Marie Antoinette and Her Son

by L. Mühlbach

CHAPTER XXV.

KING LOUIS THE SEVENTEENTH.

The "one and indivisible republic" bad gained the victory over the lilies of France. In their dark and unknown graves, in the Madelaine churchyard, King Louis XVI. and Marie Antoinette slept their last sleep. The monarchy had perished on the guillotine, and the republicans, the preachers of liberty, equality, and fraternity, repeated triumphantly: "Royalty is forever extinguished, and the glorious republic is the rising sun which is to bring eternal deliverance to France."

But, in spite of this jubilant cry, the foreheads of the republican leaders darkened, and a peculiar solicitude took possession of their hearts when their eyes fell upon the Temple—that great, dismal building, that threw its dark shadows over the sunny path of the republic. Was it regret that darkened the brows of the regicides as they looked upon this building, which had been the sad prison of the king and queen? Those hearts of bronze knew no regret; and when the heroes of the revolution crossed the Place de la Guillotine, on which the royal victims had perished, their eyes flashed more proudly, and did not fall even when they passed by the Madelaine churchyard.

No, it was not the recollection of the deed that saddened the brows of the potentates of the republic when they looked at the dismal Temple, but the recollection of him who was not yet dead, but who was still living as a captive in the gloomy state-prison of the republic.

This prisoner was indeed only a child of eight years, but the legitimists—and there were many of them still in the country— called him the King of France; and priests in loyal Vendee, when they had finished the daily mass for the murdered king, prayed to God, with uplifted hands, for grace and deliverance for the young captive at the Temple, the young king, Louis XVII.

"Le roi est mort—Vive le roi!"

There were, it must be confessed, among the royalists and legitimists many who thought of the young prisoner with bitterness and anger, and who accused and blamed him as the calumniator of his mother! As if the child knew what he was doing when, at the command of his tormentor Simon, he wrote with trembling hand his name upon the paper which was laid before him in the open court. As if the poor innocent boy knew what meaning the dreadful questions had, which the merciless judges put to him, and which he answered with no, or with yes, according as his scrutinizing looks were able to make out the fitting answer on the hard face of Simon, who stood near him. For the unhappy lad had already learned to read the face of the turnkey, and knew very well that every wrinkle of the forehead which was caused by him must be atoned for with dreadful sufferings, abuses, and blows.

The poor boy was afraid of the heavy fist that came down like an iron club upon his back and even on his face, when he said any thing or did any thing that displeased Simon or his wife; and therefore he sought to escape this cruel treatment, confirming with his yes and no what Simon told the judges, and what the child in his innocence did not understand! And therefore he subscribed the paper without reluctance in which he unconsciously gave evidence that disgraced his mother.

With this testimony they ventured to accuse Marie Antoinette of infamy, but the queen gave it no other answer than scornful silence and a proud and dignified look, before which the judges cast down their eyes in shame. Then after a pause they repeated their question, and demanded an answer.

Marie Antoinette turned her proud and yet gentle glance to the women who had taken possession in dense masses of the spectators' gallery, and who breathlessly awaited the answer of the queen.

"I appeal to all mothers present," she said, with her sad, sonorous voice—" I ask whether they hold such a crime to be possible."

No one gave audible reply, but a murmur passed through the ranks of the spectators, and the sharp ear of the judges understood very well the meaning of this sound, this language of sympathy, and it seemed to them wiser to let the accusation fall rather than rouse up the compassion of the mothers still more in behalf of the queen. Her condemnation was an event fixed upon, the "guilty" had been spoken in the hearts of the judges long before it came to their lips, and brought the queen to the guillotine.

Marie Antoinette referred to this dreadful charge in the letter which she wrote to her sister-in-law Elizabeth in the night before her execution, a letter which was at the same time her testament and her farewell to life.

"May my son," she wrote, "never forget the last words of his father! I repeat them to him here expressly: 'May he never seek to avenge our death!' And now I have to speak of a matter which surely grieves my heart, I know what trouble this child must have occasioned you. Forgive him, my dear sister; think how young he is, and how easy it is to induce a child to say what people want to have him say, and what he does not understand. The day will come, I hope, when he shall better comprehend the high value of your goodness and tenderness to both of my children." [Footnote: Beauchesne, "Louis XVII., sa Vie, son Agonie," etc., vol. i. ., p. 150, facsimile of Marie Antoinette's letter.]*

At the same hour when Marie Antoinette was writing this, there was a dispute between Simon and his wife, who had been ordered by the Convention to watch that night, in order that the enraged legitimists might not make an effort to abduct the son of the queen. They were contending whether the execution would really occur the next day. Simon, in a jubilant tone, declared his conviction that it would, while his wife doubted. "She is still handsome," she said, gloomily, "she knows how to talk well, and she will be able to move her judges, for her judges are men."

"But Justice is a woman, and she is unshakable," cried Simon emphatically, and as his wife continued to contradict, Simon proposed a bet. The wager was, that if the Queen of France should be guillotined the next noon, the one who lost should furnish brandy and cakes the next evening for a jollification.

The next morning Simon repaired with the little prisoner to the platform of the tower, from which there was a free lookout over the streets, and where they could plainly see what was going on below.

His wife meanwhile had left the Temple at early dawn with her dreadful knitting-work. "I must be on the spot early if I want a good place to-day," she said, "and it would be a real misfortune for me, if I should not see the miserable head of the she-wolf drop, and not make a double stitch in my stocking."

