From this time the unhappy boy remained under the hands of the

cobbler and his cruel wife. In vain his aunt and his sister implored

their keepers to be allowed to see and to talk with the prince. They

were put off with abusive words, and only now and then could they

see him a moment through a crack in the door, as he passed by with

Simon, on his way to the winding staircase. At times there came up

through the floor of their room--for Simon, who was no longer

porter, had the rooms directly beneath these occupied by the

princesses--the crying and moaning of the little prince, filling

their hearts with pain and bitterness, for they knew that the

horrible keeper of the dauphin was giving his pitiable ward a

lesson, i.e., he was beating and maltreating him. "Why? For what

reason? One day, perhaps, because he refused to drink brandy, the

next because he looked sad, or because he asked to be taken to his

mother or the princesses, or because he refused to sing the ribald

songs which Simon tried to teach him about Madame Veto or the

Austrian she-wolf.

In this one thing the boy remained immovable; neither threats,

abuse, nor blows would force him to sing scurrilous songs about his

mother. Out of fear he did every thing else that his tormentor bade

him. He sung the Marseillaise, and the Caira, he danced the

Carmagnole, uttered his loud hurrahs as Simon drank a glass of

brandy to the weal of the one and indivisible republic; but when he

was ordered to sing mocking songs about Madame Veto, he kept a

stubborn silence, and nothing was able to overcome what Simon called

the "obstinacy of the little viper."

Nothing, neither blows nor kicks, neither threats nor promises! The

child no longer ventured to ask after its mother, or to beg to be

taken to his aunt and sister, but once in a while when he heard a

noise in the room above, he would fix his eyes upon the ceiling for

a long time, and with an expression of longing, and when he dropped

them, again the clear tears ran over his cheeks like transparent

pearls.

He did not speak about his mother, but he thought of her, and once

in the night he seemed to be dreaming of her, for he raised himself

up in bed, kneeled down upon the miserable, dirty mattress, folded

his hands and began to repeat in a loud voice the prayer which his

mother had taught him.

The noise awakened Simon, who roused his wife, to let her listen to

the "superstitious little monkey," whom he would cure forever of his

folly.

He sprang out of bed, took a pitcher of cold water, that was

standing on the table, and poured it upon the head of the kneeling

boy. Louis Charles awoke with a shriek, and crouched down in alarm.

But the whole bed was wet, only the pillow had been spared. The boy

rose carefully, took the pillow, carried it into a corner of the

room, and sat down upon it. But his teeth chattered with the cold in

spite of himself. This awakened Simon a second time, just as he was

dropping asleep. With a wild curse he jumped out of bed and dressed

himself.

"That is right!" cried Jeanne Marie, "bring the brat to his senses.

Make little Capet know that he is to behave respectfully."

And Simon did make the poor boy understand it, sitting on the

pillow, shivering in his wet shirt. He seized him by his shoulders,

shook him angrily from one side to another, and shouted: "I will

teach you to say your Pater Noster, and get up in the night like a

Trappist!"

The boy remaining silent, Simon's rage, which knew no bounds when he

thought he was defied or met with stubbornness, entirely took

possession of him. He caught up his boot, whose sole was secured

with large iron nails, and was on the point of hurling it at the

head of the unoffending boy, when the latter seized his arm with

convulsive energy.

"What have I done to you, master, that you should kill me?" cried

the little Louis.

"Kill you, you wolf-brat!" roared Simon. "As if I wanted to, or ever

had wanted to! Oh, the miserable viper! So you do not know that if I

only took fairly hold of your neck, you never would scream again!"

And with his powerful arm he seized the boy and hurled him upon the

water-soaked bed. Louis lay down without a word, without a

complaint, and remained there shivering and with chattering teeth

until morning. [Footnote: Beauchesne, "Louis XVII.," vol. ii., p.

185.]

From this period there was a change in the boy. Until this time his

moist eyes had fixed themselves with a supplicating look upon his

tormentors when they threatened him, but after this they were cast

down. Until now he had always sought to fulfil his master's commands

with great alacrity; afterward he was indifferent, and made no

effort to do so, for he had learned that it was all to no purpose,

and that he must accept a fate of slavery and affliction. The face

of the child, once so rosy and smiling, now took on a sad,

melancholy expression, his cheeks were pale and sunken. The

attractive features of his face were disfigured, his limbs grew to a

length disproportionate to his age; his back bent into a bow, as if

he felt the burden of the humiliations which were thrown upon him.

When the child had learned that every thing that he said was

twisted, turned into ridicule, and made the cause of chastisement,

he was entirely silent, and only with the greatest pains could a

word be drawn from him.

This silence exasperated Simon, and made him furiously command the

boy to sing, laugh, and be merry. At other times he would order

Louis to be silent and motionless for hours, and to have nothing to

do with the bird-cage, which was on the table, and which was the

only thing left that the little fellow could enjoy.

This cage held a number of birds, and a piece of mechanism, an

automaton in the form of a bird, which ate like a living creature,

drank, hopped from one bar to another, opened his bill, and sang the

air which was so popular before the revolution, "Oh, Richard! oh, my

king!"

This article had been found among the royal apparel, and a

compassion ate official guard had told Simon about it, and induced

him to apply to the authorities in charge of the Temple and ask for

it for the little Capet.

Simon, who, as well as his wife, could no more leave the building

than their prisoner could, took this solitary, confined life very

seriously, and longed for some way to mitigate the tedium. He

therefore availed himself gladly of the official's proposition, and

asked for the automaton, which was granted by the authorities. The

boy was delighted with the toy at first, and a pleased smile flitted

over his face. But he soon became tired of playing with the thing

and paid no attention to it.

"Does not your bird please you any longer?" asked Miller, the

official, as he came one day to inspect the Temple. "Do you have no

more sport with your canary?"

The boy shook his head, and as Simon was in the next room and so

could not strike him, he ventured to speak.

"It is no bird," he answered softly and quickly. "But I should like

to have a bird."

The good inspector nodded to the boy, and then went out to have a

long talk with Simon, and so to avert any suspicion of being too

familiar with, or too fond of, the prince. But after leaving the

Temple he went to his friends and acquaintances, and told them, with

tears in his eyes, about the little prisoner in the Temple, the

"dauphin," as the royalists used always to call him beneath their

breath, and how he wanted a living bird. Every one was glad to have

an opportunity of gratifying the wish of the dauphin, and on the

next day Miller brought the prince a cage, in which were fourteen

real canaries.

"Ah! those are real birds," cried the child, as he took them one

after the other and kissed them. The playing of the birds, which all

lived in one great cage, together with the automaton, was now the

only pleasure of the boy. He began to tame them, and among the

little feathered flock he found one to which he was especially

drawn, because he was more quiet than the others, allowed itself to

be easily caught, sat still on the finger of the prince, and,

turning his little black eyes to the boy, warbled a little, sweet

melody. At such moments the countenance of the boy beamed as it had

done in the days of his happiness; his cheeks flushed with color,

and out of his large blue eyes, which rested with inexpressible

tenderness upon the bird, there issued the rays of intelligence and

sensibility. He had now something to love, something to which all

his gentle sympathies could flow out, which hitherto had all been

suppressed beneath the harsh treatment of his keepers.

He was no longer alone, he was no longer joyless! His little friend

was there in the great cage among the twittering companions who were

indifferent to the little prince. In order to know him at first

sight, and always to be able to recognize him, Louis took the rose-

colored ribbon from the neck of the automaton, and tied it around

the neck of his darling. The bird sang merrily at this, and seemed

to be as well pleased with the decoration as if it had been an order

which King Louis of France was hanging around the neck of a favorite

courtier.

It was a fortunate thing for the boy that Simon himself was fond of

birds, else the objections of his wife would soon have robbed the

little fellow of his last remaining comfort. It was for the keeper a

little source of amusement, an interruption in the dreadful monotony

of his life. The birds were allowed to stay therefore, and their

singing and twittering animated a little the dark, silent rooms, and

reminded him of the spring, the fresh air, the green trees!

But very soon this source of comfort and cheer was to be banished

from the dismal place! On the 19th of December, 1793, the inspectors

of the Temple made their rounds. Just at the moment when they

entered the room of the little Louis Capet, the automaton began to

sing with his loud, penetrating voice, "Oh! Richard, oh my king!"

The officials came to a halt upon the threshold, as though petrified

at this unheard-of license, and fixed their cold, angry looks now

upon the bird-, now upon the boy, who was sitting upon his rush-

chair before the cage, looking at the birds with beaming eyes.

A second time the automaton began the unfortunate air, and the

exasperated inspectors strode up to the cage. "What does this mean?"

asked one of them. "How does any one dare to keep up, in the

glorious republic, such worthless reminders of the cursed monarchy."

"Only see," cried another--"see the order that one of the birds is

wearing. It is plain that the old passion of royalty still lurks

here, for even here ribbons are given away as signs of distinction.

The republic forbids such things, and we will not suffer such

infamy."

The inspector put his hand into the cage, seized the little canary-

bird with the red ribbon, and squeezed him so closely that the poor

little creature gave one faint chirp and died. The man drew him out,

and hurled him against the wall of the room.

The little boy said not a word, he uttered not a complaint; he gazed

with widely-opened eyes at his dead favorite, and two great tears

slowly trickled down his pale cheeks.

The next day the inspectors gave a report of this occurrence,

couched in terms of worthy indignation, and all hearts were stirred

with righteous anger at the story of the automaton that sang the

royal aria, and of the living bird that wore the badge of an order

about its neck. They were convinced that the secret royalists were

connected with this thing, and it was registered in the communal

acts as "the conspiracy of the canary-bird."

The little winged conspirators, the automaton as well as the living

birds, were of course instantly removed from the Temple; and Simon

had the double vexation of receiving a reprimand from the

authorities, and then the losing his little merry companions from

the prison. It was all the fault of this little, good-for-nothing

boy, who knew how to make long faces, and allowed himself to waken

and disturb his master in the night by his crying and sobbing.

"The worthless viper has spoiled my sleep for me," growled Simon the

next morning. "My head is as heavy as a bomb, and I shall have to

take a foot-bath, to draw the blood away from my ears."

Jeanne Marie silently carried her husband the leaden foot-bath, with

the steaming water, and then drew back into the corner, in whose

dismal shadow she often sat for hours, gazing idly at her "calendar

of the revolution," the long stocking, on which traces of the blood

of the queen were still visible.

Meanwhile, Simon took his foot-bath, and while he did so, his

wicked, malicious eyes now fell upon his wife, who had once been so

cheerful and resolute, and who now had grown so sad and broken, now

upon the boy, who, since yesterday, when his canaries had been taken

from him, had spoken not a word, or made a sound, and who sat

motionless upon the rush-chair, folding his hands in his lap, and

gazing at the place where his dead bird lay yesterday.

"This life would make one crazy," growled Simon, with the tone of a

hyena. "Capet," he cried aloud, "take the towel and warm it at the

chimney-fire, so as to wipe my feet."

Louis rose slowly from his chair, took the towel and crept to the

chimney-fire to spread it out and warm it; but the glow of the coals

burned his little thin hands so badly, that he let the cloth fall

into the fire, and before the trembling, frightened child had time

to draw it back, the towel had kindled and was burning brightly.

Simon uttered a howl of rage, and, as with his feet in the water he

was not able to reach the boy, he heaped curses and abuse upon him,

and not alone on him, but on his father and mother, till his voice

was hoarse, and he was exhausted with this outpouring of his wrath.

Deceived by the quiet which followed, little Louis took another

towel, warmed it carefully at the chimney, and then cautiously

approached his master, to wipe his feet. Simon extended them to the

boy and let himself he served as if by a little slave; but just as

soon as his feet were dry he kicked the boy's head with such force

that without a cry Louis fell down, striking his head violently on

the floor. Perhaps it was this pitiful spectacle that exasperated

the cobbler still more. He beat the unconscious boy, roused him with

kicks and with the noise of his curses, raised his clinched fists

and swore that he would now dash the viper in pieces, when he

suddenly felt his hands grasped as in iron clamps, and to his

boundless astonishment saw before him the pale, grim face of his

wife, who had come out from her corner and fixed her black,

glistening eyes upon him, while she held his hands firmly.

