 Well, the panic raged and great droplets of the dust fell with a thundering crash. It was a fateful day when she said that she couldn't know that this lightning had a new world. With the death of blood, or the fasting for the cake would be horror. In a moment you'll understand what I mean when you hear the story of a woman named Marie Antoinette. As portrayed by Beatrice Bender in The Blood Bath. A story of a descendant knife and severed head, and history's most terrifying obsession. A great inundating flood of hate that once overwhelmed the kingdom. It is the year 1769. Leap within the fastenance of the Vienna Woods, there stand the great castle. And within this castle you'll live the beautiful princess of Hapsburg. Her name's Marie Antoinette. Sunlight is streaming through the stained glass windows of the royal council chamber as Maria Teresa, Empress of Austria, and mother of Marie Antoinette has got to the vital affair of faith. And of an obsession with her prime minister, Von Connick. The document does not ask Von Connick. It demands that my daughter become the bride of Louis Bourbon, grandson of Louis XV. Yeah, your Majesty. Stop saying yeah, your Majesty, and tell me what you think. Such a marriage would not be simple, your Majesty. Perhaps not, but such a marriage would mean peace between Austria and France, Von Connick. Yeah, your Majesty, it would mean peace. Mm-hmm, well, well, you are a prime minister, not an echo. What is your opinion? What can you think? The Bourbon is an ill-starred house, your Majesty. A house that lives in eternal fear of the summer solstice. A time of inevitable doom for its members. The summer solstice is a time of year when all of the Bourbon blood is expected. It falls upon not only the blood of Bourbon, but upon those who wait with that blood, and following that. Enough of this. There are still lots of superstitions and more of our nation's welfare. I shall execute your command, Your Highness. What is that? Thunder, your Majesty, on rain. Thunder, rain? At this time of year, Your Majesty? Yeah, Your Majesty. This is the time of the summer solstice. May God protect this house. Of the fifteen-year-old Austrian princess Marie Antoinette, upon exchange in this game of political compromise, thus the gods of war are appeased and the fair, crushing child Marie has become the bride of the feeble-minded heir to the scepter and throne of Frank Rome. It is now the hour of death following the holy ceremony of mass. Louis? Louis? Yes? Louis? You are not angry about something, are you? No. Then what is it? It is... It is only that I cannot talk. I... I have no words. You may as well know now as later. You know what? What everyone in the court knows, that I am a stupid fool. Louis? That I am not as my brother. I am dull-witted. I am clumsy. I am someone they all laugh at. And now I... I wish you would go away and leave me alone. You are landing. I know I could not do that. You are my husband. And I am your wife. And you must never say such things about yourself, because you are not true. I cannot, then, because I am clumsy. I cannot talk because I am a fool. I cannot... Why do I talk now? Because... You don't understand, Louis. I only don't care for car pieces. And I don't care for cars when I'm not ever... Please, I only do the things that you like to do, Louis. You do like to do it. You all right? No. God, then... God, we like to hunt. If... If I like to hunt... Sometimes I hunt every week. Last week I shot a stage in between forest. Do you do it? Yes. Oh, that would be wonderful. I like to mix things, too, in my workshop. I have a beautiful workshop. Chopin says that I'm very clever. Oh, please, please. One time I made a truck. It ran for three days. It's not very good. Sometimes I shall make another truck. One that will... One that will hurt. You would not care about my truck or my workshop. You would only laugh at me as the others do. No. I think you would go away... and leave me alone. But, Louis... I cannot go away leaving you alone. Maybe I won't, too. And you will no hope then. And we have to get in the way of the fellow you see. No. How do... How do you feel, Louis? I hope that you shall be happy here. But, then... You can go to the parties. You can dance. You can do everything you wish. I hope that you will have... I must tell you. I must tell you what everyone in the court knows. Chopin will never love me. For a woman can only love... on the hand. A wife can only love her husband. And I... I'm neither one. I'm neither men nor... nor husband. No. Laugh at me as the others do. I told you. I'm kidding. Well, why do you not laugh? It is funny, is it not? No, I... I hope you will forgive me if I leave. I'm going to my workshop. I hope you will not be too lonely here. So began what was to be... one of the great tragic obsessions... in the annals of history. A marriage never to be consummated. A dream of the hill-starred houses, bourbon of France, apseford of Prussia. A mockery that was destined to end in greatest bloodbath... the world was ever known. In frustration and inurtance, Marie Antoinette launched a career... wild and reckless abandonment, gambling, excavating, dissipation. These are the channels into which the queen escaped... until she became an only... this scarlet woman of pearl. An hour over France, there hanged black and lowering clouds. The storm of the people is about to break. A tempest, and it could lash through the earth of the Frank Welmwood. A mockery. Louis XVI, there is not a king. No more is he a husband. The infantile brain is incapable... of guiding or removing his domain. And thus is unaware of the intrigue and plot... that is turning rotten... to the very core of the monarchy. The seeds of revolution have been sown... when the harvest is ready for leaving. In a palace, Louis stands gazing out of his window... staring into the black into the night... and reflecting upon the ominous prophecy... of the grandfather. Asked to me... again not. Oh, you are again. What has happened? What sin have I committed? What have I done so? I don't know. I deserve a lot to see. With such a responsibility, I have become consumed. Have you, too? The first palace... were only a small copy to the forest. And this one were only a seed... instead of a seed. How could that be? Clawed. How could that not have happened, I think? Oh, yes. I should like that. I don't know if that would be wise... to say a few