Chapter IV: Part 4

King Louis shook his head. "No, my son," he said. "The people can not come to me in such great masses. They have to send representatives. Those representatives I called to me at Versailles and asked of them money for the outlays I had to make, but they asked things in return, of me which I could not grant, either for my own sake or for yours, my son, who are some day to be my successor. Then the people were led to believe that I did not love them, but I am determined to show them that I do love them and am ready to share everything with them. That is why we have left lovely Versailles and come to live here, where we have to do without so much that we enjoy. And we must try to be contented here and share all the disagreeable things that the people have to bear, which is what a true King should do."

The Dauphin had sat like an old man, listening, and now as his father stopped speaking, the boy laid a hand on his breast, saying solemnly:

"Papa, I have understood everything, and I am very much ashamed that I complained at all. And I promise you I will take pains to give everybody a good example. I will be happy and contented here."

And the Dauphin kept his word; he took pains to be contented, and never said another word about Versailles, but tried to get all the pleasure he could from the dreary old palace and its garden, so different from that at Versailles, where the Dauphin had so much ground in which to work. Here in the garden, there was only one small corner set aside for the use of the royal family. This was surrounded by iron palings, through which faces full of hate and malice would often peer at the little Dauphin while he was busy gardening. One day he heard such words and saw such threatening faces that he shrank back and ran to his mother, who comforted him as best she could and said that he must be brave and strong, or she would cry too, and that she must not do this because it was exactly what the men who were trying to hurt their feelings, wanted to see her do.

The boy's eyes flashed.

"I will never complain again," he cried, "and they shall never again have the pleasure of seeing you or me cry if I can help it. But, mamma, tell me--are there no good men in the world?"

"Yes, Louis," answered the queen. "You must believe that all men are good and treat them courteously, until you have proved the contrary. If they refuse your friendly kindness, it will not be your fault, and you will have done what is right, no matter what others do."

A shadow passed over the child's lovely face.

"But, mamma," he said, "all men are not good. The men who abused and cursed us so were not good, and I could never be friendly to them, never!"

"We will hope that we shall never see them again," said the queen, "and I wish you to be so kind and polite to everyone who comes here, that all men may admire and respect their future king, even though he is still a child."

"I will be," cried the boy with spirit, "so that you may be satisfied with me, mamma. Just for that I will be so!"

As Marie Antoinette was kissing the pretty boy who was her comforter, the mayor of Paris and General Lafayette were announced, and the Dauphin whispered to his mother:

"That general was at Versailles with the bad men. I can _never_ be kind to him."

"Hush," whispered the Queen--"For God's sake, do not let anybody hear that. No--no--he does not belong to our enemies. He wishes us well. Treat him kindly, my child."

And then Marie Antoinette took her son by the hand, and together they met their distinguished guests, who had come with the unwelcome news that, according to the old custom of the days of Henry the Fourth, the people wished to have free access to the gardens of the Tuileries, which freedom had been denied them since the coming of King Louis and his family.

The queen was bitterly opposed to this, for it meant that, for her own comfort and protection, she must only walk in the garden at certain times and under escort, and she was speaking with proud and angry fearlessness to the general about the matter, when the Dauphin left her side and running forward, extended his hand to Lafayette, crying:

"General, I should like to salute you. Mamma told me I must be polite and kind to all who are good to us, and she said that you wish us well. Let me, therefore, greet you kindly, and give you my hand."

As he spoke, he raised his blue eyes and looked smilingly and trustingly into those of the general and then at his mother; and his hearer, whose heart had just kindled with anger against Marie Antoinette and her rebellious words, felt anger melt into admiration, together with reverence and astonishment at the words of the manly little Dauphin. Bending his knee, in stately grace, he pressed the Dauphin's small hand to his lips and said gravely as to a comrade:

"My prince, you have spoken as with the tongue of an angel, and I swear to you and to your royal mother that I will never forget this moment. The kiss I have impressed upon the hand of my future king is at once the seal of a solemn vow and the oath of unchangeable fidelity and devotion to my king and the royal family. Dauphin of France, you have to-day gained a soldier for your throne who is prepared to shed his last drop of blood for you and your house, and on whose loyalty you may always count."

General Lafayette had tears in his eyes, and his noble face glowed with emotion, while the child before him looked at him with wistful eyes and a happy smile. Close by stood Marie Antoinette, her air of proud defiance turned to one of gentle sweetness. She knew what that moment meant in the history of France, and her heart thrilled with pride in her little son, the Dauphin. Stooping, she kissed his golden hair, and then, without an attempt to conceal the emotion, she finished her conversation with the general and mayor, and then, making her adieus to them beckoned to the Dauphin to go with her from the pavilion in which the interview had taken place, and to return to the palace.