"What is it, Jeanne Marie?" said Simon, surprised! "why are you

holding me so?"

"Because I do not want you to beat him to death," she said, with a

hoarse, rough voice.

He broke out into loud laughter. "I really believe that the knitter

of the guillotine has pity on the son of the she-wolf."

A convulsive quiver passed through her whole frame. A singular,

gurgling sound came from her chest; she put both her hands to her

neck and tore the little kerchief off, as if it were tied tight

enough to strangle her.

"No," she said, in a suppressed tone, "no compassion on the wolf's

brood! But if you beat him to death, they will have to bring you to

the guillotine, that it may not appear as if they had ordered you to

kill the little Capet."

"True," said Simon, "you are right, and I thank you, Jeanne Marie,

that you may remind me of it. It shows that you love me still,

although you are always so quiet. Yes, yes, I will be more careful;

I will take care to beat the little serpent only so much that it may

not bite, but cannot die."

Jeanne Marie made no reply, but sat down in the corner again, and

took up her stocking, without touching the needles, however, and

going on with her work.

"Get up, you cursed snake!" growled Simon, "get up and go out of my

sight, and do not stir me up again."

The child rose slowly from the floor, crept to the wash-basin and

with his trembling, bruised hands wiped away the blood that was

flowing out of his nose and mouth. A loud, gurgling sound came from

the corner where Jeanne Marie sat. It seemed half like a cry, half

like a sob. When Simon looked around, his wife lay pale and

motionless on the floor; she had sunk from her chair in a swoon.

Simon grasped her in his strong arms and carried her to the bed,

laid her gently and carefully down, and busied himself about her,

showing a manifest anxiety.

"She must not die," he murmured, rubbing her temples with salt

water; "she must not leave me alone in this horrible prison and with

this dreadful child.--Jeanne Marie, wake up, come to yourself!" She

opened her eyes, and gazed at her husband with wild, searching

looks.

"What is the matter, Jeanne Marie?" he asked. "Have you pain? Are

you sick?"

"Yes," she said, "I am sick, I am in pain."

"I will go to bring you a physician, you shall not die! No, no, you

shall not die, you shall have a physician. The Hotel Dieu is very

near, they will certainly allow me to go as far as there, and bring

a doctor for my dear Jeanne."

He was on the point of hastening away, but Jeanne Marie held him

fast. "Remain here," she murmured, "do not let me be alone with him-

-I am afraid of him!"

"Of whom?" asked Simon, astonished; and as he followed the looks of

his wife, they rested on the boy, who was still busy in checking the

blood that was flowing freely from his swollen nose.

"Of him!" asked Simon, in amazement.

Jeanne Marie nodded. "Yes," she whispered, "I am afraid of him, and

I do not want to remain alone with him, for he would kill me." Simon

burst into a loud, hoarse laugh. "Now I see that you are really

sick, and the doctor shall come at once. But they certainly will not

let me leave this place, for this despicable brat has made us both

prisoners, the miserable, good-for-nothing thing!"

"Send him away; let him go into his own room," whispered Jeanne

Marie. "I cannot bear to see him; he poisons my blood. Send him

away, for I shall be crazy if I have to look at him longer."

"Away with you, you viper!" roared Simon; and the boy, who knew that

he was meant--that the term viper was applied only to him--hastily

dried his tears, and slipped through the open door into his little

dark apartment.

"Now I will run and call the porter," said Simon, hurriedly; "he

shall send some one to the Hotel Dieu, and bring a physician for my

poor, dear, sick Jeanne Marie."

He hastened out, and turned back, after a few minutes, with the

report that the porter himself had gone to bring a doctor, and that

help would come at once.

"Nonsense!" cried Jeanne Marie; "no doctor can help me, and there is

nothing at all that I want. Only give me something to drink, Simon,

for my throat burns like fire, and then call little Capet in, for in

his dark room his eyes glisten like stars, and I cannot bear them."

Simon shook his head sadly; and, while holding a glass of cold water

to her lips, he said to himself: "Jeanne Marie is really sick! She

has a fever! But we must do what she orders, else it will come to

delirium, and she might become insane."

And with a loud voice he called, "Capet, Capet! come here, come

here! you viper, you wolf's cub, come here!"

The boy obeyed the command, slowly crept into the room, and sat down

in the rush-chair in the corner. "He shall not look at me," shrieked

Jeanne Marie; "he shall not look into my heart with his dreadful

blue eyes, it hurts me--oh! so much, so much!"

"Turn around, you viper!" said Simon. "Look round this way again, or

I'll tear your eyes out of your head! I--"

The door leading to the corridor now opened, and an old man, leaning

on a cane, entered, wearing on his head a powdered peruke, his bent

form covered with a black satin coat, beneath which a satin vest was

seen; on his feet, silk stockings and buckled shoes; in his lace-

encircled hand, a cane with a gold head.

"Well," cried Simon, with a laugh, "what sort of an old scarecrow is

that? And what does it want here?"

"The scarecrow wants nothing of you," said the old man, in a kindly

way, "but you want something of it, citizen. You have sent for me."

"Ah! so you are the doctor from the Hotel Dieu."

"Yes, my friend, I am Citizen Naudin."

"Naudin, the chief physician at the Hotel Dieu?" cried Simon. "And

you come yourself to see my sick wife?"

"Does that surprise you, Citizen Simon?"

"Yes, indeed, it surprises me. For I have been told so often that

Citizen Naudin, the greatest and most skilful physician in all

Paris, never leaves the Hotel Dieu; that the aristocrats and ci-

devants have begged him in vain to attend them, and that even the

Austrian woman, in the days when she was queen, sent to no purpose

to the celebrated Naudin, and begged him to come to Versailles.

We heard that the answer was: 'I am the physician of the poor and

the sick in the Hotel Dieu, and whoever is poor and sick may come to

me in the house which bears the name of God. But whoever is too rich

and too well for that, must seek another doctor, for my duties with

the sick do not allow me to leave the H6tel Dieu.' And after that

answer reached the palace--so the great Doctor Marat told me--the

queen had her horses harnessed, and drove to Paris, to consult

Doctor Naudin at the Hotel Dieu, and to receive his advice. Is the

story really true, and are you Doctor Naudin?"

"The story is strictly true, and, my friend, I am Doctor Naudin."

"And you now leave the Hotel Dieu to come and visit my sick wife?"

asked Simon, with a pleasant look and a flattered manner.

"Does your wife not belong to my poor and sick?" asked the doctor.

"Is she not a woman of the people, this dear French people, to whom

I have devoted my services and my life? For a queen Doctor Naudin

might not leave his hospital, but for a woman of the people he does

it. And now, citizen, let me see your sick wife, for I did not come

here to talk."

Without waiting for Simon's answer, the physician walked up to the

bed, sat down on the chair in front of it, and began at once to

investigate the condition of the woman, who reached him her feverish

hand, and, with an almost inaudible voice, answered his professional

questions.

The cobbler stood at the foot of the bed, and directed his little

cunning eyes to the physician in amazement and admiration. Behind

him, in the corner, sat the son of Marie Antoinette, humiliated,

still, and motionless. Yet, in spite of the injunction of Jeanne

Marie, he had turned around, and was looking toward the bed; but not

to the knitter of the guillotine were his looks directed, but to

this venerable old gentleman with his powdered peruke, his satin

coat, silk stockings, breeches, shoe-buckles, gold embroidered

waistcoat and lace ruffles. This costume reminded him of the past;

the halls of Versailles came back to him, and he saw before him the

shadowy figures of the cavaliers of that time, all clothed like the

dear old gentleman who was sitting before the bed there.

"Why do you look at me in such a wondering way, Citizen Simon?"

asked Naudin, who was now through with his examination.

"I really wonder--I really do wonder immensely," said Simon, "and

that is saying much, for, in these times, when there are so many

changes, a man can hardly wonder at any thing. Still I do wonder,

Citizen Naudin, that you can venture to go around in this costume.

That is the style of clothing worn by traitorous ci-devants and

aristocrats. Anybody else who dare put it on would have only one

more walk to take, that to the guillotine, and yet you venture to

come here!"

"Venture?" repeated Naudin, with a shrug. "I venture nothing,

citizen. I wear my clothes in conformity with a habit of years'

standing: they fitted well under the monarchy, they fit just as well

under the republic, and I am not going to be such a fool as to put

by my soft and comfortable silk clothes, and put on your hateful,

uncomfortable thick ones, and strut about in them. I am altogether

too old to take up the new fashions, and altogether too well

satisfied with my own suit to learn how to wear your cloth coats

with swallow-tails, and your leather hose and top-boots. Defend me

from crowding my old limbs into such stuffs!"

"Citizen doctor," cried Simon, with a laugh, "you are a jolly, good

old fellow, and I like you well. I do not blame you for preferring

your comfortable silk clothes to the new style that our

revolutionary heroes have brought into mode, that nothing might

remind us of the cursed, God-forsaken monarchy. I wonder merely that

they allow it, and do not make you a head shorter!"

"But how would they go on with matters in the Hotel Dieu? Without a

head nothing could be done with the sick and the suffering, for

without a head there is no thinking. Now, as I am the head of the

hospital, and as they have no head to take my place, and as, in

spite of my old-fashioned clothes, my sick are cured, and have

confidence in me, the great revolutionary heroes wink at me, and let

me do as I please, for they know that under the silk dress of an

aristocrat beats the heart of a true democrat. But that is not the

question before us now, citizen. We want to talk about the health of

your wife here. She is sick, she has a fever, and it will be worse

yet with her, unless we take prompt measures and provide a cooling

drink for her."

"Do it, citizen doctor," said Simon; "make my Jeanne Marie well and

bright again, or I shall go crazy here in this accursed house.

Jeanne Marie is sick just with this, that she is not accustomed to

be idle, and to sit still and fold her hands in her lap, and run

around like a wild beast in its cage. But here in the Temple it is

no better than in a cage; and I tell you, citizen, it is enough to

make one crazy here, and it has made Jeanne sick to have no fresh

air, no exercise and work."

"But why has she no exercise and no work? Why does she not go out

into the street and take the air?"

"Because she cannot," cried Simon, passionately. "Because the cursed

little viper there embitters our whole life and makes us prisoners

to this miserable, wretched prisoner, Look at him there, the

infernal little wolf! he is the one to blame that I cannot go into

the street, cannot visit the clubs, the Convention, or any meeting,

but must lire here like a Trappist, or like an imprisoned criminal.

He is the one to blame that my wife can no longer take her place at

the guillotine, and knit and go on with her work there."

"Yes," cried Jeanne Marie, with a groan, raising her head painfully

from the pillow, "he is to blame for it all, the shameless rascal.

He has made me melancholy and sad; he has worried, and vexed, and

changed me! Oh! oh! he is looking at me again, and his eyes burn

into my heart!"

"Miserable viper," cried Simon, dashing toward the boy with clinched

fists, "how dare you turn your hateful eyes toward her, after her

expressly forbidding it? Wait, I will teach you to disobey, and give

you a lesson that you will not forget."

His heavy hand fell on the back of the boy, and was raised again for

a second stroke, when it was held as in an iron vice.

"You good-for-nothing, what are you doing?" cried a thundering

voice, and two blazing eyes flashed on him from the reddened face of

Doctor Naudin.

Simon's eyes fell before the angry look of the physician, then he

broke out into a loud laugh.

"Citizen doctor, I say, what a jolly fellow you are," he said,

merrily. "You did that just as if you were in a theatre, and you

called out to me just as they call out to the murderers in a

tragedy. What do you make such a halloo about when I chastise the

wolf's cub a bit, as he has richly deserved?"

