THE BOURBON PRINCE.

THE HISTORY OF THE ROYAL DAUPHIN,

LOUIS XVII OF FRANCE.

I.

LOUIS CHARLES of France and of Bourbon, the second son of Louis XVI king of France, and of Marie Antoinette, was born in the palace of Versailles on the 27th day of March, 1785, at five minutes past seven in the evening.

Contrary to the usual custom in France, of postponing the baptism of the royal children for some years, he was baptized on the day of his birth by the Cardinal De Rohan and the Abbe Brocqueveille. He received the title of the Duke of Normandy, a title that had not been borne by any of the royal family since the fourth son of Charles VII.

There was great joy on the occasion throughout France. The cannon of the Bastile re-echoed the cannon of the Invalides. Bonfires were lighted, bells chimed, file-works blazed, and there was a popular exclamation of delight everywhere.

During the journey, on the following year, that Louis XVI made to Cherbourg, the enthusiastic loyalty of the people astonished the courtiers. The king was delighted, and often referred to the visit with visible emotions of pleasure, and congratulated himself for having given the name of that beautiful province to his second son. “Come, my little Normand,” he used to say to him, as he pressed him to his arms, “your name will bring you good luck.”

The Dauphin died at Meudon, on the 4th of June, 1789. Until this time, the infancy of the Duke of Normandy had passed almost unobserved. The death of his elder brother attracted to him the regard and hope of France, and bestowed upon him the title of the Dauphin. In the happiness of infancy, he could not understand the responsibility of this inheritance, so terrible in the future; and of all his brother’s succession, the child alone appreciated the immediate possession of a pretty little dog, called Moufflet, which had belonged to the Dau­phin, and which now belonged to him.

Louis XVI, whose children shared equally in his affections, felt that peculiar interest in the young Duke of Normandy that a king should feel in one whose birth called him to occupy, after him, the throne. The queen, on her side, bestowed upon him the most attentive and assiduous care; she desired to be the instructress as well as the mother of her son.

He was at that time a little over four years of age. His form was slender, lithe, delicate, and his step full of grace; his forehead large and open, his eyebrows arched. It would be difficult to paint the angelic beauty of his large, blue eyes, fringed with their long, dark eye­lashes; his complexion, of an astonishing purity, was touched with the freshest carnation; his hair, a light flaxen, curled naturally, and fell in thick ringlets upon his shoulders. He had the ruby lips of his mother, and, like her, a small dimple in his chin. In his features, which were alike noble and gentle, might be observed something of the dignity of Marie Antoinette and the goodness of Louis XVI. All his movements were full of grace and vivacity. There was in his manner, in his address, a certain exquisite distinction and an indescribable child­like frankness, which charmed all those who approached him. He never spoke but to utter the most amiable and innocent things. On beholding him, he was admired, and, on hearing him, he was beloved. Children and princes, for the most part, are selfish; hut he had neither the selfishness of princes nor the selfishness of children, who are kings in their way. He only thought of others; he was tender to those who loved him, attentive to those who spoke to him, kind to those who visited him, courteous to everyone. These excellent qualities were, however, tempered by a singular vivacity and impatience; he yielded with difficulty to the control of the women in his service, and struggled with all the force of his years against the established regulation about going to bed and getting up. His indocility always yielded at the sight of his mother.

In his mother he recognized the ascendency of authority as well as the influence of affection. And she, in turn, had for him both love and respect. This elevated and tender instructress knew how to form his character, correct his faults, and, at the same time, to spare him any suffering. Having taken upon herself his education before he was placed under the care of tutors, there were no sort of means she did not contrive to adapt to his capacity the first elements of study. As in the beginning learning presents no attraction, she did not urge it upon him as a serious duty; she sought, above all, to inspire him with a taste and a desire for it. She read to him, or made others read to him, those simple stories, intelligible moralities, and those interesting as well as instructive fables that the genius of Lafontaine, the talent of Perrault and of Berquin have brought within the capacity of childhood; and it was thus that the prince acquired his first lessons as a recreation. These readings presented an opportunity of remarking the intelligence of the young pupil. He listened with great attention, and his animated countenance reflected all the action and incidents of the little stories that were read to him. Bursts of admiration escaped him at the recitation of those things which were clear to his intelligence ; those that were beyond it, and appeared confused and unintelligible, would raise a cloud upon his contemplative face; and then he would utter a hundred questions, each more artless than the other, original remarks, ingenious reflections which often surprised his listeners, and gave to them the highest and happiest augury of the intellectual future of the royal child.

The sensibility of his heart, the refinement of his feelings, corresponded with the acuteness of his intellect and the nobleness of his character. After the familiar conversations which always followed the reading lessons, the queen ordinarily took her place at the harp or the harpsichord; and what she had done to give her son a taste for reading she also did to endow him with a fondness for music. She played for him some little expressive airs that she had learned or composed for him, and she was delighted to see, by the movements of the head of the child or his radiant face, that his ear was sensible to the charms of harmony. One evening, at St. Cloud, his mother sung to her own accompaniment the pretty romance of “L’Ami des Enfants:”

“ Dors, mon enfant, clos ta paupière,

Tes cris me déchirent le coeur;

Dors mon enfant, ta pauvre mère

A bien assez de sa douleur!”

This verse and these words, “ta pauvre mère” sung with feeling, deeply affected the heart of the Dauphin, who, silent and motionless in his little chair, was all eyes and all ears at the side of the harpsichord. Madame Elizabeth, who was present, surprised to see him so quiet, said to him, with a smile, “Oh, to be sure, Charles is fast asleep Suddenly raising his head, he replied, with an expression full of feeling, “Oh! my dear aunt, can one sleep when he hears my mamma, the queen?”

There was a child, whose precocious qualities and heroic death had left in the memory of the royal family and of France a remembrance and a sorrow, of which the Marquis De Pompignan had made himself both the interpreter and the consoler, in writing, with a touching simplicity, the “Life of the Duke of Burgundy,” son of the Grand Dauphin, and elder brother of Louis XVI.

It was in this book, dedicated to the memory of a child who had died at nine years of age, at the termination of the most painful sufferings, borne with extraordinary courage, that Louis Charles learned to read! Strange coincidence Louis XVI, while a youth, had, as an exercise in the English language, translated the ‘‘Life of Charles the First”; and the Dauphin, while a child, had, as his first reading-book, the “Life of the Last Duke of Burgundy!” It was thus that, in the study of the past, the future of the father and the son were sadly reflected.

This book was not only for Louis Charles a book to be read—its hero became an object of emulation. The simple traits of the childhood of his little uncle, and the example of his early virtues, were appreciated with a lively interest by the young nephew. Induced equally by self­love and by his nobler instincts, he inquired if he resembled him, and desired to see his portrait. He was presented with a very well executed one on a bonbon box. He examined it for a long time with a sort of wonder, and kissing it in a serious and earnest manner, said, “How, then, did my little uncle manage to have so soon so much learning and wisdom?”

Louis XVI, contrary to established usage, did not surround his son with a court. He feared that, by surrounding him with a number of officers, gentlemen, and domestics, he might be exposed to the dangerous influence of flattery. He desired that all who approached him might alone inspire his son with a love of virtue and glory.

The heir to the throne had the Duchess of Polignac, an intimate friend of the queen, for his governess, and the Abbé Davaux for his tutor. But, while appointing a tutor to his son, Louis XVI may be said to have reserved to himself the amiable duties of guardian, for it was his own plan that was followed in the education of his child.

While the prince was yet of tender age, the grace and the shrewdness of his repartees were remarkable.

One day, while studying his lesson, he began to hiss. He was reprimanded for it. The queen came and rebuked him. “Mamma,” he replied, “I said my lesson so badly that. I was hissing myself.” Another day, while in the garden, carried away by his impetuosity, he threw himself into the rose-bushes. An attendant running up to him said, “One of those thorns might put out your eyes or scratch your face.” He answered, in a noble and firm manner, “Thorny paths lead to glory!”

When the queen was informed of this answer, she sent immediately for the Dauphin, and said to him, “My child, you have quoted a very true maxim; but you have not properly applied it. There is no glory in losing our eyes solely for the pleasure of running and playing. If it had been to destroy a dangerous animal, to withdraw a person from danger, or to expose your life to save that of another, it might be called glory; but what you did was only folly and imprudence. Wait, my child; before you speak of glory, wait until you are old enough to read the history of your ancestors and the heroes of France—Guesclin, Bayard, Turenne, D’Assas, and so many others, who have defended France and our crown at the cost of their blood.” This lesson, given with a feeling of tenderness and the authority of reason, made a deep impression upon the heart of the young prince, who at first blushed, then, seizing the hand of his mother, he kissed it, and said, with a graceful readiness, “My glory, my dear mamma, shall he in following your advice and obeying you.”

Never did a child love his mother more dear­ly; there are no proofs of tenderness that he did not seek to give her. He had observed that she was fond of flowers, and his first occupation every morning was to run out, in the company of a maid and his faithful dog, Moufflet, into the gardens of Versailles, and to pluck a bouquet to put upon the toilet-table of the queen before she rose in the morning. Each day there was a fresh harvest of flowers, and each day his happy mother was able to see that the first act of her son was in her behalf, as well as his first prayer. When bad weather prevented his going out, and consequently the usual supply of flow­ers, he used to say, with an expression of regret, “I am not satisfied with myself! I shall not have deserved today my mother’s kiss.”

The king witnessed, with true happiness, as with a tender anxiety, the loving disposition of his child, and his pious reverence for his mother. He took pleasure in assisting in his exercises; he looked over his copy-books, he examined him himself almost every day, he watched him at play, in order to become better acquainted with his tastes and his character. He was delighted to see in him such gentle and pure inclinations, and tastes so proper for the development of the strength of his body. It was in order to cultivate this taste, and to encourage this disposition, that he gave to him for his own a little piece of ground in front of his apartments, upon the terrace of the palace, and presented him with a rake, a spade, a water-pot, and the other necessary gardening tools.

It was there where the prince passed his moments of leisure during the intervals of study. He insisted upon being the only gardener of his little plot; and it was by no means the worst kept of all the park. “My father,” said he, one day, “gave me this garden, that I might take care of it myself.” But he added, after a slight pause, and with a charming air, “I am only the farmer; the produce is for mamma.” It was a source of great delight to him to witness the growth and the flowers of the plants that he had watered. His bouquets each morning appeared to him much prettier, since he made them of the flowers from his own garden. A gentleman of the court, observing him one day digging with so much ardor, that the perspiration deluged his forehead and flowed down upon his cheeks, said to him, “You are very good, your highness, to fatigue yourself so. Why do you not order someone to work for you? A gardener could do this work in an instant.”—“It is possible,” answered the child, “but I wish to, and I must, grow these flowers myself; they would be less acceptable to mamma if anyone else grew them.”

The charms and the precocious intellect of the Dauphin had already acquired a certain vogue at court, which began to spread further, and many things were said of the amiable little prince, which excited a desire to see and know him. A lady, who kept a famous boarding-school in Paris, came one day to St. Cloud for this purpose, and begged of a lady of the court, whom she knew, the favor of being presented, with three of her pupils who accompanied her, to the Dauphin. The queen hastened to grant this favor, and, to heighten its value, offered to receive the lady and her pupils, and present them herself to her son. The three young persons and their mistress trembled with emotion; but the imposing dignity of the queen became gentle and affable, in order to reassure them. The mistress, before retiring, having asked, in behalf of her pupils, the privilege of kissing the hand of the royal child, the prince yielded to this de­sire with a grace all the more charming, since it appeared to be humiliated by what it gave.

Afterward, having withdrawn his little hand that the young girls had just kissed, he approached their mistress, who had withdrawn herself to a respectful distance, and, with an exquisite appreciation of age and position, he said to her, lifting up his radiant face, “ You, madam, kiss me on the forehead, I beseech you.”

If this interview and these words give an idea of the tact of the young prince, the following anecdote will show his sense of justice: The child had, in one of his walks, taken away the flute of a young page who accompanied him, and had roguishly hid it in a yew-tree on the garden terrace. The queen having been told of this piece of mischief, thought it necessary to punish him, not in his own person, but in an object of his affection. The poor dog, Moufflet, suffered punishment for the trick of his master; his companion in all his amusements, he was treated in this affair as an accomplice, and was condemned to suffer in his stead. Shut up in a dark closet, deprived of his liberty and of the sight of his master, the poor animal kept scratching at the door, growling and yelping with all his strength. His cries reached the heart of the really guilty one, who, full of pity for his beloved dog, went, all in tears, in search of the queen : “Mamma, it is not Moufllet who is guilty,” said he, and therefore Moufllet ought not to be punished. Let him out, I beg you, and I will take his place.” This favor being granted, the young prince really did take the place of the innocent one, and condemned himself to an imprisonment much longer than the term prescribed. That was not all. In the solitude of the closet he began to reflect upon his conduct, and said to himself, if his fault was expiated, it was not repaired; and the first use he made of his liberty was to go and find the flute and give it back to his comrade.

Some foreboding fears soon mingled with the joys which saluted the royal cradle—some gloomy mutterings of the Revolution began to be heard.

While the passions of the French people were in agitation in the Assembly, and unchained in the streets, the Dauphin was little troubled by these excitements, and did not mind them except as they appeared to affect his mother, but passed his hours of recreation in his garden, in peace; he watched with the most attentive interest the growth of his flowers, noting, until the evening, those that were to compose his bouquet of the next morning.

One day Louis XVI having called him, and said to him, “Tomorrow, you know, will be a great day, your mother’s birthday; you must prepare a grand bouquet, and I wish you to compose yourself the compliment to accompany it.”—“Father,” he replied, “I have a beautiful immortelle in my garden, that will be both my bouquet and my compliment. In presenting it to mamma, I will say to her, I hope that mam­ma may be like my flower.”

While the last happy days of this child were being passed in his garden, the Revolution was preparing to knock at the gates of the palace of his fathers.

The Assembly desired to control the king, and it knew how to do it; but, in order to exercise this control, it was necessary to appeal to the irregular forces of the streets, and, in order to free themselves from royal authority, to accept the aid, and soon to submit to the yoke of the multitude.

France became an arena of gladiators. News from the provinces announced, from day to day, conflagration, sedition, and assassination; the effervescence of passion was at its height. The 11th of July, Necker resigned and exiled himself. On the 12th, the news of his departure circulated. Paris was astounded and indignant. The signal of explosion was given. The theatres were deserted, the shops closed—the cafes filled, and the people murmured. The Palais Royal was crowded; the busts of the Duke of Orleans and of Necker were carried in triumph. Camille Desmoulins, intoxicated with the honors of that Revolution that had marked him for its victim, distributed cockades, and was the first to call to arms; the clubs thronged the streets; the tocsin sounded; the barriers were fired. All armed—all rushed headlong—all raged; Paris was in a state of intense excitement; the Revolution was up and doing. From the 14th of July the Revolution became a fact. Every thing turned against that power which, from the beginning, showed it unable to defend itself; the retreat of royalty became a total rout.

Under these critical circumstances, the king and the queen saw, without regret, those of their subjects who had been most intimately attached to their persons abandoning them. The Polignac family had enjoyed too many marked favors not to excite envy, and calumny had pointed them out to the fury of the populace. The queen ordered the Duchess of Polignac to retire; the duchess refused to consent. “You wish, then, to increase my troubles,” said Marie Antoinette, “and to give me one more addiction in addition.” Madame De Polignac had not yielded to her friend; she obeyed her queen. She retired to Switzerland, and from thence to Austria; but, as the governess of the royal children, she could not absent herself, she gave in her resignation. Marie Antoinette selected the Marchioness of Tourzel to succeed her. The disasters which overwhelmed the royal family cruelly tried the fidelity of Madame De Tourzel, whose courageous devotion so nobly justified the words in which the queen made known to her her appointment: “I give in trust to virtue what I have confided to friendship.”

On the 17th July, the king, in spite of some sinister opinions, determined to keep his promise of going to Paris. He entered his coach at eleven o’clock, after having taken the most touching leave of his family. The queen, trembling for the life of the king, passed the whole day in anxious fears. Her children did not quit her for an instant; the Dauphin went constantly to the window, desiring to be the first to announce the return of his father. “He will return, mamma,” he constantly exclaimed; “he will return. Father is so good, that no one can harm him!” The king returned. He hurried from his coach to the arms of the queen, to the embraces of his children. Versailles was excited with joy; the people overwhelmed the marble court, bearing branches of willow adorned with ribbons, and which, under the cover of the night, appeared like branches of olive. The king made his appearance twice on the balcony, accompanied by his family. That evening, how­ever, could not make him forget the anxieties of the day; the storm which he had left behind him at Paris threatened, from day to day, to pour down upon Versailles.

The populace of Paris commenced their march to the royal palace on the 5th of October. Women, with disheveled hair, and drunken men, joined the rabble, and forced La Fayette to lead them to Versailles.

The whole palace was surrounded with hordes of those hags, that crime had collected from the filth of Paris and set upon Versailles. With them were those hideous and ragged battalions, armed at hazard with clubs and hatchets, with pikes and knives; troops recruited in the prison­houses, and whom the Revolution had commenced to enroll; and besides these were the regular columns of the militia, commanded by La Fayette.

La Fayette pledged his head for the safety of the palace, and retired to his couch. Crime, however, did not sleep; but before morning, on the 6th of October, it forced the gates of the palace, overwhelmed the apartments of the royal family, and massacred the body-guard that barred the passage conducting to the bed-chamber of the queen. Disappointed in their rage, the assassins pierced through and through with their sabres the bed that Marie Antoinette had just left, half dressed. Trembling for the life of his son, the king runs to the bed-chamber of his darling child, carries him off in his arms, and passes, in order to conceal himself from the sight of the assassins, through a subterranean passage. In his course his light went out. Feeling his way into his apartment, he found the queen, who, with a coverlet upon her shoul­ders, had just sought a refuge there.

La Fayette finally made his appearance, and cleared the palace. He demanded of the king, in the name of the people, to fix his residence in Paris.      

At one o’clock, Louis XVI and his family entered his coach and set out for Paris, having for his retinue some trains of artillery; brigands, armed with pikes, stained with filth, wine, and blood; drunken women, with disheveled hair, who, astride the cannons, or mounted upon the horses of the body-guards, some in helmets, others armed with guns or sabres, bawled out obscene songs or fierce imprecations. The livid heads of the two young body-guards, who had allowed themselves to be massacred rather than abandon their post, were borne in the procession, upon pikes, by two men.

After a march from Versailles of about seven hours’ duration, this convoy of royalty reached Paris. The people were at the windows stupefied with the sight. The women, who formed a large portion of the escort, cried out, “Fear no more, there will be no longer any famine; we bring you the baker, the baker’s wife, and the little baker’s man!”

At the moment this strange procession of a drunken and blood-thirsty mob bearing the royal family as their booty for the day, passed upon the quay which extends along the garden of the Tuileries, a young man, with an antique profile and an eagle eye, exclaimed, with indignation, “What! has the king no cannon to sweep away this rabble ?”

This young man, destined himself one day to sweep away the Revolution, was Napoleon Bonaparte.

II

“IT is very ugly here, mamma,” said the Dauphin, on entering the palace of the Tuileries. “My son,” answered the queen, “Louis XIV lived here, and was contented; we should not be more difficult to please than he was.”

The presence of the royal family in Paris served to establish but a momentary calm. The factious soon renewed their agitations; the most odious calumnies about the king and queen were circulated ; the populace constantly uttered the most obscene and insulting cries beneath the windows of the palace. The lowest dregs of the people approached the throne under the title of deputies. It was proposed to refuse them admission; but the king and queen desired that the approach to the palace might be open to all. A worthy orator of this rabble allowed himself, one day, to make a base accusation, in the most outrageous terms, against the queen, who was present with her son. A mother is doubly outraged, when outraged in the presence of her child.

The royal family were no longer able to leave Paris, and confined themselves to an occasional walk in the garden of the Tuileries. It was, in fact, a veritable prison. The Revolution, with occasional intervals of quiet, continued to ferment.

It is easy to imagine how much the Dauphin, shut up almost constantly in the palace, must have regretted Versailles. He, however, took an occasional ride with his governess. He paid a visit regularly on every Thursday to the Marquise De Leyde, who had a beautiful residence and a large garden in the Faubourg St. Germain. There he always found an abundance of flowers, of air and liberty, and also some children of his own age for playmates. One day, while playing hide-and-go-seek, the prince took it into his head to climb up by a ladder into a hay-loft at the bottom of the garden; the ladder, being badly placed, slipped, and was only prevented from falling to the ground by being caught on the hedge which surrounded the inclosure. The officer who had charge of him, having turned his head for a moment, was not aware of what the young rogue was doing, but, on looking round, saw him at the top of the ladder at the moment it began to fall. He was at first much alarmed, but was soon encouraged on beholding the Dauphin escape from his perilous situation, and count, with an air of victory, each step on the ladder as he descended.

The amusements of Louis-Charles became more and more rare, but he did not complain. However, on the 7th of April, 1790, he remarked to Madame De Tourzel, “I am very sorry that I have no longer got my garden. I would have made two beautiful bouquets for tomorrow, one for mamma and one for sister.” It was on the next day that his sister was to receive the com­munion for the first time.

Some few days after this, some frightful rumors circulated. It was said that a plot had been formed to get possession of the palace by force. During the night some guns were fired off. The king arose and hastened to the queen; he did not find her in her own apartment. He went to the room of the Dauphin, and there he found her, holding her dear child pressed to her bosom. “Madam, you frightened me terribly. I have been looking for you.”—“Sire,” answered the queen, “I was at my post.”

