In the Temple
The French Revolution pursued its terrible course, and war with Austria
was finally added to the internal disorders that distracted the unhappy
country. The people, kept in a constant tumult by the false reports and
incessant assaults of the bloody Jacobins, hated the King more than
ever. Not content with depriving him of his liberty and his throne, and
subjecting him to the deepest humiliations, the brutal mob also demanded
his life.
The first step toward this dreadful _dénouement_ of the tragedy was the
formal arrest of the royal family and their imprisonment in the
Temple.[14] On the thirteenth of August, 1792, they were taken to this
prison, the gates of which closed behind the King, never to open for him
again till he went forth to lay his head under the guillotine.
The Temple was originally the residence of the Grand Priors of the
Knights Templars, and in the thirteenth century occupied an extensive
area, acquired by the purchase of surrounding lands. In the year 1792,
however, little remained of it but the so-called Tower of the Temple, a
dark square structure whose massive, frowning walls were flanked by
turrets at each corner. The Tower had four stories. On the ground floor
there was but one large room, and a kitchen which was unused. The first
story consisted of an antechamber and a dining-room, which communicated
with a small closet in one of the turrets. The second floor also
contained an anteroom and two apartments, one of which the Queen and her
daughter used as a bedchamber, others being occupied by the Dauphin,
Madame Élisabeth, and Madame de Tourzel. The third floor was similar to
the second, and here at first the King was lodged with his attendants,
M. Hue and M. Chamilly.
A few faithful and devoted friends had chosen to share the royal
family’s imprisonment, but this consolation was not long permitted them.
On the nineteenth of August, two officers made their appearance with an
order from the Commune to remove all persons not belonging to the Capet
family. In vain the Queen opposed the departure of the Princess de
Lamballe,[15] on the ground that she was a relative. Their parting was
most affecting; both the royal children mingled their tears with those
of their elders, until the Princess and Madame de Tourzel were forcibly
separated from them and carried away. Not a single attendant was left to
the unfortunate prisoners, except M. Hue, who, much to his surprise, was
permitted to remain.
Their life in the Tower of the Temple was very sad and monotonous. The
King arose every morning between six and seven, and employed himself
with his devotions in his little oratory in the turret until nine
o’clock, while M. Hue set the room in order, laid the table for
breakfast, and then went down to the Queen. Marie Antoinette was up even
before the King, dressed herself and her son, and heard him say his
prayers. She kept her door closed, however, until M. Hue appeared, in
order to prevent the officers, sent by the Commune to remain in her room
during the day, from entering any earlier. At nine she went with her
children and Madame Élisabeth to breakfast with the King, and M. Hue
took this opportunity to clean their rooms and light the fires. At ten
the whole family returned to the Queen’s room, where they remained for
the rest of the day. The King devoted himself to his son’s instruction,
and the Queen heard the Princess recite her lessons, while Madame
Élisabeth taught them ciphering and drawing.
At one o’clock, when the weather was fine and Santerre, the commander of
the guards, was present, the whole family walked in the little garden of
the Temple, and the Dauphin amused himself with childish sports and
games. At two they had dinner, after which came an hour of recreation,
when the children’s amusements and laughter somewhat enlivened the
customary gloom. About four the King would often take a short nap in his
arm-chair, while the Princesses sat by with a book or some needlework,
and the little Prince studied his lessons or applied himself to his
drawing and copy-book. M. Hue superintended his work, and after it was
finished took him into the other room, where they played ball or
shuttlecock together.
At seven the family gathered around the table, and read aloud from some
religious or historical work that would interest and instruct the
children. At eight M. Hue gave the Dauphin his supper in Madame
Élisabeth’s room; his parents were usually present, and the King would
often give him little easy riddles to guess, the solution of which
occupied and diverted the child. After supper he was undressed and said
his evening prayer, which usually was as follows:
“Almighty God, who hast created and redeemed me, to Thee I pray.
Preserve the life of the King, my father, and watch over the days of my
family also. Protect us from our enemies! Grant to Madame de Tourzel
strength to bear the sorrows she is enduring on our behalf.”
After his prayer the Queen put him to bed, and she and Madame Élisabeth
remained with him in turn. As soon as the family supper was over, the
King came to say good-night to his son. After a few moments’ talk, he
pressed the hand of his wife and sister, received the caresses of his
children, and returned to his own room, retiring at once to his oratory,
where he remained till midnight.
The Princesses sat together some time later, often making use of this
quiet hour to mend the family clothing; and the King rarely composed
himself to sleep until after the guard was changed at midnight. This was
the daily routine as long as the King remained a prisoner. The days
passed in sadness and humiliation, and there was scarcely an hour in
which they were not exposed to some fresh insult or indignity.
At this time the little Dauphin was seven and a half years of age.
Through all their troubles, he showed a courage and sweetness of
disposition seldom found even in the happiest natures. Sometimes the
seriousness of his thoughts would betray itself by word or look; but he
never failed to respond to his parents’ affected cheerfulness with all a
child’s unquestioning light-heartedness. Apparently he thought no more
of past greatness; he was glad to be alive, and the only thing that made
him unhappy was his mother’s tears. He never spoke of his former
amusements and pleasures, showed no regrets, and seemed to have
forgotten all the joys of happier days. He applied himself diligently to
his studies, and with the aid of a good memory he was far more advanced
than most children of his age. Through all this time of sorrow and
trouble, the poor little Prince had possessed one unfailing
consolation—his parents’ love and care. But alas! the time was soon to
come when he would be deprived of this, too, and lose, first, his
father, then his mother.
