The origin and early history of the Conciergerie has been given in a previous volume, but its records are not yet closed, for it still stands on the Island of the City in close proximity to the Palace of Justice. It has many painful memories associated with its later history, and is more particularly notable as having been the last place of durance of the unfortunate Marie Antoinette. The cell she occupied is still preserved and is decorated nowadays with pictures and memorial inscriptions. Through all the changes that have come over the old prison, the cell in which the Queen of France awaited execution has always been kept religiously intact, although many right-thinking people are ashamed of this hideous relic of an atrocious national crime. The order for the Queen’s execution is still preserved in the archives and runs as follows:--“On the 25th day of the first month of the second year of the French Republic one and indivisible, the woman named Marie Antoinette, commonly called of Lorraine and Austria, wife of Louis Capet, has been removed from this house at the request of the public accuser of the Revolutionary Tribune and handed over to the executioner to be taken to the Place de la Revolution there to suffer death.” The fate that overtook her contrasts painfully with the good intentions of the mild and humane Louis XVI, who soon after his accession sought to improve the Conciergerie prison. “We have given all our care,” he announced in a decree in 1780, “to mend the prison, to build new and airy infirmaries and provide for the sick prisoners.” A separate quarter was provided for males and females, no one henceforth was consigned to the underground dungeons, the great central court was provided with a shelter from rain, the interior was heated. But these reforms were short-lived. At the outbreak of the Revolution, the worst horrors were revived. An account of the sufferings in this prison are given by Baron Riouffe in his “Memoirs”: “I was thrown,” says he, “into the deepest and foulest dungeon, entirely deprived of light, the atmosphere poisonous, and inconceivable dirtiness around. Seven of us were crowded in this small space, some of them robbers, one a convict condemned to death. We were inspected daily by stalwart warders accompanied by fierce dogs.” This description was confirmed by the author of the “Almanac of Prisons” during the period. The cells were never opened to be brushed out, but occasionally they changed the straw; yet an exorbitant sum was demanded for rent, and it was often said that the Conciergerie was the most profitable hotel in Paris having regard to its charges.