While the mock trial of the queen was going on, Simon pursued more diligently than ever his scheme of demoralization. A design which must first have originated in some fiend’s brain had occurred to him, and it was necessary to devise new means for carrying it into execution. He would make this spotless, idolized child a witness against his mother; the little hand which hers had guided in forming its first letters, and taught to lift itself in prayer, should be made an instrument in the most revolting calumny which the human mind ever conceived. Simon began to make the boy drink; when he attempted to refuse, the liquor was poured into his mouth by force; until at last, stupefied and unconscious of what he was doing, unable to comprehend the purpose or consequence of the act, he signed his name to a document in which the most heinous accusations were brought against his august mother. The same deposition was presented to his sister for her signature; but without the same success. “They questioned me about a thousand terrible things of which they accused my mother and my aunt,” says Mme. Royale; “and, frightened as I was, I could not help exclaiming that they were wicked falsehoods.” The examination lasted three hours, for the deputies hoped that the extreme youth and timidity of the princess would enable them to compel her consent to sign the paper; but in this they were mistaken. “They forgot,” continues Mme. Royale, “the life that I had led for four years past, and, above all, that the example shown me by my parents had given me more energy and strength of mind.” The queen’s trial lasted two entire days and nights without intermission. Not a single accusation, political or otherwise, was confirmed by a feather’s weight of evidence. But what did that signify? The judges had decreed beforehand that she must die. Hébert brought forward the document signed by her son; she listened in silent scorn, and disdained to answer. One of the paid assassins on the jury demanded why she did not speak. The queen, thus adjured, drew herself up with all the majesty of outraged motherhood, and, casting her eyes over the crowded court, replied: “_I did not answer; but I appeal to the heart of every mother who hears me_.” A low murmur ran through the crowd. No mother raised her voice in loyal sympathy with the mother who appealed to them, but the inarticulate response was too powerful for the jury; they dropped the subject, and when the counsel nominally appointed for her defence had done speaking, the president demanded of the prisoner at the bar whether she had anything to add. There was a moment’s hush, and then the queen spoke: “For myself, nothing; for your consciences, much! I was a queen, and you dethroned me; I was a wife, and you murdered my husband; I was a mother, and you have torn my children from me. I have nothing left but my blood--make haste and take it!”