Gamain led the way to the spot where lay concealed the hidden treasure, and upon papers found in that box Louis XVI was put upon his trial. The King became accustomed to captivity—found it almost rest—rest which was disturbed only on December 11 (1792), when the noise of an approaching procession drew the attention of the royal family to their windows. The King learnt that he was to be put upon his trial. Two hours afterwards, he was on his way to the Convention. To him, the city appeared as though besieged. Every soldier around the royal carriage had had served out to him sixteen cartridges. The King looked wretched. His razors had been taken from him, and his hair was rough and scrubby about his face. He had grown thin, and his clothes hung miserably about him. But he was quite unmoved. He took his seat quietly before the Convention. “Citizens,” cried the President, “Louis Capet is at the bar. You are about to give a lesson to kings.” The accusation was then read. It accused him of high treason in calling upon the foreigner to enter France. He listened quite unmovedly until he was accused of “shedding the blood of the people.” He raised his eyes to heaven. It was clear he had not anticipated being called a sanguinary prince. At the close of the first day’s examination, the King’s fatal appetite failed him, and he refused an offer to obtain refreshments; but almost immediately afterwards, seeing a soldier gnawing a piece of bread, he asked for a part, and ate it with relish. Upon the return-ride to the Temple, he counted the number of streets. It was the King’s sister, Elizabeth—a veritable angel,—who foresaw what was to happen. “Was the Queen mentioned in the indictment?” she asked. “No,” replied the King. “Thank heaven!” said the good Princess; “for if the Queen were taken, who, then, should look after these children?” These very words foretell what the Princess foresaw—that if the Queen’s blood was demanded, her own would follow. CHAPTER LI. THE KING’S TRIAL PROCEEDED WITH. The King had scarcely quitted the Convention upon the occasion of his first appearance there, than he was accorded the privilege of even the commonest prisoner on his trial—that of choosing two counsel for his defence. The King chose two—one named Trouchet; the other, Target. The former willingly accepted the office; the second dreaded to appear as the accomplice of the King; and wrote a cowardly letter, saying, to defend Louis Capet would be to outrage his own principles. But this precaution, so far from saving him, marked him out to the terrorists as a man who was a coward, and, in his turn, he was drafted to the scaffold, undefended and unlamented. An old man, and a great one, of a family notorious for their wisdom and their justice—one Malsherbes, aged seventy-four, and who had served twice as a Minister during Louis XVI’s reign—took the position offered to the wretched man, Target, and refused by him.