Chapter VI: Part 6

The secret cipher letters went now faster than ever, and seem to have been so urgent about speedy help and rescue as to have appeared somewhat peevish to friends at a distance. The queen's sister wrote from Brussels that she hoped the royal family did not doubt the anxiety of their friends: that the danger appeared indeed as pressing as it could be represented; but that some prudence was necessary on the part of those who were preparing help, and some patience on the part of those who were awaiting it.--Alas! It was difficult for the poor queen to be patient, expecting, as she did daily, the murder of the king. Though this fear seems to have been unfounded, it caused her as much suffering as if it had been just.--She had a breastplate made for the king, of silk many times folded, and well wadded, so that it would resist the blow of a dagger, and even a pistol-ball. This under-dress was made at Madame Campan's house; and she brought it into the palace, wearing it as an under-petticoat, that no one might see it. For three days, in the beginning of July, did Madame Campan wear this heavy warm petticoat before an opportunity could be found for the king to try it on. The occasion for which it was wanted was the 14th of July, the anniversary of the destruction of the Bastille, and the date of the Independence of the Nation, as the nation chose to say: on which day the king was to appear in public.

When he tried on the breastplate, he said in a low voice to Madame Campan that he wore this to satisfy the queen, but that he was persuaded he should not be assassinated, but left to be disposed of in another way. The queen afterwards made Madame Campan repeat to her what the king had said, and then observed that this was not new to her: she had seen the king much occupied of late in studying the history of Charles the First of England. The king declared that he studied this history in order to learn how to avoid the errors of Charles in dealing with his people. Alas! If he had done so twenty years before, it is doubtful whether such study could have been of any use to a ruler who had neither the knowledge nor the spirit necessary for the times. Now it was by many years too late. No one believed in his sincerity: every one despised his weakness; and he was so humbled that no act of his could have the force or the grace of freedom. The history of Charles the First is indeed a most instructive lesson to kings: but it is a lesson which must be learned and used while kings are still sitting on an honoured and unshaken throne.

There were people enough in Paris grieved and shocked at the proceedings of the 20th of June to have made some stand in defence of the king,-- some delay in the dissolution of society; and these people declared themselves by public acts, particularly by petitions to the Assembly. A man of spirit would have seized the occasion: and if the king had been such a man, he might possibly have risen from this point out of his misfortunes, and so have made a favourable day out of that most miserable one. But, as usual, the royal family overlooked the opportunity. They were so occupied in looking for help from Germany, that they had no attention, no trust, for friends nearer home. The Duke of Brunswick was coming with an army to rescue them. The people knew this well enough; and their panic about an invasion did not make them love the more the family at whose call the invaders were coming. On the 25th of July, the Duke of Brunswick began his march into France, and issued a proclamation which said that the whole French nation should be protected by him in rallying round their king; but that, if any parties should insult the king, or carry him away from Paris, such persons should be destroyed, and Paris blown to pieces with his cannon. As the French nation did not wish or intend to rally round their king, this proclamation made them furious, and caused the destruction of the royal family in a shorter time than it would otherwise have happened; if it had otherwise happened at all. Was ever such mournful folly heard of as marks the whole history of this unhappy king? One's compassion, however, is chiefly for the three who were victims of this folly without sharing it. The king and queen brought much of their misery upon themselves; but the sweet Princess Elizabeth and the two children suffered without having sinned. The darkness of their lot was now gathering fast about them.

It was impossible, after the late proceedings, to consider the palace safe at any hour. The queen feared assassination for herself as a foreigner, and a trial for the king, preparatory to his death upon the scaffold; and she desired to guard against any seizure of papers, which might now take place at any time. She deposited her ready money in the hands of a faithful person; and the king employed his old companion, Gamin, the locksmith, to make, in great secrecy, a safe for papers in a place where no one would suspect its existence. This fellow betrayed the secret; first, luckily, to some friends; and the queen, hearing of this, persuaded the king to empty out the safe. Gamin afterwards publicly informed the enemies of the king of this cupboard, and moreover swore that the king attempted to poison him when it was done, that the secret might be safe. This absurd calumny was believed, like everything else that was said against the royal family; and the wretch had a pension given him. Such was the king's reward for submitting, like a timid apprentice, to this man's insolence, while learning lock-making from him, for ten years past.

General Lafayette came to Paris, to remonstrate, at the head of twenty-thousand petitioners, against the late treatment of the king. Of course, those who had done it looked coldly upon him; and so did the king. The king forbade his officers to support anything proposed by General Lafayette; and the queen refused to allow him to remove her and her family to the loyal city of Rouen. Lafayette, thus unsupported, had to hasten back to the army; and in this way the royal family insulted and dismissed the last person who could have rescued them from their impending fate.

