Separation from his Mother
After the sad parting, the Queen had scarcely strength enough left to
undress her children, and as soon as they were asleep she flung herself,
dressed, upon her bed, where she passed the night shivering with cold
and trembling with apprehension. The Princess and Madame Élisabeth slept
in the same room on a mattress.
The next morning the royal family arose before daybreak, waiting for a
last sight of him whom, alas! they were never to see again. In all
quarters of Paris the drums were beating, and the noise penetrated even
into the Tower. At a quarter-past six the door opened, and some one came
in to get a book, which was wanted for the mass about to be read to the
King. The anxious women regarded this trifling occurrence as a hopeful
sign, and expected a speedy summons to the promised interview. But they
were soon undeceived. Each moment seemed an hour, and still the time
slipped by without bringing the fulfilment of their last sorrowful hope.
Suddenly a louder roll of drums announced the moment of the King’s
departure. No words can describe the scene that followed. The
heart-broken women, with tears and sobs, made fruitless attempts to
excite the compassion of their pitiless jailers. The little Prince
sprang from his mother’s arms, and, beside himself with grief and
terror, ran from one to another of the guards, clasping their knees,
pressing their hands, and crying wildly:
“Let me go, messieurs! Let me go!”
“Where do you wish to go?” they asked him.
“To my father! I will speak to the people—I will beg them not to kill my
papa! In the name of God, messieurs, let me go!”
The guards were deaf to his childish appeals; fear for their own heads
compelled them to be, but history does not tell us that they were
inhuman enough to jeer at the child or make sport of his innocent prayer
for his father’s life. Even harder hearts must have been touched by the
sight of such sorrow.
About ten o’clock the Queen wished the children to have some breakfast;
but they could not eat, and the food was sent away untouched. A moment
later cries and yells were heard, mingled with the discharge of
firearms. Madame Élisabeth raised her eyes to heaven, and, carried away
by the bitterness of her grief, exclaimed:
“Oh, the monsters! They are glad!...”
At these words the Princess Marie Thérèse uttered a piercing scream; the
little Dauphin burst into tears; while the Queen, with drooping head and
staring eyes, seemed sunk in a stupor almost like death. The shouts of a
crier in the street soon informed them yet more plainly that all was
over.
For the rest of the day, the poor little Prince hardly stirred from his
mother’s side. He kissed her hands, often wet with his tears, and
overwhelmed her with sweet childish caresses, which he seemed to feel
would comfort her more than words.
“Alas! the tears of an innocent child, they may never cease to flow!”
said the Queen, bitterly. “Death is harder for those who survive than
for the ones who are gone!”
During the afternoon she asked permission to see Cléry, who had remained
with his royal master in the Tower till the last moment. She felt that
she must hear the last words and farewells of her martyred husband and
treasure them as a precious legacy, and for more than an hour the
faithful valet was with her, both absorbed in sorrowful discourse.
The long day passed in tears and wretchedness, and night brought no
respite. The prisoners had been placed in charge of two jailers, a
married couple named Tison, coarse creatures, from whose intrusions they
were never free. Thus the inflexible hate of an infuriated populace
pursued them even in the sanctity of their grief.
It was two o’clock at night, and more than an hour since the tearfully
ended prayers had announced the time for rest; but rest was still far
from the three unhappy women. In obedience to the Queen’s wishes, the
Princess Marie Thérèse had indeed gone to bed, but she could not close
her eyes. Her royal mother and her aunt, who were sitting near the bed
of the Dauphin, talked of their sorrow and wept together in
uncontrollable anguish. The sleeping child smiled, and there was such an
expression of angelic sweetness and purity on his innocent face that the
Queen could not refrain from saying sadly:
“He is now just as old as his brother was when he died at Meudon. Happy
are those of our family who have been the first to go; at least they
have not lived to see the downfall of our house!”
Madame Tison, who had been listening at the door, heard these words, or
at least the sound of the Queen’s voice. Devoid of respect for a sorrow
that must find relief in words or become unbearable, the heartless woman
knocked on the door and harshly demanded the cause of this nocturnal
conversation. As if this were not enough, her husband and some municipal
guards even opened the door and attempted to force their way into the
room, when Madame Élisabeth, turning her pale face toward them, said
with quiet dignity:
“I pray you, allow us at least to weep in peace!”
