embraced me, charging me to keep up my spirits and my
courage, to take tender care of my aunt, and obey her as a second mother.
She then threw herself into my aunt's arms, and recommended her children
to her care; my aunt replied to her in a whisper, and she was then hurried
away. In leaving the Temple she struck her head against the wicket, not
having stooped low enough.

[Mathieu, the gaoler, used to say, "I make Madame Veto and her sister and
daughter, proud though they are, salute me; for the door is so low they
cannot pass without bowing."]

The officers asked whether she had hurt herself. 'No,' she replied,
'nothing can hurt me now."

The Last Moments of Marie Antoinette.

We have already seen what changes had been made in the Temple. Marie
Antoinette had been separated from her sister, her daughter, and her Son,
by virtue of a decree which ordered the trial and exile of the last
members of the family of the Bourbons. She had been removed to the
Conciergerie, and there, alone in a narrow prison, she was reduced to what
was strictly necessary, like the other prisoners. The imprudence of a
devoted friend had rendered her situation still more irksome. Michonnis, a
member of the municipality, in whom she had excited a warm interest, was
desirous of introducing to her a person who, he said, wished to see her
out of curiosity. This man, a courageous emigrant, threw to her a
carnation, in which was enclosed a slip of very fine paper with these
words: "Your friends are ready,"--false hope, and equally dangerous for
her who received it, and for him who gave it! Michonnis and the emigrant
were detected and forthwith apprehended; and the vigilance exercised in
regard to the unfortunate prisoner became from that day more rigorous than
ever.

[The Queen was lodged in a room called the council chamber, which was
considered as the moat unwholesome apartment in the Conciergerie on
account of its dampness and the bad smells by which it was continually
affected. Under pretence of giving her a person to wait upon her they
placed near her a spy,--a man of a horrible countenance and hollow,
sepulchral voice. This wretch, whose name was Barassin, was a robber and
murderer by profession. Such was the chosen attendant on the Queen of
France! A few days before her trial this wretch was removed and a
gendarme placed in her chamber, who watched over her night and day, and
from whom she was not separated, even when i