gained to the interior of the palace, from whence it
would be easy to reach the open air and freedom.

On the twentieth of June, at ten o’clock in the morning, the little
Dauphin was working in his garden at the end of the Tuileries; at
eleven, the Queen went to hear mass with her attendants, and on her
return from the chapel ordered her carriage to be in readiness at five
in the afternoon. The day passed as usual; but the elder sister of the
Dauphin noticed that her parents seemed anxious and agitated, and
confided this observation to her brother. At five o’clock the Queen took
a little drive with her children, and seized this opportunity to impress
upon them that they must not be alarmed at anything that might occur in
the course of the evening or night. The children were clever enough to
perceive their mother’s meaning, and the little Prince assured her she
might be quite easy with regard to him.

After the King and his family had eaten their evening meal at the usual
hour, all retired to their apartments. The Dauphin was put to bed at
nine o’clock, the Princess, his sister, at ten; the Queen retired at
half-past ten, and the King a few moments later. The servants were given
the seemingly necessary orders for the following morning; the doors were
locked, the sentries took their usual precautions, and at Madame
Élisabeth’s door the guard was doubled. But scarcely had the
serving-people withdrawn, when the King, the Queen, and Madame Élisabeth
carefully arose, dressed themselves quickly, and in a few moments were
ready for the journey. The Queen went into her daughter’s room to awaken
her and her waiting-woman, Madame Brunier. She acquainted the latter
with the plan for escape, informed her that she and Madame de Neuville
had been chosen to accompany them, and requested her finally to dress
the Princess as quickly as possible and bring her into the Dauphin’s
chamber. The clothes had been already prepared. The dress for the little
Princess was of cheap brown stuff and very simply made, in order that
the rank of the fugitive might not be suspected, while the Dauphin was
dressed as a girl, and looked most charming in his new costume. But,
aroused from his first sleep at eleven o’clock at night, he could not
understand what was going on about him, and fell asleep again
immediately. His sister awoke him once more, and whispered:

“Charles, Charles! what do you think of all this?”

To which he replied sleepily, and with half-closed eyes, “I think it is
a comedy we are going to act, because we are dressed up so strangely.”

At the time fixed for departure, both children were taken out into the
passage, where they were joined a moment later by the Queen. She took
them by the hand and led the way, Madame de Neuville, Madame Brunier,
and Madame de Tourzel, the Dauphin’s governess, following. They
descended a staircase, hurried through several dark corridors to a door
in the farthest corner of the courtyard, which had been left unguarded,
and near which a hackney-coach was standing. It had been agreed they
should not all leave the palace together, for fear of attracting the
attention of the sentries, so the Queen lifted her children into the
coach, entrusted them to the care of Madame de Tourzel, and returned to
the palace. The driver was Count Axel Fersen[10]—a Swedish gentleman
who, next to M. de Bouillé, enjoyed the highest favor at court. He drove
out of the courtyard, took a roundabout way through the quarter to elude
observation, and then came back to the Petit Carrousel, where he was to
wait for the rest of the party. While they stood there, Lafayette’s
carriage drove by, surrounded by torch bearers; he was on his way to the
Tuileries, but recognized no one and observed nothing; for that matter,
the Dauphin was in the bottom of the coach, hiding under his governess’s
skirt.

An hour passed, but no one came. Finally Madame Élisabeth arrived, and
not long after her the King appeared. The Queen was only a short
distance behind him, but she caught sight of Lafayette’s carriage again
approaching, and, afraid of being discovered, hurried down one of the
narrow streets near by. Confused by the labyrinth of alleys, she lost
her way, and dared not ask it of anyone so near the palace. Thus another
precious half-hour was lost before she found the coach again. At last
they started, and reached the new Barrier of the suburb St. Martin,
without further mishap, where they found the large travelling-coach
awaiting them, drawn by five strong horses, although it was fully two
hours past the time agreed on.

It was the shortest night of the year, and the first faint light of dawn
was already visible in the sky, as, shortly after two o’clock, the
carriage containing the royal family rattled up. The change to the
waiting travelling-coach was made without delay, and Count Fersen swung
himself onto the box beside his coachman, Balthasar Sapel.

“Drive on, quickly!” he ordered. “Make haste!” They started forward.
Their _rôles_ were distributed as follows: Madame de Tourzel was to
appear as the Baroness von Korff; the Princess and the Dauphin as her
daughters Amalie and Algan; the Queen passed as the children’s
governess, Madame Rochet; Madame Élisabeth personated the waiting-woman
called Rosalie; the King took the part of _valet-de-chambre_ under the
name of Durand; and three officers of the bodyguard who accompanied
them, Messieurs de Maldent, de Moustier, and de Valory, passed for
servants and couriers. All were suitably dressed.

Count Fersen, on the coachman’s box in front, constantly cracked the
whip and urged the driver on. “Faster! faster! Balthasar!” he called to
him. “Do not spare the horses—they will have time enough to rest when we
are safe with the regiment.” The horses almost flew, but their furious
speed seemed slow to the anxious impatience of the Count, who realized
but too well the dangers of the enterprise. Bondy was reached in half an
hour, and here, through the forethought of M. de Valory, six fresh
horses were waiting for them, while he himself rode on in advance to
Claye to take the same precaution there. At Bondy, Count Fersen took
leave of them with reluctance, and returned to Paris, to escape as soon
as possible to Belgium.

At Claye the travellers found the waiting-maids, Brunier and de
Neuville, who had left Paris a little before them in a postchaise. It
was important to continue their journey without delay, but the new
travelling-coach already needed some repairs, and again invaluable time
was lost. At the village of Étoges, between Montmirail and Châlons, they
had an anxious moment, fearing themselves recognized. The King, with his
usual carelessness, allowed himself to be seen too often. He descended
from the coach more than once, walked up one or two of the long hills
with the children, and even talked with some peasants they met. At
Châlons, where they arrived about noon, they were indeed recognized by
the postmaster and some other persons who had seen the King; but they
were shrewd and loyal, and did all in their power to aid the fugitives,
harnessing the horses themselves and urging the postilions to depart.
The travellers were amply supplied with provisions, and nowhere was a
stop made for meals. At the bridge in Sommevesle, the first post-station
after Châlons, they should have found a detachment of hussars to act as
escort on the road to Montmédy; but when they reached there at six
o’clock, not a hussar was to be seen. It was discovered afterward that
six hours earlier the troops had been at their post, according to
orders; but, having already waited some hours, a longer stay was deemed
imprudent, owing to the suspicious attitude of the people. M. de
Choiseul, the commander of the hussars, fearful of arousing fresh
disturbances in Ste. Menehould, had then given orders to avoid that town
in their retreat, and make their way by cross-roads; and hence the
travellers missed them altogether. Again the unfortunate consequences of
these delays were felt; but even worse results were to follow. At Ste.
Menehould an escort of the King’s dragoons should have been waiting; but
their leader, Captain d’Andoins, had been forced to go to the town hall
to account for the presence of his troops, which had alarmed the now
excited populace, and was held there virtually a prisoner, while his
troopers unsaddled their horses and dispersed.

It was here that the King, uneasy over the failure of their plans, and
putting his head out of the coach window, was recognized by the
postmaster Drouet.[11] The sight of the King struck the fellow with
amazement; he compared the head of the traveller with that of the King
stamped on an assignat (the paper money used at that time), and his
malignant expression betrayed his thoughts. The Queen caught his evil
smile and felt her heart sink; but they passed on without hindrance, and
she gradually forgot her fears. The traitor Drouet, however, lost no
time in profiting by his discovery. He communicated it at once to the
town council, and the whole village was in commotion. At that moment a
special messenger arrived from Châlons, confirming the news of the
King’s escape. It was resolved that Drouet, accompanied by a former
dragoon of the Queen’s regiment, should start instantly in pursuit of
the fugitives, and, in case he succeeded in overtaking them, place them
under arrest. In hot haste they mounted, and set off at furious speed in
the direction taken by the royal party.

Meanwhile M. de Damas, with a company of dragoons, had arrived at
Clermont the previous afternoon, at five o’clock, with orders to wait
there for the King, and as soon as he had passed to follow him along the
road to Varennes. They remained at their post till nightfall, when Damas
ordered his troopers’ horses to be unsaddled and allowed the men to
disperse. Half an hour later the coach arrived, and continued on its way
without stopping. M. de Damas, who saw it pass, sent an officer to
summon the dragoons in haste from their quarters. The town was soon in
great excitement; the council was disturbed; discussions grew more and
more heated. When Damas finally gave the signal to mount, the troopers
refused to obey, and it was with the greatest difficulty he persuaded
them to follow him—another link in the chain of fatalities!

The King’s coach had scarcely left Clermont when Drouet himself arrived,
obtained a fresh mount, and set off again in hot pursuit. One of the
King’s bodyguard was riding in advance of the coach as courier, another
behind it as rear guard. Beside these, Damas, when he saw Drouet ride
off, had sent one of his officers to overtake and stop him. This man had
almost succeeded in his attempt, when, favored by the darkness, the
traitor turned off into by-ways known only to himself, and, thoroughly
familiar with the country, reached Varennes shortly after eleven
o’clock, fully an hour before the King and his family arrived there.

Varennes was a secluded little village and had no post-house, but a
place in the outskirts of the town, where he might obtain a change of
horses, had been so carefully described to the King that he had no
difficulty in finding it. Here they stopped, expecting to get the
horses, but nothing was to be seen of them. In vain the King knocked on
the door; no one answered. As a matter of fact, the plan had been
changed at the last moment, owing to the disturbances existing all over
the country, and the horses had been sent to an inn on the other side of
the river; but, through more misunderstandings and errors, someone had
neglected to notify the King. Lights were still visible in the house,
and the Queen herself alighted from the coach and tried to obtain some
response from the inmates; but her hope of obtaining information by some
chance was not realized, and half an hour was lost. Drouet knew how to
make the most of the time. When at last the travellers were forced to
abandon the attempt and re-enter the coach, the postilions refused to go
any farther, pretending that their horses were too exhausted to continue
the journey. Just then the courier returned, bringing with him a man in
a dressing-gown and with a nightcap on his head. As he approached the
royal couple they demanded impatiently: “Where are our horses, fellow?
Tell us at once!”

“Your horses!” he shouted, flinging himself almost inside the vehicle.
“That I cannot say; but I know another secret I will not tell you.”

“Do you know Frau von Korff?” asked Madame de Tourzel.

“No,” said he, “but I know something better than that”; and with these
words he disappeared again. At the Queen’s entreaties, the postilions
finally consented to drive the coach at least through the town. The
travellers now believed themselves safe; they attributed this incident,
like the other mishaps of their journey, to some error or
miscalculation, and, full of hope, saw themselves already under the
protection of Bouillé’s loyal troops. But alas! matters were soon to
assume a different aspect.

Rightly to understand what follows, it should be explained that Varennes
is built on the side of a hill, and consists of an upper and lower town
connected by a bridge across the Aire, which flows between. At that time
the town was approached from Clermont, not as now by way of a fine
square, but through a narrow street ending in an arched passageway,
guarded by a heavy gate which could be closed at will. This archway was
built under a tower, which is still standing; on one side was a church,
long since destroyed, and on the other a small inn called the Bras d’Or,
kept by the Le Blanc family. The gateway was used as entrance to the
town in time of peace, and the inn served as a sort of watch-house.
Beyond the passage was the bridge, and it was here that Drouet had
placed the ambuscade which was to prevent the King’s farther progress.
The host of the Golden Arm tavern was also an officer of the National
Guard. Aroused by Drouet, he ran to call up the mayor of the town, M.
Sance; then he and his brother armed themselves, and, summoning several
of the National Guard, stationed themselves before the entrance to the
archway. Sance meanwhile had hastened to alarm the town, and sent out
messengers to the nearest villages. His son Georges, a captain of
grenadiers, took command of the guard, and while his other children were
running through the town at their father’s command, shouting “Fire!
Fire!” M. Drouet, accompanied by a notary called Regnier and some of the
townspeople, brought up a loaded wagon, which they placed diagonally
across the bridge to obstruct its passage. All the preparations were
complete, when the expected vehicle was heard approaching. It passed
through the upper town without interruption, the houses apparently all
dark and silent, and came rapidly on, until, just as it reached the dark
archway under the tower, the horses were brought to a sudden standstill
by the barricade. At the same instant there sounded from all sides the
cry, “Halt, there! Halt!”—a cry issuing from the rough throats of ten
armed men, who now emerged from the darkness. They threw themselves upon
the horses, seized the postilions, sprang to both doors of the coach,
and harshly demanded of the travellers who they were.

“Frau von Korff, with her family!” came the answer.

“That may be,” returned a voice, “but you will have to prove it!”

At the first shout and the first gleam of weapons, the officers of the
bodyguard had leaped from their places with their hands on their
concealed knives, ready at a signal from the King to make use of them.
But Louis the Sixteenth nobly forbade them to use force, and the hostile
musket barrels remained pointing toward the coach. Drouet seized a
light, held it up to the King’s face, and, without calling him by name,
ordered him to alight and show his passport to the mayor. The King,
still clinging to the hope that he had not been recognized, descended
from the coach, his family following him.

As the party passed up the street, they saw some hussars arriving; it
was M. de Choiseul’s force, which should have waited at the bridge in
Sommevesle. The National Guard, whose numbers had increased, allowed
them to pass, but were ready nevertheless to resist any attempt at
rescue. By this time the malicious activity of Drouet had produced its
results. The alarm bell was rung, the drums beat, all Varennes was
astir. Thousands of peasants came flocking in from neighboring towns,
and the villages through which the King had passed were thrown into wild
excitement by the news of his flight.

The mayor’s house, whither the royal family was conducted, contained two
rooms on the upper floor, reached by a spiral staircase. One of them
overlooked the street, the other the garden. The King was lodged in the
back room, but, as there was a connecting door between, he could see all
that passed in the street. A dense throng of people had gathered there,
and increased every moment. Sance at first pretended not to recognize
his illustrious guests, and, treating them as ordinary travellers,
explained that the horses could go no farther, and besought them to
remain and rest until fresh relays could be obtained. But this mask of
hypocrisy was soon thrown aside, and he as well as Drouet began to
overwhelm the King with cruel taunts and bitter invectives. They accused
him directly of intending to escape to foreign lands for the purpose of
joining and assisting in an invasion of France by her enemies. In vain
the King attempted to deny his rank and claim the liberty accorded to
all travellers. They declared flatly that he and his family were
recognized, and continued their jeers and abuse.

“Very well, then,” suddenly said the Queen, with dignity—she had not
hitherto spoken a word—“since you recognize him as your King, then see
that you treat him as such!”

These words induced the King to resume his natural frankness of manner,
which he had with difficulty concealed. He explained freely the motives
which had prompted him to take this journey; spoke of his earnest desire
to learn the real needs of the people whose welfare was dear to him;
resolutely denied the false report that he wished to escape from France
and make his home in a foreign land, and even offered to entrust himself
to the National Guard of Varennes, and let them accompany him to
Montmédy or any other place in the kingdom where his personal freedom
might be assured.

The naturally warm and candid eloquence of the King did not fail in its
effect. Sance was almost ready to give way, and if it had depended only
on him they might have been allowed to proceed. But Drouet had no idea
of allowing his prey to escape him now; he became still more violent,
and declared that his own head might answer for it if the King were not
sent back to Paris. At this moment, too, an incident occurred in the
street which decided the fate of the royal fugitives. A conflict arose
between the officers who were on the King’s side and the National Guard.
M. de Goguelat crowded his horse against the leader of the Guard and
drew his sword; the Major discharged his pistol at Goguelat and wounded
him in the shoulder, causing his horse to rear and throw him. M. de
Choiseul’s hussars looked on, but made no motion to interfere, and it
was evident that they could no longer be depended on. All hope was now
lost; the King’s only chance lay in the possible arrival of Bouillé and
his soldiers, but Bouillé did not appear. Instead, fresh reënforcements
of the National Guard came pouring in from all sides to assist their
comrades, and the ever increasing throngs overflowed the little town—a
town destined from this night to claim a melancholy place in history.

Between six and seven o’clock in the morning, two messengers arrived
from the National Assembly, M. de Romeuf, Lafayette’s aide-de-camp, and
Bayon, an officer of the National Guard in Paris. They brought a decree
of the Assembly, ordering the King to be taken back to his capital
wherever he might be found. Bayon entered alone. Fatigue and excitement
had given a still darker cast to his naturally gloomy expression. With
tangled hair and disordered attire, he approached the King, and
stammered confusedly:

“Sire, you are aware ... all Paris is in arms ... our wives and children
even now perhaps are being massacred ... you will not go any farther
away.... Sire, the welfare of the country ... yes, Sire ... our wives
and children....”

At these words, the Queen with a sudden movement seized his hands and,
pointing to the sleeping children on the bed, exclaimed:

“Sir, am I not also a mother!”

“What is your business here?” demanded the King.

“Sire, a decree of the Assembly.”

“Where is it?”

“My comrade has it.”

With these words, he opened the door and disclosed M. de Romeuf, who,
overcome with emotion, was leaning against a window in the front room.
His face was wet with tears. He approached with downcast eyes, holding
out a paper, which the King took from him and glanced through rapidly.

“Now,” he said, “there is no longer a King in France!”

The children had awakened by this time, and the little Dauphin became
the object of special interest. Some admired his beauty, and others
asked him questions about his journey and the Tuileries, to which the
sleepy child scarcely responded, but only gazed at his mother.

“Ah, Charles,” his sister whispered to him, “you were mistaken, this is
no comedy!”

“I knew that long ago!” returned the poor child, shrugging his
shoulders.

Meanwhile, the crowd, excited almost to frenzy by Drouet, were demanding
the King’s departure, and their shouts and cries came surging upward
from the street. Some of the most violent even tried to break into the
house and bring him out by force, while above all the tumult arose a
scream of “Drag him out! Drag him into his coach! We will have him!”

The King attempted to appease them by appearing at the window, seeking
to gain time, in the faint hope that any moment might bring Bouillé and
rescue. As a last resort, one of the waiting-women declared she was
violently ill, and the King and Queen refused to desert her. But all
their efforts were of no avail, and the King realized at last that
further resistance was hopeless. He requested to be left alone with his
family for a moment, and, after a brief and sorrowful consultation, he
yielded and announced himself ready to depart. The royal mother took her
son in her arms and carried him herself to the coach. It was half-past
seven when they started on their return journey—alas! just a quarter of
an hour too early!

Only a few moments after they had gone, a body of troops appeared on the
heights overlooking Varennes in the direction of Verdun. It was the son
of M. de Bouillé with the cavalry. He tried to cross the river by a
ford, the bridge being defended, but was unable to accomplish it, and
thus the last chance of saving the King was lost. General Bouillé
arrived soon after at the head of his Royal German Regiment, in full
gallop, only to learn when he reached Mouza that the King had left
Varennes and that he was too late. Broken-hearted, he turned his horse’s
head, and with his faithful and now dejected troops began his retreat to
the frontier.

The royal party was already far from Varennes. Surrounded by five or six
thousand infuriated peasants, the King was a prisoner in the same
vehicle that was to have borne him to safety and freedom. It was only
allowed to proceed at a foot-pace, and a whole hour was consumed in
reaching Clermont. This town, like all the others through which they
passed, was filled to overflowing. Everywhere the shops were closed, the
people beside themselves with excitement, and hundreds of frantic voices
yelled denunciations against the King, his nobles, and his officers.

At three in the afternoon Ste. Menehould was reached, and the mayor,
Furci, a brave and honest man, invited the Queen to partake of some
refreshment in the town hall. The weary travellers would gladly have
remained here some hours to rest, for the little Prince, exhausted by
his seven-hours’ journey in the heat and dust, was suffering from an
attack of fever; but Bayon, the cruel commander of this sad expedition,
refused to gratify their desire, and the unfortunate royal family were
obliged to continue their journey. Here the National Guard of Varennes
and Clermont left them, and their place was taken by the Guard of Ste.
Menehould, who were relieved in their turn by those of the next town.