Instead of walking beside her, the Dauphin paused and asked:

"Mamma, please let me walk alone. I want the people to see I am not afraid, as they may think if I let you lead me. I want to be like the Chevalier Bayard, that the Abbe talked to me about the other day. I want to be _sans peur et sans reproche_--like Bayard."

The queen smiled through tears.

"Very well, my chevalier," she said. "You shall walk alone."

"And before you, please. The knights always walk in advance of the ladies, to protect them from danger. I am your knight, mamma, and I want to be, as long as I live." And he added with a pretty, playful bow, "Will you allow it, my royal lady?"

"I allow it! So go in front, chevalier, little Louis. We will take the same way we came."

The Dauphin sprang along the path for quite a distance, when he stopped suddenly and turned round to the queen, who with her two footmen was walking quietly behind him.

"Well, Chevalier Bayard, what are you stopping for?" asked the queen with a smile.

"I am waiting for you," he said gravely, "because this is where my knightly service commences, for it is here that danger begins."

"It is true," said the Queen, and even as she spoke, there came to her ears a sound of shouting as loud as the booming of cannon. "Oh, my child," cried Marie Antoinette, "the sound is like the thundering of a storm at sea! But such storms lie in God's hand and He protects those who trust Him. Think of that, little Louis, and do not be afraid!"

"Oh, I am not afraid!" cried Louis, running happily on. And yet, outside the fence behind which they were walking, was a dense mass of angry people muttering curses on the queen and the Dauphin.

All at once, the mother's heart almost stopped beating from fright and horror. A man had extended his bare, powerful arm through the paling of the fence, to bar the Dauphin's way when he should try to pass it.

The boy saw the arm, hesitated a little, then went bravely forward. The queen hurried that she might be near him when he reached the danger point. On walked the Dauphin in proud courage. On hurried the queen and as she reached him, she cried:

"Come here, my son. Give me your hand."

But instead of responding to her cry, the little prince sprang forward and stood directly in front of the outstretched arm, and reaching out his small white hand, laid it on the brown clenched fist that had been ready to clutch him as in a vise, while a chorus of cheers at his courage went up from outside the wall.

"Good-day sir," he said in a loud voice, "Good-day!" As he spoke he took hold of the great rough hand and shook it.

"Little fool," roared the man, "what do you mean, and how dare you lay your puny paw in the claws of a lion?"

The Dauphin smiled. "Sir, I thought you were stretching out your hand to reach me with it, and so I give you mine and say good-day, sir!"

"And if I wanted, I could crush your fingers with my fist," cried the man, still holding the little hand firmly.

But from a hundred throats outside the fence came the cry "You shall not do it, Simon. You shall not hurt the boy!"

"Who can hinder me if I choose to do it?" asked the cobbler, whose name was Simon, with a coarse laugh. "See, I hold the hand of the future King of France, and I can break it if I choose, and make it so it can never lift the sceptre of France. The little monkey thought he would take hold of my hand and make me draw it back, but now my hand has got hold of his, and holds it fast. And mark this, boy, the time is past when kings seized us and trod us down, now we seize them, and do not let them go unless we will."

"But, Mr. Simon," said Louis, "you see very plainly that I do not want to do any harm, and I know you do not want to do me any harm, and I ask you to be so good as to take away your arm, that my mamma can go on with her walk."

"But suppose I do not do as you want me to?" asked the man defiantly. "I suppose then your mamma would dictate to me, and perhaps call some soldiers and order them to shoot the dreadful people?"

"You know, Master Simon, that I give no such commands and never gave such," said the queen quickly. "The king and I love our people and never would give our soldiers orders to fire on them, and now, sir--the Queen of France and her son will no longer be detained!" With a quick movement she struck back the arm of the cobbler, Simon, snatched the Dauphin away like lightning and passed by before Simon had time to put his arm back.

The crowd watching were filled with enthusiasm by the courage of the queen. They applauded, laughed and shouted, while the cries, "Long live the Queen! Long live the Dauphin!" passed like wildfire among the throng behind the fence, and although in the eyes of Simon whose evil design had been frustrated by a little child, there still shone hatred, Marie Antoinette, who was now hand in hand with the Dauphin, reached in safety the little garden reserved for the use of the royal family. Once within its iron gate, decorated with the arms of the kings of France, she felt as if all power had gone from her, and she could no longer hide her fear and grief, but, no, she must be cheerful for her son's sake, and her servants must not see her brow clouded, and so, with head erect and flashing eyes, she walked on.

"Mamma," cried the Dauphin, interrupting her thoughts. "There comes the king, my father. He will be glad to hear I was so courageous."

The queen quickly stooped and kissed him. "Yes, truly my little Bayard," she said, "you have done honour to your great example and been really a little chevalier '_sans peur et sans reproche_,' but remember, Louis, true bravery does not glory in its great deeds and does not wish others to admire them, but keeps silent and leaves others to talk of them!"

