Robespierre was delicate and decent in his power and supreme cruelty, but he capped all his compeers. Men and women were not shot or drowned in Paris, but the guillotine worked unceasingly.
Certain children had, in 1791, taken part in receiving the Prussian General at Verdun. They were all brought to Paris, and guillotined.
The nuns of Montmartre were carried, abbess, young girls, and old women, all to the scaffold—for praying! As the Girondists sang their hymns, so these poor women sang theirs. The last death ended the last note of this hymn.
It was thus Robespierre—now alone of all those with whom he first came into power—and his satellites maintained their power.
One, and only one, grown-up scion of royalty remained—Madame Elizabeth.
It was then more than a year since the King died. She and the Princess remained together—deprived even of cards, because of the kings and queens in the pack.
As for the Dauphin, he was confined in a room the bed of which he never left. His bread was thrown to him. No one ever spoke to him, and his clothes had not been changed for nearly twelve months. His window would not open. He was allowed no books, paper, or playthings; in a word, he was brutalized at six years of age. His limbs stiffened, and he became an idiot, in which state he died.
The aunt and sister could hear nothing about the child. They were treated tolerably well, but during Lent they were only given fat meat to eat. This their consciences would not allow them to touch, and for forty days they only ate bread.
The summons came suddenly at night-time. The little Princess, the only one of the five prisoners of the Temple who survived the Reign of Terror, wept, clung to her aunt—but lost her.
Her defence was very simple:—“I am tried because I am the King’s sister. You call him a tyrant. Had he been, you would not have been where you are; I not be where I am!”