At last the members of his family were told that they were to see the King prior to his execution. And this was their joy in the midst of a desolation from which their only relief was death itself.
The poor creatures prepared for this interview hours before it could take place. They asked incessantly of their gaoler if it was time for the King’s arrival, and bore patiently with the rough, rude answer only too frequently bestowed upon them.
The King himself, though apparently more calm, was equally agitated. He had never experienced but one affection—that for his wife; but one friendship—his sister’s; but one joy—his children. The cares of the throne may have hidden much of these qualities, but never extinguished them; and, in his adversity, they had flowed back in the shape of a wealth of consolation.
Nevertheless, the King’s calmness, almost callousness, appears amazing in its contemplation. Re-entering the ordinary room, or cell, in which he passed his imprisoned days, he began to set in order to receive the Queen.
“Bring some water, and a glass.”
Cléry pointed to a caraffe standing on the table.
“No,” said the King; “it is iced; and I fear, if the Queen drinks it, that it may disagree with her.”
The door, at last, was thrown open, and the Queen, leading her son, threw herself into his arms, and was about to lead him to her chamber.
“No, no,” whispered the King; “I may only see you here.”