"Yes, and I will be silent too," cried Louis, with sparkling eyes. "You will see that I can be silent too," and child though he was, he showed from that moment a quick understanding and appreciation of the humility necessary to real greatness.

That winter in the Tuileries was a dismal one indeed, for the royal family had none of the gaiety and freedom which had been part of the happy life at Versailles, and even when the King wished to go to his summer palace at St. Cloud for rest and change, this was not allowed. At last, weary of the insults and restraints heaped upon them, the royal family attempted to escape secretly from Paris, but the plot was discovered, their carriages stopped, and they were escorted back to the Tuileries by a shouting shrieking mob of men and women who were fiendishly glad of their capture. After that the King and Queen and the Dauphin were always treated as prisoners in their own palace, with guards set over them to watch their every movement, and the poor little Dauphin could not go out nor play freely and happily as could the poorest peasant child in France. After some months had passed, however, the fury of the people grew somewhat less, and they were allowed to close the doors of their rooms when they wished, and to walk out in the gardens once more. It even seemed for some time as if what King Louis had done to win back the trust of his people had been successful, and that the throne of France might regain its dignity and power before that time when Louis the Dauphin, should come into his inheritance.

He, meanwhile, was filling this period of calm with such affairs as interested and amused him, and his greatest joy was that he was again allowed to work in his garden. Although it was so small in comparison to that at Versailles, it was yet a bit of paradise to him, and as soon as his study hours were over, he always hurried out to dig his ground, and water and pick his blossoms, and it was the great delight of those subjects who loved the manly little fellow, to stand outside the fence and watch him as he worked. The Dauphin was generally accompanied, when he went outside the palace, by several soldiers from the detachment of the National Guard, who were on duty at the Tuileries, and the boy himself, who was now having military drills, generally wore the uniform of the National Guard, and so charming and so manly was this little National Guardsman of six years, that he became the idol of Paris. Fans and lockets were decorated with his picture, which society women wore, and everywhere the beauty and wit of the little fellow were talked of.

The boys of Paris shared the enthusiasm of their elders, and formed themselves into a regiment, which was called the Regiment of the Dauphin, which, with the king's permission, marched to the Tuileries to parade before the Dauphin. As usual, he was found in his garden, and was anxious to show his treasures to them even before he answered their request that he become Colonel of their regiment. When he accepted the honour urged upon him, one of the officers said:

"But that will mean giving up gathering flowers for your mamma."

"Oh, no," said the Dauphin, quickly, "that will not prevent me from taking care of my flowers. Many of these gentlemen tell me that they, too, have little gardens, and if they love the queen as much as their colonel loves her, mamma will have whole regiments of bouquets every day."

A cheer showed the boys' appreciation of their little colonel's sentiment, and the regiment of the Dauphin became one of the most popular organisations in Paris. Their uniform was a miniature copy of the French guards, with their three-cornered hats and white jackets, and whenever they marched through the Place de la Carousel, the people crowded to see the army of sturdy boys with their handsome little colonel.

So great was the boys' love for the Dauphin that the officers of the regiment came to the palace one day to make him a present, in the name of the whole regiment, and they were enthusiastically received by their colonel.

"Welcome, my comrades," he cried. "My mamma tells me you have brought me a present. But it gives me such pleasure to see you that nothing more is needed."

"But Colonel, you will not refuse our gift?" said a little officer named Palloy, and he added proudly:

"We bring you a set of dominoes made entirely out of the ruins of the Bastile."[1]

[1] The Bastile was the national prison, which had been entirely
destroyed by the Revolutionists.

Taking the wrapper from the white marble box, bound with gold, he gave it to the Dauphin, at the same time reciting the following lines:

"Those glowing walls that once woke our fear
Are changed into the toy we offer here
And when with joyful face the gift you view
Think what the people's love can do."

Joyfully the Dauphin received the beautiful present and listened eagerly to the explanation of how to play the new game. On the back of each domino, in the black marble, was a gold letter, and when the whole set of dominoes was arranged in regular order, they formed this sentence, Vive le Roi, Vive la Reine, et Vive le Dauphin (Long live the King, the Queen and the Dauphin). The marble of the box was taken from the altar-slab in the chapel of the Bastile, and in the middle, in gold relief, was a picture of King Louis.

"That is my papa!" cried Louis joyfully, when he saw it.

"Yes," said Palloy. "Every one of us bears him in his heart. And like the King, you will live for the happiness of all, and like him, you will be the idol of France. We who shall one day be French soldiers and citizens, bring to you, who will then be our commander-in-chief and king, our homage as the future supporters of the throne which is destined for you and which the wisdom of your father has placed under the unshakable power of law. The gift which we offer you is small, but each one of us adds his heart to it."

"And I give you all of my heart in return for it," cried the Dauphin, joyfully, "and I shall take great pains to do my lessons well so I may be allowed to amuse myself playing dominoes."

