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MARIE ANTOINETTE AND HER SON

by Louise Muhlbach

BOOK I.

CHAPTER I.

A HAPPY QUEEN.

It was the 13th of August, 1785. The queen, Marie Antoinette, had at last yielded to the requests and protestations of her dear subjects. She had left her fair Versailles and loved Trianon for one day, and had gone to Paris, in order to exhibit herself and the young prince whom she had borne to the king and the country on the 25th of March, and to receive in the cathedral of Notre Dame the blessing of the clergy and the good wishes of the Parisians.

She had had an enthusiastic reception, this beautiful and much loved queen, Marie Antoinette. She had driven into Paris in an open carriage, in company with her three children, and every one who recognized her had greeted her with a cheerful huzzah, and followed her on the long road to Notre Dame, at whose door the prominent clergy awaited her, the cardinal, Prince Louis de Rohan, at their head, to introduce her to the house of the King of all kings.

Marie Antoinette was alone; only the governess of the children, the Duchess de Polignac, sat opposite her, upon the back seat of the carriage, and by her side the Norman nurse, in her charming variegated district costume, cradling in her arms Louis Charles, the young Duke of Normandy. By her side, in the front part of the carriage, sat her other two children—Therese, the princess royal, the first-born daughter, and the dauphin Louis, the presumptive heir of the much loved King Louis the Sixteenth. The good king had not accompanied his spouse on this journey to Paris, which she undertook in order to show to her dear, yet curious Parisians that she was completely recovered, and that her children, the children of France, were blossoming for the future like fair buds of hope and peace.

"Go, my dear Antoinette," the king had said to his queen, in his pleasant way and with his good natured smile—" go to Paris in order to prepare a pleasure for my good people. Show them our children, and receive from them their thanks for the happiness which you have given to me and to them. I will not go with you, for I wish that you should be the sole recipient of the enthusiasm of the people and their joyful acclamations. I will not share your triumph, but I shall experience it in double measure if you enjoy it alone. Go, therefore, my beloved Antoinette, and rejoice in this happy hour."

Marie Antoinette did go, and she did rejoice in the happiness of the hour. "While riding through Paris, hundreds recognized her, hundreds hailed her with loud acclamations. As she left the cathedral of Notre Dame, in order to ascend into the carriage again with her children and their governess, one would be tempted to think that the whole square in front of the church had been changed into a dark, tumultuous sea, which dashed its raging black waves into all the streets debouching on the square, and was filling all Paris with its roar, its swell, its thunder roll. Yes, all Paris was there, in order to look upon Marie Antoinette, who, at this hour, was not the queen, but the fair woman; the happy mother who, with the pride of the mother of the Gracchi, desired no other protection and no other companionship than that of her two sons; who, her hand resting upon the shoulder of her daughter, needed no other maid of honor to appear before the people in all the splendor and all the dignity of the Queen of France and the true mother.

Yes, all Paris was there in order to greet the queen, the woman, and the mother, and out of thousands upon thousands of throats there sounded forth the loud ringing shout, "Long live the queen! Long live Marie Antoinette! Long live the fair mother and the fair children of France!"

Marie Antoinette felt herself deeply moved by these shouts. The sight of the faces animated with joy, of the flashing eyes, and the intoxicated peals of laughter, kindled her heart, drove the blood to her cheeks, and made her countenance beam with joy, and her eyes glisten with delight. She rose from her seat, and with a gesture of inimitable grace took the youngest son from the arms of the nurse, and lifted him high in the air, in order to display this last token of her happiness and her motherly pride to the Parisians, who had not yet seen the child. The little hat, which had been placed sideways upon the high toupet of her powdered head, had dropped upon her neck; the broad lace cuffs had fallen back from the arms which lifted the child into the air, and allowed the whole arm to be seen without any covering above the elbow.

The eyes of the Parisians drank in this spectacle with perfect rapture, and their shouting arose every moment like a burst of fanaticism.

"How beautiful she is!" resounded everywhere from the mass. "What a wonderful arm! What a beautiful neck!"

A deep flush mantled the face of Marie Antoinette. These words of praise, which were a tribute to the beauty of the woman, awoke the queen from the ecstasy into which the enthusiasm of her subjects had transported her. She surrendered the child again to the arms of his nurse, and sank down quickly like a frightened dove into the cushions of the carriage, hastily drawing up at the same time the lace mantle which had fallen from her shoulders and replacing her hat upon her head.

"Tell the coachman to drive on quickly," she said to the nurse; and while the latter was communicating this order, Marie Antoinette turned to her daughter. "Now, Therese," asked she, laughing, "is it not a beautiful spectacle our people taking so much pleasure in seeing us?"

The little princess of seven years shook her proud little head with a doubting, dark look.

"Mamma," said she, "these people look very dirty and ugly. I do not like them!"

"Be still, my child, be still," whispered the queen, hastily, for she feared lest the men who pressed the carriage so closely as almost to touch its doors, might hear the unthinking words of the little girl.

Marie Antoinette had not deceived herself. A man in a blouse, who had even laid his hand upon the carriage, and whose head almost touched the princess, a man with a blazing, determined face, and small, piercing black eyes, had heard the exclamation of the princess, and threw upon her a malignant, threatening glance.

"Madame loves us not, because we are ugly and dirty," he said; "but we should, perhaps, look pretty and elegant too, if we could put on finery to ride about in splendid carriages. But we have to work, and we have to suffer, that we may be able to pay our taxes. For if we did not do this, our king and his family would not be able to strut around in this grand style. We are dirty, because we are working for the king."

"I beg you, sir," replied the queen, softly, "to forgive my daughter; she is but a child, and does not know what she is saying. She will learn from her parents, however, to love our good, hard- working people, and to be thankful for their love, sir."

"I am no 'sir,' " replied the man, gruffly; "I am the poor cobbler
Simon, nothing more."

"Then I beg you, Master Simon, to accept from my daughter, as a remembrance, this likeness of her father, and to drink to our good health," said the queen, laying at the same time a louis-d'or in the hand of her daughter, and hastily whispering to her, "Give it to him."

The princess hastened to execute the command of her mother, and laid the glistening gold piece in the large, dirty hand which was extended to her. But when she wanted to draw back her delicate little hand, the large, bony fingers of the cobbler closed upon it and held it fast.

"What a little hand it is!" he said, with a deriding laugh; "I wonder what would become of these fingers if they had to work!"

"Mamma," cried the princess, anxiously, "order the man to let me go; he hurts me."

The cobbler laughed on, but dropped the hand of the princess.

"Ah," cried he, scornfully, "it hurts a princess only to touch the hand of a working man. It would be a great deal better to keep entirely away from the working people, and never to come among us."

"Drive forward quickly!" cried the queen to the coachman, with loud, commanding voice.

He urged on the horses, and the people who had hemmed in the carriage closely, and listened breathlessly to the conversation of the queen with the cobbler Simon, shrank timidly back before the prancing steeds.

The queen recovered her pleasant, merry smile, and bowed on all sides while the carriage rolled swiftly forward. The people again expressed their thanks with loud acclamations, and praised her beauty and the beauty of her children. But Marie Antoinette was no longer carried beyond herself by these words of praise, and did not rise again from her seat.

While the royal carriage was disappearing in the tumult and throng of the multitude, Simon the cobbler stood watching it with his mocking smile. He felt a hand upon his arm, and heard a voice asking the scornful question:

"Are you in love with this Austrian woman, Master Simon?"

The cobbler quickly turned round to confront the questioner. He saw, standing by his side, a little, remarkably crooked and dwarfed young man, whose unnaturally large head was set upon narrow, depressed shoulders, and whose whole appearance made such an impression upon the cobbler that the latter laughed outright.

"Not beautiful, am I?" asked the stranger, and he tried to join in the laugh of the cobbler, but the result was a mere grimace, which made his unnaturally large mouth, with its thick, colorless lips, extend from one ear to the other, displaying two fearful rows of long, greenish teeth.

"Not beautiful at all, am I? Dreadfully ugly!" exclaimed the stranger, as Simon's laughter mounted higher and higher.

"You are somewhat remarkable, at least," replied the cobbler. "If I did not hear you talk French, and see you standing up straight like one of us, I should think you were the monstrous toad in the fable that I read about a short time ago."

"I am the monstrous toad of the fable," replied the stranger, laughing. "I have merely disguised myself today as a man in order to look at this Austrian woman with her young brood, and I take the liberty of asking you once more, Have you fallen in love with her?"

"No, indeed, I have not fallen in love with her," ejaculated the cobbler. "God is my witness—"

"And why should you call God to witness?" asked the other, quickly.
"Do you suppose it is so great a misfortune not to love this
Austrian?"

"No, I certainly do not believe that," answered the other, thoughtfully. "I suppose that it is, perhaps, no sin before God not to love the queen, although it may he before man, and that it is not the first time that, it has been atoned for by long and dreary imprisonment. But I do love freedom, and therefore I shall take care not to tell a stranger what I think."

"You love freedom!" exclaimed the stranger. "Then give me your hand, and accept my thanks for the word, my brother."

"Your brother!" replied the cobbler, astounded. "I do not know you, and yet you call yourself, without more formal introduction, my brother."

"You have said that you love freedom, and therefore I greet you as my brother," replied the stranger. "All those who love freedom are brothers, for they confess themselves children of the same gracious and good mother who makes no difference between her children, but loves them all with equal intensity and equal devotion, and it is all the same to her whether this one of her sons is prince or count, and that one workman or citizen. For our mother, Freedom, we are all alike, we are all brethren."

"That sounds very finely," said the cobbler, shaking his head. "There is only one fault that I can find with it, it is not true. For if we were all alike, and were all brothers, why should the king ride round in his gilded chariot, while I, an old cobbler, sit on my bench and have my face covered with sweat?"

"The king is no son of Freedom!" exclaimed the stranger, with an angry gesture. "The king is a son of Tyranny, and therefore he wants to make his enemies, the sons of Freedom, to be his servants, his slaves, and to bind our arms with fetters. But shall we always bear this? Shall we not rise at last out of the dust into which we have been trodden?"

"Yes, certainly, if we can, then we will," said Simon, with his gruff laugh. "But here is the hitch, sir, we cannot do it. The king has the power to hold us in his fetters; and this fine lady, Madame Freedom, of whom you say that she is our mother, lets it come to pass, notwithstanding that her sons are bound down in servitude and abasement."

"It must be for a season yet," answered the other, with loud, rasping voice; "but the day of a rising is at hand, and shows with a laughing face how those whom she will destroy are rushing swiftly upon their own doom."

"What nonsense is that you are talking?" asked the cobbler. "Those who are going to be destroyed by Madame Liberty are working out their own ruin?"

"And yet they are doing it, Master Simon; they are digging their own graves, only they do not see it, and do not know it; for the divinity which means to destroy them has smitten them with blindness. There is this queen, this Austrian woman. Do you not see with your wise eyes how like a busy spider she is weaving her own shroud?"

"Now, that is certainly an error," said Simon; "the queen does not work at all. She lets the people work for her."

"I tell you, man, she does work, she is working at her own shroud, and I think she has got a good bit of it ready. She has nice friends, too, to help her in it, and to draw up the threads for this royal spider, and so get ready what is needed for this shroud. There, for example, is that fine Duke de Coigny. Do you know who that Duke de Coigny is?"

"No, indeed, I know nothing about it; I have nothing to do with the court, and know nothing about the court rabble."

"There you are right, they are a rabble," cried the other, laughing in return. "I know it, for I am so unfortunate as not to be able to say with you that I have nothing to do with the court. I have gone into palaces, and I shall come out again, but I promise you that my exit shall make more stir than my entrance. Now, I will tell you who the Duke de Coigny is. He is one of the three chief paramours of the queen, one of the great favorites of the Austrian sultana."

"Well, now, that is jolly," cried the cobbler; "you are a comical rogue, sir. So the queen has her paramours?"

"Yes. You know that the Duke de Besenval, at the time that the Austrian came as dauphiness to France, said to her: 'These hundred thousand Parisians, madame, who have come out to meet you, are all your lovers.' Now she takes this expression of Besenval in earnest, and wants to make every Parisian a lover of hers. Only wait, only wait, it will be your turn by and by. You will be able to press the hand of this beautiful Austrian tenderly to your lips."

"Well, I will let you know in advance, then," said Simon, savagely, "that I will press it in such right good earnest, that it shall always bear the marks of it. You were speaking just now of the three chief paramours—what are the names of the other two?"

"The second is your fine Lord de Adhemar; a fool, a rattle-head, a booby; but he is handsome, and a jolly lover. Our queen likes handsome men, and everybody knows that she is one of the laughing kind, a merry fly, particularly since the carousals on the palace terrace."

"Carousals! What was that?"

"Why, you poor innocent child, that is the name they give to those nightly promenades that our handsome queen took a year ago in the moonlight on the terrace at Versailles. Oh, that was a merry time! The iron fences of the park were not closed, and the dear people had a right to enter, and could walk near the queen in the moonlight, and hear the fine music which was concealed behind the hedges. You just ask the good-looking officer of the lancers, who sat one evening on a bench between two handsome women, dressed in white, and joked and laughed with them. He can tell you how Marie Antoinette can laugh, and what fine nonsense her majesty could afford to indulge in." [Footnote: See Madame de Campane. "Memoires," vol. i.]

"I wish I knew him, and he would tell me about it," cried cobbler Simon, striking his fists together. "I always like to hear something bad about this Austrian woman, for I hate her and the whole court crowd besides. What right have they to strut and swell, and put on airs, while we have to work and suffer from morning till night? Why is their life nothing but jollity, and ours nothing but misery? I think I am of just as much consequence as the king, and my woman would look just as nice as the queen, if she would put on fine clothes and ride round in a gilded carriage. What puts them up and puts us down?"

"I tell you why. It is because we are ninnies and fools, and allow them to laugh in their sleeves at us, and make divinities out of themselves, before whom the people, or, as they call them, the rabble, are to fall upon their knees. But patience, patience! There will come a time when they will not laugh, nor compel the people to fall upon their knees and beg for favor. But no favor shall be granted to them. They shall meet their doom."

"Ha! I wish the time were here," shouted the cobbler, laughing; "and
I hope I may be there when they meet their punishment."

"Well, my friend, that only depends upon yourself," said the stranger. "The time will come, and if you wish you can contribute your share, that it may approach with more rapid steps."

"What can I do? Tell me, for I am ready for every thing?"

"You can help whet the knife, that it may cut the better," said the stranger, with a horrible grimace. "Come, come, do not look at me so astonished, brother. There are already a good number of knife- sharpeners in the good city of Paris, and if you want to join their company, come this evening to me, and I will make you acquainted with some, and introduce you to our guild."

"Where do you live, sir, and what is your name?" asked the cobbler, with glowing curiosity.

"I live in the stable of the Count d'Artois, and my name is Jean
Paul Marat."

"In the stable!" cried the cobbler. "My faith, I had not supposed you were a hostler or a coachman. It must be a funny sight, M. Marat, to see you mounted upon a horse."

"You think that such a big toad as I does not belong there exactly. Well, there you are right, brother Simon. My real business is not at all with the horses, but with the men in the stable. I am the horse- doctor, brother Simon, horse-doctor of the Count d'Artois; and I can assure you that I am a tolerably skilful doctor, for I have yoked together many a hostler and jockey whom the stable-keepers of the dear Artois have favored with a liberal dispensation of their lash. So, come this evening to me, not only that I may introduce you to good society, but come if you are sick. I will restore you, and it shall cost you nothing. I cure my brothers of the people without any pay, for it is not the right thing for brothers to take money one of another. So, brother Simon, I shall look for you this evening at the stable; but now I must leave you, for my sick folks are expecting me. Just one more word. If you come about seven o'clock to visit me, the old witch that keeps the door will certainly tell you that I am not at home. I will, therefore, give you the pass-word, which will allow you to go in. It is 'Liberty, Equality, Fraternity.' Good-by."

He nodded to the cobbler with a fearful grimace, and strode away quickly, in spite of not being able to lift his left foot over the broad square of the Hotel de Ville.

Master Simon looked after him at first with a derisive smile, and this diminutive figure, with his great head, on which a high, black felt hat just kept its position, seemed to amuse him excessively. All at once a thought struck him, and, like an arrow impelled from the bow, he dashed forward and ran after Jean Paul Marat.

"Doctor Marat, Doctor Marat!" he shouted, breathless, from a distance.

Marat stood still and looked around with a malicious glance.

"Well, what is it?" snarled he, "and who is calling my name so loud?"

"It is I, brother Marat," answered the cobbler, panting. "I have been running after you because you have forgotten something."