"It is true," said Naudin, "I was a little hasty. But that comes

from the fact, citizen, that I not only held you to be a good

republican, but a good man as well, and therefore it pained me to

see you do a thing which becomes neither a republican nor a good

man."

"Why, what have I done that is not proper?" asked Simon, in

amazement.

"Look at him, the poor, beaten, swollen, stupefied boy," said

Naudin, solemnly, pointing to Louis, who sat on his chair, weeping

and trembling in all his limbs--"look at him, citizen, and then do

not ask me again what you have done that is not proper."

"Well, but he deserves nothing better," cried Simon, with a sneer.

"He is the son of the she-wolf, Madame Veto."

"He is a human being," said Doctor Naudin, solemnly, "and he is,

besides, a helpless boy, whom the one, indivisible, and righteous

republic deprived of his father and mother, and put under your care

to be educated as if he were a son of your own. I ask you, citizen,

would you have struck a son of your own as you just struck this

boy?"

A loud, convulsive sob came from the bed on which Jeanne Marie lay,

and entirely confused and disturbed Simon.

"No," he said, softly, "perhaps I should not have done it. But,"

continued he eagerly, and with a grim look, "a child of my own would

not have tried and exasperated me as this youngster does. From

morning till evening he vexes me, for he does nothing that I want

him to. If I order him to sing with me, he is still and stupid, and

when he ought to be still he makes a noise. Would you believe me,

citizen, this son of the she-wolf leaves me no quiet for sleep.

Lately, in the night, he kneeled down in the bed and began to pray

with a loud voice, so as to wake both my wife and myself."

"From that night on I have been sick and miserable," moaned Jeanne

Marie; "from that night I have not been able to sleep."

"You hear, citizen doctor, my wife was so terrified with that, that

it made her sick, and now you shall have a proof of the disobedience

of the little viper. Capet, come here."

The boy rose slowly from his chair, and stole along with drooping

head to his master.

"Capet, we will sing," said Simon. "You shall show the doctor that

you are a good republican, and that you have entirely forgotten that

you are the son of the Austrian, the rascally Madame Veto. Come, we

will sing the song about Madame Veto. Quick, strike in, or I will

beat you into pulp. The song about Madame Veto, do you hear? Sing!"

A short pause ensued. Then the boy raised his swollen face and fixed

his great blue eyes with a defiant, flaming expression upon the face

of the cobbler.

"Citizen," he said, with clear, decided tones, "I shall not sing the

song about Madame Veto, for I have not forgotten my dear mamma, and

I can sing nothing bad about her, for I love my dear mamma so much,

so much, and--"

The voice of the boy was drowned in his tears; he let his head fall

upon his breast, ready to receive the threatened chastisement. But,

before the fist of Simon, already raised, could fall upon the poor

head of the little sufferer, a thrilling cry of pain resounded from

the bed.

"Simon, come to me," gasped Jeanne Marie. "Help me draw the dagger

out of my breast, I am dying--oh, I am dying!"

"What kind of a dagger?" cried Simon, rushing to the bed and taking

the convulsed form of his wife in his arms.

"Hush!" whispered the doctor, who also had gone to the bed of the

sick woman--"hush! she is speaking in her fever, and the dagger of

which she talks she feels in her heart and conscience. You must

spare her, citizen, if you do not want her to die. Every thing must

be quiet around her, and you must be very careful not to agitate her

nerves, lest she have an acute typhoid fever. I will send her some

cooling medicine at once, and to-morrow morning I will come early to

see how it fares with her. But, above every thing else, Simon,

remember to have quiet, that your good wife may get well again."

"Who would have told me two weeks ago that Jeanne Marie had nerves?"

growled Simon. "The first knitter of the guillotine, and now all at

once nerves and tears, but I must be careful of her. For it would be

too bad if she should die and leave me all alone with this tedious

youngster. I could not hold out. I should run away. Go, Capet, get

into your room, and do not get in my way again to-day, else I will

strangle you before you can make a sound. Come, scud, clear, and do

not let me see you again, if your life is worth any thing to you."

The child stole into his room again, sat down upon the floor, folded

his little hands in one another, fixed his great blue eyes on the

ceiling above, and held his breath to listen to every little sound,

every footfall that came from the room above.

All at once he heard plainly the steps of some one walking up and

down, and a pleased smile flitted across the face of the boy.

"That is certainly my dear mamma," he whispered to himself. "Yes,

yes, it is my mamma queen, and she is taking her walk in the

sitting-room, just as she has done since she has not been allowed to

go out upon the platform. Oh, mamma, my dear mamma, I love you so

much!"

And the child threw a kiss up to the ceiling, not knowing that she

to whom he sent his greeting had long been resting in the silent

grave, and that with the very hand which was throwing kisses to her,

he had himself signed the paper which heaped upon his mother the

most frightful calumnies.

Even Simon had not had the cruel courage to tell the boy of the

death of his mother, and of the unconscious wrong that he, poor

child, had done to her memory, and in his silent chamber his longing

thoughts of her were his only consolation.

And so he sat there that day looking up to the ceiling, greeting his

dear mamma with his thoughts, and seeing her in spirit greeting him

again, nodding affectionately to him and drawing her dear little

Louis Charles to her arms.

These were the sweet, transporting fancies which made the child

close his eyes so as not to lose them. Immovably he sat there, until

gradually thoughts and dreams flowed into each other, and not only

his will, but sleep as well, kept his eyes closed. But the dreams

remained, and were sweet and refreshing, and displayed to the

sleeping child, so harshly treated in his waking hours, only scenes

of love and tenderness. And it was not his mother alone who embraced

him in his happy slumbers; no, there were his aunt and his sister as

well, and at last even--oh how strange dreams are!--at last he even

saw Simon's wife advancing toward him with kindly and tender mien.

She stooped down to him, took him up in her arms, kissed his eyes,

and begged him in a low, trembling voice to forgive her for being so

cruel and bad. And while she was speaking the tears streamed from

her eyes and flowed over his face. She kissed them away with her hot

lips, and whispered, "Forgive me, poor, unhappy angel, and do not

bring me to judgment. I will treat you well after this, I will

rescue you from this hell, or I will die for you. Oh, how the bad

man has beaten your dear angel face! But believe me, I have felt

every blow in my own heart, and when he treated you so abusively I

felt the pain of hell. Oh, forgive me, dear boy, forgive me!" and

again the tears started from her eyes and flowed hot over his locks

and forehead. All at once Jeanne Marie quivered convulsively, laid

the boy gently down, and ran hastily away. A door was furiously

opened now, and Simon's loud and angry voice was heard.

The tones awakened the little Louis. He opened his eyes and looked

around. Yes, it had really all been only a dream--he had heard

neither his mother nor Simon's wife, and yet it had been as natural

as if it had all really transpired. He had felt arms tenderly

embracing him and tears hot upon his forehead.

Entirely unconscious he raised his hand to his brow and drew it back

affrighted, for his hair and his temples were wet, as if the tears

of which he dreamed had really fallen there.

"What does this mean, Jeanne Marie?" asked Simon, angrily, "Why have

you got out of bed while I was away, and what have you had to do in

the room of the little viper?"

"If you leave me alone with him I have to watch him, sick as I am,"

moaned she. "I had to see whether he was still there, whether he had

not run away, and gone to report to the Convention that we have left

him alone and have no care for him."

"Oh, bah! he will not complain of us," laughed Simon; "but keep

quiet, Jeanne Marie, I promise you that I will not leave you alone

again with the wolf's cub. Besides, here is the medicine that the

doctor has sent, and to-morrow he will come himself again to see how

you get on. So keep up a good heart, Jeanne Marie, and all will come

right again."

The next morning, Dr. Naudin came again to look after the sick

woman. Simon had just gone up-stairs to announce something to the

two princesses in the name of the Convention, and had ordered the

little Capet to remain in the anteroom, and, if the doctor should

come, to open the door to him.

Nobody else was in the anteroom when Dr. Naudin entered, and the

door leading into the next room was closed, so that the sick person

who was there could see and hear nothing of what took place.

"Sir," whispered the boy, softly and quickly, "you were yesterday so

good to me, you protected me from blows, and I should like to thank

you for it."

The doctor made no reply, but he looked at the boy with such an

expression of sympathy that he felt emboldened to go on.

"My dear sir," continued the child, softly, and with a blush, "I

have nothing with which to show my gratitude to you but these two

pears that were given me for my supper last night. And just because

I am so poor, you would do me a great pleasure if you would accept

my two pears." [Footnote: The boy's own words.--See Beauchesne, vol.

ii., p. 180.]

He had raised his eyes to the doctor with a gentle, supplicatory

expression, and taking the pears from the pocket of his worn, mended

jacket, he gave them to the physician.

Then happened something which, had Simon entered the room just then,

would probably have filled him with exasperation. It happened that

the proud and celebrated Dr. Naudin, the director and first

physician of the Hotel Dieu, sank on his knee before this poor boy

in the patched jacket, who had nothing to give but two pears, and

that he was so overcome, either by inward pain or by reverence, that

while taking the pears he could only whisper, with a faint voice: "I

thank your majesty. I have never received a nobler or more precious

gift than this fruit, which my unfortunate king gives me, and I

swear to you that I will be your devoted and faithful servant."

It happened further that Dr. Naudin pressed to his lips the hand

that reached him the precious gift, and that upon this hand two

tears fell from the eyes of the physician, long accustomed to look

upon human misery and pain, and which had not for years been

suffused with moisture.

Just then, approaching steps being heard in the corridor, the doctor

rose quickly, concealed the pears in his pocket, and entered the

chamber of the sick woman at the same instant when Simon returned

from his visit above-stairs.

Tne boy slipped, with the doctor, into the sick-room, and as no one

paid any attention to him, he stole softly into his room, crouched

down upon his straw bed, with fluttering heart, to think over all he

had experienced or dreamed of that day.

"And how is it with our sick one to-day?" asked Doctor Naudin,

sitting down near the bed, and giving a friendly nod to Simon to do

the same.

"It goes badly with me," moaned Mistress Simon. "My heart seems to

be on fire, and I have no rest day or night. I believe that it is

all over with me, and that I shall die, and that is the best thing

for me, for then I shall be free again, and not have to endure the

torments that I have had to undergo in this dreadful dungeon."

"What kind of pains are they?" asked the doctor. "Where do you

suffer?"

"I will tell you, citizen doctor," cried Simon, impatiently. "Her

pains are everywhere, in every corner of this lonely and cursed

building; and if it goes on so long, we shall have to pack and move.

The authorities have done us both a great honor, for they have had

confidence enough in us to give the little Capet into our charge;

but it is our misfortune to be so honored, and we shall both die of

it. For, not to make a long story of it, we both cannot endure the

air of the prison, the stillness and solitude, and it is a dreadful

thing for us to see nothing else the whole day than the stupid face

of this youngster, always looking at me so dreadfully with his great

blue eyes, that it really affects one. We are neither of us used to

such an idle, useless life, and it will be the death of us, citizen

doctor. My wife, Jeanne Marie, whom you see lying there so pale and

still, used to be the liveliest and most nimble woman about, and

could do as much with her strong arms and brown hands as four other

women. And then she was the bravest and most outrageous republican

that ever was, when it came to battling for the people. We both

helped to storm the Bastile, both went to Versailles that time, and

afterward took the wolf's brood from the Tuileries and brought them

to the Convention. Afterward Jeanne Marie was always the first on

the platform near the guillotine; and when Samson and his assistants

mounted the scaffold in the morning, and waited for the cars, the

first thing they did was to look over to the tribune to see if

Mistress Simon was there with her knitting, for it used to seem to

them that the work of hewing off heads went more briskly on if

Jeanne Marie was there and kept the account in her stocking. Samson

himself told me this, and said to me that Jeanne Marie was the

bravest of all the women, and that she never trembled, and that her

eyes never turned away, however many heads fell into the basket. And

she was there too when the Austrian--"

"Hush!" cried Jeanne Marie, rising up hastily in bed, and motioning

to her husband to be silent. "Do not speak of that, lest the

youngster hear it, and turn his dreadful eyes upon us. Do not speak

of that fearful day, for it was then that my sickness began, and I

believe that there was poison in the brandy that we drank that

evening. Yes, yes, there was poison in it, and from that comes the

fire that burns in my heart, and I shall die of it! Oh! I shall burn

to death with it!"