Whenever even the children appeared out of doors, they experienced such insults that they left off going anywhere beyond the palace gardens, from which the public were excluded, in order to allow the family to take the air unmolested. Such cries, however, were heard from the terrace outside, that, after being twice driven in by them, the family gave up going out at all Louis had to give up his gardening, and the sight of the flowers he had sown, and to keep within doors all these long bright summer days.

The queen could not sleep much; and she ordered that neither the shutters nor blinds of her chamber should be closed, that the nights might appear less long. One night, as Madame Campan watched beside her, she fixed her eyes on the moon, and said softly, that before she saw the same moon next month, she and the king should be free. She declared that their affairs were now proceeding fast and well, and told how the army from Germany was to march, and how soon it might arrive. She admitted that there were alarming differences of advice and opinion among their followers, and spoke of the fatal consequences of the king's irresolution; but still she hoped that another month would set them free. She was, as usual, completely mistaken. She found it so hard to bear the insults daily offered, even while expecting so speedy an end to them, that she declared she should have preferred imprisonment in a tower, on a lonely sea-shore, to her present condition. On their way through the corridor to the chapel, one Sunday, the king and she were greeted by the cry from some of the guards of "Long live the king!" but others broke in with "No, no; no king! Down with the veto!" This struck upon the queen's heart; for it was she who had persuaded the king to put his veto, or prohibition, upon the banishment of the priests. When they were in the chapel, something worse happened. The passage "He bringeth down the mighty from their seat," had to be sung; and when the choir came to it, they sang, or shouted it, three times as loud as any other part of the service. The king's adherents were so angry at this that when the words came "And may the Lord keep the king in safety," the royalists shouted out three times "And the Queen." This indecent contention went on during the whole time of service; and the royal family found that they were no longer permitted even to worship in peace.

On the 9th of August, there was much noise and confusion throughout Paris; and it became known that an insurrection was to take place the next morning. Louis knew that something was dreaded, but he slept as usual. His servant, Clery, put him to bed at half-past eight, while it was still daylight, and then went out, to try what he could learn of the proceedings of the people. The king and queen supped at nine o'clock. While Madame Campan waited on them at table, a noise was heard outside the door. Madame Campan went to see what it was. Two of the guards were fighting,--one abusing the king, and the other insisting that he was sincere in professing to stand by the Constitution. If the queen had not before given over all idea of safety, she would now have done so. She said she knew that some of their fiercest enemies were among their guards;--not their Swiss guards, but those who wore the national uniform.

This was a terrible night. It was oppressively hot; and the rooms of the palace were crowded with gentlemen, adherents of the court, who had come to devote themselves finally for their king and his family. The Swiss guards,--picked Swiss soldiers, strong and brave, hired to guard the person and palace of the sovereign,--stood silently at their posts, their red uniforms contrasting with the black clothes of the seven hundred gentlemen who waited to see what they were to do. Though these seemed a large number when collected under a roof,--though the rooms were so full that the windows had to be thrown open, and the mayor Petion went down to walk in the gardens because the heat was so oppressive within, this was no force to oppose to a siege from the population of Paris. The king caused the plan of defence, prepared by General Viomenil, to be communicated to an officer, who said to Madame Campan, "Put your jewels and money into your pockets. There is no chance for us. The measures of defence are good for nothing. Our only chance is in the resolution of the king; and with all his virtues, he has not that."

Never yet had the king cut such a wretched figure as on this occasion. He often congratulated himself on no blood having been shed by his order: and this was one of his dying consolations. It seems never to have occurred to him that his weakness caused more destruction than even cruelty would have done. It caused not only the loss of many lives; it encouraged the breaking up of society from its very foundations; it spared the wicked, while it betrayed the faithful. It did moral injury, which it may be worse to have to answer for in the end than some acts of bloodshed. He would not have half a dozen shots fired to make a way for his coach over the bridge of Varennes; but he deserted, without a moment's scruple, his devoted Swiss guards, as we shall see; and as he refused to suffer with them, he may be considered answerable for their lives.

The clang of bells was heard by the inmates of the palace, as they stood, this summer night, by the open windows. Steeple after steeple rang out; and every one knew that this was the token of insurrection in the respective parishes. Petion had been sent for, to answer for what was doing; he had not been civilly treated within doors, as might be supposed,--the king speaking very roughly to him. He could not get away again, as the gates were all guarded, and no one allowed to pass; so that the only thing he could well do was to walk in the gardens.

At four in the morning, the National Assembly sent for him, to appear and give an account of Paris. Considering that he had been pacing the garden walks all night, the Mayor of Paris was as little able as anybody to give an account of the city; but he was glad to get away, considering his situation one of great danger.