These incessant agitations were not allowed to interfere with the regular instruction of the Dauphin. He was taught religion, writing, history, arithmetic, geography, botany. M. De la Dorde, first valet de chambre of Louis XV, had prepared for the study of this latter science a herbal, in which the young prince took a especial interest. He was, at the same time, practiced in various kinds of bodily exercise, in dancing and in tennis-playing. No child ever exhibited in his diversions more grace, address, and agility.

Within the inclosure of the Tuileries, there was a little garden surrounded by a paling, which was attached to the house occupied by the Abbé Davaux, the Dauphin’s tutor. It was thought that the prince might find there what he had left at Versailles, and resume an exercise that was conformable to his taste and good for his health. This little plot was, therefore, given to him, and he availed himself of it with great avidity. He raised rabbits; he cultivated flowers. This plot of ground has been altered; but it was the same garden that afterward Napoleon gave to the King of Rome, Charles X to the Duke of Bordeaux, and Louis Philippe to the Comte De Paris. The first royal child died in prison, at the age of ten; the second, while a youth, was borne away by the storm, and lived only long enough to learn the name of his father, and to behold, before his death, his father’s sword; the third and the fourth disappeared, like the two others, in the tempest, and still wander as exiles in Austria or England!

When the prince-royal went to his new garden, he was generally attended by a detachment of the National Guard on service at the Tuileries. For some time he had learned the soldier’s manual exercise, and he himself, for the most part, was dressed in the uniform of a National Guard. He was proud of his escort, and his frank and open countenance naturally expressed his happiness. His brow appeared to be innocent of all unquiet thoughts. When his guard were few in number, the prince invited them to enter with him. Once, when the number was large, and they were obliged to remain outside: “Ex­cuse me, gentlemen,” said he; “I am sorry my garden is so small, since it deprives me of the pleasure of receiving you all.” Then he would offer some of his flowers to those that were near the paling and seemed to be interest­ed in his amusements.

On another occasion—and this trait will show that, to the gracefulness of his manners and to the amiability of his disposition, there was joined a certain chivalrous spirit, which seemed to justify the old motto of the house of Bourbon, Bonté et valeur, Goodness and courage—before leaving the palace on his way to his garden, he was practicing his manual exercise with a musket. At the moment of leaving, the officer of the National Guard on service said to him, “As you are going out, your highness will please deliver up your musket.” The Dauphin refused, somewhat abruptly. Madame De Tourzel having rebuked him: “If the gentleman had asked me to give it to him, it would have been all very well, madam; but deliver it!”

On learning the answer of his son, the king exclaimed, “Always quick and abrupt! but I see with pleasure that he knows the value of words and understands the proper use of terms.”

There was formed in Paris a company entirely composed of young folks, under the title of the Dauphin's Regiment. The Abbé Antheaume first conceived the idea of this regiment, and proposed its formation to the king. The citizens had chiefly defrayed the expense, and had furnished the regiment with all its men, who were children. “I was one of this regiment,” says M. Antoine, “and we were admitted, on several occasions, to go through with our manoeuvres before the prince. On our first visit, we found him in his garden, where he was surrounded by several noblemen.”—“Would you like to be the colonel of this regiment?” asked one of them. “Yes,” answered the Dauphin. “Then goodbye to the flowers and bouquets for your mamma.” “Oh that will not prevent me taking care of my flowers. Many of these gentlemen have told me that they also have little gardens. Well, then, they will love the queen, like their colonel, and mamma will have every day a regiment of bouquets . . .”

Most of those who composed this little battalion were selected children.. They, of course, naturally felt a deference for the son of the king, but beyond that they were not allowed to yield in any respect to their comrade. The king said, “I wish him to have companions that may arouse his emulation; but not, little flatterers, to yield to him in everything.” This little troop, which in the beginning only counted a hundred and fifty to two hundred men, increased from day to day. Since M. Antheaume had given notice to the newspapers of the royal authority with which he was fortified, many families were eager to have their children enrolled in the beardless regiment, and ready to defray the expense of their equipment. The dress was the uniform of the French Guard in miniature, the white gaiters and the three­cornered hat inclusive.

It was necessary to discipline this regiment, which had become quite numerous, and had taken, with pride, the name of the Royal Dauphin. Officers were appointed, chosen on account of their age or military knowledge. The official colonel (for the Dauphin only had the title) was a charming youth of seventeen, whose father was a clothier in the market-place, near the house where Moliere was born. A lively spirit of emulation seized upon the young recruits, and it was who could do the exercise best. Twice a week the Royal Dauphin regiment mustered at the residence of the Abbé Antheaume, who lived in that little narrow street, since widened, which joined the Rue Montmartre by the courtyard of the Messageries Royales; and from thence, with drums beating, which drew the attention of the whole neighborhood, they repaired to the inclosure of St. Lazare, at the end of the faubourg St. Denis, the Abbé Antheaume at their head, and there they went through their maneuvers under the command of a regular military officer. After two hours of exercise, the troops returned to M. Antheaume’s; there they were dismissed and repaired to their quarters, I should say, to the homes of their parents.

From the first the regiment had always its place in every ceremony at which the Dauphin appeared. From day to day its pretensions increased, and it insisted upon being placed on the same military footing as the National Guard. “There are no longer any children,” said La Fayette. “Well, be it so! there are so many old men who have the vices of youth, that it is good to see children with the virtues of men.” The Royal Dauphin regiment from that moment assumed a serious attitude. It was permitted to fill three posts of honor—at the palace, the residence of the mayor of Paris, and the residence of the commander-in-chief of the National Guard. When the guard defiled upon the Place des Tuileries the young regiment always received marks of satisfaction on the part of the royal family from the balcony where they were. The king saluted their flag with an expression of affection, and the Dauphin sent a thousand testimonials of joy and sympathy to his comrades.

But there is no success without detraction. If the Royal Dauphin regiment had its partisans, it also had its detractors. No popularity can long continue in Paris, not even that of infancy! Public malice finds a laughable and ridiculous side to every thing. The little regiment received the nickname of the Royal Bonbon. “You don’t eat at the mess,” exclaimed some. “No, you little ducks, you pick up your food with your bills,” said others. Young blood became heated on hearing these jokes. The ideas of all were turned in the direction of war; and the military spirit, so potent in France, had carried away even ten-year-old heads. It was not sufficient for the Royal Dauphin regiment to parade with the troops of the line and the National Guard; to see its sentry-box placed side by side with the others at the three posts it occupied night and day. It wished to have a right to the public respect, and thought that the best means of obtaining it was, like the grown-up soldiers, to receive regular military orders, and have a countersign. This, of course, was impossible.

Besides, there was a person who, after the example of M. Antheaume, had formed another regiment of children, which was entitled the “White Epaulets,” or “ The Henry the Fourth.” This second title was derived from the fact of its mustering upon the Pont Neuf, where there is a statue of Henry the Fourth. This opposition excited some lively disputes, which resulted in several duels. Three children were wounded by the bayonet; a fourth one received a very dangerous cut from a sabre. This was quite enough, not to calm the excited heads of these apprentice soldiers, but to cool the frightened zeal of their parents, who all, without consulting each other, unanimously were of opinion that it belonged to them at this time to give the orders and the countersign; and they pronounced, on their own authority, the dissolution of the Royal Dauphin regiment.

The funeral of Mirabeau was one of the most imposing public ceremonies in which the child regiment figured. Two months subsequently, we find it mixed up with the excitement caused by the flight of the king. The drum beat in all Paris, and the little drums bore their share. A few days afterward, the disbandment took place. The tragedies of the street became too serious to allow of children taking a part in them.

The Dauphin never went to his little garden without meeting on his road with many mothers and children; he saluted the one kindly, and the others with cordiality. The children who desired to speak with him approached him like a companion. He listened to them, for he knew how to listen, and more than once he gave money to those who told him their families were in want. A poor mother came, one day, to him while he was in the midst of his flowers, and besought him to ask a favor for her. “Ah! your highness,” said she, “if I could obtain this favor, I would be as happy as a queen.” The prince, who had stooped down to pluck some flowers, raised himself, looked at her, and said, with much feeling, “Happy as a queen!... I know one who does nothing but weep.”

He took charge of the petition of the poor woman, who returned the next day to his lit­tle garden, impatient to see him. “I have an answer for you,” said the child, full of joy; and, all radiant, drew from his pocket a piece of gold, wrapped in paper. “This is from my mother, and this is from me,” said he, as he gave her a large bouquet.

A peculiarity in the disposition of the prince worthy of remark was his sensibility to the sufferings of children of his own age. He always manifested his regret when a visit to the Found-ling Hospital terminated. “Mamma, when shall we go again ?” he exclaimed, one day, as he entered the carriage on his return to the palace.

The young heir of the throne put aside the largest portion of his pocket-money in a pretty little chest that his aunt Elizabeth had given him. Louis XVI, who was not in the secret, saw his son, one day, counting his crowns, which he afterward arranged, with great care, in piles in his chest. “What, Charles,” said the king, are you saving up, like a miser!” Troubled with this name miser, the child blushed; but he soon recovered himself, and in a cheerful manner, and with a clear voice, said, “Yes, father, I am a miser, but it is for the poor foundlings. Oh if you should see them! They are well named; they make one very sad!” The king took the young almoner to his arms, and embraced him with ardor. “Such being the case, my child, I will assist you to fill your coffer.”

Anarchy prevailed more and more in the kingdom. Mirabeau was dead, carrying with him, as he himself said, the fragments of the monarchy.

The Holy Week approached. Louis XVI was disposed to pass his Easter at St. Cloud. The king was obliged to renounce this visit on account of the suspicion of a supposed flight. The Dauphin, who had formed some delightful expectations from this journey to St. Cloud, was disappointed at the change. To divert him, his tutor, the Abbé Davaux, had put into his hands a volume of “L'Ami des Enfants” by Berquin. The young prince opened it at hazard, and, quite surprised, exclaimed, “How strange, abbé! Look here, at this title! how funny! The Little Prisoner!”

All efforts to re-establish peace and quiet in France were in vain. The mania of Revolution became every day more wild, the desertions more barefaced, the position of the royal family more trying. The queen could not look out of her window without provoking an insult or receiving an outrage. The burden became so heavy, that all that was left was either to escape from it or be borne down by its weight.

On the night of the 20th of June, 1791, the royal family took flight from Paris, and set out for Varennes. The Dauphin was disguised as a little girl, and looked charmingly in his costume. Awakened at eleven o’clock at night, the child was aroused from a sound slumber, and had no idea of what was going on. His sister asked what he thought they were going to do. “I think,” said he, with his eyes only half open, “that we are going to play a comedy, since we are all to be in disguise.” It is well known that the attempt to escape did not succeed, and the royal family was stopped in its flight, at Varennes. “Oh! Charles,” said his sister to him, “you were mistaken; it was not a comedy!”—“I found that out long since,” replied he.

The royal mother took her child in her arms and carried him herself into the coach when the royal family started on their return to Paris. On the route they were met by the three deputies sent by the National Assembly to escort the king and his family to Paris. Barnave, one of the deputies, took his seat in the royal carriage, in front of the king and queen, and held the Dauphin upon his knees. He addressed himself to the young prince, and was much struck with his ready, amiable, and intelligent answers. “You are not sorry to return to Paris?”—“I am always happy when I am with my father and my mother the queen, and with my aunt, my sister, and Madame De Tourzel,” continued he. “It is a melancholy journey for my children,” said the king. “What a difference between this and the visit to Cherbourg! Calumny had not then perverted public opinion. I may be misunderstood, but I shall never be changed; the love of my people shall always continue to be the first desire of my heart, as it is the first of my duties.” The plaintive feeling of these words affected the Dauphin; he took his father’s hand to kiss it. The king pressed him to his heart, kissed him, and called him, as in old times, “My dear little Normand.”—“Do not be sad, my dear father,” said the child, with a big tear rolling down his face; “the next time we will go to Cherbourg.”

At all the stoppages the two other deputies came to see what was going on in the royal carriage. Surprised to find the Dauphin always upon the knees of Barnave, one remarked to the other, quite loud enough to be heard by the royal travelers, “Barnave is decidedly the prop of future royalty.”

In some of the towns revolutionary cries were heard, and the body-guard were insulted. On entering the faubourg of Meaux, a great tumult arose. A priest was about to be murdered. The queen uttered a cry, and Barnave, springing out of the coach, exclaimed, “Frenchmen! a nation of brave men, would you become assassins?” Struck with admiration for Barnave, Madame Elizabeth held him back by his coat, lest he should precipitate himself among the furious crowd, and become himself a victim. But the powerful voice of Barnave was sufficient to save the priest from death. After this action, the Dauphin eagerly resumed his place on the knees of Barnave, for he now believed him to be a zealous partisan of his family.

The royal family entered Paris on the 25th, at seven o’clock in the evening. The National Guard received them with their arms reversed, and the people with their heads covered. The sad procession passed through the avenue of the Champs Elysees, in the midst of from two to three hundred thousand spectators. A thick cloud of dust, raised by this immense multitude, hid occasionally from the people the humiliation of their ancient masters, and from the latter the triumphant joy of their enemies. The face of the Dauphin was flooded with perspiration; he could hardly breathe. His mother lowered the blind of the carriage, and, looking for sympathy from the national militia which lined the way, said, “Behold, gentlemen, the state of my children; they are suffocating!”—“We will suffocate them quite another way!” answered some brutal fellows, who were behind the ranks of the National Guard.

On arriving at the Tuileries, M. Hue made his way through the crowd of guards and the rabble, mad with fury and drink, to the coach, and extended his arms to receive the Dauphin. The royal child no sooner beheld his old attendant than his eyes filled with tears. In spite of the efforts of M. Hue to take him in his arms, an officer of the National Guard took possession of him, and bore him into the palace. The young prince was conducted to his apartment, and placed under the care of Madame De Tourzel. Two officers of the Parisian militia installed themselves in the very chamber of the Dauphin.

As soon as the Dauphin was in bed, he sent for M. Hue : “Tell me,” said he to him, “all that is occurring. As soon as we had arrived at Varennes, they sent us back. I don’t know why. Do you?” The officers of the guard were walking and talking together, at that moment, in the apartment. M. Hue urged upon the prince the necessity of not speaking to any person, or before any one, about this journey. This advice was scrupulously followed for the future; but it perhaps contributed toward developing in his young imagination that severity of reflection which brings with it fear and anxiety. The child, in spite of fatigue and his usual habit, was quite late in going to sleep; and in the morning, when he arose, said in the presence of his guards, and quite loud enough to be heard, that he had had a frightful dream; that he appeared to be surrounded with wolves, tigers, and other wild beasts, that wanted to devour him.

III

THE royal family was kept in close captivity in the palace of the Tuileries. The persons who had accompanied them in their flight were imprisoned.

The Dauphin inquiring what had become of his bonne—for it was thus he called Madame Neuville, his femme de chambre, who was then in prison—he was told that she had gone to see her mother. Upon her being restored to him: “It is long since I have seen you,” he said, in presence of his mother. “But you were right. If I had been in your place, I would have remained away much longer.” And he threw himself into the arms of his mother, overwhelming her with caresses.

The captivity of the royal family, and the outrages to which they had been exposed, softened for a moment the hearts of their enemies. Every measure, however, was taken to prevent a second escape. A perpetual constraint interfered with every movement of the family. The queen, who was lodged on the ground-floor, was always accompanied by four officers of the National Guard, whenever she went to the room of her son, and she always found his door closed. One of the officers of her escort would knock, saying, “The queen!” The two officers, who were always on guard in the apartment of Madame De Tourzel, would open the door. Marie Antoinette would then take her child, and conduct him to the king. Ill treatment did not disturb the serenity of this noble race. Marie Antoinette devoted a large portion of the day to the education of her children.

The Assembly was occupied in preparing the new Constitution. Public opinion was somewhat calmed. After some weeks of captivity, the queen was permitted to go with the Dauphin into the garden of the Tuileries. The breast of the young prince expanded with delight to the fresh air that he breathed in with avidity: “Mamma,” exclaimed he, as he skipped about, “how I pity those unfortunate people who are always shut up.” A flock of birds, perched upon the top of the highest tree in the garden, drew his attention. The earnestness with which he followed them from tree to tree caused him to trip and fall into a small hole filled with green leaves. “Mamma,” said he, as he got up, “I am like the Astronomer in La Fontaine’s Fable, who fell into the well.” His active and ready intellect frequently applied to the events of the day the lessons he had learned. On other occasions, the great French writer of fables supplied him with an appropriate quotation. His sister having spoken in his presence of an adroit petitioner, who, by flattery, had extorted a pension from a minister: “ Poor minister,” said he; “or my part, I don’t think much of crows that let their cheese drop in that way!”

On the 14th of September, 1791, the king repaired to the sound of cannon, and in the midst of noisy expressions of joy on the part of the people, to the Assembly, in order to accept the new Constitution.

The queen, with her son and daughter, was also present. Cries of long live the prince, royal, burst from all sides, as a public endorsement of the new charter, which abolished the title of Dauphin, and conferred that of prince royal upon the heir to the throne.

A great fête ensued. There was a splendid illumination; balloons ascended, fireworks were let off. For a moment the Revolution seemed to be appeased. The royal family were no longer close captives.

As soon as the king’s captivity at the Tuil­eries ceased, the Abbe Davaux resumed his functions of tutor to the prince. On the day that his studies were resumed the abbe said to his pupil, “If I remember aright, our last lesson was the three degrees of comparison—the positive, comparative, and superlative; but you have forgotten it all?”—“You are mistaken,” replied the child; “just see. Listen: it’s the positive when I say, My abbé is a good abbé; it’s the comparative when I say, My abbé is better than any other abbé; the superlative, continued he, looking at his mother, when I say, Mam­ma is the dearest and best of mammas?” The queen took her son in her arms, pressed him to her heart, and could not restrain her tears.

M. Bertrand de Molleville, in his memoirs, gives the following incidents :

“While the queen was speaking to me, the Dauphin was amusing himself singing and leaping about the apartment, with a little wooden sword and shield in his hands. They came for him to go to supper, and he jumped to the door. “What! my son,” said the queen, “are you going without saying good evening to M. Bertrand?”—“Mamma,” said this charming child, “M. Bertrand is a friend. Good evening, Monsieur Bertrand!” and he sprang out of the room. “Is he not charming?” said the queen to me, when he had left. “He is very happy in being so young; he does not know our troubles, and his gayety does us good.”

The adventures of Telemachus was one of his favorite books. In the fifth book, the son of Ulysses relates how “the Cretans, having no longer any king to rule over them, resolved to choose one who would preserve the established laws in their purity.” Among other requirements necessary to a choice, the person to be chosen must be able to answer three questions. When the Abbé Davaux had read the second question, as follows: “Who is the most unhappy of all men?” the prince royal interrupted him, saying, “Let me, abbé, answer this question, as if I were Telemachus. The most unhappy of men is the king, who has the grief of seeing that his subjects do not obey the laws.”

A few days afterward, a little lantern of filigree-work, of beautiful execution, was presented to him. He lighted it secretly, and pretended to be looking for something he wanted very much to find. Finally, he came to the Abbé Davaux, and said to him, taking him by the hand, “I am happier than Diogenes; I have found a man, and a good friend.”

He had a great love for study. Having often heard the queen speaking Italian, he asked permission to learn it, and in a short time was able to read his dear Telemachus in that lan­guage.

These additional studies did not make him neglect his other branches of education. He had already commenced to write; he was familiar with some of the rules of arithmetic; he knew something of the elements of geometry and, astronomy.

There is a pleasure in relating all these details. The eye reposes with a melancholy charm upon those last happy days of a life that was destined to count so few.

The royal parents, encouraged by a slight reaction in their favor, were full of hope for the future. They began to share in the public amusements. They took their children one night to the Italian opera. The prince royal, seated upon the lap of his mother, attracted all eyes; his angelic features, animated with the scene, expanded with delight; and his charming gestures imitated those of the actors, in order to explain the piece to his mother.

This happiness did not long continue. Paris became more and more agitated, complaints redoubled, threats against the royal family were louder and more frequent, insults more bitter, and violence ensued.

The palace was overwhelmed with a drunken and excited multitude, and the king’s life endangered. A young man in the crowd cried out, aloud, “Let us cut the throats of the royal family!” A beardless boy seconded the motion of his elder. A third person, of a hideous aspect, wearing upon his head a paper cap with this inscription, “La Mort”, said nothing, but, speechless and livid, regarded the king with a bloodshot eye, and watched his every movement with frightful contortions. A fourth placed a bonnet rouge upon the king’s head. A fifth, brandishing a pike, cried out, “Where is he? I will kill him!” A sixth offered a glass and a bottle to Louis XVI, and told him to drink to the health of the nation.

