When a Cobbler Ruled the King

HOW YVONNE SAW THE KING

CHAPTER IX

Meantime, Jean in the tavern had not been idle. His quick eyes, keen ears and alert wits were ever on the watch. During the past month he had made a friend, and hatched a little scheme of his own. The friend was Citizen Barelle, one of the many and ever-changing commissaries of the Tower. Barelle often came into the little tavern after his duties for the day were over, and not infrequently Jean heard him speak with sincere regret of the present condition of the wretched little monarch and his brutal tutor. These remarks made Jean feel certain that Barelle possessed not only a kindly heart and quickly aroused sympathies, but that he would also be easily disposed to render the necessary help. He resolved to take this man at least partially into his confidence.

Therefore when a favourable opportunity presented itself one afternoon, and he had Barelle to himself in the little eating-room, he opened the subject cautiously.

"Citizen Barelle, I see you are a friend of the little fellow over yonder! So am I!" Barelle showed some astonishment at this disclosure. He replied:

"If you are, my lad, you had best say little about it in public! But why do you speak of it to me?" Then Jean told him how the queen had once rendered them help in their distress, and how they had grieved at the misfortune of their royal benefactors. He said nothing of his determination to aid them to escape if he could, but he did suggest this:

"Mère Clouet would be very glad to do the laundry work for the Tower. I see that the position is vacant since Citizeness Pataud left here last week. Perhaps you could have her appointed. And then, would it not be possible, when she and little Yvonne come with the clothes, to have Yvonne taken up to play with the little fellow once in a while? You say he is so lonely, and has no pleasures. There could surely be no harm in that!" Barelle considered for a while, gravely.

"You are a kind little chap!" he said at last, "and a grateful one too! Yes, we need a laundress badly, and no doubt they will be glad to have found one so soon. I will use what influence I have. But about the little Yvonne,—we must see later!" The next week it was all settled. Mère Clouet was notified of her appointment as laundress to the Tower, and Barelle whispered to Jean that he thought they could manage it about Yvonne.

Jean was ecstatic at the success of his scheme! So was the good Mère Clouet, and as for Yvonne,—she never slept a wink the night before she went for the first time, so excited was she over the prospect! Jean gave her a long list of instructions early that morning, before he departed for Père Lefèvre's. Among them, these were the principal ones:

"Don't let anyone see by your words or actions that you know him or have seen him before! And don't let anyone overhear what you tell him!" Yvonne promised, understanding thoroughly the necessity for the utmost caution. She and her mother packed the clothes in a great basket, hired a carriage for a franc, and were driven to the Temple. At the outer courtyard the carriage was stopped by a sentry on duty, and they were obliged to carry the heavy basket across to the door of the inner courtyard. Yvonne saw Jean standing in the doorway of the tavern, but, with a prudence beyond her years, she refrained from noticing him in any way, as likewise did her mother.

At the inner gate they were again halted. Here Citizeness Clouet must stop, as she was allowed to go no further. Every article of clothes must be taken from the basket and minutely examined to see that they contained no hidden writing or messages from the outer world. This was a long and tiresome process. While it was being completed, Citizen Barelle called to Yvonne:

"Come with me and romp with the little fellow upstairs awhile! You are not afraid, are you?"

"I think not!" she replied, putting her hand in his. And they climbed the gloomy, guarded stairs together. At the door of the room on the second floor Barelle gave a command to the sentry, the clanking bolts and chains were drawn, the door opened, and they stood in the presence of Louis XVII of France! Yvonne could scarcely believe her eyes! Had she not known whom she was going to see, she would never have recognised him. Remembering the beautiful boy in the Tuileries garden, the laughing, dimpled face, the long curls of golden-brown, the round graceful limbs, the sweet trusting blue eyes, she shrank back and drew in her breath with almost a sob.

On a chair in a corner sat the unhappy monarch. His little body, grown thin and wasted by captivity and ill-treatment, was clad in a startling red suit. On his shorn, jagged hair rested a liberty-cap. His cheeks were sunken and pale, and his eyes red with weeping. Over him towered the burly form of the cobbler.

"There, there, Simon!" interposed Barelle. "Leave off your instructions for a while, and have a game of billiards with me. See, I've brought this little youngster to play with the boy, and give you some freedom! You don't have much leisure time now." Simon, exceedingly flattered by what he deemed Barelle's thoughtfulness for him, acquiesced at once. The two men went to a billiard-table at the other end of the room, leaving the children together.

"You're right about my time!" grumbled the cobbler as they chalked their cues. "I don't have a moment to myself. I'm tied to that cub every minute of the day, and I'm just as much a prisoner as he is. I tell you I can't stand it very long! It's bad for my health! It's driving me crazy! Why, look you! I could not go to Marat's funeral, and I even missed the great anniversary fête in the Champ de Mars on August tenth! I'm tired of it!"

But how fared it with Yvonne and the little king? For a moment after Simon left him, the child remained motionless, his head sunk on his breast, sobs only half under control heaving his chest. Then he raised his head and looked at Yvonne. He gave a great start of recognition and delight, and would have uttered a glad cry, had not Yvonne laid her finger on her lips, glanced at the two men, and shaken her head. The boy understood the action. His adversity had taught him only too well, the necessity for caution. Yvonne boldly took the initiative. Stepping up to him, and speaking so that she could be heard by the cobbler, she said:

"Little Capet, don't you want to play a game of tag with me? You shall try to catch me. I do not think you can!" She sprang away from him, and he jumped from his chair with a new and unaccustomed lightness, to chase her round and round the room. Presently she allowed herself to be caught. Under cover of much loud shouting and laughter, she managed to whisper:

"I have something to tell you! Do you remember Moufflet?"

"Yes," he replied. "He is lost,—dead!" Yvonne noticed that the cobbler was eyeing them suspiciously.