She put her hands before her face and sank back upon the pillows,

sobbing. Simon shook his head and heaved a deep sigh. "It is not

that," murmured he; "it is not from that, doctor! The thing is, that

Jeanne Marie has no work and no exercise, and that she is going to

wreck, because we are compelled to live here as kings and

aristocrats used to live, without labor and occupation, and without

doing any more than to nurse our fancies. We shall all die of this,

I tell you!"

"But if you know this, citizen, why do you not give up your

situation? Why do you not petition the authorities to dismiss you

from this service, and give you something else to do?"

"I have done that twice already," answered Simon, bringing his fist

down upon the table near the bed so violently that the bottles of

medicine standing there were jerked high into the air. "Twice

already have I tried to be transferred to some other duty, and the

answer has been sent back, that the country orders me to stand at my

post, and that there is no one who could take my place."

"That is very honorable and flattering," remarked the physician.

"Yes, but very burdensome and disagreeable," answered Simon. "We are

prisoners while holding these honorable and flattering posts. We can

no more leave the Temple than Capet can, for, since his father died,

and the crazy legitimists began to call him King Louis XVII., the

chief magistrate and the Convention have been very anxious. They are

afraid of secret conspiracies, and consider it possible that the

little prisoner may be taken away from here by intrigue. We have to

watch him day and night, therefore, and are never allowed to leave

the Temple, lest we should meet with other people, and lest the

legitimists should make the attempt to get into our good graces.

Would you believe, citizen doctor, that they did not even allow me

to go to the grand festival which the city of Paris gave in honor of

the taking of Toulan! While all the people were shouting, and having

a good time, Jeanne Marie and I had to stay here in this good-for-

nothing Temple, and see and hear nothing of the fine doings. And

this drives the gall into my blood, and it will make us both sick,

and it is past endurance!"

"I believe that you are right, citizen," said the physician,

thoughtfully. "Yes, the whole trouble of your wife comes from the

fact that she is here in the Temple, and if she must be shut up here

always she will continue to suffer."

"Yes, to suffer always, to suffer dreadfully," groaned Jeanne Marie.

Then, all at once, she raised herself up and turned with a

commanding bearing to her husband. "Simon," she said, "the doctor

shall know all that I suffer. He shall examine my breast, and the

place where I have the greatest pain; but in your presence I shall

say nothing."

"Well, well, I will go," growled Simon. "But I think those are

pretty manners!"

"They are the manners of a respectable and honorable woman," said

the doctor, gravely--"a woman who does not show the pains and

ailments of her body to any one excepting her physician. Go, go,

Citizen Simon, and you will esteem your good wife none the less for

not letting you hear what she has to say to her old physician."

"No, certainly not," answered Simon, "and that you may both see that

I am not curious to hear what you have to say to one another, I will

go with the youngster up to the platform and remain a whole hour

with him."

"You will beat him again, and I shall hear him," said Jeanne Marie,

weeping. "I hear every thing now that goes on in the Temple, and

whenever you strike, the youngster, I feel every blow in my brain,

and that gives me pain enough to drive me to distraction."

"I promise you, Jeanne Marie, that I will not strike him, and will

not trouble myself about him at all. He can play with his ball.--

Halloa, Capet! Come! We are going up on the platform. Take your ball

and any thing else you like, for you shall play to-day and have a

good time."

The child stole out of his room with his ball, not looking

particularly delighted, and the prospect of "playing" did not give

wings to his steps, nor call a smile to his swollen face. He left

the room noiselessly, and Simon slammed the doors violently behind

him.

"And now we are alone," said Doctor Naudin, "and you can tell me

about your sickness, and about every thing that troubles you."

"Ah, doctor, I do not dare to," she whispered. "I am overpowered by

a dreadful fear, and I think you will betray me, and bring my

husband and myself to the scaffold."

"I am no betrayer," answered the doctor, solemnly. "The physician is

like a priest; he receives the secrets and disclosures of his

patients, and lets not a word of them pass his lips. But, in order

that you may take courage, I will first prove to you that I put

confidence in you, by showing you that I understand you. I will tell

you what the disease is that you are suffering from, and also its

locality. Jeanne Marie Simon, you are enduring that with which no

pains of the body can be compared. Your sickness has its seat in the

conscience, and its name is remorse and despair."

Jeanne Marie uttered a heart-rending cry, and sprang like an

exasperated tiger from her bed. "You lie!" she said, seizing the

doctor's arm with both hands; "that is a foul, damnable calumny,

that you have thought out merely to bring me under the axe. I have

nothing to be sorry for, and my conscience fills me with no

reproaches."

"And yet it is gnawing into you with iron teeth, which have been

heated blood-red in the fires of hell," said the doctor, with a

compassionate look at the pale, quivering face of the woman. "Do not

raise any quarrel, but quietly listen to me. We have an hour's time

to talk together, and we want to use it. But let us speak softly,

softly, together; for what we have to say to each other the deaf

walls themselves ought not to hear."

Simon had not returned from the platform with the boy, when Doctor

Naudin ended his long and earnest conversation, and prepared to

leave his patient, who was now quietly lying in her bed.

"You know every thing now that you have to do," he said, extending

his hand to her. "You can reckon on me as I reckon on you, and we

will both go bravely and cheerfully on. It is a noble work that we

have undertaken, and if it succeeds your heart will be light again,

and God will forgive you your sins, for two martyrs will stand and

plead in your behalf at the throne of God! Now, do every thing

exactly as I have told you, and speak with your husband to-night,

but not sooner, that you may be safe, and for fear that in his first

panic his face would betray him."

"I shall do every thing just as you wish," said Jeanne Marie, who

had suddenly become humble and bashful, apparently entirely

forgetful of the republican "thou." "It seems to me, now that I have

disburdened my heart to you, that I have become well and strong

again, and certainly I shall owe it to you if I do live and get my

health once more. But shall you come again to-morrow, doctor?"

"No," he replied, "I will send a man to-morrow who understands

better than I do how to continue this matter, and to whom you can

give unconditional confidence. He will announce himself to you as my

assistant, and you can talk over at length every thing that we have

been speaking of. Hush! I hear Simon coming! Farewell!"

He nodded to Jeanne Marie, and hastily left the room. Outside, in

the corridor, he met Simon and his silent young ward.

"Well, citizen doctor," asked Simon, "how is it with our sick one?

She has intrusted all her secrets to you, and they must have made a

long story, for you have been a whole hour together. It is fortunate

that you are an old man, or else I should have been jealous of your

long tete-a-tete with my wife."

"Then you would be a great fool, and I have always held you to be a

prudent and good man. But, as concerns your wife, I must tell you

something very serious, and I beg you, Citizen Simon, to mark my

words well. I tell you this: unless your wife Jeanne Marie is out of

this Temple in less than a week, and enjoys her freedom, she will

either lose her senses or take her life. I will say to you this,

besides: if Citizen Simon does not, as soon as possible, leave this

cursed place and give up his hateful business, it will be the same

with him as with his wife. He will not become insane, but he will

lapse into melancholy, and if he does not take his own life

consumption will take it for him, the result of his idle, listless

life, the many vexations here, and the wretched atmosphere of the

Temple."

"Consumption!" cried Simon, horrified. "Do you suppose I am exposed

to that?"

"You have it already," said the doctor, solemnly. "Those red spots

on your cheeks, and the pain which you have so often in the breast,

announce its approach. I tell you that if you do not take measures

to leave the Temple in a week, in three months you will be a dead

man, without giving the guillotine a chance at you. Good-by!

Consider well what I say, citizen, and then do as you like!"

"He is right," muttered Simon, as he looked after the doctor with a

horrified look, as Naudin descended the staircase; "yes, I see, he

is right. If I have to stay here any longer, I shall die. The

vexations and the loneliness, and--something still more dreadful,

frightful, that I can tell no one of-have made me sick, and the

stitch in my side will grow worse and worse every day, and--I must

and will get away from here," he said aloud, and with a decided air.

"I will not die yet, neither shall Jeanne Marie. To-morrow I will

hand in my resignation, and then be away!"

While Simon was walking slowly and thoughtfully toward his wife,

Doctor Naudin left the dark building, went with a light heart out

into the street, and returned with a quick step to the Hotel Dieu.

The porter who opened the door for him, reported to him that during

his absence the same old gentleman who had come the day before to

consult him, had returned and was waiting for him in the anteroom.

Doctor Naudin nodded, and then walked, quickly toward his own

apartments. Before the door he found his servant.

"Old Doctor Saunier is here again," he said, taking off his master's

cloak. "He insisted on waiting for you. He said that he must consult

you about a patient, and would not cease begging till you should

consent to accompany him to the sick person's house. For, if a case

seemed desperate, the great Naudin might still save it."

"You are an ass for letting him talk such nonsense, and for

believing it yourself, Citizen Joly," cried Naudin with a laugh, and

then entering the anteroom.

An old gentleman, clad in the same old-fashioned costume with Doctor

Naudin, came forward. Citizen Joly, as he closed the door somewhat

slowly, heard him say:

"Thank God that you have come at last, citizen! I have waited for

you impatiently, and now I conjure you to accompany me as quickly as

possible to my patient."

Naudin, opening the door of his study, said in reply, "Come in,

Citizen Saunier, and tell me first how it is with your sick one."

Nothing more could Joly, Naudin's servant, understand, for the two

doctors had gone into the study, and the door was closed behind

them. After a short time, however, it was opened. Naudin ordered the

valet to order a tiacre at once, and a few minutes later Director

Naudin rode away at the side of Doctor Saunier.

At a house in the Rue Montmartre the carriage stopped, and the two

physicians entered. The porter, opening the little, dusty window of

his lodge, nodded confidentially to Saunier.

"That is probably the celebrated Doctor Naudin of the Hotel Dieu,

whom you have with you?" he asked.

"Yes, it is he," answered Saunier, "and if anybody can help our

patient, it is he. Citizen Crage is probably at home?"

"Certainly he is at home, for you know he never leaves his sick boy.

You will find him above. You know the way, citizen doctor!"

The two physicians passed on, ascended the staircase, and entered

the suit of rooms whose door was only partially closed--left ajar,

as it seemed, for them. Nobody came to meet them, but they carefully

closed the door behind them, drew the bolt, and then walked silently

and quickly across the anteroom to the opposite door.

Doctor Saunier knocked softly three times with a slight interval

between, and cried three times with a loud voice,

"The two physicians are come to see the patient."

A bolt was withdrawn on the inside, the door opened, and a tall

man's figure appeared and motioned to the gentlemen to come in.

"Are we alone?" whispered Doctor Saunier, as they entered the inner

room.

"Yes, entirely alone," answered the other. "There in the chamber

lies my poor sick boy, and you know well that he can betray no one,

and that he knows nothing of what is going on around him."

"Yes, unfortunately, I know that," answered Doctor Saunier sadly. "I

promised you that I would bring you the most celebrated and skilful

physician in Paris, and you see I keep my word, for I have brought

you Doctor Naudin, the director of the Hotel Dieu and--the friend

and devoted servant of the royal family, to whom we have both sworn

allegiance until death. Doctor Naudin, I have not given you the name

of the gentleman to whom I was taking you. It is a secret which only

the possessor is able to divulge to you."

"I divulge it," said the other, smiling, "Doctor Naudin, I am the

Marquis Jarjayes."

"Jarjayes, who made the plan for the escape of the royal family in

the Temple?" asked Naudin eagerly.

"Marquis Jarjayes, who lost his property in the service of the

queen, risked his life in her deliverance, and perhaps escaped the

guillotine merely by emigrating and putting himself beyond the reach

of Robespierre. Are you that loyal, courageous Marquis de Jarjayes?"