The delight of the Dauphin was so evident that his comrades who had brought him the present felt a keener affection even than before for their little Colonel, and the Queen who had been present during the whole scene spoke in friendly words of thanks to the boys, who then withdrew, escorted by the king and the Dauphin, who had no knowledge, child of destiny that he was, of the omen contained in that present. But Marie Antoinette knew only too well, and her heart was heavy when she saw the present made from the stones of the Bastile. But of this she gave no sign, and from that day attempted more than ever to endear herself and her son to the people who had so little trust in her. One day when a crowd of fiendish women behind the fence called out cruel things about the Queen, the Dauphin could be no longer silent.

"You lie, oh, you lie!" he cried angrily. "My mamma is _not_ a wicked woman, and she does not hate the people. She is good. She is so good that--that----" tears choked him, and ashamed to show such signs of weakness, he dashed out of the garden into the palace, but as he reached the queen's apartments he choked back the tears, saying, "I will not cry any more, for that will only trouble mamma and I can see she has trouble enough without that. I will laugh and sing and jump about, and then she may smile a little instead of crying, as I often find her doing."

His tutor, the Abbe Davout, heartily approved of this, and the Dauphin sprang into his mother's presence with a merry smile which gladdened the queen's heart and made her forget her sorrows for awhile. This pleased the Dauphin greatly, and he re-doubled his efforts to be merry, making the little dog stand on its hind legs, while Louis put on its black head a paper cap which he had made, painted with red stripes, like those worn by the Jacobins or Revolutionists and cried:

"Monsieur Jacobi, behave respectfully. Make your salutations to her majesty, the Queen!"

He was rewarded by a hug and a kiss from the Queen and then ran off with the dog barking at his heels.

Little Louis was, as we have seen, an eager and brilliant scholar and one day he begged the Abbe to give him lessons in grammar which he had begun to learn some time before.

"Gladly," answered the Abbe, "your last lesson, if I remember rightly, was upon the three degrees of comparison--the positive, the comparative and the superlative. But you must have forgotten all that."

"You are mistaken," answered the Dauphin, "and I will prove it to you. Listen:--the positive is when I say, 'my Abbe is a kind Abbe'; the comparative is when I say 'my Abbe is kinder than another Abbe,' and the superlative," he continued, looking at the Queen who was listening--"is when I say, 'mamma is the kindest and most amiable of all mammas!'"

The retort was so clever, the manner of saying it so charming, that the Abbe and Marie Antoinette exchanged glances of amusement and pride, but the little prince was unconscious of having said or done anything unusual.

Besides grammar, Louis studied Italian, which he could speak and read fluently; he also studied Latin, and some of the sentences he translated have been preserved, such as "True friends are useful to princes." "I know a prince who easily flies into a passion." "Flatterers are very dangerous to princes." From these sentences it is evident that the Abbe was trying to teach his clever little scholar more than one thing at a time. Louis was also taught arithmetic, geometry and geography, this last by means of a huge hollow globe lit by a lantern, which had been invented for the special use of the Dauphin, by a celebrated professor in the University of Paris. Louis also was trained in all sorts of athletic sports and when he was seven years old was sturdy of body and far more mature of mind than many older boys. At seven, according to the court custom of France, he was obliged to be given into the care of a governor. The people wished to choose this governor and named several candidates who were utterly unworthy of the position, but they were obliged to set aside their wishes and accept a man named by the king, who also himself continued to superintend his son's education.

At this time the clouds of political disaster were again hanging over the palace, and even the Dauphin could see and feel the uneasiness that surrounded him.

On June 20, 1792, King Louis refused to sign two decrees which the people wished him to sign, and with his refusal the storm of riot and revolution burst forth again. An immense mob of shrieking, howling people stormed the Tuileries, where no measures had been taken in defence, and the king gave orders that the doors of the palace be flung open and the people be allowed to pass in unhindered. In a few minutes every inch of space in rooms and corridors and halls was filled with the dense crowd. Only one room was locked, and in that room were the king and queen, the Dauphin and his sister, Therese with a few loyal friends. Therese was terrified and would have screamed with fright, but the manly little Dauphin watching her, held back his own tears and kept her terror under control by his words and manner, acting with the dignity of a grown-up guardian.

Breathlessly, the little company gathered there listened to the sound of an axe, doors were being battered down, the door of the royal apartment was opened, and an officer of the National Guard knelt before the King, beseeching him to show himself to the frenzied mob. The expression on all faces, the sounds from without were too much for the Dauphin's self-control. He burst into sobs and begged the queen to take him to his room, and while Marie Antoinette was comforting him as best she could, the king went out and stood in the middle of the hall, surrounded by the rabble, speaking in quiet words, of his love for his people. The crowd was delighted at this, but in the meantime, the still greater crowd outside the palace surged through the hall and into the room where the queen and her children were. The National Guards quickly rolled a table up between the queen and the mob, and stood at either side, ready to defend them. Only a table now separated the queen from her enemies, but she was calm and courageous and stood proudly erect with a child on either side of her, wide-eyed at the sights they saw. Suddenly, the queen trembled with a deathly fear. Before her stood the man whose brawny arm had reached through the paling to grasp the Dauphin. Simon, the cobbler, stood there, hatred and desire for revenge on his face, and Marie Antoinette knew with a quick instinct that this man would bring no good to her child. Then the cries of the Jacobins rent the air and they surged into the room with the fury of wild beasts sure of their prey.