"What is it?" asked Marat, feeling in his pockets with his long fingers." I have my handkerchief and the piece of black bread that makes my breakfast. I have not forgotten anything."

"Yes, Jean Paul Marat, you have forgotten something," answered Master Simon. "You were going to tell me the names of the three chief paramours of the queen, and you have given only two—the Duke de Coigny and Lord Adhemar. You see I have a good memory, and retain all that you told me. So give me the name of the third one, for I will confess to you that I should like to have something to say about this matter in my club this afternoon, and it will make quite a sensation to come primed with this story about the Austrian woman."

"Well, I like that, I like that," said Marat, laughing so as to show his mouth from one ear to the other. "Now, that is a fine thing to have a club, where you can tell all these little stories about the queen and the court, and it will be a real pleasure to me to tell you any such matters as these to communicate to your club, for it is always a good thing to have any thing that takes place at Versailles and St. Cloud get talked over here at Paris among the dear good people."

"In St. Cloud?" asked the cobbler. "What is it that can happen there? That is nothing at all but a tiresome, old-forgotten pleasure palace of the king."

"It is lively enough there now, depend upon it," replied Marat, with his sardonic laugh. "King Louis the well beloved has given this palace to his wife, in order that she may establish there a larger harem than Trianon; that miserable, worthless little mouse-nest, where virtue, honor, and worth get hectored to death, is not large enough for her. Yes, yes, that fine, great palace of the French kings, the noble St. Cloud, is now the heritage and possession of this fine Austrian. And do you know what she has done? Close by the railing which separates the park from St. Cloud, and near the entrance, she has had a tablet put up, on which are written the conditions on which the public are allowed to enter the park."

"Well, that is nothing new," said the cobbler, impatiently." They have such a board put up at all the royal gardens, and everywhere the public is ordered, in the name of the king, not to do any injury, and not to wander from the regular paths."

"Well, that is just; it is ordered in the name of the king; but in St. Cloud, it runs in the name of the queen. Yes, yes, there you may see in great letters upon the board; 'In the name of the queen.' [Footnote: "De par la reine" was the expression which was then in the mouth of all France and stirred everybody's rage.] It is not enough for us that a king sits upon our neck, and imposes his commands upon us and binds us. We have now another ruler in France, prescribing laws and writing herself sovereign. We have a new police regulation in the name of the queen, a state within the state. Oh, the spider is making a jolly mesh of it! In the Trianon she made the beginning. There the police regulations have always been in the name of the queen; and because the policy was successful there, it extends its long finger still further, issues a new proclamation against the people, appropriates to itself new domain, and proposes to gradually encompass all France with its cords."

"That is rascally, that is wrong," cried the cobbler, raising his clinched fists in the air.

"But that is not all, brother. The queen goes still further. Down to the present time we have been accustomed to see the men who stoop to be the mean servants of tyrants array themselves in the monkey- jackets of the king's livery; but in St. Cloud, the Swiss guards at the gates, the palace servants, in one word, the entire menial corps, array themselves in the queen's livery; and if you are walking in the park of St. Cloud, you are no longer in France and on French soil, but in an Austrian province, where a foreigner can establish her harem and make her laws, and yet a virtuous and noble people does not rise in opposition to it."

"It does not know anything about it, brother Marat," said Simon, eagerly. "It knows very little about the vices and follies of the queen."

"Well, tell the people, then; report to them what I have told yon, and make it your duty that it be talked over among other friends, and made generally known."

"Oh! that shall be, that shall certainly be," said Simon, cheerily," but you have not given me the name of that third lover yet."

"Oh! the third-that is Lord Besenval, the inspector general of the Swiss guard, the chief general of the army, and the commander of the Order of Louis. You see it is a great advantage for a man to be a lover of the queen, for in that way he comes to a high position. While King Louis the Fifteenth, that monster of vice, was living, Besenval was only colonel of the Swiss guard, and all he could do was once in a while to take part in the orgies at the Eoil de Boeuf. But now the queen has raised him to a very high place. All St. Cloud and Trianon form the Eoil de Boeuf, where Marie Antoinette celebrates her orgies, and General Besenval is made one of the first directors of the sports. Now you know every thing, do you not?"

"Yes, Doctor Marat, now I have a general run of every thing, and I thank you; but I hope that you will tell me more this evening, for your stories are vastly entertaining."

"Yes, indeed, I shall tell you plenty more of the same sort, for the queen takes good care that we shall always have material for such stories. Yet, unfortunately, I have no time now, for—"

"I know, I know, you have got to visit your sick people," said Simon, nodding confidentially to him. "I will not detain you any longer. Good-by, my dear Doctor Marat. We shall meet this evening."

He sprang quickly away, and soon disappeared round the next corner. Marat looked after him with a wicked, triumphant expression in his features.

"So far good, so far good," muttered he, shaking his head with choler. " In this way I have got to win over the soldiers and the people to freedom. The cobbler will make an able and practicable soldier, and with his nice little stories, he will win over a whole company. Triumph on, you proud Bourbons; go on dreaming in your gilded palaces, surrounded by your Swiss guards. Keep on believing that you have the power in your hands, and that no one can take it from you. The time will come when the people will disturb your fine dream, and when the little, despised, ugly Marat, whom no one now knows, and who creeps around in your stables like a poisonous rat, shall confront you as a power before which you shall shrink away and throw yourselves trembling into the dust. There shall go by no day in which I and my friends shall not win soldiers for our side, and the silly, simple fool, Marie Antoinette, makes it an easy thing for us. Go on committing your childish pranks, which, when the time shall threaten a little, will justify the most villanous deeds and the most shameless acts, and I will keep the run of all the turns of the times, and this fine young queen cannot desire that we should look at the world with such simple eyes as she does. Yes, fair Queen Marie Antoinette, thou hast thy Swiss guards, who fight for thee, and thou must pay them; but I have only one soldier who takes ground for me against thee, and whom I do not have to pay at all. My soldier's name is Calumny. I tell thee, fair queen, with this ally I can overcome all thy Swiss guards, and the whole horde of thy armies. For, on the earth there is no army corps that is so strong as Calumny. Hurrah! long life to thee, my sworn ally, Calumny!"

CHAPTER II.

MADAME ADELAIDE.

Queen Marie Antoinette had returned, after her Paris ride, to her own Versailles. She was silent the whole of the way, and the Duchess de Polignac had sought in vain to cheer her friend with light and pleasant talk, and drive away the clouds from her lofty brow. Marie Antoinette had only responded by enforced smiles and half-words, and then, settling back into the carriage, had gazed with dreamy looks into the heavens, whose cheerful blue called out no reflection upon the fair face of the queen.

As they drew into the great court of the palace at Versailles, the drum-beat of the Swiss guards, presenting arms, and the general stir which followed the approach of the queen, appeared to awaken her from her sorrowful thoughts, and she straightened herself up and cast her glances about. They fell quite accidentally upon the child which was in the arms of the nurse opposite, and which, with great wide-open eyes, was looking up to the heavens, as its mother had done before.

In the intensity of her motherly love, the queen stretched out her arms to the child and drew it to her heart, and pressed a burning kiss upon its lips.

"Ah! my child, my dear child," said she, softly, "you have to-day, for the first time, made your entry into Paris, and heard the acclamations of the people. May you, so long as you live, always be the recipient of kindly greetings, and never again hear such words as that dreadful man spoke to us to-day!"

She pressed the little Duke of Normandy closely to her heart, and quite forgot that she was all this while in the carriage; that near the open portal the hostlers and lackeys were awaiting in a respectful posture the dismounting of the queen; that the drums were all the while beating, and that the guards were standing before the gates in the fixed attitude of presenting arms.

The Duchess de Polignac ventured to suggest in softly-spoken words the necessity of dismounting, and the queen, with her little boy in her arms, sprang lightly and spiritedly, without accepting the assistance of the master of the grooms, out of the carriage, smiling cheerily, greeting the assembled chamberlains as she passed by, hurried into the palace and ran up the great marble staircase. The Duchess de Polignac made haste to follow her, while the Princess Therese and the dauphin were received by their dames of honor and led into their respective apartments. The Norman nurse, shaking her head, hurried after the queen, and the chamberlains and both the maids of honor, shaking their heads, too, followed her into the great ante-chamber. After riding out, the queen was in the habit of dismissing them there, but to-day Marie Antoinette had gone into her own suite of rooms without saying a word, and the door was already closed.

"What shall we do now?" asked both the maids of honor of the cavaliers, and received only a shrug of the shoulders for reply.

"We shall have to wait," at last said the Marchioness de Mailly. "Perhaps her majesty will have the kindness to remember us and to permit us to withdraw."

"And if she should happen to forget it," answered the Princess de Chimay, "we shall have to stand here the whole day, while the queen in Trianon is amusing herself with the fantastic pastoral plays."

"Yes, certainly, there is a country festival in Trianon to-day," said the Prince de Castines, shrugging his shoulders, "and it might easily happen that we should be forgotten, and, like the unforgetable wife of Lot, have to stand here playing the ridiculous part of pillars of salt."

"No, there comes our deliverance," whispered the Marchioness de Mailly, pointing to a carriage which just then came rolling across the broad palace-square. "It was yesterday resolved in secret council at the Count de Provence's, that Madame Adelaide should make one more attempt to bring the queen to reason, and make her understand what is becoming and what is unbecoming to a Queen of France. Now look you, in accordance with this resolve, Madame Adelaide is coming to Versailles to pay a visit to her distinguished niece."

Just then the carriage of the Princess Adelaide, daughter of Louis the Fifteenth, and aunt of Louis the Sixteenth, drove through the great gate into the guarded vestibule of the palace; two outriders rode in advance, two lackeys stood on the stand behind the carriage, and upon the step on each side, a page in richly-embroidered garments.

Before the middle portal, which could only be used by the royal family, and which had never been desecrated by the entrance of one who was "lowly-born," the carriage came to a standstill. The lackeys hastened to open the gate, and a lady, advanced in years, gross in form, with an irritable face well pitted with pock-marks, and wearing no other expression than supercilious pride and a haughty indifference, dismounted with some difficulty, leaning upon the shoulder of her page, and toiled up the steps which conducted to the great vestibule.

The runner sprang before her up the great staircase covered with its carpets, and with his long staff rapped on the door of the first antechamber that led to the apartments of the queen. "Madame Adelaide!" shouted he with a loud voice, and the lackey repeated it in the same tone, quickly opening the door of the second antechamber; and the word was taken up by the chamberlains, and repeated and carried along where the queen was sitting.

Marie Antoinette shrugged herself together a little at this announcement, which interrupted her while engaged in charming unrestrained conversation with the Duchess de Polignac, and a shadow flitted across her lofty brow.

With fiery quickness she flung her arms around the neck of her friend, and pressed a kiss upon her lips. "Farewell, Julia; Madame Adelaide is coming: that is just the same as irritation and annoyance. She may not bear the least suspicion of this upon her fine and dearly-loved face, and just because they are not there, I must tell you, my dear friend, to leave me. But hold yourself in readiness, after Madame Annoyance has left me, to ride with me to Trianon. The queen must remain here half an hour still, but she will be rewarded for it, for Marie Antoinette will afterward go with her Julia to Trianon to spend a half day of pleasure with her husband and friends."

"And to impart to her friends an eternity of blissful recollections," said the duchess, with a charming smile, pressing the hand of the queen to her lips, and taking her leave with inimitable grace, in order to pass out through the little side-door which entered the corridor through a porcelain cabinet, intending then to visit the rooms of the 'children of France.'

At the same moment in which the lofty, dignified form of the duchess disappeared through the side-door, both wings of the main entrance were flung open, and the two maids of honor of the queen advanced to the threshold, and made so deep a reverence that their immense petticoats expanded like a kettle. Then they took a step backward, made another reverence so profound that their heads, bearing coiffures a foot and a half high, fell upon their breasts.

"Madame Adelaide!" they both ejaculated as with one voice, slowly straightening themselves up and taking their places at the sides of the door.

The princess now appeared upon the threshold; behind her, her maids of honor and master of ceremonies, the grand-chamberlain, the pages, and both masters of grooms, standing in the great antechambers.

At the appearance of the maids of honor, Marie Antoinette had taken her position in the middle of the chamber, and could not repress a faint smile, as with erect head she noticed the confusion instant upon the princess's imposing entrance.

Madame Adelaide advanced some steps, for the queen did not change her position nor hasten toward her as she had perhaps expected; her irritated look increased still more, and she did not take a seat.

"I come perhaps at an inconvenient season for your majesty," said she, with a tart smile. "The queen perhaps was just upon the point of going to Trianon, whither as I hear, the king has already proceeded?"

"Has your highness heard that?" asked the queen, smiling. "I wonder what sharp ears Madame Adelaide always has to catch such a trifling rumor, while my younger ones have never caught the least hint of the important approach of the princess, and so I am equally surprised and delighted at the unexpected appearance of my gracious and loving aunt."

Every one of these words, which were spoken so cheerily and with such a pleasant smile, seemed to pierce the princess like the prick of a needle, and caused her to press her lips together in just such a way as if she wanted to check an outcry of pain or suppress some hidden rage. Marie Antoinette, while speaking of the sharp ears which madame always had, had hinted at the advanced age no less than at the curiosity of the princess, and had brought her young and unburdened ears into very advantageous contrast with them.

"Would your majesty grant me the favor of an interview?" asked Madame Adelaide, who did not possess the power of entering on a contest with her exalted niece, with sharp yet graceful words.

"I am prepared with all pleasure," answered the queen, cheerfully; "and it depends entirely upon madame whether the audience shall be private or public."

"I beg for a half hour of entire privacy," said Madame Adelaide, with choler.

"A private audience, ladies!" called the queen to her maids of honor, as motioning with her hand she dismissed them. Then she directed her great brilliant eyes to the door of the antechamber. "My lord grooms, in half an hour I should like to have my carriage ready for Trianon."

The maids of honor withdrew into the great antechamber, and closed the doors behind them.

The queen and Madame Adelaide were alone.

"Let us sit, if it pleases you," said Marie Antoinette, motioning the princess to an arm-chair, while she took her own place upon a simple ottoman. "You have something to say to me, and I am entirely ready to hear you."

"Would to God, madame, that you would not only hear my words," said Madame Adelaide, with a sigh, "but that you would take them to heart as well!"

"If they deserve it, I certainly shall," said the queen, smiling.

"They certainly do deserve it," said the princess, "for what I aim at in my words concerns the peace, the security, the honor of our family. Madame, allow me first to disburden myself of something that has been committed to me. My noble and pious sister, Madame Louise, has given me this letter for your majesty, and in her name I ask our royal niece to read the same at once and in my presence."

She drew from the great reticule, which was attached to her arm by its silken cords, a sealed letter, and handed it to the queen.

But Marie Antoinette did not raise her hand to receive it, but shook her head as if in refusal, and yet with so eager a motion that her elaborate coiffure fairly trembled.

"I beg your pardon, madame," said she, earnestly, "but I cannot receive this letter from the prioress of the Carmelite convent at St. Denis; for you well know that when Madame Louise sent me some years ago, through your highness, a letter which I read, that I never again will receive and read letters from the prioress. Have the goodness, then, to take this back to the sender."

"You know, madame, that this is an affront directed against a princess of France!" was the emphatic reply.

"I know, madame, that that letter which I then received from Madame Louise was an affront directed by the princess against the Queen of France, and I shall protect the majesty of my station from a similar affront. Unquestionably this letter is similar in tone to that one. That one contained charges which went so far as to involve open condemnation, and contained proffers of counsel which meant little less than calumny. [Footnote: Gondrecourt, "Histoire de Marie Antoinette," p. 59.] And what would this be likely to contain different, which your highness takes the trouble to bring to me?"

"Well," cried Madame Adelaide, angrily, "its purport may be similar to that of the former letter; for, unfortunately, the causes are the same, and we may not wonder if the effects are also the same."

"Ah! one can easily see that your highness knows the contents of the letter," said Marie Antoinette, smiling, "and you will therefore certainly pardon me for not reading it. It was unquestionably written in the presence of your highness, in the pious cell of the prioress. She gave over for a while her prayers for the repose of the departed king, in order to busy herself a little with worldly things, and to listen to the calumnies which Madame Adelaide, or the Count de Provence, or the Cardinal de Kohan, or some other of the enemies of my person, have sought to hurl against the Queen of France."

"Calumnies!" replied Madame Adelaide, with an angry flash in her eyes. "Would to God, madame, that it were calumnies with which we have to do, and that all these things which trouble and disturb us were only malicious calumnies, and not sober facts!"