One dreadful occurrence struck terror to the hearts of the poor
fugitives, and gave them a chill foreboding of the horrors in store for
them. On a hillside near the village of Han, a brave nobleman, the
Marquis de Dampierre, rode up to greet the King as he passed. Louis
conversed with him for some moments, and, as they parted with mutual
good wishes, M. de Dampierre bowed low and reverently kissed the hand of
his unhappy sovereign. This token of respect was his death-warrant, for
scarcely had the loyal noble left the coach door when savage voices
shouted to him to halt, and as he unsuspectingly obeyed, the mob fell
upon him in a fury, tore him from his horse, and slaughtered him without
pity before the eyes of the royal family. His head was cut off and
carried on the end of a spear for some distance in front of their coach,
as a trophy.

In the midst of such atrocities, it is gratifying to hear of one
instance which proves there were still pure and noble hearts even in
those frightful times.

Young Cazotte was the commander of the National Guard in the village of
Piercy, and it was his duty to receive the King at Épernay, where a stop
was to be made at the Hotel Rohan. Cazotte’s men guarded the entrance to
this palace, and he exacted a solemn promise from them to allow no one
but the authorities to enter. Scarcely were these measures taken when
the King’s coach arrived, almost borne along by the waves of people. The
prisoners alighted amid a storm of curses, jeers, and insults, directed
especially against the Queen.

“Ignore this madness, madame; God is over all!” said Cazotte to her in
German.

A grateful glance was her only answer as she stepped forward, followed
by her daughter, Madame Élisabeth, and Madame de Tourzel, the crowd
pressing close behind them. The little Dauphin was carried by one of the
soldiers. He was crying and calling for his mother, who was out of
sight. Cazotte took him in his arms and tried to soothe him, but his
tears did not cease to flow until he was carried into the room where the
Queen had been taken. Cazotte’s delicate solicitude for the royal family
did not end even here; regardless of what the consequences might be, he
found a seamstress to repair their clothing, which had been torn and
trampled on by the mob, furnished them with refreshments and such
conveniences as he was able to obtain, and did all in his power to add
to their comfort till their departure put an end to his unselfish and
kindly service.

Between Épernay and Dormans they met the commission sent out by the
National Assembly, consisting of Barnave, Pétion, and the Marquis de
Latour-Maubourg. They took their places in the coach, but Pétion and
Latour-Maubourg only remained inside a short time, leaving Barnave alone
with the travellers. Barnave[12] was one of the minor deputies of the
people, who amid all the tumult and violence of the Assembly had
preserved his nobility and tenderness of heart. He felt sincere pity for
the unfortunate royal family, and, no longer restrained by the presence
of his colleague, Pétion,[13] freely offered his sympathy. The Queen was
touched by his considerate behavior, and joined in the conversation.
Barnave, on the other hand, to whom the Queen had been painted in the
most odious colors, was astonished to find her so different from what he
had expected, and soon began to honor and respect those he had been
taught to hate and despise. When the conversation ceased after a time,
he took the little Prince on his knee and talked with the child, whose
quick and lively, yet gentle, answers impressed him deeply.

“Are you not sorry to go back to Paris?” he asked.

“Oh, I am happy everywhere,” answered the Dauphin, “as long as I have my
father and mamma with me, and my aunt, my sister, and Madame de Tourzel,
too.”

“Ah, sir,” said the King to Barnave, “this is indeed a sad journey for
me and for my children!”

The mournful tone in which these words were spoken moved the Dauphin
deeply, and he took his father’s hand and kissed it. The King took him
in his arms and pressed him to his heart.

“Do not be unhappy, dear papa,” said the child, his eyes full of tears.
“Some other time we will have a pleasanter journey!”

At every change of post-horses, the other commissioners came up to see
what was passing inside the coach. Surprised to find the heir to the
throne generally seated on Barnave’s lap, Pétion finally remarked in a
spiteful tone, loud enough to be heard by the travellers:

“You see, Latour-Maubourg, Barnave is decidedly the prop of future
royalty!”

Unhappy Barnave! He was forced ere long to atone with his life for his
newly won devotion to the royal house and perish on the guillotine!

The remainder of the journey passed without further incident. Sullen
crowds gathered everywhere to watch the King pass, but no one spoke or
showed any sign of good-will or favor toward him. At Ferté-sous-Jouarre,
however, the royal family found one hearty welcome from the Regnards, at
whose house they dined. Although Madame Regnard wore an apron to avoid
recognition, Marie Antoinette guessed her position at once, and
approached her, saying:

“You are the lady of the house, are you not?”

“I was that only until your Majesty entered it,” answered Madame
Regnard; a reply which pleased the Queen and did full honor to the
gracious mistress of the house. When they were leaving, the Queen said
to the Dauphin:

“My son, thank the lady for her kindness, and tell her we shall never
forget it.”

The little Prince immediately obeyed. “Mamma thanks you for your
attention,” said the child, “and I—I love you very much because you have
given her pleasure.”

When the coach arrived at Meaux a great tumult arose; a priest nearly
lost his life as the poor Marquis had done, but Barnave rescued him,
calling out to the people in thundering tones:

“Frenchmen, would you become a pack of assassins?” Whereupon Pétion
turned to Latour-Maubourg and remarked with a sneer:

“It appears that our colleague’s mission is not only to protect royalty,
but also the clergy!”

After Barnave’s humane action, the Dauphin willingly seated himself
again on his knee and talked to him until they reached Bossuet. At
eleven o’clock that evening, after his colleagues were asleep, Barnave
was summoned to the King’s chamber, where he had a long conference with
the royal couple in regard to their situation.

“Evidently,” said the Queen, at the end of it, “we have been deceived as
to the real state of public feeling in France.”

They thanked Barnave warmly for his counsel, and it was agreed that he
should meet them secretly in the Tuileries. From this time Barnave
inwardly swore allegiance to the throne, and kept his vow faithfully to
the end.

On the twenty-fifth of June, at seven in the evening, the royal party
arrived in Paris and entered the Tuileries, before the gates of which a
vast throng had assembled, drunk with wine and fury and with difficulty
restrained from violence by the National Guard. M. Hue lifted the little
Dauphin from the coach and carried him into his own apartment, where he
was soon in bed. The child was restless, however, and his sleep very
uneasy. In the morning when he awoke, he said to his tutor, in a voice
loud enough to be heard distinctly by the guards stationed in the room:

“Oh, M. Hue, I have had such a horrible dream! I thought there were
wolves and tigers and all kinds of wild beasts around me all night long,
waiting to tear me to pieces!”

M. Hue merely shrugged his shoulders, and made no reply. The guards
looked at each other in astonishment, but no one ventured to reprove the
little Prince for his prophetic dream.

                              Chapter III
                             In the Temple

The French Revolution pursued its terrible course, and war with Austria
was finally added to the internal disorders that distracted the unhappy
country. The people, kept in a constant tumult by the false reports and
incessant assaults of the bloody Jacobins, hated the King more than
ever. Not content with depriving him of his liberty and his throne, and
subjecting him to the deepest humiliations, the brutal mob also demanded
his life.

The first step toward this dreadful _dénouement_ of the tragedy was the
formal arrest of the royal family and their imprisonment in the
Temple.[14] On the thirteenth of August, 1792, they were taken to this
prison, the gates of which closed behind the King, never to open for him
again till he went forth to lay his head under the guillotine.

The Temple was originally the residence of the Grand Priors of the
Knights Templars, and in the thirteenth century occupied an extensive
area, acquired by the purchase of surrounding lands. In the year 1792,
however, little remained of it but the so-called Tower of the Temple, a
dark square structure whose massive, frowning walls were flanked by
turrets at each corner. The Tower had four stories. On the ground floor
there was but one large room, and a kitchen which was unused. The first
story consisted of an antechamber and a dining-room, which communicated
with a small closet in one of the turrets. The second floor also
contained an anteroom and two apartments, one of which the Queen and her
daughter used as a bedchamber, others being occupied by the Dauphin,
Madame Élisabeth, and Madame de Tourzel. The third floor was similar to
the second, and here at first the King was lodged with his attendants,
M. Hue and M. Chamilly.

A few faithful and devoted friends had chosen to share the royal
family’s imprisonment, but this consolation was not long permitted them.
On the nineteenth of August, two officers made their appearance with an
order from the Commune to remove all persons not belonging to the Capet
family. In vain the Queen opposed the departure of the Princess de
Lamballe,[15] on the ground that she was a relative. Their parting was
most affecting; both the royal children mingled their tears with those
of their elders, until the Princess and Madame de Tourzel were forcibly
separated from them and carried away. Not a single attendant was left to
the unfortunate prisoners, except M. Hue, who, much to his surprise, was
permitted to remain.

Their life in the Tower of the Temple was very sad and monotonous. The
King arose every morning between six and seven, and employed himself
with his devotions in his little oratory in the turret until nine
o’clock, while M. Hue set the room in order, laid the table for
breakfast, and then went down to the Queen. Marie Antoinette was up even
before the King, dressed herself and her son, and heard him say his
prayers. She kept her door closed, however, until M. Hue appeared, in
order to prevent the officers, sent by the Commune to remain in her room
during the day, from entering any earlier. At nine she went with her
children and Madame Élisabeth to breakfast with the King, and M. Hue
took this opportunity to clean their rooms and light the fires. At ten
the whole family returned to the Queen’s room, where they remained for
the rest of the day. The King devoted himself to his son’s instruction,
and the Queen heard the Princess recite her lessons, while Madame
Élisabeth taught them ciphering and drawing.

At one o’clock, when the weather was fine and Santerre, the commander of
the guards, was present, the whole family walked in the little garden of
the Temple, and the Dauphin amused himself with childish sports and
games. At two they had dinner, after which came an hour of recreation,
when the children’s amusements and laughter somewhat enlivened the
customary gloom. About four the King would often take a short nap in his
arm-chair, while the Princesses sat by with a book or some needlework,
and the little Prince studied his lessons or applied himself to his
drawing and copy-book. M. Hue superintended his work, and after it was
finished took him into the other room, where they played ball or
shuttlecock together.

