At six, when the time of lighting the lamps should
arrive, the disguises were to be put on. At seven the carefully and
skilfully-planned flight was to be made.
The clock in the tower of the Temple had already struck four. Toulan
had not yet come, and the guards of the day had not yet been
relieved. They had had a little leisure at noon for dinner, and
during the interim Simon and Tison were on guard, and had kept the
queen on the rack with their mockery and their abusive words. In
order to avoid the language and the looks of these men, she had fled
into the children's room, to whom the princess, in her trustful
calmness and unshaken equanimity, was assigning them lessons. Marie
Antoinette wanted to find protection here from the dreadful anxiety
that tortured her, as well as from the ribald jests and scurrility
of her keepers. But Mistress Tison was there, standing near the
glass window, gazing in with a malicious grin, and working in her
wonted, quick way upon the long stocking, and knitting, knitting, so
that you could hear the needles click together.
The queen could not give way to a word or a look. That would have
created suspicion, and would, perhaps, have caused an examination to
be made. She had to bear all in silence, she had to appear
indifferent and calm; she had to give pleasant answers to the
dauphin's innocent questions, and even compel a smile to her lips
when the child, reading in her looks, by the instinct of love, her
great excitement, tried to cheer her up with pleasant words.
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