"And will your highness not have the goodness to communicate these facts to me?" said the queen, undisturbed, but smiling, and so only increasing the anger of the princess.

"These facts are of so varied kinds that it would be a difficult thing to choose out any separate ones among them," cried she, with fiery tone. "Every day, every hour of the life of your majesty, brings new facts to light."

"Oh!" said Marie Antoinette, "I had no idea that your highness had such tender care for me."

"And I had no idea, madame, that your frivolity went so far as continually to wound the laws, the customs, and the hallowed order of things. You do it—you do it, scorning every thing established with the random wantonness of a child that plays with fire, and does not know that the waves will flare up and consume it. Madame, I have come here to warn you once more, and for the last time."

"God be thanked, for the last time!" cried the queen, with a charming glance of her eyes.

"I conjure you, queen, for your own sake, for your husband's, for your children's, change your course; take a new direction; leave the path of danger on which you are hastening to irretrievable destruction."

The countenance of the queen, before so pleasant and animated, now darkened. Her smile gave way to a deep earnestness; she raised her head proudly and put on a royal bearing.

"Madame," said she, "up to this time I have been inclined to meet your biting philippics with the quiet indifference which innocence gives, and to remain mindful of the reverence due to age, and not to forget the harsh eyes with which the aged always look upon the deeds of youth. But you compel me to take the matter more earnestly to heart, for you join to my name that of my husband and my children, and so you appeal to my heart of hearts. Now, then, tell me, madame, what you have to bring against me."

"Your boundless frivolity, your culpable short-sightedness, your foolish pleasures, your extravagance, your love of finery, your mixing with politics, your excessive jovialness, your entertainments, your—"

Marie Antoinette interrupted this series of charges with loud, merry laughter, which more enraged the princess than the most stinging words would have done.

"Yes," she continued, "you are frivolous, for you suppose the life of a queen is one clear summer's day, to be devoted to nothing but singing and laughing. You are short-sighted, for you do not see that the flowers of this summer's day in which you rejoice, only bloom above an abyss into which you, with your wanton dancing, are about to plunge. You indulge in foolish pleasures, instead of, as becomes a Queen of France, passing your life in seclusion, in devout meditation, in the exercise of beneficence, in pious deeds. You are a spendthrift, for you give the income of France to your favorites, to this Polignac family, which it has been reckoned receives alone a twentieth part of the whole income of the state; to these gracious lords and ladies of your so-called 'society,' supporting them in their frivolity, allowing them to make golden gain out of you. You are a lover of finery, not holding it beneath your dignity to spend whole hours with a poor milliner; allowing a man to dress your hair, and afterward to go into the toilet chambers of the Parisian dames, that their hair may be dressed by the same hands which have arranged the hair of a queen, and to imitate the coiffure which the Queen of France wears. And what kind of a coiffure is that which, invented by a queen, is baptized with a fantastic name, and carried through Paris, France, and all Europe?"

"But," said Marie Antoinette, with comical pathos, "these coiffures have, some of them, horrid names. We have, for example, the 'hog's bristles coiffure,' the 'flea-bite coiffure,' the 'dying dog,' the 'flame of love,' 'modesty's cap,' a—"

"A queen's levee," interrupted the princess; "a love's nest of Marie Antoinette. Yes, we have come to that pass that the fashions are named after the queen, and all acquire a certain frivolous character, so that all the men and all the honorable women of Paris are in despair because the thoughts of their daughters, infected with the millinery tastes of the queen and the court, shun all noble thoughts, and only busy themselves with mere affairs of taste. I have shown you, and you will not be able to deny it, madame, that this decline in manners, which has been engendered by this love of finery, proceeds from you, and from you alone; that not only your love of finery is to blame, but also your coquetry, your joviality, and these unheard-of indescribable orgies to which the Queen of France surrenders herself, and to which she even allures her own husband, the King of France, the oldest son of the Church."

"What does your highness mean?" asked the queen.

"Of what entertainments are you speaking?"

"I am speaking of the entertainments which are celebrated in Trianon, to the perversion of all usage and all good manners. Of those orgies in which the queen transforms herself into a shepherdess, and permits the ladies of her court, who ought to appear before her with bended knee and with downcast eyes, to clothe themselves like her, and to put on the same bearing as the queen's! I speak of those orgies where the king, enchanted by the charms of his wife, and allured by her coquetry, so far forgets his royal rank as even to take part himself in this stupid frivolity, and to bear a share in this trivial masquerading. And this queen, whose loud laughter fills the groves of Trianon, and who sometimes finds her pleasure in imitating the lowing of cows or the bleating of goats— this queen will afterward put on the bearing of a statesman, and will, with those hands which have just got through arranging an 'allegorical head-dress,' dip into the machinery of state, interrupting the arrangements of her entertainments to busy herself with politics, to set aside old, cherished ministers, to bring her friends and favorites into their places, and to make the king the mere executor of her will."

"Madame," said the queen, as glowing with anger and with eyes of flame she rose from her seat—"madame, this is going too far, this oversteps the bounds that every one, even the princesses of the royal house, owe to their sovereign. I have allowed you to subject to your biting criticism my outer life, my pleasures, and my dress, but I do not allow you to take in hand my inner life—my relations to my husband and my personal honor. You presume to speak of my favorites. I demand of you to name them, and if you can show that there is one man to whom I show any other favor than a gracious queen may show to a servant, a subject whom she can honor and trust, I desire that you would give his name to the king, and that a close investigation be made into the case. I have friends; yes, thank Heaven! I have friends who prize me highly, and who are every hour prepared to give their life for their queen. I have true and faithful servants; but no one will appear and give evidence that Marie Antoinette has ever had an illicit lover. My only lover has been the king, my husband, and I hope before God that he will always remain so, so long as I live. But this is exactly what the noble princesses my aunts, what the Count de Provence, and the whole party of the old court, never will forgive me for. I have had the good fortune to win the love of my husband. The king, despite all calumnies and all intrigues, lowered his glance to the poor young woman who stood solitary near him, and whom he had been taught to prize lightly and to despise, and then he found that she was not so simple, stupid, and ugly, as she had been painted. He began to take some notice of her, and then, God be thanked, he overlooked the fact that she was of Austrian blood, and that the policy of his predecessor had urged her upon him; his heart warmed to her in love, and Marie Antoinette received this love as a gracious gift of God, as the happiness of her life. Yes, madame, I may say it with pride and joy, the king loves me, he trusts me, and therefore his wife stands nearer to him than even his exalted aunts, and I am the one whom he most trusts and whom he selects to be his chief adviser. But this is just the offence which will never be forgiven me: it has fallen to my lot to take from my enemies and opponents their influence over my husband. The time has gone by when Madame Adelaide could gain an attentive ear when she came to the king, and in her passionate rage charged me with unheard of crimes, which had no basis excepting that in some little matters I had loosened the ancient chains of etiquette; the time is past when Madame Louise could presume to drive me with her flashing anger from her pious cell and make me kneel in the dust; and when it was permitted to the Count de la Morch to accuse the queen before the king of having risen in time to behold the rising of the sun at Versailles, in company with her whole court. The king loves me, and Madame Adelaide is no longer the political counsellor of the king; the ministers will no longer be appointed according to her dictate, and the great questions of the cabinet are decided without appealing to her! I know that this is a new offence which you lay to my charge, and that by your calumniations and suspicions you make me suffer the penalty for it. I know that the Count de Provence stoops to direct epigrams and pamphlets against his sister-in-law, his sovereign, and through the agency of his creatures to scatter them through Paris. I know that in his saloons all the enemies of the queen are welcome, and that charges against me are made without rebuke, and that there the weapons are forged with which I am assailed. But take care lest some day these weapons be turned against you! It is you who are imperilling the kingdom, and undermining the throne, for you do not hesitate setting before the people an example that nothing is sacred to you; that the dignity of the throne no longer has an existence, but that it may be denied with vile insinuations, and the most poisonous arrows directed against those who wear the crown of St. Louis on their head. But all you, the aunts, the brothers of the king, and the whole swarm of their intimates and dependents, you are all undermining the monarchy, for you forget that the foreigner, the Austrian, as you call her—that she is Queen of France, your sovereign, your lord, and that you are nothing better than her subjects. You are criminals, you are high traitors!"

"Madame," cried the Princess Adelaide, "Madame, what language is this that—"

"It is the language of a woman in reply to a calumniator, the language of a queen to a rebellious subject. Madame, have the goodness not to answer me again. You have come into the palace of your sovereign to accuse her, and she has answered you as becomes her station. Now we have nothing more to say to each other. You requested a half-hour's private audience with me, and the time has gone. Farewell, madame; my carriage stands ready, and I go to Trianon. I shall, however, say nothing to the king respecting the new attack which you have made upon me, and I promise you that I shall forget it and forgive it."

She nodded lightly, turned herself around, and, with lofty carriage and proud self-possession, left the apartment.

Princess Adelaide looked after her with an expression of the deepest hate, and entirely forgetful of her lofty station, even raised her hand threateningly in the direction of the door through which the noble figure of the queen had just vanished. "I shall not forget nor forgive," muttered she. "I shall have my revenge on this impudent person who dares to threaten me and even to defy me, and who calls herself my sovereign. This Austrian, a sovereign of the princess royal of France! We will show her where are the limits of her power, and where are the limits of France! She shall go back to Austria; we want her not, this Austrian who dares to defy us."

Proud and erect though the bearing was with which the queen left Madame Adelaide, she had hardly entered her own room and closed the door which separated her from her enemy, when she sank groaning upon a seat, and a flood of tears streamed from her eyes.

"Oh, Campan, Campan! what have I been compelled to hear?" cried she, bitterly. "With what expressions have they ventured to address the Queen of France!" Madame de Campan, the first lady-in-waiting on the queen, who had just then entered the porcelain room, hastened to her mistress, and, sinking upon her knees, pressed the fallen hand of the queen to her lips. "Your majesty is weeping!" she whispered with her mild, sympathetic voice. " Your majesty has given the princess the satisfaction of knowing that she has succeeded in drawing tears from the Queen of France, and reddening her beautiful eyes."

"No, I will not give her this pleasure," said the queen, quickly raising herself up and drying her eyes. "I will be merry, and why do I weep? She sought to make me sick; she sought to wound me, but I have given back the sickness, and the wounds which I have inflicted upon her will not so soon heal."

"Has your majesty inflicted anything upon the princess?" cried
Madame de Campan, in agitation.

"Yes," answered Marie Antoinette, with triumphant joy. "I have scourged her, I have wounded her, for I have distinctly intimated to her that I am Queen of France, and she my subject. I have told her, that when she dares direct her calumnies against the queen, she is guilty of high-treason."

"Oh!" exclaimed Madame de Campan, "the proud princess will never pardon that. Your majesty has now become her irreconcilable enemy, and she will leave no stone unturned to revenge herself upon you."

"She may attempt to revenge herself upon me," cried the queen, whose countenance began to brighten up once more. "I fear neither her nor her whole set. All their arrows will fall powerless at my feet, for the love of my husband and my pure conscience form the protection which secures me. And what can these people accomplish against me? They can slander me, that is all. But their calumnies will, in the end, prove that it is lies they tell, and no one will give them confidence more."

"Ah! your majesty does not know the wickedness of the world," sighed Campan, sadly. "Your majesty believes that the good are not cowardly, and that the bad are not reckless. Your majesty does not know that the bad have it in their power to corrupt public opinion; and that then the good have not the courage to meet this corrupting influence. But public opinion is a monster that brings the charge, passes judgment, pronounces the sentence, and inflicts the punishment in one person. Who thinks lightly of it, arrays against himself an enemy stronger than a whole army, and less open to entreaty than death."

"Ah!" cried the queen, raising her head proudly, "I do not fear this enemy. She shall not dare to attack me. She shall crouch and shrink before my gaze as the lion does when confronted by the eye of a virgin. I am pure and blameless. I pledged my troth to my husband before he loved me, and how shall I now break it, when he does love me, and is the father of my dear children? And now, enough of these disagreeable things that want to cast their vileness upon us! And the sun is shining so splendidly, and they are waiting for me in Trianon! Come, Campan, come; the queen will take the form of a happy wife."

Marie Antoinette hastened before her lady-in-waiting, hurried into her toilet-chamber in advance of her lady-in-waiting, who followed, sighing and shaking her head, and endeavored with her own hands to loosen the stiff corset of her robe, and to free herself from the immense crinoline which imprisoned her noble form.

"Off with these garments of state and royal robes," said Marie Antoinette, gliding out of the stiff apparel, and standing in a light, white undergarment, with bare shoulders and arms. "Give me a white percale dress and a gauze mantle with it."

"Will your majesty appear again in this simple costume?" asked
Madame de Campan, sighing.

"Certainly, I will," cried she; "I am going to Trianon, to my much- loved country-house. You must know, Campan, that the king has promised to spend every afternoon of a whole week with me at Trianon, and that there we are going to enjoy life, nature, and solitude. So, for a whole week, the king will only be king in the forenoon, and in the afternoon a respectable miller in the village Trianon. Now, is not that a merry thought, Campan? And do you not see that I cannot go to Trianon in any other than a light white dress?"

"Yes, your majesty, I understand; but I was only thinking that the trades-people of Lyons had just presented a paper to your majesty, in which they complain of the decadence of the silk manufacture, explaining it on the ground that your majesty has a preference for white clothing, and stating that all the ladies feel obliged to follow the example of their queen, and lay their silk robes aside."

"And do you know, too," asked Marie Antoinette, "that Madame Adelaide has herself supported this ridiculous paper of the Lyonnese merchants, giving out that I wear white percale because I want to do my brother, the Emperor Joseph, a service, and so ordered these white goods from the Netherlands? Ah, let us leave these follies of the wicked and the stupid. They shall not prevent my wearing white clothes and being happy in Trianon. Give me a white dress quickly, Campan."

"Pardon, your majesty, but I must; first summon the ladies of the robing-room," answered Madame de Campan, turning to the door of the sleeping-room.

"Oh, why all this parade?" sighed the queen. "Can I never be free from the fetters of all this ceremony? Could you not yourself, Campan, put a simple dress upon me?"

"Your majesty, I am only a poor, powerless being, and I fear enmities. The ladies would never forgive me if I should encroach upon their rights and separate them from the adored person of the queen. It is their right, it is their duty to draw the robe upon the person of your majesty, and to secure your shoes. I beg, therefore, your gracious permission to allow the ladies to come in."

"Well, do it then," sighed the queen. " Let me bear the fetters here in Versailles until the last moment. I shall have my compensation in Trianon. Be assured I shall have my compensation there."

A quarter of an hour later the queen was arrayed in her changed attire, and came out from the toilet-chamber. The stiff crinoline had disappeared; the whalebone corset, with the long projecting point, was cast aside; and the high coiffure, which Leonard had so elaborately made up in the morning, was no more to be seen. A white robe, decorated at the bottom with a simple volante, fell in broad artistic folds over her noble figure, whose full proportions had been concealed by the rigid state dress. A simple waist encircled her bust, and was held together by a blue sash, which hung in long ends at her left side. Broad cuffs, held together with simple, narrow lace, fell down as far as the wrist, but through the thin material could be seen the fair form of her beautiful arms; and the white triangle of gauze which she had thrown over her naked neck, did not entirely veil the graceful lines of her full shoulders and her noble bust. Her hair, deprived of its unnatural disfigurement, and almost entirely freed from powder, arched itself above her fine forehead in a light toupet, and fell upon her shoulders in rich brown locks, on which only a mere breath of powder had been blown. On her arm the queen carried a great, round, straw hat, secured by blue ribbons, and over her fair, white hands she had drawn gloves of black netting.

Thus, with beaming countenance, with blushing cheeks, and with smiles curling around her full red lips; thus, all innocence, merriment, and cheerfulness, Marie Antoinette entered the sitting- room, where the Duchess de Polignac was waiting for her, in an attire precisely like that of the queen.

The latter flew to the duchess with the quickness of a young girl, with the tenderness of a sister, and drew her arm within that of her friend.

"Come, Julia," said she, "let us leave the world and enter paradise."

"Ah, I am afraid of paradise," cried the duchess, with a merry smile. "I have a horror of the serpent."

"You shall find no serpents there, my Julia," said the queen, drawing the arm of the duchess to herself. "Lean upon me, my friend, and be persuaded that I will defend you against every serpent, and every low, creeping thing."

"Oh, I fear the serpent more for my adored queen than for myself. What is there in me to harm? But your majesty is exposed on every side to attack."

"Oh, why, Julia," sighed the queen-" why do you ad-dress me with the stiff, formal title of majesty when we are alone together? Why do you not forget for a little etiquette when there is nobody by to hear us?"

