Now quite desolate, this is how the King spent his time. He rose at daybreak, and, kneeling, prayed for a long time. Then, the light quickening, he went to the window, and read the psalms for the day. After this, the King read what books he could obtain—he read many scores during his captivity—and this reading appeared entirely to occupy his mind. At nine, the family met, when he kissed them all on the forehead. After breakfast, he taught his son in various branches of knowledge. The Dauphin, precocious in misery, had by this time tested the dispositions of most of the sentinels; and when one he knew to be less brutal than the majority mounted guard, the poor child ran with the news to his mother, and he was happy for the day. At two, the family again met, and dined. But the King dared not give way to the fine appetite which never deserted him at any period of his life, for he knew not only that the quantity of food he ate was recorded, and the amount spread over Paris, but that the Queen herself was exceedingly desirous that this weak point in the King’s prison-life should not give cause to enable it to be said that the King’s appetite in prison was so great that necessarily he must be hardened and callous to a degree. After dinner, the King and Queen were allowed to remain for a brief time together—nay, they were allowed a pack of cards and a set of chessmen; but they were forbidden to speak in a low tone to each other, and a sentinel always kept the unhappy couple within view. At four, the King generally fell asleep, when the family remained religiously silent. At six, the lessons were re-commenced with the Dauphin, and these went on until supper-time, when the Queen herself undressed the Dauphin, who said, in a low tone, the following prayer: “Almighty God, who has created and redeemed me, I love you. Watch the days of my father and my family, and save us from our enemies, and give my mamma, and my aunt, and sister strength to bear all their trouble.” The Dauphin put to bed, the Queen read aloud to the King, her daughter, and Madame Elizabeth. At nine, the king was conducted back to his prison, where he read until midnight, when he went to bed, and slept until daybreak. He, however, did not retire until he had learnt who was master of the guard for the following day. If the name was one associated with kindness, the King’s heart was light, and he fell asleep with utter serenity. The prison was very damp, and, after a time, the King fell ill. Cléry watched him, and himself fell ill as Louis became convalescent. This valet, long after all was over, recounted some beautiful particulars of this illness. The Dauphin would nurse him, and passed day after day in the man’s sick-room; while the King himself would often come in the night, bare-footed, and merely in his night-dress, to see how the valet was progressing, or to give him medicine.