Flaunting, Extravagant Queen

Chapter XVI THE WIDOW IN THE TEMPLE

She sat in her prison – the widow Capet – and there were those among her guards who were stirred to pity.

In the streets there were still many who called for her blood; but those who came into contact with her could not but respect her. There were some who were incapable of pity. There was Simon the rough cobbler, uncouth and of the gutter, who had been chosen by Hébert because he feared the compassion of the more cultured. Simon was brutalised; it amused him to spit on the floor of the Queen’s prison. There was Madame Tison, asking herself a hundred times a day: ‘Why should I be poor and she be rich? Why should I have lived in a garret while she lived in luxury in that wicked Trianon?’

But there were others.

There was François Toulan, one of the guards of the Temple. He had been as eager as any to fight for the revolution; he had been among those who had stormed the Tuileries and shouted for the blood of the King and Queen. It was a different matter when he saw the Queen every day.

‘How she suffers!’ he would murmur to himself as he stood on duty. The Dauphin came close and looked at him.

‘What’s that medal?’ he demanded.

And Toulan had invented some story, for he was ashamed to say he had won it for pillaging the Tuileries and bringing distress to the boy’s family.

Toulan longed to do something to make up for his conduct on that June day, so he stole the King’s belongings which had been put in the security of the Commune – there was a locket containing some hair of Madame Royale’s, a watch, a seal and a ring – and took them to the Queen, for it was easy to reach her now, far more easy than it had been when the King was alive.

‘Madame,’ he said haltingly, ‘I have brought you these.’ For some seconds Antoinette would not look, expecting mockery. He thrust them into her hands, and when he saw the sudden rush of tears he turned quickly away. But she knew then that she had a friend.

Toulan could not rest now. He longed to set the Queen free. Greatly daring he asked for a private interview with a General who was an official in the War Office. He knew that General Jarjayes was a secret supporter of the monarchy, and he suggested to him that, with the help of one of the regular guardians of the Temple such as himself, and the money which such as General Jarjayes could provide, the Queen’s escape could be brought about.

The General was ready to consider this plan and asked Toulan to keep his eyes open and see how it could be brought about.

The Queen and Elisabeth sat in the small room with the bars across the window. They were working on a piece of embroidery. It was good to keep the hands busy although, as Antoinette had said, that did not prevent the thoughts from going their own way.

They had heard news this day; it was news which made the Queen very thoughtful.

She had heard that James Armand had been killed fighting for the French last November at the battle of Jemappes.

‘Poor James,’ she said. ‘I shall never forget seeing his face close to mine … he was a member of the mob then … one of our enemies. Little James, whom I had nursed and kissed so often. You remember how he used to call himself my little boy?’

‘He was a jealous child,’ said Elisabeth. ‘I remember seeing him look at little Louis Joseph as though he could kill him.’

‘Poor James Armand! Monsieur James, I used to call him, do you remember? It was my fault, you know, little sister. I forgot little James when I had my own children, I used him as a substitute for my own. You cannot use people like that. What a pity such knowledge comes to us too late.’

They were interrupted by the arrival of the illuminateur.

‘We are trying our eyes,’ said Antoinette, ‘and did not realise it. Let us put our work away now. To work by the light of the lamp tires me.’

The illuminateur went straight to the lamps but his two little boys, who always accompanied him, came to stand before the ladies and stare at them.

‘And how are you these days?’ asked the Queen.

They did not answer. They just smiled and nudged each other. Antoinette wondered what they had heard about her.

The little boys always came and, knowing they were coming, she saved delicacies from her meals for them. She in any case had little appetite.

‘Have you come to see what I have for you to-day?’

They smiled and nodded.

‘Then see here …’

She watched them eat. They did so with relish, looking at her and Elisabeth as they did so, smiling and nudging each other.

Antoinette was reminded with a bitter pang of those days at Trianon when the children had gathered round her and she had given them bonbons. These children were grimy; the oil of the lamp was on their trousers, smocks and big floppy hats; their faces were none too clean. But she had always been fond of children and she liked to see these each day.

The illuminateur did not speak to her; he was afraid of appearing royalist.

Toulan looked in. He said: ‘Oh, it is the illuminateur. And the children. Ah, Monsieur l’Illuminateur, you bring your children that they may learn your trade and soon do your work for you.’

‘They could,’ said the illuminateur briskly, hoping that Toulan might find jobs for the boys in the prison. ‘They’re bright and old enough.’