"Your majesty," laughed the duchess, "we are in Versailles, and the walls have ears."

"It is true," cried the queen, with quickly restored merriment, " we are here in Versailles; that is your exculpation. Come, let us hasten to leave this proud, royal palace, and get away to the society of beautiful Nature, where there are no walls to hear us, but only God and Nature. Come, Julia."

She drew the duchess quickly out through the side door, which led to the little corridor, and thence to the adjacent staircase, and over the small court to one of the minor gates of the palace, leading to the park. The coupe of the queen was standing before this door, and the master of the stole and the lackeys were awaiting the approach of the queen.

Marie Antoinette sprang like a gazelle into the carriage, and then extended her hand to the duchess to assist her to ascend. "Forward, forward!" cried the queen to the coachman, " and drive with all haste, as if the horses had wings, for I long to fly. Forward! oh, forward!"

CHAPTER III.

TRIANON

Fly, ye steeds, fly! Bear the Queen of France away from the stiff, proud Versailles; from the palaces of kings, where every thing breathes of exaltation, greatness, and unapproachableness; bear her to little, simple, pretty Trianon, to the dream of paradise, where all is innocence, simplicity, and peace; where the queen may be a woman, and a happy one, too, and where Marie Antoinette has the right to banish etiquette, and live in accordance with her inclinations, wishes, and humors.

Yes, truly, the fiery steeds have transformed themselves into birds; they cut the air, they scarcely touch the ground, and hardly can the driver restrain them when they reach the fence which separates the garden of Trianon from Versailles.

Light as a gazelle, happy as a young girl that knows nothing of the cares and burdens of life, Marie Antoinette sprang out of the carriage before the chamberlain had time to open the gate with its double wings, to let the queen pass in as a queen ought. Laughing, she glided through the little side gate, which sufficed for the more unpretending visitor of Trianon, and took the arm of her friend the Duchess de Polignac, in order to turn with her into one of the side alleys. But, before doing so, she turned to the chamberlain, who, standing in a respectful attitude, was awaiting the commands of his mistress.

"Weber," said she to him, in the pleasant Austrian dialect, the language of her early home" Weber, there is no need for you to follow us. The day is yours. You are free, as I am too. Meanwhile, if yon meet his majesty, tell him that I have gone to the small palace, and that, if it pleases his majesty, he may await me in my little village at the mill.

"And now, come, my Julia," said she, turning to the duchess, and drawing her forward with gentle violence, " now let us be merry and happy. I am no longer a queen, God be thanked! I am neither more nor less than anybody else. That is the reason I was so well pleased to come through the small door just now. Through a narrow gate alone we can enter paradise, and I am entering paradise now. Oh, do you not see, my friend, that the trees, the flowers, the bushes, every thing here is free from the dust of earth; that even the heaven has another color, and looks down upon me brilliant and blue, like the eye of God?"

"It is just," answered the Duchess de Polignac, "because you are seeing every thing with other eyes, your majesty."

"Your majesty!" cried Marie Antoinette. "You love me no longer; your heart is estranged from me, since you address me with this cold title. In Versailles, you had a valid plea; but here, Julia, what can you offer in justification? The flowers are not listeners, the bushes have not ears, like the walls of Versailles, to spy out our privacy."

"I say nothing for my exculpation," answered the duchess, throwing her arm with a playful movement around the neck of the queen, and imprinting a kiss upon the lofty brow of Marie Antoinette. "I only ask your pardon, and promise that I will be obedient and not disturb my friend's dream of paradise all day long by an ill-timed word. Now will you forgive me, Marie?"

"With all my soul, Julia," answered the queen, nodding to her in a friendly way. "And now, Julia, as we have a happy vacation day before us, we will enjoy it like two young girls who are celebrating the birthday of their grandmother after escaping from a boarding school. Let us see which of us is the swiftest of foot. We will make a wager on it. See, there gleams our little house out from the shrubbery; let us see which of us gets there first."

"Without stopping once in the run?" asked the duchess, amazed.

"I make no conditions; I only say, let us see who gets there first. If you win, Julia, I will give you the privilege of nominating a man to have the first place in my Swiss guards, and you may select the protege in whose behalf you were pleading yesterday. Come, let us run. One!—"

"No, Marie," interrupted the duchess. "Supposing that you are the first, what shall I give you?"

"A kiss—a hearty kiss—Julia. Now, forward! One, two, three!"

And, speaking these words in merry accents, Marie Antoinette sprang forward along the narrow walk. The round straw hat which covered her head was tossed up on both sides; the blue ribbons fluttered in the wind; the white dress puffed up; and the grand chamberlain of the queen and Madame Adelaide would have been horrified if they could have seen the queen flying along like a girl escaped from the boarding-school.

But she, she never thought of there being any thing improper in the run; she looked forward to the goal with laughing glances, as the white house emerged more and more from the verdure by which it was surrounded, and then sideways at her friend, who had not been able to gain a single step upon her.

"Forward, forward!" shouted the queen; "I will and I must win, for the prize is a kiss from my Julia." And with renewed speed the queen dashed along. The lane opened and terminated in a square in front of the palace. The queen stopped in her course, and turned round to see her friend, who had been left far behind her.

As soon as the duchess saw it she tried to quicken her steps, and began to run again, but Marie Antoinette motioned with her hand, and went rapidly back to meet her.

"You shall not make any more effort, Julia," said she. "I have won, and you cannot bring my victory into question."

"And I do not wish to," answered the duchess, with a merry look of defiance on her gentle features. "I really did not wish to win, for it would have seemed as if I had to win what I want on the turn of a merry game. You have done wrong, Marie Antoinette. You want me to forget here in Trianon that you are the Queen of France. But you yourself do not forget it. Only the queen can propose such a prize as you have set, and only the queen can ask so insignificant a boon on the other side. You have made it impossible for me to win, for you know well that I am not selfish."

"I know it, and that is just the reason why I love you so dearly, Julia. I have done wrong," she went on to say with her gentle, sweet voice. "I see it, and I beg your forgiveness. Give me now as a proof that you do forgive me, give me the prize which I have won—a kiss, Julia, a kiss."

"Not here," answered the duchess. "O, no, not here, Marie. Do not you see that the doors of the saloons are open, and that your company are all assembled. They would all envy me; they would all be jealous if they were to see the preference which you show for me."

"Let them be jealous, let them envy you," cried the queen; "the whole world shall know that Julia de Polignac is my best-loved friend, that next to husband and children, I love no one so well as her."

With gentle violence the queen threw both her arms around the neck of the duchess, and kissed her passionately.

"Did you notice," said the Baron de Besenval to Lord Adhemar, with whom he was playing a game of backgammon in the saloon, "did you notice the tableau that the queen is presenting, taking for her theme a group representing Friendship?"

"I wish it were in my power to reproduce this wonderful group in marble," answered Lord Adhemar, laughing. "It would be a companion piece to Orestes and Pylades."

"But which," asked the Duchess de Guemene, looking up from her embroidery, "which would be the companion of Orestes, pursued of Furies, surrounded by serpents?"

"That is the queen," answered the Count de Vaudreuil, who was sitting at the piano and practising a new piece of music. "The queen is the womanly Orestes: the Furies are the three royal aunts; and the serpents—pardon me, ladies—are, with the exception of yourselves, most all the ladies of Paris."

"You are malicious, count," cried Madame de Morsan, "and were we by any chance not here, you would reckon us among the serpents."

"If I should do so," said Count Vaudreuil, laughing, "I should only wish to take the apple from you, in order to be driven out of paradise with you. But still! the queen is coming."

Yes, just then the queen entered the apartment. Her cheeks were glowing red by reason of her run, her bosom heaved violently with her hurried, agitated breathing. Her hat had fallen upon one side, and the dark blond hair was thrown about in wild confusion.

It was not the queen who entered the saloon, it was only Marie Antoinette, the simple, young woman, greeting her friends with brilliant glances and lively nods. It had been made a rule with her, that when she entered, no one should rise, nor leave the embroidery, or piano-playing, or any other occupation.

The women remained at their work, Lords Besenval and Adhemar went on playing their game of backgammon, and only the Count de Vaudreuil rose from his place at the approach of the queen.

"What have you been playing, count?" asked Marie Antoinette. "I beg your pardon, if I leave your question unanswered," replied the count, with a gentle inclination of the head. "Your majesty has such a fine ear, that you must doubtless recognize the composer in the music. It is an entirely new composition, and I have taken the license of arranging it for four hands. If your majesty would perhaps be inclined-"

"Come," interrupted the queen, "let us try it at once."

Quickly, and with feverish impatience, she drew her black netted gloves from her delicate white hands, and at once took her place next to the count, on the seat already prepared for her.

"Will not the music be too difficult for me to play?" asked she, timidly.

"Nothing is too difficult for the Queen of France."

"But there is a great deal that is too difficult for the dilettante, Marie Antoinette," sighed the queen. "Meanwhile, we will begin and try it."

And with great facility and lightness of touch, the queen began to play the base of the piece which had been arranged by the Count de Vaudreuil for four hands. But the longer she played, the more the laughter and the unrestrained gayety disappeared from the features of the queen. Her noble countenance assumed an expression of deep earnestness, her eye kindled with feeling, and the cheeks which before had become purple-red with the exercise of playing, now paled with deep inward emotion.

All at once, in the very midst of the grand and impassioned strains, Marie Antoinette stopped, and, under the strength of her feeling, rose from her seat.

"Only Gluck can have written this!" cried she. "This is the music, the divine music of my exalted master, my great teacher, Chevalier Gluck."

"You are right; your majesty is a great musician," cried Lord
Vaudreuil, in amazement, "the ideal pupil of the genial maestro.
Yes, this music is Gluck's. It is the overture to his new opera of
'Alcestes,' which he sent me from Venice to submit to your majesty.
These tones shall speak for the master, and entreat for him the
protection of the queen."

"You have not addressed the queen, but my own heart," said Marie Antoinette, with gentle, deeply moved voice. "It was a greeting from my home, a greeting from my teacher, who is at the same time the greatest composer of Europe. Oh, I am proud of calling myself his pupil. But Gluck needs no protection; it is much more we who need the protection which he affords us in giving us the works of his genius. I thank you, count," continued Marie Antoinette, turning to Vaudreuil with a pleasant smile.

"This is a great pleasure which you have prepared for me. But knowing, as I now do, that this is Gluck's music, I do not dare to play another note; for, to injure a note of his writing, seems to me like treason against the crown. I will practise this piece, and then some day we will play it to the whole court. And now, my honored guests, if it pleases you, we go to meet the king. Gentlemen, let each one choose his lady, for we do not want to go in state procession, but by different paths."

All the gentlemen present rushed toward the queen, each desirous to have the honor of waiting upon her. Marie Antoinette thanked them all with a pleasant smile, and took the arm of the eldest gentleman there, the Baron de Besenval.

"Come, baron," said she, "I know a new path, which none of these gentry have learned, and I am sure that we shall be the first to reach the place where the king is."

Resting on the arm of the baron, she left the saloon, and passed out of the door opposite, upon the little terrace leading to the well- shaded park.

"We will go through the English garden. I have had them open a path through the thicket, which will lead us directly to our goal; while the others will all have to go through the Italian garden, and so make a circuit. But look, my lord, somebody is coming there—who is it?"

And the queen pointed to the tall, slim figure of a man who was just then striding along the terrace.

"Madame," answered the baron, "it is the Duke de Fronac."

"Alas!" murmured Marie Antoinette, "he is coming to lay new burdens upon us, and to put us in the way of meeting more disagreeable things."

"Would it be your wish that I should dismiss him? Do you give me power to tell him that you extend no audience to him here?"

"Oh! do not do so," sighed Marie Antoinette. "He, too, is one of my enemies, and we must proceed much more tenderly with our dear enemies than with our friends."

Just then the Duke de Fronac ascended the last terrace, and approached the queen with repeated bows, which she reciprocated with an earnest look and a gentle inclination of the head.

"Well, duke, is it I with whom the chief manager of the royal theatres wishes to speak?"

"Madame," answered the duke, "I am come to beg an audience of your majesty."

"You have it; and it is, as you see, a very imposing audience, for we stand in the throne room of God, and the canopy of Heaven arches over us. Now say, duke, what brings you to me?"

"Your majesty, I am come to file an accusation!"

"And of course against me?" asked the queen, with a haughty smile. The duke pretended not to hear the question, and went on: "I am come to bring a charge and to claim my rights. His majesty has had the grace to appoint me manager-in-chief of all the royal theatres, and to give me their supreme control."

"Well, what has that to do with me?" asked the queen in her coldest way. " You have then your duties assigned you, to he rightfully fulfilled, and to keep your theatres in order, as if they were troops under your care."

"But, your majesty, there is a theatre which seeks to free itself from my direction. And by virtue of my office and my trust I must stringently urge you that this new theatre royal be delivered into my charge."

"I do not understand you," said the queen, coolly. "Of what new theatre are you speaking, and where is it?"

"Your majesty, it is here in Trianon. Here operettas, comedies, and vaudevilles are played. The stage is furnished as all stages are; it is a permanent stage, and I can therefore ask that it be given over into my charge, for, I repeat it again, the king has appointed me director of all the collective theatres royal."

"But, duke," answered the queen with a somewhat more pliant tone, "you forget one thing, and that is, that the theatre in Trianon does not belong to the theatres of his majesty. It is my stage, and Trianon is my realm. Have you not read on the placards, which are at the entrance of Trianon, that it is the queen who gives laws here? Do you not know that the king has given me this bit of ground that I may enjoy my freedom here, and have a place where the Queen of France may have a will of her own?"

"Your majesty," answered the duke with an expression of the profoundest deference, "I beg your pardon. I did not suppose that there was a place in France where the king is not the lord paramount, and where his commands are not imperative."

"You see, then, that you are mistaken. Here in Trianon I am king, and my commands are binding."

"That does not prevent, your majesty, the commands of the king having equal force," replied the duke, with vehemence. "And even if the Queen of France disowns these laws, yet others do not dare take the risk of following the example of the queen. For they remain, wherever they are, the subjects of the king. So even here in Trianon I am still the obedient subject of his majesty, and his commands and my duties are bound to be respected by me."

"My lord duke," cried the queen with fresh impatience, "you are free never to come to Trianon. I give you my full permission to that end, and thus you will be relieved from the possibility of ever coming into collision with your ever-delicate conscience and the commands of the king."

"But, your majesty, there is a theatre in Trianon!"

"Not this indefinite phrase, duke; there is a theatre in Trianon, but I the queen, the princess of the royal family, and the guests I invite, support a theatre in Trianon. Let me say this once for all: you cannot have the direction where we are the actors. Besides, I have had occasion several times to give you my views respecting Trianon. I have no court here. I live here as a private person. I am here but a land owner, and the pleasures and enjoyments which I provide here for myself and my friends shall never be supervised by any one but myself alone." [Footnote: The very words of the queen.— See Goncourt, "Histoire de Marie Antoinette">[

"Your majesty," said the duke, with a cold smile, "it is no single person that supervises you; it is public opinion, and I think that this will speak on my side."

The duke bowed, and, without waiting for a sign from the queen to withdraw, he turned around and began to descend the terrace.

"He is a shameless man!" muttered the queen, with pale cheeks and flashing eyes, as she followed him with her looks.

"He is ambitious," whispered Besenval; "he implores your majesty in this way, and risks his life and his office, in the hope of being received into the court society."

"No, no," answered Marie Antoinette, eagerly; "there is nothing in me that attracts him. The king's aunts have set him against me, and this is a new way which their tender care has conjured up to irritate me, and make me sick.

Yet let us leave this, baron. Let us forget this folly, and only remember that we are in Trianon. See, we are now entering my dear English garden. Oh, look around you, baron, and then tell me is it not beautiful here, and have I not reason to be proud of what I have called here into being?"

While thus speaking, the queen advanced with eager, flying steps to the exquisite beds of flowers which beautifully variegated the surface of the English garden.

It was in very truth the creation of the queen, this English garden, and it formed a striking contrast to the solemn, stately hedges, the straight alleys, the regular flower beds, the carefully walled pools and brooks, which were habitual in the gardens of Versailles and Trianon. In the English garden every thing was cosy and natural. The waters foamed here, and there they gathered themselves together and stood still; here and there were plants which grew just where the wind had scattered the seed. Hundreds of the finest trees—willows, American oaks, acacias, firs—threw their shade abroad, and wrought a rich diversity in the colors of the foliage. The soil here rose into gentle hillocks, and there sank in depressions and natural gorges. All things seemed without order or system, and where art had done its work, there seemed to be the mere hand of free, unfettered Nature.