The queen lifted the Dauphin up and set him on a table and whispered to him that he must not grieve or fear or cry, but be a man now, and the child smiled and kissed her hand. Just then a drunken woman flung a red cap--the cap worn by the Jacobins--on the table, and commanded the queen, on pain of death, to put it on.

Calmly, the queen turned to a general standing beside her and told him to place it on her head.

The general, pale with rage at the insult, obeyed in silence and the woman howled with pleasure. But in a moment, the general took the cap off the queen's hair and laid it on the table.

Ever since the King had vetoed the bills, the people had called the King, Monsieur Veto; Marie Antoinette, Madame Veto, and the Dauphin, Little Veto, and now from all sides burst forth the cry, "The red cap for the Dauphin! The tri-colour for little Veto!"

"If you love the nation," cried the woman to the Queen, "put the red cap on your son."

The Queen motioned to one of the ladies to put the red cap on the child, and he, not understanding whether it was a joke or not, stood there in easy grace, as handsome a little prince as ever a nation had.

One of the revolutionary leaders, who had looked complacently at the scene, now stood near the queen, and as her eyes met his in calm defiance, he felt a thrill of pity for her and for the little Dauphin, and when he saw the perspiration rolling down the boy's forehead from under the thick woollen cap, he called out roughly:

"Take that cap off the child--don't you see how he sweats?"

The queen's gratified glance thanked him, as she took the cap herself from the Dauphin's head. While this was occurring, the Mayor of Paris had entered the outer hall and was quieting the mob, bidding them disband and leave the palace at once, which they did.

The King sank into a chair, exhausted and agonised, and cried out:

"Where is the queen? Where are the children?" and in a moment the royal victims were together.

The Dauphin's spirits were never long cast down and now he was bubbling over with joy.

"Papa," he cried. "Give me a kiss! I deserve it, for I was truly brave and did not cry or even speak when the people put the red cap on my head."

The king stooped with a dignity which was almost reverent, kissed the boy's broad forehead and pushed back his thick golden hair, then turned to answer a question put by one of the representatives of the people; several of whom were in the room. And all at once these men gathered around the little Dauphin, of whose brilliant mind they had heard so much, and began to question him eagerly on all kinds of subjects, especially about the boundaries of France, and its division into departments and districts, and every question he answered quickly. After each answer he glanced up at his mother inquiringly, and when her face showed that he had answered correctly, his face beamed with pleasure, and he enjoyed seeing the astonishment on those faces crowding around him. One of those present asked:

"Do you sing, too, Prince?"

The Dauphin glanced again at the queen.

"Mamma," he asked, "shall I sing the prayer I sang this morning?"

Marie Antoinette nodded assent and the Dauphin knelt beside her, and folding his hands and looking up with a sweet look of reverence in his blue eyes, sang in a clear voice:

"Oh heaven, accept the prayer
I offer here,
Unto his subjects spare
My father dear."

There was absolute silence in the room, while those faces, before so hard and stern, softened. Then with a single glance at the lovely boy, who was still kneeling, with a look on his face as if in a happy dream, one by one, those revolutionists silently left the room.

But even the prayer and the faith of the Dauphin could not longer save the royal family from their fate.

The people, inflamed to fury by every desire of which the revolutionists could make use, now demanded the dethronement of the King, and the giving of the crown to the Dauphin, in whose name, as he was not yet of age, they intended to govern by means of a committee chosen by themselves. To this the King naturally would not give his consent, and amid scenes and sounds terrible beyond all description, the royal family were declared prisoners of the people, and told that they were to thereafter live in the Temple, which was now the royal prison. As the Tuileries had already been pillaged by the mob, the royal family found themselves without food or clothing, except what they wore. The Dauphin was entirely destitute, but fortunately the Duchess of Sutherland had a small son the age of the Dauphin, and she sent the young prince what he needed in the way of clothing for their departure. On August 13, 1792, the sad procession of royalty left the Tuileries in the late afternoon and were escorted by a great mob of frenzied men and women who acted more like wild beasts than like human beings. At night-fall the carriage reached the Temple and the royal prisoners were taken to that part of the building called "the palace," where they found no comforts or necessities of any kind, and torn sheets even had to be used on the Dauphin's bed. Later while the furies who had the prisoners in their power, were converting the principal tower of the building, not only into a prison, but into the worst one imaginable, the king and his family continued to remain in the palace during the day time, but at night, they were all shut up in the small tower--in four cells whose doors were guarded by soldiers. Two men who had been for years in the service of the king, were allowed to remain with him, and they and their sovereigns passed the time in such occupations as were possible. The King found his principal pleasure in superintending the Dauphin's education, giving him lessons every morning, then at one o'clock if the weather was fine, the royal family would all go into the garden, and the Dauphin would play ball or quoits or run races, as was suitable for his age and activity of body. At two o'clock dinner was served, and afterwards, the Dauphin again had a play hour while the king enjoyed a nap. As soon as he awoke, Clery, who had been with the Dauphin for several years, would give him writing and arithmetic lessons, and then he would play ball or battledore-and-shuttlecock for awhile, and then there would be reading aloud until it was time for the Dauphin's supper, after which the king would amuse his children with all sorts of riddles and puzzles and games, and then the Dauphin went to bed.

