RISTORI AS ZIIARIE AZVTOHVETTE.

1868.]

bons digging their own grave? Louis looks his last on that fateful picture of Charles First; the scaffold of Whitehall

rises before him, and he gives the signal for departure. Slowly they wend their way; the King, the court, the Assembly, Marie Antoinette, Madame Elizabeth, Madame Royale, Lamballe—Santerre bearing the Dauphin. There never was more beautiful and pathetic pantomime than that of the Queen. “God help us !” she murmurs; and God will help them—in another world. Sad, sad, yet not saddest of all, is this moving tab leau. Another year elapses, and Act 4th ushers in the evening of January zoth, 1793. There are no more palaces and fine clothes. Ve are in the tower of the Temple, and this is the King‘s room.

Very clever and characteristic of those times is the dialogue between Santerre and Simon, the latter of whom is an epi tome of all the barbarity inspired by the Revolution. “C’e'tait la ranrune du cain dz rue contre la ;)alai.r,” says Beau chesne, referring to this monster. who yet was not vile enough to escape Dame Guillotine.

His t11rn came, but not un

til he had killed the Dauphin, body and almost soul. “ Louis

faithful

Capet”

enters, leaning on

Malesherbes’

your caps, guards;

arm.

On

with

sit down, insolent

Simon, and pulf your bad tobacco under Capet’s nose, for it is brave and truly republican to kick a man after he is down; and such a man! Louis XVI. prosperous was a. man like many

another; Louis Capet in the Temple is great and noble almost without prece dent. He would eat, he would share his last meal with Malesherbes and his devoted servant, Cléry, but it must be without knives and forks, for the repub lic fears that royalty will deprive Dame Guillotine of a head. What cares Simon

for Capet?

Does he not sing “ The

Carmagnole,” and would he not dance that “whirl-blast of rags” if he felt so inclined? “ Long live the nation!” he shouts, thinking to stab Capet to the heart; but the King loves France, for

183

gives his murderers, and drinks to the salvation of his country. Here comes Minister Garat. Three days’ delay in the execution? Of course not. Has not Marat voted death in twenty-four hours? To-morrow morn ing at eight it must be ; but Capet may see his family before he dies, and alone, too, with guards to watch him through glass doors. And he may have a con fessor. Behold him! the Abbé Edge worth de Firmont! Now comes the terrible moment for Louis XVI. His family are approach ing. How his broken heart beats! Courage, man ! your last hold on life is to be presently torn away. Ah, he has need of courage, for what a terrible pic ture is this! Three wretched women and a beautiful boy clinging to him with sobs that would rend all hearts but the republic’s. Terribly real is this family group_Marie Antoinette still lovely, but her blonde hair streaming about her face in gray rurlr. How that unhappy King endeavors to console the loved ones, to conceal the horrible truth.

It

is. useless. The children discover the Abbé in the oratory and know the worst, and Marie Antoinette falls rigidly upon the sofa. It is a dream, she thinks, upon returning to her senses. No, there is the Abbé, and in perfect despe ration she flings her arms around her husband’s neck and bids God first strike the regicides ! “ Your words should be those of pardon,” says the Abbé, gently, and Marie Antoinette forgets her thirst

for vengeance, humbly bowing her head. The last interview between the King and Queen is unequaled for pathos. The love, the regret for past delinquen cies, are indeed too real; and that one

moment when Marie Antoinette lays her head upon Louis’ breast, murmuring, “It does me so much good to weep upon your breast,” is the most exquisite expression of wifely feeling we ever witnessed. Time flies. The children must also receive parting counsel, and the family group is again complete. Nobler, more Christian words than those of Louis could not come from human lips. “ Re