famous banner, the Oriflamme of France, received
(says tradition) by Clovis, as a gift from Heaven,
and only unfurled when the King of France
took the field in person, to the war-cry of
"Montjoye et Saint Denis." The heavenly
gift was borne for the last time during the war
in Flanders, under Philip of Valois, and an old
inventory of Saint Denis describes it as a
standard of very thick silk (sendal) split up in
the middle in the form of a gonfalon, very old,
on a pole covered with copper gilt, and having a
long and sharp iron point. What became of
the greater part of these relics—for not all of
them were melted down, or, for their intrinsic
value, otherwise disposed of—need not be told.

Let us now come to the proceedings which,
while they made an end of regal effigies and
regal emblems, dispersed with every token of
ignominy, the dust of the kings themselves.
The Revolution produced many bad poets, but
though their verse was, for the most part,
execrable, it generally had a purpose, and the
lines written by Lebrun, in 1792, may be
considered as having suggested the act of desecration
which furnishes the subject of this article.
Lebrun, then, wrote as follows:

Purgeons le sol des patriotes,
Par des Rois encore infecté;
La terre de la liberté
Rejette les os des despotes.
De ces monstres divinisés
Que tous les cercueils soient brisés!
Que leur mémoire soit flétrie!
Et qu'avec leurs mânes errans,
Sortent du sein de la patrie
Les cadavres de ces tyrans!

And, in the following year, the Convention
accomplished his desire, by their decree of
August, 1793, when five days sufficed to rifle
and demolish no fewer than fifty-one tombs, and
violate the sanctity of more than a thousand years.
In the tombs of hollowed stone of the earlier
monarchs, very little worth notice was found. In
that of King Pepin there was a small quantity of
gold wire, nothing more, but each coffin bore
the simple inscription of the name of its inmate
on a leaden plate, and the greater part of these
plates were much oxidised, and in a very bad
condition, so that the names were, in many
instances, nearly illegible. The plates, however,
were not wanted for preservation, but, together
with the leaden coffins of Philippe-le-Hardi and
Isabella of Aragon, and the leaden roof of the
abbey church, were taken to the Hôtel de Ville
of Paris, and there melted down, and cast into
musket-balls. The most remarkable object
discovered was a silver seal, of ogive form, belonging
to Constance of Castile, the second wife of
Louis the Seventh, who died in 1160. It
weighed three ounces and a half, and, silver
money being out of fashion, was not converted
into either cash or bullets, but found its way to the
municipal stronghold, and was thence transferred
to the cabinet of antiquities of the National (not
the Imperial) Library. Though only three days'
labour were actually bestowed, the work of
demolition was, from various causes, suspended
from August till October, but on the twelfth of
that month it was resumed, and with renewed
vigour the destroyers forced their way into the
vaults of the Bourbons.

The first coffin they met with, was one which
might have demanded forbearance, had there been
any forbearing spirit in the midst of so much
unhallowed ruffianism; it was that of Henri Quatre!
His body was in a good state of preservation, and
his features were perfectly recognisable; the
winding-sheet by which he was enveloped was
also in good condition. For two days his
remains were exposed to public view, and then
they were remorselessly cast into the yawning
trench which awaited them. The same fate awaited
the bones of Louis the Thirteenth and his descendants.
The first-named monarch was recognised
by his moustaches, and Louis the Fourteenth
by his prominent features; but his face, that
face which had received so much adoration in
his lifetime, was now black as ink. To this
complexion had it come at last! The bodies of
his immediate family, and especially that of the
Grand Dauphin—oh, grandeur!—were in a
state of liquid putrefaction. The hearts of some
of the princes were found under the coffins,
encased in lead with enamelled inscriptions; the
lead was carefully taken away, the withered
hearts were tossed with howls and execrations
into the common fosse. On the fifth day, after
having taken all the bodies, which were regularly
interred in the royal vault, the depredators
came, at the further end, to another coffin,
placed on a stone bench about two feet from the
ground, in a recess formed in the thickness of
the wall. The situation of this coffin showed
that it was that of the last king who had died,
which always occupied the recess in question
till his successor came to replace him. In this
instance, the successor never came. As if open
day were necessary for fully satisfying the
vengeance of the revolutionary mob, eager to
wreak their brutal fury on all the Bourbons in
the person of the one, ill-called, " Le bien
aimé," the coffin of Louis the Fifteenth was
dragged from the crypt to the brink of the
trench and there opened. The body taken out
of its leaden case, and swathed like a mummy,
appeared to be in good preservation; but the
instant the bandages were removed the royal
corpse took its revenge on the surrounding
multitude. It was, as might have been expected,
considering the disease of which the
profligate king died, in a state of the direst
putrefaction, and from the loathsome carcase
came so pernicious an odour that all present fled
from it in dismay. At length, in order that the
Jacobin body-snatchers might complete their
purpose, recourse was had to the firing of
muskets, and burning of gunpowder to purify the
air, and when the fumigation had lasted long
enough, the blackened fragments of royalty were
hurled into the pit on a bed of quick lime—
somewhat different that from the sumptuous
couch at Versailles!—and quickly concealed from
human senses.

After the Bourbon vault had been emptied,