"I am Jarjayes, and I thank you for the praises you have given me,

but I cannot accept them in the presence of him who merits them all

much more than I do, and who is more worthy of praise than any one

else. No, I can receive no commendation in the presence of Toulan,

the most loyal, the bravest, the most prudent of us all; for Toulan

is the soul of every thing, and our martyr queen confessed it in

giving him the highest of all titles of honor, in calling him

Fidele, a title which will remain for centuries."

"Yes, you are right," said Dr. Naudin, laying his hand on the

shoulder of Dr. Saunier. "He is the noblest, most loyal, and bravest

of us all. On that account, when he came to me a few days ago and

showed me the golden salt* bottle of the queen in confirmation of

his statement that he was Toulan, I was ready to do every thing that

he might desire of me and to enter into all his plans, for Toulan's

magnanimity and fidelity are contagious, and excite every one to

emulate him."

"I beg you, gentlemen," said Toulan softly, "do not praise me nor

think that to be heroism which is merely natural. I have devoted to

Queen Marie Antoinette my life, my thought, my heart. I swore upon

her hand that so long as I lived I would be true to her and her

family, and to keep my vow is simple enough. Queen Marie Antoinette

is no more. I was not able to save her, but perhaps she looks down

from the heavenly heights upon us, and is satisfied with us, if she

sees that we are now trying to do for her son what, unfortunately,

we were not able to accomplish for her. This is my hope, and this

spurs rue on to attempt every thing, in order to bring about the

last wish of my queen--the freeing of her son. God in His grace has

willed that I should not be alone in this effort, and that I should

have the cooperation of noble men. He visibly blesses our plans, for

is it not a manifest sign of His blessing that, exactly in those

days when we are trying to find a means of approaching the unhappy,

imprisoned son of the queen, accident affords us this means? Exactly

at the hour when I went to Dr. Naudin and disclosed myself to him,

the porter of the Temple came and desired in behalf of Simon's wife

that Dr. Naudin should go to the Temple."

"Yes, indeed, it was a wonderful occurrence," said Naudin,

thoughtfully. "I am not over-blessed with sensibility, but when I

saw the son of the queen in his sorrow and humiliation, I sank on my

knee before the poor little king, and in my heart I swore that

Toulan should find in me a faithful coadjutor in his plan, and that

I would do every thing to set him free."

"And so have I too sworn," cried Jarjayes, with enthusiasm. "The

queen is dead, but our fidelity to her lives and shall renew itself

to her son, King Louis XVII. I know well that the police are

watching me, that they know who is secreting himself here under the

name of Citizen Orage, that they follow every one of my steps and

perhaps suffer me to be free only for the purpose of seeing with

whom I have relations, in order to arrest and destroy me at one fell

swoop, with all my friends at the same time. But we must use the

time. I have come here with the firm determination of delivering the

unhappy young king from the hands of his tormentors, and I will now

confess every thing to you, my friends. I have gained for our

undertaking the assistance and protection of a rich and noble

patron, a true servant of the deceased king. The Prince de Conde,

with whom I have lived in Vendee for the past few months, has

furnished me with ample means, and is prepared to support us to any

extent in our undertaking. If we succeed in saving the young king,

the latter will find in Vendee a safe asylum with the prince, and

will live there securely, surrounded by his faithful subjects. The

immense difficulty, or, as I should have said a few days ago, the

impossibility, is the release of the young prince from the Temple.

But now that I have succeeded in discovering Toulan and uniting

myself with him, I no longer say it is impossible, but only it is

difficult."

"And," cried Toulan, "since I am sure of the assistance of the noble

Doctor Naudin, I say, we will free him, the son of our Queen Marie

Antoinette, the young King Louis XVII. The plan is entirely ready in

my head, and in order to make its execution possible, I went a few

days ago to see Doctor Naudin at the Hotel Dieu, in order to beg him

to visit the sick boy that the marquis has here, and just at that

moment Simon's messenger came to the Temple. Doctor Naudin is now

here, and first of all it is necessary that he give us his last,

decisive judgment on the patient. So take us to him, marquis, for

upon Naudin's decision depends the fate of the young King of

France."

The marquis nodded silently, and conducted the gentlemen into the

next room. There, carefully propped up by mattresses and pillows,

lay a child of perhaps ten years--a poor, unfortunate boy, with

pale, sunken cheeks, fixed blue eyes, short fair hair, and a stupid,

idiotic expression on his features. As the three gentlemen came to

him he fixed his eyes upon them in a cold, indifferent way, and not

a quiver in his face disclosed any interest in them. Motionless and

pale as death the boy lay upon his bed, and only the breath that

came hot and in gasps from his breast disclosed that there was still

life in this poor shattered frame.

Doctor Naudin stooped down to the boy and looked at him a long time

with the utmost attention.

"This boy is perfectly deaf!" he then said, raising himself up and

looking at the marquis inquiringly.

"Yes, doctor, your sharp eye has correctly discerned it; he is

perfectly deaf."

"Is it your son?"

"No, doctor, he is the son of my sister, the Baroness of Tardif, who

was guillotined together with her husband. I undertook the care of

this unfortunate child, and at my removal from Paris gave him to

some faithful servants of my family to be cared for. On my return I

learned that the good people had both been guillotined, and find the

poor boy, who before had been at least sound in body, utterly

neglected, and living on the sympathy of the people who had taken

him on the death of his foster-parents. I brought the child at once

to this house, which I had hired for myself under the name of

Citizen Orage, and Toulan undertook to procure the help of a

physician. It has now come in the person of the celebrated Doctor

Naudin, and I beg you to have pity on the poor unfortunate child,

and to receive him into the Hotel Dieu."

"Let me first examine the child, in order to tell you what is the

nature of his disorder."

And Doctor Naudin stooped down again to the boy, examined his eyes,

his chest, his whole form, listened to his breathing, the action of

his heart, and felt his pulse. The patient was entirely apathetic

during all this, now and then merely whining and groaning, when a

movement of the doctor's hand caused him pain.

After the careful investigation had been ended, the doctor called

the two gentlemen who had withdrawn to the window to the bed again.

"Marquis," said he, "this unfortunate child will never recover, and

the least painful thing that could happen to him would be a speedy

release from his miserable lot. Yet I do not believe that this will

occur, but consider it possible that the boy will protract his

unfortunate life a full year after his mind has entirely passed

away, and nothing is left of him but his body. The boy, if you can

regard such a poor creature as a human being, is suffering from an

incurable form of scrofula, which will by and by consume his limbs,

and convert him into an idiot; he is now deaf; he will be a mere

stupid beast. If it were permitted to substitute the hand of science

in place of the hand of God, I should say we ought to kill this poor

creature that is no man and no beast, and has nothing more to expect

of life than pain and torture, having no more consciousness of any

thing than the dog has when he does not get a bone with which to

quiet his hunger."

"Poor, unhappy creature!" sighed the marquis. "Now, I thank God that

He released my sister from the pain of seeing her dear child in this

condition.

"Doctor Naudin," said Toulan, solemnly, "is it your fixed conviction

that this sick person will never recover?"

"My firm and undoubted conviction, which every physician who should

see him would share with me."

"Are you of the opinion that this child has nothing in life to lose,

and that death would be a gain to it?"

"Yes; that is my belief. Death would be a release for the poor

creature, for life is only a burden to it as well as to others."

"Then," cried Toulan, solemnly, "I will give this poor sick child a

higher and a fairer mission. I will make its life an advantage to

others, and its death a hallowed sacrifice. Marquis of Jarjayes, in

the name of King Louis XVI., in the name of the exalted martyr to

whom we have all sworn fidelity unto death, Queen Marie Antoinette,

I demand and desire of you that you would intrust to me this unhappy

creature, and give his life into my hands. In the name of Marie

Antoinette, I demand of the Marquis of Jarjayes that he deliver to

me the son of his sister, that he do what every one of us is

joyfully prepared to do if our holy cause demands it, that this boy

may give his life for his king, the imprisoned Louis XVII."

While Toulan was speaking with his earnest, solemn voice, Jarjayes

knelt before the bed of the poor sobbing child, and, hiding his face

in his hands, he prayed softly.

Then, after a long pause, he rose and laid his hand on the feverish

brow of the boy. "You have addressed me," he said, "in the name of

Queen Marie Antoinette. You demand of me as the guardian of this

poor creature that I give him to you, that he may give his life for

his king. The sons and daughters of my house have always been ready

and glad to devote their possessions, their happiness, their lives,

to the service of their kings, and I speak simply in the spirit of

my sister--who ascended the scaffold to seal her fidelity to the

royal family with her death--I speak in the spirit of all my

ancestors when I say, here is the last off-spring of the Baroness of

Tardif, here is the son of my sister; take him and let him live or

die for his king, Louis XVII., the prisoner at the Temple."

CHAPTER XXVI.

THE CONSULTATION.

During the night which followed the second visit of Doctor Naudin,

Jeanne Marie Simon had a long and earnest conversation with her

husband. The first words which the wife uttered, spoken in a whisper

though they were, excited the cobbler so much that he threatened her

with his clinched fist. She looked him calmly in the face, however,

and said to him softly, "And so you mean to stay perpetually in this

hateful prison? You want to remain shut up here like a criminal, and

get no more satisfaction out of life than what comes from tormenting

this poor, half-witted boy to death?"

Simon let his hand fall, and said, "If there were a means of

escaping from this infernal prison, it would certainly be most

welcome to me, for I am heartily tired of being a prisoner here,

after having prayed for freedom so long, and worked for it so much.

So, if there is a means--"

"There is such a means," interrupted his wife. "Listen to me!"

And Simon did listen, and the moving and eloquent words of his wife

at length found a willing ear. Simon's face gradually lightened up,

and it seemed to him that he was now able to release his wife from

an oppressive, burdensome load.

"If it succeeds," he muttered--"if it succeeds, I shall be free from

the mountainous weight which presses upon me day and night and shall

become a healthy man again."

"And if it does not succeed," whispered Jeanne Marie, "the worst

that can happen to us is what has happened to thousands before us.

We shall merely feed the machine, and our heads will tumble into the

basket, with this difference, that I shall not be able to make any

mark in my stocking. I would rather die all at once on the

guillotine and have it over, than be dying here day after day, and

hour after hour, having nothing to expect from life but pain and

ennui."

"And I, too," said Simon, decidedly. "Rather die, than go on leading

such a dog's life. Let your doctor come to me to-morrow morning. I

will talk with him!"

Early the next day the doctor came in his long, black cloak, and

with his peruke, to visit the sick Mistress Simon. The guards at the

gate leading to the outer court quietly let him pass in, and did not

notice that another face appeared in the peruke from that which had

been seen the day before. The two official guards above, who had

just completed their duties in the upper story, and met the doctor

on the tower stairs, did not take any offence at his figure. The

director of the Hotel Dieu was not personally known to them, and

they were familiar with but little about him, excepting that he took

the liberty of going about in his old-fashioned cloak, without

giving offence to the authorities, and that he had permission from

those authorities to come to the Temple for the purpose of visiting

the wife of Simon.

"You will find two patients to-day up there," said one of the

officials as he passed by. "We empower you, doctor, to take the

second one, little Capet, under your charge. The boy appears to be

really sick, or else he is obstinate and mulish. He answers no

questions, and he has taken no nourishment, Simon tells us, since

yesterday noon. Examine into the case, doctor, and then tell us what

your opinion is. We will wait for you down in the council-room. So

make as much haste as possible."

They passed on, and the doctor did really make haste to ascend the

staircase. At the open door which led to the apartment of the little

Capet and his "guardian," he found Simon.

"Did you hear, citizen?" asked the doctor. "The officials are

waiting for me below."

"Yes, I heard, doctor," whispered Simon. "We have not much time.

Come!"

He motioned to the physician to pass along the corridor and to enter

the room, while he bolted and locked the outer door. As the doctor

entered, Mistress Simon lay upon her bed and looked at the new-comer

with curious, glowing eyes.