These simple words, spoken in such a tone, disarmed even these wretches.
They drew back in confusion, and did not venture again to intrude on the
sanctity of so profound a grief. The next morning the Queen took her son
in her arms and said to him:
“My child, we must put our trust in the dear God!”
“Oh, yes, mamma,” answered the little Prince, “I do trust the dear God,
but whenever I fold my hands and try to pray, the image of my father
comes before my eyes.”
Sadly and wearily the days passed. Weakened by sorrow and exhausted by
sleepless nights, the Queen almost succumbed to her troubles, and seemed
to be indifferent whether she lived or died. Sometimes her companions
would find her eyes fixed on them with such an expression of profound
pity, it almost made them shudder. A deathly stillness prevailed; they
all seemed to be holding their breaths, save when their grief found vent
in half-smothered sobs or paroxysms of tears. It was almost a boon to
the wretched women when the Princess Marie Thérèse really fell ill. In
the duties of a mother, Marie Antoinette found some mitigation of her
grief for the loss of her husband. She spent all her time at her
daughter’s bedside, and the care and anxiety afforded her a wholesome
distraction and roused her benumbed faculties. The Princess soon
recovered from her illness, and from that time the Queen devoted herself
wholly to her children.
The little Dauphin sang very sweetly, and his mother found much pleasure
in teaching him little songs, but especially in having him continue the
studies he had begun. Thus absorbed, she even thanked Heaven for the
peace granted her by her enemies, which enabled her to perform these
maternal tasks. Madame Élisabeth was her devoted assistant, and their
love for the children afforded them some relief from sorrows which were
constantly being sharpened by fresh trials. But even this last faint
semblance of happiness was at last taken from them.
Some faithful friends of the Queen and the royal house, brave, noble
hearts who gladly risked their lives in the hope of rescuing the
prisoners from the shameful brutalities of their jailers, had devised a
plan for their escape. Owing to an unlucky combination of circumstances,
the attempt failed, and the tyrants of the Convention, who then held
despotic sway over wretched France, issued the following decree:
“The Committee of Public Safety orders that the son of Capet shall be
separated from his mother and delivered into the hands of a governor,
the choice of whom shall rest with the General Council of the Commune.”
On the third of July, 1793, this cruel and infamous order was put into
execution.
It was almost ten o’clock on that evening; the little Prince was in bed
and sleeping peacefully and soundly, with a smile on his pale but still
lovely face. The bed had no curtains, but his mother had ingeniously
arranged a shawl to keep the light from falling on his closed eyelids
and disturbing his rest.
The Queen, Madame Élisabeth, and the Princess Marie Thérèse were sitting
up somewhat later than usual, the elder ladies busy with some mending
and the Princess reading aloud to them. She had finished several
chapters from some historical work, and now had a book of devotions
called “Passion Week,” which Madame Élisabeth had succeeded in obtaining
only a short time before. Whenever the Princess paused to turn a page,
or at the end of a chapter in the history or of a psalm in the book of
prayers, the Queen would raise her head, let her work fall in her lap,
and gaze lovingly at the sleeping boy or listen to his quiet breathing.
Suddenly the sound of heavy footsteps was heard on the stairs. The bolts
were drawn with a rattle, the door opened, and six municipal guards
entered.
“We come,” said one of them roughly to the terrified Princesses, “to
inform you that the Committee of Public Safety has ordered the son of
Capet to be separated from his mother and his family.”
The Queen started to her feet, struck to the heart by the suddenness of
this blow.
“Take my child away from me?” she cried, white with terror,—“no—no—it
cannot be possible!”
Marie Thérèse stood beside her mother trembling, while Madame Élisabeth,
with both hands on the prayer-book, listened and looked on, paralyzed
with terror and unable to stir.
“Messieurs,” continued the Queen in a tremulous voice, and struggling to
control the ague fit that shook her from head to foot, “it is
impossible; the Council cannot think of such a thing as to separate me
from my son! He is so young, he is so delicate—my care is so necessary
to him! No—no—it cannot be!”
“It is the decree of the Committee,” replied the officer harshly,
unmoved by the deadly pallor of the Queen; “the Convention has decided
on the measure, and we are sent to carry it into immediate execution.”
“Oh, I can never submit to it!” cried the unhappy mother. “In the name
of Heaven, I beseech you, do not demand this cruel sacrifice of me!”
