Marie-Antoinette.

On Monday the Fourteenth of October, 1793, a Cause is pending in the Palais de Justice, in the new Revolutionary Court, such as these old stone-walls never witnessed:  the Trial of Marie-Antoinette.  The once brightest of Queens, now tarnished, defaced, forsaken, stands here at Fouquier Tinville’s Judgment-bar; answering for her life!  The Indictment was delivered her last night. (Proces de la Reine, Deux Amis, xi. 251-381.) To such changes of human fortune what words are adequate?  Silence alone is adequate.

There are few Printed things one meets with, of such tragic almost ghastly significance as those bald Pages of the Bulletin du Tribunal Revolutionnaire, which bear title, Trial of the Widow Capet.  Dim, dim, as if in disastrous eclipse; like the pale kingdoms of Dis!  Plutonic Judges, Plutonic Tinville; encircled, nine times, with Styx and Lethe, with Fire-Phlegethon and Cocytus named of Lamentation!  The very witnesses summoned are like Ghosts:  exculpatory, inculpatory, they themselves are all hovering over death and doom; they are known, in our imagination, as the prey of the Guillotine.  Tall ci-devant Count d’Estaing, anxious to shew himself Patriot, cannot escape; nor Bailly, who, when asked If he knows the Accused, answers with a reverent inclination towards her, “Ah, yes, I know Madame.”  Ex-Patriots are here, sharply dealt with, as Procureur Manuel; Ex-Ministers, shorn of their splendour.  We have cold Aristocratic impassivity, faithful to itself even in Tartarus; rabid stupidity, of Patriot Corporals, Patriot Washerwomen, who have much to say of Plots, Treasons, August Tenth, old Insurrection of Women.  For all now has become a crime, in her who has lost.

Marie-Antoinette, in this her utter abandonment and hour of extreme need, is not wanting to herself, the imperial woman.  Her look, they say, as that hideous Indictment was reading, continued calm; ’she was sometimes observed moving her fingers, as when one plays on the Piano.’  You discern, not without interest, across that dim Revolutionary Bulletin itself, how she bears herself queenlike.  Her answers are prompt, clear, often of Laconic brevity; resolution, which has grown contemptuous without ceasing to be dignified, veils itself in calm words.  “You persist then in denial?”—­“My plan is not denial:  it is the truth I have said, and I persist in that.”  Scandalous Hebert has borne his testimony as to many things:  as to one thing, concerning Marie-Antoinette and her little Son,—­wherewith Human Speech had better not further be soiled.  She has answered Hebert; a Juryman begs to observe that she has not answered as to this.  “I have not answered,” she exclaims with noble emotion, “because Nature refuses to answer such a charge brought against a Mother.  I appeal to all the Mothers that are here.”  Robespierre, when he heard of it, broke out into something almost like swearing at the brutish blockheadism of this Hebert; (Vilate, Causes