The number of the Swiss guards was a thousand. Their post was within the Tuileries. Outside were squadrons under the command of Mandat, a loyal officer, who kept them ranged with their cannon round the outer enclosures of the palace. Just at dawn, Mandat was sent for by the magistrates of the city, and went alone, suspecting no danger. To his amazement, he found that, with the exception of the mayor and one or two more, the entire magistracy was changed, and now composed of furious revolutionary men. They arrested him, and ordered him to prison; but the mob seized him on the steps, and murdered him. The question next was, what his soldiers would do now they had lost their commander. They were hungry and weary; and were heard to say how sad it would be to fire upon their own countrymen--how much easier to side with them. Now was the moment for the king to speak and act. Now he was told what a gloomy and uncertain temper these squadrons were in. He owed it to his office, to his family, to his adherents, to his Swiss guards, to endeavour to confirm these soldiers in their duty to him. A word, a look, a gesture might, in the right moment, have done it. What did he do?

In the middle of the night, while all was supposed to be well among the soldiers outside, the king had retired for a while. When he appeared again, on the arrival of fresh tidings, it was seen, by the powder being rubbed off from one side of his head, that he had been lying down to get a little sleep. The queen and Princess Elizabeth also withdrew; but not to sleep. They went, with Madame Campan to attend upon them, to a small room on the ground-floor, where they lay down on couches. In preparing to lie down, the princess took out the cornelian pin which fastened her dress, and showed Madame Campan what was engraved upon it. It was the stem of a lily, with the inscription, "Oblivion of wrongs: forgiveness of injuries."

"I fear," said the princess, "our enemies do not regard that maxim: but we must, nevertheless." The ladies conversed sadly enough, but little imagining what was happening to Mandat. At last they heard a shot. They sprang from their couches, observing that this was the first shot, but would not be the last. They must go to the king. They did so, desiring Madame Campan to follow, and to be in waiting with the other ladies.--At four o'clock, the queen came out of the king's apartment, saying that she had no longer any hope whatever, as Mandat was killed. Yet the king was going out to review the squadrons who had lost their commander; and the wife of a resolute and spirited king would not have been without hope. She would have hoped much from the king's presence and appeal. It was because she knew the king so well that she had no hope.

Orders were given for Louis to be taken up and brought immediately: and he was presently ready,--at a little before five, when (it being the 10th of August) it was quite light. His sister appeared too, and the whole family went out to review the soldiers, as it was said, and to see the preparations for defence. Louis had hold of his father's hand. At first, a few voices cried "Long live the king!" but the king, pale and silent, walked on without taking any notice; and in a few moments there was a long growl, which burst into a clamour of "Long live the nation!" Some of the gunners thrust themselves forward, and shook their fists in the king's face, uttering the grossest insults. Some of the attendants pushed them back; but the king, now white as the wall, said not a word. Followed by the ladies of his family, he walked along the line, and back again, leaving nothing but contempt behind. "All is lost," said the queen to Madame Campan, as she entered her apartments: "the king showed no energy; and this review has done nothing but harm." What a lot was hers! To be dragged down, with her children, to destruction, by the apathy of a husband, while she herself had spirit enough to have ruled an empire, but must not now exert it, because it would exasperate the people to have the foreigner, the Austrian, meddle with the affairs of France!

What was to be done next? The Swiss, and the gentlemen and servants of the court, were all that now remained to be depended upon. The Swiss stood firm as their own Alps. The household arranged themselves in the apartments, armed, and ready for the assault from without: though no one of them could have hope of victory, or any expectation but of destruction. In this terrible hour, however, they jested; and upon a melancholy subject. They were miserably armed; and they quizzed one another and themselves for the appearance they made. None had more than a sword and a pair of pistols: one page had only a single pocket-pistol; and another page and equerry had broken a pair of tongs, and taken each a half.

The insurgents were now surrounding the Tuileries, and filling the neighbourhood: and it seemed probable that the gunners, placed outside for the defence of the palace, would turn their cannon against it. The king sent a messenger to the Assembly, to request them to depute some of their body to be a safeguard to the throne in this extremity. The Assembly took no notice of the message; but went on with their regular business.

