The first consisted of an antechamber, a dining-room, and a small room in the turret, where there was a library containing from twelve to fifteen hundred volumes.  The second story was divided nearly in the same manner.  The largest room was the Queen’s bedchamber, in which the Dauphin also slept; the second, which was separated from the Queen’s by a small antechamber almost without light, was occupied by Madame Royale and Madame Elisabeth.  The King’s apartments were on the third story.  He slept in the great room, and made a study of the turret closet.  There was a kitchen separated from the King’s chamber by a small dark room, which had been successively occupied by M. de Chamilly and M. de Hue.  The fourth story was shut up; and on the ground floor there were kitchens of which no use was made.” —­“Journal,” p. 96.]

The Tower was a square building, with a round tower at each corner and a small turret on one side, usually called the Tourelle.  In the narrative of the Duchesse d’Angouleme she says that the soldiers who escorted the royal prisoners wished to take the King alone to the Tower, and his family to the Palace of the Temple, but that on the way Manuel received an order to imprison them all in the Tower, where so little provision had been made for their reception that Madame Elisabeth slept in the kitchen.  The royal family were accompanied by the Princesse de Lamballe, Madame de Tourzel and her daughter Pauline, Mesdames de Navarre, de Saint-Brice, Thibaut, and Bazire, mm. de Hug and de Chamilly, and three men-servants—­An order from the Commune soon removed these devoted attendants, and M. de Hue alone was permitted to return.  “We all passed the day together,” says Madame Royale.  “My father taught my brother geography; my mother history, and to learn verses by heart; and my aunt gave him lessons in arithmetic.  My father fortunately found a library which amused him, and my mother worked tapestry . . . .  We went every day to walk in the garden, for the sake of my brother’s health, though the King was always insulted by the guard.  On the Feast of Saint Louis ‘Ca Ira’ was sung under the walls of the Temple.  Manuel that evening brought my aunt a letter from her aunts at Rome.  It was the last the family received from without.  My father was no longer called King.  He was treated with no kind of respect; the officers always sat in his presence and never took off their hats.  They deprived him of his sword and searched his pockets . . . .  Petion sent as gaoler the horrible man—­[Rocher, a saddler by trade] who had broken open my father’s door on the 20th June, 1792, and who had been near assassinating him.  This man never left the Tower, and was indefatigable in endeavouring to torment him.  One time he would sing the ‘Caramgnole,’ and a thousand other horrors, before us; again, knowing that my mother disliked the smoke of tobacco, he would puff it in her face, as well as in that of my father, as they