At seven the family gathered around the table, and read aloud from some
religious or historical work that would interest and instruct the
children. At eight M. Hue gave the Dauphin his supper in Madame
Élisabeth’s room; his parents were usually present, and the King would
often give him little easy riddles to guess, the solution of which
occupied and diverted the child. After supper he was undressed and said
his evening prayer, which usually was as follows:

“Almighty God, who hast created and redeemed me, to Thee I pray.
Preserve the life of the King, my father, and watch over the days of my
family also. Protect us from our enemies! Grant to Madame de Tourzel
strength to bear the sorrows she is enduring on our behalf.”

After his prayer the Queen put him to bed, and she and Madame Élisabeth
remained with him in turn. As soon as the family supper was over, the
King came to say good-night to his son. After a few moments’ talk, he
pressed the hand of his wife and sister, received the caresses of his
children, and returned to his own room, retiring at once to his oratory,
where he remained till midnight.

The Princesses sat together some time later, often making use of this
quiet hour to mend the family clothing; and the King rarely composed
himself to sleep until after the guard was changed at midnight. This was
the daily routine as long as the King remained a prisoner. The days
passed in sadness and humiliation, and there was scarcely an hour in
which they were not exposed to some fresh insult or indignity.

At this time the little Dauphin was seven and a half years of age.
Through all their troubles, he showed a courage and sweetness of
disposition seldom found even in the happiest natures. Sometimes the
seriousness of his thoughts would betray itself by word or look; but he
never failed to respond to his parents’ affected cheerfulness with all a
child’s unquestioning light-heartedness. Apparently he thought no more
of past greatness; he was glad to be alive, and the only thing that made
him unhappy was his mother’s tears. He never spoke of his former
amusements and pleasures, showed no regrets, and seemed to have
forgotten all the joys of happier days. He applied himself diligently to
his studies, and with the aid of a good memory he was far more advanced
than most children of his age. Through all this time of sorrow and
trouble, the poor little Prince had possessed one unfailing
consolation—his parents’ love and care. But alas! the time was soon to
come when he would be deprived of this, too, and lose, first, his
father, then his mother.

The hard school of adversity developed all the purity and nobility of
the boy’s nature, already so richly endowed with warm affections and
tender sensibilities. Still a child in all his acts and feelings, he was
old enough at the same time to be able to comprehend the misfortunes of
the family, and seemed to feel that he owed his parents even more
respect and attention than formerly, though his lively fancies often
made him forget their cruel situation. He realized that they were
prisoners, and was discreet and prudent in his speech and behavior.
Never a syllable escaped him that could have caused a painful memory or
regret in his mother’s heart. How affectionate and yet how thoughtful
and quick-witted he was, one or two incidents will show.

A stone-mason was at work one day on the wall of the King’s anteroom,
making a place for heavier bolts to be put on the door. While the
workman was eating his breakfast, the little Prince amused himself by
playing with his tools. The King took the chisel and hammer from his
son’s hand to show him how to use them, and worked at the wall himself
for a few moments. The mason, moved by a sudden feeling of pity, said to
him:

“After you have gone away from here, you can say you have worked on your
own prison!”

“Alas!” answered the King, “when and how shall I get away from here?”

Scarcely had he spoken the words, when the little Dauphin threw himself
into his father’s arms and burst into tears. The King dropped the hammer
and chisel: he, too, was much affected, and paced up and down the room
for some moments, struggling with his emotions.

On another occasion the Prince had not shown a coarse fellow named
Mercereau all the respect to which he considered himself entitled,
whereupon he addressed the child roughly with:

“Hey, boy! don’t you know that liberty has made us all equal?”

“_Equal_, as much as you please,” answered the Dauphin with a glance at
his father, “but you will find it hard to make us believe that liberty
has made us free!”

And now the time was approaching which was to separate the King from his
loved ones forever. After so many crimes committed by the French people
in the first intoxication and frenzy of their power, there remained only
the King’s death to be accomplished. Louis the Sixteenth, the mildest
and most just of kings, who had committed no crime but that of loving
his people too well, was summoned before the blood-thirsty Convention
which had boldly set itself up to judge him. For several days previously
the treatment of the royal prisoners had been even harsher than before.
They were deprived of every means of employment; even the ladies’
needles were taken away from them, so that they could no longer find
distraction in their feminine occupations, and to Louis these added
brutalities indicated but too plainly the issue of his trial. Indeed, he
was quite prepared for the worst; but what troubled him most was the
separation from his family. During the session of the Convention he had
not been permitted to see them, and it was only with the greatest
difficulty and by the most ingenious expedients that he was able to
obtain news of them or communicate with them.

At last the death sentence was pronounced, to be executed on the
following morning, and the King was granted a final interview with his
family. At half-past eight in the evening his door was opened. The Queen
came first, leading the little Dauphin by the hand; then her daughter,
Marie Thérèse, and Madame Élisabeth. They threw themselves into the arms
of the King, and for some moments a sorrowful silence prevailed, broken
only by sobs. The Queen made a motion to her husband to take them into
his bedchamber.

“Not there,” said the King, “we will go into the dining-room; that is
the only place where I can see you.”

They stepped into the adjoining room, which was divided from the
antechamber by a glass partition, and the guards closed the door. The
King sat down with his wife and sister on either side; the Princess
knelt before him, and the Dauphin remained standing between his father’s
knees. They all leaned towards him and frequently embraced him, while
the King told them about his trial, and tried to excuse those who had
condemned him. He then gave some religious admonitions to his children;
charged them to forgive those who were the cause of his death, and
bestowed his blessing upon them. The Queen expressed her earnest desire
that they might all spend the night together, but he refused, saying
that he much needed to rest and compose his thoughts. This melancholy
scene lasted nearly two hours. As the time drew near when it must end,
the King turned to his children again, and made them give him a solemn
promise never to be revenged on his enemies. Then, taking the Dauphin on
his knee, he impressed upon him the fulfilment of his last wishes, and
concluded with these words:

“My son, you have heard all that I have said, but since an oath is more
sacred than words, swear with uplifted hand that you will obey the last
wishes of your father.”

The little Prince obeyed and took the oath with streaming eyes. The
others, too, wept bitterly, for the touching nobility of the King only
intensified their grief. And now for more than a quarter of an hour not
a word was spoken; only heart-rending sounds of anguish filled the room,
while the whole family mingled their tears until exhausted by sorrow. At
length Louis rose, and the others followed his example. A faithful
servant, named Cléry, who had managed to gain admittance to the prison
so as to be near the King, opened the door. Louis supported his wife and
held their son’s hand, while the Princess clasped her arms tightly about
her father and Madame Élisabeth clung to his arm. They took several
steps toward the outer door, and again heart-breaking sobs burst forth.

“Be calm!” said the King; “I will see you again in the morning at eight
o’clock.”

“You promise?” they all cried.

“Yes, I promise!”

“But why not at seven?” asked the Queen.

“Well, at seven, then,” replied the King. “Adieu!”

This farewell was spoken in such a touching tone that their grief became
once more uncontrollable. The Princess sank senseless at her father’s
feet, and Cléry assisted Madame Élisabeth to support her. The King, to
put an end to this distressing scene, clasped them all once more in his
arms most tenderly, and tore himself from their embraces.

               [Illustration: _The King’s last farewell_]

“Farewell! Farewell!” he said again with a breaking heart, as he
returned to his room.

The good King, the loving father, had seen his dear ones for the last
time on earth. To save them from another such trial, he nobly resolved
to deprive himself of the sad consolation of pressing them once more to
his heart, and went to his execution without a last farewell. His last
words, spoken from the scaffold to the people, were:

“I die innocent of all the crimes of which I am accused. I forgive all
those who are the cause of my death, and pray God that the blood you are
about to shed may assure the happiness of France. And you, unhappy
people....”

The rest was drowned in the roll of drums. His noble head fell—the head
of a martyr, the head of one of the best and most merciful kings who
ever ruled in France.[16]

                               Chapter IV
                       Separation from his Mother

After the sad parting, the Queen had scarcely strength enough left to
undress her children, and as soon as they were asleep she flung herself,
dressed, upon her bed, where she passed the night shivering with cold
and trembling with apprehension. The Princess and Madame Élisabeth slept
in the same room on a mattress.

The next morning the royal family arose before daybreak, waiting for a
last sight of him whom, alas! they were never to see again. In all
quarters of Paris the drums were beating, and the noise penetrated even
into the Tower. At a quarter-past six the door opened, and some one came
in to get a book, which was wanted for the mass about to be read to the
King. The anxious women regarded this trifling occurrence as a hopeful
sign, and expected a speedy summons to the promised interview. But they
were soon undeceived. Each moment seemed an hour, and still the time
slipped by without bringing the fulfilment of their last sorrowful hope.

Suddenly a louder roll of drums announced the moment of the King’s
departure. No words can describe the scene that followed. The
heart-broken women, with tears and sobs, made fruitless attempts to
excite the compassion of their pitiless jailers. The little Prince
sprang from his mother’s arms, and, beside himself with grief and
terror, ran from one to another of the guards, clasping their knees,
pressing their hands, and crying wildly:

“Let me go, messieurs! Let me go!”

“Where do you wish to go?” they asked him.

“To my father! I will speak to the people—I will beg them not to kill my
papa! In the name of God, messieurs, let me go!”

The guards were deaf to his childish appeals; fear for their own heads
compelled them to be, but history does not tell us that they were
inhuman enough to jeer at the child or make sport of his innocent prayer
for his father’s life. Even harder hearts must have been touched by the
sight of such sorrow.

About ten o’clock the Queen wished the children to have some breakfast;
but they could not eat, and the food was sent away untouched. A moment
later cries and yells were heard, mingled with the discharge of
firearms. Madame Élisabeth raised her eyes to heaven, and, carried away
by the bitterness of her grief, exclaimed:

“Oh, the monsters! They are glad!...”