"But you forget, Jeanne Marie," said Simon, with a grin, "you forget that you lose your bet if you make the mark in your stocking."

"I would rather lose all the bets that were ever made than not make the mark in my stocking," cried the knitter, grimly. "I would rather lose my wedding-dress and my marriage-ring than win this bet. Go up to the platform with the young wolf, and wait for me there. As soon as I have made the mark in my stocking, I will run home and show it to you."

"It is too bad that I cannot go with you," said Simon, sighing. "I wish I had never undertaken the business of bringing up the little Capet. It is hateful work, for I can never leave the Temple, and I am just as much a prisoner as he is."

"The republic has done you a great honor," said the knitter, solemnly. "She has confidence that you will make out of the son of the she-wolf, out of the worthless scion of tyrants, a son of the republic, a useful citizen."

"Good talk," growled Simon, "and you have only the honor of the affair, and the satisfaction besides of plaguing the son of our tyrants a bit."

"Of taking revenge," struck in the knitter—"revenge for the misery which my family has suffered from the tyrants."

"But I," continued Simon, "I have certainly the honor of the thing, but I have also the burden. In the first place, it is very hard to make a strong and useful citizen, of the republic out of this whining, tender, and sensitive urchin. And then again it is very unpleasant and disagreeable to have to live like a prisoner always."

"Listen, Simon, hear what I promise you," said Jeanne Marie, laying her hard brown hand upon Simon's shoulder. "If the Austrian atones to-day for her crimes, and the executioner shows her head to the avenged people, I will give up my place at the guillotine as a knitter, will remain with you here in the Temple, will take my share in the bringing up of the little Capet, and you yourself shall make the proposition to the supervisor, that your wife like yourself shall not be allowed to leave the Temple."

"That is something I like to hear," cried Simon, delighted; "there will then be at least two of us to bear the tedium of imprisonment. So go, Jenne Marie, take your place for the last time at the guillotine, for I tell you, you will lose your bet; you will have to furnish brandy and cakes, and stay with me here at the Temple to bring up the little Capet. So go, I will go up to the platform with the boy, and wait there for your return."

He called the little Louis Charles, who was sitting on the tottering rush-chair in his room, and anxiously waiting to see whether "his master" was going to take him that day out of the dismal, dark prison.

"Come, little Capet," cried Simon, pushing the door open with his foot—" come, we will go up on the platform. You can take your ball along and play, and I advise you to be right merry to-day, for it is a holiday for the republic, and I am going to teach you to be a good republican. So if you want to keep your back free from my straps, be jolly to-day, and play with your ball"

"Oh!" cried the child, springing forward merrily with his ball—" oh! only be good, master, I will certainly be merry, for I like to play with my ball, and I am ever so fond of holidays. What kind of one is it to-day?"

"No matter about your knowing that, you little toad!" growled Simon, who in spite of himself had compassion on the pale face of the child that looked up to him so innocently and inquiringly. "Up the staircase quick, and play and laugh."

Louis obeyed with a smile, sprang up the high steps of the winding stairway, jumped about on the platform, throwing his ball up in the air, and shouting aloud when he caught it again with his little thin hands.

Meanwhile Simon stood leaning on the iron railing that surrounded the platform, looking with his searching eyes down into the street which far below ran between the dark houses like a narrow ribbon.

The wind now brought the sustained notes of the drums to him; then he saw the street below suddenly filled with a dark mass, as if the ribbon were turning into crape that was filling all Paris.

"The people are in motion by thousands," cried Simon, delightedly, "and all rushing to the Place de la Revolution. I shall win my bet."

And again he listened to the sound that came up to him, now resembling the beat of drums, and now a loud cry of exultation.

"Now I think Samson must be striking the head off the wolf!" growled Simon to himself, "and the people are shouting with pleasure, and Jeanne Marie is making a mark in her stocking, and I, poor fellow, cannot be there to see the fine show! And this miserable brat is to blame for it," he cried aloud, turning suddenly round to the child who was playing behind him with his ball, and giving him a savage blow with his fist.

"You are the cause, stupid, that I cannot be there today!"

"Master," said the child, beseechingly, lifting his great blue eyes, in which the tears were standing, up to his tormentor—" master, I beg your forgiveness if I have troubled you."

"Yes, you have troubled me," growled Simon, "and you shall get your thanks for it in a way you will not like. Quick, away with your tears, go on with your play if you do not want your back to make acquaintance with my straps. Merry, I say, little Capet, merry!"

The boy hastily dried his tears, laughed aloud as a proof of his merriment, and began to jump about again and to play with his ball.

Simon listened again, and looked down longingly into the streets, which were now black with the surging masses of men. Steps were now heard upon the stairway, and Jeanne Marie presently appeared on the platform. With a grave, solemn air she walked up to her husband, and gave him her stocking, on which three great drops of blood were visible.

"That is her blood," she said, calmly. "Thank God, I have lost the bet!"

"What sort of a bet was it?" asked the boy, with a smile, and giving his ball a merry toss.

"The bet is nothing to you," answered Jeanne Marie, "but if you are good you will get something by and by, and have a share in the payment of the bet!"

That evening there was a little feast prepared in the gloomy rooms of the Simons. The wife paid the wager, for the Queen of France had really been executed, and she had lost. She provided two bottles of brandy and a plum cake, and the son of the murdered queen had a share in the entertainment. He ate a piece of the plum cake, and, under the fear of being beaten if he refused, he drank some of the brandy that was so offensive to him.

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."