The queen, who had heard the tumult in the most distant part of the palace, where she had gone for the protection of her children, could no longer be prevented from bearing her share in the dangers that the disturbance indicated. The royal child was taken in haste to the apartment of his sister. The noise hardly reached him, but the poor child was none the less anxious; appreciating the danger of his family, he sobbingly asked what his father and mother were doing. The queen had retired to the apartment of her son, where the young prince was then carried. He had hardly received the caress of his mother, when loud knocks were heard at the door of a neighboring room. The queen escaped, with her son and all the persons about her, into a passage which communicated with the sleeping apartment of the king. Here they remained in security. A deep silence prevailed in this retreat, for fear they might be heard by the mob that was raging on all sides of them. The royal child was clinging to his poor mother, as if to protect her who was trembling, not for herself, but for her children. A long time passed thus, until a battalion of grenadiers, who remained faithful to the king, came up and restrained the seditious hordes. The people then asked to see the queen. Marie Antoinette showed herself at the further end of the council-chamber; some grenadiers surrounded her, and placed before her the council-table, which served as a barrier against the mob. The crowd rushed into the hall where the queen was. The queen was standing up; the prince royal was seated upon the table before the queen. At the head of the crowd, which poured in with insulting cries of triumph, there was a drunken woman, who, raging like a tigress, threw upon the table a bonnet rouge, and insisted, with the most gross and insulting language, that it should be placed upon the head of Marie Antoinette. An attendant took the bonnet, and, at the request of the queen, placed it for a moment, with a hand trembling with indignation, upon her head, and then removed it immediately and put it on the table. A cry then arose: “The bonnet rouge for the prince royal! Tricolor ribbons for the little veto!” Some ribbons, thrown upon the table, fell at this moment by the side of the Phrygian cap. “If you love the nation,” cried the mob, “put the bonnet rouge upon the head of your son.” The queen, always calm, gave the order to M. Hue to satisfy the multitude; the bonnet rouge glared upon the light hair of the child, and the tricolored ribbons fell about his neck and dress. The child did not know whether this was an insult or an amusement, and smiled with an air of surprise. But an instant after, some of the officers and National Guard, having remarked that the heavy woolen cap was, in consequence of its warmth, quite insupportable to the child, M. Hue removed it.

Petion, the Mayor of Paris, dismissed the mob with these words : “Men and women, you have begun the day with dignity and wisdom; you have proved yourselves free; end it also with dignity, and do as I shall—go to bed!”

At ten o’clock the palace was emptied, and the prince royal slept so quietly that it might have been supposed that he was lulled to sleep by the remembrance of a most delightful day.

On the next day, 21st of June, 1792, the agitation was renewed. Crowds again collected in the court of the Tuileries. The prince royal, on seeing his mother, said, ingenuously, “Mamma, is it still yesterday?” Alas yes, it was still yesterday; the 20th of June continued yet, and was to continue until the 21st of January! The young Dauphin, mixed up with these terrible events, became early habituated to sorrow and humiliation in witnessing the sorrow and humiliation of his family. Young as he was, he was quite sensible of the sufferings inflicted upon his mother and father. Early in July, they were reading at the Tuileries a pamphlet attacking the royal family, and especially the queen. “I would like,” said the queen, “to know those who hate me, and to see if I could not punish them in doing them good.” The prince royal, who had not been listening until then, lifted up his head, and ran and threw himself in his mother’s arms, saying, with a tearful eye and a full heart, “Rest assured, mamma, that all the world loves you.”

Louis-Charles, hearing the cries, “Down with the king!” “Long live Petion!” cried out, unable to control his indignation, “Oh, then it is M. Petion who is king now!” His father looking at him with a sad expression of face, the child took his hand, and said, as he kissed it, “No, father, it is you who are the king, for you are just and kind!”

Guadet, the Girondin, had an interview with the king and the queen at the Tuileries. As he was about retiring, the queen asked if he would not like to see the Dauphin, and, taking a candle, she conducted him herself into the next room, which was that of the young prince. “How quietly he sleeps!” said the Girondin, with a voice of sadness; and the queen, leaning over the bed of the Dauphin, “Poor child,” sighed she; “he is the only one in the palace who sleeps so.” The tone of Marie Antoinette penetrated Guadet to the heart. He took hold of the hand of the child, and, without waking him, kissed him tenderly; then, turning to the queen, “Madam,” said he, “educate him for liberty. His life depends upon it.”

The prince royal had been forced to bid his garden farewell, since a last attempt to visit it, which had nearly resulted fatally. It was on a Tuesday. The queen had gone to walk with her son in his little garden. She was insulted, and threatened with violence. Four officers pierced the furious throng which surrounded the queen-mother and her son, and, rescuing them, bore them in safety to the palace.

The aspect of the prince’s little deserted garden, its yellow, faded grass, its flowers neglected and burned up by the sun, showed too clearly the prolonged absence of the young proprietor. He, with his face pressed against the window of his room, followed with an envious eye the promenaders, who, freer than he was, could at least breathe the air of heaven in the garden of his ancestors. He had only once again an opportunity of freely enjoying himself. This was on a visit to the Marchioness of Leyde, in whose garden, in a remote faubourg of Paris, the prince royal played, for the last time, with a child of his own age.

The most violent agitation continued to rule in Paris. Three of the revolutionary sections resolved not to consider Louis XVI any longer king, and not to recognize either the National Assembly or the municipal government. “It is time,” said they, “that the whole people should rise and govern themselves.” It was resolved, by the section over which Danton presided, if the legislative body did not pronounce the king’s forfeiture of the crown at nine o’clock in the evening, that at midnight an attack should be made on the palace of the Tuileries. This resolution was communicated to the other sections, and their concurrence invited.

The threatening hour had arrived, and the Assembly had not yet decreed the forfeiture. Midnight struck. Immediately the tocsin was sounded, and re-echoed throughout Paris. Drums beat in all the military quarters, mingled with the noise of cannon. The agitators armed themselves and thronged the streets. Each hour, each minute, brought still more alarming intelligence. The insurgents approached in close column with their artillery. The break of day appeared. Marie Antoinette, in her foresight of approaching events, and in her fear lest her children should be surprised in bed, had them dressed, and kept them by her. The prince royal opened his large eyes, not un­derstanding this getting up at so unusual an hour, and all this military display and general disorder, and the confused tumult that prevailed in the apartments, in the courtyards and the gardens. However, in spite of the innocent thoughtlessness of his age, he discovered that a struggle was about taking place, and that his father was threatened with great danger. “Mamma,” said the poor child, kissing his mother’s hands, “why would they hurt my father? He is so good”

 “Your last day has come,” said an officer, as he entered the palace in haste “Madam, the people are the strongest: what carnage we are going to have!”

 “Sir,” exclaimed Marie Antoinette, “ ave the king, save my children.”

The king was told that there was no safety for him or his family but under the protection of the National Assembly and the representatives of the people.

At a quarter past six o’clock in the morning, Louis XVI, with Madam Elizabeth on his arm, and Marie Antoinette, leading her two children by the hand, set out for the Assembly; a grenadier at the gate, however, took the prince royal and carried him in his arms. It was with difficulty that a way could be made for them through the tumultuous crowd, who indulged in all kinds of threats and insults against the royal family. “Death to the tyrant! Death, down with him!” was the furious cry on all sides. “Do not be frightened,” said the grenadier, who carried him, to the little prince, “they won’t hurt you.”—“No, not me,” replied the Dauphin, “but my father!” And his tears flowed. The king and his family reached the Assembly.

In the meantime, havoc and death awaited those who had been left behind in the palace. It is not our purpose, however, to describe the general massacre which deluged the Tuileries with blood—the tumult, the pillage, the as­sassinations which marked that fatal day, and the horrible night which followed.

The king was deposed. After the royal family had been kept in awful suspense for three days and three nights under the mockery of the protection of the National Assembly, it was finally resolved that they should take up their abode in the tower of the Temple. The palace having been pillaged, and seals affixed upon all that had not been laid waste or purloined by the revolutionary mob, the royal family were desti­tute of linen, clothes, articles of the toilet, and of every thing. M. Pascal, an officer of the Swiss Guard, supplied the king with clothes; the Duchess De Grammont, the queen with body linen. The Countess of Sutherland, the wife of the English ambassador, who had a son of the same age as the Dauphin, sent, for the use of the prince, some articles of dress of ab­solute necessity.

The time for their departure for the Temple arrived. It was five o’clock in the evening when they set out from the Convent des Feuillants, an old monastic building, in the cells of which they had passed the last three sleepless nights. The corridor within and the court of the old monastery were obstructed with a compact crowd. The royal family and their attendants passed to their carriages with great difficulty. They were escorted by the National Guard on foot, with their arms reversed, while a countless multitude, variously armed, thronged about, loudly yelling threats and curses. The soldiers did not strive to check the tumult or silence the cries. The coach was stopped a moment in the Place Vendôme, that the king might contemplate the statue of Louis le Grand, that had been thrown from its pedestal, broken, and trampled underfoot, while the thousand voices of the maddened populace cried out, “This is the way we treat tyrants!” “How wicked they are!” exclaimed the prince royal, as he sat upon his father’s knees and looked into his face for approval. “No, my son,” said the king, with his usual charity, “not wicked, only deluded”

This mournful journey lasted two hours. They arrived at the Temple at seven in the evening.

IV.

THE Temple is so closely associated with the memory of the Dauphin, the son of Louis XVI, that we can hardly think of the Temple without thinking of the young prisoner. It was there he lived, suffered, and reigned; if we can, without irony, call that painful agony a reign, which was endured from the death of the father to the death of the son. Louis XVII is not called, in history, the Child of Versailles, or the Child of the Tuileries, but the Child of the Temple.

The ancient edifice of the Temple was one of the most interesting historical monuments in France. It no longer exists, having been destroyed in the beginning of this century. It was built more than six hundred years ago, and was associated in history with the faith, the chivalry, and the feats-at-arms of those gallant Christians, the Knight Templars. Above a mass of irregular buildings, which composed the Temple, there arose a very lofty, square tower, flanked by turrets, which the people of Paris designed for the prison of Louis XVI and his family. It was, however, the small tower, which was attached to the larger, that the royal family was finally forced to occupy. The body of this was divided into four stories. The first was composed of an ante-chamber and an eating-room, which communicated with a closet, in which there was a book-case, with some hundred volumes. Mesdames Thibaud, Basire, and Navarre slept in this dining-room, during the short time they remained in the Temple. On the second story you entered an ante-chamber that was very dark, in which the Countess De Lamballe slept. To the left was the room occupied by the queen and her daughter, the window of which looked into the garden. It was here—it being a little more cheerful than the other rooms—that the royal family passed almost the whole day. To the right, the prince royal, Madame De Tourzel, and Madame Saint Brice slept, in the same room. It was necessary to pass through this to get at the offices, which were used in common by the royal family, the municipal officers, and the common soldiers. The third story was a repetition of the second. In the ante-chamber placed above that where the Countess of Lamballe slept, Hue and De Chamilly, the king’s attendants, were lodged. To the right of this ante-chamber was the king’s room, with a window that looked out upon the dome of the Temple. Some engravings, the subjects of which were hardly decent, hung upon the walls of the room. The king removed them as soon as he arrived, saying, “I do not wish my daughter to see such pictures.” The little room in the turret served as the king’s reading-room. On the other side of the ante-chamber, opposite to the king’s room, was a small place, intended for the kitchen, and filled with cooking utensils. It was there that Madam Elizabeth, the king’s sister, and Ma­dame De Tourzel slept.

On the 19th of August, during the night, all the devoted friends and attendants who had followed the royal family into captivity were removed, under guard. The queen opposed herself in vain to the departure of the Countess De Lamballe. Their farewell was heart-rending. The two children, aroused by the noise, mingled their tears and embraces with this scene of grief; and the municipal officers were obliged to force away Madame De Lamballe and Madame De Tourzel with violence.

On the next day M. Hue alone was permitted to return. The joy of the prince royal at seeing M. Hue again was very lively; and his disappointment was great at seeing his mother the queen, and his aunt, preparing to send some things that were absolutely necessary for the wants of their absent friends, who were now prisoners of La Force. The little prince, feeling sad on account of these preparations, which showed a prolonged absence, exclaimed, sorrowfully, “But why do they keep Madame De Tour­zel from coming back?” His little bed, since the night before, had been removed to his mother’s room; and the next day, after some painful news brought by the guard, Madam Elizabeth left her lodging in the second story, which had been formerly the kitchen. She then took possession of the former room of the Dauphin; and the royal princess, who had hitherto slept with her mother, took up her quarters by the side of her aunt.

Louis XVI generally arose between six and seven o’clock in the morning, dressed himself, and then went into the closet in the turret, which connected with his room, shut himself up, said his prayers, and read until breakfast. In the meantime, the guard remained in the bed-room, with the door half open, that he might never lose sight of the king. The pious king remained on his knees for five or six minutes, and then read until nine o’clock. During this time M. Hue arranged the room, laid the breakfast-table, and then went down to the queen’s apartments.

Marie Antoinette generally arose earlier than the king, dressed her son herself, and heard him say his prayers. This was the only moment in the day that she was at liberty. The official spies passed the whole day in the very room of the queen, and the night in the place that served as the ante-chamber, to connect her lodging with that of Madam Elizabeth.

At nine o’clock the queen, her children, and Madam Elizabeth went to breakfast with the king. Hue, after having waited upon them, made the rooms of the queen and the princesses.

At ten o’clock the whole family went down to the queen’s room and passed the rest of the day. Louis XVI then gave his son lessons in the French language, in Latin, in history, and geography. Marie Antoinette occupied herself with teaching her daughter, and Madam Elizabeth instructed her in drawing and arithmetic.

At one o’clock, if the weather was fine, the royal family went out to walk in the garden, accompanied by four municipal officers, and the commander of the National Guard. During the walk, the young prince played at ball, or quoits, or horse, and other amusements. The bad weather, or the absence of Santerre, who was the chief guard, and whose presence was necessary for the enjoyment of the privilege of going out, sometimes prevented this pleasure; the deprivation of which was alone painful to the illustrious prisoners on account of their child, who required air and exercise.

At two o’clock they ascended into the king’s apartment for dinner. After they had dined, they went down again to the queen’s room. This was the time for recreation. The childrens’ amusements cast some rays of gayety into this sombre prison. Sometimes the king would select some book from the library. Generally, however, the queen and Madam Elizabeth would propose a game of piquet or back­gammon, in order to divert him from his reading and his work, which he was always eager to resume.

Sometimes, about four o’clock, the king would take some moments of sleep in his arm-chair. Ranged about him, the princesses opened a book or took their work. The greatest silence was preserved. The Dauphin studied his lessons. When his father awoke, he recited them, and went to his arithmetic and copy-book. Hue overlooked him. When his work was done, the little prince was taken to his aunt’s room, where he played at ball or shuttle-cock.

About seven o’clock the whole family placed themselves about the table. The queen and Madam Elizabeth, by turns, read aloud some book of history, or other choice work proper to instruct or amuse youth, but in which some unforeseen coincidences with their position would often present themselves, and awaken painful reflections. Such coincidences were especial­ly frequent while reading Miss Burney’s Ce­cilia.

At eight o’clock M. Hue prepared the prince royal’s supper. The queen directed its preparation. Louis XVI, in order to cheer up his family, would sometimes propose some enigmas, from an old volume of the Mercures de France that he found in the bookcase. The horizon of the family circle would clear up for an instant, under the influence of the sunny smiles of the children. After supper, the young prince was undressed and said his prayers. There was a particular one for the Princess De Lamballe, some for others, and this one for his family and governess:

“Almighty God, who created and redeemed me, whom I adore.

“Preserve the life of my father and my family.

“Preserve us from our enemies. Grant to Madame De Tourzel the strength of which she may stand in need, to bear the ills she suffers for us.”

Marie Antoinette made him repeat these prayers to her when the municipal guards were far enough away not to hear; but when they were too near, the child had the precaution to say them to himself, in a low voice. Adversity and captivity are rude but useful masters; they teach prudence to simplicity, and give experience to a child.

Hue then put the little prince to bed. The queen and Madam Elizabeth took their places, alternately, by the side of him. The family having been served with their supper, Hue carried something to eat to the princess, who was watching at the prince’s bedside. The king, when he arose from the table, went to see his son. In a few minutes afterward he quietly pressed the hands of his wife and sister, bid them a silent farewell, received the caresses of his children, and ascended to his room. Passing then into the turret, where he read and prayed, he did not leave it until midnight to go to bed.

The princesses remained sometime longer together, with their work in their hands. They often took this opportunity of repairing the clothes of the family; and then, after a tender good-night, they left each other to go to bed. The king and the Dauphin having each only one suit, Madam Elizabeth often spent many a long hour in the watch of the night repairing their clothes.

The chief consolation of the king, in the anguish of his imprisonment and suffering, was the education of his son. This child, who was only seven and a half years old, thought nothing of past greatness, but was happy in the present enjoyment of youth and life, and was never reminded of care but by the tears that he sometimes saw in his mother’s eyes. He never mentioned the Tuileries or Versailles. He did not appear to have any regrets. He seemed to forget his playthings and the tastes of childhood. His precocious intelligence responded perfectly to the tender care of the king. His memory was already stored with the fables of La Fontaine, and some choice passages from Corneille and Racine. His father accompanied his reading with interesting explanations. The prince was constantly in the habit of reading French history, and the king used to dictate to him occasional passages out of the “Spirit of the League,” which the prince would write down, and his father would afterward correct. In the study of geography, and in tracing out maps, Louis-Charles was quite a proficient.

There was no kind of privation that the roy­al family was not forced to submit to. They were not allowed sufficient clothes, linen, bed and table cloths, and towels, for ordinary use. Hue was obliged to spread upon the prince royal’s bed sheets and coverlets full of holes. They were exposed to all kinds of small annoyances and gross insults. The guards, as they lounged at the doors smoking their pipes, would puff their tobacco-smoke into their faces, and would put on their hats or take their seats whenever they saw the king or any of his family. The king’s pockets were often searched in the rudest manner, and, finally, his sword was taken from him. The king was not allowed to see the daily papers, with the exception of those that were left designedly by the guards on his table. One day one of them had written upon a newspaper, in pencil, “Tyrant, tremble! the guillotine is permanent!” Similar threats covered the walls; the guards had scrawled them everywhere, even upon the door of the king’s room.

The intrusiveness of the municipal officers was not confined to the details of the daily life of the royal family, but they even interfered with the education of the prince royal. One day, one of them, being present while the prince was copying his writing lesson out of Montesquieu, found certain reflections from the “Spirit of the Laws” not at all to his taste, and interrupted the study. “The prince should read,” the officer said, “nothing but revolutionary works.” On another occasion, the Dauphin was taking his Latin lesson, and pronounced a difficult word badly. His father allowed the fault to pass. An officer who was present rudely observed, “You ought to teach that child to pronounce better; for in these times he will be obliged, perhaps, to speak in public.” As for arithmetic, the prince was obliged to give that up altogether. A municipal officer observed, one day, that he was learning the multiplication table; he pretended that they were teaching him the art of writing in ciphers. The Council General in consequence denounced the mul­tiplication table, and interdicted all the rules of arithmetic.

The dreadful days of September had arrived. Danton had said in the Assembly, “We must terrify the Royalists.” The massacres of the prisoners succeeded. Of those persons who had been attached to the royal family, and had been forced from the Temple and thrown into La Force, Madame De Tourzel, the Dauphin’s governess, and Madame Saint Brice, his femme de chambre, were released. The Countess De Lamballe, Marie Antoinette’s devoted friend, was massacred. On being questioned by the bloody tribunal of the people about the queen, she answered, “I have nothing to say to you. Death, sooner or later, is indifferent to me. I am quite ready.” She had hardly spoken, when she was struck down with a sabre, and thrown upon a heap of dead bodies. Her body, beautiful even in death, was exposed to the licen­tious gaze of human monsters, and given up to indignities that cannibals would have blushed to look upon. They then took their knives and cut off her breasts and other parts of her person, severed the head, and one man opened her left side, and, plunging in his hand, drew out the bleeding heart. They then pierced the torn and bloody remnants of the beautiful countess with their lances,, and bore them aloft in the savage triumph of violence and murder. A confused crowd of men, women, and children, covered with dirt and filth, ragged, drunken, furious, and wild, gathered together on the scent of blood. Led on by an old man and a child, raging and howling like fiends, the ferocious crowd rushed to the Temple, dragging after them, through the mud of the gutters and streets of Paris, the body of the countess, and bearing upon a pike her head. A French barber had delicately washed and perfumed the face, and dressed, curled, and adorned the hair of the dissevered head of the beautiful princess; and thus it was borne by the crowd, and thrust, amid threats, and curses, and the cries of “La Lamballe! La Lamballe!” into the windows of the Temple, almost into the very faces of the royal prisoners. A man, in the dress of the National Guard, rushed into the tower, and insisted upon the royal family showing themselves at the window to the populace without. “No, no! for God’s sake, no!—how horrible!” interposed one of the municipal officers. At which the man in the dress of the National Guard cried out aloud, so as to be heard by the royal family, “ They are trying to conceal from you the head of La Lamballe, which has been borne here to show you how the people revenge themselves upon their tyrants. I would advise you to appear, if you don’t want the people to come after you.”

The queen swooned away. Madam Elizabeth and the children, in tears, tried to revive her by their caresses. The man still remaining, the king said to him, “We are prepared for any thing, sir; but you might have dispensed with informing the queen of this frightful event.” He then went away with his comrades. Their purpose was accomplished. The body and the head of the Princess De Lamballe after the unclean mob had ceased their sport, were gathered up and privately interred by the Duke De Penthièvre. As for her heart, the hideous cannibal who had pounced upon it, repaired to the wine-shop opposite to the gate of the Temple, had it cooked, and devoured it greedily, in the company of a comrade whom he had invited to the feast.

