“Think of me always,” she says, in conclusion. “Good heaven, and my children! How heart-rending it is to leave them for ever—for ever!”
This letter being finished, she kissed each page lovingly, and folded it.
So far, the Republic had not entirely declared against high heaven, and priests were still recognised by those who had subscribed to the articles of the Revolution, and one of these men was offered to Marie Antoinette to aid her in her last moments. She refused to see him. The Convention (still sitting) insisted upon one of these officials accompanying her to the scaffold. There was no devotion amongst them. All hesitated, for all feared that the Queen would be torn to pieces on her way to the scaffold.
One proffered his help.
“Thank you,” said the Queen; “I have no need of your services, though I am a great sinner. But I am about to receive a great sacrament.”
“Martyrdom,” said the priest, in a low voice; and he bowed and retired.
She prayed alone.
However, she had been secretly informed that at a certain house on her way to execution a minister would be stationed, who would give her absolution as she passed in the cart.
She dressed herself in the white gown, put a white cap on, bound with a black ribbon—and so came before the people.
Then she drew back—her queendom still remained. She had not thought the people so fallen that she should be taken to the scaffold in the common cart. The King had been taken to death at least in such a vehicle as he had been accustomed to.