Little Louis was seven and a half years old when he was first shut up in the Temple, and in those months the king taught him to recite poetry, to draw maps and to make use of arithmetic, but his lessons in arithmetic had to be discontinued because an ignorant guard noticed the multiplication tables that the Prince was learning and reported that he was being taught to speak and write in cipher. One of the king's men was removed from the Temple because it was said that he had used hieroglyphics in order to make secret correspondence between the king and queen easier, and even his explanation that the figures he had made use of were only arithmetic tables which he laid by the Dauphin's bedside every night before retiring, that the young prince might prepare his lesson before breakfast, did not pacify his accusers. So little Louis Charles was taught no more arithmetic, but he continued to learn eagerly all that was offered his quick retentive mind to assimilate. His playfulness and mischievous pranks were a great comfort to the failing spirits of the king and queen, and the tact he showed in his manner and words were nothing less than wonderful in so young a boy. He never mentioned Versailles or the Tuileries or anything which would rouse sad memories in the minds of his parents, but seemed to be constantly on his guard to protect them both from any hints of sorrow which he could prevent.

The royal prisoners were soon removed to the principal tower of the Temple, where the Dauphin occupied a room with the king, until after Louis was taken away for trial, when the Dauphin was placed in his mother's care, and after that time he saw his father only once. The king was condemned to death. Having foreseen it, calmly he had accepted the decree, asking only that he might see his family once to say farewell. This privilege was granted and during the scene which lasted almost two hours, little Louis, born to inherit not glory but misfortune, held his father in his arms and kissed and comforted him in the fashion of a strong man rather than a little child. He did not understand causes, but he saw effects, and he was brave because mamma and papa needed someone beside them, who smiled, and so he held tears back until the time when they were a natural consequence of the final parting with his loved father.

And now little Louis was no longer the Dauphin, but rightful King of France--King of France, only think of it, and scarcely eight years old! Marie Antoinette, from the hour of separation from her husband devoted her entire strength and time to the education of her child, the little King. She felt she had no time to lose, and every moment of the day was made to serve some useful end. Even the games he played had each a purpose. It was a touching sight to see him leaning his elbows on a tiny table, absorbed in reading the history of France, then eagerly telling what he had read, and commenting on it. The queen made a special point of talking to the little King of his royal office, told him of his father's gentleness and mercy to his enemies, and made him promise to be as merciful if he should ever reign, and he soon was made to feel that greatness comes not with titles, but with character, and once in his sleep was heard to murmur:

"I will be good and kind; for I am king." Poor little Louis!

At this time there were wars and rumours of wars outside the walls of the Temple. Plots to liberate the queen and her son and to restore little Louis to the throne were set on foot by friends of the royal family, and though one and all failed of execution, they vitally affected the young king's life. When the plots were discovered by which Louis was to be abducted and publicly declared king, the revolutionists became so fearful that the plan might be really carried out, that they decided it was unwise to let him remain with his mother any longer, and the decree went forth that the son of Louis Sixteenth was to be taken from his mother and sister, and given into the care of a tutor to be chosen by the committee representing the people.

The queen was driven almost to madness by this unexpected decree, and when men came to take Louis away from her and carry him to another part of the Tower, she frantically placed herself in front of his bed, and insisted that he should not be taken, but power and force were on the wrong side, and at last, the officers tore the child from his mother's arms and carried him dazed and trembling with fright to his new apartment.