"Now I'll catch you!" she called loudly. And Louis Charles obediently broke into a run, she following, till they were both breathless. Then she caught him.

"Moufflet is not dead!" she murmured. "Jean found him in the Tuileries the night you left it." Question after question crowded to the boy's lips, but he dared not satisfy his curiosity at once.

"Have you not some other game we can play?" asked Yvonne. "Ah! here is a checker-board. I'm tired of running so let us play this!" They arranged the board on a chair and commenced to move the pieces, quarrelling loudly with each other every moment or two. Under cover of this noisy talk, Yvonne, in short scraps of sentences told the boy the story of how Jean rescued Moufflet from the Tuileries, how La Souris had wrongfully taken him away, and how he had since returned. She assured the child that they were keeping the little animal with the hope of some day returning him to his master. She also told him how Jean worked in the tavern in order to be nearby, how her mother did the laundry-work for the royal prisoners, and how she was to be allowed to come and play with him once in a while, through the kindness of Citizen Barelle.

The little, heart-sick boy grew radiant with a delight which he dared not exhibit, lest it be discovered by his watchful tormentor. In the short time he asked many questions about his mother, sister and aunt. These Yvonne answered by smiling and pointing to the room above to indicate that all was well with them. He inquired after Jean and his beloved dog, and sent many messages to his faithful friend. But the time was all too short.

"Come, we must be going!" warned Barelle.

"A moment!—only a moment, till we finish this game!" implored Louis Charles. The good-natured commissary agreed, and turned once more to engage Simon's attention.

"Yvonne," whispered the boy, "I love you and Jean and your mother. Tell them so for me, and that I thank them!" Yvonne signified that she would, and pressed a little packet into his hand.

"Hide it!" she commanded. "'Tis a curl of Moufflet's hair. I thought you would like to have it, perhaps." He slipped it inside his blouse with a grateful look.

"I'll hide it in my mattress, and I do thank you for it. Good-bye, Yvonne! Oh, come again soon!"

"I will," she promised, "as soon as they will let me. Good-bye, poor little King!" And as Barelle led her away, she called back: "Good-bye, Little Capet!" But the child heard only her last whispered, "poor little King," and he gratefully pressed the packet of Moufflet's hair to his heart.

Four weeks had passed in which Marie Antoinette had heard not a word concerning the welfare of her little son,—weeks of fear, uncertainty, and foreboding, terrible in their dragging length. Each day she eagerly questioned the visiting municipals, but they answered merely that he was well and studying with a tutor.

At length circumstances favoured her, and help arrived from an unexpected quarter. This was nothing less than the astonishing change of disposition in the spy Tison and his wife. Madame Tison fell suddenly very ill, and in her sickness begged the Queen's pardon for all her former meanness and spite. Marie Antoinette forgave her freely, but the poor woman's mind had become so unsettled through remorse, that she had to be moved from the Tower to a hospital. Then Tison himself entreated the Queen's forgiveness:

"I never knew you till you came here. I never dreamed what noble, true characters you all were, till I was set to act as a spy upon you! Oh, forgive me also!" Tison it was then, who came to the Queen's aid in her hour of need. Making himself acquainted with all that he could gather about her son's welfare, he gave her daily accounts of all that he thought would interest her. More than this, he showed her a loophole in the wall, tiny it is true, but through which she could sometime catch a glimpse of her boy as he passed up the stairs daily to take the air on the turret.

She was deeply shocked when she learned in whose care her tender child had been placed, and horrified when she saw his appearance through her loophole, clad in the red suit of the Commune. But once as he passed, she heard him humming softly the air of a little cradle-song she used to sing him:

"Sleep, my child, and cease thy weeping!
Sleep, my child! my heart is sad."

By this she knew that his thoughts were still with her, and her heart was a trifle comforted.

But a great change was to come. At two o'clock in the morning, on the first of August, 1793, the Queen was awakened and told that she must prepare to leave the Temple Tower. She was transferred to the prison of La Conciergerie where she was kept two months and a half in a small, damp cell. After that she was obliged to undergo a trial that was even more of a flimsy mockery than the one accorded to Louis XVI. "Anything, anything to be rid of her!" was the one idea of this terrible tribunal. The end, like her husband's, was a foregone conclusion. On the sixteenth of October, she bravely, calmly, proudly gave up her life, happy in being reunited at last with her beloved husband, regretting only that she must leave her children to so uncertain a fate.

In the Tower of the Temple wept and waited poor Madame Elizabeth and Marie-Thérèse, all in ignorance of the Queen's fate. And on the floor below, also waited the persecuted child, who did not even know that his mother was gone from the room above, where he loved to think of her as watching over him.

THE BLOW FALLS

CHAPTER X

On a night toward the end of October, 1793, Jean was walking slowly and thoughtfully home from the tavern to the Rue de Lille. His day's work was over and it was long past ten o'clock. He was in no special hurry, for he had many things to think over and he felt that he could do this better by himself and in the open. None of his thoughts were particularly happy. It was but a week since the Queen had given up her life on the guillotine, and his heart ached with pity and horror for her sorrowful end. The little King, doubtless all in ignorance of his loss, was constantly more and more cruelly treated by the cobbler, whose already evil temper was now thoroughly demoralised by his own enforced imprisonment.

Then too, the condition of Paris was appalling. The Terror was at its height, the prisons were overflowing with "suspects," and the guillotine claimed daily a sickening array of victims. Robespierre ruled the Convention with a hand of iron, and ruthlessly sacrificed to La Guillotine all who stood in his way.

Jean had heard no news from his friend Bonaparte except a brief note some time before, saying that he was in Marseilles with all his family (which had left Corsica forever), and that he was again in the army. And there was yet another problem weighing on the boy's mind. Tison, with whom he had established quite a friendship since the spy's strange conversion, had come to him two days before with a request. It seemed that the Queen, before she was taken to La Conciergerie, had entrusted to Tison a little book of prayers that she wished in some way to be conveyed to her son. Tison had promised faithfully to accomplish this mission if possible, but had as yet been unable to do so, as he was never admitted to Simon's room.

