“’Tis an outrage upon nature!” urged the King, when he was visited by the authorities. “You murder five hearts in one—you do that, indeed, which is worse than murder!”
The authorities turned their backs upon the King, not deigning to answer him.
All that was brought him as food on that first morning of the separation from his family, was a piece of bread, and a pot of water, into which a lemon had been squeezed.
“They have forgotten we are two,” said the King, advancing to Cléry, and breaking the bit of bread in half; “but I do not forget. Take this; the remainder is enough for me.”
The servant refused, but the King insisted; and so the valet took it, and wept as he ate. The King also wept. What a picture to contemplate!—a king and a valet eating a fragment of bread between them, and tears falling upon the wretched meal!
The King again asked for news of his family, and a reply not forthcoming, he entreated that he might have some books given him to drive away the hours.
The Queen had passed the night in a series of fainting-fits; but, even at that pass, that far higher spirit than the King’s, which had begotten her so much of the popular hate, still supported her. The King, though weeping, could eat half the morsel of bread—she resolutely refused to touch food.
This determination startled the municipals. They were answerable to the Convention for the prisoners. What if the Queen should starve herself to death?
“Well, they shall dine together to-day,” said a municipal officer; “and to-morrow the Commune must decide.”