At these words the Princess Marie Thérèse uttered a piercing scream; the
little Dauphin burst into tears; while the Queen, with drooping head and
staring eyes, seemed sunk in a stupor almost like death. The shouts of a
crier in the street soon informed them yet more plainly that all was
over.

For the rest of the day, the poor little Prince hardly stirred from his
mother’s side. He kissed her hands, often wet with his tears, and
overwhelmed her with sweet childish caresses, which he seemed to feel
would comfort her more than words.

“Alas! the tears of an innocent child, they may never cease to flow!”
said the Queen, bitterly. “Death is harder for those who survive than
for the ones who are gone!”

During the afternoon she asked permission to see Cléry, who had remained
with his royal master in the Tower till the last moment. She felt that
she must hear the last words and farewells of her martyred husband and
treasure them as a precious legacy, and for more than an hour the
faithful valet was with her, both absorbed in sorrowful discourse.

The long day passed in tears and wretchedness, and night brought no
respite. The prisoners had been placed in charge of two jailers, a
married couple named Tison, coarse creatures, from whose intrusions they
were never free. Thus the inflexible hate of an infuriated populace
pursued them even in the sanctity of their grief.

It was two o’clock at night, and more than an hour since the tearfully
ended prayers had announced the time for rest; but rest was still far
from the three unhappy women. In obedience to the Queen’s wishes, the
Princess Marie Thérèse had indeed gone to bed, but she could not close
her eyes. Her royal mother and her aunt, who were sitting near the bed
of the Dauphin, talked of their sorrow and wept together in
uncontrollable anguish. The sleeping child smiled, and there was such an
expression of angelic sweetness and purity on his innocent face that the
Queen could not refrain from saying sadly:

“He is now just as old as his brother was when he died at Meudon. Happy
are those of our family who have been the first to go; at least they
have not lived to see the downfall of our house!”

Madame Tison, who had been listening at the door, heard these words, or
at least the sound of the Queen’s voice. Devoid of respect for a sorrow
that must find relief in words or become unbearable, the heartless woman
knocked on the door and harshly demanded the cause of this nocturnal
conversation. As if this were not enough, her husband and some municipal
guards even opened the door and attempted to force their way into the
room, when Madame Élisabeth, turning her pale face toward them, said
with quiet dignity:

“I pray you, allow us at least to weep in peace!”

These simple words, spoken in such a tone, disarmed even these wretches.
They drew back in confusion, and did not venture again to intrude on the
sanctity of so profound a grief. The next morning the Queen took her son
in her arms and said to him:

“My child, we must put our trust in the dear God!”

“Oh, yes, mamma,” answered the little Prince, “I do trust the dear God,
but whenever I fold my hands and try to pray, the image of my father
comes before my eyes.”

Sadly and wearily the days passed. Weakened by sorrow and exhausted by
sleepless nights, the Queen almost succumbed to her troubles, and seemed
to be indifferent whether she lived or died. Sometimes her companions
would find her eyes fixed on them with such an expression of profound
pity, it almost made them shudder. A deathly stillness prevailed; they
all seemed to be holding their breaths, save when their grief found vent
in half-smothered sobs or paroxysms of tears. It was almost a boon to
the wretched women when the Princess Marie Thérèse really fell ill. In
the duties of a mother, Marie Antoinette found some mitigation of her
grief for the loss of her husband. She spent all her time at her
daughter’s bedside, and the care and anxiety afforded her a wholesome
distraction and roused her benumbed faculties. The Princess soon
recovered from her illness, and from that time the Queen devoted herself
wholly to her children.

The little Dauphin sang very sweetly, and his mother found much pleasure
in teaching him little songs, but especially in having him continue the
studies he had begun. Thus absorbed, she even thanked Heaven for the
peace granted her by her enemies, which enabled her to perform these
maternal tasks. Madame Élisabeth was her devoted assistant, and their
love for the children afforded them some relief from sorrows which were
constantly being sharpened by fresh trials. But even this last faint
semblance of happiness was at last taken from them.

Some faithful friends of the Queen and the royal house, brave, noble
hearts who gladly risked their lives in the hope of rescuing the
prisoners from the shameful brutalities of their jailers, had devised a
plan for their escape. Owing to an unlucky combination of circumstances,
the attempt failed, and the tyrants of the Convention, who then held
despotic sway over wretched France, issued the following decree:

“The Committee of Public Safety orders that the son of Capet shall be
separated from his mother and delivered into the hands of a governor,
the choice of whom shall rest with the General Council of the Commune.”

On the third of July, 1793, this cruel and infamous order was put into
execution.

It was almost ten o’clock on that evening; the little Prince was in bed
and sleeping peacefully and soundly, with a smile on his pale but still
lovely face. The bed had no curtains, but his mother had ingeniously
arranged a shawl to keep the light from falling on his closed eyelids
and disturbing his rest.

The Queen, Madame Élisabeth, and the Princess Marie Thérèse were sitting
up somewhat later than usual, the elder ladies busy with some mending
and the Princess reading aloud to them. She had finished several
chapters from some historical work, and now had a book of devotions
called “Passion Week,” which Madame Élisabeth had succeeded in obtaining
only a short time before. Whenever the Princess paused to turn a page,
or at the end of a chapter in the history or of a psalm in the book of
prayers, the Queen would raise her head, let her work fall in her lap,
and gaze lovingly at the sleeping boy or listen to his quiet breathing.
Suddenly the sound of heavy footsteps was heard on the stairs. The bolts
were drawn with a rattle, the door opened, and six municipal guards
entered.

“We come,” said one of them roughly to the terrified Princesses, “to
inform you that the Committee of Public Safety has ordered the son of
Capet to be separated from his mother and his family.”

The Queen started to her feet, struck to the heart by the suddenness of
this blow.

“Take my child away from me?” she cried, white with terror,—“no—no—it
cannot be possible!”

Marie Thérèse stood beside her mother trembling, while Madame Élisabeth,
with both hands on the prayer-book, listened and looked on, paralyzed
with terror and unable to stir.

“Messieurs,” continued the Queen in a tremulous voice, and struggling to
control the ague fit that shook her from head to foot, “it is
impossible; the Council cannot think of such a thing as to separate me
from my son! He is so young, he is so delicate—my care is so necessary
to him! No—no—it cannot be!”

“It is the decree of the Committee,” replied the officer harshly,
unmoved by the deadly pallor of the Queen; “the Convention has decided
on the measure, and we are sent to carry it into immediate execution.”

“Oh, I can never submit to it!” cried the unhappy mother. “In the name
of Heaven, I beseech you, do not demand this cruel sacrifice of me!”

Both her companions joined their entreaties to hers. All three had
instinctively placed themselves before the child’s bed, as if to defend
it against the approach of the officers; they wept, they prayed, they
exhausted themselves in the humblest and most touching supplications.
Such distress might have softened the hardest heart; but to these
pitiless tools of the villanous Convention, they appealed in vain.

“What is the use of all this outburst?” they demanded at length. “Your
child is not going to be killed. You had better give him to us without
any more trouble, or we shall find other means of getting him.”

In fact, they began to use force against the desperate mother. In the
struggle, the improvised bed-curtain was torn down and fell on the head
of the sleeping Prince. He awoke, saw at a glance what was happening,
and flung himself into his mother’s arms.

“Mamma, dear mamma!” he cried, shaking with fright, “do not leave me!”

The Queen clasped him close to her breast, as if to protect him, and
clung with all her strength to the bedposts.

“Pah! We do not fight with women,” said one of the deputies who had not
spoken before. “Citizens, let us call up the guard!”

“Do not do that!” said Madame Élisabeth, “in the name of Heaven, do not
do that! We must submit to forcible demands, but grant us at least time
to prepare ourselves. This poor child needs his sleep, and he will not
be able to sleep anywhere but here. Let him at least spend the night in
this room, and he shall be delivered into your hands early in the
morning.”

To this touching appeal there was no reply.

“Promise me, at least,” said the Queen in a hollow voice, “that he shall
remain within the walls of this Tower, and that I shall be permitted to
see him every day, if only at meal times.”

“We are not obliged to account to you for what we do,” snarled one of
the rough fellows, ferociously; “neither is it for you to question the
acts of the country. Just because your child is taken from you, why
should you act like a fool? Are not our sons marching toward the
frontier every day, to have their heads shot off by the enemy you
enticed there?”

“Oh, I did not entice them there,” replied the Queen; “and you see that
my son is much too young to serve his country yet. Some day, God
willing, I hope he will be proud to devote his life to France.”

The threatening manner of the officers showed the poor mother plainly
enough that all her prayers were useless, and she must yield to her
cruel fate. With trembling hands she dressed the little Prince, and,
although both Princesses assisted her, it took her longer than ever
before. Every garment, before it was put on the child, was turned in and
out, passed from hand to hand, and wet with bitter tears. In every
possible way they strove to defer the dreadful moment of parting, but
the officers soon began to lose patience.

“Make haste!” they cried. “We can wait no longer!”

With a breaking heart, the Queen submitted. Summoning all her fortitude,
she seated herself on a chair, laid both her thin white hands on the
shoulders of the unhappy child, and, forcing herself to be calm, said to
him in a solemn, earnest voice:

“My child, we must part. Remember your oath when I am no longer with you
to remind you of it. Never forget the dear God who has sent you this
trial, nor the dear mother who loves you. Be prudent, brave, and
patient, and your father will look down from Heaven and bless you.”

So speaking, she pressed a last kiss on his forehead, clasped him once
more to her tortured heart, and gave him to his jailers. The poor child
sprang away from them, rushed to his mother again, and clung desperately
to her dress, clasping her knees. She tried to soothe his distress.

“You must obey, my child, you must!” she said.

“Yes, and I hope you have no more instructions to give him,” added one
of the deputies. “You have abused our patience enough already.”

“As it is, you might have saved yourself the trouble of giving him any,”
said another, dragging the Prince forcibly out of the room.

A third, somewhat more humane than the others, added, “You need not have
any further anxiety; the great and generous country will care for him.”