The farther the queen advanced with her companion into the garden, the more glowing became her countenance, and the more her eyes beamed with their accustomed fire.

"Is it not beautiful here?" asked she, of the baron, who was walking silently by her side.

"It is beautiful wherever your majesty is," answered he, with an almost too tender tone. But the queen did not notice it. Her heart was filled with an artless joy; she listened with suspended breath to the trilling song of the birds, warbling their glad hymns of praise out from the thickets of verdure. How could she have any thought of the idle suggestions of the voice of the baron, who had been chosen as her companion because of his forty-five years, and of his hair being tinged with gray?

"It seems to me, baron," she said, with a charming laugh, while looking at a bird which, its song just ended, soared from the bushes to the heavens—" it seems to me as if Nature wanted to send me a greeting, and deputed this bird to bring it to me. Ah," she went on to say, with quickly clouded brow, "it is really needful that I should at times hear the friendly notes and the sweet melodies of such a genuine welcome. I have suffered a great deal today, baron, and the welcome of this bird of Trianon was the balm of many a wound that I have received since yesterday."

"Your majesty was in Paris?" asked Besenval, hesitatingly, and with a searching glance of his cunning, dark eyes, directed to the sad countenance of Marie Antoinette.

"I was in Paris," answered she, with a flush of joy; "and the good Parisians welcomed the wife of the king and the mother of the children of France with a storm of enthusiasm."

"No, madame," replied the baron, reddening, "they welcomed with a storm of enthusiasm the most beautiful lady of France, the adored queen, the mother of all poor and suffering ones."

"And yet there was a dissonant note which mingled with all these jubilee tones," said the queen, thoughtfully. "While all were shouting, there came one voice which sounded to my ear like the song of the bird of misfortune. Believe me, Besenval, every thing is not as it ought to be. There is something in the air which fills me with anxiety and fear. I cannot drive it away; I feel that the sword of Damocles is hanging over my head, and that my hands are too weak to remove it."

"A woe to the traitors who have dared to raise the sword of Damocles over the head of the queen!" cried the baron, furiously.

"Woe to them, but woe to me too!" replied the queen, with gentle sadness. "I have this morning had a stormy interview with Madame Adelaide. It appears that my enemies have concocted a new way of attacking me, and Madame Adelaide was the herald to announce the beginning of the tournament."

"Did she venture to bring any accusations against your majesty?" asked Besenval. The queen replying in the affirmative with a nod, he went on. "But what can they say? Whence do they draw the poisoned arrows to wound the noblest and truest of hearts?"

"They draw them from their jealousy, from their hatred against the house of Austria, from the rage with which they look upon the manner in which the king has bestowed his love. 'What can they say?' They make out of little things monstrous crimes. They let a pebble grow into a great rock, with which they strive to smite me down. Oh, my friend, I have suffered a great deal to-day, and, in order to tell you this, I chose you as my companion. I dare not complain before the king," Marie Antoinette went on, while two tears rolled slowly down her cheeks, "for I will not be the means of opening a breach in the family, and the king would cause them to feel his wrath who have drawn tears from the eyes of his wife. But you are my friend, Besenval, and I confide in your friendship and in your honor. Now, tell me, you who know the world, and who are my senior in experience of life, tell me whether I do wrong to live as I do. Are the king's aunts right in charging it upon me as a crime, that I take part in the simple joys of life, that I take delight in my youth and am happy? Is the Count de Provence right in charging me, as with a crime, that I am the chief counsellor of the king, and that I venture to give him my views regarding political matters? Am I really condemned to stand at an unapproachable distance from the people and the court, like a beautiful statue? Is it denied to me to have feeling, to love and to hate, like everybody else? Is the Queen of France nothing but the sacrificial lamb which the dumb idol etiquette carries in its leaden arms, and crushes by slowly pressing it to itself? Tell me, Besenval; speak to me like an honorable and upright man, and remember that God is above us and hears our words!"

"May God be my witness," said Besenval, solemnly. "Nothing lies nearer my heart than that your majesty hear me. For my life, my happiness, and my misery, all lie wrapped up in the heart of your majesty. No, I answer—no; the aunts of the king, the old princesses, look with the basilisk eye of envy from a false point. They have lived at the court of their father; they have seen Vice put on the trappings of Virtue; they have seen Shamelessness array itself in the garments of Innocence, and they no longer retain their faith in Virtue or Innocence. The purity of the queen appears to them to be a studied coquetry, her unconstrained cheerfulness to be culpable frivolity. No, the Count de Provence is not right in bringing the charge against the king that it is wrong in him to love his wife with the intensity and self surrender with which a citizen loves the wife whom he has himself selected. He is not right in alleging it as an accusation against you, that you are the counsellor of the king, and that you seek to control political action. Your whole offence lies in the fact that your political views are different from his, and that, through the influence which you have gained over the heart of the king, his aunts are driven into the background. Your majesty is an Austrian, a friend of the Duke de Choiseul. That is your whole offence. Now you would not be less blameworthy in the eyes of these enemies were you to live in exact conformity with the etiquette books of the Queen of France, covered with the dust of a hundred years. Your majesty would therefore do yourself and the whole court an injury were you to allow your youth, your beauty, and your innocence, to be subjected to these old laws. It were folly to condemn yourself to ennui and solitude. Does not the Queen of France enjoy a right which the meanest of her subjects possesses, of collecting her own chosen friends around her and taking her pleasure with them. We live, I know, in an age of reckless acts; but may there not be some recklessness in dealing with the follies of etiquette? They bring it as a charge against your majesty that you adjure the great court circles, and the stiff set with which the royal family of France used to martyr itself. They say that by giving up ceremony you are undermining the respect which the people ought to cherish toward royalty. But would it not be laughable to think that the obedience of the people depends upon the number of the hours which a royal family may spend in the society of tedious and wearisome courtiers? No, my queen, do not listen to the hiss of the hostile serpents which surround you. Go, courageously, your own way—the way of innocence, guilelessness, and love."

"I thank you—oh, I thank you!" cried Marie Antoinette. "You have lifted heavy doubts from my heart and strengthened my courage. I thank you!"

And, with beaming eyes and a sweet smile, she extended both her hands to the baron.

He pressed them tightly within his own, and, sinking upon his knee, drew the royal hands with a glow to his lips.

"Oh, my queen, my mistress!" he cried, passionately, "behold at your feet your most faithful servant, your most devoted slave. Receive from me the oath of my eternal devotion and love. You have honored me with your confidence, you have called me your friend. But my soul and my heart glow for another name. Speak the word, Marie Antoinette, the word—"

The queen drew back, and the paleness of death spread over her cheeks. She had at the outset listened with amazement, then with horror and indignation, to the insolent words of the baron, and gradually her gentle features assumed a fierce and disdainful expression.

"My lord," she said, with the noble dignity of a queen, "I told you before that God is above us, and hears our words. You have spoken, wantonly, and God has heard you. To Him I leave the punishment of your wantonness. Stand up, my lord! the king shall know nothing of an insult which would have brought you into ignominy with him forever. But if you ever, by a glance or a gesture, recall this both wanton and ridiculous scene, the king shall hear all from me!"

And while the queen pointed, with a proud and dignified gesture, to the place which was their goal, she said, with commanding tone:

"Go before, my lord; I will follow you alone." The Baron de Besenval, the experienced courtier, the practised man of the world, was undergoing what was new to him; he felt himself perplexed, ashamed, and no longer master of his words. He had risen from his knees, and, after making a stiff obeisance to the queen, he turned and went with a swift step and crestfallen look along the path which the queen had indicated.

Marie Antoinette followed him with her eyes so long as he remained in sight, then looked with a long, sad glance around her.

"And so I am alone again," she whispered, "and poorer by one illusion more. Ah, and is it then true that there is no friendship for me; must every friend be an envier or else a lover? Even this man, whom I honored with my confidence, toward whom I cherished the feeling of a pupil toward a teacher, even this man has dared to insult me! Ah, must my heart encounter a new wonder every day, and must my happiness be purchased with so many pains?"

And with a deep cry of pain the queen drew her hands to her face, and wept bitterly. All around was still. Only here and there were heard the songs of the birds in the bushes, light and dreamy; while the trees, swayed by the wind, gently whispered, as if they wanted to quiet the grief of the queen, and dry up those tears which fell upon the flowers.

All at once, after a short pause, the queen let her hands fall again, and raised her head with proud and defiant energy.

"Away with tears!" she said. "What would my friends say were they to see me? What buzzing and whispering would there be, were they to see that the gentle queen, the always happy and careless Marie Antoinette, had shed tears? Oh, my God!" she cried, raising her large eyes to heaven, "I have today paid interest enough for my happiness; preserve for me at least the capital, and I will cheerfully pay the world the highest rates, such as only a miserly usurer can desire."

And with a proud spirit, and a lofty carriage, the queen strode forward along the path. The bushes began to let the light through, and the queen emerged from the English garden into the small plain, in whose midst Marie Antoinette had erected her Arcadia, her dream of paradise. The queen stood still, and with a countenance which quickly kindled with joy, and with eyes which beamed with pleasure, looked at the lovely view which had been called into being by the skill of her architect, Hubert Robert.

And the queen might well rejoice in this creation, this poetic idyl, which arose out of the splendor of palaces like a violet in the sand, and among the variegated tropical flowers which adorn the table of a king. Closely adjoining each other were little houses like those in which peasants live, the peasant women being the proud ladies of the royal court. A little brook babbled behind the houses, and turned with its foaming torrent the white wheel of the mill which was at the extremity of the village. Near the mill, farther on, stood entirely alone a little peasant's house, especially tasteful and elegant. It was surrounded by flower beds, vineyards, and laurel paths. The roof was covered with straw; the little panes were held by leads to the sashes. It was the home of Marie Antoinette. The queen herself made the drawings, and wrought out the plan. It was her choice that it should be small, simple, and modest; that it should have not the slightest appearance of newness, and that rents and fissures should be represented on the wall by artificial contrivances, so as to give the house an old look, and an appearance of having been injured. She had little thought how speedily time could demolish the simple pastimes of a queen. Close by stood a still smaller house, known as the milk room. It was close to the brook. And when Marie Antoinette, with her peasant women, had milked the cows, they bore the milk through the village in white buckets, with silver handles, to the milk room, where it was poured out into pretty, white pans standing on tables of white marble. On the other side of the road was the house of the chief magistrate of the village, and close by lived the schoolmaster.

Marie Antoinette had had a care for everything. There were bins to preserve the new crops in, and before the hay scaffoldings were ladders leading up to the fragrant hay. "Ah, the world is beautiful," said Marie Antoinette, surveying her creation with a cheerful look. "I will enjoy the pleasant hours, and be happy here."

She walked rapidly forward, casting friendly glances up to the houses to see whether the peasants had not hid them-selves within, and were waiting for her. But all was still, and not one of the inhabitants peeped out from a single window. All at once the stillness was broken by a loud clattering sound. The white wheel of the mill began to turn, and at the door appeared the corpulent form of the miller in his white garments, with his smiling, meal powdered face, and with the white cap upon his head.

The queen uttered an exclamation of delight, and ran with quick steps toward the mill. But before she could reach it, the door of the official's house opposite opened, and the mayor, in his black costume, and with the broad white ribbon around his neck; the Spanish cane, with a gold knob, in his hand, and wearing his black, three-cornered hat, issued from the dwelling. He advanced directly to Marie Antoinette, and resting his hands upon his sides and assuming a threatening mien, placed himself in front of her.

"We are very much dissatisfied with you, for you neglect your duties of hospitality in a most unbecoming manner. We must have you give your testimony why you have come so late, for the flowers are all hanging their heads, the nightingales will not sing any more, and the lambs in the meadow will not touch the sweetest grass. Every thing is parching and dying because you are not here, and with desire to see you."

"That is not true," cried another merry voice; the window of the school house opened with a rattle, and the jolly young schoolmaster looked out and threatened with his rod the grave mayor.

"How can you say, sir, that every thing is going to ruin? Am I not here to keep the whole together? Since the unwise people stopped learning, I have become the schoolmaster of the dear kine, and am giving them lessons in the art of making life agreeable. I am the dancing master of the goats, and have opened a ballet school for the kids."

Marie Antoinette laughed aloud. "Mister schoolmaster," said she, "I am very desirous to have a taste of your skill, and I desire you to give a ballet display this afternoon upon the great meadow. So far as you are concerned, Mr. Mayor," she said, with a laughing nod, "I desire you to exercise a little forbearance, and to pardon some things in me for my youth's sake."

"As if my dear sister-in-law now needed any looking after!" cried the mayor, with an emphatic tone.

"Ah, my Lord de Provence," said the queen, smiling, "you are falling out of your part, and forgetting two things. The first, that I am not the queen here; and the second, that here in Trianon all flatteries are forbidden."

"It lies in you, whether the truth should appear as flattery," answered the Count de Provence, slightly bowing.

"That is an answer worthy of a scholar," cried the schoolmaster,
Count d'Artois. "Brother, you do not know the A B C of gallantry.
You must go to school to me."

"I do not doubt, brother Charles, that in this thing I could learn very much of you," said the Count de Provence, smiling. "Meanwhile, I am not sure that my wife would be satisfied with the instruction."

"Some time we will ask her about it," said the queen. "Good-by, my brothers, I must first greet my dear miller."

She rushed forward, sprang with a flying step up the little wooden stairway, and threw both her arms around the neck of the miller, who, laughingly, pressed her to his heart, and drew her within the mill.

"I thank you, Louis!" cried the queen, bending forward and pressing the hand of her husband to her lips. "What a pleasant surprise you have prepared for me; and how good it is in you to meet me here in my pleasant plantation!"

"Did you not say but lately that you wanted this masquerade?" asked the king, with a pleasant smile. "Did not you yourself assign the parts, and appoint me to be the miller, the Count de Provence to be mayor, and the whimsical Artois to be schoolmaster de par la reine, as it runs here in Trianon, and do you wonder now that we, as it becomes the obedient, follow our queen's commands, and undertake the charge which she intrusts to us?" "Oh, Louis, how good you are!" said the queen, with tears in her eyes. "I know indeed how little pleasure you, so far as you yourself are concerned, find in these foolish sports and idle acts, and yet you sacrifice your own wishes and take part in our games." "That is because I love you!" said the king with simplicity, and a smile of pleasure beautified his broad, good natured face. "Yes, Marie, I love you tenderly, and it gives me joy to contribute to your happiness."

The queen gently laid her arm around Louis's neck, and let her head fall upon his shoulder. "Do you still know, Louis," asked she, "do you still know what you said to me when you gave Trianon to me?"

"Well," said the king, shaking his head slowly. "You said to me, 'You love flowers. I will present to you a whole bouquet. I give you Little Trianon.' [Footnote: The very words of the king.—See "Memoire de Marquis de Crequy," vol. iv.] My dear sire! you have given me not only a bouquet of flowers, but a bouquet of pleasant hours, of happy years, for which I thank you, and you alone."

"And may this bouquet never wither, Marie!" said the king, laying his hand as if in blessing on the head of his wife, and raising his good, blue eyes with a pious and prayerful look. "But, my good woman," said he then, after a little pause, "you quite let me forget the part I have to play, and the mill wheel is standing still again, since the miller is not there. It is, besides, in wretched order, and it is full needful that I practise my art of black smith here a little, and put better screws and springs in the machine. But listen! what kind of song is that without?"

"Those are the peasants greeting us with their singing," said the queen, smiling. "Come, Mr. Miller, let us show ourselves to them."

She drew the king out upon the small staircase. Directly at the foot of it stood the king's two brothers, the Counts de Provence and Artois, as chief official and schoolmaster, and behind them the duchesses and princesses, dukes and counts, arrayed as peasants. In united chorus they greeted the mistress and the miller:

"Oil peut-on etre mieux, Qu'au seiu de sa famille?"

The queen smiled, and yet tears glittered in her eyes, tears of joy.

Those were happy hours which the royal pair spent that day in Trianon—hours of such bright sunshine that Marie Antoinette quite forgot the sad clouds of the morning, and gave herself undisturbed to the enjoyment of this simple, country life. They sat down to a country dinner—a slight, simple repast, brought together from the resources of the hen-coop, the mill, and the milk-room. Then the whole company went out to lie down in the luxuriant grass which grew on the border of the little grove, and looked at the cows grazing before them on the meadow, and with stately dignity pursuing the serious occupation of chewing the cud. But as peasants have something else to do than to live and enjoy, their mistress, Marie Antoinette, soon left her resting-place to set her people a good example in working. The spinning-wheel was brought and set upon a low stool; Marie Antoinette began to spin. How quickly the wheel began to turn, as if it were the wheel of fortune—to-day bringing joy, and to-morrow calamity!