Madame Tison came in; her eyes narrowed when she saw the children.

‘Here, what’s that you got?’ she demanded.

‘She gave it to us,’ said one of the boys, pointing to the Queen.

‘What else she give you, eh?’ The woman Tison was feeling in their pockets, her mouth tight, her eyes shining; she was hoping to find some message on the boys which the Queen had given them. Disappointed she said: ‘Well, don’t stand there looking as though you are in the presence of the Almighty. We’re all equal now, you know.’ The Queen smiled at the boys as though the woman had not spoken; and Toulan continued to look at the boys.

The next day the lamplighter came alone. The Queen was disappointed. She had liked to see the children.

She noticed that he fumbled with the lamps, and when she looked at him more closely she saw that he was a new man.

The woman Tison was in the next room and the lamplighter moved closer to the Queen. He whispered: ‘Your Majesty, Toulan persuaded the lamplighter to allow me to come in his place. We bribed him. I told him that I was eager to see the prison and the Queen. He is now enjoying himself in a tavern. I had to see you for myself to make certain that I could trust Toulan.’

‘You are …’

‘Jarjayes.’

‘My dear General …’

‘Madame, it is my earnest wish to free you from this place. I have been in touch with the Comte de Fersen. He will not rest until you are free.’

In that moment the Queen felt again a desire to live. The thought of possible escape lifted her spirits and it seemed to her that life could still hold some meaning for her.

‘We have to work this out with the utmost care. Toulan thinks that Lepître, the commissioner of the prison, may help. Everything depends on this man and whether he is amenable to bribes.’

‘I understand,’ said the Queen. ‘Have a care. The Tison woman watches continually.’

‘Ask me questions about my children and we will talk under cover of that.’

The Queen did so, and Jarjayes answered, interspersing his answers with an account of what they planned, keeping his eyes on the door while he talked, for fear Madame Tison should make an appearance.

It might be possible for the Queen and Madame Elisabeth to leave the prison disguised as municipal councillors, with large hats, cloaks, big boots and of course the sash of the tricolor. They would need not only forged passports but the cooperation of Lepître, the only man who could conduct them out of the prison.

‘My children …’ murmured the Queen.

‘I would come as the lamplighter, bringing clothes for the Dauphin and Madame Royale, so that they would look exactly like the lamplighter’s children. I should lead them out with me.’

‘And the Tisons?’

‘We should have to find some means of drugging them.’

‘They take snuff,’ said the Queen.

‘Drugged snuff would be the answer. I dare stay no longer. Be ready. I trust it will be soon.’

Lepître had been a schoolmaster before the revolution. He was a sick man, pale, delicate from childhood, and he longed to get away from the town and live in the country; but he needed money to do this.

It was a daring scheme and Lepître was not a daring man. If he were discovered leading the two most important prisoners out of the prison, what would happen to him? When he considered that, he trembled with fear.

He dared not do this thing. Yet if he had the money, if he escaped with them, he could live in quiet in the country for the rest of his life. He was not a violent man; he could not endure violence. He visualised a little cottage far away from the big towns, where at any moment frightening things could happen.

It should not be difficult. They had the guard Toulan to help them. The Tisons could easily be drugged. All he need do was walk out of the prison with confidence – for who should challenge him, who could suspect that the two municipaux were the Queen and Madame Elisabeth? Waiting outside the prison would be two carriages, and in the second of these he would be driven out of Paris.

And for that night’s work he was offered a lifetime of peaceful living in the country.

‘I will do it,’ said Lepître.

A great deal of money was needed for the enterprise, and Jarjayes found it difficult to raise it. It was necessary to wait awhile until he could sound those whom he could trust with the plan.

They needed forged passports. Lepître could provide these, but Lepître was nervous, and he was showing signs of strain.

Madame Tison noticed it. She said: ‘And what’s the matter with you? You look anxious this morning, Citizen.’

‘It’s my leg paining me,’ Lepître answered, indicating his lameness.

Madame Tison nodded grimly. ‘This is a different job from teaching a lot of children, eh?’

The ex-schoolmaster agreed that it was; he tried to talk of the old days, but all the time he was conscious of Madame Tison’s watching eyes. She was alert. There was no doubt of that. She hated royalty; she was a passionate exponent of equality, and her passion seemed to give her an extra sense. How could one be sure what she suspected?