"Who are you?" she asked, rising quickly from her bed. "You are not

Doctor Naudin whom I expected, and I do not know you!"

Meantime the doctor walked in silence to her bed, and stooped over

Jeanne Marie, who sank back upon the pillow.

"I am the one who is to help you escape from the Temple," he

whispered. "Doctor Naudin has sent me, to work in union with him and

you in effecting your release and that of the unfortunate Capet."

"Husband," cried Jeanne Marie to the cobbler, who was just coming

in, "this is the man who is going to deliver us from this hell!"

"That is to say," said the doctor, with a firm, penetrating voice,

"I will free you if you will help me free the dauphin."

"Speak softly, for God's sake, speak softly," said Simon anxiously.

"If any one should hear you, we are all lost! We will do every thing

that you demand of us, provided that we can in that way escape from

this miserable, good-for-nothing place. The air here is like poison,

and to have to stay here is like being buried alive."

"And then the dreams, the frightful dreams," muttered Jeanne Marie,

with a shudder. "I cannot sleep any more in this dreadful prison,

for that pale, fearful woman, with great, fixed eyes, goes walking

about through the Temple every night, and listens at the doors to

see whether her children are alive yet, and whether we are not

killing them. Lately, she has not only listened at the doors, but

she has come into my room, and passed my bed, and gone into the

chamber of little Capet. Simon was asleep, and did not see her. I

sprang up, however, and stole softly to the door; for I thought

somebody had crept in here in disguise, possibly Citizen Toulan, who

had already twice made the attempt to release the Austrian and her

children, and whom I then denounced at headquarters. There I saw--

although it was entirely dark in the hall--there I saw little Capet

lying asleep on his mattress, his hands folded over his breast, and

with an expression of countenance more happy, altogether more happy,

than it ever is when he is awake. Near the mattress kneeled the

figure in white, and it seemed as if a radiance streamed out from it

that filled the whole room. Its face was pale and white, just like a

lily, and it seemed as if the fragrance of a lily was in the

apartment. Her two arms were raised, as if she would utter a

benediction, over her sleeping boy; around her half-opened lips

played a sweet smile, and her great eyes, which had the aspect of

stars, looked up toward heaven. But while I was there in a maze, and

watched the figure in a, transport of delight, there occurred, all

at once, something wonderful, something dreadful. The figure rose

from its knees, dropped its arms, turned itself around, and advanced

straight toward me. The eyes, which had been turned so purely

heavenward before, were directed to me, with a look which pierced my

breast like the thrust of a knife. I recognized that look-that sad,

reproachful glance. It was the same that Marie Antoinette gave me,

when she stood on the scaffold. I was sitting in the front row of

the knitters, and I was just going to make the double stitch for her

in my stocking, when that look met me; those great, sad eyes were

turned toward me, and I felt that she had recognized me, and her

eyes bored into my breast, and followed me even after the axe had

taken off her head. The eyes did not fall into the basket, they were

not buried, bat they remain in my breast; they have been piercing me

ever since, and burning me like glowing coals. But that night I saw

them again, as in life--those dreadful eyes; and as the figure

advanced toward me, it raised its hand and threatened me, and its

eyes spoke to me, and it seemed as if a curse of God were going

through my brain, for those eyes said to me--'Murder!'--spoke it so

loudly, so horribly, that it appeared as if my head would burst, and

I could not cry, and could not move, and had to look at it, till, at

last, I became unconscious."

"There, see there, doctor," cried Simon, in alarm, as his wife fell

back upon the pillow with a loud cry, and quivered in all her limbs;

" now she has convulsions again, and then she will be, for a day or

two, out of her mind, and will talk strangely about the pale woman

with dreadful eyes; and when she goes on so, she makes even me sad,

and anxious, and timid, and I grow afraid of the white ghost that

she says is always with us. Ah! doctor, help us! See, now, how the

poor woman suffers and twists!"

The doctor drew a bottle from his breast-pocket, and rubbed a few

drops upon the temples of the sick woman.

"Those are probably the famous soothing-drops of Doctor Naudin?"

asked Simon, in astonishment, when he saw how quiet his wife became,

and that her spasms and groans ceased.

"Yes," answered the doctor, "and the eminent physician sends them as

a present to your wife. They are very costly, and rich people have

to pay a louis-d'or for every drop. But Doctor Naudin. gives them to

you, for he wishes Jeanne Marie long to enjoy good health. How is it

with you now?"

"I feel well, completely well," she said, as the doctor rubbed some

drops a second time on her temple. "I feel easier than I have felt

for a long time."

"Give me your hand," said the doctor. "Rise up, for you are well.

Let us go into the chamber of the poor boy, for I have to speak with

you there."

He walked toward the chamber-door, leading Jeanne Marie by the hand,

while Simon followed them. Softly and silently they entered the dark

room, and went to the mattress on which the child lay.

The boy stared at them with great, wide-opened eyes, but they were

without expression and life, and only the breath, as it came slowly

and heavily from the half-opened lips, showed that there was

vitality still in this poor, little, shrunken form.

The doctor kneeled down beside the bed, and, bending over it,

pressed a long, fervent kiss on the delicate, hot hand of the child.

But Charles Louis remained motionless; he merely slowly dropped his

lids and closed his eyes.

"You see, doctor, he neither hears nor sees," said Simon, in a low,

growling voice. "He cares for nothing, and does not know any thing

about what is going on around him. It is a week since he spoke a

word."

"Not since the day when you wanted to compel the child to sing the

song that makes sport of his mother."

"He did not sing it?" asked the doctor, with a tremulous voice.

"He is a mulish little toad," cried Simon, angrily. "I begged him at

first, then I threatened, and when prayers and threats were of no

use I punished him, as a naughty boy deserves when he will not do

what his foster-father bids him do. But even blows did not bring him

to it; the obstinate youngster would not sing the merry song with

me, and since then he has not spoken a word. [Footnote: Historical.-

-See Beauehesne'a "Histoirede Louis XVII.," vol. ii.] He seems as if

he had grown deaf and dumb as a punishment for not obeying his good

foster-father."

"He is neither deaf nor dumb," said the doctor, solemnly. "He is

simply a good son, who would not sing the song which made sport of

his noble and unfortunate mother. See whether I am not right: see

these tears which run from his closed eyes. He has heard us, he has

understood us, and he answers us with his tears! Oh, sire," he

continued passionately, "by the sacred remembrance of your father

and your mother, I swear devotion to you until death; I swear that I

have come to set you free, to die for you. Look up, my king and my

darling one! I intrust to you and to both these witnesses my whole

secret; I let the mask fall to show myself to you in my true form,

that you may confide in me, and know that the most devoted of your

servants is kneeling before you, and that he dedicates his life to

you. Open your eyes, Louis of France, and see whether you know me!"

He sprang up, threw off the great peruke, and the long black cloak,

and stood before them in the uniform of an official guard.

"Thunder and guns!" cried Simon, with a loud laugh. "it is--"

"Hush!" interrupted the other--"hush! He alone shall declare who I

am! Oh, look at me, my king; convince these unbelieving ones here

that your mind is clear and strong, and that you are conscious of

what is going on around you. Look at me, and if you know me, speak

my name!"

And with folded hands, in unspeakable emotion, he leaned over the

bed of the child, that still lay with closed eyes.

"I knew that he could hear nothing, and that he was deaf," growled

Simon, while his wife folded her trembling hands, and with tearful

eyes whispered a prayer.

A deep silence ensued, and with anxious expectation each looked at

the boy. At length he slowly raised the heavy, reddened eyelids, and

looked with a timid, anxious glance around himself. Then his gaze

fixed itself upon the eloquent, speaking face of the man whose tears

were falling like warm dew-drops upon his pale, sunken features.

A quiver passed over the coutenance of the boy, a beam of joy

lighted up his eyes, and something like a smile played around his

trembling lips.

"Do you know me? Do you know my name?"

The child raised his hand in salutation, and said, in a clear,

distinct voice: "Toulan! Fidele!"

Toulan fell on his knees again and covered the little thin hand of

the boy with his tears and his kisses.

"Yes, Fidele," he sobbed. "That is the title of honor which your

royal mother gave me--that is the name that she wrote on the bit of

paper which she put into the gold smelling-bottle that she gave me.

That little bottle, which a queen once carried, is my most precious

possession, and yet I would part with that if I could save the life

of her son, happy if I could but retain the hallowed paper on which

the queen's hand wrote the word 'Fidele.' Yes, you poor, pitiable

son of kings, I am Fidele, I am Toulan, at whom you have so often

laughed when he played with you in your prison."

A flash like the sunlight passed over the face of the child, and a

smile illumined his features.

"She used to laugh, too," he whispered--"she, too, my mamma queen."

"Yes, she too laughed at our jests," said Toulan, with a voice

choked with tears; "and, believe me, she looks down from heaven upon

us and smiles her blessing, for she knows that Toulan has come to

free her dear son, and to deliver him from the executioner's hands.

Tell me now, my king and my dearly-loved lord, will you trust me,

will you give to your most devoted servant and subject the privilege

of releasing you? Do you consent to accept freedom at the hands of

your Fidele?"

The child threw a timid, anxious glance at Simon and his wife, and

then, with a shudder, turned his head to one side.

"You make no answer, sire," said Toulan, imploringly. "Oh! speak, my

king, may I set you free?"

The boy spoke a few words in reply, but so softly that Toulan could

not understand him. He stooped down nearer to him, and put his ear

close to the lips of the child. He then could hear the words,

inaudible to all but him,

"He will disclose you; take care, Toulan. But do not say any thing,

else he will beat me to death!"

Toulan made no reply; he only impressed a long, tender kiss upon the

trembling hand of the child.

"Did he speak?" asked Simon. "Did you understand, citizen, what he

said?"

"Yes, I understood him," answered Toulan. "He consents; he allows me

to make every attempt to free him, and is prepared to do every thing

that we ask of him. And now I ask you too, are you prepared to help

me release the prince?"

"You know already, Toulan," said Simon, quickly, "that we are

prepared for every thing, provided that our conditions are

fulfilled. Give me a tolerable position outside of the Temple; give

me a good bit of money, so that I may live free from care, and if

the new place should not suit me, that I could go into the country,

and not have to work at all; give my Jeanne Marie her health and

cheerfulness again, and I will help you set young Capet free."

"Through my assistance, and that of Doctor Naudin, you shall have a

good place outside of the Temple," answered Toulan, eagerly.

"Besides this, at the moment when you deliver the prince into my

hands, outside of this prison, I will pay you in ready money the sum

of twenty thousand francs; and as for the third condition, that

about restoring her health to Jeanne Marie, I am sure that I can

fulfil this condition too. Do you not know, Simon, what your wife is

suffering from? Do you not know what her sickness is?"

"No, truly not. I am no doctor. How should I know what her sickness

is?"

"Then I will tell you, Citizen Simon. Your wife is suffering from

the worst of all complaints, a bad conscience! Yes, it is a bad

conscience that robs her of her sleep and rest; it is that which

makes her see the white, pale form of the martyred queen in the

night, and read the word 'murderer' in her eyes."

"He is right!-oh, he is right!" groaned Jeanne Marie, falling on her

knees. "I am to blame for her death, for I denounced Toulan to the

authorities just when he was on the point of saving her. I tortured

her!--oh, cruelly tortured her, and I laughed when she ascended the

scaffold, and I laughed too, even when she gave me that dreadful

look. But I have bitterly regretted it since, and now she gnaws at

me like a scorpion. I wanted to drive her away from me at first, and

therefore I was cruel to her son, for I wanted to put an end to the

fearful remorse that was tormenting me. But it grew even more

powerful within me. The more I beat the boy, the more his tears

moved me, and often I thought I should die when I heard him cry and

moan. Yes, yes, it is a bad conscience that has made me sick and

miserable! But I will do right after this. I repent--oh, I repent!