Heaven was witness what tears of anguish, what cries of despair,
followed this distressing scene. In the extremity of her sufferings, the
unfortunate mother writhed upon the bed where her son had just been
sleeping. She had succeeded in maintaining her courage and a feigned
composure in the presence of the merciless wretches who had robbed her
of her child, but this unnatural strength, this superhuman exertion, had
exhausted all the powers of her being and almost deprived her of reason.
Never was there a greater despair than that of this most unhappy Queen
and her companions. The three prisoners gazed at one another in
speechless agony, and could find no words of consolation. The only
comfort of their wretched life was gone. The little Dauphin had been the
one ray of sunlight in the darkness of their imprisonment, and that now
had been extinguished. What more could follow? Alas! even worse was yet
to come, for the resources of inhumanity are boundless!

                               Chapter V
                           The Cobbler Simon

Guarded by six deputies and a turnkey, the young Prince, or rather King,
since he was the only and lawful heir to the throne, was taken to that
part of the Tower formerly occupied by his father. There a guardian was
awaiting him, a cruel, tyrannical master, the cobbler Simon. The room
was poorly lighted. After conversing with this man for some time in an
undertone, the deputies gave him some final instructions and withdrew,
and the child found himself alone with Simon, whose slouching gait,
rough and violent language, and arrogant manner, easily proclaimed him
the future master of the unfortunate Prince.

The cobbler Simon was fifty-seven years old, of more than medium height,
powerfully built, with a swarthy skin and a shock of stiff black hair
falling over his eyebrows. His features were heavy, and he wore large
mustaches. His wife was about the same age, but very short and stout;
she was dark and ill-favored, like her husband, and usually wore a cap
with red ribbons, and a blue apron. This worthy pair were given absolute
control over the Dauphin, the descendant of so many kings, torn from his
royal mother’s arms to be delivered into such hands as these! The very
refinement of cruelty could scarcely have conceived a greater infamy!
The poor child, confused and bewildered by having been awakened so
suddenly from a sound sleep, remained for hours sitting on a stool in
the farthest corner of the room and weeping pitifully. Simon plied him
with rude questions, plentifully sprinkled with curses and blasphemies,
as he smoked his pipe, but only succeeded in extracting short answers
from his victim.

For the first two or three days the little Prince was in such despair at
being parted from his mother that he could swallow nothing but a few
mouthfuls of broth. Soon, however, he began to rebel inwardly; gleams of
indignation shone through his tears, and his anger broke forth at last
in passionate words:

“I want to know,” he cried imperiously to the municipal officers who
were visiting Simon, “what law gives you the right to take me from my
mother and keep me shut up here? Show me this law! I will see it!”

The officers were amazed at this child of nine years, who dared to
question their power and address them in such a kingly tone. But their
worthy comrade came to their aid. He harshly ordered his charge to be
silent, saying:

“Hold your tongue, Capet! you are only a chatterer.”

The little prisoner’s sad and longing gaze was continually fixed upon
the door, although he knew he could never pass its threshold without
permission from his jailers. He often wept, but seemed at last to resign
himself to his fate, and mutely obeyed the commands of his tormentors.
He would not speak, however.

“Oho, little Capet!” said the cobbler to him one day; “so you are dumb!
Well, I am going to teach you to talk, to sing the ‘Carmagnole,’[17] and
shout ‘Vive la Republique!’ Oh, yes, you are dumb, are you?”

“If I said all I thought,” returned the poor child, with a touch of his
old spirit, “you would call me mad. I am silent because I am afraid of
saying too much.”

“Ho! so Monsieur Capet has much to say!” shouted the cobbler with a
malicious laugh. “That sounds very aristocratic, but it won’t do with
me, do you hear? You are still young, and some allowance should be made
for you on that account; but I am your master, and cannot allow such
ignorance. I must teach you to understand progress and the new ideas.
So, look here! I am going to give you a jews-harp. Your she-wolf of a
mother and your dog of an aunt play the piano, you must learn the
jews-harp.”

A gleam of anger flashed in the boy’s beautiful blue eyes, and he
refused to take the jews-harp, declaring that he never would play on it.

“Never?” cried the cobbler, furiously. “Never? Play on it this moment!”

The child persisted in his determination, and the cobbler—the pen almost
refuses to write it—the cobbler seized the defenceless child and beat
him most cruelly, but without being able to conquer his will.

“You can punish me if I do wrong,” cried the poor little Prince, “but
you must not strike me; do you understand? For you are stronger than I
am.”

“I am here to command you, you beast!” roared the cobbler. “I can do
what I like! Long live Liberty and Equality!”

On Sunday, the 17th of July, 1793, a report spread through Paris that
the Dauphin had been carried off. In order to refute this rumor, which
had already begun to create disturbances among the lower classes, a
deputation was sent to the Temple by the Committee of Public Safety,
with orders that the son of the tyrant should be brought down into the
garden where he might be seen. The cobbler obeyed, and unceremoniously
demanded of the deputies what the real intentions of the Committee were
in regard to little Capet.

“What have they decided to do with the young wolf? He has been taught to
be insolent, and I will see that he is tamed. If he rebels, so much the
worse for him, I warrant you! But what is to be done with him in the
end? Send him out of the country? No! Kill him? No! Poison him? No!
Well, what then?”

“We must get rid of him!” was the significant reply.

Such, indeed, was the real purpose of the inhuman leaders of the
Revolution. They did not want to put the unfortunate Prince to death,
they only wished to get rid of him; that is to say, to torture him to
death by slow degrees, without anyone being able to say that he had been
poisoned, strangled, hanged, or beheaded!

As soon as the Dauphin found himself in the garden, he began to call to
his mother as loudly as he could. Some of the guards tried to quiet him;
but he answered indignantly, pointing to Simon and the deputies:

“They will not, they cannot, show me the law that orders me to be
separated from my mother.”

Astonished at his firmness and moved by his childish affection, one of
the guards asked the cobbler whether no one could help the little
fellow; but Simon replied sharply:

“The young wolf does not submit to the muzzle easily; he might know the
law as well as you do, but he is always asking for the reasons of
things—as if people were obliged to give him reasons! Now, Capet, keep
still, or I will show the citizens how I beat you when you deserve it!”

The poor little prisoner turned to the deputies as if to appeal to their
compassion, but they coldly turned their backs on him. _He was to be got
rid of!_ How could this be possible if he were left to the tender care
of his mother?

Henceforth Simon’s cruelties toward his victim were redoubled. He
understood at last what was expected of him, and wished to do credit to
his task. The youth, the innocence, the indescribable charm of the
little Prince, did not in the least diminish the ferocity of his jailer.
On the contrary, it seemed as though the child’s delicate face, his
clear eyes, his slender little hands, the nobility of his demeanor, only
served to inflame the brutal passions of Simon and his wife. They felt
the Prince’s refinement and delicacy, in contrast with their own
uncouthness, as a personal affront; and their jealous rage, their
implacable hatred, made them take a savage pleasure in attempting to
degrade their charge to their own level and extinguishing in this scion
of a royal house all recollection of his illustrious family and of his
early education.

Still another circumstance added to Simon’s abuse of the Prince.
Marat,[18] that bloody and ferocious hyena of the Revolution, died at
last by the knife of Charlotte Corday. Marat had been a patron of
Simon’s, and was largely responsible for the appointment of the cobbler
as the Dauphin’s keeper—a position which carried with it a considerable
income—and his sudden death threw Simon into a sort of frenzy. When he
heard the news, he deserted his prisoner for the first time, and
returned in a state of excitement and irritation that relieved itself in
abuse and blasphemy. He drank quantities of wine and brandy, and then,
inflamed with the liquor, his brain on fire, he dragged his wife and the
Prince up to the platform of the Tower, where he smoked his pipe and
tried to catch an echo of the far-away lamentations for his friend
Marat.

“Do you hear that noise down there, Capet?” he shouted to the Prince.
“It is the voice of the people, lamenting the loss of their friend. You
wear black clothes for your father; I was going to make you take them
off to-morrow, but now you shall wear them still longer. Capet shall put
on mourning for Marat! But, accursed one, you do not seem much grieved
about it! Perhaps you are glad that he is dead?”

With these words, furious with rage, he shook the boy, threatened him
with his fist, and pushed him violently away.

“I do not know the man who is dead,” returned the child, “and you should
not say that I am glad. We never wish for the death of anyone.”

“Ah, _we_? ‘_We_ wish?’ _We?_” roared the cobbler. “Are you presuming to
say _we_, like those tyrants, your forefathers?”

“Oh, no,” answered the Prince, “I say _we_, in the plural, meaning
myself and my family.”

Somewhat appeased by this apology, the cobbler strode up and down,
puffing great clouds of smoke from his mouth and laughing to himself as
he repeated: “Capet shall put on mourning for Marat!”

Marat was buried on the following morning, and Simon’s resentment at not
being able to attend the funeral ceremonies made him furious. All day
long he paced the floor of his room like a caged tiger, sparing the
innocent Prince neither blows nor curses.

Some days later, news came of a crushing defeat of the Republican army
at Saumur,[19] and again the poor child had to suffer from his master’s
rage and spite.

“It is your friends who are doing this!” shouted Simon to him.

In vain the little Prince cried, “Indeed it is not my fault!” The
infamous wretch furiously rushed at him, and shook him with the ferocity
of a maddened beast. The child bore it all in silence; great tears
rolled down his cheeks, but he allowed no cry of pain to escape him, for
fear his mother might hear it and be distressed about him. This fear
gave him strength, and enabled him to bear his sufferings with the
courage of a hero. Joy had long since been banished from his heart, the
roses of health from his cheeks, but they had not succeeded yet in
extinguishing his love of truth and purity.

In accordance with the orders he had received, Simon allowed his
prisoner to go down into the garden every day, and sometimes took him
with him when he went up on the roof of the Tower to breathe the air and
smoke his pipe undisturbed. The boy followed him with hanging head, like
a whipped dog; he never ventured to raise his eyes to his master’s face,
knowing he should meet only hatred and abuse.