Then he bethought himself of Yvonne, and of how she came occasionally to play there, and he remembered that Jean had once confided to him the tale of her first admittance. Here then was the solution! He came to Jean and begged him to see that the book was in some way delivered, and had only that morning placed the precious parcel in the boy's keeping. This Jean felt to be a sacred trust, more so than ever now that the Queen was dead. He determined that Yvonne must take it on the morrow when she went with her mother and the laundry. Barelle would be on duty that day, and would very likely gain her entrance.

One more vague fear troubled him. La Souris had never, by word or sign, indicated that he concerned himself in the least about the boy, since the memorable night when the plot of the Baron de Batz had failed. But of late the man was constant in his hovering about the tavern, and the very fact that he seemed to avoid speaking to the boy purposely, made Jean most uneasy. It was as though a sword were suspended above his head, and might fall at any unexpected moment.

All these thoughts served to depress the spirits of this usually lively lad. He walked soberly, his head bent, looking neither to the right nor left, his hands jammed in his trousers pockets. The street he traversed was alive with people and bright with the lights from many shop-windows. But presently he turned into one that was quite deserted, and almost pitch dark by contrast. He had not proceeded far in this black lane before he became aware of stealthy steps following him. His first impulse was to take to his heels and run at top speed, but he wisely decided to do no such thing. Instead he stopped abruptly and demanded:

"Who is following me? What do you want?" The stealthy footfalls ceased for a moment, then out of the shadow stepped a huge figure.

"Do not be afraid!" a voice whispered, as the figure drew near. "I am Citizen Prevôt, the pikeman, who helped to search your house over a year ago!" Jean was astonished and not a little alarmed. He knew Prevôt to be an almost constant attendant of his enemy, La Souris, and he could not imagine whether to expect an attack from this giant or a friendly advance. Prevôt hastened to reassure him:

"I am following you with the friendliest intentions, believe me! I always liked you for your cleverness in teaching that little dog his trick, and I've news that will interest you to-night. I followed you from the tavern, but I dared not address you till we came to this dark street, for fear of—him! He's a born spy! It's the sole ambition of his life to get someone into trouble,—you know whom I mean!—and I hate him as I hate the devil! But I have to serve him,—that's my living and likewise the safety of my neck! Now, in the first place, let me ask you did your little dog ever get back to you?"

"Oh, yes, yes!" answered Jean. "But how he came to, I know not."

"Well, I do," returned Prevôt, "for I let him out of the house that night. The poor little beast had been pining away for weeks and weeks. He would eat almost nothing, and when we tried to make him do that clever trick, he would only lie down and whine. It was plain that his heart was breaking. So, one night when he was out on some spying expedition, I quietly opened the door, and the little animal was off and away like a flash. I supposed he would get back to you. My soul! But I had to stand a tirade from him when he came back, for I represented to him how the beast must have sneaked out unawares!"

"I can never thank you enough!" said Jean gladly. "We all love the little thing so!"

"But that's not all I have to say," went on Prevôt. "And the rest is more serious! Do you know that he has been keeping an eye on you for a long time? Well, he has had his suspicions that you were mixed up in one or two things concerning those in the Tower, but he could never be quite certain till this morning, when he caught you in communication with Tison, and saw Tison hand you something, secretly. Then he put two and two together, and became convinced that you were in some plot to aid those Capets. My lad, to-day he denounced you to the authorities! To-morrow morning you will be arrested and then off with you to La Conciergerie,—and you can imagine the rest! Tison is to be treated to the same attention, only he will probably go to some other prison. Then said I to myself, that fellow is too bright a young chap to afford a mouthful to La Guillotine, and I'm going to give him at least a warning! Cut away to-night, young Jean! If you start at once without even going home, by to-morrow you can be far out of Paris and the reach of him!"

Jean's heart almost stopped beating at the news, yet, singularly enough, so long had he been expecting the blow, that when it fell his one thought was, "It has come at last!" He could not even command words in which to thank this kind-hearted sans-culotte for his timely warning. But Prevôt understood and grasped his hand:

"Don't try to thank me, lad! Make haste to get away, and to-morrow morning there will be one victim the less, thank heaven! I must return at once, for he will be missing me, and of course suspecting something! Adieu!" And he was gone before the boy could open his lips.

For many minutes Jean stood there in the darkness, striving to collect his thoughts. What was he to do! Circumstance having thus opened the way for him, combining his safety with one of his most cherished wishes, it was an almost irresistible temptation to flee from Paris, seek out his hero and friend in Marseilles, and become a soldier of France. It was a situation that would have tested the courage and loyalty of many an older and more experienced mind. But turn and twist it as he would, the position admitted of one outcome only, for him. Did he take good Citizen Prevôt's advice and escape before morning, what would be the inevitable result? Simply this—that Mère Clouet and Yvonne would be suspected of complicity with him, and they would, without doubt, take his place in one of the overflowing prisons. That they should suffer while he went scot-free was unthinkable. And of course they could not all attempt to escape,—that would mean certain apprehension with its inevitable results. On the other hand, did he stand his ground, go about his usual duties to-morrow and accept his arrest as if innocent, there was one chance in a hundred that he might be so considered, and ultimately set free. And even at the worst, no matter what happened to him, Mère Clouet and Yvonne would probably escape suspicion.

Then there was one other consideration,—the dead Queen's little book of prayers that he held concealed, in trust for her misused son. That must be delivered at all cost, and in order to facilitate this he must go on to the Rue de Lille and entrust it to Yvonne. No!—the longer he thought about it, the plainer his duty became. He must accept with the best grace possible what fate had in store for him, execute the mission that had been entrusted to him, and see that no harm came through him, to those who stood for all the family that he could claim in this world. Once arrived at this conclusion, his heart actually felt lighter. With all due gratitude to Prevôt, he hurried home, determined to act on the morrow as though in complete ignorance of what awaited him.

