IN SPITE OF ALL the horrors forced upon us, we somehow adjusted to our new life in the Temple. "We must survive until someone comes to save us," Maman reminded me nearly every day. "Only by surviving will we triumph over our enemies."
Survival, to my mother, meant maintaining a routine as though everything were normal. After breakfast each morning Papa gave Louis-Charles his lessons in reading and writing. Tante Élisabeth instructed me in mathematics, which I enjoyed. In the afternoon Maman took over with the history of France, followed by music lessons on the clavichord, though it had become jarringly out of tune. "Oh, if only I had my harp!" she lamented.
I looked forward to our single hour of exercise in the garden. I endeavored to teach tricks to Mignon, now more precious to us than ever since the murder of Princesse de Lamballe. Even when the weather was foul, a stiff wind whipping cold rain in our faces, we had to leave our quarters while they were searched. I hated the idea of our jailers fumbling through everything we had.
"They're doing what they must," my father said. His explanation of duty didn't soothe my mother and me.
In the evening there was time for games—my father was partial to backgammon—and he loved to read aloud to us. Maman and Tante Élisabeth preferred to spend the time praying.
"Prayer is my only consolation," said my mother.
On September 21, the monarchy officially ended. The people would elect a national convention. Under the new regime, the next day would be the first day of a new year—it would no longer be September 22, 1792, but Day 1 of Year 1 of the new era.
"Hey, Louis Capet!" cried Rocher, the detestable jailer, with a leering grin. "Did you hear the news?"
My father glanced up from his book. "Are you addressing me?" he asked.
"That I am," said the vulgar fellow. "No more King Louis for you, my friend. No more kings, period. No more titles. From now on you're Louis Capet."
"But that is not my name. If you knew anything about French history, Rocher, you'd know that the Capets ruled France until 1328. I am a Bourbon, not a Capet."
"Well, like it or not, you're Capet now," the jailer retorted impertinently. He turned to my mother, who had been glaring at him with undisguised revulsion. "And you—you're Madame Capet. Might as well get used to it." He leered at me and made a mocking bow. "No more Madame Royale for you—Mademoiselle Capet."
I could see that my mother was about to give Rocher a piece of her mind, but my father held up a warning hand. Maman closed her lips firmly and deliberately turned away from the tormentor.