The magistrate of the district saw now, from the temper of the people outside, no chance but of destruction to every individual within the palace, if once the siege began. The error was in ever pretending to make a defence, while such a helpless being as the king must be the one to give orders. It was too late to help that now. There were the cannon, with the gunners surlily asking whether it was expected of them to fire upon the people: and there were the people, too many and too angry to be got rid of. The magistrate of the district, Roederer, visited the palace, and begged a private interview with the king. He was shown into a small apartment, which the king and queen entered. Roederer proposed their going over to the Assembly without a moment's delay, to commit themselves and their children to the protection of the representatives of the people. "No, no!" exclaimed the queen, blushing, no doubt, at the thought of the infamy of deserting, at the fatal moment, their adherents, their steady Swiss, and the servants of the household. Roederer told her that by remaining she would render herself responsible for the lives of the whole family; for that no power could save them within the walls of the palace. She said no more. The king sat, the picture of indifference, with his hands upon his knees, listening. When there was a pause, and he must say something, he looked over his shoulder to the queen, and said, "Let us go."

As they left the apartment the queen told Madame Campan to remain till either the family should return, or she should be sent for to join her mistress,--no one knew where. The family never returned.

Only two ladies were permitted to accompany them,--the Princess de Lamballe and Madame de Tourzel. In order to fulfil her duty,--in order not to desert Louis,--his governess was compelled to leave her daughter Pauline, only seventeen years old, in this besieged palace, among the soldiers. Pauline escaped with life and safety, and joined her mother soon after.

As the king walked through the apartments of the palace, followed by his family, Roederer went before him, saying, "Make way! The king is going to the Assembly." How these words must have pierced the hearts of his devoted servants, of his faithful Swiss! This was the reward of their brave fidelity! The king was leaving those who were ready to die rather than desert him. He was going to walk out at an open door, while they were shut in, to be shot down like game in an enclosure.

The family had but a short way to go; and their passage to the Assembly was watched from the windows by some of the doomed friends whom they left behind. They walked between two rows of guards; but were yet so pressed upon that the queen was robbed of her watch and purse. Louis held his mother's hand, and amused himself with kicking the dead leaves as he walked. A gigantic man, a ringleader of the mob, snatched up the boy, and carried him. The queen screamed with terror, and was near fainting: but the man said, "Do not be frightened: I will do him no harm." He merely carried him, and then set him down at the gate, where a deputation from the Assembly came out, to meet the royal family. From the palace windows the royal family were seen to enter that gate; and those who saw it well knew that all hope for the royal cause was now over.

The assailants without and the defenders in the outer court of the Tuileries did not know of the departure of the royal family; and the battle therefore began with fury. The gentlemen and servants had now only to think of saving themselves as they could. Some escaped from windows, and others under disguises: but many were murdered. The fate of the Swiss was dreadful. They fought bravely, and kept their ranks. At last, a messenger arrived with a written order from the king that they should cease firing. But they were still fired upon from without. They knew not what to do, and dispersed. Some few reached the Assembly, and were sheltered there. Some few more fled into private houses; but, as for the rest, their blood streamed on the floor of the palace, and their bodies blocked up the doorways. Some lay dead on the terraces, and others were shot down from street to street as they fled, fighting their way. From fifty to eighty were marched as prisoners to the Hall where the magistrates were sitting: but the crowd broke in upon them on the way, and slaughtered them every one. Their last thought might well have been, "Put not your trust in princes." But perhaps more painful thoughts still were in their fainting hearts; and before their swimming eyes might be visions of their homes in the Swiss valleys, and their wives and children singing of them, while tending the cows on the mountain side. Yet the king who, by his orders and arrangements, gave them over to such a death as this, and deserted them at the crisis, was for ever consoling himself with the thought that not a drop of blood had ever been shed by his command.

In the neighbourhood of Lucerne, in Switzerland, there is a monument to the memory of these men. Above a little lake rises a precipitous face of rock. In the midst of this the monument is hollowed out. The Swiss lion, wounded and dying, grasps with its failing claws the French shield, with the royal lilies upon it.--If the king had sent his family to the Assembly for safety, and himself remained to fall with his adherents, this monument would not have been, as it is now, a reproach upon his memory, durable as Swiss honour and as the everlasting rock.

VOLUME TWO, CHAPTER TWELVE.

PRISON.

The royal family were placed for three days in a forsaken monastery, where four cells were allotted to them and their attendants. There Madame Campan went to them on the 11th. In one cell the king was having his hair dressed. In another, the queen was weeping on a mean bed, attended by a woman, a stranger, but civil enough. The children soon came in, and the queen lamented bitterly over them, mourning that they should be deprived of so fine an inheritance as this great kingdom; for she now knew, she said, that the monarchy was really coming to an end. She spoke of the kingdom, with its many millions of inhabitants, as she would have spoken of a landed estate with the animals upon it,--as a property with which monarchs ought to be able to do what they like. Such was her idea of royalty. She lamented in this crisis over her boy's loss of the crown, as if that were the greatest of the misfortunes that awaited him--as if he could not possibly be happy anywhere but on the throne. Such was her idea of human life. She was brought up with such ideas, and was to be pitied, not blamed, for acting and feeling accordingly.

She mentioned to Madame Campan her vexation at the king having been so eager about his dinner, and having eaten and drunk so heartily in the presence of malignant strangers, on that dreadful day, and in this miserable place. She need not have minded this so much; for everybody now knew the king and his ways, and how he never dreamed, under any circumstances, of not eating and drinking as usual.

The departure from the Tuileries had been so sudden that the family had at first only the clothes that they wore. Louis would have wanted for clean linen, if the lady of the English ambassador had not kindly thought of the poor boy, and sent him some clothes.

On the 13th, the family were removed to the prison of the Temple; and Madame Campan, and almost all the servants of the royal household, lost sight of their master and mistress for ever. It was seven in the evening when the removal to the Temple took place; and then there was so much disputing about where the family should be accommodated, whether in the tower of the building or another part of it, that poor Louis, though overcome with sleep, had to sit up while his father and mother supped. At eleven o'clock Madame de Tourzel took him to the Tower, to find some place where he might go to rest. When the others lay down, at one in the morning, there was no preparation made for their comfort. The Princess Elizabeth, with her waiting-woman, slept in the kitchen. Louis, with his governess and lady-attendant, slept in the billiard-room. It was all confusion and discomfort. The next morning, Louis was taken to breakfast with his mother; and then all went together to see the best rooms in the Tower, and arrange how they were to be occupied.

It soon became unnecessary to plan for so many people; for an order arrived for the royal attendants to be removed, to make room for a new set appointed by the Common Council. The king and queen refused to be waited upon by strangers, who were, no doubt, to act as spies: but their own people were removed notwithstanding. On the night of the 19th, the king's valets were carried off; and then the Princess de Lamballe, and Madame de Tourzel and her daughter, and even the waiting-women. Louis was taken up, and carried to his mother's apartment, that he might not be left quite alone. He probably slept after thus losing his governess a second time: but his mother and aunt did not. They were too anxious to think of sleeping: too anxious to know what to believe, and whether, as they had been assured, they should see their companions again in the morning. In the morning, instead of the ladies, came the news that they were all removed to another prison. At nine o'clock, one of the king's valets reappeared. He alone had been pronounced innocent of any offence, and permitted to return to his master.

Clery, the Dauphin's valet at the Tuileries, had been on the watch for an opportunity of returning to his office, after having been left behind on the dreadful 10th of August, when his life had been in the utmost danger. He now heard that the mayor was about to appoint two more servants to wait on the king and the dauphin; and he so earnestly entreated that he might be one, that he obtained the appointment. No one was more pleased than Louis to see Clery again.

It was on the 26th of August, at eight in the evening, that Clery entered once more upon his service. The queen desired him to resume his attendance upon the Dauphin, and to unite with the king's valet in rendering the family as comfortable as they could. The princesses had now been eight days without the attendance of their women; and their hair much needed proper combing and arranging. At supper they asked Clery whether he could dress their hair. His reply was, that he should be happy to do whatever they desired. The officer on guard commanded him aloud to be more guarded in his replies. Poor Clery was aghast at finding that he must not be civil in his expressions to his master and mistress.

Clery did not devote himself exclusively to the service of the Dauphin; for there were at first few, and latterly no other servants than himself, except a man named Tison, and his wife, who did the rough work of the chambers for a time.

The way in which the royal prisoners passed their days, for some few months, was as follows:

The king rose at six in the summer, and at seven as winter came on. He shaved himself, and then Clery dressed his hair, and finished his toilette. The king retired to a small turret-chamber, which he made his study, and there kneeled at his prayers, and read religious books till nine o'clock, his guard always taking care that the door was half-open; so that the king could not even kneel to pray in entire privacy.-- Meantime Clery made the bed, and prepared the room for breakfast, and then went down to take up little Louis. After washing and dressing him, he dressed the queen's hair, and then went to the other princesses, to do the same service for them. This was the opportunity seized for telling the family any news he had been able to obtain of what was going on out of doors. It was almost the only occasion on which he could speak without being overheard by the guards: and even this was contrived with caution. Clery showed, by an appointed sign, that he had something to say; and one of the princesses engaged the guard at the door in conversation, while Clery whispered his news into the ear of the other, as he bent over her head, to dress her hair.--At nine, the princesses and Louis went up to the king's apartment to breakfast, when Clery waited upon them, making haste, when the meal was done, to go down and get the other beds made. At ten, the whole family came down to the queen's apartment, and began the business of the day. Louis said his geography lesson to his father, read history with his mother, and learned poetry by heart; and did his sums with his aunt. His sister did her lessons at the same time. Hers lasted till twelve, while Louis's were over by eleven, when he played by himself for an hour. The queen generally worked at her tapestry-frame; but sometimes she wrote out extracts from books for her daughter's use. When she did this, and when the young princess wrote out sums into her cyphering-book, the officer on guard used to stand looking over their shoulders, to see that they did not, under false pretences, carry on any secret correspondence. It is believed that they did so, notwithstanding all this vigilance; but how they contrived it will probably never be known; for, of course, they have not told their plan, and their gaolers were not aware of it.

