The Knight of Maison-Rouge_ A Novel of Marie Antoinette - Alexandre Dumas [136]
But before leaving the Hall of Lost Footsteps, he managed to catch citizen Gracchus questioning Richard and the concierge’s answer:
“The citizen architect was perfectly right: the tunnel goes under Widow Capet’s room; it was dangerous.”
“I should think so!” said Gracchus, who was conscious of uttering the simple truth.
Santerre appeared at the mouth of the stairs.
“What about your workers, citizen architect?” he asked Giraud.
“They’ll be here before the break of day and they’ll put the gate in place without further ado,” answered a voice that seemed to come from the bowels of the earth.
“And you will have saved our nation!” Santerre said, half mockingly, half seriously.
“You don’t know how right you are, citizen general,” muttered Gracchus.
38
THE ROYAL CHILD
Meanwhile, the case for the Queen’s trial had begun to be prepared for judgment, as we saw in the preceding chapter.
Already it was anticipated that only the sacrifice of her illustrious head would satisfy the popular hate that had been so long brewing. Reasons for causing her head to fall were hardly lacking, and yet that deadly prosecutor, Fouquier-Tinville, determined to leave no stone unturned, decided to investigate the new avenue of accusation Simon had promised to open up for him.
The day after he and Simon had met in the Hall of Lost Footsteps, a great clamor of arms came to churn the stomachs of the royal prisoners still housed in the Temple. These royal prisoners were Madame Elisabeth, Madame Royale, and the infant, who, having been called Majesty from birth, was now no more than little Louis Capet.
General Hanriot, he of the red, white, and blue panache, the fat squat horse, and the great sword, strode into the dungeon where the royal infant languished, followed by several National Guards.
By the general’s side was a mean-looking clerk of the court, equipped with a writing case and a roll of paper and struggling with an extravagantly long quill. Behind the scribe came the public prosecutor. We’ve already met the man and this is not the last we’ll see of the dry, jaundiced, and chilling old stick, whose bloodshot eyes used to cause even the ferocious Santerre himself to quake in his boots.
A handful of National Guards and a lieutenant brought up the rear.
Simon, smiling a queerly artificial smile and holding his bear-cub cap in one hand and his cobbler’s foot-pull in the other, went ahead to show the committee the way. They came to a room that was dark, spacious, and bare. At the back of the room was the young Louis, sitting on his bed in a state of perfect immobility.
When we last saw the poor child, fleeing from the brutal Simon, there was still a sort of vitality left in him, enough for him to react against the disgraceful treatment of the Temple cobbler. He ran away, he cried out, he sobbed—this meant he was afraid, which meant he was in pain, which meant he still had hope.
Now fear and hope had both vanished. No doubt he still suffered, but if he did, this child martyr who was made to pay so cruelly for the sins of his parents, he kept it buried in the darkest depths of his heart and veiled it under the appearance of complete insensibility.
He did not even raise his head when the commissioners marched up to him. They took their seats without preamble and settled in, with the public prosecutor at the head of the bed, Simon at the foot, the court clerk by the window, and the National Guards and their lieutenant to one side in the shadows.
Those among the men present who looked at the little prisoner with any interest or even curiosity remarked the child’s appalling pallor, his peculiarly distended stomach, which