The hard school of adversity developed all the purity and nobility of
the boy’s nature, already so richly endowed with warm affections and
tender sensibilities. Still a child in all his acts and feelings, he was
old enough at the same time to be able to comprehend the misfortunes of
the family, and seemed to feel that he owed his parents even more
respect and attention than formerly, though his lively fancies often
made him forget their cruel situation. He realized that they were
prisoners, and was discreet and prudent in his speech and behavior.
Never a syllable escaped him that could have caused a painful memory or
regret in his mother’s heart. How affectionate and yet how thoughtful
and quick-witted he was, one or two incidents will show.
A stone-mason was at work one day on the wall of the King’s anteroom,
making a place for heavier bolts to be put on the door. While the
workman was eating his breakfast, the little Prince amused himself by
playing with his tools. The King took the chisel and hammer from his
son’s hand to show him how to use them, and worked at the wall himself
for a few moments. The mason, moved by a sudden feeling of pity, said to
him:
“After you have gone away from here, you can say you have worked on your
own prison!”
“Alas!” answered the King, “when and how shall I get away from here?”
Scarcely had he spoken the words, when the little Dauphin threw himself
into his father’s arms and burst into tears. The King dropped the hammer
and chisel: he, too, was much affected, and paced up and down the room
for some moments, struggling with his emotions.
On another occasion the Prince had not shown a coarse fellow named
Mercereau all the respect to which he considered himself entitled,
whereupon he addressed the child roughly with:
“Hey, boy! don’t you know that liberty has made us all equal?”
“_Equal_, as much as you please,” answered the Dauphin with a glance at
his father, “but you will find it hard to make us believe that liberty
has made us free!”
And now the time was approaching which was to separate the King from his
loved ones forever. After so many crimes committed by the French people
in the first intoxication and frenzy of their power, there remained only
the King’s death to be accomplished. Louis the Sixteenth, the mildest
and most just of kings, who had committed no crime but that of loving
his people too well, was summoned before the blood-thirsty Convention
which had boldly set itself up to judge him. For several days previously
the treatment of the royal prisoners had been even harsher than before.
They were deprived of every means of employment; even the ladies’
needles were taken away from them, so that they could no longer find
distraction in their feminine occupations, and to Louis these added
brutalities indicated but too plainly the issue of his trial. Indeed, he
was quite prepared for the worst; but what troubled him most was the
separation from his family. During the session of the Convention he had
not been permitted to see them, and it was only with the greatest
difficulty and by the most ingenious expedients that he was able to
obtain news of them or communicate with them.
At last the death sentence was pronounced, to be executed on the
following morning, and the King was granted a final interview with his
family. At half-past eight in the evening his door was opened. The Queen
came first, leading the little Dauphin by the hand; then her daughter,
Marie Thérèse, and Madame Élisabeth. They threw themselves into the arms
of the King, and for some moments a sorrowful silence prevailed, broken
only by sobs. The Queen made a motion to her husband to take them into
his bedchamber.
“Not there,” said the King, “we will go into the dining-room; that is
the only place where I can see you.”
They stepped into the adjoining room, which was divided from the
antechamber by a glass partition, and the guards closed the door. The
King sat down with his wife and sister on either side; the Princess
knelt before him, and the Dauphin remained standing between his father’s
knees. They all leaned towards him and frequently embraced him, while
the King told them about his trial, and tried to excuse those who had
condemned him. He then gave some religious admonitions to his children;
charged them to forgive those who were the cause of his death, and
bestowed his blessing upon them. The Queen expressed her earnest desire
that they might all spend the night together, but he refused, saying
that he much needed to rest and compose his thoughts. This melancholy
scene lasted nearly two hours. As the time drew near when it must end,
the King turned to his children again, and made them give him a solemn
promise never to be revenged on his enemies. Then, taking the Dauphin on
his knee, he impressed upon him the fulfilment of his last wishes, and
concluded with these words:
“My son, you have heard all that I have said, but since an oath is more
sacred than words, swear with uplifted hand that you will obey the last
wishes of your father.”
The little Prince obeyed and took the oath with streaming eyes. The
others, too, wept bitterly, for the touching nobility of the King only
intensified their grief. And now for more than a quarter of an hour not
a word was spoken; only heart-rending sounds of anguish filled the room,
while the whole family mingled their tears until exhausted by sorrow. At
length Louis rose, and the others followed his example. A faithful
servant, named Cléry, who had managed to gain admittance to the prison
so as to be near the King, opened the door. Louis supported his wife and
held their son’s hand, while the Princess clasped her arms tightly about
her father and Madame Élisabeth clung to his arm. They took several
steps toward the outer door, and again heart-breaking sobs burst forth.
“Be calm!” said the King; “I will see you again in the morning at eight
o’clock.”
“You promise?” they all cried.
“Yes, I promise!”
“But why not at seven?” asked the Queen.
“Well, at seven, then,” replied the King. “Adieu!”
This farewell was spoken in such a touching tone that their grief became
once more uncontrollable. The Princess sank senseless at her father’s
feet, and Cléry assisted Madame Élisabeth to support her. The King, to
put an end to this distressing scene, clasped them all once more in his
arms most tenderly, and tore himself from their embraces.
[Illustration: _The King’s last farewell_]
“Farewell! Farewell!” he said again with a breaking heart, as he
returned to his room.
The good King, the loving father, had seen his dear ones for the last
time on earth. To save them from another such trial, he nobly resolved
to deprive himself of the sad consolation of pressing them once more to
his heart, and went to his execution without a last farewell. His last
words, spoken from the scaffold to the people, were:
“I die innocent of all the crimes of which I am accused. I forgive all
those who are the cause of my death, and pray God that the blood you are
about to shed may assure the happiness of France. And you, unhappy
people....”
The rest was drowned in the roll of drums. His noble head fell—the head
of a martyr, the head of one of the best and most merciful kings who
ever ruled in France.[16]