At twelve o'clock the ladies changed their dress in the Princess Elizabeth's room, before going out to walk in the garden. The king and queen did not relish this daily walk in the garden, because they rarely went without being insulted: but they persevered as long as the practice was permitted, for the sake of the children. That Louis, particularly, might have air and exercise, they would have made a point of going out, in all but the very worst weather. They were, however, allowed no choice. Wet or dry, rain or shine, out they must go, at the same hour every day, because the outside guard was changed at that hour; and the officer chose to see, without trouble to himself, that the prisoners were all safe. Several guards were always in attendance upon the steps of the family as they walked; and there was only one walk which they might enter, because workmen were rebuilding the walls in other parts of the inclosure. Louis would thus have benefited little by the hour or two out of doors, if it had not been for good Clery, who seems to have found time to do everything that could serve or please the family. Clery went out with them every day, and kept Louis at play the whole time,--sometimes at football,--sometimes at quoits,--sometimes at running races.

This daily walk did not long continue the practice of the family; and, though they thought it right not to give it up themselves, some of them were very glad when it was over. Their gaoler treated them with intolerable insolence. He would not stir till they reached the door they were to pass out at, and then made a prodigious jingling with his great bunch of keys, and kept them waiting, under pretence of not being able to find the key: then he made all the noise he could in drawing the bolts; and, stepping before them, stood in the doorway, with his long pipe in his mouth, with which he puffed smoke into the face of each of the princesses as she passed,--the guard bursting into loud laughs at each puff. Wherever they went, the prisoners saw a guillotine, or a gallows, or some vile inscription chalked upon the walls. One of these inscriptions was, "Little cubs must be strangled." Others threatened death, in a gibing way, to the king or the queen. Clery one day saw the king reading some such threat of death, and would have rubbed it out; but the king bade him let it alone.

They had one object of interest in their walks, which, however, they were obliged to conceal. Certain of their devoted friends obtained entrance to the houses whose back windows commanded this garden, and, though afraid to make signals, looked down upon the forlorn party with sympathy which was well understood. Clery one day believed that Madame de Tourzel had watched them during their walk; a lady very like her had so earnestly followed Louis with her eyes through his play. He whispered this to the Princess Elizabeth, who shed tears on hearing it; so persuaded had the royal family been that Madame de Tourzel had perished.--It was not she however: neither had she perished. She was at one of her country estates, hoping that she was kindly remembered by the royal family, and forgotten by their enemies.

One of the most important pieces of intelligence that reached them, they first learned in the course of their walk. A woman at a window which overlooked the garden watched the moment when the guards turned their backs, and held up for an instant a large sheet of pasteboard, on which was written "Verdun is taken." The Princess Elizabeth saw and read this. The woman no doubt thought this good news; and perhaps they, too, were pleased that their friends and the foreign army were fairly in France, and had taken a town on the road to Paris: but we shall see how it turned out to be anything but good news.--After a few weeks they walked no more in the garden, and had only such air and exercise as they could obtain upon the leads of the Temple.

From their walk they came in to dinner at two o'clock, where Clery was again ready to wait, when he became the only remaining servant. This was the hour when Santerre the brewer, now commanding the National Guard of Paris, came daily, with two other officers, to examine all the apartments inhabited by the family. The king sometimes spoke to him,-- the queen never.

After dinner, the king and queen played piquet or backgammon; not because they could enjoy at present any amusement of the kind, but because they found means, while bending their heads together over the board, to say a few words unheard by the guard. At four o'clock, the ladies and children left the king, as it was his custom to sleep at this hour. At six Clery and Louis entered the apartment, and Clery gave the boy lessons in writing, and copied, at the king's desire, passages from the works of Montesquieu and others, for the use of the Dauphin. Then Clery took Louis to his aunt's room, where they played at ball, and battledore and shuttlecock, till Louis's supper-time, at eight o'clock. Meanwhile the queen and the Princess Elizabeth read aloud, till eight o'clock, when they went to Louis, to sit beside him while he had his supper. Then the king amused the children with riddles, which he had found in a collection of old newspapers. All kindly exerted themselves to send Louis cheerful to bed. He was too young, they thought, to lie down with so sad a heart as they each had every night in their prison.