The massacres continued systematically in the prisons of Paris, but the royal family was spared the knowledge of all the horror of those fatal days. The uniform life of the prisoners in the Temple was resumed. The officers, guards, and spies continued their intrusive vigilance and insults. Simon, a cobbler, of whom we will have occasion to say more at another time, was appointed one of the commissioners to inspect the state of the Temple. This man never appeared before the royal family without a gross insult on his lips. He often said to the king’s attendant, Clery, loud enough for Louis XVI to hear him, “Clery, ask Capet if he wants any thing, so that I may not have the trouble of coming up again.” This Simon, insolent to the father, cruel to the son, was the personification of the bitter feeling of the lower classes to­ward royalty. Oaths, indecencies, and threats were written with chalk and charcoal upon the walls. The queen and her children were greeted with such inscriptions as Down with the Austrian she-wolf! The young whelps must be strangled!

On the 21st of September, 1792, a municipal officer, surrounded with gendarmes and a large crowd, read the following proclamation in front of the tower:

“Royalty is abolished in France. All public acts will be dated from the first year of the Republic. The seal of the state will bear as its motto, Republique de France. The national seal will represent a woman, seated upon a bundle of arms, and holding in her hand a pike, surmounted by the cap of liberty.” The royal family could hear the proclamation distinctly.

After supper one day, when the king was about leaving the room of Marie Antoinette to go to his own apartment, a municipal officer requested him to wait, as the council had some­thing to communicate to him. In a quarter of an hour after, the six commissaries, who had been appointed for the purpose, made their appearance, and read to Louis XVI a resolution, conveyed in the harshest terms, which ordered the separation of the king from his family. The king was deeply affected. This separation was the most cruel event that this severely afflicted family had yet suffered. Louis XVI’s new apartment was in the large tower, where there was only a single bed, and no other furniture. His family was still allowed to visit him occasionally, and the king was enabled to continue, with some interruption, the education of his son. On the 26th of October, the queen, her children, and their aunt were also removed to the large tower. The young prince, however, was withdrawn from the care of his mother, and placed under the charge of his father. On the evening of the queen’s taking possession of her new quarters, her son was taken from her, without any previous notice. Her grief was extreme. The last joy of her life was gone—the only ray which illumined her sad reflections, as dark as death. The unfortunate prince himself was so much afflicted at being torn from his mother, that he took the first opportunity of expressing his resentment. A mason, by the name of Mercereau, at work in the Temple, who thought the young prince did not treat him with the respect that one of the people in those revolutionary times was entitled to, said to the Dauphin, “Do you know, young fellow, that liberty has made us all free, and that we are all equal?”—“Equal, if you please,” answered the child; “but it is not here,” casting his eyes toward his father, “that you can persuade us that liberty has made us all free.”

The reunion of the royal family in the great tower brought with it few changes in their habits. Their meals, their reading, the education of the children were all regulated as before.

The family were all taken ill in turn. When the young prince was sick with the hooping-cough, the queen requested permission to have the bed of her son removed from the king’s to her own bed-room. This was refused. She also asked permission to pass the night by his bedside. She was only permitted to do so during the day.

Brought up in the school of virtue and adversity, the heart of the young Dauphin opened to all tender and generous sentiments. His aunt, who was prevented, by the watchfulness of the guards, from seeing Clery, the attendant, who was ill, gave the little prince a box of lozenges to give to Clery when he saw him. When the Dauphin was in bed, he called his attendant, in a low voice. Clery was surprised that the prince was not yet asleep, it being toward midnight. “Why are you not asleep?” said Clery. “Because,” answered the prince, “ my aunt gave me a box for you, and I did not want to go to sleep until you got it. It was quite time for you to be here, for my eyes have been closed several times.”

The young prince always showed great del­icacy of feeling, as well as affection, for his mother. A commissary once asked him why he looked so hard at him. “Because I know you well,” said the prince, without reflection. “And where have you ever seen me?” The child looked at him again, without saying a word. To the question, frequently repeated, he refused constantly to answer. His sister, who was present, said, “My dear, keep still; you don’t know him.” But he whispered in her ear, “Say nothing about it to mamma; it was on our journey to Varennes.”

On another occasion he exhibited his filial tenderness for his father. A man was at work, putting some enormous locks upon the door of the king’s room. The prince took up some of his tools to play with. Louis XVI took them out of his son’s hands to show him how they should be used, and began to work at the door. The locksmith, seeing the king at work, said, “When you leave here you will be able to say that you worked at your own prison.”—“Yes,” answered the king; “but how and when am I to leave ?” He had hardly uttered these words when the Dauphin, quite overcome, threw himself, all in tears, into his father’s arms.

Louis XVI was giving a lesson in reading to his son, when, at the hour of eleven, two municipal officers came to take the young prince to his mother. The king asked the reason. He was answered that it was according to order.

Louis XVI, having been forced to submit to the mockery of a trial, was finally condemned to death on the 20th of January, 1793.

Permission had been granted the king to see his family before his execution. At the close of this sad interview, Louis XVI took his son upon his knees, and said to him, “My son, promise me never to avenge my death”, and, making him lift his hand, he continued, “Swear that you will obey the last wish of your father.” These were the last words of Louis XVI to the Dauphin of France.

V.

THE Comte De Provence, the brother of Louis XVI, who was then an exile in Westphalia, as soon as he heard of the death of the king, proclaimed, on the 28th of January, 1793, the Dauphin his successor, with the title of Louis XVII. While the son of Louis XVI was thus proclaimed king, the young prince was lamenting his father, in the arms of the widowed queen, within the bars of his prison.

After the cruel parting on the evening of the 20th of January, the queen had barely strength enough to undress and put the royal child to bed. She then threw herself, all dressed as she was, upon her own couch, where her sister and daughter, who were in the same room, heard her sobbing and trembling the whole night. Next day the whole family were up before the break of day. They awaited with trembling impatience, the hour of the promised interview with the king. Each minute upon the clock of the prison seemed to mark an age. A loud tumult that was heard announced the time for the departure of the king. The poor women, prostrate and overcome, entreated pity. The Dauphin, wild with fright, bewildered, ran from guard to guard, clinging to the knees of one and kissing the hand of the other, and beseechingly entreating to be allowed to see his father. “Let me go, gentlemen! let me go he cried. “What for ” they asked. “To ask the people not to kill my father. In the name of God, let me go!” The jailers were deaf to all entreaty, and the royal family never saw Louis XVI again.

About ten o’clock, the queen urged her children to take some nourishment, which they, however, refused. A few moments after, they heard the firing of cannon and the cries of delight of the maddened crowd. Madam Elizabeth, lifting her eyes to heaven, exclaimed, “Monsters! now they are happy.” Maria Theresa, the young princess, gave vent to a piercing shriek. Her young brother wept. The queen, with her head bent, and with a haggard face, remained plunged in deep despair, cold and silent as death. The crier soon informed them officially of the death of the king.

The Dauphin, since morning, had clung to his mother. He kissed her hands, which he bathed with his tears. He tried to console her more by his caresses than his words. “These tears,” said the mother, “which are flowing, will never again he dried. Those alone are punished who survive.” No one slept during that night but the young prince. His sister had been prevailed upon to go to bed, but did not close her eyes; while the mother and aunt min­gled their tears and their grief, as they sat near the bed of the Dauphin, who was sleeping in peace.

The next morning the queen said to her son, as she kissed him, “My child, we must think of God.”—“ Mamma, I do think of God; but when I think of him, my father’s image rises before me.”

Suits of mourning were brought to the family on the 27th. When the queen saw her children, for the first time, in their dark dresses, she said, “My poor children, it will be a long time for you; for me, it will last always!” With all the anguish and suffering of the queen, she had sufficient firmness to resume the education of her son, and he was taught by her and his aunt all the various branches of education, with the exception of Latin, commenced by his father; writing, geography, history, &c.

Countless were the insults to which the royal family were exposed. The surveillance of the guards and the attendants was ceaseless, and was exercised in the most intrusive and annoying manner. The most minute precautions were taken to prevent any communication with the prisoners from without. All consolation, all sympathy was carefully withheld.

As an additional source of anxiety, the young prince fell ill. Marie Antoinette besought permission to have her physician in ordinary, M. Brunier, sent for, to attend him. This request was refused by the government, on the ground that it would be offensive to equality to have the prince attended by any other than the or­dinary medical attendant of the prisons. M. Thierry, who was the physician sent, was zeal­ous in his care and treatment of the Dauphin, who remained ill for several weeks.

On the 1st of July, the Committee of Public Safety decreed as follows:

“The Committee of Public Safety decrees that the son of Capet shall be separated from his mother, and placed in the hands of a tutor, determined by the choice of the Council General.”

It was ten o’clock in the evening. The royal child was in bed, and in a profound sleep. There were no curtains to his bed; but a shawl, ingeniously arranged by the tender care of his mother, shaded the light from his closed eyes, and prevented it from disturbing the calm and smiling repose of his sweet face. The queen and her sister had prolonged their nightly watch, and were mending the clothes of the family; while Maria Theresa, the young princess, seated between the two, was reading. Thus they were spending the evening. On a sudden, the sound of many steps was heard upon the staircase. Locks were turned, bolts thrust back; the door opened; six municipal officers entered. “We come,” one of them rudely said, “to no­tify you of the order of the committee, to the effect that the son of Capet shall be separated from his mother and his family.” At these words the queen turned pale and started, exclaiming, “Take away my child! No, no, it is impossible!” Maria Theresa was standing up, trembling, at the side of her mother, while Madam Elizabeth listened and looked, with her heart almost bursting, but without shedding a tear. “Gentlemen,” said the queen, trying to subdue with all her force the chill which made her voice tremulous, “they can never intend to separate me from my child; he is so young, and so feeble, that he requires a mother’s care.” —“The committee have so decided, and we must immediately comply with their order.”— “I shall never be able to resign myself to the separation,” cried the unhappy mother. “Do not, for God’s sake, put me to this cruel trial!” And her companions joined their tears and their prayers with the queen’s. All three of them had placed themselves by the bed of the Dauphin. They defended the approach to it; they sobbed, they joined hands with each other.

“What’s the use of all this fuss,” said the officers; “they are not going to kill your child. Give him up to us voluntarily, or we will have to force you.” And they began to employ force. The curtain, having been detached in the struggle, fell upon the head of the young prince. He awoke, and observed what was going on; he threw himself into his mother’s arms; he cried out, “Mamma! mamma! don’t leave me!” And his mother pressed her trembling child to her bosom, quieted and protected him, clinging with all her might to the bed. “Don’t let us fight with the women,” murmured one of the officers, who had not spoken before; “let us order up the guard.” And he turned for that purpose to the turnkey, who was standing before the door. “For Heaven’s sake, do not do so,” said Madam Elizabeth. “What you in­sist upon by force, we must yield to; but give us breathing time. The child wants sleep, and he cannot sleep anywhere else. Tomorrow we will give him up to you. Let him, at least, pass the night in this room, and do, we pray, arrange it so that he may come here every evening.” There was no answer to these words. “At least,” said Marie Antoinette, “promise me that he shall remain within the inclosure of the tower, and that I may be permitted to see him every day, if it be only at his meals.”—“We have no account to render you, mistress; and it is not for us to question the intentions of our country. The deuce! because they take away your child, you are in a terrible stat! Ours are having their heads shot off every day by the balls of the enemy that you have brought to our frontier.”—“My son,” gently replied the queen, “is too young yet to serve his country; but I hope some day, if God is willing, he may be proud to dedicate his life to it.”

In the mean time she was dressing her child; and, although assisted by the two princesses, never did the dressing of a child take so long a time. Each article of dress was turned over and over again, passed from hand to hand, and moistened with tears. The separation was thus put off for some moments. The officers began to lose patience.

Finally, the queen, having summoned all her strength from the depths of her heart, seated herself upon a chair, put her son before her, placed her two hands upon his shoulders, and calm, motionless, collected in her grief, without shedding a tear or uttering a sigh, said to him, in a grave and solemn tone of voice, “My child, we are about parting. Remember your duties when I shall not be by your side to remind you of them. Never forget the Almighty, who tries you; nor your mother, who loves you. Be virtuous, patient, and gentle, and your fa­ther, who is in heaven, will bless you.” Thus she spoke, kissed her child’s forehead, and handed him over to the jailers. The poor child ran back to his mother, kissed her, and clung to her dress. “My son, you must obey—you must!” —“Come, now, no more preaching, I hope,” said one of the officers; “you have abused our patience terribly.”—“You might, my woman, have dispensed with that long lesson,” said another, dragging the prince violently out of the room. “Don’t trouble yourself,” continued a third; “the nation, always great and gener­ous, will provide for his education.” And the door closed.

VI.

THE young king was borne to that part of the tower that had been occupied by his father, and was left alone in the presence of Simon his tutor.

Simon was a shoemaker by trade. He was a man about fifty-seven years of age, below middle size in stature, robust and square built, of a swarthy complexion, with a coarse expression of face, black hair, which grew down to his eyebrows, and thick bushy whiskers. His wife was about the same age. She was very short, very fat, and very ugly; like her hus­band, her complexion was dark and coarse. She generally wore a cap, with red ribbons, and a blue apron. She was a rustic, uneducated person. She had no children, but often expressed her regret at not having any. When the proposition of appointing a tutor to the little Capet was under discussion, Marat proposed Simon for the place, and he was seconded by Robespierre.

It was half past ten o’clock when the young prince was brought to his tutor-Simon. The child wept a long time, and remained seated in the furthest corner of the apartment for many hours without saying a word. The young prince refused all nourishment, with the exception of a crust of bread, for two whole days. Sometimes he grieved in silence; at others the fire of indignation would sparkle through his tears, and he would mingle angry words with his complaints. “I wish to know,” said he, in an imperious tone, to one of the municipal officers, “by what law I am separated from my mother and put in prison. Show me the law—I want to see it?” The officers were unable to answer him. Simon, however, was always ready to come to their aid, saying, “ hut your mouth, young Capet; you must not ask questions here?

Two days passed thus, the child resisting, and asserting his independence. He finally resigned himself, with a good grace, to going to bed; and in the morning he got up and dressed himself without being ordered. He wept no longer, but he did not speak. “Eh, then, little Capet,” said his master to him, “you are dumb, are you? I must teach you how to speak, and to sing the Carmagnole, and to cry Vive la Republique! You are dumb, are you?”—“If I should say aloud what I am thinking about to myself,” said the royal child, “you would think me mad. I am silent because I have too much to say.” — “Oh, oh! Master Capet, too much to say; there’s an aristocrat for you. Do you hear, sirrah, that won’t suit me ! You are young, and we must excuse you; but that won’t do for me. I am your master, and I must not let you wallow in ignorance. I must bring you forward, and teach you the new ideas.”

Simon, in a moment of generosity, or with a sinister design, made his pupil a present of a jews-harp. “Your she-wolf of a mother and your slut of an aunt play on the harpsichord; you must accompany them on the jews-harp. What a jolly clatter you’ll make of it!” The child thought that an insult was intended by this gift, and he threw it away and refused to play upon it. This refusal enraged Simon, and was the cause of the first blows he had ever received. Simon did not confine himself to verbal reprimands, but frequently resorted to the most brutal infliction of bodily punishment. “You may punish me if I am at fault,” said the child, “but you must not beat me, sir, do you hear! You are stronger than I am.”—“I am here, little animal, to command you. I can do what 1 wish. Vive la liberté! L’egalité!”

On Sunday, the 7th of July, 1793, a rumor circulated throughout Paris, to the effect that the plot of General Dillon and his accomplices, in spite of their being arrested, had succeeded; that the son of Louis XVI had escaped from the tower, had been seen on the Boulevards, and carried in triumph to St. Cloud. The crowd rushed to the Temple, eager to know the truth. The guard, who had not seen the prince since he had been delivered up to Simon, stated that he was no longer in the tower. This gave increased currency to the popular rumor.

In order to quiet this rumor, a deputation was ordered, by the Committee of General Safety, to proceed immediately to the Temple and investigate the truth of the report, and to establish officially the fact of the presence of the royal child in the tower. Chabot and Drouet, two of the most inveterate revolutionists, were members of this deputation, and exhibited their zeal in the rudest and most cruel manner. They had hardly reached the Dauphin’s room, when they ordered the tyrants son to go down at once into the garden, that the soldiers on guard might see him with their own eyes. The deputation then assembled in Simon’s apartment, to inquire into the manner in which he had carried out the decree of the government. The plain understanding of Simon did not, at first, conceive what the intentions of the committee were. He really thought that their purpose was to make a simple republican out of the royal prince; to put, in fact, the bonnet rouge upon the head of the young Capet, in lieu of a crown upon the royal brow of Louis XVII. He began, however, at last to have some suspicion of their designs, and questioned them, accordingly, with­out further circumlocution. “Citizens” he asked, “what are you going to do with the young whelp ? He has been taught to be in­solent : I know how to master him. If he breaks his heart, so much the worse for him. I will not answer for it. But what do you intend to do with him? Send him away?” Answer — “No!”—“Kill him ?” — “ No!” — “Poison him?”—“No!”—“Well, what then?” Answer—“Get rid of him !”  This, indeed, was the design that was carried out with great perseverance, for two years; as has been said, He was neither killed nor sent away, but he was got rid of.

As soon as the prince reached the garden, he began to call after his mother with loud cries. Some of the guard, trying to quiet him, pointed out Simon, who was coming out of the tower, when the prince said to them, very indignantly, “They will not, they can not show me the law which orders my separation from my mother!” One of the guards, surprised at his firmness, and affected by his filial tenderness, asked Simon what it all meant. Simon only said, “The whelp is hard to muzzle. He is like you; he wants always to know the law. Just as if it was any thing to him! Silence, Capet, or I will show these citizens how I manage you when you deserve it!” The unfortunate little prisoner turned toward the municipal officers and entreated their pity, but it was of no avail.

The commissaries, after their interview with the Dauphin, paid a visit to Marie Antoinette. They examined and scrutinized, with the sharp eye of the police, every corner of her apartment. They then asked if she was in want of any thing. “I want nothing,” she said, “but my son. It is indeed too cruel to keep him away from me.” —“Your son is well taken care of. He has for his preceptor a patriot; and you have no more reason to complain of the manner in which he is treated than you have to complain of your own treatment.”—“I only complain of one thing  and that is, the absence of my child, who has never before been away from me. It is now five days since he was torn from me, and I have not been allowed to see him once, although he is ill, and requires my care. I can not think it possible that the Convention does not appreciate the justice of my complaints.”

The deputation reported to the Convention that “they found the son of Capet quietly playing a game of checkers with his master and that, “on entering the apartments of the women, they found Marie Antoinette, her sister, and her daughter in the enjoyment of perfect health; that notwithstanding the report, among foreign nations, of their ill treatment, they acknowledged, in their presence, that they were in want of nothing.” There was no allusion to the cries of the child for his mother, the tears of the queen for her son, and the bitter anguish of the wretched prisoners.

From this time, the young disciple was treat­ed with increased severity by his master. When Simon heard of the success of the Austrian army, he sprang upon the child, exclaiming, “Cursed whelp, you are half an Austrian, and you accordingly deserve to be half killed!”

A day or two subsequently, Simon’s wife entered the apartment, looking much frightened. She had just heard of the assassination of Marat. Her husband could not believe the news. Simon left his prisoner for the first time, and went out to inquire about the truth of the rumor he had heard from his wife. The news was well-founded, and had spread everywhere, causing a great, sensation in the city, but affecting no one more than Simon, who claimed Marat as his particular friend, and looked up to him as his model of a republican citizen. Simon returned. During his absence he had ordered some wine and brandy. He began drinking and smoking his pipe, and tried to console himself. Heated with drink, he insisted upon his wife and the young prince going out upon the platform of the tow­er, where they might listen to the tumult of the people, excited by the death of Marat.

“Do you hear, Capet, the noise yonder?” said the brutal jailer. “It is the groans of the people for the murder of their friend. I thought of taking off your mourning tomorrow; but now I will make you wear it longer. Capet will wear mourning for Marat. Cursed little viper, you don’t seem to be at all sorry : you are glad he is dead, then!” And, as he spoke, he struck the prince a violent blow. “I never knew the person who is dead; but be sure I am not glad of it. We do not desire the death of anyone.”—“Oh we, don’t we!... Do you pretend to address us like those tyrant fathers of yours ?”—“I said we, in the plural,” answered the child, “meaning my family and myself.” Simon, somewhat appeased by this grammatical explanation, became less angry, and continued to walk about, listening to the murmur of the excited city, and repeating, with a diabolical laugh, “Capet will wear mourning for Marat!”

On the 16th of July, the funeral of Marat took place with great pomp. Simon regretted that his duties in the tower deprived him of being present on so solemn an occasion. His wife, however, was enabled to see all the display of the ceremony. When Simon thought of her seeing the body of Marat in state, and enjoying the consolation of following in the funeral procession, his envy was greatly excited. He kept walking about the whole day in his apartment, like a caged tiger. Although obliged, by his duties as a jailer, to keep at home, he did honor to the occasion by wearing his bonnet rouge with a cockade, and his tricolored scarf.

Some days afterward, news having arrived of the defeat of the republican army near Saumur, Simon came in, in a rage, which he vented upon the person of the unhappy prince. “It is your friends, you young villain, who are cutting our throats!” And he redoubled his blows. The poor child might well say, “It is not my fault.” The pitiless jailer, however, took him by the hair, and nearly wrenched his head from his shoulders. The child smothered his com­plaints I big tears, however, rolled down his cheeks : but not a cry escaped him, lest it should be heard elsewhere in the tower, and reach his mother’s ears.

It was long since his former gayety had left him, and that the roses of health had faded from his cheeks. His body suffered as much from weakness as his mind did from grief. He slept less than he used to. His moral condition was as yet innocent of all corruption.