Here I lay my hand on the heart of this child and swear to his

murdered mother I will do right again! I swear that I will free her

son! I swear by all that is sacred in heaven and on earth that I

will die myself, unless we succeed in freeing this child! I* swear

to you, Marie Antoinette, that I will free him. But will you forgive

me even then? Will you have rest in your poor grave, and not come to

my bedside and condemn me and accuse me with your sad, dreadful

eyes?"

"Free her son, Jeanne Marie," said Toulan, solemnly, "and his mother

will forgive you, and her hallowed shade will no longer disturb your

sleep, for you will then have restored to her the peace of the

grave! But you, Citizen Simon, will you too not swear that you will

faithfully assist in releasing the royal prince? Do you not know

that conscience is awake in your heart too, and compels you to have

compassion on the poor boy?"

"I know it, yes, I know it," muttered Simon, confused. "His gentle

eyes and his sad bearing have made me as weak and as soft as an old

woman. It is high time that I should be rid of the youngster, else

it will be with me just as it is with my wife, and I shall have

convulsions and see ghosts with daggers in their eyes. And so, in

order to remain a strong man and have a good conscience and a brave

heart, I must be rid of the boy, and must know that I have done him

some service, and have been his deliverer. And so I swear by the

sacred republic, and by our hallowed freedom, that I will help you

and do all that in me lies to release little Capet and get him away

from here. I hope you will be satisfied with my oath, Toulan, for

there is nothing for me more sacred than the republic and freedom."

"I am satisfied, Simon, and I trust you. And now let us talk it all

over and consider it, my dear allies. The whole plan of the escape

is formed in my head, all the preparations are made, and if you will

faithfully follow all that I bid you, in one week's time you will be

free and happy."

"So soon as a week!" cried Simon, delightedly. "Yes, in a week, for

it happens fortunately that one of the officials of the Public

Safety service is dangerously sick and has been carried to the Hotel

Dien. Doctor Naudin says that he can live but three days longer, and

then the post will be vacant. We must be active, therefore, and take

measures for you to gain the place. Now listen to me, and mark my

words."

They had a long conversation by the bedside of the little prince,

and they saw that he perfectly understood the whole plan which

Toulan unfolded in eloquent words, for his looks took on a great

deal of expression; he fixed his eyes constantly on Toulan, and a

smile played about his lips.

Simon and Simon's wife were also perfectly satisfied with Toulan's

communication, and repeated their readiness to do every thing to

further the release of the prince, if they in return could only be

removed from the Temple.

"I will at once take the steps necessary to the success of my plan,"

said Toulan, taking his leave with a friendly nod, and kissing the

boy's hand respectfully.

"Fidele," whispered Louis, "Fidele, do you believe that I shall be

saved?"

"I am sure of it, my dear prince. The grace of God and the blessing

of your exalted parents will be our helpers in bringing this good

work to a completion. Farewell, and preserve as long as you remain

here the same mood that I found you in. Show little interest in what

goes on, and appear numb and stupid. I shall not come again, for

after this I must work for you outside of the prison. But Doctor

Naudin will come every day to see you, and on the day of your flight

I shall be by your side. Till then, God bless you, my dear prince!"

Toulan left the prison of the little Capet and repaired at once to

the H6tel Dieu, where he had a long conversation with Doctor Naudin.

At the end of it, the director of the hospital entered his carriage

and drove to the city hall, in whose largest chamber a committee of

the Public Safety officials were holding a public meeting. With

earnest and urgent words the revered and universally valued

physician gave the report about the visits which he had made at the

Temple for some days at the command of the authorities, and about

the condition of affairs there. Petion the elder, the presiding

officer of the committee, listened to the report with a grave

repose, and the picture of the low health of the "little Capet,"

while he paid the most marked attention to that part of the report

which concerned the Simons.

"Citizen Simon has deserved much of the country, and he is one of

the most faithful supporters of the one and indivisible republic,"

said Petion, when Doctor Naudin ended his report. "The republic

must, like a grateful mother, show gratitude to her loyal sons, and

care for them tenderly. So tell us, Citizen Naudin, what must be

done in order to restore health to Citizen Simon and his wife."

"They are both sick from the same cause, and, therefore, they both

require the same remedy. That remedy is, a change of air and a

change of location. Let Simon have another post, where he shall be

allowed to exercise freely out of doors, and where he shall not be

compelled to breathe only the confined air of a cell; and let his

wife not be forced to listen to the whining and the groaning of the

little sick Capet. In one word, give to them both liberty to move

around, and the free air, and they will, without any doubt, and

within a short time, regain their health."

"It is true," said Petion, "the poor people lead a sad life in the

Temple, and are compelled to breathe the air that the last scions of

tyranny have contaminated with their poisonous breaths. We owe it to

them to release them from this bad atmosphere, in consideration of

their faithful and zealous service to the country. Citizen Simon has

always taken pains to repair the great neglect in Capet's education,

and to make the worthless boy prove some day a worthy son of the

republic."

"But even if Simon should remain in the Temple, he would not be able

to go on much longer with the education of the boy," said the

hospital director, with a shrug.

"What do you mean by that, citizen doctor?" asked Petion, with a

pleasant lighting up of his eyes.

"I mean that the boy has not a long time to live, for he is

suffering at once from consumption and softening of the brain, and

the latter disease will soon reduce him to an idiot, and render him

incapable of receiving instruction."

"You are convinced that the son of the tyrants will not recover?"

asked Petion, with a strained, eager glance.

"My careful examination of his case has convinced me that he has but

a short time to live, and that he will spend the larger part of this

time in an idiotic state. On this account Simon ought to be removed

from the Temple, in order that his enemies may not be able to

circulate a report about this zealous and worthy servant of the

republic, that he is guilty of the death of little Capet--that

Simon's method of bringing him up killed him. And besides, in order

that the same charge should not be laid to the one and great

republic, and it be accused of cruelty to a poor sick child, kindly

attentions should be bestowed on him."

Petion's countenance clouded, and his eyes rested on the physician

with a sinister, searching expression.

"You have a great deal of sensibility, doctor, and you appear to

forget that the boy is a criminal by birth, and that the republic

can have no special sympathy with him."

"For me," answered Naudin, with simplicity, "every sick person at

whose bed I am called to stand, is a poor, pitiable Iranian being,

and I never stop to think whether be is a criminal or not, but

merely that he is a sufferer, and then I endeavor to discover the

means to assist him. The hallowed and indivisible republic, however,

is an altogether too magnanimous and exalted mother of all her

children not to have pity on those who are reduced to idiocy, and in

sore sickness. The republic is like the sun, which pours its beams

even into the dungeon of the criminal, and shines upon the just and

unjust alike."

"And what do you desire that the republic should do for the

offspring of tyrants?" asked Petion, peevishly.

"I desire not much," answered Naudin, with a smile. "Let me be

permitted to visit the sick child from time to time, and in his

hopeless condition to procure him a little relief from his

sufferings at least, and let him be treated like the child he is.

Let a little diversion be allowed him. If it is not possible or

practicable for him to play with children of his age, let him at

least have some playthings for his amusement."

"Do you demand in earnest that the republic should condescend to

provide playthings for her imprisoned criminals?" asked Petion, with

a scornful laugh.

"You have commanded me to visit the sick boy in the Temple, to

examine his condition, and to prescribe the necessary remedies for

his recovery. I can offer no hope of recovery to the patient, but I

can afford him some relief from his sufferings. Some of my medicines

are called playthings! It lies with you to decide whether the

republic will refuse these medicines to the sick one."

"And you say that the little Capet is incurable?" asked Petion,

eagerly.

"Incurable, citizen representative."

"Well, then," said Petion, with a cold smile, "the republic can

afford to provide the last of the Capets with toys. They have for

centuries toyed fearlessly with the happiness of the people, and the

last thing which the people of France give back to the tyrants is

some toy with which they may amuse themselves on the way to

eternity. Citizen doctor, your demands shall be complied with. The

first place which shall become vacant shall be given to Citizen

Simon, that he may be released from prison and enjoy his freedom.

The little Capet will be provided with playthings, and, besides, you

are empowered to give him all needful remedies for his relief. It is

your duty to care for the sick child until its death."

CHAPTER XXVII.

THE HOBBY-HORSE.

In accordance with the instructions of Petion, playthings were

procured and carried into the gloomy chamber of the prince on the

very next day, and set by the side of the sick boy. But Mistress

Simon labored in vain trying to amuse the little Louis with them.

The men danced, the wooden cocks crowed, the dogs barked, and to all

these sounds the child paid no heed; it did not once open its eyes,

nor care in the least for the many-colored things which the

officials had brought him.

"We must try something else," said the compassionate officer. "Do

you know any plaything which would be likely to please little Louis

Capet?"

"Give him a riding-horse," cried Simon, with a coarse laugh. "I am

convinced if the obstinate youngster should hear that there was a

riding-horse outside, and that he might ride through Paris, he would

be well on the spot and get up. It is pure deceit, his lying there

so pale and without interest in any thing about him."

"You are very cruel, citizen," muttered the official, with a

compassionate glance at the child.

"Cruel? Yes, I am cruel!" said Simon, grimly. "But it is the cursed

prison air that has made me so. If I stay here a week longer, Jeanne

Marie will die, and I shall become crazy. The director of the

hospital told us this, and you know, citizen, that he is the most

clever doctor in all France. See if you would not be cruel if you

had such an idea as that in your head!"

"Well, citizen, you have at least the satisfaction of knowing that

it will not last long," answered the officer, consolingly. "The

first vacancy is to be given to you."

"Well, I hope it will come soon, then," said Simon, with a sigh. "I

will take a vow to you. If, in a week, I shall be released from this

place, and get a good situation, I will give little Capet a horse to

remember me by. That is, not a horse on which he might ride out of

prison, but a wooden one, on which he can ride in prison. Say,

little Capet," called Simon, stooping over the bed of the child,

"would you not like to have a nice wooden horse to play with?"

Over the pale lips of the boy played the faint tint of a smile, and

he opened his eyes. "Yes," he said, softly" yes; I should like to

have a wooden horse, and I should have a good time with it."

"Come, citizen," said Simon, solemnly, "I take you to witness my

vow. If I receive another place, I give a hobby-horse to little

Capet. You grant me the privilege, citizen?"

"I allow you, Citizen Simon, and I will report the matter to the

Public Welfare Committee, that it shall surprise no one by and by,

and I am sure no one will gainsay you in your praiseworthy offer.

For it certainly is praiseworthy to prepare a pleasure for a sick

child; and the great republic, which is the gracious mother of all

Frenchmen, will pity the poor child, too. I wish you success,

citizen, in the fulfilment of all your hopes, and trust that you

will speedily be released from your trying imprisonment."

And, in fact, this release did not have to be waited for long. A few

days brought the accomplishment of Doctor Naudin's prophecy, and the

official guard, who was then sick at the Hotel Dieu, died. The

director of the hospital hastened to inform the authorities of this

event, and on the same day Simon was appointed his successor. The

same official who had brought the sick prince the playthings, came

again to inform Simon, of his release, and was delighted at the

stormy outbreak of rapturous joy with which the tidings were

received.

"We will be off directly," cried Simon. "Our things have all been

packed for three days, and every thing is ready."

"But you must wait patiently till to-morrow, my friends," said the

official, with a smile. "Your successor cannot enter upon his duties

here in the Temple before tomorrow morning at ten o'clock, and till

then you must be content to wait quietly."

"That is sad," sighed Simon. "The time between now and ten o'clock

to-morrow morning, will lie like lead upon my shoulders. I assure

you, citizen, the Temple could get along without me for one night.

The two Misses Capet above stairs are locked up, and as for the

little Capet down here, it is not necessary to lock him up, for he

will not run away, but lie quietly here upon his mattress."

"So the child is really very sick?" asked the officer, with feeling.

"Not exactly very sick," answered Simon, indifferently; "but Doctor

Naudin, who visits him every day. thinks that the youngster might

not be all right in the head, and he has ordered, on this account,

that his long thick hair should be cut off, that his head might be a

little cooler. So Jeanne Marie is going to cut it off, and that will

probably be the last service that she will have to do for him. We

are going to clear out of this--we are going to clear out of this!"