The evening has not yet come, and the wheel of fortune is yet turning, yet calamity is there.

Marie Antoinette does not yet know it; her eye still beams with joy, a happy smile still plays upon her rosy lips. She is sitting now with her company by the lake, with the hook in her hand, and looking with laughing face and fixed attention at the rod, and crying aloud as often as she catches a fish. For these fishes are to serve as supper for the company, and the queen has ceremoniously invited her husband to an evening meal, which she herself will serve and prepare. The queen smiles still and is happy; her spinning-wheel is silent, but the wheel of fate is moving still.

The king is no longer there. He has withdrawn into the mill to rest himself.

And yet there he is not alone. Who ventures to disturb him? It must be something very serious. For it is well known that the king very seldom goes to Trianon, and that when he is there he wishes to be entirely free from business.

And yet he is disturbed today; yet the premier, Baron de Breteuil, is come to seek the miller of Little Trianon, and to beseech him even there to be the king again.

CHAPTER IV.

THE QUEEN'S NECKLACE.

Directly after a page, arrayed in the attire of a miller's boy, had announced the Baron de Breteuil, the king with drew into his chamber and resumed his own proper clothing. He drew on the long, gray coat, the short trousers of black velvet, the long, gold embroidered waistcoat of gray satin; and over this the bright, thin ribbon of the Order of Louis-the attire in which the king was accustomed to present himself on gala-days.

With troubled, disturbed countenance, he then entered the little apartment where his chief minister, the Baron de Breteuil, was awaiting him.

"Tell me quickly," ejaculated the king, "do you bring bad news? Has any thing unexpected occurred?"

"Sire," answered the minister, respectfully, "something unexpected at all events, but whether something bad will be learned after further investigation."

"Investigation!" cried the king. "Then do you speak of a crime?"

"Yes, sire, of a crime-the crime of a base deception, and, as it seems, of a defalcation involving immense sums and objects of great value."

"Ah," said the king, with a sigh of relief, "then the trouble is only one of money."

"No, sire, it is one which concerns the honor of the queen."

Louis arose, while a burning flush of indignation passed over his face.

"Will they venture again to assail the honor of the queen?" he asked.

"Yes, sire," answered Breteuil, with his invincible calmness—"yes, sire, they will venture to do so. And at this time it is so infernal and deeply-laid a plan that it will be difficult to get at the truth. Will your majesty allow me to unfold the details of the matter somewhat fully?"

"Speak, baron, speak," said the king, eagerly, taking his seat upon a wooden stool, and motioning to the minister to do the same.

"Sire," answered the premier, with a bow, "I will venture to sit, because I am in fact a little exhausted with my quick run hither."

"And is the matter so pressing?" muttered the king, drawing out his tobacco-box, and in his impatience rolling it between his fingers.

"Yes, very pressing," answered Breteuil, taking his seat. "Does your majesty remember the beautiful necklace which the court jeweller, Bohmer, some time since had the honor to offer to your majesty?"

"Certainly, I remember it," answered the king, quickly nodding. "The queen showed herself on that occasion just as unselfish and magnanimous as she always is. It was told me that her majesty had very much admired the necklace which Bohmer had showed to her, and yet had declined to purchase it, because it seemed to her too dear. I wanted to buy it and have the pleasure of offering it to the queen, but she decisively refused it."

"We well remember the beautiful answer which her majesty gave to her husband," said Breteuil, gently bowing. "All Paris repeated with delight the words which her majesty uttered: 'Sir, we have more diamonds than ships. Buy a ship with this money!'" [Footnote: "Correspondence Secrete de la Cour de Louis XVI.">[

"You have a good memory," said the king, "for it is five years since this happened. Bohmer has twice made the attempt since then to sell this costly necklace to me, but I have dismissed him, and at last forbidden him to allude to the matter again."

"I believe that he has, meanwhile, ventured to trouble the queen several times about the necklace. It appears that he had almost persuaded himself that your majesty would purchase it. Years ago he caused stones to be selected through all Europe, wishing to make a necklace of diamonds which should be alike large, heavy, and brilliant. The queen refusing to give him his price of two million francs, he offered it at last for one million eight hundred thousand."

"I have heard of that," said the king. "Her majesty was at last weary of the trouble, and gave command that the court jeweller, Bohmer, should not be admitted."

"Every time, therefore, that he came to Versailles he was refused admittance. He then had recourse to writing, and two weeks ago her majesty received from him a begging letter, in which he said that he should be very happy if, through his instrumentality, the queen could possess the finest diamonds in Europe, and imploring her majesty not to forget her court jeweller. The queen read this letter, laughing, to her lady-in-waiting, Madame de Campan, and said it seemed as if the necklace had deprived the good Bohmer of his reason. But not wishing to pay any further attention to his letter or to answer it, she burned the paper in a candle which was accidentally standing on her table."

"Good Heaven! How do you know these details?" asked the king, in amazement.

"Sire, I have learned them from Madame de Campan herself, as I was compelled to speak with her about the necklace."

"But what is it about this necklace? What has the queen to do with that?" asked the king, wiping with a lace handkerchief the sweat which stood in great drops upon his lofty forehead.

"Sire, the court jeweller, Bohmer, asserts that he sold the necklace of brilliants to the queen, and now desires to be paid."

"The queen is right," exclaimed the king, "the man is out of his head. If he did sell the necklace to the queen, there must have been witnesses present to confirm it, and the keepers of her majesty's purse would certainly know about it."

"Sire, Bohmer asserts that the queen caused it to be bought of him in secret, through a third hand, and that this confidential messenger was empowered to pay down thirty thousand francs, and to promise two hundred thousand more."

"What is the name of this confidential messenger? What do they call him?"

"Sire," answered the Baron de Breteuil, solemnly—"sire, it is the cardinal and grand almoner of your majesty, Prince Louis de Rohan."

The king uttered a loud cry, and sprang quickly from his seat.

"Rohan?" asked he. "And do they dare to bring this man whom the queen hates, whom she scorns, into relations with her? Ha, Breteuil! you can go; the story is too foolishly put together for any one to believe it."

"Your majesty, Bohmer has, in the mean while, believed it, and has delivered the necklace to the cardinal, and received the queen's promise to pay, written with her own hand."

"Who says that? How do you know all the details?"

"Sire, I know it by a paper of Bohmer's, who wrote to me after trying in vain several times to see me. The letter was a tolerably confused one, and I did not understand it. But as he stated in it that the queen's lady-in-waiting advised him to apply to me as the minister of the royal house, I considered it best to speak with Madame de Campan. What I learned of her is so important that I begged her to accompany me to Trianon, and to repeat her statement before your majesty."

"Is Campan then in Trianon?" asked the king.

"Yes, sire; and on our arrival we learned that Bohmer had just been there, and was most anxious to speak to the queen. He had been denied admission as always, and had gone away weeping and scolding."

"Come," said the king, "let us go to Trianon; I want to speak with
Campan."

And with quick, rapid steps the king, followed by the minister Breteuil, left the mill, and shunning the main road in order not to be seen by the queen, struck into the little side-path that led thither behind the houses.

"Campan," said the king, hastily entering the little toilet-room of the queen, where the lady-in-waiting was—"Campan, the minister has just been telling me a singular and incredible history. Yet repeat to me your last conversation with Bohmer."

"Sire," replied Madame de Campan, bowing low, "does your majesty command that I speak before the queen knows of the matter?"

"Ah," said the king, turning to the minister, "you see I am right. The queen knows nothing of this, else she would certainly have spoken to me about it. Thank God, the queen withholds no secrets from me! I thank you for your question, Campan. It is better that the queen be present at our interview. I will send for her to come here." And the king hastened to the door, opened it, and called, "Are any of the queen's servants here?"

The voice of the king was so loud and violent that the chamberlain, Weber, who was in the little outer antechamber, heard it, and at once rushed in.

"Weber," cried the king to him, "hasten at once to Little Trianon. Beg the queen, in my name, to have the goodness to come to the palace within a quarter of an hour, to consult about a weighty matter that allows no delay. But take care that the queen be not alarmed, and that she do not suspect that sad news has come regarding her family. Hasten, Weber! And now, baron," continued the king, closing the door, "now you shall be convinced by your own eyes and ears that the queen will be as amazed and as little acquainted with all these things as I myself. I wish, therefore, that you would be present at the interview which I shall have with my wife and Campan, without the queen's knowing that you are near. You will be convinced at once in this way of the impudent and shameless deception that they have dared to play. Where does that door lead to, Campan?" asked the king, pointing to the white, gold-bordered door, at whose side two curtains of white satin, wrought with roses, were secured.

"Sire, it leads to the small reception room."

"Will the queen pass that way when she comes?"

"No, your majesty, she is accustomed to take the same way which your majesty took, through the antechamber."

"Good. Then, baron, go into the little saloon. Leave the door open, and do you, Campan, loosen the curtains and let them fall over the door, that the minister may hear without being seen."

A quarter of an hour had scarcely elapsed when the queen entered the toilet-chamber, with glowing cheeks, and under visible excitement. The king went hastily to her, took her hand and pressed it to his lips.

"Forgiveness, Marie, that I have disturbed you in the midst of your pleasures."

"Tell me, quickly," cried the queen, impatiently. "What is it? Is it a great misfortune?"

"No, Marie, but a great annoyance, which is so far a misfortune in that the name of your majesty is involved in a disagreeable and absurd plot. The court jeweller, Bohmer, asserts that he has sold a necklace to your majesty for one million eight hundred thousand francs."

"But the man is crazy," cried the queen. "Is that all your majesty had to say to me?"

"I beg that Campan will repeat the conversation which she had yesterday with Bohmer."

And the king beckoned with his hand to the lady-in-waiting, who, at the entrance of the queen, had modestly taken her seat at the back part of the room.

"How!" cried the queen, amazed, now first perceiving Campan. "What do you here? What does all this mean?"

"Your majesty, I came to Trianon to inform you about the conversation which I had yesterday with Bohmer. When I arrived I found he had just been here."

"And what did he want?" cried the queen. "Did you not tell me, Campan, that he no longer possesses this unfortunate necklace, with which he has been making a martyr of me for years? Did you not tell me that he had sold it to the Grand Sultan, to go to Constantinople?"

"I repeated to your majesty what Bohmer said to me. Meanwhile I beg now your gracious permission to repeat my to-day's interview with Bohmer. Directly after your majesty had gone to Trianon with the Duchess de Polignac, the court jeweller Bohmer was announced. He came with visible disquiet and perplexity, and asked me whether your majesty had left no commission for him. I answered him that the queen had not done so, that in one word she had no commission for him, and that she was tired of his eternal pestering. ' But,' said Bohmer, 'I must have an answer to the letter that I sent to her, and to whom must I apply?' 'To nobody,' I answered. 'Her majesty has burned your letter without reading it.' 'Ah! madame,' cried he, 'that is impossible. The queen knows that she owes me money.' "

"I owe him money!" cried the queen, horrified. "How can the miserable man dare to assert such a thing?"

"That I said to him, your majesty, but he answered, with complete self possession, that your majesty owed him a million and some five hundred thousand francs, and when I asked him in complete amazement for what articles your majesty owed him such a monstrous sum, he answered, 'For my necklace.'"

"This miserable necklace again!" exclaimed the queen. "It seems as if the man made it only to make a martyr of me with it. Year after year I hear perpetually about this necklace, and it has been quite in vain that, with all my care and good-will, I have sought to drive from him this fixed idea that I must buy it. He is so far gone in his illusion as to assert that I have bought it."

"Madame, this man is not insane," said the king, seriously. "Listen further. Go on, Campan."

"I laughed," continued Madame de Campan, "and asked him how he could assert such a thing, when he told me only a few months ago that he had sold the necklace to the Sultan. Then he replied that the queen had ordered him to give this answer to every one that asked about the necklace. Then he told me further, that your majesty had secretly bought the necklace, and through the instrumentality of the Lord Cardinal de Rohan."

"Through Rohan?" cried the queen, rising. "Through the man whom I hate and despise? And is there a man in France who can believe this, and who does not know that the cardinal is the one who stands the lowest in my favor!"

"I said to Mr. Bohmer—I said to him that he was deceived, that the queen would never make a confidant of Cardinal Rohan, and he made me this very answer: 'You deceive yourself, madame. The cardinal stands so high in favor, and maintains such confidential relations with her majesty, that she had sent, through his hands, thirty thousand francs as a first payment. The queen took this money in the presence of the cardinal, from the little secretary of Sevres porcelain, which stands near to the chimney in her boudoir.' 'And did the cardinal really say that?' I asked; and when he reaffirmed it, I told him that he was deceived. He now began to be very much troubled, and said, 'Good Heaven! what if you are right, what if I am deceived! There has already a suspicion come to me; the cardinal promised me that on Whit-sunday the queen would wear the collar, and she did not do so; so this determined me to write to her.' When now, full of anxiety, he asked what advice I could give him, I at once bade him go to Lord Breteuil and tell him all. He promised to do so, and went. But I hastened to come hither to tell your majesty the whole story, but when I arrived I found the unhappy jeweller already here, and he only went away after I gave him my promise to speak to- day with your majesty."

The queen had at the outset listened with speechless amazement, and as Campan approached the close of her communication, her eyes opened wider and wider. She had stood as rigid as a statue. But now all at once life and animation took possession of this statue; a glowing purple-red diffused itself over her cheeks, and directing her eyes, which blazed with wonderful fire, to the king, she said, with a loud and commanding voice, "Sire, you have heard this story. Your wife is accused, and the queen is even charged with having a secret understanding with Cardinal Rohan. I desire an investigation—a rigid, strict investigation. Call at once, Lord Breteuil, that we may take counsel with him. But I insist upon having this done."

"And your will is law, madame," said the king, directing an affectionate glance at the excited face of the queen. "Come out, Breteuil!"

And as between the curtains appeared the serious, sad face of the minister, the king turned to his wife and said: "I wished that he might be a secret witness of this interview, and survey the position which you should take in this matter."

"Oh, sire!" exclaimed Marie Antoinette, extending her hand to him, "so you did not for an instant doubt my innocence?"

"No, truly, not a moment," answered the king, with a smile. "But now come, madame, we will consider with Breteuil what is to be done, and then we will summon the Abbe de Viermont, that he may take part in our deliberations."

On the next day, the 15th of August, a brilliant, select company was assembled in the saloons of Versailles. It was a great holiday, Ascension-day, and the king and the queen, with the entire court, intended to be present at the mass, which the cardinal and the grand almoner would celebrate in the chapel.

The entire brilliant court was assembled; the cardinal arrayed in his suitable apparel, and wearing all the tokens of his rank, had entered the great reception room, and only awaited the arrival of the royal pair, to lead them into the church. The fine and much admired face of the cardinal wore today a beaming expression, and his great black eyes were continually directed, while he was talking with the Duke de Conti and the Count d'Artois, toward the door through which the royal couple would enter. All at once the portal opened, a royal page stepped in and glanced searchingly around; and seeing the towering figure of the cardinal in the middle of the hall, he at once advanced through the glittering company, and approached the cardinal. "Monseigneur," he whispered to him, "his majesty is awaiting your eminence's immediate appearance in the cabinet."

The cardinal broke off abruptly his conversation with Lord Conti, hurried through the hall and entered the cabinet.

No one was there except the king and queen, and in the background of the apartment, in the recess formed by a window, the premier, Baron Breteuil, the old and irreconcilable enemy of the proud cardinal, who in this hour would have his reward for his year long and ignominious treatment of the prince.

The cardinal had entered with a confident, dignified bearing; but the cold look of the king and the flaming eye of the queen appeared to confuse him a little, and his proud eye sank to the ground.

"You have been buying diamonds of Bohmer?" asked the king, brusquely.

"Yes, sire," answered the cardinal.

"What have you done with them? Answer me, I command you."

"Sire," said the cardinal, after a pause, "I supposed that they were given to the queen."

"Who intrusted you with this commission?"

"Sire, a lady named Countess Lamotte-Valois. She gave me a letter from her majesty, and I believed that I should be doing the queen a favor if I should undertake the care of the commission which the queen had the grace to intrust to me."

"I!" cried the queen, with an expression of intense scorn, "should I intrust you with a commission in my behalf? I, who for eight years have never deigned to bestow a word upon you? And I should employ such a person as you, a beggar of places?"

"I see plainly," cried the cardinal, "I see plainly that some one has deceived you grievously about me. I will pay for the necklace. The earnest wish to please your majesty has blinded your eyes regarding me. I have planned no deception, and am now bitterly undeceived. But I will pay for the necklace."