But when he reached the Rue de Lille, it was with a very grave face. So unlike his usual gay self was he, that Mère Clouet was alarmed. Jean, however, told her nothing. He ate his late supper, fed Moufflet, and tried hard to act as though all were as usual. But when the Citizeness Clouet had left the room for a time, Jean drew Yvonne aside and took her into his confidence.

"Do not tell good Mère Clouet yet," he ended. "She must go to-morrow with the laundry, and I want her to know nothing, till afterward!" Poor little Yvonne grew white with terror.

"Oh, Jean," she whispered, "nothing must happen to you! We love you so! How could we live without you!"

"Perhaps nothing more serious than a few days' detention will happen, little one," he answered, "but we must always be prepared. Now let me tell you what you must do. Here is the packet. You cannot get it out of your hands too soon! Do they ever search you when you go to the little fellow?"

"No," replied Yvonne. "Citizen Barelle always tells them it is not necessary."

"Then you can probably get it to him safely. It is small thank heaven!—and easily concealed. Few about the place connect me with you and your mother, so if I am taken, make no inquiries for me except of Barelle or Meunier,—he is also a friend,—for your own heads would not then be safe! Trust in God, Yvonne, to save me! I cannot think He will suffer me to come to harm. Take good care of Moufflet, and give my love to Mère Clouet. Good-night, Yvonne!" It is scarcely necessary to add that two people in number 670 Rue de Lille slept but little that night!

Next morning Jean hurried off to work as though nothing of importance was to happen that day. The hours of the morning drifted heavily by, and his heart was in his mouth at every unusual sound. He saw Mère Clouet and Yvonne arrive with the laundry and leave after their usual stay. Yvonne looked frightened and was plainly trembling, but by the imperceptible nod she gave him, he guessed that her mission was accomplished. Noon came, and still nothing had happened. But about one o'clock, three gendarmes came into the tavern and ordered some wine. Scarcely were they finished with their refreshment, when one of them laid a heavy hand on Jean's shoulder.

"I arrest you in the name of the Republic!" was all he said, but Jean knew that the blow had fallen at last. A wondering and regretful group gathered about to see this favourite led away to some unknown but only too well-imagined fate. Even Père Lefèvre parted from his little waiter with quite a show of sympathy. It seemed a long journey from the Temple to the Palais de Justice, and the gendarmes said not a word all the way. The procession aroused little interest in the passers-by, for arrests were too common in those days to cause any excitement. Arriving at the Palais de Justice, they entered through the great Cour du Mai, and led the boy to a large office where were seated many clerks at work. His name was entered and a gendarme assured the clerks that the charge had already been noted so that it only remained to thrust him within the walls of the prison. Without further ado, he was led down a gloomy staircase, a gate was opened and shut, and Jean was fast in La Conciergerie!

He found himself in a spacious courtyard filled to overflowing with a throng of helpless humanity of every degree from the lowest to the highest. Among them were nobles, authors, priests, bankers, merchants, bakers, farmers, mechanics, sans-culottes even, and vagabonds, all rubbing elbows, existing in daily fear and trembling, and almost starved on the inadequate rations they received. That afternoon a crier came to the gate and read aloud the list of that day's victims to the Guillotine. Amid sobs and cries, that batch of prisoners passed out of the dungeon forever, only to be replaced by a fresh installment before evening.

Recognising none of his fellow-prisoners, Jean established himself in a convenient corner, and amused himself by noting the vast difference in the way that different classes of victims behaved themselves in their terrible incarceration. Strangely enough, the class that seemed most unconcerned was the nobility. A little party of them were grouped together in a corner, and from their actions they might have been safely at home enjoying each others' society without a thought of fear. Four of them were engaged in playing a stately game of cards. When the crier of the afternoon read, among others, the name of one of these players, Jean was astonished to see the man rise, apologise politely to the others for his enforced absence, and request another friend to take his place while he was away. Then he bowed and departed, as though death were not awaiting him outside that fatal gate! Others were not less collected. These aristocrats seemed to pride themselves on ignoring the hideous peril of their position.

People in other walks of life were not always so self-contained. Here and there women, and even men sobbed and shivered for hours at a stretch, and a shriek of anguish from some doomed victim was no unusual occurrence. Others seemed frozen dumb with apprehension, while yet others laughed and sang and played at boisterous games, striving recklessly to forget their precarious nearness to trouble.

When evening came, and the prisoners were to be locked into their crowded cells for the night, four noisy, stupid, half-tipsy jailers entered, accompanied by several savage dogs, and there was a great to-do while the roll of the victims was being called. A badly spelled, incorrect list was passed from hand to hand among the jailers, a wrong name was called, to which, of course, no one responded. The turnkeys all swore in chorus, and tried another with no better success!

"Here, citizens," suggested Jean the irrepressible, "give me that list, and I'll help you get it straight!" They were only too glad of some assistance, and willingly handed it to him. Jean called off the names, while the person to whom each belonged marched before the guards and assured them of his or her identity. When this performance had been gone through four times, the muddled keepers were at length convinced that they had all safely locked in.

"Thanks, little rat!" they told Jean. "We will remember you another time!" and the great gates were shut and barred for the night. Jean found himself in a narrow cell in company with seven other persons completely unknown to him, and they all slept together on a filthy mattress of straw. Next day, however, Jean was removed from the common hall and placed in a tiny, uncomfortable cell by himself.

"What's this for, my friend?" he demanded of the turnkey.

"It's because you are a dangerous conspirator, and it has been commanded to keep you in solitary confinement!" he was told.

"Here's a pretty pass!" thought Jean. "How plainly we see the finger of La Souris in this pie!" And he sat down on his straw mattress to think it over.