Simon made him go down every day into the garden. Sometimes he was taken out upon the tower, where his jailer used to go for his own pleasure, to enjoy the air and smoke his pipe at his ease. The prince always followed him, as a whipped dog, with his head hanging down, fearing to meet the eye of his master, which was sure to look upon him with hatred and vengeance.

Of course, the education of the prince, under such a master, had nothing to do with learning, and the child was deprived of his books and of all means for the improvement of his mind. The idleness to which his naturally active intelligence was condemned soon resulted in weariness and increased anguish. Having no diversion for his mind, he gave himself up to melancholy thoughts and the most painful remembrances.

On the day after his being taken away, the queen had requested permission to send the prince his books of study, his writing materials, and his playthings. His books were used by Simon to light his pipe, his writing materials were thrown helter skelter into a corner, and his playthings were broken or thrown away. What with revolutionary songs, patriotic odes, bloody jokes, and the oaths then in fashion, the hours of study and of recreation of the young Capet were fully occupied. Study, writing, history, geography, the adventures of Telemachus, and the fables of La Fontaine, could only have served to cultivate his mind and improve his heart!

It was now a fortnight since the queen had beheld her son. She was not yet aware into what hands the prince had fallen, nor did she know that he had been separated from her, in order that his bodily vigor, his moral feeling, and his intellect might be destroyed. Her fears were great, but not equal to the frightful reality. She had no suspicion that her son was to be brought up through the various degrees of dishonor, to acquire not only the coarse hab­its, but the ignoble sentiments, and even the songs insulting to his father’s memory, of his jailers, charged with the double office of op­pressing and brutalizing the prince.

Simon made him wait upon him at table, and forced him, by blows, to descend to the most vile and humiliating offices. Wishing to supply the prince with a new suit of clothes, in the fashion of the times, Simon stripped off his mourning dress, and clothed him in a little coat of red cloth, made in the style of the revolutionary carmagnole, a pair of pantaloons of the same stuff, and a bonnet rouge, the classical uniform of a Jacobin. “If I make you take off your mourning for Marat,” said Simon to him, “you shall, at any rate, wear his livery, and honor his memory in that way.” The scar­let cap, however, was not immediately forth­coming. It had been ordered, but was for­gotten by the tailor. The cap at last arrived, and Simon wanted his prisoner to adorn him­self with it at once; but he met with a resistance on the part of the prince that he had by no means expected ; blows went for nothing; the child resisted, and would not be prevailed upon to wear the bonnet rouge. He had become the servant of his jailers, he had received patiently a thousand insults, endured numberless privations, but he would not submit to put upon his head the cap worn by the executioners of his father. Simon yielded, finally, weary with scolding and beating him, and prevailed upon by the interposition of his wife, who said, “Come, come, Simon, leave him; he will not be so obstinate again.” This was not the only occasion when this woman interposed. She had every reason in the world to be satisfied with the child. One day, while giving an account to her old mistress, whose servant she had been, of what was going on at the Temple, she said, “ The little fellow is a nice and amiable child; he cleans my shoes, and brings me the foot­stove to my bed when I get up in the morning!” Alas! what a change, from the Royal Dauphin, presenting the queen mother every morning with a bouquet, and the poor little prisoner Capet, bearing the foot-stove to the cobbler’s wife!

“But,” said her old mistress to Simon’s wife, “what a shame to let the son of your king wait upon you in this way.” Mistress Simon was not a cruel, but an ignorant woman; she did not like to see the prince beaten, but had no objection to have him brutalized. To the ill treatment of the child, the threats, tortures, cruel beatings, and neglect, was added the free indulgence in wine. Every effort was made to destroy the body and corrupt the heart of the poor youth.

Mistress Simon hit upon an expedient, that had hitherto escaped her, for spoiling the good looks of the child, by cutting off his hair. The prince remained silent and sad the whole day. Whether it was that he felt the want of his hair, or that he was stupefied with the wine with which he had been plied, the poor boy allowed Simon to put the bonnet rouge upon his head, the brutal jailer exclaiming, as he did it, “Ah, Capet, there you are at last, a true Jac­obin!”

The walk on the platform of the tower was divided by a board partition, in such a way that the prisoners could only see each other through the crevices, and at a distance. His mother, aunt, and sister were always contriving to be present on the platform at the same time as the little prince, in order that they might at least get a glance at him. “We went out often upon the tower,” says Maria Theresa, “because my brother also went out; and the sole pleasure of my mother consisted in looking through a crevice at him as he passed in the distance.” But the choice of the hours for their walks did not depend upon the prisoners themselves. The municipal guards regulated the time for the queen, and the caprice of Simon decided the moment for the young prince. It was only, therefore, by a happy chance that they were out at the same time. It did not matter. The queen was never wearied of watching. She was not sure that her child would come, but he might. With her ears and eyes close to the board partition, she caught the least sound, or heard the lightest stir, that might indicate the approach of her darling boy. In spite of constant disappointment, the queen was not dis­couraged. A mother’s heart is always patient. Finally, one day Marie Antoinette did catch a glance of her son; but the happiness she had so eagerly hoped for was turned into bitter an­guish. Her child passed before the eyes of his mother. He had left off his mourning for his father. He wore the bonnet rouge upon his head. That insolent fellow who had so grossly insulted Louis XVI. and herself was by his side. On that day, too, by a fatal mischance, it happened that Simon, having heard of the taking of Valenciennes by the Duke of York, was in a paroxysm of rage, and vented it in bitter threats and curses upon the head of the young prince. Overcome by the sight, Marie Antoinette threw herself, sobbing piteously, into the arms of her sister, who had been, like herself, a witness of the cruel scene. Her daughter was hastening also to the partition, when her mother drew her away, wishing to save her the misery of knowing her brother’s sufferings, and said, “It is useless to watch any longer; he will not come.” They then walked to the other side of the platform. The poor mother, however, returned to the partition, to get another glance at her child. She saw him again. He was walking quietly along, with his head bent; his master was no longer swearing at him, and she did not hear a word uttered. This silence of the child was as sad an affliction to the queen as the outrages of the brutal Simon. She remained fixed to the spot, silent and motionless, until drawn away by her sister.

The queen and Madam Elizabeth, her sister­in-law, now knew the deplorable condition of the Dauphin. They learned through Tison, who was at first placed as a spy upon the royal family, but became afterward of a friendly disposition, that the prince was never addressed but with an oath, never commanded but with a threat, and that every attempt was made to force him to sing obscene verses or regicide songs. They, moreover, learned that, as yet, the heroic prince was proof to all these malignant efforts, and that blows could obtain nothing from him.

The next day, and the day after, the queen and her sister went out again and again upon the tower. They passed many hours there. They could see nothing. Marie Antoinette never saw her child again.

At two o’clock on the morning of the 2d of August, 1793, the princesses were awakened from sleep, by the municipal officers coming to read to the queen the decree which ordered her removal to the Conciergerie. She listened to the reading of the decree without uttering a word. Madam Elizabeth, however, and Maria Theresa, the queen’s daughter, earnestly sup­plicated permission to accompany Marie Antoi­nette. While the queen was making up her bundle of clothes, the municipal officers never left her for a moment. She was even obliged to dress herself in their presence. They search­ed her pockets, and took everything away from her but her handkerchief and a smelling-bottle. She took the most affecting farewell of her sis­ter and daughter. As she descended the stairs, she cast a last sad glance upon the door of the prison of her son ; that son to whom she was denied a parting kiss; that son whom she knew she was leaving in the hands of Simon.

On the very day that the queen was thrust into the Conciergerie, the government, with a malevolent thoughtfulness, sent the young prince some toys, among which was a little guillotine. One of the commissaries in the Temple, however, as soon as he saw it, threw it with indignation into the fire.

VII.

ONE day the wife of Simon went to see the tragedy of Brutus, and returned full of enthusiasm. She commenced to describe, in her way, the plot of the piece, and the playing of the actors. Simon listened with great delight; but, observing that the young prince had turned away his head, and seemed indifferent, or determined not to hear, “Cursed whelp!” he exclaimed, with rage; “you won’t listen, then, that you may learn and be enlightened! You want to remain always a fool, and the son of a tyrant!”—“Every one has parents whom he ought to honor,” answered the child. This enraged his master, who, striking the prince with the back of his hand and giving him a kick, knocked him to the further end of the room.

Simon always called the young prince to account for every counter-revolutionary movement. A rising having taken place at Montbrison, in favor of Louis XVII, Simon, a few days after, said, “Wife, I present to you the King of Montbrison”; and, taking off from the prince’s head his republican cap, he continued addressing the child. “I am going to anoint, and consecrate, and offer up incense to you. Look!” And the brute rudely rubbed the head and the ears of the prince, puffed tobacco smoke from his pipe into his face, and shoved him to­ward his wife. “Now, then, wife, it is your turn to present your compliments to his maj­esty

On the 10th of August, there was a grand fête in honor of the new Constitution of the re­public. Simon was enraged that his duties confined him to the prison, and made him as much of a prisoner as his young captive. At the break of day, the cannon thundered, awak­ening the echoes of the old Temple. Simon was up early, and, arousing the prince, ordered him to cry Vive la Republique! The child, with his eyes only half open, did not understand what was said to him. He got up and dressed himself, without saying a word. Simon, crossing his arms, stood before him, and repeated, authoritatively, “Come, Capet, this is a great day; you must cry Vive la Republique! or—” and his gesture completed his sentence with more force than words. The prince raised his head and looked at his jailer with a steady eye, and said, with firmness, “You may do what you please, but I will never cry Vive la Republique”. Simon himself seemed to be awed, and only remarked, “All the world shall know of your conduct.”

Simon was not always able to restrain himself as on that occasion. Next day, he was reading aloud from one of the Paris newspapers an account of the proceedings on the day of the fete. He insisted upon the prince’s listen­ing to the long and fiery harangues of the or­ators on that occasion. The child appeared to listen with a good grace, until Simon came to the oration of the president of the Convention, delivered in the Place de la Revolution, which began with these words : “Here the ax of the law struck down the tyrant. Let all these disgraceful marks of servitude which despots presented in every form to our gaze be destroyed; let fire destroy them, that nothing may remain but the sentiment of virtue which overturned them. Justice I Vengeance! ye tutelary saints of a free people, affix forever the curse of man­kind to the name of that traitor who, upon a throne raised by generosity, deceived the con­fidence of a magnanimous people.” The child could not endure this, but turned his back upon his master, and went into the recess of the window to hide his face and his tears. Simon followed him, and dragged him back by the hair, and made him stand up, under the threat of a beating, until he had heard every word. The child, with his handkerchief to his eyes, appeared to listen, without a murmur. The furious Jacobin watched like a tiger every movement of his victim. To add to the torture, he read and re-read every passage that was most insulting. He repeated over and over again these words from one of the addresses: “Let us swear to defend the Constitution until death. The republic is eternal.” The boy remained quiet and resigned. Simon was enraged in con­sequence of this very tranquillity; he was not at all satisfied with the patience of the prince. “Do you hear, Capet?” said he. “Let us swear to defend the Constitution until death. The republic is eternal. Come, you must say as we do, the republic is eternal!” As he spoke, he caught hold of the child, and tried to shake the words out of him by force. “ There is nothing eternal!” replied the prince; and as soon as he said so, Simon, with a terrible oath, threw him upon his bed. “Let him alone,” interposed Simon’s wife; “he has been brought up in ignorance and deceit.” Simon approached him, with his journal in his hand, gesticulating with violence. He stopped in a moment before the bed where the prince was weeping. “It is your fault,” said his tutor; “if I treat you so, you have deserved it.”— “I was mistaken,” said the child, whose sobs almost deprived him of speech, “ I was mistaken. God is eternal, but no one else!”

“About this time, while the queen was in close confinement in the Conciergerie, the police distributed, or caused to be sold in the streets, various pamphlets and songs against the Austrian she-wolf. This was preparatory to the trial of the queen. “Come, Capet, come sing this for me,” said Simon, one day, as he handed the prince one of these obscene songs, insulting his mother. He took it, and put it upon the table, without saying a word. Simon was in a rage, and cried out, “I thought I told you to sing; you must do as I bid you.”—“I will never sing such a song,” answered the child. “If you don’t, I’ll kill you.” As he spoke, he took hold of an andiron, and, as the child repeated never, he threw it at him, and if he had not dodged the blow, he would have been certainly killed.

Simon was certainly a faithful servant of the Convention, and carried out to the full their diabolical purpose. After the queen had left the tower, he redoubled his arts for the destruction of the bodily health, and the corruption of the moral purity of his victim. Perhaps he had received orders to hasten in bringing about the desired result. He changed the mode of living of the royal prisoner; he forced him to eat more than usual, and to drink freely of wine; he only allowed him a very little exercise; he shortened the time for recreation in the garden, and did not permit him to walk out on the tower. These changes worked a serious effect upon his health and his spirits; he became dull, fat, and ceased to grow. He had never drank any thing but water until he came under the rod of Si­mon; he had great aversion for wine, and his disgust at it made him sick at the stomach, and finally quite ill. No notice of his illness was given to the authorities. Simon’s wife, like most old women, having some pretensions to a knowledge of physic, gave him some drug or other, which made the prince worse. He, however, after a severe fever, which lasted three or four days, recovered. His bad treatment, however, was renewed; he was still made to eat ex­cessively, and drink constantly of wine until he became intoxicated ; and when his reason was thus affected, it used to be the devilish delight of Simon to make him sing obscene songs and utter frightful oaths.

One day, Simon, who was drunk, was making the prince wait upon him, as usual, at table. Not very well pleased with the manner in which he served him, he struck the child with his napkin, which was very near putting out his eye. One of the commissaries, M. Leboeuf, who happened to enter the room at that moment, was about speaking to disapprove of such violence, when Simon, interrupting him, said, “Look, citizen, how awkward the whelp is! They wanted to make a king of him, and he is not good enough for a servant! Come, friend, sit down, and take something to drink; he will wait upon you also. Come, don’t be afraid nor ashamed.” At these words M. Leboeuf cast a look of indignation at the fellow, and said, “I am not afraid; but are you not ashamed?” As Simon did not seem to understand him, “Yes, I repeat, are you not ashamed to treat a child so? You have gone beyond your orders ; it is a libel on the government to suppose that it is an accomplice of your brutality.” Simon did not answer, but he did not forget or forgive what Leboeuf had said to him. The latter was denounced by Simon and imprisoned, but afterward set free.

Madam Elizabeth, the aunt of the prince, received constant intelligence of the ill treatment of her suffering nephew, but she could not be prevailed upon, at first, to believe what she heard about the cruelty of Simon, so much did it seem to transcend the utmost perversity of human nature. She, however, did not long remain in doubt. Simon would raise his voice so high, that his oaths and blasphemies could be heard even in Madam Elizabeth’s apartment. The most dreadful thing, however, to her, was that these oaths and blasphemies were sometimes followed by the plaintive cries of a feeble child, although the poor prince did his utmost to suppress them. His sister, too, had heard the cruel lamentations of her brother, and had recognized his voice, mingled with that of Simon, in the Marseillaise and Carmagnole, and other revolutionary ditties.

While the prisoners of the tower were in communication with the queen, the latter would constantly send the most anxious inquiries about her children; and Madam Elizabeth strove to give her all the comfort and consolation she could, and which she did not feel, for the echoes of the tower repeated daily the horrible blasphe­mies of the jailer, and the sad cries of the young prisoner.

Madam Elizabeth made every attempt to induce Simon to exercise less brutality toward the royal child. Whenever a new municipal officer arrived, the princess would, with prayers and entreaties, beg of him to intercede in behalf of her nephew, to try and induce Simon to treat him more leniently. She was often flatly refused, some being afraid to intercede, and others approving of the brutality of the cruel tutor. There was one, however, a man by the name of Barelle, who could not resist the prayers of Madam Elizabeth. He was a father; and he boldly spoke to Simon, and com­plained of his oaths and blasphemies, which he had heard himself, even in the princesses’ room. “I know what I am doing,” said the jailer, “and what I have got to do. In my place you would, perhaps, only go a little faster.” These words of Simon seemed to indicate that, in destroying the prince by degrees, he was only complying with what he supposed to be the design of the government.

The daughter of Tison, an attendant upon the royal family, was about leaving the tower. She had been asked by Madam Elizabeth to try and see the prince. She asked permission, but was rudely refused. Simon, when he heard of this request, became terribly enraged. “It was right not to let the young citizen woman come in. She had nothing to see or to do here, nothing to say. Had she, Capet?” said he, raising his voice, and looking at his prisoner with an eye of fierce cruelty. “It was right,” said the child, trembling; “still, there are a good many things I would have liked to have asked her.” —“ Tell me what they are, at once,” growled Simon. “I should have asked her about my mother, and my sister, and my aunt. It is so long since I saw them !”—“Bah! leave your family alone. It was a much longer time that they were tyrannizing over us. The best thing for you is to forget them, and, at any rate, not to pester me about them.” The prince did not say a word in answer.

On the 6th of September, the commissaries on duty informed Simon that Toulon had, on the 28th of August, opened its port to the En­glish, and had proclaimed Louis XVII king. One of these commissaries was named Binet, a tavern-keeper. He wanted to see the prince. On entering his room he cried out, “Show us the King of Toulon!”—“You mean the King of Montbrison,” answered Simon. “No; the King of Toulon.”—“The King of La Vendée!” exclaimed one of the municipal officers. “Citizens,” said Simon, “at any rate, he will never be King of Paris.” The child’s face seemed to brighten up for a moment with a ray of hope, when he overheard them talking about the events at Toulon, but he immediately blushed, as if ashamed of his boldness.

His master ordered him to go and sit at the foot of his bed until further orders. After the departure of the commissaries, who had amused themselves with making sport of the sad condition of the prince, Simon kept walking up and down in the apartment, talking to his wife about the news from Toulon, and indulging in a frenzy of revolutionary feeling. The child remained silent, being frightened by the excited manner of his master, who said that if “the Vendéans should ever reach Paris, he would strangle the young whelp.” Simon took hold of him by the ear, and drew him into the middle of the room. He then said, “ Capet, if the Vendéans should rescue you, what would you do to me?”—“I would pardon you,” answered the child.

On Saturday, the 21st of September, Hebert presented himself at the tower, in company with other municipal officers. They came to announce a new decree, insisting upon the closer confinement of the prisoners. Hebert had a long interview with Simon. On leaving, he cast a look upon the child, without speaking to him, and took leave of his jailer, repeating this word—Shortly !

After the visit of Hebert, the treatment of the prisoners of the Temple was rendered more severe and cruel. The princesses were forced to sweep their own rooms. Their door was not allowed to be opened, except to receive their food. They were not allowed to see a human face or hear a human voice. The council resolved that, from the 22d of September, 1793, “considering that the strictest economy was necessary to be observed,” no pastry or fowls of any kind should be allowed the prison­ers ; that they should have only one article of food for breakfast; that for their dinner they should have nothing but soup, bouilli, and one other dish; that they should no longer burn any wax candles; that no silver or china-ware should be used, but only tin and earthen-ware vessels. These resolutions were fully carried out, and their food was, accordingly, of the coarsest kind. Horse-cloths were given them in place of sheets, tallow instead of wax candles, tin for silver-ware, and crockery for china.

Simon, however, was allowed a good deal of latitude in regard to the diet and treatment of his little prisoner. He, accordingly, acted ac­cording to his caprice, or what would, as he supposed, best answer his intentions toward the prince. Sometimes he would nearly starve him, and give him nothing but a little water to drink; at others, he would cram him with food, and make him drink wine to excess. He would, with cruel ingenuity, alternate excess with starvation, abstinence with drunkenness. Simon continued to do his utmost to corrupt the heart, degrade the intellect, and weaken the body of the child.

The prince had now become, in consequence of this treatment, much changed. His health was destroyed—the elasticity of childhood gone. He was spiritless, feeble, and inanimate. He still thought of his mother with tenderness, and had a reverence for her name. Simon one day spoke of her by some insulting epithet, and in­sisted upon her child doing the same. The prince allowed himself to be beaten without saying a word.

The trial of the queen—who was in harsh confinement in the Conciergerie, suffering the in-tensest agony in consequence of her separation from her children—was approaching. A serious difficulty was the want of testimony against Marie Antoinette, and it was thus that the trial was so long deferred. Simon was relied upon to supply the deficiency. He now sent word that the little Capet was ready to answer all questions proposed to him for the sake of justice.

The next day, the mayor and the solicitor of the commune repaired to the tower. Every thing was in readiness. Simon had plied his pupil with wine and brandy. The tyrant, with his cruel eye and raised hand, stood by to command and threaten. The child, stupefied with drink, with his eyes half closed, was cowering, yielding, and obedient. Certain  questions inculpating his mother were answered by the child as his merciless inquisitors willed. The prince was then forced to affix his signature, which he did, with a trembling hand, supported by the cruel grasp of Simon, to a paper which accused the queen of crimes which even vice would blush to name in the presence of childhood!

It was thought necessary to strengthen this testimony by additional evidence. The commis­saries accordingly sent for the princess. Simon, with the young prince under his charge, met Maria Theresa at the foot of the stairs. Brother and sister rushed into each other’s arms : they were at once cruelly separated. His sister was forced to submit to the same questions as her brother, and in his presence. She firmly denied the charges against her mother; her modesty blushed at the unchaste revelations of the false accusation; and her filial regard for a mother’s honor was aroused to indignation. “It is an infamy !” she exclaimed.