Naturally there was no further mention of any kind of instruction for
the Prince. Simon made him listen to revolutionary or so-called
patriotic songs, and filled his ears with the vilest oaths and
blasphemies; but he did not think it necessary to occupy young Capet’s
time otherwise. He forced the child to wait on him and perform the most
menial duties; he took away his suit of mourning, and gave him instead a
coat of orange-colored cloth, with breeches of the same color, and a red
cap, which was the notorious uniform of the Jacobins.

“If I allow you to take off black for Marat,” he said, “at least you
shall wear his livery and honor his memory in that way!”

The Prince put on the clothes without protest, but nothing could induce
him to wear the Jacobin cap; and Simon was powerless, even by the
cruellest treatment, to overcome his resistance. He had become the slave
of his jailers, he had submitted to a thousand insults and indignities,
but he would not allow the badge of his father’s murderers to be placed
upon his head. Weary with his efforts, the cobbler finally desisted from
the attempt, at the intercession of his wife. To tell the truth, this
was not the first time this woman had taken the part of the unfortunate
child, for she, indeed, had good reason to be satisfied with him.

“He is an amiable being, and a nice child,” she remarked one day to
another woman. “He cleans and polishes my shoes, and makes the fire for
me when I get up,” for these were also his duties now. Alas! what a
change from the days when every morning he had brought his adored mother
a nosegay from his garden, picked and arranged with his own hands! Now,
the drudge of a shoemaker’s wife—poor, lovely, high-born little Prince!

A systematic effort was made to debase the child in every way, morally
and physically; no pains were spared to vitiate his pure innocent mind
and make him familiar with the most revolting infamies. Madame Simon cut
off his beautiful hair for no other reason than because it had been his
mother’s delight. As it happened, some guards and deputies witnessed the
act, and one of them, a good-natured fellow named Meunier, cried out:

“Oh, what have you slashed off all his pretty hair for?”

“What for?” retorted Madame Simon. “Why, don’t you see, citizen, we were
playing the part of dethroned King, here!” And all, with the exception
of Meunier, burst into shouts of laughter over the shorn lamb, who bent
his poor little disfigured head upon his breast in mute despair. Not
content with this outrage, that same evening the brutal wretches forced
the child to drink large quantities of wine, which he detested; and when
they had succeeded in making him drunk, so that he did not know what he
was doing, Simon put the red cap on his head.

“At last I see you a Jacobin!” cried the villain, triumphantly, as the
Revolutionary emblem nodded on the brow of the unhappy descendant of
Louis the Fourteenth, the proudest King of Christendom! They had broken
the child’s noble pride at last—one shudders to think by what terrible
means; and from this time a few blows or curses sufficed to make him put
on the new head-covering. Thus far the wretched child’s unhappy fate had
remained unknown to his mother, although she had never ceased to implore
the guards or deputies for news of him. They all assured her that she
need not be uneasy about her son—that he was in good hands and well
cared for; but all these protestations failed to soothe her maternal
anxiety and but too well-founded distrust.

At last, on the thirteenth of July, through the assistance of Tison,
who, at first a bitter enemy, had since changed and become friendly to
her, she succeeded in obtaining a sight of her poor little son. But
alas! this happiness, so long yearned for, so besought from Heaven, was
granted her only to her sorrow. The little Prince indeed passed before
the eyes of his mother, who bent her anxious, searching gaze upon him.
He had laid aside the mourning for his father; the red cap was on his
head, his brutal jailer beside him. Unluckily, moreover, just at that
moment Simon fell into one of the outbursts of fury that usually vented
themselves upon his wretched charge. The poor Queen, struck by this
terrible sight as if by lightning, grasped her sister-in-law for
support, and both quickly drew the Princess Marie Thérèse away from
their place of concealment (whither she had hastened for a glimpse of
her brother), at the same time reassuring themselves by a glance that
she had seen nothing and remained in blissful ignorance of the Dauphin’s
fate.

“It is useless to wait any longer,” said the Queen; “he will not come
now.”

After a few moments, her tears began to flow; she turned away to hide
them, and came back again, hoping for another sight of her son. A little
later she did see him again. He passed by in silence, with bowed head;
his tyrant was no longer cursing him. She heard no words, but this
silence was almost as terrible to her as Simon’s invectives. Mute and
motionless, she remained as if rooted to the spot till Tison came for
her.

“Oh, God!” she cried bitterly to him, “you have been deceiving me!”

“No, madame,” he replied; “I merely did not tell you everything, so you
would not be troubled. But now that you know all, in the future I will
conceal nothing from you that I may chance to discover.”

The knowledge of the pitiable condition of her son reduced the Queen to
the apathy of despair, and she would sit for hours in silent misery. To
know that her child was suffering and not be able to tend or care for
him, to know that he was unhappy and not be able to comfort him, to know
that he was in danger and not be able to protect him—what tortures could
compare with the martyrdom of this poor mother? It turned her beautiful
dark hair as white as snow, and made her indifferent to her own fate.
The Convention had issued a decree that the Queen should be removed from
the Temple to the Conciergerie, and on the second of August, at two
o’clock in the morning, the Princesses were roused from their sleep to
hear this order. The Queen listened quietly and without a word as it was
read to them, then rose immediately and made her preparations to follow
the officers, who first searched her roughly, and even took everything
out of her pockets. Before she went, she embraced her daughter and
sister-in-law, and exhorted them to be brave and steadfast. As she
passed through the low doorway, she forgot to stoop, and struck her head
a sharp blow against it. One of the men asked her if she was hurt, and
she replied:

“Nothing can hurt me now.”

But ah! with what feelings must she have left that Tower! With what
lingering glances at the door of the room where the Dauphin was
confined! She knew she was leaving never to return; knew that never
again should she clasp her child to her breast; knew that he was in the
clutches of a tiger. Poor ill-fated, unhappy Queen and mother!

Meanwhile, Simon continued by every vile means in his power to maltreat
the child committed to his guardianship. On the seventh of August,
Madame Simon went to the theatre to see a low play performed, entitled
“Brutus,” and returned full of enthusiasm. She described the piece, the
plot of which was directed against royalty, and Simon listened eagerly
and attentively. Suddenly he perceived that the little Prince had turned
away his head, as if to avoid hearing it.

“You accursed young wolf,” he cried furiously, “so you do not want to
listen to the citoyenne—to be improved and enlightened! You would like
to remain a blockhead and the son of a tyrant!”

“Everyone has relatives that he should honor,” replied the boy with
angelic calmness and filial affection.

This very calmness and composure only seemed to enrage Simon the more.
He could not forgive the child for honoring his father and mother, and,
seizing him roughly, he threw him across the room and down to the floor,
with a volley of oaths and abusive epithets. Nor was this the worst of
which the monster was guilty. If a rising occurred anywhere in France,
against the Revolution and its crimes, he vented his rage and spite upon
his victim. On the sixth of August, Montbrison rose in arms, with the
cry, “God save King Louis the Seventeenth!” Three or four days later the
news reached the Temple, and Simon immediately pounced upon the Prince.

“Here, madame,” said he, jeeringly, “allow me to present to you the King
of Montbrison, and”—he continued, taking off the boy’s Jacobin cap—“I
will anoint him at once and burn incense to him!” Whereupon he rubbed
the poor child’s head and ears roughly with his hard hands, blew tobacco
smoke from his pipe into his face, and finally flung him over to his
wife, that she in her turn might do homage to “His Majesty.” On the
tenth of August, the Convention gave a _fête_ for the people, and Simon
awakened the Prince from his morning sleep and commanded him to shout,
“Long live the Republic!” The child did not seem to understand at first;
he arose, and began to put on his clothes in silence, when Simon, who
was standing before him with folded arms, repeated imperiously:

“Make haste, Capet! This is a great day; you must shout ‘Vive la
Republique!’”

The boy made no answer, but went on with his dressing.

“Hey! Who am I talking to here?” cried the cobbler, furiously. “Accursed
King of Montbrison, will you shout ‘Vive la Republique!’ quickly—or—”
and he made a significant gesture with his clenched fist.

The Prince raised his head with a resolute expression, and, looking full
at his tormentor, replied in a clear, firm voice: “You may do what you
choose with me, but I will never cry, ‘Vive la Republique!’”

He spoke so proudly and nobly that even this hardened villain gave way
before him, and for once did not venture to do him any violence.

“Good, good!” said Simon with a sneer, to cover his discomfiture; “I
will see that your behavior is made known.” And indeed he did repeat the
whole incident to everyone in the Temple; but no one blamed the Prince,
and some even praised him for his strength of character.

The next morning the cobbler seemed to have repented of his weakness. He
procured an account of the _fête_ of the preceding day, and forced the
boy to stand and listen while he read it aloud. The Prince obeyed; but
at one part, which contained a gross insult to his father, he could no
longer control his rebellious feelings, and retired to one of the window
recesses to hide his face and his tears. Simon hurried after him,
dragged him roughly back by the hair to the table, and ordered him,
under pain of a beating, to stand there and listen quietly and
attentively. Then he resumed his reading, and laid particular emphasis
on the words: “Let us swear to defend the Constitution unto death; the
Republic shall live forever!”

“Do you hear that, Capet?” he shouted; “the Republic shall live
forever!”

The child made no reply, and did not even raise his head; his face was
hidden in his hands.

“You cursed young wolf!” roared Simon, choking with passion, “yesterday
you would not shout ‘Vive la Republique!’ but you see now, blockhead,
that the Republic shall live forever! You _shall_ say with us, ‘The
Republic shall live forever!’”

As he spoke, he seized the Dauphin by both shoulders and shook him with
all his strength, as if to force the words from his mouth. After
exhausting his fury, the cobbler paced up and down the floor for some
time, then stopped beside the bed of the weeping child and said gruffly:

“It is your own fault, fool; you well deserved your treatment.”

“Let him alone, Simon,” said his wife; “he is blind, the little one. He
was brought up on lies and deception, and knows no better.” And,
somewhat disconcerted, the cobbler turned away.

Not long after this, the police scattered through the streets of the
city low songs and scurrilous rhymes against the “Austrian she-wolf,” as
the unfortunate Marie Antoinette was called, and Simon procured some of
these sheets.

“Come, Capet,” said he one day to the little Prince, holding out to him
some abominable verses about his mother, “here is a new song you must
sing for me.”