However busy Clery might be, he never failed to be in the king's little study at seven o'clock. Regularly at that hour every evening, a crier stood in the street, close by the tower of the Temple, and proclaimed what had been done that day in the Assembly, the Magistrates' Hall, and in the army. This crier was no doubt sent, or induced to stand in that particular place, by friends of the royal family. In the little turret-room, while all was silent there, Clery could catch what the crier said: and he found means to whisper it to the queen when she had heard Louis say his prayers, and when Clery put him into bed.

Louis had added to his prayer one for the safety and welfare of Madame de Tourzel. He had so well learned the temper and feelings of the guards that were always about the family, that when one of them stood near enough to hear the words of his prayer, he repeated the parts in which persons were named in a whisper.

At nine o'clock, Clery went down to wait at supper. As the Dauphin was never to be left alone, while such guards stood about, his mother and aunt took it in turn to sit beside him; and Clery brought up supper for whichever of them it might be. This afforded opportunity for a few more words of news, if there was any to tell.

After supper the king attended his wife, sister, and daughter to the queen's apartment, shook hands with them as he said good-night, and retired to his little study, where he read till midnight. The guard was changed at midnight; and the king would never go to rest till he knew who was to be on guard. If it was a stranger, he would learn his name. This kept Clery up too. After he had assisted the king to undress, he lay down on his small bed, which he had placed beside that of the king, in order to be at hand in case of danger.

Such was the course of the weary days of this unhappy family's imprisonment. The king does not seem to have been troubled by any suspicion that they were all here through his fault; and there was nothing in their conduct to remind him of it. They could not but have felt it; but they probably did not blame, but only mourned over him. His quietness they called heroism, and his indolent content, patience. His worst weaknesses were hidden here, where there was nothing to be done. The queen would have been better pleased if he had never spoken to any of their gaolers; but, upon the whole, they managed to persuade themselves and each other that he was a martyr suffering in piety and patience. We should have thought better of him if he had shown himself capable of self-reproach for having done nothing in defence of his crown, his family, and friends, but much towards the destruction of all. If he had been brave and sincere, however ignorant and mistaken, his family would now have been in a condition of honour and safety, though perhaps exiles from France.

These dreary days were varied by the arrival of bad news; never of good,--though the taking of Verdun at first looked like good news. It does not appear to have occurred to the king that, though his brothers and other friends were nearer than they had been, his most deadly enemies were nearer still,--close round about him, and sure to be made more cruel by every alarm given them by his allies. The nearer the army approached, the greater was the danger of the prisoners. A few minutes after the Princess Elizabeth had read the words on the pasteboard, a new guard arrived, in a passion of fear and anger. He bade them all go in; he arrested and carried off Clery's fellow-servant, whom they never saw again, though he got off with a month's imprisonment. While the valet was packing up his clothes, the guard kept shouting to the king, "The drum has beat to arms: the alarm-bell is ringing: the alarm-guns have been fired: the emigrants are at Verdun. If they come here, we shall all perish; but you shall die first." On hearing this, Louis burst into an agony of tears, and ran out of the room. His sister followed, and tried to comfort him. He saw that his father was not frightened. The king was full of hope; but there was more reason for Louis's terror than for his father's expectation of deliverance. Many warnings of the kind occurred, but the king never believed them. One of his guards said to him, one night, that if the invaders advanced, the whole royal family would certainly perish. This man declared that many people pitied the little boy; but that, as the son of a tyrant, he must die with the rest.

The fears of the disorderly people of Paris, who knew that they were ill prepared for an invasion, made them desperate; and they began murdering before the very gates of the prison, all whom they supposed to be the king's friends, and therefore their enemies. It was not likely that the Princess de Lamballe should escape,--she who had been the superintendent of the royal household, and the intimate friend of the queen;--she who, after having been in safety in London, had gone back to France, to share the fortunes of her mistress and friend. This news of the taking of Verdun cost her her life; and a multitude more were massacred during the next three days.

In the night after the news came, the queen, who could not sleep, heard the drums rolling continually. The next day, the 3rd of September, as she was sitting down to backgammon with, the king, at three o'clock, a great clamour was heard in the street. The officer on guard in the room shut the window, and drew the curtains,--knowing well what was the matter. Clery at this moment entered. The queen asked him why he was not at dinner. He replied that he was indisposed,--and well indeed he might feel so. He had just sat down to dinner with Tison and his wife, when something was held up at the window which he knew at a glance to be the head of the Princess de Lamballe. He ran to prevent the queen's hearing of it, if possible.

The king asked some of the officers if his family were in danger; and was told that the people had heard that the royal prisoners had left the Temple, and were crying out for the king to appear at a window; but that this was not to be allowed, as the people must learn to have more confidence in their magistrates. Meantime, curses of the queen were heard without; and one of the guard told her that the people wanted to show her her friend's head, that she might see how tyrants were to be served; and that if she did not go to the window, the people would come up to her.