Both her companions joined their entreaties to hers. All three had
instinctively placed themselves before the child’s bed, as if to defend
it against the approach of the officers; they wept, they prayed, they
exhausted themselves in the humblest and most touching supplications.
Such distress might have softened the hardest heart; but to these
pitiless tools of the villanous Convention, they appealed in vain.
“What is the use of all this outburst?” they demanded at length. “Your
child is not going to be killed. You had better give him to us without
any more trouble, or we shall find other means of getting him.”
In fact, they began to use force against the desperate mother. In the
struggle, the improvised bed-curtain was torn down and fell on the head
of the sleeping Prince. He awoke, saw at a glance what was happening,
and flung himself into his mother’s arms.
“Mamma, dear mamma!” he cried, shaking with fright, “do not leave me!”
The Queen clasped him close to her breast, as if to protect him, and
clung with all her strength to the bedposts.
“Pah! We do not fight with women,” said one of the deputies who had not
spoken before. “Citizens, let us call up the guard!”
“Do not do that!” said Madame Élisabeth, “in the name of Heaven, do not
do that! We must submit to forcible demands, but grant us at least time
to prepare ourselves. This poor child needs his sleep, and he will not
be able to sleep anywhere but here. Let him at least spend the night in
this room, and he shall be delivered into your hands early in the
morning.”
To this touching appeal there was no reply.
“Promise me, at least,” said the Queen in a hollow voice, “that he shall
remain within the walls of this Tower, and that I shall be permitted to
see him every day, if only at meal times.”
“We are not obliged to account to you for what we do,” snarled one of
the rough fellows, ferociously; “neither is it for you to question the
acts of the country. Just because your child is taken from you, why
should you act like a fool? Are not our sons marching toward the
frontier every day, to have their heads shot off by the enemy you
enticed there?”
“Oh, I did not entice them there,” replied the Queen; “and you see that
my son is much too young to serve his country yet. Some day, God
willing, I hope he will be proud to devote his life to France.”
The threatening manner of the officers showed the poor mother plainly
enough that all her prayers were useless, and she must yield to her
cruel fate. With trembling hands she dressed the little Prince, and,
although both Princesses assisted her, it took her longer than ever
before. Every garment, before it was put on the child, was turned in and
out, passed from hand to hand, and wet with bitter tears. In every
possible way they strove to defer the dreadful moment of parting, but
the officers soon began to lose patience.
“Make haste!” they cried. “We can wait no longer!”
With a breaking heart, the Queen submitted. Summoning all her fortitude,
she seated herself on a chair, laid both her thin white hands on the
shoulders of the unhappy child, and, forcing herself to be calm, said to
him in a solemn, earnest voice:
“My child, we must part. Remember your oath when I am no longer with you
to remind you of it. Never forget the dear God who has sent you this
trial, nor the dear mother who loves you. Be prudent, brave, and
patient, and your father will look down from Heaven and bless you.”
So speaking, she pressed a last kiss on his forehead, clasped him once
more to her tortured heart, and gave him to his jailers. The poor child
sprang away from them, rushed to his mother again, and clung desperately
to her dress, clasping her knees. She tried to soothe his distress.
“You must obey, my child, you must!” she said.
“Yes, and I hope you have no more instructions to give him,” added one
of the deputies. “You have abused our patience enough already.”
“As it is, you might have saved yourself the trouble of giving him any,”
said another, dragging the Prince forcibly out of the room.
A third, somewhat more humane than the others, added, “You need not have
any further anxiety; the great and generous country will care for him.”
Heaven was witness what tears of anguish, what cries of despair,
followed this distressing scene. In the extremity of her sufferings, the
unfortunate mother writhed upon the bed where her son had just been
sleeping. She had succeeded in maintaining her courage and a feigned
composure in the presence of the merciless wretches who had robbed her
of her child, but this unnatural strength, this superhuman exertion, had
exhausted all the powers of her being and almost deprived her of reason.
Never was there a greater despair than that of this most unhappy Queen
and her companions. The three prisoners gazed at one another in
speechless agony, and could find no words of consolation. The only
comfort of their wretched life was gone. The little Dauphin had been the
one ray of sunlight in the darkness of their imprisonment, and that now
had been extinguished. What more could follow? Alas! even worse was yet
to come, for the resources of inhumanity are boundless!