“No, in La Force, in the Quartier St. Antoine.”
An ordinary nature would have harbored some feeling of revenge, but this royal child had the greatness of soul to pity his persecutor.
“I am very sorry for him; he is more unhappy than we, for he deserves his misfortunes!”
Words so simple and yet so noble, on the lips of a child scarcely ten years old, may be wondered at; nevertheless, they were actually spoken by the Dauphin, and the words themselves did not impress Gomin so much as the sincere and touching tone in which they were spoken. Without doubt, misfortune and suffering had matured the child’s mind prematurely, and he may have been inspired by some invisible presence from above, such as God often sends to the bedside of the suffering and dying.
Night came on—the last night the poor little prisoner was to spend in solitude and loneliness, with only those old companions, misery of mind and body. He had always been left alone at night, even during his illness; and not until eight o’clock in the morning were his jailers allowed to go to him. We do not know how the Prince passed that last night, or whether he waked or slept; but in either case death was hovering close beside his pillow. The next morning, Monday, the eighth of June, Lasne entered the room between seven and eight o’clock, Gomin not daring to go first for fear he should not find their charge alive. But by the time M. Pelletan arrived the Prince was sitting up, and Lasne thought he had even improved somewhat since the day before, though the physician’s more experienced eye told him there was no change for the better. Indeed, the poor little invalid, whose feet felt strangely heavy, soon wanted to lie down again.
When M. Dumaugin came at eleven o’clock, the Prince was in bed; but he welcomed him with the unvarying gentleness and sweetness that had never deserted him through all his troubles, and to which the physician himself testified later on. He shrugged his shoulders over the patient’s condition, and felt that the end was not far off. After he had taken his leave, Gomin replaced Lasne in the sick room. He seated himself near the bed, but, fearing to rouse or disturb the child, did not speak. The Prince never began a conversation, and was silent likewise, gazing mournfully at his friend.
“How unhappy it makes me to see you suffer so much!” said Gomin at last.
“Never mind,” answered the child softly, “I shall not always suffer.”
Gomin knelt down by the bed to be nearer him, and the affectionate child seized his keeper’s hand and pressed it to his lips. At this, Gomin gave way to his emotion, and his heart went out in prayer—the prayer that man in his deepest sorrow sends up to the all-merciful Father; while the Prince, still clasping the faithful hand in his, raised his eyes to heaven with a look of angelic peace and holiness impossible to describe. After a time, Gomin, seeing that he lay quiet and motionless, said to him:
“I hope you do not suffer now?”