The queen dropped in a fainting-fit; and the brute left the room. The Princess Elizabeth and Clery lifted the queen into an arm-chair; and Louis helped his sister to try to revive their mother. He put his arms about her neck, and his tears fell upon her face. When she revived, they were glad to see her shed tears. They all went into the Princess Elizabeth's room, where the noise from without was less heard. There the queen stood, silent and motionless, and apparently unaware of all that was said and done in the room. Yet this was the time chosen by a messenger from the mayor for settling some accounts with the king. This man, not understanding the queen's misery, thought, when he saw her lost and motionless, that she remained standing out of respect to him!

The noise continued for two hours; and it is believed that the mob would have burst the doors, and murdered the family, if an officer of the magistrates had not fastened a tricolor ribbon across the great gate,--a symbol which the people always respected. This officer made Clery pay, out of the king's money, for this ribbon, which cost somewhat less than two shillings.

The queen had not slept the night before; this night, her daughter and sister heard her sobs the whole night through, while the continual roll of the distant drums prepared them for new horrors. Nothing more occurred to alarm them, however, for some weeks; and it was long before they knew that the massacre which began on that dreadful day was carried on through the two next.

Whatever hopes the king had from abroad soon grew fainter. The army began to retreat before the end of September. One of the reasons of this was that the king's brothers and friends had misled the sovereigns of other countries, by saying that the French nation generally were attached to the king, and that the country people would rise in his favour all along the line of march. They may have believed this themselves: but it was a great mistake; and when the foreign forces entered France, they found the country people universally their enemies. They would not furnish food, or any other assistance, and deserted their homes to join the revolutionary forces. Thus, the foreign troops could not get on; and before a month was out, they were retreating, having done the royal cause nothing but harm by taking Verdun.

The people of Paris, encouraged and delighted, now declared royalty abolished in France. The gaolers at once left off calling the family by their titles, and objected to Clery's making any requests in the name of the king, whom, to his face, they called Louis or Capet. A shoemaker, named Simon, was always in office in the Temple, superintending the management of the prison in some of its departments. This man prided himself upon his rudeness, and would now sometimes say, in the king's hearing, "Clery, ask Capet if he wants anything, that I may not have the trouble of coming up a second time."

Some new linen being at last sent (after the princesses had been obliged to mend their clothes every day, and to sit up to mend the king's after he was in bed), the sempstresses were found to have marked the linen, as usual, with crowned letters; and the princesses were ordered to take out the marks before they were allowed to wear the clothes. As it was found that some correspondence was carried on between the prisoners and their friends without, and the means could not be detected, all their employments looked suspicious in the eyes of their gaolers. After pen, ink, and paper had been forbidden, the queen gave directions to Clery as to what should be done with some chair-covers of tapestry-work which she and her sister-in-law had worked for their amusement; but the guard would not let them be sent out of the prison, as they were supposed to contain hieroglyphic figures, which would be understood by the lady to whom they were directed. One day, when Louis was by his mother's side, studying a multiplication-table which Clery had made for him, at her desire, the guard interfered, saying that he was afraid the queen was teaching her son a cipher-language, under pretence of giving him lessons in arithmetic. So the poor boy learned no more arithmetic. While reading history with her son, the queen had many lectures to undergo about giving him a republican education,--lectures which were cruel because they were perfectly useless. The queen knew nothing about republicanism, beyond what she had seen of late in Paris; and she had seen nothing which could induce her to instruct her child in its favour.

Everything that came in and went out was searched; but yet it does not appear that the real means of communication were discovered. The macaroons were broken, the fish cut open, the walnuts split, in search of notes; and none were found. A book which the Princess Elizabeth wished to return to the person who had lent it to her, had all the margins cut off, lest there should be writing on them in invisible ink. The washing-bills, and all paper wrappers, were held to the fire, under the same suspicion: and all the folds of the linen from the wash were examined for hidden notes.

Once there was a fancy that the king wished to poison himself; and the guards made poor Clery swallow some essence of soap, bought for the king to shave with. All these things show the dread entertained by the newly freed people of being crushed by foreign powers, and the opinion that prevailed of the selfishness and tyrannical habits of the king and queen. The jealousy and cruelty from which they were now suffering were signs, perhaps, of the ignorance of the people; but they told quite as plainly of a condition of desperate fear. If they had known the truth, they might have discovered that their persecutors were not less wretched than themselves. In point of ignorance of one another's views, wishes, and intents, and of the means of securing the welfare of a nation, it might be difficult to say which party was the least fit to govern.