King of France was little Louis in title, but the most lonely, most frightened of all children in the land. For two days and two nights he refused food and held out his arms to his so-called tutor, constantly pleading to be taken back to his mother and sister. And who was his "tutor"? No other than Simon, the cobbler, he whose brawny arms had once stopped the Dauphin's way in the garden of the Tuileries. Simon and his wife had been chosen to guard and care for the little King of France, because they were staunch revolutionists who could be relied on to protect the interests of their party. Historians differ in their accounts of the treatment of the young King by this rough couple, but it seems pretty sure now that during their stay in the Temple they were not altogether cruel to little Louis. He was allowed to play both in his rooms and in the garden, had a billiard table, and a case of mechanical birds for his amusement, and when he grieved for his sister's companionship, another little companion of his own age was found to play with him, and it is also known that during his two sicknesses, Simon and his wife cared for him with as much devotion as if he had been their own child. Whether this was because of the fine salary attached to the position, or from some native kindness underneath his coarse rough exterior, we do not know, but be this as it may, Simon evidently gave only such measure of cruelty to his charge as was insisted on by those who employed him, and it was doubtless, they who forced Simon to do what he did to destroy the child's mental and bodily faculties. Louis was made to share their political opinions, to imitate their coarse manners and even to sing their revolutionary songs, while in place of the mourning he had worn for his father, he now wore the coarsest garments and the red cap of the Jacobins, and was often made to drink and eat far more than was good for him, until at last he was in a condition of body and mind such as his tormentors desired, when he could be made a tool to suit their own ends, because of his weakened and abnormal condition.

No page of history is written in so black an ink nor with so many blots as that on which is recorded the imprisonment and torture of little Louis Seventeenth, the King who never reigned, and no page of history offers a more bewildering puzzle for solution, from the moment of his being taken from his mother's care--a puzzle to which there have been more answers, and about which as much mystery hangs, as about any other incident on the pages of history, and no page has been oftener read and re-read than this which offers for solution the problem of the ending of this little King who never reigned.

We see him last as a prisoner; thin, haggard, sick unto death, with no sparkle in his lustreless eyes, no motion in his swollen joints, no pretty retort on his lips as of old, and with a sigh we turn from the ghastly sight to the pages of French history where we again read in detail the accounts of his life and death, and then it is for us to decide upon our answer to this riddle which offers more than one solution.

Louis Seventeenth of France, in his ninth year, was imprisoned by the revolutionists and subjected to every kind of torture that a human being could be made to suffer. As a result of that treatment, and of loneliness and cruelty, did he pine and sicken and die a natural death as some accounts say?

Did he, as some say, deliberately resist all the attempts made by his persecutors to enter into conversation with him, by maintaining a complete silence of fifteen months; or had a dumb child been put in his place by friends who had secretly rescued the real little king from his prison, and hidden him in a garret room of the Temple until they could safely liberate him? Then finding the dumb child too healthy to suit their plans, did they, as it is said, replace him by a very sick child, who died in the room where the little king was supposed to be imprisoned, and announce his death to the French nation as that of Louis Seventeenth, the royal prisoner? While the poor little substitute was lying in what was supposedly the coffin of little Louis, had the real King been given a strong dose of opium, and hurriedly placed in the coffin, instead of the substitute, as has been said?

Was the dead substitute carried hastily to the room in the Tower where the little King had been hidden, while Louis himself, alive and well, was being carried in the coffin to the cemetery? It has been said that the carriage in which the coffin was carried had been especially arranged for this scheme, and that while being driven to the cemetery, Louis was taken from the coffin, and placed in a box under the seat of the carriage, while the coffin was filled with papers that it might not seem too light when the bearers carried it to its final resting-place.

Is it true, do you think, that when the young King awoke from the effects of the drug he had been given, he found himself in a strange place, in a bed in a clear bright room, alone with a faithful woman who knew and loved him? And the plot to rescue him having been immediately discovered, was he hastily sent out of Paris in disguise, while to put his enemies on the wrong trail, another little boy was sent with his parents under the name of Louis, in another direction?

And in spite of the terrible sickness he had, as the consequence of all he had endured, did Louis Seventeenth of France, actually live and escape, to grow up a free citizen in a free country where were neither kings, queens nor tyranny, but liberty, equality and fraternity, not in word but in truth? Who can say positively when so much has been affirmed on all sides of the much argued question?

Difficult, indeed, it is to decide whether little Louis Seventeenth, the Dauphin of France, the king who never reigned, died in the Temple, a victim of the Reign of Terror, or escaped to new lands and a new life.

As we turn the pages of history and read the thrilling story, let each decide for himself the fate of the courageous, charming little sovereign. Each must study out the mystery, and solve the riddle if he can. And whatever one may read or decide, there in the church of the Madeleine in Paris, may be found this memorial to the little King who never reigned.

IN MEMORY
of
LOUIS XVII
WHO
AFTER HAVING BEHELD HIS ILLUSTRIOUS
PARENTS
SWEPT AWAY BY A DEATH
WHICH SORROW REFUSES TO RECOUNT
AND AFTER HAVING DRAINED TO THE
VERY DREGS
THE CUP OF ADVERSITY
WAS, WHILE STILL YOUNG
AND ALMOST ON LIFE'S THRESHOLD
CUT DOWN BY THE SCYTHE OF DEATH
HE DIED JUNE VIII--M. DCC. LXXXXV.
HE LIVED X YEARS, II MONTHS & XII DAYS

EDWARD THE BLACK PRINCE:

The Boy Warrior

Many of you who have visited Queens College, Oxford, will have seen there, hanging in the gallery above the hall, an old engraving of a quaint vaulted room, where it is said the greatest soldier of his age lived while a student in the college.

