him, nor the careless hand that sometimes left him without a
fire in very cold weather, and sometimes, by plying the stove with too
much fuel, converted his prison into a furnace.

This horrible place he was expected to keep clean, but his strength
was unequal to the task, and he was glad to crawl to his bed when
ordered by his guards, who refused to give him a light. Even there he
was not allowed to rest in peace, and often the commissaries appointed
to relieve those on duty would often noisily arouse him from his
pleasant dreams by rattling at his wicket, crying, "Capet, Capet, are
you asleep? Where are you? Young viper, get up!" And the little
startled form would creep from the bed and crawl to the wicket; while
the faint gentle voice would answer, "I am here, citizens, what do you
want with me?" "To see you," would be the surly reply of the watch for
the night. "All right. Get to bed. In!--Down!" And this performance
would be repeated several times before morning. It would have killed a
strong man in a short time. How long could a child stand it?

Days and weeks and months did pass, and as they passed brought
increasing langour, and weakness, and illness. The want of fresh air,
the abandonment and the solitude, had all had their effect, and the
unfortunate dauphin could scarcely lift the heavy earthenware platter
which contained his food, or the heavier jar in which his water was
brought. He soon left off sweeping his room, and never tried to move
the palliasse off his bed. He could not change his filthy sheets, and
his blanket was worn into tatters. He wore his ragged jacket and
trousers--Simon's legacy--both day and night, and although he felt all
this misery he could not cry. Loathsome creatures crawled in his den
and over his person until even the little scullion who attended him
shuddered with horror as he glanced into the place and muttered,
"Everything is _alive_ in that room." "Yes," says Beauchesne,
"everything was alive except the boy they were killing by inches, and
murdering in detail. This beautiful child, so admired at Versailles
and at the Tuileries, would not recognise himself, his form is
scarcely human--it is something that vegetates--a moving mass of bones
and skin. Never could any state of misery have been conceived more
desolate, more lonely, more threatening than this!... And all that I
here relate is true! These troubles, insults, and torments were heaped
on the head of a child. I show them t