On the 16th of October, 1793, Marie Antoinette was conducted to the scaffold. “Be quick!” said the queen — these were her last words—and, bending her head, she received the fatal blow of the guillotine.

VIII.

THE prisoners in the Temple were ignorant of the execution of the queen. The offi­cers and attendants in the tower had the dis­cretion not to say a word about it. Simon knew of it, but was silent. He was, however, igno­rant of the precise day. Hearing a noise, which seemed to indicate an unusual excitement in the city, he took his wife and the prince out upon the platform to see what was going on. The excitement in the streets was in conse­quence of some confusion—no unusual thing in the days of Terror—in the identity of some in­tended victims of the guillotine. Two persons were being borne to execution, instead of two others of the same name. At night, when the prince was asleep, Simon began talking to his wife of the occurrence of the day. “At any rate,” said he, “when the queen goes to the guillotine, there will be no mistake — no one will take her place. There are no two of her name and appearance.”—“Oh, she will never go to the guillotine!” answered his wife. “Why not?”—“Why, because she is beautiful; and she knows how to talk, and will gain over the judges.”—“Justice is incorruptible!” gravely replied the dogmatic Simon.

The next day they were out together on the tower, and, as they heard a great noise made by the troops returning to their quarters, Simon said to his wife, “ I should not be surprised if all this racket has been on account of her whom we were talking about last night.”—“No, no, I am sure you are mistaken,” said Mistress Simon; “they would not make such a fuss about her.” A wager was then laid between them on the blood of Marie Antoinette; the loser was to pay for the brandy for their evening’s enjoyment. The commissioners soon after came out upon the platform. Simon learned from them that he was right, and said to his wife, “You’ve lost your bet.”—“What bet?” the royal prince innocently asked. “The bet don’t concern you; but, if you behave yourself, you shall have your share.” And, in fact, the son of Marie Antoinette drank of that brandy with which his jailers made merry on the occa­sion of the death of his mother.

Simon’s wife, becoming anxious for the health and the happiness of her husband—the jailer, in his devotion to his duties, being in as close confinement as his little prisoner—made sufficient interest to have a billiard-table allowed him. This billiard was the source of some recreation to the young prince, as it was of additional insult. One of the commissioners, Barelle by name, a man of mild, inoffensive character, took great pleasure in the company of the child. His companions, who observed the interest his good nature took in the happiness of the prince, used to say, whenever he arrived at the Tem­ple, “ Go, Barelle, and see your little friend.” He was always pleased to do so. The child, sensible of the marks of kindness he was so little used to receive, took a great liking to Barelle. It was through his intervention that he was permitted to go occasionally into the billiard-room, where the Dauphin sometimes met the little daughter of the washer-woman of the Temple, and she, the washer-woman’s daugh­ter, and the little king would play billiards to­gether.

One day the prince was allowed by Simon to put aside a chicken for Barelle, who, he thought, would come about that time. He was detained, however, and did not arrive until a day or two afterward. As soon, however, as he entered, the child ran up to him with the chicken. Barelle made some objections to taking it. Simon, who was present, said to the municipal officer, “ Take it, he has been keeping it for you for two whole days.” The prince then wrapped it in a sheet of paper, and Barelle took it and put it into his pocket, saying to the son of Louis XVI, “I wish, my poor little fellow, I could carry you off in my other pocket.”

His signature to another paper inculpating his aunt was extorted from the prince. Simon had stated that “the child was eager to make his declaration to the members of the council.” Tortured and stupefied by his jailers, the miserable child was quite ignorant of what he did.

Worried by constant irritations, and suffering from ill treatment, the prince had become visibly changed for the worse. His expression, formerly so radiant with happiness, was sad; his complexion, so fresh and rose-colored, had become yellow ; the outline of his face seemed altered; his legs had become elongated beyond the usual proportions, and his back was bent; and he passed night after night without sleep. Finding that every thing he did or said were subjects of inquiry, or the cause of blame and punishment, he became reserved and silent; he hardly dared to say yes or no to the simplest question.

The suffering of the child gained some sympathy, and inspired several of the attendants in the tower with pity. In the Temple, among the articles of furniture, there was an ingenious toy, a bird in a cage, which, by a piece of mech­anism, could be made to beat its wings, turn its head, move its tail, and, what was still more wonderful, sing the King's March. Simon was induced to have this repaired and placed in the Dauphin’s room. The child was delighted with it, thinking it to be a real Canary bird. When he found out that it was a piece of mechanism, he still admired the ingenious toy; but he soon grew tired of it. Monnier, the good-natured turnkey, then obtained a supply of live Canaries for the prince. The child was in raptures of delight when he saw the little birds hopping about his room. “Ah! these are real birds,” exclaimed he. One of them was tamer than all the rest, and would come and perch upon the prince’s shoulder, or take its food out of his mouth. The child was very happy with, and proud of his little bird, and had tied a red ribbon to one of its legs, and was playing with his Canary the whole time. This happiness, however, did not last long. The commissaries, paying him a visit of inspection, the bird set up a lively tune. “What’s that ?” said one of them; “a bird, with a red ribbon, like a decoration! a bird of privilege! This looks like aristocracy, and can’t be allowed.” And, as he spoke, he rudely tore the ribbon from the bird’s leg. A report was made of this visit, in which the Canary bird was denounced, and the prince was accordingly deprived of his cheerful companion. This affair was spoken of in the Temple as the Conspiracy of the Canaries.

Simon never intermitted his insults and bad treatment of his prisoner. On one occasion, he was taking a foot-bath, and the prince, having been ordered to heat the towels at the fire, dropped one, which was burned in consequence. Simon was outrageous, and cried after him with terrible oaths and curses. A few moments afterward, the child went to wipe the feet of Simon, and, after he had done so, the brutal fellow kicked him with the foot he had just wiped.

Simon and his wife began to feel the effect of their close confinement to their duties in the Temple. They suffered in mind and body. Simon became more and more irritable and violent, and although he did not for a moment abate, nor seem tired of his cruelty, he desired some diversion. He entreated permission to walk out occasionally into the courts and gardens of the Temple, but was refused. He asked leave to be present on the occasion of the fete in Paris, to celebrate the taking of Toulon, but was rudely denied. His wife was finally taken ill, from the effects of her close confine­ment. She sent for a medical attendant. A M. Naudin, a surgeon of Paris, came to prescribe for her. One day, as he was coming out of Mistress Simon’s room, where he had been to pay a professional visit, he passed through the apartment where Simon and his drunken com­panions were drinking at a table, while the royal infant was at their side, and who, being pressed to sing some impious songs, resolutely refused. Simon, seeing M. Naudin, and determined to show the doctor the power of his authority, insisted, with violence, upon the prince obeying his command. The child still refused, when Simon, jumping up and seizing him by the hair, said, “Cursed little viper! I’ll beat out your brains against the wall.” M. Naudin came to the rescue of the prince, and, snatching him away, exclaimed, indignantly, “Villain! what are you doing?” Struck dumb by the words of the doctor, he did not say a word. M. Naudin returned next day to visit his patient. The little prisoner, as soon as he saw him, caught him by the hand, and presented him with a couple of pears that had been given him the evening before as a treat, and said, with much emotion, “Yesterday, you took an interest in me; I thank you very much. Please accept these. I wish I could better express my gratitude!” The old gentleman took the hand of the child and pressed it warmly; he was too much affected to say a word.

The prince, though much demoralized, and weakened in body and intellect, did not forget his mother’s counsels, and, even at this time, would occasionally join his hands, and utter, when he thought himself alone, a prayer to God. He would sometimes, while asleep, get upon his knees and seem to be praying. One night Simon caught a glance at him in this position. He called his wife to look at the little superstitious fool offering up a prayer in his sleep. He then took a pail of water and doused it all over him. The child awoke, and, without uttering a cry, threw himself down in his bed, chilled with cold and dripping with the water. Getting completely awake, he at last arose and sat at the head of his bed, upon the pillow where it was dry. Simon went and caught hold of him, and, shaking him violently, ex­claimed, “I’ll teach you, young villain, to be muttering your pater-nosters, and getting up at night to say your prayers like a monk.” The child remaining where he was, and not saying anything, Simon was terribly angered, and, seizing his heavy shoe, struck him upon the face. The child, putting up his two little hands to protect himself, said, “What have I ever done to you, that you should want to kill me?”— “Kill you, you whelp, as if I ever wanted to do so; if I did, one wring of the neck would settle you at once He then took hold of him and threw him at full length upon his bed, where he was forced to lie all night in the cold and wet.

From this time the child remained completely prostrated. He never looked up again, but hung his head always, and seemed completely indifferent to all that passed.

On the 19th of January, 1794, there was quite a bustle in the tower; it was Simon and his wife taking leave of the attendants in the Temple. Mistress Simon took leave of the prince with these words: “ Capet, I don’t know when I shall see you again.” Simon himself exclaimed, “ Oh, the little villain! he is not yet quite crushed, but he will never escape now, even if all the priests in the world should come to his aid.” At the same moment, he pressed his heavy hands with great force upon the child’s head, until it bent down upon his breast; and the royal prince, silent, with downcast eyes, thus received the last curse of his pitiless jailer.

IX.

IT was decided by the government that there should be no successor appointed to Simon. As the prince had no jailer now was thought necessary, for better security confine him to a single room. The child was accordingly im­prisoned in the inner chamber, which had been that of the attendant, Clery, and of Simon’s wife when she was ill. The door which com­municated with the ante-chamber was cut off, halfway up, fastened with screws and nails, and barred with iron from top to bottom. To the middle of the door was fastened a shelf, which was connected with an iron wicket, with movable bars, closed by an enormous padlock. It was through this wicket that the young prince received his food; and on the shelf he deposited whatever was to be carried away. His chamber was of vast size. He—thanks to the generosity of the government!—had a large apartment to walk about in, bread to eat, water to drink, and clothes to put on. It is true, he had no fire, nor any light. His room was only heated by a stove-pipe, which passed from another apartment into his, and his only light came from a lamp hung up opposite to the bars of his cell. It was through these bars, too, that the stove-pipe passed. The royal orphan, by chance or cruel design, was thrust into this prison on the anniversary of his father’s execu­tion, the 21st of January, 1794.

This change and this solitude had no alarms for him. In truth, he seemed at first to be happy in being left to himself, and in being removed from the presence of those whose every thought and act toward him were conceived in insult and executed in violence. Who can form any idea of what passed in the mind and heart of the young prince during the six months that he was alone, a solitary captive in his dark dun­geon. He, during that long solitude, never breathed the air of heaven, hardly saw the light of day, except through his iron bars. The poor victim never even beheld the hand which doled out to him his scanty food, nor the careless person whose duty it was to light the stove, and who often left him without any fire, to tremble in the cold, or almost suffocated him with smoke. He heard no noise but the harsh turning of the locks, except at night, when he was told by a rude voice that it was time for him to go to bed.

He was obliged to sweep his room himself, if he wished to keep it clean; but he was not long able, in consequence of increased weakness, to continue this labor. Having nothing to do—no amusement, no occupation, no human voice to listen to, who can measure the length of those miserable days!

Endless seemed the tedious days, endless the wakeful nights; not a word, however, not a complaint, issued from that dark prison.

It having been pretended by the dominant party in the Convention that Hebert had formed a plot with the Countess of Rochechoart for the escape of the royal children from the tower, and that the former had received for his concurrence a million of money, Hebert was ac­cused before the tribune of the Convention. “An attempt had been made,” said his accuser, “to send a letter, and fifty Louis in gold, to the Capet children, with the intention of aiding them in their escape. The last hour of the criminals has sounded. Let the conspirators perish !” Hebert was guillotined.

The severity and the watchfulness over the prisoners in the Temple were increased. Madam Elizabeth was never able to receive any intelligence of her nephew, and Maria Theresa never asked about her brother without receiv­ing in answer an insult.

Elizabeth was the next victim of the royal family, and died on the scaffold, in pious resignation to her fate, the 10th of May, 1794.

While her aunt was receiving the fatal blow of the guillotine, the young princess, her niece, asked of the municipal officers what had become of her. She was answered that she had gone out for a walk. The princess begged that she might be permitted to join her mother (for she was ignorant of the fate of Marie Antoi­nette), since she was separated from her aunt. They promised to see about it.

On the next day Robespierre paid the princess a visit. She did not speak a word to him. She merely handed him a paper, upon which she had written as follows:

“My brother is ill. I have written to the Convention for permission to attend him. The Convention have given me no answer. I reiterate my request.”

When she had handed over this paper, she turned away her head and resumed her reading.

Let us return to the prince. His guards cared little as to his condition, provided he was safe in their keeping, dead or alive. The municipal officers did not trouble themselves as to whether he had enough to eat or not, or whether he slept, or as to the state of his health. They were alone careful to prevent his escape. Every evening they opened the room which communicated with that of the prince, and, looking through the grating to see what he was about, bawled out to him to go and lie down. Their prisoner would then crawl into his bed, and the guards retire. When fresh municipal officers were ordered to the tower, they fre­quently did not arrive until midnight. They then, at that late hour, guided by a turnkey, would mount together to the whelp’s kennel. It was all the same to them whether he was awake or asleep. A pitiless voice would bawl out to him, to discover whether he had been carried off or not. Sometimes he would not answer immediately, having been asleep, then one of them would shake the iron wicket and cry out, with a loud voice, “Capet! Capet! are you asleep? Where are you, then? Get up, you young viper!” The child would wake with a start, get out of his bed all in a tremble, and reply, in a sweet voice, “Here I am, citizen; here I am. What do you want of me?”—“To see you,” replied the Cerberus, moving his lantern that he might have a better light. ‘‘That’s right! Go to bed, you young villain!”

A few hours afterward, other municipal officers, who had arrived still later, would again disturb the child, make him get up, and keep him standing on the damp floor, and trembling with cold, while they worried him with ques­tions and insulting remarks.

At last the prince firmly resolved neither to ask nor answer a question. Many days, many weeks, many months passed on in this way. The want of air, neglect, and solitary confinement had weakened his body and mind. His hands could now hardly lift the crockery plate which held his food, and his jug of water, which was taken to him every day and put upon the shelf of the wicket by a kitchen servant, who was forbidden to speak a word to the prisoner.

For some time the child had ceased to sweep his room. He no longer attempted to move the straw mattress of his bed—his strength was not sufficient. He could not change his sheets, which were dirty, and his coverlet was all in holes. He had no clean linen, and was unable to have his clothes, which were all in tatters, repaired; nor could he wash or clean himself. Soon he gave up taking off his torn trowsers, and his revolutionary jacket, all in rags. He was now hardly able to move, in consequence of his excessive feebleness. Sometimes he would cast a frightened glance at the iron wick­et, half anxious and half afraid to hear a human voice. He now laid down on his bed without undressing, and slept for the most of the day, preparing himself for his sleepless nights, made wakeful by the constant intrusion of his cruel and watchful guards.

It was hoped, doubtless, by his enemies, that this suffering of the prince would end in idiocy or madness; but his mind was too strong to yield readily to this pressure of cruelty and sadness. He became weaker and weaker, so that he could hardly leave his bed and find his way to his earthen jug of water, which a constant thirst made him long for with eagerness. He had not the strength now to complain. Pleasure and pain, prayers and despair, hope and fear were all over. All that was left was a body fast decaying, and a mind becoming dulled by want of exercise and sympathy. He allowed the remains of his food to lie about on the floor or on his bed, and his room was infested with rats, mice, spiders, and all kinds of vermin. “All is alive in that chamber” said the kitchen servant one day, as he came for the prince’s plate and jug, and cast a hurried look into the frightful place. It was with great difficulty now that he could be aroused by his jailers, in spite of their loud commands and cruel threats.

It began to be known by the world that the Dauphin was suffering greatly, and becoming every day weaker, more dejected, and prostrate. No one knew the exact condition of the royal prince, but it was generally supposed that he was ill and unhappy. Monsieur Le Monnier,; who had been physician to Louis XVI, hearing of these rumors, was anxious to visit the royal child and bestow upon him his professional care. He asked permission to do so, but his benevolent request was flatly refused. This courageous, skillful, and kind physician might have restored the prince to health; but this, perhaps, would have defeated the intentions of the government.

X.

BARRAS, who was one of the leaders of the faction which had triumphed over Robespierre, had been appointed commander-in-chief of the forces, and, in accordance with the duties of his new office, visited, with his staff, all the military posts of Paris, to inspect them, and to renew the oath, on the part of the troops, of al­legiance to the National Convention.

At six o’clock on the morning of the 28th of July, 1794, Barras arrived at the Temple. He doubled the guard; he ordered the municipal officers to remain there constantly, and to exer­cise the utmost watchfulness.

In the company of Barras, on this occasion, there was a person by the name of Laurent, a member of the Revolutionary Committee of the section of the Temple. He was invited to an interview by Barras, and was told by him that, on his nomination, he had been appointed guard­ian of the children in the Temple.

Laurent was a native of St. Domingo, where he had some property. He was a warm parti­san of the republic. He was small in stature, of about thirty-five years of age, and a single man. He lived with his mother and his two sisters, whom he cherished with great affection. He had quite a passion for flowers, and divided his happiness between his flower-beds and his family. He was a man of considerable intellect, well educated, and refined in his manners. He was a thorough Democrat, and an uncompro­mising partisan.

At the moment of Barras completing his military survey of Paris, Robespierre and his crew, among whom was Simon, were being dragged in a cart to the guillotine, amid the exclamations of joy and the curses of the populace of Paris. Simon was dressed in his republican jacket, the same he used to wear in the Tem­ple while tutor to the prince.

Laurent arrived in the tower in the evening, to commence his new functions as guardian of the prince. He was kept below for a long time, going through the forms necessary upon entering upon his office, and conversing with the municipal officers, so that it was two o’clock in the morning before he was taken to the apart­ment of the little Capet.

Laurent had heard generally of how the prince had been treated, but had not the re­motest idea of the state in which he found him. Great was his surprise when, on his arrival at the door, he became almost poisoned with an infected atmosphere that came through the iron bars of the child’s room; and still greater his alarm when one of the municipal officers, casting a glance through the iron wicket into the darkness of the dungeon, called out loudly, “Capet,” and no Capet answered. After repeated calls, a feeble yes was finally heard; but not a stir or the least movement followed. No threats nor noise could make the child get up, and they could only see through the iron bars, by the dim light of the lantern, something like a living object crouched upon the bed.

Laurent, startled by what he had witnessed, felt at once the responsibility of his po­sition. He therefore asked of the Committee of Public Safety an official inquiry into the present condition of the prisoner.

This request was granted ; and, accordingly, several members of the Committee of Public Safety, accompanied by some municipal offi­cers, repaired, on the 31st of July, 1794, to the tower, to inquire into the state of the prince. On their arrival at the door of the child’s room, they called to him, and, receiving no answer, at once ordered the room to be broken open.  The workman, by some few vigorous blows, soon opened the iron bars of the wicket sufficiently to see the child, and, observing him, asked why he did not answer; but the poor lad did not utter a word. The door was now removed, and the visitors entered. A horrible sight presented itself to their view. In a dark room, the atmosphere of which was polluted with an odor of death and corruption, upon a filthy bed, there laid a child of nine years of age, only half covered with some scraps of dirty linen and a pair of ragged trowsers, motionless, with his back crooked, and his face wan and sorrow stricken, without that expression of bright intelligence which had once lighted it up. His delicate features exhibited a look of mournful apathy, dullness, and insensibility. His lips were colorless, his cheeks hollow, and his complexion of a sickly, greenish hue. His large eyes, made more prominent by his emaciation, had lost their brilliancy, and their former bright blue color had darkened into a sad, leaden tint. His head and neck were eaten up with running sores; his legs were enormously elongated in proportion to his small, meagre body; his wrists and knees were covered with black and blue swellings; the nails of his hands and feet had grown long like claws. He was covered with filth, and overrun with vermin.

The child seemed hardly aware of the open­ing of his door or of the entrance of anyone. Numberless questions were asked him by his visitors. He answered none of them. His eyes wandered listlessly about or stared vacantly, and the expression of his face seemed meaningless. His visitors might well have supposed at that time that he was an idiot. One of the commissaries, finding his dinner untouched upon the table, asked the child why he had not eaten it. At first he did not answer this question; but upon its being repeated often, and asked in a gentle manner by an old gray-headed man, with a fatherly look, the prince at last replied, in a quiet tone, but quite resolutely, “I want to die These were the only words that could be wrung from him on that occasion. The re­sult of this visit was some trifling orders from the government, which Laurent, in his good­nature, took care to turn to the advantage of the little prisoner.

Laurent determined to better the condition of the child as far as it was in his power. He had at first, however, considerable difficulty, the municipal officers and attendants being fearful of being denounced for any act of indulgence toward the young prince. Humanity in those times was a crime, and inhumanity a virtue. The kitchen servant was prevailed upon, with some difficulty, to bring some warm water to wash the poor child’s sores, and it was some time before the commissaries would give their consent.

The barred door and the wicket were never put up again. The room was arranged as it was in Simon’s time; windows were opened into it, so that the air and light might enter, and the whole apartment was purified. In the meantime, the prince was removed to the room which his father, the king, had occupied. Laurent had a comfortable bed brought for him, ordered him some clean linen and a bath, and his hair to be cut and combed. The sores upon his head and neck required to be attended to, and Laurent sent for one of the municipal officers, who was a surgeon, to dress them. A tailor also was sent for, who supplied him with a complete suit of new clothes—a pair of pantaloons, a waist­coat, and a sailor’s jacket, of tolerably fine slate­colored cloth.

