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 tableau.
Another year elapses, and Act 4th ushers in the evening of January 20th, 1793. There are no more palaces and fine clothes. We 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 epitome of all the barbarity inspired by the Revolution. "C'était la rancune du coin de rue contre la palais'," says Beauchesne, referring to this monster, who yet was not vile enough to escape Dame Guillotine. His turn came, but not until he had killed the Dauphin, body and almost soul.
"Louis Capet" enters, leaning on faithful Malesherbes' arm. On with your caps, guards; sit down, insolent Simon, and puff 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 precedent. 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 republic 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, forgives 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 morning 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 confessor. Behold him! the Abbé Edgeworth de Firmont!
Now comes the terrible moment for Louis XVI. His family are approaching. 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 picture 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 curls. 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 desperation 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 delinquencies, 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-