words to the palace guard... to stop the monarchy from going. Oh? You wish more to talk than to say a few words, Louis? Who am I to fight for? For both sides. It would inspire me what would help so. For both sides. It would mean so much. Very well. If you think best, Antoine. If you think for both sides, it pleads in the front that you will speak. And I will pray... that God will give it away. Hey, please, don't talk! Louis is 16! The calendar's standing in, Captain. Very well, Your Majesty. How can you do that? A seed! And now, sir, at your command. A gentleman of the army... we have been told that... they are coming to attack the palace. I mean, naturally, the mob. I thought that I could say a few words. That is... the queens thought I could say a few words. We should all stand together. You don't think? We are facing desperate times, and I think... that is, the queen thinks... the queen thought I should say a few words. And I have said a few words. Matthew, you're tied! Please, Your Majesty, I cannot be responsible for my men. No, of course not. I shall return to the palace now and try and be responsible for France. Thank you. That is the horrifying prophetic word... after me, the day. And now the words are becoming a ghastly reality. It is the day of the vagabond. France, July 14th, 1789. Amid the tatters and rags and dirt and sweat of France... there beats a heart. A heart that must be worn by a blazing flame... must burn with a white-hot passion... must speed out its one-word message until it... leeches the heights of heaven. Counts Vallion... but can mean a... these moronic glories that exceed. As foresworn is nobility... as care and cater... is aristocracy... and now hawing the rabble. It is Jesus' tongue... that feeds the fire of the revolution... and the awful obsession. People of Christ... Jesus of Christ... before you stand the symbol of oppression... the symbol that leeches... with the blood of the innocent... please take him inside and confess to the mimicry. It is the Bastille, Jesus of Christ... and I say to you in the name of Christ... in the name of liberty... take the Bastille. It belongs to you. Take what is rightfully yours... down with the Bastille. The Counts Vallion... are finding their mark. The mob mills. Chaos and confusion embodies... something that's wild furious on the out-of-drop bridge of the Bastille. Citizens, your name... raises his iron hammer to strike the chain... that bind the great bridge. The length cracks... splinter... and for instance... the great bridge hangers. Then... the way sticks... where it places... they can't find it with leadership... and footsteps echo an emerging pulse of a heart... that speaks for the needs of the breast... and of the woman. Where come I am? I think they're coming for us... to see what I can say. I don't know. What they are doing? You can look out there. What can you do? I don't know. Here... just come in. Your Majesty... What is it, child? Your Majesty... they are attacking the palace. You must escape. No, you have no idea what you're going to do. There is nothing we can do about it, Your Majesty. We have failed the King and Queen of Clamps... and if it is God's will for us to die... then let us die like the King and Queen of Clamps did die. There is nothing we can do about it. I am not afraid. I am not afraid! The King of Clamps says no more. Low how the mighties have fallen. Lowest excuse... is tried before a tribunal of common citizens... found guilty of at least a score of capital charges... and sentenced to the cold embrace... of the better D'Amdiotine... the woman of the night. Merriant when it does not serve the well... many yearly weeks dragged by before... Monsignor Amon, Tribunal President... considers the case of the once French Queen... now the widow-capace. At last she has led to the prison's siege... face the false accusations of the Forty-and-One. It has been serving me to have crazed me low... to take the stand bearing witness to the year 1788... the Queen of Clamps and Stony Farms... have faced an expressionist mass. But with the mention of a final name... her face becomes vivid. It is the name of her illegitimate son... who, forced by the skinning revolutionaries... charges his mother with the most unspeakable crime... against society. Have you any words to answer that call, citizen Merriant? You are no response to that call, Monsieur. Even Mexico cannot answer that call. I appeal to every model in the court... to every model in the world. The town hildy of many nameless crimes... and the judgment is death. Bicep and the tribunal hall to the French court... is the lonely prison. This agonized creature of God... with torn and broken hearts... may save you away from her execution. This is Wolf. Hey, Antoinette. Widow-capace. You have heard the sentence? Yes. Oh, I can't. I want to die. It's been fair, madame. And so will die all traitors of France. I know I must take you and finish you. I was no traitor. I am no traitor. I was your queen... for the life of me and you. I am no traitor. It is not my place to argue with a cafe. I have come to offer you one last request... I will but name it. My son... by the two days... I did like to see you... to hold you in my arms. But once more... that is the only request I had with you. You have no son Widow-capace. He is no longer yours. He is the ward of the republic. I am sorry. I cannot speak it. It's only for a moment. No, madame. Have you another request? Death will come quickly. I will not do it. I will not do it. The pathetic widow-capace waits... every moment tortured to her anguished mind. Then there comes a faithful tread of the guards... and the summons in the name of the Republic of France... Marie Antoinette... is removed from her cell... placed in a wooden cot... then down the street... over the cobblestone... past the palace where... she once ruled this town. The widow-capace makes her way... to the rendezvous... with an abode damn dear to me. Marie Antoinette resolved to die. The queen should die. Still proud, ridder... as long as it dates to his death... into the shadow of the poor's mouth. He's executioner-judge. Your majesty, Marie Antoinette... before you die... is the only thing you wish to say. You can't do it. I will not do it. I will not do it. I will not do it. To yourself, I will not do such thing. I do not think I shall... even do such thing. But I ask you why not... I will not do it.