"Why not?" asked the king, in astonishment.
"Well," cried the man, with threatening fist, "the people want to
show you the head of Lamballe, that you may see how the nation takes
vengeance on its tyrants."
At that same instant there arose behind the window-pane a pale head
encircled with long, fair hair, the livid forehead sprinkled with
blood, the eyes lustreless and fixed--the head of Princess Lamballe,
which the people had dressed by a friseur, to hoist it upon a pike
and show it to the queen.
The queen had seen it; staggering she fell back upon a chair; she
gazed fixedly at the window, even after the fearful phantom had
disappeared. Her lips were open, as if for a cry which had been
silenced by horror. She did not weep, she did not complain, and even
the caresses of the children, the gentle address of Princess
Elizabeth, and the comforting words of the king could not rouse her
out of this stupefying of her whole nature.
Princess Lamballe had been murdered, and deep in her soul the queen
saw that this was only the prelude to the fearful tragedy, in which
her family would soon be implicated.
Poor Princess Lamballe! She had been killed because she had refused
to repeat the imprecations against the queen, which they tried to
extort from her lips: "Swear that you love liberty and equality;
swear that you hate the king, the queen, and every thing pertaining
to royalty.
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