EXIT THE COBBLER

CHAPTER XI

Had one watched him, it would soon have become evident that he was waiting for something,—waiting, longing, with every nerve tense, for some desired event. It was the day that the laundry should come back, and the child knew it. Therefore with all his heart he was hoping for one of those infrequent visits with Yvonne, the sole pleasure in his weary little existence. It was long since she last came to him.

For a while nothing was heard in the room but the click of Madame Simon's knitting-needles, and the chirp and flutter of five or six canaries in a big gilt cage on the table. It was through the goodness of the kind-hearted Meunier, another commissary, that the child had been allowed this plaything. Pitying his forlorn and empty life, Meunier had obtained permission to have placed in the room a gilt cage that he had found in the store-room of the Temple. This cage contained an artificial canary, which when wound up would whistle the air, "O Richard! O, my king!"

At first Louis Charles was immensely pleased with this toy, thinking that the bird was alive and a captive like himself. But when he discovered that it was only an automaton, he lost all interest and apathetically refused to be entertained by it. Then good-natured Meunier scoured the neighbourhood and brought him some live canaries to put with the mechanical one.

"These, at least, are real birds!" the child cried gleefully, and kissed each one as it was put into the cage. "I shall try to tame them!" From that time he had always a pleasing occupation with his feathered captives. He fed them, cleaned the cage, and clapped his hands with delight when they all started to sing, accompanying the toy one in his tune of the "King's March." One little fellow seemed tamer than the rest, never failed to come when the boy chirped to it, and even perched fearlessly on his shoulder. This one he called "La Petite," and had tied a tiny pink ribbon around its leg.

But the birds were rather quiet just now, hopping about and twittering softly. Suddenly in the silence of the room there sounded the rasping of bolts undrawn, the clanking of chains and the hoarse command of the sentries. The door queued. The boy's heart almost stood still in the intensity of his expectation. Would she come? Was Yvonne just beyond the door? With a stifled cry of joy he recognised the sound of her voice, and knew that his desire was to be fulfilled. When she entered he thought she looked grave, and not nearly so buoyant as was her wont. Poor Yvonne! At that very moment she was sick with fear for Jean's yet unknown fate.

Wishing to rid herself at once of the packet, and deeming Simon's absence the most favourable moment, she thrust it into his hand under the table.

"From your mother! Hide it quickly!" she whispered. Watching Barelle and Madame Simon who were talking together, he slipped to his bed, and shoved the packet into a small hole in the mattress, returning noiselessly to Yvonne. Then he said aloud:

"I have something for you, Yvonne. It is not much, but I wish you to take and enjoy it!" And he handed her a small, shrivelled pear. Little Yvonne was sincerely touched by this gift. She knew how small an amount the poor child got to eat, and she could not bear to deprive him of even this miserable little piece of fruit.

"Oh, I ought not take it!" she said. "You need it more than I!" But Louis Charles eagerly pressed her to accept, and even Madame Simon turned to intervene:

"Take it! take it, little girl! The little fellow has been saving it for a week to give to you. He will be sorely grieved if you refuse!" With tears in her eyes, Yvonne accepted the pitiful gift.

"And now show me your birds! How pretty they are!" she said. But the boy had a question to ask. "My mother! How is she?" he whispered. Poor little fellow! He did not dream that his mother, long since removed from the Tower, had so recently gone to her eternal repose. Even the cruel-hearted cobbler had spared him that blow, and Yvonne would sooner have had her tongue cut out than be the one to impart such news. So she only smiled and pointed to the ceiling. And Louis Charles, reassured, turned to show her his birds.

He whistled and sang to them, and started the toy-bird playing its tune. This encouraged all the feathered flock to warble and soon there was a gay little concert in the dingy prison room. The children clapped their hands and laughed with delight. In the midst of this the door suddenly opened, and Simon entered, followed by some new municipals who were making their first tour of inspection.

"What's this! What's this!" exclaimed one, more ferociously zealous than the rest, as he approached the cage. The live birds all ceased their music, but the ill-fated automaton went on with its song, "O, Richard! O, my king!"

"Kings! kings! Here's a pretty state of affairs! How comes such a thing here? There are no more kings!" Then he noticed the ribbon around the leg of the boy's favourite. "And what's this! Here's a decorated bird! Here's a privileged character! Here's an aristocrat, I suppose!" He burst open the door of the cage, and seizing the offending songster, roughly tore off the "Order." Then he threw it violently from him. Poor Louis Charles was watching the treatment of his pet. He sat rooted to his chair with frightened eyes, and a little sob escaped him when the man cast the bird from him. But he knew better than to utter one word in defence of his favourite. Experience had taught him that such a course would conspire even sooner, to bring about the defeat of any wish he might express.

"Take these things away!" ordered the new municipal, and Simon quickly removed the cage from the room. Then the municipal turned his attention to Yvonne.

"Who is this, and why, pray, is she here?" he stormed. Barelle explained Yvonne's presence.

"Away with her! This is all against the rules!" he shouted, and poor Yvonne was hustled off before she could even say good-bye to her friend. In her heart she knew that she would never be allowed to come again.

Louis Charles cried himself to sleep that night, in the agony of the day's double disappointment. To be robbed at once of his birds and Yvonne was a crushing blow. But he woke in the night, remembered the packet his mother had sent him, drew it out and opened it. Though he could see nothing, by touch he recognised the prayer-book he had so often seen in his mother's hands. Reassured by her love and thought for him, he kissed it reverently. After that he thrust it back in its hiding-place, and went to sleep calmed and comforted.