"And you suppose that that ends all!" said the queen, with a burst of anger. "You think that, with a pitiful paying for the brilliants, you can atone for the disgrace which you have brought upon your queen? No, no, sir; I desire a rigid investigation. I insist upon it that all who have taken part in this ignominious deception be brought to a relentless investigation. Give me the proofs that you have been deceived, and that you are not much rather the deceiver."

"Ah, madame," cried the cardinal, with a look at once so full of reproach and confidence, that the queen fairly shook with anger. "Here are the proofs of my innocence," continued he, drawing a small portfolio from his pocket, and taking from it a folded paper. "There is the letter of the queen to the Countess Lamotte, in which her majesty empowered me to purchase the diamonds."

The king took the paper, looked over it hastily, read the signature, and gave it, with a suspicious shrug of the shoulders, to his wife.

The queen seized the letter with the wild fury of a tigress, which has at last found its prey, and with breathless haste ran over the paper. Then she broke out into loud, scornful laughter, and, pointing to the letter, she looked at the cardinal with glances of flame.

"That is not my handwriting, that is not my signature!" cried she, furiously. "How are you—sir, a prince and grand almoner of France— how are you so ignorant, so foolish, as to believe that I could subscribe myself 'Marie Antoinette of France?' Everybody knows that queens write only their baptismal names as signatures, and you alone have not known that?"

"I see into it," muttered the cardinal, pale under the look of the queen, and so weak that he had to rest upon the table for support, "I see into it; I have been dreadfully deceived."

The king took a paper from his table and gave it to the cardinal. "Do you confess that you wrote this letter to Bohmer, in which you send him thirty thousand francs in behalf of the queen, in part payment for the necklace?"

"Yes, sire, I confess it," answered the cardinal, with a low voice, which seemed to contradict what he uttered.

"He confesses it," cried the queen, gnashing her teeth, and making up her little hand into a clinched fist. "He has held me fit for such infamy—me, his queen!"

"You assert that you bought the jewels for the queen. Did you deliver them in person?"

"No, sire, the Countess Lamotte did that."

"In your name, cardinal?"

"Yes, in my name, sire, and she gave at the same time a receipt to the queen for one hundred and fifty thousand francs, which I lent the queen toward the purchase."

"And what reward did you have from the queen?"

The cardinal hesitated; then, as he felt the angry, cold, and contemning look of the queen resting upon him, the red blood mounted into his face, and with a withering glance at Marie Antoinette, he said:

"You wish, madame, that I should speak the whole truth! Sire, the queen rewarded me for this little work of love in a manner worthy of a queen. She granted me an appointment in the park of Versailles."

At this new and fearful charge, the queen cried aloud, and, springing forward like a tigress, she seized the arm of her husband and shook it.

"Sire," said she, "listen to this high traitor, bringing infamy upon a queen! Will you bear it? Can his purple protect the villain?"

"No, it cannot, and it shall not!" cried the king. "Breteuil, do your duty. And you, cardinal, who venture to accuse your queen, to scandalize the good name of the wife of your king, go."

"Sire," stammered the cardinal, "sire, I—"

"Not a word," interrupted the king, raising his hand and pointing toward the door, "out, I say, out with you!"

The cardinal staggered to the door, and entered the hall filled with a glittering throng, who were still whispering, laughing, and walking to and fro.

But hardly had he advanced a few steps, when behind him, upon the threshold of the royal cabinet, appeared the minister Breteuil.

"Lieutenant," cried Breteuil, with a loud voice, turning to the officer in command of the guard, "lieutenant, in the name of the king, arrest the Cardinal de Rohan, and take him under escort to the Bastile."

A general cry of horror followed these words, which rolled like a crashing thunder-clap through the careless, coquetting, and unsuspecting company. Then followed a breathless silence.

All eyes were directed to the cardinal, who, pale as death, and yet maintaining his noble carriage, walked along at ease.

At this point a young officer, pale like the cardinal, like all in fact, approached the great ecclesiastic, and gently took his arm.

"Cardinal," said he, with sorrowful tone, "in the name of the king, I arrest your eminence. I am ordered, monseigneur, to conduct you to the Bastile."

"Come, then, my son," answered the cardinal, quickly, making his way slowly through the throng, which respectfully opened to let him pass—" come, since the king commands it, let us go to the Bastile."

He passed on to the door. But when the officer had opened it, he turned round once more to the hall. Standing erect, with all the exalted dignity of his station and his person, he gave the amazed company his blessing.

Then the door closed behind him, and with pale faces the lords and ladies of the court dispersed to convey the horrible tidings to Versailles and Paris, that the king had caused the cardinal, the grand almoner of France, to be arrested in his official robes, and that it was the will of the queen.

And the farther the tidings rolled the more the report enlarged, like an avalanche of calumnies.

In the evening, Marat thundered in his club: "Woe, woe to the Austrian! She borrowed money of the Cardinal de Rohan to buy jewels for herself, jewels while the people hungered. Now, when the cardinal wants his money, the queen denies having received the money, and lets the head of the Church be dragged to the Bastile.

"Woe, woe to the Austrian!"

"Woe, woe to the Austrian!" muttered brother Simon, who sat near the platform on which Marat was. "We shall not forget it that she buys her jewels for millions of francs, while we have not a sou to buy bread with. Woe to the Austrian!"

And all the men of the club raised their fists and muttered with him, "Woe to the Austrian!"

CHAPTER V.

ENEMIES AND FRIENDS.

All Paris was in an uproar and in motion in all the streets; the people assembled in immense masses at all the squares, and listened with abated breath to the speakers who had taken their stand amid the groups, and who were confirming the astonished hearers respecting the great news of the day.

"The Lord Cardinal de Rohan, the grand almoner of the king," cried a Franciscan monk, who had taken his station upon a curbstone, at the corner of the Tuileries and the great Place de Carrousel—"Cardinal de Rohan has in a despotic manner been deprived of his rights and his freedom. As a dignitary of the Church, he is not under the ordinary jurisdiction, and only the Pope is the rightful lord of a cardinal; only before the Holy Father can an accusation be brought against a servant of the Church. For it has been the law of the Church for centuries that it alone has the power to punish and accuse its servants, and no one has ever attempted to challenge that power. But do you know what has taken place? Cardinal de Rohan has been withdrawn from the jurisdiction of his rightful judges; he has been denied an ecclesiastical tribunal, and he is to be tried before Parliament as if he were an ordinary servant of the king; secular judges are going to sit in judgment upon this great church dignitary, and to charge him with a crime, when no crime has been committed! For what has he done, the grand almoner of France, cardinal, and cousin of the king? A lady, whom he believed to be in the queen's confidence, had told him that the queen wanted to procure a set of jewels, which she was unfortunately not able to buy, because her coffers, as a natural result of her well-known extravagance, were empty. The lady indicated to the lord cardinal that the queen would be delighted if he would advance a sum sufficient to buy the jewels with, and in his name she would cause the costly fabric to be purchased. The cardinal, all the while a devoted and true servant of the king, hastened to gratify the desire of the queen. He took this course with wise precaution, in order that the queen, whose violence is well known, should not apply to any other member of the court, and still further compromise the royal honor. And say yourselves, my noble friends, was it not much better that it should be the lord cardinal who should lend money to the queen, than Lord Lauzun, Count Coigny, or the musical Count Vaudreuil, the special favorite of the queen? Was it not better for him to make this sacrifice and do the queen this great favor?"

"Certainly it was better," cried the mob. "The lord cardinal is a noble man. Long live Cardinal de Rohan!"

"Perish the Austrian, perish the jewelled queen!" cried the cobbler Simon, who was standing amid the crowd, and a hundred voices muttered after him, "Perish the Austrian!"

"Listen, my dear people of Paris, you good natured lambs, whose wool is plucked off that the Austrian woman may have a softer bed," cried a shrieking voice; "hear what has occurred to-day. I can tell you accurately, for I have just come from Parliament, and a good friend of mine has copied for me the address with which the king is going to open the session today."

"Read it to us," cried the crowd. "Keep quiet there! keep still there! We want to hear the address. Read it to us."

"I will do it gladly, but you will not be able to understand me," shrieked the voice. "I am only little in comparison with you, as every one is little who opposes himself to the highest majesty of the earth, the people."

"Hear that," cried one of those who stood nearest to those a little farther away " hear that, he calls us majesties! He seems to be an excellent gentleman, and he does not look down upon us."

"Did you ever hear of a wise man looking down upon the prince royal, who is young, fair, and strong?" asked the barking voice.

"He is right, we cannot understand him," cried those who stood farthest away, pressing forward. "What did he say? He must repeat his words. Lift him up so that we all may hear him."

A broad shouldered, gigantic citizen, in good clothing, and with an open, spirited countenance, and a bold, defiant bearing, pressed through the crowd to the neighborhood of the speaker.

"Come, little man," cried he, "I will raise you up on my shoulder, and, but see, it is our friend Marat, the little man, but the great doctor!"

"And you truly, you are my friend Santerre, the great man and the greatest of doctors. For the beer which you get from his brewery is a better medicine for the people than all my electuaries can be. And you, my worthy friend of the hop-pole, will you condescend to take the ugly monkey Marat on your shoulders, that he may tell the people the great news of the day?"

Instead of answering, the brewer Santerre seized the little crooked man by both arms, swung him up with giant strength, and set him on his shoulders.

The people, delighted with the dexterity and strength of the herculean man, broke into a loud cheer, and applauded the brewer, whom all knew, and who was a popular personage in the city. But Marat, too, the horse-doctor of the Count d'Artois, as he called himself derisively, the doctor of poverty and misfortune, as his flatterers termed him—Marat, too, was known to many in the throng, and after Santerre had been applauded, they saluted Marat with a loud vivat, and with boisterous clapping of hands.

He turned his distorted, ugly visage toward the Tuileries, whose massive proportions towered up above the lofty trees of the gardens, and with a threatening gesture shook his fist at the royal palace.

"Have you heard it, you proud gods of the earth? Have you heard the sacred thunder mutterings of majesty? Are you not startled from the sleep of your vice, and compelled to fall upon your knees and pray, as poor sinners do before their judgment? But no. You do not see and you do not hear. Your ears are deaf and your hearts are sealed! Behind the lofty walls of Versailles, which a most vicious king erected for his menus plaisirs, there you indulge in your lusts, and shut out the voice of truth, which would speak to you here in Paris from the hallowed lips of the people."

"Long live Marat!" cried the cobbler Simon, who, drawn by the shouting, had left the Franciscan, and joined the throng in whose midst stood Santerre, with Marat on his shoulders. "Long live the great friend of the people! Long live Marat!"

"Long live Marat!" cried and muttered the people. "Marat heals the people when the gentry have made them sick, and taken the very marrow from their bones. Marat is no 'gentleman.' Marat does not look down upon the people!"

"My friends, I repeat to you what I said before," shrieked Marat. "Did you ever hear of a wise man looking down upon the crown prince, and thinking more of the king, who is old, unnerved by his vices, and blase! You, the people, you are the crown prince of France, and if you, at last, in your righteous and noble indignation, tread the tyrant under your feet, then the young prince, the people, will rule over France, and the beautiful words of the Bible will be fulfilled: 'There shall be one fold and one shepherd.' I have taken this improvised throne on the shoulders of a noble citizen only to tell you of an impropriety which the Queen of France has committed, and of the new usurpation with which she treads our laws under her feet, not tired out with opera-house balls and promenades by night. I will read you the address which the king sent to Parliament to-day, and with which the hearing of Cardinal de Rohan's case is to begin. Will the people hear it?"

"Yes, we will hear it," was the cry from all sides. "Read us the address."

Marat drew a dirty piece of paper from his pocket, and began to read with a loud, barking voice:

"Louis, by the grace of God, King of France and Navarre, to our dear and faithful counsellors, members of the court of our Parliament, greeting:

"It has come to our knowledge that parties named Bohmer and Bassenge have, without the knowledge of the queen, our much-loved consort and spouse, sold a diamond necklace, valued at one million six hundred thousand francs, to Cardinal de Rohan, who stated to them that he was acting in the matter under the queen's instructions. Papers were laid before them which they considered as approved and subscribed by the queen. After the said Bohmer and Bassenge had delivered the said necklace to the said cardinal, and had not received the first payment, they applied to the queen herself. We have beheld, not without righteous indignation, the eminent name, which in many ways is so dear to us, lightly spoken of, and denied the respect which is due to the royal majesty. We have thought that it pertains to the jurisdiction of our court to give a hearing to the said cardinal, and in view of the declaration which he has made before us, that he was deceived by a woman named Lamotte-Valois, we have held it necessary to secure his person, as well as that of Madame Valois, in order to bring all the parties to light who have been the instigators or abettors of such a plot. It is our will, therefore, that that matter come before the high court of Parliament, and that it be duly tried and judgment given."

"There you have this fine message," cried Marat; "there you have the web of his, which this Austrian woman has woven around us. For it is she who has sent this message to Parliament. You know well that we have no longer a King of France, but that all France is only the Trianon of the Austrian. It stands on all our houses, written over all the doors of government buildings, 'De par la reine!' The Austrian woman is the Queen of France, and the good-natured king only writes what she dictates to him. She says in this paper that these precautions have been taken in order that she may learn who are the persons who have joined in the attack upon her distinguished and much-loved person. Who, then, is the abettor of Madame Valois? Who has received the diamonds from the cardinal, through the instrumentality of Madame Valois? I assert, it is the queen who has done it. She received the jewels, and now she denies the whole story. And now this woman Lamotte-Valois must draw the hot chestnuts out from the ashes. You know this; so it always is! Kings may go unpunished, they always have a bete de souffrance, which has to bear their burdens. But now that a cardinal, the grand almoner of France, is compelled to become the bete de souffrance for this Austrian woman, must show you, my friends, that her arrogance has reached its highest point. She has trodden modesty and morals under foot, and now she will tread the Church under foot also."

"Be still!" was the cry on all sides. "The carbineers and gendarmes are coming. Be still, Marat, be still! You must not be arrested. We do not want all our friends to be taken to the Bastile."

And really just at that instant, at the entrance of the street that led to the square on the side of the Tuileries, appeared a division of carbineers, advancing at great speed.

Marat jumped with the speed of a cat down from the huge form of the brewer. The crowd opened and made way for him, and before the carbineers had approached, Marat had disappeared.

With this day began the investigations respecting the necklace which Messrs. Bohmer and Bassenge had wanted to sell the queen through the agency of Cardinal Bohan. The latter was still a prisoner in the Bastile. He was treated with all the respect due to his rank. He had a whole suite of apartments assigned to him; he was allowed to retain the service of both his chamberlains, and at times was permitted to see and converse with his relatives, although, it is true, in the presence of the governor of the Bastile. But Foulon was a very pious Catholic, and kept a respectful distance from the lord cardinal, who never failed on such occasions to give him his blessing. In the many hearings which the cardinal had to undergo, the president of the committee of investigation treated him with extreme consideration, and if the cardinal felt himself wearied, the sitting was postponed till another day. Moreover, at these hearings the defender of the cardinal could take part, in order to summon those witnesses or accused persons who could contribute to the release of the cardinal, and show that he had been the victim of a deeply-laid plot, and had committed no other wrong than that of being too zealous in the service of the queen.

News spread abroad of numerous arrests occurring in Paris. It had been known from the royal decree that the Countess Lamotte-Valois had likewise been arrested and imprisoned in the Bastile; but people were anxious to learn decisively whether Count Cagliostro, the wonder-doctor, had been seized. The story ran that a young woman in Brussels, who had been involved in the affair, and who had an extraordinary resemblance to the Queen Marie Antoinette, had been arrested, and brought to Paris for confinement in the Bastile.

All Paris, all France watched this contest with eager interest, which, after many months, was still far from a conclusion, and respecting which so much could be said.

The friends of the queen asserted that her majesty was completely innocent; that she had never spoken to the Countess Lamotte-Valois, and only once through her chamberlain. Weber had never sent her any assistance. But these friends of the queen were not numerous, and their number diminished every day.

The king had seen the necessity of making great reductions in the cost of maintaining his establishment, and in the government of the realm. France had had during the last years poor harvests. The people were suffering from a want of the bare necessities of life. The taxes could not be collected. A reform must be introduced, and those who before had rejoiced in a superfluity of royal gifts had to be contented with a diminution of them.

It had been the queen who allowed the tokens of royal favor to pour upon her friends, her companions in Trianon, like a golden rain. She had at the outset done this out of a hearty love for them. It was so sweet to cause those to rejoice whom she loved; so pleasant to see that charming smile upon the countenance of the Duchess de Polignac- -that smile which only appeared when she had succeeded in making others happy. For herself the duchess never asked a favor; her royal friend could only, after a long struggle and threatening her with her displeasure, induce her to take the gifts which were offered out of a really loving heart.

