The long day passed in tears and wretchedness, and night brought no respite. The prisoners had been placed in charge of two jailers, a married couple named Tison, coarse creatures, from whose intrusions they were never free. Thus the inflexible hate of an infuriated populace pursued them even in the sanctity of their grief.
It was two o’clock at night, and more than an hour since the tearfully ended prayers had announced the time for rest; but rest was still far from the three unhappy women. In obedience to the Queen’s wishes, the Princess Marie Thérèse had indeed gone to bed, but she could not close her eyes. Her royal mother and her aunt, who were sitting near the bed of the Dauphin, talked of their sorrow and wept together in uncontrollable anguish. The sleeping child smiled, and there was such an expression of angelic sweetness and purity on his innocent face that the Queen could not refrain from saying sadly:
“He is now just as old as his brother was when he died at Meudon. Happy are those of our family who have been the first to go; at least they have not lived to see the downfall of our house!”
Madame Tison, who had been listening at the door, heard these words, or at least the sound of the Queen’s voice. Devoid of respect for a sorrow that must find relief in words or become unbearable, the heartless woman knocked on the door and harshly demanded the cause of this nocturnal conversation. As if this were not enough, her husband and some municipal guards even opened the door and attempted to force their way into the room, when Madame Élisabeth, turning her pale face toward them, said with quiet dignity:
“I pray you, allow us at least to weep in peace!”
These simple words, spoken in such a tone, disarmed even these wretches. They drew back in confusion, and did not venture again to intrude on the sanctity of so profound a grief. The next morning the Queen took her son in her arms and said to him:
“My child, we must put our trust in the dear God!”
“Oh, yes, mamma,” answered the little Prince, “I do trust the dear God, but whenever I fold my hands and try to pray, the image of my father comes before my eyes.”
Sadly and wearily the days passed. Weakened by sorrow and exhausted by sleepless nights, the Queen almost succumbed to her troubles, and seemed to be indifferent whether she lived or died. Sometimes her companions would find her eyes fixed on them with such an expression of profound pity, it almost made them shudder. A deathly stillness prevailed; they all seemed to be holding their breaths, save when their grief found vent in half-smothered sobs or paroxysms of tears. It was almost a boon to the wretched women when the Princess Marie Thérèse really fell ill. In the duties of a mother, Marie Antoinette found some mitigation of her grief for the loss of her husband. She spent all her time at her daughter’s bedside, and the care and anxiety afforded her a wholesome distraction and roused her benumbed faculties. The Princess soon recovered from her illness, and from that time the Queen devoted herself wholly to her children.
The little Dauphin sang very sweetly, and his mother found much pleasure in teaching him little songs, but especially in having him continue the studies he had begun. Thus absorbed, she even thanked Heaven for the peace granted her by her enemies, which enabled her to perform these maternal tasks. Madame Élisabeth was her devoted assistant, and their love for the children afforded them some relief from sorrows which were constantly being sharpened by fresh trials. But even this last faint semblance of happiness was at last taken from them.