The money was found at last, and passports were prepared. Lepître liked the feel of good money in his pockets. It was so simple really. The drugged snuff would not be so very difficult for him to administer. He would go into the Tisons’ room and, sitting over a bottle of wine with them, offer them his snuffbox; he would stay with them until they nodded and slipped off into unconsciousness. Everything would be ready, waiting. The General would come in, disguised as the illuminateur, and with him he would bring greasy smocks, trousers and floppy hats; the royal children would be hastily dressed in these garments; and Jarjayes would calmly lead them out of the prison to where the carriage was waiting. Meanwhile Lepître would arrive in the Queen’s cell with the garments for the Queen and Madame Elisabeth; and when they had donned them he would conduct them out of the prison. In less than an hour after that they would be driving out of Paris.

It was the day before that arranged for the escape. Lepître called on Madame Tison. ‘I must have a talk with you both to-morrow evening,’ he said. ‘Then your husband will be there, eh?’

‘Yes, if you wish it,’ said Madame Tison.

‘I’ll be along about dusk, I should think. See that he is here then, that I may talk to you both.’

The woman nodded.

‘Have a glass of wine now you’re here, Citizen,’ she said.

So he went into her room. It would be well to rehearse what should happen on the next day.

He would sit at her table as he was sitting now. He would drink a glass of wine, talk of what he had seen that day in the Place du Carrousel or the Place de la Revolution; he would talk about the prisoners.

‘Your wine is good, Madame Tison.’

She grunted: she was an ungracious woman.

‘All is well with your prisoners, I trust?’ he went on.

Again she grunted. ‘They make little trouble. How could they? We’re the masters now, eh, Citizen?’

‘We are the masters now,’ he said with the air of a good patriot. ‘Are the children playing with them now?’

‘The boy is in the courtyard, playing with that stick of his … prancing about, pretending it’s a horse and he’s riding it. A difference, eh, Citizen, from the old days! A stick now, instead of a horse all fitted up with gold and silver embroidery.’

‘A great difference. And the girl?’

‘Quiet she is … I don’t trust her … never did trust people who were too quiet.’

It seemed to Lepître that her eyes were boring into him. He found it difficult to repress a shiver.

He drew out his snuff-box. ‘You like a pinch of snuff, I understand.’

Her eyes gleamed. She was rapacious; she would never refuse anything; and Tison was the same. That was why they could be relied on to take the snuff.

This was exactly how it should happen to-morrow evening.

‘Why, you don’t keep the box still, Citizen.’

So she had noticed his shaking hands. He fancied there was a malicious look about her eyes.

She took a liberal pinch appreciatively.

‘Did you hear, Citizen Lepître,’ she said, still keeping her eyes on him, ‘how the émigrés are falling into our hands? It’s like swatting flies, they say. They’re trying all manner of means to get out of the country. It makes me laugh.’ Madame Tison rocked in her chair with amusement. ‘Trying to get over the frontier … and some of them have been managing it. Do you know how? Forged passports … There have been more people caught with forged passports these last weeks, Tison tells me, than during the last two years.’

‘F … forged passports!’ stammered Lepître.

‘Well, there’s no need for you to look alarmed. We’re catching them, Citizen. We’re catching them.’ The woman leaned towards him. ‘They tell me they recognise these forged passports at a glance. Then … they drag ’em out of their fancy carriages … and it’s to the lanterne without delay. I’ll take another pinch of snuff, Citizen Lepître. Why … what’s wrong? You got the ague? You’re shaking so.’

He stood up; his fear seemed to form a haze about him so that he could not see her clearly.

She knows, he thought. She has found out.

‘I’ll be getting to my own quarters, Citizeness,’ he said. ‘I feel a little dizzy. This leg of mine has been paining me and I’ve had one or two of my sick turns lately.’

‘I should go to your bed, Citizen; and I’d stay there for a day or so.’

He spent the night pacing up and down his room. He brought the uniforms of the municipal councillors from the chest in which he had hidden them. He felt so terrified that he could scarcely stand. Sweat poured down his face; he lay on his bed trembling.

I can’t do it, he thought.

And in the morning he went to Jarjayes.

‘I suspect the woman Tison,’ he said, ‘and I cannot do it. I dare not.’

And without Lepître it was impossible to carry out the plan.

There was no hope, thought Antoinette. Everything that was begun failed to reach fruition.

‘We are doomed,’ she said to Elisabeth.