He never saw his birds again, nor did Yvonne ever enter the door of his hated prison as the gloomy weeks passed, yet strange events were preparing which were to make radical changes in the life of Louis XVII. These events related chiefly to the cobbler Simon. The long confinement had been telling on his robust health, and stretching his nerves to an irritable tension. For confined he was, as surely and closely as the little king himself. He was there to guard "Little Capet" every moment of the time, and was being handsomely paid for it. Therefore every request to go out for a while, change scene and air or witness some festival of the Republic, was sternly refused by the Council-General. Madame Simon also grew restive, though she was allowed more freedom than her husband.

At length the time came when the cobbler felt he could endure it no longer. He liked his work,—nothing pleased him more than to maltreat this little prince of the blood,—and he liked his pay even better. But more than all he wanted freedom, and that he could not have with the position of tutor to "Little Capet." Consequently on the fifth of January, 1794, he handed in his resignation, and was released from a situation now become hateful to him.

A few days after, there was a great noise and confusion in the Tower. The cobbler and his wife were about to leave it. The child-prisoner could scarcely believe his senses! Was his terrible tormentor really going? Was he actually to be left in peace? He sat motionless and silent, watching their operations, while a frenzy of joy surged within him. At length all was in readiness, and there was no excuse for further delay. Madame Simon, who had never cherished her husband's hard feeling for the child, approached him, pressed his hand kindly and said:

"I do not know when I shall see you again, Little Capet, but good-bye!" Simon heard her, and added a farewell of his own that was quite characteristic of him.

"Ah, you little toad! I suppose you're glad to be rid of me, aren't you! But you won't get out of this hole, I can tell you, and you may do worse than have Simon the cobbler about you!" With this he pressed his hand heavily on the child's head, almost drawing from him a cry of pain. Then the door was shut, and Simon the cobbler went out of the life of Louis XVII forever!

All that day the boy was left alone to amuse himself at will, seeing none but Caron the cook who brought him his meals. In breathless expectation he awaited whatever might happen next. Who could tell! He might even be sent to his mother! Next day, however, another surprise awaited him.

The Council-General, it seemed, found great difficulty in replacing Simon. In fact, they declared that his counterpart could not be found, and so he should have no successor. They determined instead, to try the effect of absolute solitude for a time on the little sovereign.

Perhaps we wonder why, since the child's existence was so troublesome to them, they did not kill him outright, as they had his royal parents. But no! Such a crime would not befit a Republic "always great and generous!" They did not go about slaughtering innocent children whose only offence was that of having been born to the purple! By no means! They would make a great pretence of caring for and guarding him, but in time he should simply fade away, disappear, be lost to public interest. Or, in plainer words, he should die a natural death, brought about by systematic ill-treatment and neglect. The first stage had already been accomplished by the cobbler. The second was about to begin.

On the morning of the following day, into the room walked carpenters and workmen. What were they about to do, wondered the boy? He was soon to discover. First they moved his bed into a dark little back room that adjoined the large one. Then they cut down the door between to about breast-height, and criss-crossed the open upper part with heavy iron bars. In the middle of this they made a wicket or hole closed by other movable bars, and fastened with an enormous padlock.

Louis Charles was then commanded to enter. He did so, and the door was shut and fastened unalterably by every device of which they could think. And so he was left, having no communication with the outer world save the little wicket. Through this was passed his coarse meals, and whatever necessaries they thought fit to allow him. Through this also he sent out whatever he wished removed. The cell was lighted only by a lantern hung in the room outside, whose feeble rays scarcely penetrated beyond the bars of the door. He was allowed no books, no playthings, no occupation of any kind except to keep his cell clean with an old broom.

For the first few days, in spite of the utter desolation of his surroundings, the boy was contented, even happy. His young life had for the past six months been so constantly harried by the cruel cobbler and merciless municipals, that he was devoutly thankful for the peace and rest of his solitude. One of the first things he did was to draw his mother's prayer-book from its hiding-place, and try in the dim light to decipher some of the prayers she had so often repeated with him. This he had never dared to do when the cobbler had charge of him. Then he examined the glossy curl of Moufflet's hair, and wondered whether he should some day see his pet once more. When in want of other occupation, he would sweep his cell again and again, and make and re-make his bed.

His meals were handed to him twice a day. Coarse, ill-cooked fare it was, and very little of that,—some watery soup, a small morsel of meat, a loaf of stale bread and a pitcher of water. He never saw the one who brought it, for the wicket was so arranged as to hide the face outside. The commissaries changed daily, and their visits were always after nightfall. They would come to his wicket and call loudly, "Little Capet, are you there?" "Yes!" he would reply. "Well, go to bed then! You can't have any more light!" they would shout, and extinguish the lantern in the next room.

And so the time passed! Louis Charles soon lost all track of the dragging days and weeks, but this solitude began to tell frightfully on his strength, and he grew almost too weak to move about. Upstairs, just above him, his sister and aunt knew nothing of his troubles. They only knew that Simon was gone, for they heard no more dreadful shouting and scolding, nor the plaintive child's voice singing the songs of the Revolution at his jailer's command. But one dark night, Madame Elizabeth received a summons to appear before the terrible tribunal. And she also went out of the Temple, never to return, for she was shortly to travel the same dark way that the King and Queen had gone before her. Little Marie-Thérèse was also left in solitude.

And so for a space of several months must we leave the three children, each to a solitary cell, one in the Conciergerie, and two in the Temple Tower.

A FRIEND RE-ENTERS AND EVENTS MOVE ON

CHAPTER XII

How he had endured those long, dreary weeks, he could scarcely himself have told. Sometimes it seemed as though the solitude, combined with his fears for his loved ones and himself, and the despair at this frustration of all his hopes, would deprive him of his reason. But Jean was a lad of many and varied resources! For one thing he had made friends with his jailers on the very first day, and had lost no opportunity since to improve their acquaintance. With them he held long conversations, and tried thus to learn as much as possible of the state of affairs in the city. But the turnkeys, though friendly, were rather chary of information, and Jean gleaned but little intelligence in this direction. Yesterday, however, one of them had casually dropped a remark that filled him with an unreasoning joy:

"We are hideously crowded now, and there's no place to be longer reserved for solitary confinement. So by to-morrow you may have a lodger, my friend!" Jean dared not exhibit the pleasure this announcement caused him. To see and speak to a human being other than these almost inhuman monstrosities, the turnkeys, was almost too good to be true!

"Oh, well! I'll not object, only do not crowd in too many, I beg!" he replied with greatest indifference. But his heart sang in a very jubilee of thanksgiving. Therefore was he waiting in breathless expectancy, for either one of two events,—a companion in his solitude, or a call to himself face the tribunal of justice and its almost certain result. Which would it be?

He waited till noon in eager suspense, but the corridor remained silent. Jean began to be very impatient. He longed for anything to break the monotony of this waiting, even were it to mean his own call to judgment. At last, about two o'clock, voices were heard along the corridor, tramping footfalls, the hoarse growl of the turnkeys, and finally the unbolting of the cell-door. But his joy was beyond all words when the two turnkeys flung into the room a stranger, and closed the door with a bang and the cheerful remark:

"There you are! Keep each other company till you go to make your call on Mistress Guillotine!" The stranger fell heavily on the bed, as though in a stupor, and so remained for many minutes. While in this state, Jean had time to look him over and judge what manner of companion he had been given. The man was clothed in the peasant costume, evidently of Picardy. His face was covered with a five days' growth of beard, and his expression indicated no large amount of wits. As he lay on the mattress, he seemed overcome by a very paroxysm of terror. When he appeared to be somewhat recovered, Jean broke the conversational ice:

"And what may be your crime against the Republic, Citizen Friend?" The peasant started at the sound of his voice, sat up and gave the boy a scrutinising look. Then his face underwent the strangest transformation Jean had ever seen. The stupid expression vanished, the eyes sparkled brilliantly, and a smile played about the bearded mouth. In that instant Jean recognised him.

"The Baron de Batz!" he exclaimed, springing forward.

"Hush!" whispered the Baron, as he wrung the boy's hand. "This is luck indeed! I knew that you had been sent here, but I thought regretfully, that you had long since perished!" Jean explained the supposed reason that he had been so far spared.

"But tell me, I beg, how you come to be here!" he ended.

"Oh," said De Batz, "it's not under my right name that I have been arrested, as you probably surmise. Of course, I'm still devoted to the cause of rescuing my little king, but up till now all my plans have failed, chiefly through just such misfortunes as that which spoiled the one in which you took part. But there is something on foot now,—or will be soon,—that is of greater scope than any yet conceived!

"As to how I came here?—well, I was prowling this morning about the Temple, in this disguise of a peasant of Picardy, seeking to obtain some needful information. For this purpose I engaged a guard in conversation, in the course of which he remarked that the country was going to the Evil One! 'Not going, but there already!' I responded, when I felt a hand on my shoulder. I turned, and confronted—who but Simon the cobbler!

"'That's a remark inimical to the Republic!' he roared. 'For that I order your arrest!' And in two seconds I was in the grasp of a couple of gendarmes who hustled me, followed by Simon, to this prison. Simon made the charge, and I gave the name of Antoine Lecoste. The rest you know! And for such offences are thousands of poor wretches doomed to death in these glorious days!"

"But what a misfortune," sighed Jean, "that you should be so imperilled when you are the soul of the noble schemes for releasing the little fellow! You stand about one chance in a million of being acquitted, from all I hear!"

"Do not fear for me, lad! One can never tell what may happen, of course, but, hark you! I have a band of trusty followers, and in view of the very thing that has happened, my arrest, we concerted, some time ago, a plan to rescue me if I am caught and condemned, even were I on the way to the very scaffold itself. And trust me, Jean, should it so fall out that we travel that road together, you shall share my rescue. If I go before you and am rescued, I will surely devise some scheme for your escape when your time comes. Only, if you are called to go before me, heaven alone can aid you!" Jean pressed his hand with a gratitude too deep for words.

"Meanwhile," ended the Baron, "it is best that we do not seem too intimate, when our jailers are around. What a horrible place this is! How long have you been here?" And Jean gave him a history of his imprisonment. The two talked nearly all that night. Jean had heard practically no news from the outer world in all the eight months, and he learned now much that astonished him. One of the events most amazing to him was the resignation of Simon from his post of tutor to Louis XVII, and the young king's solitary confinement. The other was that Danton, the great original Terrorist leader had perished on the scaffold as far back as April.

"How came it about?" inquired Jean in wonder. "I cannot understand it! He was head and front of every thing!"

"Simple enough, in these days!" responded De Batz. "It is like the mountainous waves of the sea. One towers above all for a moment, only to be overtopped by the one behind it next instant. Robespierre became both tired and jealous of his great friend and compatriot, and decided to get rid of him. Nothing easier! He denounced Danton to the Convention, and he was tried and condemned by the very tribunal he had himself instituted. Right here in the Conciergerie at that! You should have seen him during his trial! He sat and made paper pellets which he threw at his judges! Oh, Danton was a cool one, and he died bravely! But, let me tell you something. Robespierre's turn is coming next! The people are weary of him and his underhand ways, and 'tis whispered that he wishes to sweep all others out of his path and make himself Dictator. But it won't do! They are furious at him for causing Danton's death,—his closest friend, mind you!—and something is going to happen. The pot is on the point of boiling. It will take but a few days at most for it to boil over. And let me tell you who will be the next man of the hour,—Barras! He is already very popular. Keep your eye on Barras, Jean!"

Two days passed, and the friends were left unmolested. During this time they exchanged thoughts on many subjects, and waited with apprehension lest one or the other should be called away, and strove to pass the hours as best they might. Jean begged De Batz to tell him what was the new plan for rescuing Louis XVII.

