So speaking, he flung the boy roughly back into his bed, which had been turned into a veritable pond. Without a word, he sank down on his wretched cot, shivering with cold and terror, while the cobbler retired to his own rest filled with savage satisfaction. After this dreadful night the poor little Dauphin fell into a state of utter despair and apathy. Even his tearful glances no longer appealed to his brutal keeper. His eyes were always fixed on the floor. The last remnants of his courage were gone; he had finally succumbed to his fate. Nevertheless, the terrible Simon was not to enjoy the triumph of seeing his victim expire at his feet. The municipal council had decreed that for the future the prisoner was to be guarded by four of its members, who were to serve as deputies, and on the nineteenth of January, 1794, Simon and his wife were removed from the Temple. The parting words of the cobbler to the innocent child he had tortured so barbarously were quite in keeping with his character. His wife had said: “Capet, I do not know whether I shall ever see you again!” And Simon added: “Oh! he is not crushed yet; but he will never get out of this prison—not if all the saints of heaven moved in his behalf!” A last blow accompanied these words, which the poor little Prince, who stood before him with downcast eyes, received meekly and apathetically, without even a glance at his departing jailer. But Simon did not escape the vengeance of Heaven. The cruel cobbler perished on the scaffold on the twenty-eighth of July, 1794, together with Robespierre and other monsters of the Revolution. Chapter VI The End of Sorrows The removal of Simon released the Dauphin from actual physical abuse, but on the whole there was not much change for the better in his situation. The leaders of the Revolution felt no pity for the royal child; and instead of appointing a successor to the cobbler, they doomed him to solitary confinement. The door of communication between his prison and the anteroom was securely fastened with nails and screws, and crossed from top to bottom with iron bars. Three or four feet from the floor there was a small opening over a little shelf, covered by a movable iron grating, which was secured by a padlock. Through this opening or wicket little Capet was supplied with food and water, and when he had eaten he replaced the empty vessels on the shelf. They allowed him neither light nor fire. His room was heated only by the flue from a stove in the antechamber, and lighted only by a lamp which hung opposite the wicket. Here the poor child spent the terrible days and nights, his only way of reckoning time; for years, months, weeks, days, were all one in his confused brain. Time, like a stagnant pool, had ceased to flow for him. There was nothing but suffering to mark the hours, hence they were indistinguishable.