In their dark and unknown graves, in the Madelaine
churchyard, King Louis XVI. and Marie Antoinette slept their last
sleep. The monarchy had perished on the guillotine, and the
republicans, the preachers of liberty, equality, and fraternity,
repeated triumphantly: "Royalty is forever extinguished, and the
glorious republic is the rising sun which is to bring eternal
deliverance to France."
But, in spite of this jubilant cry, the foreheads of the republican
leaders darkened, and a peculiar solicitude took possession of their
hearts when their eyes fell upon the Temple--that great, dismal
building, that threw its dark shadows over the sunny path of the
republic. Was it regret that darkened the brows of the regicides as
they looked upon this building, which had been the sad prison of the
king and queen? Those hearts of bronze knew no regret; and when the
heroes of the revolution crossed the Place de la Guillotine, on
which the royal victims had perished, their eyes flashed more
proudly, and did not fall even when they passed by the Madelaine
churchyard.
No, it was not the recollection of the deed that saddened the brows
of the potentates of the republic when they looked at the dismal
Temple, but the recollection of him who was not yet dead, but who
was still living as a captive in the gloomy state-prison of the
republic.
Pages:
602
603
604
605
606
607
608
609
610
611
612
613
614
615
616
617
618
619
620
621
622
623
624
625
626