This afterwards famous student, who was then about twelve years old was Edward Plantagenet, Prince of Wales, later called the Black Prince. He was also sometimes called the Prince of Woodstock, doubtless, from the fact that he was born in the old palace at Woodstock, in 1330.

He was the son of Edward Third and Queen Philippa, and was one of those rare persons who combine in their characters qualities of both his father and mother. Everyone knows the story of the siege of Calais, when the sternness of King Edward and the gentleness of Queen Philippa were so strikingly shown, and it was the union of those two qualities which gave their son, Edward, that high place which he justly occupies, not only among our English princes, but in the history of all Europe.

He was undoubtedly sent to Queens College, not only because it was the most famous college of that day, but also because it took its name from his mother, Queen Philippa, having been founded by her chaplain.

There, at Queens College, we first see the young prince, and although six hundred years have gone by since then, many of the customs of to-day were those of young Edward's time as well. The students then were called to dinner by the blast of a trumpet as they are to-day, and then, as now, the Fellows (or post graduates) all sat on one side of the table, with the Head of the college in their midst, in imitation of the pictures of the Last Supper.

The prince must have seen, too, some customs which we know prevailed in his day, but do not see in ours. Thirteen lame, deaf, blind and maimed beggars came each morning into the college hall to receive their portion of food for the day. The porter of the college made his rounds early every morning, to shave the beards and wash the heads of the Fellows, but these and many other quaint customs have perished long ago and still the picture of the Black Prince hangs on the college wall. Tradition tells us that while the proud young prince was receiving such education as befitted his rank in life, a poor boy in the shabbiest of clothes and forgetful of everything except the books and study he loved, was at Queens College too. The characters and lives of John Wycliff, the great reformer, and Edward the Black Prince, were indeed opposite, but it is interesting to feel that they were educated in the same place, that possibly once in youth, their lives touched, although in later days, one was great in the making of peace and one in the making of war.

The young prince may have been studious, but he also doubtless took advantage of all such diversions as Oxford life offered, and it is natural to picture him in drill and hunt and sports such as were best fitted to his manly vigour, and foreshadowed his enthusiasm in later days for the strenuous game of war.

A mere lad at Queens, we see him first--then a youth, out in the great world watching with keenest interest the doings of courtiers and king, and then we find him a young knight, following the king, his father, in his first great campaign, and a fine young warrior he was both in looks and character, fearless and strong in his black armour which threw into sharp contrast the fairness of his complexion. A brave, handsome young knight was he, Edward Plantagenet, at the time when the English people under King Edward became inspired with a passion for continental dominion.

The Normans had conquered England and now the English were eager to go out and themselves become conquerors, and to further that ambition King Edward and his army set out and ravaged Normandy, pillaging and plundering their way almost to the gates of Paris, and their march was perfectly consistent with the feudal manner of waging war, which was to desolate the country through which they passed, to burn any town that resisted invasion, and to plunder its inhabitants even though they peacefully submitted to the invaders. In this way, King Edward and his army, which included the young Prince Edward and many other noblemen, passed through Normandy, burning and devastating land and property as they went, and they advanced up the left bank of the Seine--their object being, to cross the river at Rouen and then march on to Calais, where they were to be joined by an army of Flemish archers. But their plans received a sudden checkmate.

Philip, the King of France, was at Rouen before them, and had not only encamped on the right bank of the river, but had destroyed the bridges and set guards over all the fords of which the English might make use in crossing.

The English were in a very dangerous position, whether they retreated or went forward. They were separated from the Flemish allies by not only the Seine, but the Somme River, and Philip with his army, which was daily increasing in numbers, was marching towards Calais on the right bank of the Seine, as were Edward and his army on the left bank.

Edward was as firm in his purpose to meet and defeat the enemy, as was Philip in his, and Edward determined to press on at all odds and face and conquer the French forces, and fortune favoured him.

With extreme difficulty, finally, at low tide, he was able to cross the Somme whither Philip was eager to follow, but before Philip's forces were ready to cross the river, the tide had turned, and he was obliged to wait till morning, while Edward now already on the other side of the river, was pressing forward into the country of Ponthieu, which had been part of the marriage portion of his mother, Isabella of France. It was for this special reason, some historians say, that King Edward encamped there, in the forest of Crecy, fifteen miles from Abbeville, saying:

"Let us take here some plot of ground, for we will go no further till we have seen our enemies."

He also added:

"I am on the right heritage of Madam, my mother, which was given her in dowry. I will defend it against my adversary, Philip of Valois."