Perhaps we wonder why, since the child's existence was so troublesome to them, they did not kill him outright, as they had his royal parents. But no! Such a crime would not befit a Republic "always great and generous!" They did not go about slaughtering innocent children whose only offence was that of having been born to the purple! By no means! They would make a great pretence of caring for and guarding him, but in time he should simply fade away, disappear, be lost to public interest. Or, in plainer words, he should die a natural death, brought about by systematic ill-treatment and neglect. The first stage had already been accomplished by the cobbler. The second was about to begin. On the morning of the following day, into the room walked carpenters and workmen. What were they about to do, wondered the boy? He was soon to discover. First they moved his bed into a dark little back room that adjoined the large one. Then they cut down the door between to about breast-height, and criss-crossed the open upper part with heavy iron bars. In the middle of this they made a wicket or hole closed by other movable bars, and fastened with an enormous padlock. Louis Charles was then commanded to enter. He did so, and the door was shut and fastened unalterably by every device of which they could think. And so he was left, having no communication with the outer world save the little wicket. Through this was passed his coarse meals, and whatever necessaries they thought fit to allow him. Through this also he sent out whatever he wished removed. The cell was lighted only by a lantern hung in the room outside, whose feeble rays scarcely penetrated beyond the bars of the door. He was allowed no books, no playthings, no occupation of any kind except to keep his cell clean with an old broom. For the first few days, in spite of the utter desolation of his surroundings, the boy was contented, even happy. His young life had for the past six months been so constantly harried by the cruel cobbler and merciless municipals, that he was devoutly thankful for the peace and rest of his solitude. One of the first things he did was to draw his mother's prayer-book from its hiding-place, and try in the dim light to decipher some of the prayers she had so often repeated with him. This he had never dared to do when the cobbler had charge of him. Then he examined the glossy curl of Moufflet's hair, and wondered whether he should some day see his pet once more. When in want of other occupation, he would sweep his cell again and again, and make and re-make his bed.