The boy glanced at the song, and threw it indignantly on the table.
Simon immediately flew into a rage, and said threateningly:

“I believe I said you should sing, and you shall sing!”

“I will never sing such a song as that!” replied the boy, with a firm
determination against which the cobbler’s rage was powerless.

“I tell you, I will strike you dead if you do not sing!” he shouted,
seizing an iron grating from the chimney-place.

“Never!” retorted the Prince, and the furious brute actually hurled the
heavy iron at the boy’s head, and would certainly have killed him if he
had not been quick enough to dodge the missile.

Scenes like this were of daily occurrence in the cruel prison of the
Temple. Simon left nothing undone to accomplish his terrible purpose and
_rid the Convention_ of the unfortunate child. He kept his prisoner on
an irregular diet, forcing him one day to eat and drink to excess, and
the next leaving him to suffer from hunger. With diabolical calculation,
he did everything possible to undermine the health of the Dauphin, and
succeeded only too well. He gradually sickened, and an attack of fever
helped to reduce his strength. He slowly recovered, it is true; but his
old vigor of mind and body never returned. They took advantage of his
illness to make him sign a deposition against his mother; and this false
statement, extorted from him while he was too weak to resist, was used
by the bloodthirsty Convention to bring the Queen’s head to the
scaffold. The rising in La Vendée also brought fresh abuse upon the
Prince. The Vendeans had proclaimed him King, and Simon made merry, with
some of his friends who were visiting him, over the “King of La Vendée.”

“For all that,” said one of them, “there are signs of change in the air,
and it would be curious if this monkey should be a King sometime!”

“At least, citizen,” returned Simon, “he will never be King of
Paris—trust me for that!”

The Prince, crouching at the foot of his bed, had been obliged to
overhear all this, with other cruel and bloodthirsty jests about the son
of “Louis the Shortened.” After the guests had finally departed, Simon
remained some time longer in the room, quarrelling with his wife, who
did not attempt to conceal her fears for the future. The little Prince
had not dared to leave his place, and heard Simon say:

“If the Vendeans should ever advance as far as Paris, I will throttle
the young wolf before I will give him up to them.”

He kept as still as he could, fearing that the least sound or movement
would bring down on his head the storm that seemed ready to burst.
Suddenly Simon came up to him, seized him by the ear, and led him to the
table in the middle of the room.

“Capet,” said he, “if the Vendeans should set you free, what would you
do with me?”

“I would forgive you,” replied the child, calmly. Such an answer might
have softened the hardest heart, but it only increased the cobbler’s
hatred for him. Poor helpless, forsaken child! They had robbed him of
his mother, too, now, for the Queen had been dragged to the guillotine
on the sixteenth of October, though, happily, of this he knew
nothing.[20]

The poor little Prince had become sadly changed. The face that had been
so fresh and smiling was deeply lined, and bore the marks of sorrow and
suffering; the once clear, rosy complexion had grown dull and sallow;
his limbs looked too long and thin for his size, and his back was bent a
little, as if with the weight of his trouble. Since he had found that
all his actions, and even his words, brought abuse or derision upon him
he remained silent, scarcely daring to answer the simplest question with
“yes” or “no.” He was like a deaf-mute, and at last his mind began to be
confused. He scarcely seemed to remember his past life or realize his
present situation. Now that he no longer afforded Simon any excuse for
beating him, that foul wretch found himself compelled to devise other
means of venting his brutality and hastening the end of his victim.

Yet the Dauphin was not entirely destitute of friends and sympathizers.
One of the turnkeys, named Gourlet, and Meunier, a servant in the
Temple, ventured upon the dangerous attempt to provide him with a little
diversion. The child had expressed a desire for some birds, and Meunier
immediately exerted himself to obtain some canaries. He went to several
families whose devotion to the royal house was known to him, and, on his
stating his purpose, they hastened to place their birds at his disposal.
He returned to the Temple with ten or twelve canaries, all of which were
well tamed and trained. Their gay chirping and flutterings brought life
and cheerfulness into the gloomy prison, and, full of delight, the
little Prince caught them one after another, and kissed them. There was
one of the winged band he noticed particularly. It was tamer and more
affectionate than all the rest, and would come flying to him at the
softest call, to perch on his outstretched finger, seeming to enjoy the
caresses he bestowed on it. For this bird, the little Prince soon
conceived an especial affection; he spent much time with it, fed it
millet seed from his hand or his mouth, and, in order to be able to
distinguish it more readily from the others, he fastened a little red
ribbon on one of its feet. Whenever he called, the tiny creature would
come to him instantly, alight first on his head, then hop to his
shoulder, and finally settle itself upon his finger.

These playmates made the poor little prisoner very happy; but it was too
pleasant, too sweet, to last long. On the nineteenth of December a visit
of inspection was made, and when the officers entered, the Prince’s
yellow favorite was trilling its clear, shrill notes in a burst of song.

“What is the meaning of this?” cried one of the deputies, roughly. “The
bird there is wearing a red ribbon like an order! That savors too much
of aristocracy, and signifies a distinction that no good republican
should tolerate.”

With these words he seized the poor little songster, tore the ribbon
from its foot, and hurled it against the wall. Happily, the bird used
its wings, and saved itself from being killed; it fell to the floor
indeed, but soon started up again and mingled with its companions,
uttering soft, plaintive notes.

The little Prince, horror-stricken, could not take his eyes from his
feathered friend. He had not been able to repress a cry at the cruel
act, but did not dare to show any concern or sympathy, for fear of
making matters worse. Poor child! as a result of this unlucky visit, all
the birds that had afforded him so much innocent pleasure were
ruthlessly taken away from him. It had been indeed too pleasant to last!
Simon’s fear that he might be blamed for allowing the creatures in the
prison increased his resentment against the Dauphin, and he nursed his
wrath until he could find an outlet for it. The opportunity soon came.

The next day he happened to take a foot-bath, and, as it was very
agreeable to him to be waited on by a King’s son, he ordered the boy to
warm the linen for drying his feet. Trembling with fear of his brutal
jailer, the poor child obeyed with more haste than dexterity, and in his
agitation dropped a towel into the fire. The cobbler’s feet were in the
water, and, foaming with rage at his inability to reach the child, he
hurled the most frightful imprecations at him. After a few moments, the
Dauphin, thinking his master’s fury had passed, knelt down to dry
Simon’s feet, and the monster profited by this opportunity to give him a
kick that sent him half across the room and stretched him on the floor.
As if stunned by the shock, the poor child lay there motionless; but,
not content with this, the cobbler beat and kicked him, overwhelming him
at the same time with the vilest epithets until his breath gave out.
Then, seeing that his victim was still conscious and able to move, he
ordered him to stand up; and the poor little Prince was obliged to rise
and drag himself into a corner, where he was suffered to remain, weeping
piteously.

          [Illustration: _The Cobbler and his little victim_]

The jailer grew more vindictive every day, his passions more malignant;
and his temper was not improved when his wife became so dangerously ill
that the services of a physician were required. A surgeon named Nautin,
a worthy, respectable man, was called in, prescribed a remedy, and
promised to come again the next day. As he was leaving, he passed
through the room where Simon sat with his charge and some of the
municipal officers. The boy had refused to sing a licentious song as
Simon had ordered, and, just as the surgeon entered, the cobbler flung
himself upon the child, lifted him up by the hair and shook him,
shouting furiously:

“Accursed viper! I have a mind to dash you to pieces against the wall!”

The doctor hastened to the spot and snatched the Dauphin from Simon’s
grasp, crying angrily:

“Villain, what are you doing?”

Taken aback by this interference, Simon recoiled without a word, and for
the time being did not venture to maltreat the Prince any further. On
the following day the surgeon again visited his patient, and was greatly
surprised and touched when suddenly, as he was passing through the room
where the Dauphin was confined, the little prisoner seized his hand and
offered him two pears which he had saved from his own meal.

“Take them, please, dear sir,” he said in his touching voice; “yesterday
you showed that you have an interest in me. I thank you for it, but have
no way of proving my gratitude. Will you not take these pears, then? It
will make me very happy!”

The old man pressed the child’s hand kindly, but did not speak. He
accepted the present, and a tear that rolled down his cheek betrayed the
emotion he could not find words to express.

So noble was the nature of this royal child that even the terrible
treatment he had received had not entirely destroyed his
sensibilities—at the slightest touch of kindness or sympathy they sprang
to life again. Never had he forgotten his mother’s admonitions.
Sometimes he even recalled them in his dreams; and once it happened that
Simon overheard him when, in his sleep, he knelt with folded hands and
prayed fervently to God. Unmoved by this touching sight, the cobbler
awakened his wife to look at the strange dreamer; then, seizing a
pitcher of water, he suddenly dashed it over the little bowed head,
regardless of the danger that the shock of such an ice-cold shower-bath
on a January night might kill the child. Instantly seized with a chill,
the Prince threw himself back on his bed without uttering a sound. But
the dampness of his couch allowed him no rest. He got up again and
sought refuge on the floor with his pillow—the only part of his bed that
had escaped the deluge. As he crouched there, his teeth chattering with
cold, Simon sprang up again in spite of his wife’s efforts to detain
him, grasped the child with both hands, and shook him violently, crying:

“I will teach you to get up in the night to recite your paternosters,
like a Trappist!” Then as if in a frenzy he rushed at the boy with such
a malignant expression upon his cruel face that the poor little Prince
caught at the arms of his ferocious jailer and cried:

“Oh, what have I done that you should want to murder me?”

“Murder you! As if that was what I wanted! Don’t you know that, if I
wished to murder you, I could take you by the throat and stop your noise
in no time?”

So speaking, he flung the boy roughly back into his bed, which had been
turned into a veritable pond. Without a word, he sank down on his
wretched cot, shivering with cold and terror, while the cobbler retired
to his own rest filled with savage satisfaction. After this dreadful
night the poor little Dauphin fell into a state of utter despair and
apathy. Even his tearful glances no longer appealed to his brutal
keeper. His eyes were always fixed on the floor. The last remnants of