Marat was buried on the following morning, and Simon’s resentment at not being able to attend the funeral ceremonies made him furious. All day long he paced the floor of his room like a caged tiger, sparing the innocent Prince neither blows nor curses. Some days later, news came of a crushing defeat of the Republican army at Saumur,[19] and again the poor child had to suffer from his master’s rage and spite. “It is your friends who are doing this!” shouted Simon to him. In vain the little Prince cried, “Indeed it is not my fault!” The infamous wretch furiously rushed at him, and shook him with the ferocity of a maddened beast. The child bore it all in silence; great tears rolled down his cheeks, but he allowed no cry of pain to escape him, for fear his mother might hear it and be distressed about him. This fear gave him strength, and enabled him to bear his sufferings with the courage of a hero. Joy had long since been banished from his heart, the roses of health from his cheeks, but they had not succeeded yet in extinguishing his love of truth and purity. In accordance with the orders he had received, Simon allowed his prisoner to go down into the garden every day, and sometimes took him with him when he went up on the roof of the Tower to breathe the air and smoke his pipe undisturbed. The boy followed him with hanging head, like a whipped dog; he never ventured to raise his eyes to his master’s face, knowing he should meet only hatred and abuse. Naturally there was no further mention of any kind of instruction for the Prince. Simon made him listen to revolutionary or so-called patriotic songs, and filled his ears with the vilest oaths and blasphemies; but he did not think it necessary to occupy young Capet’s time otherwise. He forced the child to wait on him and perform the most menial duties; he took away his suit of mourning, and gave him instead a coat of orange-colored cloth, with breeches of the same color, and a red cap, which was the notorious uniform of the Jacobins. “If I allow you to take off black for Marat,” he said, “at least you shall wear his livery and honor his memory in that way!” The Prince put on the clothes without protest, but nothing could induce him to wear the Jacobin cap; and Simon was powerless, even by the cruellest treatment, to overcome his resistance. He had become the slave of his jailers, he had submitted to a thousand insults and indignities, but he would not allow the badge of his father’s murderers to be placed upon his head. Weary with his efforts, the cobbler finally desisted from the attempt, at the intercession of his wife. To tell the truth, this was not the first time this woman had taken the part of the unfortunate child, for she, indeed, had good reason to be satisfied with him.