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: