happy dawns for the queen, no more summer's sky, not a bird to sing, not a flower to bloom the executioner was all that was left to her.
Reaching the Conciergerie, its heavy door soon closed upon her, and it seemed as though she already knew all the ways of this new prison, so quickly did she pass through its gloomy corridors. She walked through this obscure labyrinth as calmly as though she were traversing the gallery of Lebrun to enter the king's apartment. Then suddenly, from its narrow door, its menacing aspect, and its approach guarded by spies, she divined the cell that was intended for her and entered it. They brought her the jailer's book, in which she signed her name with a firm hand, then taking out of her pocket a white handkerchief she wiped her lovely forehead several times, which was covered with great drops of perspiration from having driven for so long in the closed cab in which she had been shut up with the two gendarmes; after which her gaze fell upon the damp walls that surrounded her. She saw at a glance all the new misery about her, the cold stones, the iron doors, the low-vaulted ceiling, all the nakedness of her tomb. For an instant her heart sank, but she soon regained her noble calmness. Then taking from her bosom a little watch which they had left her, she saw it was four o'clock. She then hung her watch on a nail which she discovered in the wall, which was its sole ornament, and as she had said her prayers the night before on going to bed in her other prison, she undressed herself to lie down on the iron bed, with its poor straw mattresses.
There was in the queen's cell the guardian's wife and her servant, who was an honest little Breton maid, who, pitying the queen, offered to aid her to undress herself. The queen was astonished at this kindness, and on looking at the young girl she discovered her face was full of sympathy, and could hardly believe her eyes. "Thank you, my child," she said to the young Breton peasant, "I have waited on myself for a long time now" and then she lay down. Two gendarmes guarded the cell, named Dufrene and Gilbert.
She remained thus for forty days, with no other misery than the misery of every new day — a widow and alone, having not a word of news of her son, the king of France; not a word of news of her children; not a word of news of Madame Elizabeth! No other sound than the grating of her iron doors, as they opened and shut to change the guards. No other noise than the rumbling of the charrette as it rolled away each morning, carrying its daily food to the monster guillotine.
But toward the middle of September Fouquier-Tinville went into the queen's cell, drunk with rage. All of the republic was in excitement about this prison. The guards were changed, the jailer was put in irons, and they placed a sentinel before the window of this unhappy woman, and he walked before it day and night. It was, you must know, because a little pink had been thrown in at the queen's window and fallen at her feet. She supported these new outrages without complaining; she was passive, like the beautiful marble which represents Niobe, and so calm and sad that the coarsest jailers became silent as they approached her, and took off their hats involuntarily. For once the sentinel who marched beside her window did not dare to look into her cell, for there seemed to radiate from it a holy sadness which commanded respect. One day she said to the little servant, "Rosalie, comb my hair," and bended toward the young girl her beautiful head, which was to fall so soon, with its lovely locks, whose beauty had inspired all the poets of the day — Tultastasio first among them. The jailer forbade Rosalie to arrange the queen's hair, however, and, saying t was "his right," he endeavored to take it out of the young maid's hands; but the queen arranged it herself — no one but the executioner having a right to touch her thenceforth. When she had arranged her lovely blonde hair, which grew about her forehead with so majestic and natural a grace, she parted her curls in front and covered them with a little perfumed powder, and then she put on a simple little cap which she had worn for twelve days. The next day, being kindly disposed, the Revolution permitted them to bring from the Temple to the queen a few batiste chemises, some handkerchiefs, fichus, silk stockings, and a white peignoir for the morning, a few nightcaps and some little bits of white ribbon. The queen smiled sadly as she received these poor relics of her former grandeur. "Ah!" she said, "I recognize my sister's kind thought of me in these." For it was Madame Elizabeth herself who had sent these clothes to her. When seeing all this unexpected wealth the queen took courage, and asked for a second mourning cap; but finding she could not pay for it "she thought, perhaps, there was enough lawn in her one cap to make two." Tell