The miserable child was quite puzzled by these marks of kindness. He received them at first with an air of stupid astonishment, but in a short time began to appreciate them, feel grateful, and express his gratitude. “Why,” said he, “ do you take this care of me ?” and Laurent answering kindly, the prince was deeply affected. A tear rolled down his cheek, which he tried to conceal, and he exclaimed, “ But I thought you did not care for me.”

The sores on the Dauphin’s head and neck were extremely painful, and when they were dressed he could hardly avoid crying out; but whenever he did so he seemed to be angry with himself. One day that he had suffered a good deal, and was unable to repress a cry, he recalled the surgeon, who was leaving, and said to him, in a gentle voice, “Thank you, sir, thank you; pardon me, sir!” giving the word pardon a particular emphasis.

The name Capet, as applied to the prince, in the first place, by Simon, and then adopted by all in the tower, was done away with by Lau­rent, and the prince was afterward always call­ed Monsieur Charles. Some, however, never gave him the title “Monsieur,” but called him simply Charles.

Although, since the death of Robespierre, the stifling atmosphere of the dark days of terror had somewhat cleared away, and mankind breathed with more freedom, still suspicion and distrust lurked about, and the guillotine occasionally smote a victim. Spies and informers were busy in the dark, crawling and twining like serpents about France, and stifling all family intimacy and social freedom.

The little prince was still a bugbear to the Convention, and there was, consequently, no in­termission, on their part, to the strictest watch­fulness and most cruel severity toward the young prisoner. Laurent, however, had taken quite a fancy to the lad, and always treated him with the greatest kindness, and felt for him, if not affection, at least great pity. Consequently, the prince’s condition was, as far as possible, improved. “Laurent regretted that he was obliged, by the orders of the government, to leave him, as before, in his solitary chamber ; but he took every occasion to relieve that soli­tude, for he knew how much a child of the prince’s tender years must suffer by being alone, how necessary companionship was to the healthy condition of his body and mind. Grown persons are mutually dependent, and look natu­rally for each other’s countenance and support. Children are infinitely more so. Their minds require to be developed by the encouragement of example, and their souls warmed into life by human sympathy. A man in solitude has a stock of past memories to fall back upon. His mind may strengthen and grow wise, and his heart become purer and more wholesome, in sol­itary reflection. A child, having everything in expectation, looking for support from others, and dependent upon father and mother for his daily thoughts, as for his daily bread—a poor, weak tendril, that twines affectionately about the parent plant, having no roots to hold strongly to the depths of the past, nor lofty branches, to stretch out firmly heavenward to enjoy and be invigo­rated by the air of heaven—must, when cut off and left alone, wither, corrupt, and die.

Laurent was aware how much human sympathy and encouragement were necessary to the poor boy. He had not, however, the right to visit the prince except at the hours of his meals. He, nevertheless, got permission to take him out occasionally upon the tower, Laurent having represented to the municipal officers how nec­essary it was for the health of the child. The first time this favor was granted was in the aft­ernoon, when his kind guardian took him by the arm and led him out on the platform of the tower. The day was closing magnificently; the sun was setting, calm and beautiful; the nightingale was piping his good-night on a tree in the garden of the Temple; the busy hum of the city could be easily heard; the carriages rolled noisily in the streets; the water-carriers, and venders of papers and small wares, raised their lively cries ; there was heard the voices of happy and independent men, in the full activity and enjoyment of honest labor, the whistling of the boys, as they passed, here and there, through the streets, or stopped joyfully at the corners to exchange their sous for a cake; there was all the life and the freedom of the city sending up its cheerful song, tuned by the strong voice of health, and enlivened by the spirit of liberty. But all this life, this noise, this hap­piness, and this freedom gave less pleasure than pain to the captive. However, at first, the little prince breathed the air eagerly, which seemed to warm his torpid body into new life. He was obliged, however, to return almost immediately; the light of day was too bright for his weakened eyes, and the pure air too strong for his feeble lungs. As the child was going down, he stopped before the door on the third story, which had been Marie Antoinette’s apartment, and, pressing Laurent’s arm, he leaned against the wall and looked, with a sorrowful gaze, upon that door. He thought, doubtless, that it still closed upon his mother.

Upon reaching his room, he found his supper spread out before him, but he barely touched it. He remained silent, as usual; but he seemed to cast an inquiring look upon his guardian, who soon left him to the weariness of his solitude.

There was no improvement allowed in the food of the prince. He still had the constant dish of beans and the plate of boiled beef served up in rude earthen-ware.

In spite of the kindness and care of Laurent, the young prince remained weak and almost speechless. Upon looking at him, there could be observed about his eyes and his mouth a certain languid, though intelligent expression.

On the next occasion that Laurent took the prince out upon the tower, a regiment was passing with its band. The child did not seem to understand what the music meant. With one hand he caught hold of the arm of his guardian, and he lifted the other to signify to Laurent to listen. As the drums ceased beating, and the rest of the band played a cheerful tune, the child started, and his face brightened and clear­ed up.

Another time, while they were out upon the tower, the child was observed to be stooping down and looking intently upon the platform. His companion did not know at first what he was about; but, observing more closely, he discovered that the little prince was looking at some little, starved yellow flowers, which hardly grew in the interstices of the stone-work. The prince gathered and arranged them in a bouquet. On going down the steps to reach his room, he paused, as he had done before, by the door of his mother’s room. “You are mistaken in the door,” exclaimed the commissary, who was be­hind him. “I am not mistaken,” quietly answered the child. These were the only words that escaped his lips on that day. His flowers he had dropped at the door when he stopped. The poor child knew that his father no longer lived; but his mother, his sister, and his aunt, what had become of them? He might still think they were near him.

Laurent, wearied with the monotony of his duties, his close confinement to the tower, and pained by the sad nature of his office, sought relief, and requested from the Committee of Public Safety the assistance of a colleague, which was granted him.

XI

CITIZEN GOMIN was appointed the colleague of Laurent; he was unwilling to accept of the place, but was told that he had no right to refuse, and must immediately repair to his post.

Gomin was a man of thirty-seven years of age; was the son of an upholsterer, and had the character of a mild, kind-hearted man. He was puzzled at first to find out how he came to be appointed to the post, as he had no sympathy with the excited revolutionists of the times. He afterward learned that it was through the mediation of the Marquis De Fenouil, who knew him intimately, and who, being engaged in certain so-called patriotic intrigues, professedly for the interest of the Revolution, but in reality for that of the royal party, was anxious to have Gomin placed in charge of the royal prisoners.

Gomin was ordered to the Temple, on Sunday, the 9th of November, 1794. He was accompanied by an agent of the government, who kept perfectly silent during the whole route. Ho presented his commission, immediately on his arrival, to the officer on duty, was duly registered, and introduced to his colleague, Laurent. It was at night. The two guardians ascended immediately to pay a visit to the prisoners. When they reached the second story of the tower, Laurent asked Gomin if he had ever seen the prince. “I have never seen him,” answered Gomin. “Then,” replied Laurent, “it will be some time before he will speak to you.” Having passed through the ante-chamber, they entered the inner room, where the prince was lying, on an iron bed in the corner. The child, with a white night-cap on his head, rose in his bed at the noise made by the visitors going in. The first sight of him was mournful enough; his pale, leaden complexion, and his languid air, showed plainly his long suffering. His face was not very thin, and his eye quite bright; but his features and his look revealed in their sad expression his many sorrows. After a hasty glance, his guardians withdrew.

Gomin took up his quarters with Laurent on the ground floor. There were three beds in the room, one for each of the guardians, and one for the member of the committee, sent by each section of Paris, in turn, to serve for the period of twenty-four hours as commissary of the tower. When this latter officer arrived, which was always at noon, he received from his predecessor the orders of the committee of the Convention relative to his duties in guarding the prisoners, and especial injunctions not to allow the brother and sister to see each other or walk out at the same time. He was then accompanied by the guardians on a visit to the prince and princess in order to recognize them.

All the keys of the tower were kept in a closet in the council-chamber. There were two keys to this closet, each one of which was of different size; and one was kept in the pos­session of Laurent, and the other in that of Gomin. They therefore were dependent upon each other, and the turnkeys upon both.

Since the death of Louis XVI, the military post of the Temple had been composed of one hundred and ninety-four men of the National Guard, and fourteen of the Paris Artillery.

No one could enter or leave the Temple without a pass signed by the two guardians. Every night a bulletin was transmitted to the Committee of Public Safety, detailing the events of the last twenty-four hours.

The assistance of Gomin was of great advantage to Laurent; it enabled him to go out occasionally to his club, and to visit his family and his garden. In other respects, there was scarcely any change in the regulations of the tower. Every thing remained very much as before. The two guardians went up every morning together, to pay a visit to the Dauphin. Gourlet, a domestic, accompanied them, and dressed the prince; and, while the child was at breakfast, Gourlet made the bed and swept the room. The breakfast over, and the room made, the prince was left alone until two o’clock, when his guardians saw him again, and then left him until eight in the evening, when he had his supper and received the last visit for the day, and was left to his lonesome solitude until the next morning.

We have seen that Gomin was unwilling to accept his office. Now, when he found in what a deplorable state the prince was in, and how little power he had to relieve him, he would have gladly resigned his painful position, but was fearful he might be suspected and denounced. He was quite overcome at the sight of the misery and suffering of the prince. Laurent, however, told him that his condition had been far worse when he first saw him.

Whenever the commissary on duty happened to be a more than usually good-natured person, the guardians were able to get some little indulgence for the prisoner. They would tell him, for example, that it was customary to take him out occasionally for a walk upon the platform on the tower, and that privilege would be granted him.

Gomin, learning that the child had always been fond of flowers, succeeded in having brought up into his apartment four little flower­pots. The sight of the flowers produced a wonderful effect upon the prince. He beheld them with great delight, took them in his hands, smelled them again and again, and, after looking at them repeatedly, timidly plucked one. Gomin’s kindness was appreciated by the child, and he gave his guardian a tender glance, full of gratitude, and the tears rolled down his cheeks.

One day the commissary on duty was a man by the name of Delbry. His manners were rough, his voice harsh; but, with all his apparent rudeness and severity, he was at bottom a good-hearted fellow. “Why the devil do they give these poor wretches such food as that?” he exclaimed, with a loud voice. “If they were at the Tuileries, it might be well enough; but here, in our power, we ought to be kind to them. The nation is generous. Why do they board up these windows ? Under the reign of equality the sun should shine for all alike. They ought to have their share. Why shouldn’t they see each other, while fraternity is the word?”

At this last exclamation the prince opened his large eyes. “Isn’t it so, my Boy ?” continued he. “You’d like to play with your sister, wouldn’t you? I can’t see why the nation should recollect your origin, when you have forgotten it yourself!” Then, turning toward Gromin and Laurent, he remarked, “It isn’t his fault that he is the son of his father. He is only to us a poor sufferer and a child; so don’t he hard with him. The unfortunate Belong to humanity, and the country is the mother of all her children.”

On this occasion, Gomin, always ready to take the benefit of a favorable chance, proposed that the lamp which hung up in the room of the Dauphin should be lighted at dusk. So from this moment the prince always had a light, which he greatly desired, at night, and of which he had been deprived for a very long time.

The children of Louis XVI were never allowed to come together or see each other. The regulation on this point was especially strict. Since their separation, on the 3d of July, and their being confronted together, on the 7th of October, 1793, the princess had not once seen her brother. On the 23d of November, 1794, she caught a glance of him, at the moment she was entering her room with Laurent, and Gomin was taking the prince out upon the ter­race; but they were not permitted to embrace, or to speak to each other.

It turned out as Laurent had told Gomin. Many days had passed without the child speaking a word to him. Finally, the prince became more accustomed to Gomin, and addressed him, one day, in these words, repeating them in a gentle voice, and with a very sweet manner, “It was you who gave me the flowers. I have not forgotten it.”

An interest began to be strongly awakened in favor of the young prince. One of the Paris journals had the courage to throw out some sug­gestions favorable to the prisoner. This aroused the fears of the government, and the editors were summoned before the Convention and punished. The government took this occasion of expressing its determination not to abate a jot of its severity toward the Capets. It complained that it had been slandered in the statement that in­structors had been bestowed upon the children in the Temple, who had treated them with a kindness almost paternal, in order to secure their happiness and education.”—“No!” said the government, “it was a stranger to all thoughts of ameliorating the captivity of the children of Capet. The Convention knew how to cut off the heads of kings, but was ignorant of how to educate their children. It would take care that no pity should be felt for what remained of the race of tyrants—no compassion expressed for the orphan child.” There was, as appears from this denunciation of the prisoners, and of the natural emotions of hu­man nature—this resolution to establish cruelty and abolish pity—no change to be looked for from the successors of Robespierre toward bettering the condition of the unhappy prisoners.

The question in regard to the proper disposition of the royal prisoners was, however, brought up in the Convention, and Cambacérès, who was the mouth-piece on the occasion, declared that “there would be no danger in keeping the members of the family of Capet in captivity, but a great deal in banishing them.” The committees adopted this view of the government unanimously. Several of the European powers at­tempted to negotiate for the liberty of the royal children, but without effect. The unmeasured language of Spain on the occasion served only to excite the natural jealousy of France, and imbitter its hatred toward the royal family.

The days in the Temple continued to pass as before. An occasional visit of inspection from the authorities was the only relief to the monotony of the prison life.

On one occasion, on the arrival of a new com­missary, the weather being stormy, the stove began to fill the upper stories of the tower with smoke. The prince was nearly suffocated in consequence; it was, therefore, proposed to remove him below, which was consented to by the commissary. And thus, for the first time since his imprisonment, the child was permit­ted to leave his prison. He was taken down, and passed half the day in what was called the council-chamber, and dined with the three who had him under charge, his two guardians, and the commissary. He evidently was much pleased with the change, and the expression of his face indicated the joy of his heart. The commissary, seeing him apparently so happy, remarked to his guardians, “He don’t seem so ill; have you been telling me he was suffering in order to excite my pity?” Gomin answered, “The child is not well.”—“Well or ill,” resumed the commissary, “ there are plenty of children as good as he is who are a great deal worse off! There are plenty of them, who are more necessary than he is, who die !” The Dauphin bent down his eyes and turned away his head, as if he would withdraw from his companions. Laurent interposed, saying, “It is true, the child is a little better; but his knees and his wrists are terribly swollen, and he suffers a great deal. If he does not complain, that is because he is a little man. Isn’t it so, Monsieur Charles?” When the commissary heard these words, Monsieur Charles, he scowled, and said, “I thought the word Monsieur was no longer French.”—“If it be but little used now adays,” answered Laurent, “the people can’t, I fancy, blot it out of the dictionary.” At the beginning of the dinner the prince had enjoyed himself very much, and had eaten heartily. But, after the cruel words of the commissary, the child remained quiet and subdued, and would not touch any thing that was offered him.

“If it is obstinacy which keeps him from eating,” remarked the commissary, “you ought to punish him, citizens. If he won’t eat anything here, you must send him upstairs and let him swallow the, smoke.” His guardians tried to make some excuse for the child. “ Well,” said the commissary, “if he don’t eat, he must drink ; fill up his glass, and let him drink a bumper to the prosperity of the republic.” His glass was filled; but he would not touch it.

The dinner over the prince was taken up into his room. Gomin had put aside for him a piece of pastry, and left it upon the child’s table. He was surprised next morning to find it untouched, and found fault with him. “I would have accepted it from you,” said the prince, “with great pleasure ; but that man cut it off, and it came from his dinner, and I would not have it any more than his wine.” This commissary’s cruel words had left a deep impression upon the prince’s mind. Gomin heard him repeat, a couple of days afterward, these words, There are plenty of them, more necessary than he is, who die!

Immediately subsequent to this, the prince’s health began to decline more rapidly. He had frequent attacks of fever, and the swelling of his knees and wrists increased. His guardians were fearful of a fatal result, and asked permission to take him out into the garden. They were refused.

The child was again frequently taken down by his guardians into their room below. He was, however, always timid and fearful of strangers. He remained speechless in their presence. The fresh municipal officers never could get a word out of him.

A commissary, by the name of Debierne, seemed, from the very first, to take a great interest in the prince. He allowed him to go out for a walk upon the platform of the tower, and passed himself a good portion of the day in his company. Gomin, who was timid, was seldom at his ease with any of the commissaries; but the amiable disposition of Debierne won him over completely, and the greatest good feeling and confidence were at once established be­tween them. When they separated, after the service of Debierne had expired, they promised to see each other again. Accordingly, a few days afterward, Debierne returned to the Tem­ple, and asked for Gomin. He had brought some toys for the prince, and also some good news, which excited a hope in the breast of Gomin that there would soon be a movement in favor of the prince, and he be conveyed to his friends in La Vendee.

Debierne was not the only person from with­out who was in communication with Gomin. A valet de chambre, a confidant of the Marquis De Fenouil, would often go to see him, in order to inquire after the young king.

The prince became weaker every day. It was with great difficulty that he could be prevailed upon to leave his place at the corner of , the fireside, and go out upon the tower. He could hardly walk, and Gomin and Laurent were now frequently obliged to carry him in their arms. His disease made rapid progress. The surgeon who attended him thought it nec­essary to report the state of his young patient to the government. The imminent danger of the young prince was announced. The mu­nicipal officers, upon being questioned as to par­ticulars, replied, that the young Capet had tu­mors upon all his joints, and especially upon his knees ; that it was impossible to get a word out of him; and that, remaining seated, or in his bed the whole time, he refused to take any exercise. Being questioned as to the date of this obstinate silence, they stated that it was the 6th of October, 1793, the day on which Si­mon had extorted from the prince his signature against his mother; but this was not so. We have seen that, although speechless before stran­gers, he yielded to the kind interest of his guar­dians, and occasionally spoke to them.

The Committee of Public Safety, after hear­ing this report, appointed Harmand one of its members to investigate the state of the prince. The account of Harmand’s visit to the Temple was not published until 1814, when Louis XVIII was on the throne, and Harmand had been appointed a prefect of one of the departments of France. It shows, of course, the change in the times, and assumes the courtly style of a loyal officer of the crown, in vogue at the time of the publication, and has none of the rude republican directness, which was probably more in character with the member of the Convention at the period of his visit to the Temple. “ We arrived,” says the prefect, “at the door, the frightful lock of which was closed upon the innocent son, the only son of our king —our king himself.”

“The key turned in the lock with a great noise, and we entered the apartment, where we found the prince. He was seated by a square table, upon which there were a number of playing cards, some of which had been made into little boxes, and others built up into houses.” Harmand goes on, after stating that the apartment was found in a cleanly and wholesome condition, to describe the interview with the young prisoner: “I approached the prince,” says he, “but our movements did not seem to make the least impression upon him. I told him of the intentions of the government to take care of him, and to send him a physician, and otherwise see to the supply of his wants. While I was speaking to him, he looked at me fixedly, without changing his position, and seemed to listen with the greatest attention, but did not answer a word.” Harmand says further, that to all his questions “ there was the same fixed look, and not a word in answer.”—“I asked him,” continues Harmand, “to give me his hand ; he did so, and, upon moving my hand along his arm, I found a tumor upon his wrist and one upon his elbow. I examined, also, his other arm, but found nothing; I then felt his knees, and found on both of them, under the hams, the same kind of swelling as I had found upon his arm.” Harmand, in his report, affects to have been very much surprised and horrified at the condition in which he found the prince, and professes to have had not only the best intentions of improving the state of the little prisoner, but to have done something to carry them out; in fact, however, there was no change. There seems to be no doubt that the death of the young prince was resolved upon.

Gomin did, however, all in his power to mitigate the cruel captivity of the child. The pity he at first felt for his prisoner gave place in time to a warm affection?

His guardian took advantage of the library in the Temple, of which we have spoken in our account of the king’s captivity, and in which Louis XVI sought a solace from the weariness and sadness of his imprisonment. He would frequently select a book for the prince to read. It was generally either one of the moral tales of Marmontel, or a volume of the History of France. The child had not forgotten to read, in spite of his long neglect and his deprivation of all opportunity of study. He still read with great clearness and correctness. One day he was perusing one of Marmontel’s stories, which seemed strongly to engage his attention and interest. He read from the beginning to the end; it was some sad history or other, which, like most stories, terminated happily. He seemed deeply affected by the melancholy beginning, and very much delighted with the joyful end­ing. He first wept freely, and then smiles would clear up his face, and all seem cheerful and happy as in the prince’s early days.

His old friend Debierne, the good-hearted commissary, came again to see Gomin; and, as soon as he saw him, said, with an expression of great joy and satisfaction, “ I have got a play­thing for our little friend.” And, as he spoke, he opened his coat, and a pretty little turtle­dove thrust out its head. Gomin was somewhat anxious about this gift, for fear it might give dissatisfaction to the municipal officer on duty, and bring blame upon him for his indulgence to the prince. On the day of its arrival the commissary did not seem to be a very well-disposed person, and Gomin, always timid and fearful of being compromised, kept the dove below until the next day. The fresh commissary on the following morning had a more favorable aspect, and Gomin took courage, and carried the bird up into the tower. The prince did not seem to care for it. He was once very fond of little birds, but since his pet Canary had been the cause of so much wrong and ill treatment during the time of Simon, he had lost all fond­ness for them ; he did not seem to regard them. The turtle-dove died, and neither the prince nor Gomin regretted it. The latter was thus relieved of his fears of being compromised by the presence of the harmless bird.

