“Antoinette pretends to be proud,” said Rocher, one of their guards, “but I have brought her pride down. She, her daughter, and Elizabeth bow as they pass me, in spite of themselves. They must bend to me, for I keep the wicket low. Every night I puff my smoke into the eyes of Elizabeth as she passes.” “Ca ira” was sung under the King’s windows, and he was openly threatened from time to time with death. After the end of September he was separated from his family, and they were only allowed to meet at meals. At these times they were only permitted to converse in a loud tone, and in French, and Madame Elizabeth was severely rebuked by one of the guards because she spoke to her brother in a low voice.
In December and January came the King’s trial and condemnation. The agony of these days of suspense to the Queen, her sister, and her children, cannot be described. When the fatal sentence was pronounced, they were allowed one parting interview. The story of that farewell has often been told. It lasted for nearly two hours and a half. When the moment of separation came, Madame Royale swooned at her father’s feet, and had to be borne away by the faithful Cléry, from whom she was snatched by one of the municipal officers, who carried her roughly to her room. All the night she fell from one swoon to another, and her aunt only left her to prostrate herself before the crucifix in an agony of prayer.
“The Queen had scarcely strength sufficient left to undress my brother and put him to bed. She herself lay down in her clothes, and all night long we could hear her shivering with cold and anguish.” The King had promised to see them again in the morning, but he deemed it better not to expose them to the further ordeal. The beat of the drums and the shouts of the people told them that all was over.
“Nothing succeeded in calming the anguish of my mother,” writes Madame Royale; “life or death had become indifferent to her. She sometimes gazed at us with a piteously forlorn air that made us shudder. Happily my own illness was increased by sorrow, and this gave my poor mother some occupation.”
Marie Antoinette was unwilling to walk in the garden of the Temple after her husband’s death, for in so doing she was obliged to pass the door of the room where he had been confined. Afraid, however, that the want of air would tell on her children’s health, she obtained leave to walk with them on the top of the Tower. The platform was, however, surrounded with lattice work, and the air-holes were carefully stopped. The Queen asked to have a door opened between her room and that of Madame Elizabeth, but this request, after being referred to the Council General, was refused. At all hours—sometimes in the dead of night—their rooms were invaded by the municipals, or by commissaries of the convention, often intoxicated, who rudely searched every corner, and took away whatever little trifles they could find. “They searched even beneath our mattresses,” says Madame Royale, on one occasion; “my poor brother was sleeping. They tore him roughly from his bed that they might search it, and my mother held him in her arms, quite benumbed with cold.”
In the beginning of July the Convention ordered that the Dauphin should be separated from his mother, and committed to the guardianship of Simon, the shoemaker, in another part of the Tower. A terrible scene ensued when this decree was communicated to the hapless prisoners. The poor boy—he was only eight years old—threw himself with cries of terror into his mother’s arms for protection, and Marie Antoinette for more than an hour defended the bed on which she laid him against the municipal officers, protesting that they should kill her before they should take away her child. “At length they grew enraged, and threatened so positively to kill both him and me, that her love for us once more compelled her to yield. My aunt and I took my brother out of bed, as my mother herself had no strength left; and, as soon as he was dressed, she took him in her arms, and, after bathing him in her tears, which were the more bitter as she foresaw that it was the last time she should ever see him, she placed him herself in the hands of the municipal officers.”
The mother’s cup of sorrows was nearly full. Madame Royale thus pictures the days that followed:—
“We ascended to the top of the Tower very frequently, because my brother also walked there at his side of the building, and the only pleasure my mother now had was to get an occasional distant glimpse of him through a small slit in the division wall. She used to remain there for entire hours, watching the moment when she could see her child. This was her only desire, her only solace, and her only occupation.”
A month later Marie Antoinette’s own turn came, and she was removed to the Conciergerie. She rose up, and submitted herself in silence.
“My mother, having first tenderly embraced me and exhorted me to take courage, to pay every attention to my aunt, and to obey her as a second mother, repeated to me the religious instructions I had before received from my father, and then, throwing herself into the arms of my aunt, she recommended her children to her care. I could not utter a word in reply, so overwhelmed was I at the thought that it might be the last time I should see her. My aunt said a few words to her in a low voice of anguish and despair. My mother then hastened from the room without casting another look towards us, fearful, no doubt, lest her firmness should desert her. She was stopped for some time at the bottom of the stairs while the municipal officers drew up a procès verbal for the keeper of the prison as a discharge for her person. In passing through the prison gate she struck her head against the wicket, her thoughts being so occupied that she forgot to stoop. She was asked if she had hurt herself. ‘Oh, no,’ said she; ‘nothing now can hurt me.’”