But those who pray and
weep have retired into the solitude of their rooms, for God alone
must receive their sighs and see their tears. The eyes which follow
the queen on her last journey must not weep; the words which are
shouted at her must betray no compassion.
Paris knows that this is the hour of the queen's execution, and the
Parisian crowd is ready, it is waiting. In the streets, in the
windows of the houses, on the roofs, the people have stationed
themselves in enormous masses; they fill the whole Place de la
Revolution with their dark, destructive forms.
Now resound the drums of the National Guard posted before the
Conciergerie. The large white horse, which draws the chariot in
which Marie Antoinette sits backward, at the side of the priest, is
driven onward by the man who swings on its back. Behind her in the
wagon is Samson and his assistants.
The queen's face is white; all blood has left her cheeks and lips,
but her eyes are red; they have wept so much, unfortunate queen! She
weeps not now. Not one tear dims her eye, which pensively and calmly
soars above the crowd, then is lifted up to the very roofs of the
houses, then again is slowly lowered, and seems to stare over the
human heads away into infinite distance.
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