One day Gomin was walking in company with Debierne, who was on a visit to him, in the courtyard, when they met Lienard the steward, whose duty it was to supply the inhabitants of the tower with their meals. Gomin got up his courage sufficiently to remark to the steward, “ How is it that, under the reign of equality, the children don’t fare as well as we do ?”—“ I have my orders,” he replied, “and I must obey them like a soldier.”—“You are right,” said Gomin, who was afraid of his shadow, and did not dare to push the subject. Debierne, who was as bold as a lion, put in, “Yes, Lienard, you are right; discipline first and foremost What is conscience in comparison with orders ?” As he passed on with Gomin, he continued, “I have no patience with such fellows, who are always talking about orders, and who obey what man has written upon a piece of paper, instead of what God has inscribed upon the heart.”

This good fellow, Debierne, often came to the Temple, under the pretext of being a relative of Gomin. He could thus always obtain an entrance into the tower, in the apartment of the guardians below, and satisfy the affectionate interest he took in the fate of the young captive.

The commissary being sometimes away, and Laurent absent on a visit to his club, Gomin was enabled, without risk, to spend occasionally some time with the prince. He usually, at these times, played a game of checkers with him. The child had but little skill, but Gomin always managed to let himself be beaten.

When the child was well enough, Gomin would sometimes take him up to the top of the great tower, where, in the vast hall there, they would have a game of battle-door and shuttle­cock, in which the prince was quite an expert.

One evening, Laurent and the commissary being away, Gomin went up to sit with the prince, and proposed to him to read a book or play a game at checkers. The child, being encouraged by the kindness of his guardian, got up, after he had been sitting some time with Gomin, and approached the door, without saying anything, but with a suppliant look upon his face, as if he would ask permission to go. “That is not allowed, you know,” said Gomin. “I wish to see her once more. Oh, do let me see her once more before I die, I beg and entreat you!” Gomin took hold of the child’s arm and led him back. The prince then threw himself on his bed, and remained there almost senseless and without moving. Gomin was alarmed at observing the state of the child, but he soon had the satisfaction of seeing him revive. His guardian said to him, “ It is not my fault; my duty prevents me. Speak to me, and tell me that you forgive me.” The child burst into tears. “Monsieur Charles, do not cry so,” said Gomin, “they will hear you.” He became quiet at once. Gomin continued : “You know the door is always kept fastened; and if it were open, you would not go out, I am sure, when it would cost me my life.” The prince shook his head, and there came over his face an expression of resigned grief.

Some of the municipal officers were occasionally very brutal. One by the name of Collot, looking at the prince, and examining his eyes very minutely, remarked in his hearing, “ That child hasn’t six decades to live. I tell you, citizens,” said he, addressing himself to Gomin and Laurent, “that child will be an idiot be­fore six decades are over, if he don’t give up the ghost before.”

In the evening Gomin tried to console the prince, and destroy the effect of the brutal remarks he had heard. The child, as he listened to the kind and gentle words of his guardian, could not restrain his tears, and he sighed out these words: “Yet I have never injured any one!”

Laurent left the Temple on the 29th of March, 1795. He had requested to be relieved from his duties in the tower, and his request was granted. He was much regretted by all about the Temple, for he was a great favorite. When he took leave of the prince, the child grasped his hand warmly, and saw him depart with a feeling of sad regret.

XII.

THE new guardian, the successor of Laurent, was a person by the name of Lasne. He was a house-painter by trade. He was a good-natured man; and although not, perhaps, as soft-hearted as Gomin, he had a great deal more force of character. Lasne was informed of his appointment by a message from the police, and, not repairing immediately to his new post, was waited upon by a couple of gens-d’armes, who took him off at once to the Temple.

Lasne had been a soldier, and had the precise air and the fixed manners of one brought up in the ranks. He was a thin person, about five feet seven inches in height. He held him­self straight and upright, like a man accustomed to the drill. He had a frank, open face, and was a kind-hearted person, though very much of a strict disciplinarian.

Lasne’s rigid manner and severe military look made them suppose at first, in the tower, that hf was another enemy sent by the revolutionary committees to torture and tyrannize over the young prisoners; but he soon proved himself very different from what his appearance seemed to indicate.

The care of the children belonged to the two guardians in common, but Lasne devoted himself more particularly to the prince, while the princess fell to the charge of Gomin.

Lasne, when on guard at the Tuileries, had often seen the little prince, and now recognized him at once; and, although alarmed by the state of the child’s health, he did not find him so much changed but that he could perfectly distinguish his features, which were familiar to him. His head, and the outlines of his face, were not at all altered. His complexion, however, was pale, his shoulders high, his chest contracted, his legs small and weak, and he had large swellings upon his right knee and his left wrist.

On the next day after the arrival of Lasne in the Temple, he began his duties with the desire of impressing the prince with the idea that he was rather his servant than his jailer. He succeeded Gomin in the kind care he took of the child, washing and combing him, and brushing his clothes. Although the prince was at first frightened at the stranger, he still readily submitted to the offices of Lasne, and eyed him attentively, without, however, saying a word.

Gourlet, the turnkey, coming up into the tower with the dinner, on the second day of Lasne’s arrival, made his usual noise in turning the locks and jangling the keys. “Why do you make such a racket?” asked Lasne. “Citizen,” answered he, “some of the commissaries order me to do so; others, again, think it useless; so I supposed it did not matter.”— “I advise you,” said Lasne, “to make less noise for the future, and to put some oil into the locks. I, for my part, don’t see any necessity in lock­ing all these three doors.”

The turnkey did as Lasne ordered; but the commissary on duty next day asked him why he left all the doors open. “Because,” answered Gourlet, “Citizen Lasne told me to do so.” —“These doors,” said the commissary, “ are made to be closed, and we must obey the orders of the Convention. Don’t forget to lock the doors, as heretofore.”  Lasne was present, but did not say anything, thinking it prudent to be silent.

With all Lasne’s kindness and attention to the prince, he was not able, for three whole weeks, to get a word from him. The child remained silent in his presence, and received his attentions without apparently appreciating them. His new guardian was untiring in his services. He went up early in the morning to the prince’s room, and seldom left the child the whole day, except for his meals. He did everything in his power to enliven and amuse him. When the weather permitted, he would give him his arm, and take him out for an hour or so upon the platform. The prince walked with difficulty, and with a limp. Lasne used to support him ; and the child would express his thanks by a look, a gesture, or a single word.

When the weather was bad, Lasne would play at cards or dominoes with the prince. As they were thus engaged one day, Lasne reminded the prince of a present he had received, while colonel of his little regiment, from his comrades, of a beautiful box of dominoes. It was a master-piece of its kind. The box was made out of a single piece of wood, and the dominoes out of a piece of marble taken from the remains of the Bastile. On each domino there was a let­ter in gold, which letters, when put together formed this inscription: “Vive le roi! vive la reine et M. le Dauphin!” The child’s face brightened with delight when Lasne recalled to the memory of the prince the circumstances of this gift, and all the particulars of that occa­sion. Lasne succeeded, by these means, in awakening occasional gleams of happiness in the dark life of the child, and in making him forget for a while his sufferings, if he did not succeed in removing them.

The prince never tired of listening to his guardian’s constant allusions to the little regiment, of which the Dauphin was once so proud, and in which he had borne a part in the happy days of his earlier childhood. The prince’s eyes brightened with pleasure when Lasne would descant upon the excellent discipline of the fa­mous Lilliputian troop, and tell how it had once manoeuvred like a veteran band, and how the colonel himself would have become a brave and skillful leader, worthy of the command. The child would then lift up his head and ask, “Did you ever see me with my sword ?” His guardian recollected having seen him, with his sword by his side, at the Tuileries, and would tell him so. The prince, however, was not satisfied until he had inquired what had become of it. Lasne thought it had been destroyed, during the sacking of the Tuileries, by the revolutionary mob. This sword, however, still exists, and is preserved in the Museum of Artillery in Paris, where it can now be seen, with its agate handle, and its silver guard, set with rubies, with this inscription on it: “ Sword of Louis XVII.”

Lasne would occasionally sing, for the amusement of the prince, some little songs or other, with which he seemed to be much pleased, and sometimes laughed. But whenever his guardian struck up a revolutionary ditty, the little prince would turn away his head, or shrug his shoulders and pout.

The disease that was destroying the child, which was at first slow in its progress, began now to make more rapid strides. The prince bore up less and less against his increasing weakness. The fatal moment was approaching.

It was thought necessary to inform the government of the danger of the prince. His guard­ians wrote upon the register which was daily submitted to the authorities, “The little Capet is unwell”. No notice was taken of this statement. Next day it was thought necessary to repeat it with more emphasis, and consequently they wrote, “The little Capet is dangerously ill” Still there was no attention given to it, and lastly, there was added to the “dangerously ill” “There are fears of his life.”

On the 6th of May, 1795, M. Dessault, an eminent surgeon of Paris, was summoned by the government to attend the prisoner. On his ar­rival at the tower, he examined the prince for a long time, and very carefully. He could get no answer from him, and did nothing for the patient but order some simple remedies. M. Dessault did not express himself freely in regard to the prince’s state before the officers in the tower, but afterward was less reserved. He did not hesitate to declare that he ought to have been sent for sooner. He was of opinion that the prince was affected, to a certain degree, with the same scrofulous disease that his brother had died of at Meudon; that the disease, however, had not made such progress as to be necessarily fatal; that none of the more severe symptoms had yet appeared. The true disease of which the child was prematurely dying was a wasting away, in consequence of confinement and grief. Dessault proposed that he should be immediately sent into the country, where, he hoped, with change of scene, fresh air, good treatment, and great care, he might revive.

The next day, about nine o’clock, Dessault repeated his visit to the prince. He did nothing more than on the previous day, with the exception of ordering some simple application for his tumors. As he was about leaving, Gomin asked him if he should not try and make him walk out. Dessault replied, I How is it possible, when every step he takes gives him intense pain? It is true, he wants air, but it should be the air of the country.”

They had great difficulty in prevailing upon the little patient to take his medicine. On the first day his resolution could not be broken, notwithstanding that Gomin himself took, on two or three occasions, a full dose of the physic. He was at last induced, by repeated solicitations and entreaties, to take his medicine from Lasne, saying, as he did so, “You have sworn that I shall take it; then I will. Give it to me ; I will take it.” Ever afterward he received, without any objection, whatever was or­dered him.

It was rumored that, in the treaty entered into between the Vendéans and the victorious republic, a secret clause had been negotia­ted and ratified, to the effect that the young prince should be delivered up to the army and his friends of La Vendee. The committees eagerly denounced the report as calumnious. There was no intention of delivering up the royal prisoner. Other rumors were busily circulated. Among others, that the prince was to be crowned King of Poland. These stories were the subject of general talk everywhere; and it began even to be believed in Paris that the prince had escaped from prison. On one occasion, the commander of the military post of the Temple insisted upon seeing the little Capet. “The National Guard,” said he “guard the Temple, and I want to know who it is we guard.” Lasne and Gomin had no orders, and therefore could not comply with his demand.

In spite of these rumors, which seated him as king on a throne in one place, and as the head of an army in another, the poor prince was in his prison, a sick child, whose life was fast ebbing away.

His weakness now became extreme. It gave him too much pain, and he was too feeble, to walk. Lasne used to carry him out, however, upon the platform of the tower, on every fine day.

On the battlement which flanked the platform, a hollow, like a basin, had been made by the constant dripping of the water for centuries. The sparrows used to come to drink, and bathe, and frolic in this basin, that was always filled with water. They had become very tame, and would allow the prince to approach them quite near. He got quite attached to them, and used to call them his birds. From the platform noth­ing could be seen but the sky. It can be con­ceived, then, what delight the prince took in the companionship of his constant little feathered friends, the sparrows.

His sister, the princess, seemed to have a forewarning of the approaching fate of her brother, and was unceasing in her inquiries of the guardians, and officers about his health; but she could get, in return to her questions, nothing but vague answers, which served to increase her fears and anguish. M. Hue, the old attendant of Louis XVI, solicited permission to go to the aid of the young prince, but was denied.

M. Dessault found he could do nothing for the young prince. What was necessary, free­dom of life and the pure air of heaven, were re­fused. During M. Dessault’s attendance for a fortnight, no benefit was received by the prince. His weakness and prostration increased. The child did not speak, but he expressed by his face and his gestures, catching M. Dessault by the coat, or grasping his hand, an overflowing gratitude for the constant care and gentle at­tentions of his good physician.

One day, as Dessault was going, the officer on duty remarked to him, “He is a dead child, is he not?” —“I fear so,” replied Dessault; “but there are some, perhaps, who hope so”.

The commissary on duty on the 31st of May was a person by the name of Bellanger, who had been an artist. He brought with him his portfolio, and took pleasure in showing his sketches to the prince, who turned them over with evident marks of delight. “I would like,” said Bellanger, “to add another sketch to my collection; but I will not do so, unless you like it.” — “What sketch?” asked the Dauphin. “Your face. It would give me great pleasure to take it, if you are willing.”—“Would give you great pleasure!” said the child, and he smiled, and gave, in his amiable manner, a silent consent.

Bellanger drew the profile of the young king with a lead-pencil; and it was from this por­trait that, twenty years after, the bust of the prince was executed.

M. Dessault did not come any more; and, upon inquiry, it was found that he had died of typhus fever on the 1st of June. His sudden death had given rise to many rumors. By some it was said that he had poisoned the prince by means of a slow poison, and had afterward been poisoned himself by those who commanded the murder. The character of Dessault was such as to place him, in the opinion of those who knew him, beyond the suspicion of so dreadful a crime. Moreover, there was no medicine administered to the prince which was not first tasted by his guardians. On the other hand, it was rumored that M. Dessault had not recognized in his young patient in the tower the royal prince, and that he was poisoned by the authorities in conse­quence of having declared that he would make known the fact. M. Dessault, however, who had been physician to the royal children, never doubted for a moment that his patient was the Dauphin.

In consequence of the death of Dessault, the prince remained for six days without any medical attendant. His guardians were fearful of taking any step without orders. Finally, the Committee of Public Safety summoned M. Pelletan to continue the medical treatment of the young Capet. “I found him,” says M Pelletan, “in such a sad state, that I determined to ask at once for someone to consult with, as I was unwilling to take upon my head the whole responsibility.” Sent for at the last moment, and finding his patient in a hopeless condition, M. Pelletan could do nothing for the prince. He was now beyond the reach of his art. He did, however, what he could to relieve him. He insisted upon the removal of all the locks and keys, and the free opening of the windows. “If you cannot,” said M. Pelletan, in rather a loud and angry tone, “remove these locks, you can, at any rate, remove the child into another room.” The prince, aroused by the angry tones of the physician, made a sign to him to come to him. “ Speak lower,” said the child; “I am afraid they will hear you upstairs, and I would not like them to know I am ill; it would give them so much pain.” The child was carried, in the arms of Gomin, into another room, which was a well-aired chamber, with a large window, with no iron bars, but with cheerful white curtains, through which the sky could be seen, and the rays of the sun pass. How great a change for the prince, who had been so long shut up in a dungeon. His expression was full of happiness and of gratitude. From eight o’clock at night to eight o’clock in the morning, the child was, as usual, left to himself.

On the morning of the 6th of June, Lasne was the first to reach his room. He applied the usual application to his wrist and knee, and gave him a spoonful of his medicine, which he took readily. Lasne, thinking him better, lifted him out of bed. When Pelletan, the physician, arrived, he felt the prince’s pulse, and did not prescribe anything more; he merely said to the child, “Do you like this room”— “Oh, yes, very much,” answered the child, in a feeble voice.

About two o’clock Gomin came up with the prince’s dinner. He was accompanied by the new commissary for the day, a man by the name of Hebert. The child rose from his pillow, took a little soup, and then laid himself down again, as if fatigued by the effort, while now and then he would put out his little hand to take some cherries he had put upon his bed. The Citizen Hebert, addressing himself to Go­min, said, “Where is your order for moving the young whelp? show it to me!”—“We have no order but that of the physician; he will tell you himself tmorrow that it was necessary, and that he ordered it.”—“How long is it since these saw bones have governed the republic ? You must get an order, do you understand, from the committee.” When the child heard these harsh words, he dropped his cherries and covered up his hand.

On the next day M. Dumangin, another physician, came to the tower to consult with M. Pelletan, according to the request of the latter, They learned, on their arrival, that the little patient had had a fainting fit. They found him very weak, and evidently fast passing away. They could do nothing. They expressed their surprise and indignation that the sick child was left alone during the night. They were, however, told that it was in accordance with the strict orders of the government. The physicians immediately, in their bulletin, insisted upon their patient being supplied with a nurse. The physicians, ordering a little sugar and water for their patient, in case he should be thirsty and desire a drink, took their leave, having no hope for the young prince. M. Pel­letan thought the child would not live past the next day. M. Dumangin was of opinion that he would survive some days longer. It was agreed between them that on the next morning M. Pelletan should visit their patient at nine o’clock, and M. Dumangin at eleven.

In the evening, at supper-time, Gomin was agreeably surprised to find the prince somewhat better: his complexion seemed more clear, his eye brighter, and his voice somewhat stronger.  Is it you?” asked the child, with an expression of pleasure, as soon as his guardian entered. “You don’t suffer so much?” said Gomin. “Not so much,” answered the prince. “It is,” continued his guardian, “owing to this room; there is plenty of light and air here, and the physicians have been here and cheered you up.” The child remained quiet for a moment, then a tear rolled down his cheek, and he sobbed out, “Always alone! my mother is kept in the other tower!”

Gomin answered, “Yes, it is true, you are alone; it is very sad; but you are better here than where you were.” Gomin then informed him of one of the municipal officers, who had often been on duty in the tower, having been arrested and put in prison. “I am sorry,” said the prince; “is it here that he is ?”—“No; at La Force.” The prince, pausing for some time, then exclaimed, “I am sorry for him, for he is more miserable than we are ; he deserves his misfortune.”

At night, again, the sick child was, by the rules of the Temple, forced to remain all alone. Lasne again was the first to ascend in the morning to the young prince’s quarters. Gomin was fearful of going first, lest he should find the child dead. The physicians arrived at the appointed time. The little patient was sitting up when Pelletan arrived. The visit was a short one. The prince, finding himself exhausted, soon asked to be put to bed again. Lasne thought him better, but the report of the physician undeceived him. Dumangin, the other doctor, arrived at eleven o’clock, and found the child in bed, and, though he was much exhausted, he exhibited toward his physician a great deal of gratitude and kind feeling; he was by no means disposed to complain or find fault. The joint bulletin of the two doctors, issued at eleven o’clock, reported the patient in a very dangerous condition.

M. Dumangin having left, Gomin took his place by the bedside of the Dauphin, but did not for a long time speak a word to him, for fear of wearying him. However, at last Gomin remarked, “How unhappy I am to see you suffering.”— “Console yourself,” said the child, “I shall not always suffer so.” Gomin, who was a man of strong devotional feeling, kneeled by the prince’s bedside and prayed earnestly. The child took his guardian’s hand and pressed it to his lips.

Gomin, observing the child calm, motionless, and silent; said to him, “I hope you are not suffering at present?”—“Oh, yes, I am suffering, but much less; the music is so sweet ’”

There was no music either in the tower or in the neighborhood; no noise from without at this moment reached the chamber where the young prince was dying. Gomin, surprised, asked him, “Where do you hear the music?”— “Above!”—“How long since?”— “Since you have been on your knees. Don’t you hear it? Listen! listen!” And the child raised his feeble arm, and opened his large eyes lighted up with ecstasy. His poor guardian, not wishing to destroy this sweet and heavenly illusion, set himself to listen also with the pious desire of hearing what could not be heard.

After some moments of attention, the child started again, his eyes glistened, and he exclaimed in an inexpressible transport, “In the midst of all the voices I heard my mother’s”

This word mother seemed, as it fell from the orphan’s lips, to remove all his pain. His contracted brows expanded, and his countenance brightened up with that ray of serenity which gives assurance of deliverance or victory. With his eye fixed upon a vision, his ear listening to the distant music of one of those concerts that human ear has never heard, there appeared to spring forth in his child’s soul another existence.

An instant afterward, the brilliancy of his eye became extinguished, he crossed his arms upon his breast, and an expression of sinking showed itself upon his face.

Gomin observed him closely, and followed with an anxious eye every movement. His breathing was no longer painful; his eye alone seemed slowly to wander, looking from time to time toward the window. Gomin asked him what it was he was looking at in that direction. The child looked at his guardian a moment, and although the question was repeated, he seemed not to understand it, and did not answer.

Lasne came up from below to relieve Gomin. The latter went out, his heart oppressed, hut not more anxious than on the evening before, for he did not expect an immediate termination. Lasne took his seat near the bed; the prince regarded him for a long time with a fixed and dreamy look. When he made a slight movement, Lasne asked him how he was, and if he wanted anything. The child said, “Do you think that my sister has heard the music? how happy it would have made her!”. Lasne was unable to answer. The eager and penetrating look, full of anguish, of the dying child darted toward the window. An exclamation of happiness escaped his lips; then, looking toward his guardian, he said, “I have one thing to tell you.” Lasne approached and took his hand; the little head of the prisoner fell upon his guardian’s breast, who listened to him, but in vain. His last words had been spoken. Lasne put his hand upon the heart of the child : the heart of Louis XVII had ceased to beat. It was a quarter past two o’clock in the afternoon of the 8th day of June, 1795.

The End.