"That I cannot tell you just yet," said the Baron. "For it is not perfected, and I am under oath to reveal nothing. But if we get out of this alive, be sure that you will hear more about it later. But one thing I will say. I may have to disappear for a time to another part of France. If I am not in Paris, find Caron! You know who he is?" Jean nodded assent. Then he asked about how they were to escape.

"It is best that you should not know," said De Batz. "The manner of it will be attended with great risk, and you will come through it better if you are ignorant. Only, do not be surprised at anything that may happen!"

On the third day, the jailers entered the cell at noon, accompanied by a court-crier. Jean and the Baron exchanged a look, for they knew that the fate of at least one of them was to be sealed that day. To their joy, both their names were read to appear before the tribunal. The jailers left them saying that they would be back in half an hour.

"This is a godsend!" exclaimed the Baron. "Nothing could have been better than that we should go out at the same time. If we are rescued it will be together, and if not,—well, at least we will die in each other's company!" The jailers came back in a few moments and bound the hands of the two behind their backs. In the courtyard they found a band of thirty more victims, in charge of a corps of gendarmes, all petrified into a very apathy of fearful anticipation. Strangely enough, there was not even a tear shed by the band of the condemned. The sobs and lamentations came wholly from the friends they were leaving.

Out from the courtyard, and along dark galleries and passages they were herded like so many cattle, till at length they were pushed into the great gloomy room where sat the far-famed Tribunal of Terror. Three judges robed in black, wearing plumed hats, sat on a high platform, and scribbled occasional notes. A clerk called out the list of names, to which each prisoner responded. Then, one by one, the names were read again, and a charge against each was hastily gabbled over, which the prisoners scarcely heard and in nine cases out of ten did not understand. When asked if they had anything to say in their defence, each murmured calmly and hopelessly, "No!" After this, one of the judges rose and pronounced the sentence:

"You are all found guilty of conspiring against the Republic! I pronounce upon you the sentence of immediate death!"

There was no surprise and scarcely any interest created by this. Why should there be! They had expected it from the beginning! For the most part they were as those already dead. The gendarmes hurried them out by another passage, and they came to an open gate, beyond which stood the tumbrils waiting for their daily load. Here a great crowd of the populace had collected. But where months ago they had hooted and jeered at the doomed ones, now the sympathy of the majority was with the victims, and the carts were loaded in a sorrowful silence, broken only by the occasional cry of some outsider who beheld a friend among the condemned.

Jean and De Batz were reserved for the last cart, and just before they entered, the boy saw his friend make an almost imperceptible motion of the head to a man in the crowd who instantly disappeared. "Courage!" whispered the Baron to his little comrade, as they were flung unceremoniously into the tumbril, accompanied by ten or twelve others. That ride was a thing to be remembered as one recalls a shuddering nightmare. Crowded in as they were, Jean saw no possible hope of rescue, and the cart jolted on roughly through street after street. They had approached very near the Place de la Révolution and the termination of their ride, when a heavy cart that had driven in between them and the forward tumbril, suddenly broke down, a wheel flew off, and the way was completely blocked.

"Good!" muttered the Baron to Jean. "The first step is a success!" The driver of their tumbril swore roundly, but nothing could be done except drive back a block or two and proceed through a very narrow street, scarcely more than an alley. Meanwhile the crowd had forsaken them, and had hastened on to the guillotine, lest it be too late for the first of the day's executions. The last tumbril would doubtless arrive in good time without their assistance!

The narrow alley into which they now turned was lined with rickety wooden houses, and Jean noticed that De Batz watched one of these narrowly, so he also kept his eye upon it. They had almost reached it when suddenly, out from it rushed ten or fifteen men, all shouting, swearing, lunging at each other with knives and bludgeons, apparently engaged in a fierce dispute that could only be settled by drawing blood. They surged about the tumbril, while the astonished driver sought to clear the way by flourishing his whip, and shouting for a free passage.

In the midst of all this confusion, Jean presently felt a knife inserted between the cords that bound his wrists, and in a second his hands were free. Then he saw that De Batz had likewise been released from his fetters. In the midst of the greatest racket he heard the Baron whisper:

"Slip down! Get among them!" Fortunately they were both seated at the rear end of the cart. Before Jean realised it, he was down and in the midst of the noisy group shouting and struggling like the rest. If the other inmates of the cart realised what was happening, they were either too apathetic to care, or too glad that even a few might escape, to make any outcry. The struggling, fighting men, gradually ceased their blows and pretending to be appeased, gathered into a group, carefully concealing in their midst the Baron and Jean. The wrathful driver of the tumbril shook his fist at them, swore to have them all arrested later, gathered up his reins, and the cart lumbered heavily away, while he remained entirely in ignorance of the fact that his load was lighter by two! When it had disappeared, they all hurried into the house from whence the men had issued.

"Oh!" sobbed Jean, now that the terrible tension was relieved, "if we could only have saved the rest! It seems horrible that they should go on to what we have escaped!"

"It could not be done," said De Batz. "It was an awful risk even for one, and for two a still greater peril. But had there been more,—why all would have perished! You yourself would not have been saved, had I not given my men a sign." The men now gathered about their leader, who congratulated them on the successful outcome of the plot.

"But we must not remain here," he ended. "One by one you must leave the house, all but Jean and myself. It would not do for us to be seen in broad daylight so soon. We will hide in the cellar till to-night." Gradually the men dispersed, and till long after midnight, Jean and the Baron kept each other company in the dark cellar, for the house was an abandoned one. At length the time came for them to part.

"Return to the Rue de Lille," ordered De Batz, "and keep hidden there for a few days. Things are going to happen, as I told you, and after that it may be safe to go out. I must leave Paris, perhaps for some time. But one injunction I leave with you,—find Caron! No,—do not thank me, my boy, for helping you to this escape! It is only what we owe to each other, and to Louis XVII! But thank God for helping us to accomplish it. Adieu! adieu! Find Caron!"

And so they parted!