But the last degradations had not been put upon the Bourbons. Soon there came an order from the Convention, to the effect that the King was to be utterly separated from his family. They were now to be debarred that last consolation of the unfortunate—to suffer together. The despair which ensued even moved the wretch, Rocher. But the order was imperative, and that night the King was removed from the small tower, and was imprisoned in the larger. He was now quite alone. This occurred before the termination of September; and, as though to make the desolation still more complete, the whole family were utterly deprived of the means of writing, even to each other. Not a scrap of paper was allowed—not a pencil—not even a fragment of chalk. The great tower was being repaired. All the accommodation offered to Louis was a bed and a chair, set in heaps of brick and plaster rubbish, which overspread the floor. Poor man! nature compelled him to be active; and, therefore, being deprived of reading and writing materials, he passed this first excruciating night of his acutest misery in counting the steps of the sentinel as he passed up and down in the corridor outside the King’s cell. This night, the King, for the first time, shed tears. His only companion was a valet, named Cléry, who had been appointed by the municipal authorities when the King’s servants were removed. He was a Revolutionist; but his heart was in the right place. The one fragment of hope to which the king clung on this wretched night was the suggestion made by this valet, that as he had, since his appointment, dressed daily the hair of the ladies of the family, that he should be able to carry messages between them and the King. Daylight dispelled this hope. It was intimated that Cléry was not to leave the tower—that the isolation of the King from all exterior communication must be complete. When the man made application to this effect, the answer he scoffingly received was, “Your master will never see even his children again.” “’Tis an outrage upon nature!” urged the King, when he was visited by the authorities. “You murder five hearts in one—you do that, indeed, which is worse than murder!” The authorities turned their backs upon the King, not deigning to answer him. All that was brought him as food on that first morning of the separation from his family, was a piece of bread, and a pot of water, into which a lemon had been squeezed. “They have forgotten we are two,” said the King, advancing to Cléry, and breaking the bit of bread in half; “but I do not forget. Take this; the remainder is enough for me.” The servant refused, but the King insisted; and so the valet took it, and wept as he ate. The King also wept. What a picture to contemplate!—a king and a valet eating a fragment of bread between them, and tears falling upon the wretched meal!