"And have you really nothing more to do for the little Capet, than

merely to cut off his hair?" asked the officer with a fixed,

searching look.

"No," answered Simon, with a laugh; "nothing but that. Oh! yes,

there is something else. I did not think of that. My vow to you! I

forgot that. I swore that, if I were to get away from here, I would

give little Capet a hobby-horse."

"I am glad, Citizen Simon, that you remember your promise," said the

officer, gravely. "I must tell you that the Public Welfare

Committee, to which I communicated your intention, was very curious

to know whether Citizen Simon would remember to carry it into

effect. It is on this account that I was instructed to inform you of

your transfer, and to report to them whether you intended to keep

your promise. Your superiors will rejoice to learn that you are a

man of honor, with whom it is a sacred duty to keep his word; and

who, in prosperous days, does not forget to do what he promised to

do in less propitious times. So, go and buy for little Capet the

promised hobby-horse, and I will inform the Welfare Committee that

it was not necessary for me to remind you of your vow, and that you

are not only a good citizen, but a good man as well. Go and buy the

plaything, and make your arrangements to leave the Temple to-morrow

morning at ten o'clock, and to enter upon your new duties as

collector of customs at Porte Macon."

"The great bell of Notre Dame will not have growled out its ten

strokes to-morrow morning, before Jeanne Marie and I, with our

goods, will have left the place," replied Simon, with a laugh. "And

now I will run and fulfil my promise." He clapped his red-flannel

cap upon his black, thick hair, and left the Temple with a hurried

step. As the porter opened the door of the court which led to the

street, for the worthy citizen and "man of honor," Simon stopped a

moment to chat, telling him of his new situation, and of the vow

which he was about to discharge.

"Do not wonder, therefore, citizen," he said, "if you see me come

back, by-and-by, with a horse--with this distinction, that it will

not be the horse that carries me, but that it will be I that will

carry the horse. I was such a fool as to promise little Capet a

horse, and I must keep my word, particularly as the Committee of

Safety allows it."

"Well, if that is so," said the porter, with mock gravity, "I shall

let you in, even if you do not make your appearance until night.

With the permission of the Safety Committee, every thing; without

it, nothing--for I want to keep my head a little longer on my

shoulders."

"And I do not grudge you the privilege," said Simon, with a broad

grin. "We know very little about what we have here, but much less

about the place where the dear machine takes us. But, if you like,

you can ask Roger, the official guard, whether I have permission to

bring the wooden horse into the Temple. He is inside, and will

probably be there when I come back."

He nodded to the porter, and went out into the street. As the door

closed behind him, Simon stopped a moment, and cast a quick glance

up and down the street. Above, at the corner of the little cross-

street, stood quietly a young commissioner in his blouse, apparently

waiting for some one to employ him. Simon crossed the street and

went up to him.

"Well," asked the latter aloud, "have you any thing for me to do,

citizen?"

"Yes," answered Simon, softly and quickly. "Yes, Toulan, I am all

ready for you. To-morrow morning, at ten o'clock, I leave the

Temple."

"I know it," whispered Toulan. "But speak loudly. There stands a man

who seems to be watching us."

"Come," cried Simon, loudly. "I want you to accompany me to a store

where they sell playthings, and afterward you must help carry back

what I buy, for it will be too large and too heavy for me alone."

Toulan followed him without replying, and the two went quietly and

with an air of indifference through the busy crowd of men. At the

corner of a neighboring street the commissioner came in gentle

contact with another, who was standing on the curbstone, and was

looking earnestly down the street.

"Beg pardon, citizen," said Toulan, loudly, and then added, softly,

"to-morrow morning, at ten o'clock. The washerwomen will take charge

of the dirty linen at the door. At exactly ten the wagons and the

boys must start. The hobby-horse will be filled."

"Yes, it shall be filled," and, with an indifferent air, he passed

by the two, and walked down the Helder street. The farther he went

the more rapid became his steps, and when he at last entered a

narrow, solitary alley, where he might hope to be less observed, his

quick walk became a run, which he continued till he reached the Rue

Vivienne. He then moderated his pace, and went quietly into a toy-

shop, whose attractive windows and open door were directed to the

street. The clerk, who stood behind the counter, asked, with a quiet

air, what he desired.

"First, allow me to sit down, citizen," answered the commissioner,

as he sank upon the rush-chair which stood before the counter.

"There, and now, if you want to do me a service, just give me a

glass of water."

"Halloo, John," cried the clerk to the errand-boy, who was standing

in the hack part of the store. "Bring a glass of water from the

well! Hasten!"

The boy took a glass and sprang out of the door into the street.

"In a quarter of an hour they will be here," said the commissioner,

quickly. "Inform the marquis, if you please."

"The cabinet-maker, Lamber, you mean," whispered the clerk. "He is

not as far away as you; he lives directly opposite, and he has been

standing all day at the house-door waiting for the sign."

"Then give it to him, dear baron," said the commissioner; and as the

boy came in just then with the water, he hastily seized the glass,

and took a swallow so immense as to perfectly satisfy the boy, who

was looking at him.

The clerk had, in the mean time, gone to the shop-door, and looking

across at the opposite house, he drew a blue handkerchief, with a

red border, from his pocket, and slowly raised it to his face.

The man in the blouse, standing at the door of the low house across

the street, nodded slightly, and stepped back out of sight.

"Well," cried the commissioner, "now that I have taken breath, and

have had a good drink, I will tell you why I have run so. I have

directed a citizen to you who wants to buy some playthings, and

something very fine, I suppose, as he brings a commissioner along

with him to carry the things home. Now I want to know what per cent,

of the profit you get from him you are willing to give me, for you

cannot expect, citizen, that I should give my recommendation

gratis."

"I am not the owner of the store," replied the clerk, with a shrug.

"I have been here only a week, and manage the business merely while

the owner is absent for a short time on a necessary journey. So I

can give no fees. But ask the boy whether in such cases Mr. Duval

has paid money. He has been here longer than I."

"Mr. Duval has paid every commissioner, who has brought him such

news, two centums on the franc," said the boy, with an important

air.

"Well, then, I will give you two centums on the franc, provided that

the citizen buys more than a franc's worth."

"Aha! there comes the man," cried the commissioner, pointing at

Simon, who just then entered the store with Toulan. "Well, citizen,

now make a very handsome purchase, for the more you buy, the better

I shall like it."

"Yes, I believe you," replied Simon, laughing; "that is the way in

all stores. I want something nice; I want to buy a hobby-horse. But

mind you, citizen, show me one of your best ones, a real blood-

horse, for I tell you that he who is to ride it is of real blood

himself."

"We happen unfortunately to have a limited supply of the article,"

said the clerk, with a shrug. "They do not come exactly in our line.

But there has been so much demand for hobby-horses of late that we

have ordered some, and if you will wait a few days, citizen--"

"A few days!" interrupted Simon, angrily. "Not a few hours, not a

few minutes will I wait. If you have no hobby-horses, tell me, and I

will go elsewhere to make my purchases."

He turned to go, but the clerk held him back. "Wait only a minute,"

he said. "I should not like to lose your custom, and I think it

possible that I can procure you a fine horse. The cabinet-maker, who

makes our horses, lives just opposite, and he has promised to

deliver them tomorrow. The boy shall go over and see if they are not

ready."

"We would rather go over with him, citizen. If we find what is

wanted, we shall need to go no farther."

"It is true, that will be the best course," said Simon. "Come,

commissioner."

"I will go along to have the business all rightly done," said the

clerk. "Here, John, take my place behind the counter while I am

gone."

Simon had already crossed the street by the side of Toulan. The

clerk followed with the second commissioner.

"Why have you not got rid of the boy, Count St. Prix?" asked the

latter.

"It was impossible, Count Frotte" answered the former in a whisper.

"Duval is a very nervous man, and he supposed that it would excite

suspicion if the boy, who is well known in the neighborhood, should

disappear at just the time when he should be away. He is right,

perhaps, and at any rate the thing is unavoidable. The sly chore-boy

has noticed nothing, I hope, and we shall reach our goal without any

hindrance. You are going to London tomorrow morning?"

"Yes, count. And you? what is your direction?"

"To Coblentz, to the royal princes," replied Count St. Prix. "Only I

suspect that we shall not both of us reach the end of our journeys."

"At any rate not with the children that we shall take with us,"

whispered the other, as they entered the house of the cabinet-maker.

They found Simon and Toulan in the large workshop busily engaged in

bargaining with the cabinet-maker, who had shown them six tolerably

large hobby-horses, and was descanting on their beauties.

"It seems tome they all look very much alike," said Simon. "Tell me,

commissioner, which of these race-horses pleases you best."

"This with the red flanks," said Toulan, laying his hand upon the

largest one.

"It is an immense creature," said Simon, with a laugh. "Still, the

red flanks are pretty, and if we can agree about the price I will

buy the animal."

They did agree, and after Simon had gravely paid the twenty francs,

he and Toulan took the horse on their shoulders and marched down the

street.

"Do all those people know about our secret?" asked Simon, as they

strode forward.

"No, only the cabinet-maker knows about it, and he will leave Paris

to-morrow and carry the prince to a place of safety."

"For God's sake, do not speak so loudly!" whispered Simon, casting

an anxious look around. "But why do you yourself not go away with

the boy and leave Paris, where you are constantly in danger?"

"I cannot," answered Toulan, solemnly.

"Cannot! what forbids you?"

"The vow that I gave to Marie Antoinette, to rescue her children

from the Temple or to die."

"Well, but to-morrow you hope to fulfil your vow, and then you can

go."

"I shall fulfil to-morrow but the half of my vow. I shall, if you

help me, and my plan succeeds, release the son of the queen, but the

daughter will remain behind in prison. You see, therefore, that I

cannot leave Paris, for the daughter and sister-in-law of the queen

are still prisoners, and I must release them."

"But I should rather that you would go away with the boy, and never

come back to Paris," said Simon, thoughtfully.

"How so? Do you not trust me?"

"I trust no one," replied Simon, gloomily. "You might some day, when

it might suit your humor, or in order to save yourself, betray me,

and report me to the Committee of Safety."

"What, I! And ought I not to fear too? Could not you betray me as

well?"

"You know very well that I shall take care not to disclose a word of

this whole history, for to disclose it would be to write my own

death-warrant. But hush, now; hush! there is the Temple, and it

seems to me as if the very walls looked at me maliciously, as if

they wanted to say, 'There comes a traitor!' Ah, Toulan, it is a bad

thing to have an accusing conscience!"

"Help me faithfully to save the prince, Simon, and you will have a

good conscience all the rest of your life, for you will have done a

grand and noble deed."

"In your eyes," whispered Simon, "but not in those of the

Convention, and when they learn about it--but here we are, and our

talk and reconsideration are too late."

He struck three times with his fist against the closed gate of the

outer court. The porter opened, and let the two men in, only saying

that the guard had given his special consent to the bringing in of

the hobhy-horse.

"But about the commissioner whom you bring with you," said the

porter, reflectively, "he did not make any mention, and I can only

allow him to take your plaything into the second court. He must not

go into the Temple."

"It is no particular wish of mine to go into a prison," answered the

commissioner, carelessly. "It is a good deal easier to get in than

to get out again. Well, take hold, Citizen Simon; forward!"

They walked on to the second court. "Now, then," whispered Toulan,

"for caution and thoughtfulness! Tomorrow at ten o'clock I will be

standing before the door, and you will call me in to help you in

your moving."

"I wish it were all over," groaned Simon. "It seems to me as if my

head were shaking on my shoulders, and my heart beats as if I were a

young girl."

"Courage, Simon, only courage! Remember that tomorrow you are to be

a free and a rich man. Then, as soon as you give your basket to the

washerwoman at the Macon gate, I will pay you the promised twenty

thousand francs. And--"