That same evening one of the officials of the republic made up an account, now preserved in the Imperial Library of Paris, and which must move even the historian himself to tears. It runs as follows: "Cost of interments, conducted by Joly, sexton of Madelaine de la Ville l'Eveque, of persons condemned by the Tribunal of the Committee of Safety, to wit, No. 1 . . . ." Then follow twenty-four names and numbers, and then "No. 25. Widow Capet:
For the coffin, . . . . . . . . . . . . .6 francs.
For digging the grave,. . . . . . . . . 25 francs."
Beneath are the words, "Seen and approved by me, President of the
Revolutionary Tribunal, that Joly, sexton of the Madelaine, receive
the sum of two hundred and sixty-four francs from the National
Treasury, Paris, llth Brumaire. Year II. of the French Republic.
Herman, President."
The interment of the Queen of France did not cost the republic more than thirty-one francs, or six American dollars.
CHAPTER XXV.
KING LOUIS THE SEVENTEENTH.
The "one and indivisible republic" bad gained the victory over the lilies of France. In their dark and unknown graves, in the Madelaine churchyard, King Louis XVI. and Marie Antoinette slept their last sleep. The monarchy had perished on the guillotine, and the republicans, the preachers of liberty, equality, and fraternity, repeated triumphantly: "Royalty is forever extinguished, and the glorious republic is the rising sun which is to bring eternal deliverance to France."
But, in spite of this jubilant cry, the foreheads of the republican leaders darkened, and a peculiar solicitude took possession of their hearts when their eyes fell upon the Temple—that great, dismal building, that threw its dark shadows over the sunny path of the republic. Was it regret that darkened the brows of the regicides as they looked upon this building, which had been the sad prison of the king and queen? Those hearts of bronze knew no regret; and when the heroes of the revolution crossed the Place de la Guillotine, on which the royal victims had perished, their eyes flashed more proudly, and did not fall even when they passed by the Madelaine churchyard.
No, it was not the recollection of the deed that saddened the brows of the potentates of the republic when they looked at the dismal Temple, but the recollection of him who was not yet dead, but who was still living as a captive in the gloomy state-prison of the republic.
This prisoner was indeed only a child of eight years, but the legitimists—and there were many of them still in the country— called him the King of France; and priests in loyal Vendee, when they had finished the daily mass for the murdered king, prayed to God, with uplifted hands, for grace and deliverance for the young captive at the Temple, the young king, Louis XVII.