There was another plot, but this time she did not have high hopes. She knew that there were several royalists in the prison and these were constantly working for her escape. Toulan had been suspected of being too friendly with the Queen, for Madame Tison had reported that he visited the Queen’s cell frequently and had conversations with her; therefore Toulan was removed. Jarjayes, in view of Lepître’s fears, had thought it wise to leave Paris.

It seemed to the Queen that many of the battalion who had been set to guard her had royalist sympathies. The commander, Cortey, had let her know that he was working with friends to bring about her escape. There was the Baron de Batz, the hero of many fantastic adventures, who was plotting to save the family and proclaim the Dauphin as Louis Dix-sept.

It was a simple plan, as all these plans seemed before it was attempted to carry them out. The Queen, Madame Elisabeth and Madame Royale, dressed in the uniform of the soldiers, were to walk out of the prison with loyal members of the guard. The Dauphin was to be hidden under the heavy cloak of one of the officers, and they would all march together.

The day was fixed; the uniforms were ready; but they had reckoned without the spies with whom they were surrounded.

A word in the right quarter and, when the conspirators were ready to leave the prison, they found that one of their jailers, the uncouth Simon, was there to prevent them.

Antoinette could wish afterwards that there had been no attempt. Now she was more rigorously watched; she and Elisabeth were not allowed to do their embroidery. Madame Tison said that in her opinion all those stitches ‘meant something’. There was some code in the needlework by which they conveyed those thoughts which they dared not put into words.

Madame Tison denounced Toulan, so there was one faithful friend removed; she also declared her suspicions of Lepître and he was taken away.

Antoinette was coming to the conclusion that she would never escape. Moreover the Dauphin had come in crying from his play, having hurt himself by falling over the stick which he rode as a horse.

It was necessary to have a doctor to dress his wound; and, as he lay whimpering beside her, she forgot everything else but the need to soothe the boy’s pain.

Hébert said to Madame Tison: ‘What ails the boy Capet?’

‘Oh, Citizen, he fell over a stick. He’s hurt himself. The doctor has bandaged him. He said it was a bad wound … in a tender spot.’

She laughed and nudged him. We’re all equal now, she implied.

Hébert believed he was the equal of the Queen, but not that Madame Tison was equal to him; but he did not notice her crude manners then. He had an idea.

It was ten o’clock at night. The Dauphin was sleeping and there were traces of tears on his face, for his wound had had to be dressed and he had cried a little.

The Queen was sitting by his bed when the door was opened and six members of the municipaux came into the room.

She did not look at them, and as they stood awkwardly before her, one of them found his hand going to his hat; he had to restrain himself from taking it off.

‘We have come to take Louis Charles Capet to his new prison,’ said one of the men.

The Queen gave a sharp cry of alarm which brought Madame Elisabeth and Madame Royale running to her side.

‘I beg of you,’ said the Queen, ‘do not take my son from me.’

‘These are our orders,’ said the leader of the party. ‘He is to be put in the care of his new tutor, Citizen Simon.’

‘No!’ cried the Queen, thinking of the brutal cobbler. ‘Please … do anything … anything … but do not take my son away from me.’

Madame Royale stared at the men with imploring eyes; they would not look at her.

‘Wake him up,’ said one of the men, a stonemason. ‘Come on. We’re in a hurry. Either you do, or we will.’

‘He is not very well. He injured himself recently. Please let me keep him with me. He is not very old.’

One of the men came close to the bed. The Queen, with Madame Elisabeth and Madame Royale, barred his way.

Another of the party, a clerk, said: ‘We’re sorry. But we’re given orders and we have to obey them.’

The Dauphin had awakened, startled out of his sleep. ‘Maman, Maman, are you there? I had a dream …’

He sat up in bed and saw the men; a look of fear crossed his face.

‘Come on, Louis Charles Capet,’ said the stonemason. ‘You’re moving from here.’

The boy drew the clothes about him. ‘I … I shall stay with my mother,’ he said.

One of the men seized him. The Queen ran to his side.

‘I beg of you … I beg of you. Remember he is my son. You have taken his father … murdered his father … Is not that enough?’

The Dauphin tried to seize his mother’s hands, but he was snatched away.

‘Come on, let us get going,’ said the clerk.

The Queen ran after the men who carried her son; the other men held her back and pushed her not ungently into the arms of her daughter and sister-in-law.

The door shut. The Queen stood as though dazed, listening to the piteous screams of the Dauphin as they carried him away.

