She answered all questions quite patiently, showed sorrow only when reference was made to the Princess de Lamballe, and only lost her quietude when one Hébert was called. It is to be hoped this man was mad. At all events, he spoke to the Queen’s acts while in the Temple; declared that she was depraved and debauched, and that she had even corrupted her own son, “that she might poison his body and his soul, and so reign in his name over the ruin of his understanding.” This man was mad—there can be no doubt upon the point: he even included saintly Madame Elizabeth in this frantic idiotic accusation. Heaven be thanked, those present turned upon him, and cried “Shame!” The Queen herself shrank, raising her hand as though to guard her from the wretch. But one juryman was nearly as bad as Hébert. “Why does not the accused answer?” this foul wretch asked. “I do not answer,” she said—and once again, it is said, she looked radiantly beautiful in her momentary indignation—“because these are accusations to which nature refuses a reply.” She turned to the women, with whom the court was crowded. “I appeal from him to all mothers present.” To the honor of these women be it said, they cried Hébert down—and so he passes out of this history. The Queen met questions having reference to the King with equal calmness. It being alleged that she endeavored to obtain ascendancy over him through his mental weakness, she replied, “I never knew that character of him. I was but his wife, and it was my duty and my pleasure to yield to his will.” By not one word, tending to save herself, did she injure the memory of her husband. One line in the trial is enough to show what a mockery it was. The Public Prosecutor cried, “All France bears witness against this woman!” For form’s sake, the jury deliberated an hour. She was recalled to hear her sentence, but the cheering and screaming of the people told her its terrors before the judge spoke—_death!_ Nine months since the King died, and now there was an end to her weary waiting. Asked if she had anything to say why the sentence of death should not be carried out, she respected herself in her very silence, and turned away, as though quite prepared for execution. It was now five in the morning, and her last day was come. At half-past five she was permitted to write a letter to the King’s sister, Madame Elizabeth. This lady never saw it. The document was found long afterwards amongst the papers of one Couthon.