It might be supposed that the Convention was thoroughly satisfied with its worthy subordinate who had done his peculiar work so effectively, but he was considered too costly, and was ousted from his post.  It was resolved that the expenses of the children of Louis Capet should be reduced to what was necessary for the food and maintenance of two persons, and four members of the Council-General of the Commune agreed to superintend the prisoners of the Temple.  A new arrangement was made, and a novel system of torture was inaugurated by Hebert and Chaumette, two of the most infamous wretches whom the Revolution raised into temporary notoriety.  The wretched boy was confined in a back-room which had no window or connection with the outside except through another apartment.  His historian describes it vividly—­“The door of communication between the ante-room and this room was cut down so as to leave it breast high, fastened with nails and screws, and grated from top to bottom with bars of iron.  Half way up was placed a shelf on which the bars opened, forming a sort of wicket, closed by other moveable bars, and fastened by an enormous padlock.  By this wicket his coarse food was passed in to little Capet, and it was on this ledge that he had to put whatever he wanted to send away.  Although small, his compartment was yet large enough for a tomb.  What had he to complain of?  He had a room to walk in, a bed to lie upon; he had bread and water, and linen and clothes!  But he had neither fire nor candle.  His room was warmed only by a stove-pipe, and lighted only by the gleam of a lamp suspended opposite the grating.”  Into this horrible place he was pushed on the anniversary of his father’s death.  The victim did not even see the parsimonious hand which passed his food to him, nor the careless hand that sometimes left him without a fire in very cold weather, and sometimes, by plying the stove with too much fuel, converted his prison into a furnace.

This horrible place he was expected to keep clean, but his strength was unequal to the task, and he was glad to crawl to his bed when ordered by his guards, who refused to give him a light.  Even there he was not allowed to rest in peace, and often the commissaries appointed to relieve those on duty would often noisily arouse him from his pleasant dreams by rattling at his wicket, crying, “Capet, Capet, are you asleep?  Where are you?  Young viper, get up!” And the little startled form would creep from the bed and crawl to the wicket; while the faint gentle voice would answer, “I am here, citizens, what do you want with me?” “To see you,” would be the surly reply of the watch for the night.  “All right.  Get to bed.  In!—­Down!” And this performance would be repeated several times before morning.  It would have killed a strong man in a short time.  How long could a child stand it?