They kept the Dauphin in the Temple, in rooms below those occupied by his mother, Madame Elisabeth and Madame Royale. He was so near, yet so far away, for she was never allowed to see him.

Piteously she would demand news of him from all those who came into contact with her; but they had received stern orders not to discuss the boy with her.

She discovered that on some days he was taken into a courtyard which she could see from her barred window; and for hours she would stand there hoping to get a glimpse of him.

Elisabeth tried to comfort her, as did her daughter; but during those days there was no comfort which life could offer Antoinette.

Madame Tison, coming into her cell, would jeer at her. ‘This is a bit different from Versailles, eh? This is a bit different from that Trianon!’

But one day when Madame Tison jeered at her something in the dejected attitude of the Queen brought a catch to the woman’s voice which sounded odd and unlike her. Madame Tison turned angrily away, put a startled hand to her cheek and found a tear there.

She tried to excuse herself.

‘It’s that child,’ she murmured under her breath. ‘It’s taking him from her … seems a bit cruel. That Hébert, it’s his doings. Who does he think he is? He gives himself the airs of an aristocrat.’

Madame Tison continued to jeer at the Queen, but now there did not seem to be much point in those jeers. The Queen was indifferent to them and Madame Tison no longer uttered them with the same enthusiasm.

Then she ceased to jeer; and oddly enough she discovered new feelings in herself. She would lie awake at night, and sometimes she would awaken out of dreams sobbing, and the Queen always figured in those dreams.

‘You going crazy?’ asked Tison.

Madame Tison would shiver and stare into the darkness.

The Dauphin lay sobbing in his new apartment.

Simon bent over him, shaking him. Simon shook the boy with relish. This was the child who one day might have been King of France. Who would have thought that he, Simon, who had known such dire poverty, would have the opportunity of boxing the ears of the future King of France?

Simon was filled with ecstasy at the thought. It showed what the revolution could do for a poor man. This boy who had had everything he could want – luxury, food, fine garments, people bowing wherever he went – was now the prisoner of Simon.

Citizen Hébert had spoken earnestly to Simon. ‘We want to make Louis Charles Capet a son of the people, you understand. He is but a boy. We want to make him a true son of the revolution. We want to make a man of him … you understand me? A man of the people.’

Simon was illiterate. He had once had a low-class eating-house in the rue de Seine, but he had not made a success of it. He had lived in utter poverty. He had done all sorts of things besides being a cobbler, in the hope of getting a living, but he had always been a failure until the revolution came. He was crude; he spoke the language of the faubourgs; he had lived with the lowest. He was the sort of man who Hébert needed for the task which lay ahead.

Now he leaned over the Dauphin and shook him roughly.

The child looked up at him, too wretched to care about anything but his own misery.

‘Here, what’s the matter with you, eh?’

‘I want my mother,’ said the boy.

Simon bandaged his wound for him.

‘How did you get this?’

‘I was riding on a stick.’

‘That’s a queer thing to do … ride on a stick. What do you want to do that for?’

‘Pretending it was a horse.’

Simon spat over his shoulder in disbelief.

The boy was uncomfortable to be exposed before the eyes of this crude man.

‘Here,’ said Simon, ‘you don’t need to be so particular. We’re all alike, you know. Some of us knows a bit more than others. I reckon I could show you a thing or two.’

‘What?’ said the boy.

Simon winked.

He then taught the boy how to masturbate. It was all part of the duties outlined to him by Hébert.

‘Who taught you that?’ demanded Simon.

‘You did,’ said the boy.

‘That’s a lie.’

‘But you … you did … You know you did!’

A blow sent the Dauphin reeling across the room. He was startled. He had never been treated in such a way before. He stared in astonishment at Simon.

‘Now, not so many lies,’ said Simon. ‘You’ve got to tell the truth like a patriot.’

‘I was telling the truth.’

Simon caught the boy by his ear.

‘When I say who taught you that, you give me the truth. You say, my mother.’

The boy flushed scarlet. ‘My mother … But … she … she must not know of this. She … she would be … very angry. She would be ashamed of it.’ His lips trembled. ‘Please let me go back to my mother.’

Simon shook the boy’s head to and fro, still gripping his ear violently. ‘Didn’t I tell you I wanted the truth?’

The boy looked bewildered.

‘Listen here,’ said Simon. ‘Your mother taught you that. When you slept in the bed with her.’

The boy was silent, the pain in his ear made him want to scream.

‘Yes, you used to lie between her and your aunt, and they used to say, do that … and they laughed at you, while you did it.’

The boy shook his head. It was too fantastic. His mother to do such a thing! His saintly aunt! He longed to be with them; he longed to return to sanity.

‘And I’ll tell you something else your mother did, shall I? She used to hold you tight against her …’ Simon released the boy’s ear and put his foul mouth against it.

His whispering words made the boy feel that he had stepped into some fantastically horrible world which was quite outside his comprehension.

Simon finished by saying: ‘Now that’s what really happened. Is it not so?’

‘It … it couldn’t,’ said the Dauphin.

Simon shook him until his teeth chattered and the room swung round him.

‘I tell you it did.’

‘It didn’t … it didn’t … it didn’t!’ sobbed the Dauphin.

Simon’s foul face was close to the boy’s. He said: ‘I’m going to teach you to speak the truth … no matter what I have to do to you.’

The Dauphin stared at him with horrified eyes. This was like one of his nightmares coming true. He shook his head dumbly.

But Simon was not perturbed. A few beatings … a few days all alone … on black bread and lentils … then they would see.

Simon would not disappoint Hébert. They would make the boy admit anything they wanted him to. After all, he was only eight years old.

Madame Tison dreamed terrible dreams. She dreamed that her bedroom was filled with headless corpses which marched towards her, getting nearer and nearer. They carried their heads before them, and the eyes in their heads accused her while the lips chanted: ‘Madame Tison, your turn will come.’

Often she dreamed of the Queen, the Queen with her arms outstretched, the Queen crying for her son.

When she saw the Queen standing at the window hoping for a glimpse of the Dauphin, she shared her misery.

Her husband was brutal to her; he struck her once or twice. ‘What’s come over you? Do you want to lose us our job? We’re in clover here. Do you want to get us turned out of the prison?’

She was sent for that she might be questioned.

‘Go on,’ said Tison. ‘What are you waiting for?’

‘I do not want to tell them,’ she said. ‘I do not want to be their spy.’

Her husband advanced, his arm lifted to strike her. ‘You’ll go,’ he said, ‘and you’ll tell them about that new guard we saw talking to Elisabeth.’

So she went and, as though under a spell, she told.

When she returned to the prison she burst into the Queen’s quarters. Madame Royal was sitting at the table staring ahead of her; Madame Elisabeth was praying; and the Queen was at the window, hoping for a glimpse of the Dauphin.

Madame Tison ran to the Queen and threw herself at her feet; she took the hem of her dress and looked imploringly up at Antoinette.

‘Madame, forgive me,’ she cried. ‘I am going mad. I am a miserable sinner. I have spied on you … They are watching you all the time, because they want to murder you as they murdered the King … Madame, I beg your forgiveness for what I have done.’

The Queen’s face softened immediately. ‘You must not be distressed. What have you done you have been made to do. And you have lately been very kind.’

‘I am going mad … mad, Madame. These terrible dreams. … I cannot live with them. They haunt me … they will not leave me …’

The guards came in. They seized her and took her away.

That night the news went round the Temple: ‘Madame Tison has gone mad.’

The Queen was at the barred window. He could not see her but she could catch a glimpse of him now and then. How he had changed! He no longer seemed like her little boy. His clothes were stained and greasy; his hair was unkempt.

He shouted as he ran about the courtyard. That gross man, Simon, played games with him … rough games.

They sang together. Antoinette recognised the revolutionary song ‘Ça ira’. It was strange to hear those words on the lips of a son of the royal house.

But was he well? Was he happy?

If only she might speak to him, have his own assurance that all was well with him.

‘My darling boy …’ she murmured.

Then she heard the thin reedy voice of her son singing in the courtyard below.

‘Allons, enfants de la patrie …’

‘They have taken him from me completely,’ she told herself. ‘What does anything matter now? Surely I have touched the nadir of all my sorrows.’

But she was wrong. A greater sorrow awaited her.

It was decided that the time had come for the Queen to stand her trial.

One August morning a carriage came to the door of the Temple. With resignation Antoinette said good-bye to Madame Elisabeth and Madame Royale.

She seemed dazed as she walked out of the Temple; and as she passed under the low porch she forgot to stoop, and knocked her head on the hard stone.

‘You have hurt yourself,’ said one of the guards, overcome by compassion.

‘Nothing can hurt me now,’ she answered.

She stepped into the carriage and was taken to the Conciergerie.