But behind the Duchess Diana stood her brother and sister-in-law, the Duke and Duchess de Polignac, who were ambitious, proud, and avaricious; behind the Duchess Diana stood the three favorites of the royal society in Trianon —Lords Vaudreuil, Besenval, D'Adhemar- -who desired embassies, ministerial posts, orders, and other tokens of honor.

Diana de Polignac was the channel through whom all these addressed themselves to the queen; she was the loved friend who asked whether the queen could not grant their demands. Louis granted all the requests to the queen, and Marie Antoinette then went to her loved friend Diana, in order to gratify her wishes, to receive a kiss, and to be rewarded with a smile.

The great noble families saw with envy and displeasure this supremacy of the Polignacs and the favorites of Trianon. They withdrew from the court; gave the "Queen of Trianon" over to her special friends and their citizen pleasures and sports, which, as they asserted, were not becoming to the great nobility. They gave the king over to his wife who ruled through him, and who, in turn, was governed by the Polignacs and the other favorites. To them and to their friends belonged all places, all honors; to them all applied who wanted to gain any thing for the court, and even they who wanted to get justice done them. Around the royal pair there was nothing but intrigues, cabals, envy, and hostility. Every one wanted to be first in the favor of the queen, in order to gain influence and consideration; every one wanted to cast suspicion on the one who was next to him, in order to supplant him in the favor of Marie Antoinette.

The fair days of fortune and peace, of which the queen dreamed in her charming country home, thinking that her realizations were met when the sun had scarcely risen upon them, were gone. Trianon was still there, and the happy peasant-girl of Trianon had been unchanged in heart; but those to whom she had given her heart, those who had joined in her harmless amusement in her village there, were changed! They had cast aside the idyllic masks with which the good- natured and confiding queen had deceived herself. They were no longer friends, no longer devoted servants; they were mere place- hunters, intriguers, flatterers, not acting out of love, but out of selfishness.

Yet the queen would not believe this; she continued to be the tender friend of her friends, trusted them, depended upon their love, was happy in their neighborhood, and let herself be led by them just as the king let himself be led by her.

They set ministers aside, appointed new ones, placed their favorites in places of power, and drove their opponents into obscurity.

But there came a day when the queen began to see that she was not the ruler but the ruled,—when she saw that she was not acting out her own will, but was tyrannized over by those who had been made powerful through her favor.

"I have been compelled to take part in political affairs," said she, "because the king, in his noble, good-humored way, has too little confidence in himself, and, out of his self-distrust, lets himself be controlled by the opinions of others. And so it is best that I should be his first confidante, and that he should take me to be his chief adviser, for his interests are mine, and these children are mine, and surely no one can speak more truly and honestly to the King of France than his queen, his wife, the mother of his children! And so if the king is not perfectly independent, and feels himself too weak to stand alone, and independently to exert power, he ought to rest on me; I will bear a part in his government, his business, that at any rate they who control be not my opponents, my enemies!"

For a while she yielded to her friends and favorites who wanted to stand in the same relation to the queen that she did to the king— she yielded, not like Louis, from weakness, but from the very power of her love for them.

She yielded at the time when Diana de Polignac, urged by her brother-in-law, Polignac, and by Lord Besenval, conjured the queen to nominate Lord Calonne to be general comptroller of the finances. She yielded, and Calonne, the flatterer, the courtier of Polignac, received the important appointment, although Marie Antoinette experienced twinges of conscience for it, and did not trust the man whom she herself advanced to this high place. Public opinion, meanwhile, gave out that Lord Calonne was a favorite of the queen; and, while she bore him no special favor, and considered his appointment as a misfortune to France, she who herself promoted him became the object of public indignation.

Meanwhile the nomination of Lord Calonne was to be productive of real good. It gave rise to the publication of a host of libels and pamphlets which discussed the financial condition of France, and, in biting and scornful words, in the language of sadness and despair, developed the need and the misfortune of the land. The king gave the chief minister of police strict injunctions to send him all these ephemeral publications. He wanted to read them all, wanted to find the kernel of wheat which each contained, and, from his enemies, who assuredly would not flatter, he wanted to learn how to be a good king. And the first of his cares he saw to be a frugal king, and to limit his household expenses.

This time he acted independently; he asked no one's counsel, not even the queen's. As his own unconstrained act, he ordered a diminution of the court luxury, and a limitation of the great pensions which were paid to favorites. The great stable of the king must be reduced, the chief directorship of the post bureau must be abolished, the high salary of the governess of the royal children as well as that of the maid of honor of Madame Elizabeth, sister of the king, must be reduced.

And who were the ones affected by this? Chiefly the Polignac family. The Duke de Polignac was director of the royal mews, and next to him the Duke de Coigny. The Duke de Polignac was also chief director of the post department. His wife, Diana de Polignac, was also maid of honor to Madame Elizabeth, and Julia de Polignac was governess of the children of Prance.

They would not believe it; they held it impossible that so unheard- of a thing should happen, that their income should be reduced. The whole circle of intimate friends resorted to Trianon, to have an interview with the queen, to receive from her the assurance that she would not tolerate such a robbing of her friends, and that she would induce the king to take back his commands.

The queen, however, for the first time, made a stand against her friends.

"It is the will of the king," said she, "and I am too happy that the king has a will, to dare opposing it. May the king reign! It is his duty and his right, as it is the duty and right of all his subjects to conform to his wish and be subject to his will."

"But," cried Lord Besenval, "it is horrible to live in a country where one is not sure but he may lose tomorrow what he holds to-day; down to this time that has always been the Turkish fashion." [Footnote: His very words. See Goncourt's "Histoire de Marie Antoinette," p. 181.]

The queen trembled and raised her great eyes with a look full of astonishment and pain to Besenval, then to the other friends; she read upon all faces alienation and unkindly feeling. The mask of devoted courtiers and true servants had for the first time fallen from their faces, and Marie Antoinette discovered these all at once wholly estranged and unknown countenances; eyes without the beam of friendship, lips without the smile of devotion.

The queen sought to put her hand to her heart. It seemed to her as if she had been wounded with a dagger. She felt as if she must cry aloud with pain and grief. But she commanded herself and only gave utterance to a faint sigh.

"You are not the only ones who will lose, my friends," said she, gently. "The king is a loser, too; for if he gives up the great stables, he sacrifices to the common good his horses, his equipages, and, above all, his true servants. We must all learn to put up with limitations and a reduction of outlay. But we can still remain good friends, and here in Trianon pass many pleasant days with one another in harmless gayety and happy contentment. Come, my friends, let us forget these cares and these constraints; let us, despite all these things, be merry and glad. Duke de Coigny, you have been for a week my debtor in billiards, to-day you must make it up. Come, my friends, let us go into the billiard-room."

And the queen, who had found her gayety again, went laughing in advance of her friends into the next apartment, where the billiard- table stood. She took up her cue, and, brandishing it like a sceptre, cried, "Now, my friends, away with care—"

She ceased, for as she looked around her she saw that her friends had not obeyed her call. Only the Duke de Coigny, whom she had specially summoned, had followed the queen into the billiard-room.

A flash of anger shot from the eyes of the queen.

"How!" cried she, aloud, "did my companions not hear that I commanded them to follow me hither?"

"Your majesty," answered the Duke de Coigny, peevishly, "the ladies and gentlemen have probably recalled the fact that your majesty once made it a rule here in Trianon that every one should do as he pleases, and your majesty sees that they hold more strictly to the laws than others do."

"My lord," sighed the queen, "do you bring reproaches against me too? Are you also discontented?"

"And why should I be contented, your majesty?" asked the duke, with choler. "I am deprived of a post which hitherto has been held for life, and does your majesty desire that I should be contented? No, I am not contented. No, I do as the others do. I am full of anger and pain to see that nothing is secure more, that nothing is stable more, that one can rely upon nothing more—not even upon the word of kings."

"My lord duke," cried Marie Antoinette, with flashing anger, "you go too far, you forget that you are speaking to your queen."

"Madame," cried he, still louder, "here in Trianon there is no queen, there are no subjects! You yourself have said it, and I at least will hold to your words, even if you yourself do not. Let us play billiards, madame. I am at your service."

And while the Duke de Coigny said this, he seized with an angry movement the billiard-cue of the queen. It was a present which Marie Antoinette had received from her brother, the Emperor Joseph. It was made of a single rhinoceros skin, and was adorned with golden knobs. The king had a great regard for it, and no one before had ever ventured to use it excepting her alone.

"Give it to me, Coigny," said she, earnestly. "You deceive yourself, that is not your billiard-cue, that is mine."

"Madame," cried he, angrily, "what is mine is taken from me, and why should I not take what is not mine? It seems as if this were the latest fashion, to do what one pleases with the property of others; I shall hasten to have a share in this fashion, even were it only to show that I have learned something from your majesty. Let us begin."

Trembling with anger and excitement, he took two balls, laid them in the middle of the table, and gave the stroke. But it was so passionately given, and in such rage, that the cue glided by the balls and struck so strongly against the raised rim of the table that it broke.

The queen uttered an exclamation of indignation, and, raising the hand, pointed with a commanding gesture to the door.

"My Lord Duke de Coigny," said she, proudly, "I release you from the duty of ever coming again to Trianon. You are dismissed."

The duke, trembling with anger, muttering a few unintelligible words, made a slight, careless obeisance to the queen, and left the billiard-hall with a quick step.[Footnote: This scene is historical. See "Memoires de Madame de Campan," vol. ii.]

Marie Antoinette looked after him with a long and pained look. Then, with a deep sigh, she took up the bits of the broken cue and went into her little porcelain cabinet, in order to gain rest and self- command in solitude and stillness.

Reaching that place, and now sure that no one could observe her, Marie Antoinette sank with a deep sigh into an arm-chair, and the long-restrained tears started from her eyes.

"Oh," sighed she, sadly, "they will destroy every thing I have, every thing—my confidence, my spirit, my heart itself. They will leave me nothing but pain and misfortune, and not one of them whom I till now have held to be my friends, will share it with me."

CHAPTER VI.

THE TRIAL.

For a whole year the preparation for the trial had lasted, and to- day, the 31st of August, 1786, the matter would be decided. The friends and relatives of the cardinal had had time to manipulate not only public opinion, but also to win over the judges, the members of Parliament, to the cause of the cardinal, and to prejudice them against the queen. All the enemies of Marie Antoinette, the legitimists even, who saw their old rights of nobility encroached upon by the preference given to the Polignacs and other families which had sprung from obscurity; the party of the royal princes and princesses, whom Marie Antoinette had always offended, first because she was an Austrian, and later because she had allowed herself to win the love of the king; the men of the agitation and freedom party, who thundered in their clubs against the realm, and held it to be their sacred duty to destroy the nimbus which, had hitherto enveloped the throne, and to show to the hungering people that the queen who lived in luxury was nothing more than a light-minded, voluptuous woman,—all these enemies of the queen had had time to gain over public opinion and the judges. The trial had been a welcome opportunity to all to give free play to their revenge, their indignation, and their hate. The family of the cardinal, sorely touched by the degradation which had come upon them all in their head, would, at the least, see the queen compromised with the cardinal, and if the latter should really come out from the trial as the deceived and duped one, Marie Antoinette should, nevertheless, share in the stain.

The Rohan family and their friends set therefore all means in motion, in order to win over public opinion and the judges. To this end they visited the members of Parliament, brought presents to those of them who were willing to receive them, made use of mercenary authors to hurl libellous pamphlets at the queen, published brochures which, in dignified language, defended the cardinal in advance, and exhibited him as the victim of his devotion and love to the royal family. Everybody read these pamphlets; and when at last the day of decision came, public opinion had already declared itself in favor of the cardinal and against the queen.

On the 31st of August, 1786, as already said, the trial so long in preparation was to be decided. The night before, the cardinal had been transferred from the Bastile to the prison, as had also the other prisoners who were involved in the case.

At early dawn the whole square before the prison was full of men, and the dependants of Rohan and the Agitators of Freedom, as Marat and his companions called themselves, were active here as ever to turn the feeling of the people against the queen.

In the court-house, on the other side of the great square, meanwhile, the great drama of the trial had begun. The members of Parliament, the judges in the case, sat in their flowing black garments, in long rows before the green table, and their serious, sad faces and sympathetic looks were all directed toward the cardinal, Louis de Rohan. But in spite of the danger of the situation, the noble face of the cardinal was completely undisturbed, and his bearing princely. He appeared in his full priestly array, substituting in place of the purple-red under- garment one of violet, as cardinals do when they appear in mourning. Over this he wore the short red cloak, and displayed all his orders; the red stockings, the silk shoes with jewelled buckles, completed his array. While entering, he raised his hands and gave his priestly blessing to those who should judge him, and perhaps condemn him. He then, in simple and dignified words, spoke as follows:

A relative of his, Madame de Boulainvillier, had, three years before, brought a young woman to him, and requested him to maintain her. She was of the most exalted lineage, the last in descent from the earlier kings of France, of the family of Valois. She called herself the Countess of Lamotte-Valois; her husband, the Count Lamotte, was the royal sub-lieutenant in some little garrison city, and his salary was not able to support them except meagrely. The young lady was beautiful, intellectual, of noble manners, and it was natural that the cardinal should interest himself in behalf of the unfortunate daughter of the kings of France. He supported her for a while, and after many exertions succeeded in obtaining a pension of fifteen hundred francs from King Louis XVI., in behalf of the last descendant of the Valois family. Upon this the countess went herself to Versailles, in order to render thanks in person for this favor. She returned the next day to Paris, beaming with joy, and told the cardinal that she had not only been received by the queen, but that Marie Antoinette had been exceedingly gracious to her, and had requested her to visit her often. From this day on, the countess had naturally gained new favor in the eyes of the cardinal, for she often went to Versailles; and from the accounts of her visits there, when she returned, it was clear that she stood in high favor with the queen. But now, unfortunately, the cardinal found himself in precisely the opposite situation. He stood in extreme disfavor with the queen. She never condescended to bestow a glance upon him, nor a word. The cardinal was for a long time inconsolable on account of this, and sought in vain to regain the favor of the queen. This he intrusted with the deepest confidence to the Countess Lamotte- Valois, and she, full of friendly zeal, had undertaken to speak to the queen in his behalf. Some days later she told the cardinal that she had fulfilled her promise; she had painted his sadness in such moving words that the queen appeared to be very much affected, and had told the countess that she would pardon all, if the cardinal would send her in writing an apology for the mortifications which he had inflicted upon herself and her mother Maria Theresa. The cardinal, of course, joyfully consented to this. He sent to the countess a document in which he humbly begged pardon for asking the Empress Maria Theresa, years before, when Marie Antoinette was yet Dauphiness of France, and he, the cardinal, was French ambassador in Vienna, to chide her daughter on account of her light and haughty behavior, and to charge herself with seeing it bettered. This was the only offence against the queen of which he felt himself guilty, and for this he humbly implored forgiveness. He had, at the same time, begged the queen for an audience, that he might pay his respects to her, and on bended knee ask her pardon. Some days after, the Countess Lamotte-Valois had handed him a paper, written with the queen's hand, as an answer to his letter.

The president here interrupted the cardinal: "Are you still in possession of this document, your eminence?"

The cardinal bowed. "I have always, since I had the fortune to receive them, carried with me the dear, and to me invaluable, letters of the queen. On the day when I was arrested in Versailles, they lay in my breast coat-pocket. It was my fortune, and the misfortune of those who, after I had been carried to the Bastile, burst into my palace, sealed my papers, and at once burned what displeased them. In this way these letters escaped the auto-da-fe. Here is the first letter of the queen."

He drew a pocket-book from his robe, took from it a small folded paper, and laid it upon the table before the president.

The president opened it and read: "I have received your brief, and am delighted to find you no longer culpable; in the mean while, I am sorry not to be able to give you the audience which you ask. As soon, however, as circumstances allow me, I shall inform you; till then, silence. Marie Antoinette of France." [Footnote: Goncourt.— "Histoire de Marie Antoinette," p. 143.]

A murmur of astonishment arose among the judges after this reading, and all looks were directed with deep sympathy to the cardinal, who, with a quiet, modest bearing, stood over against them. The glances of the president of the high court, directed themselves, after he had read the letter and laid it upon the green table, to the great dignitary of the Church, and then he seemed to notice for the first time that the cardinal, a prince and grand almoner of the King of Prance, was standing like a common criminal.

"Give the lord cardinal an arm-chair," he ordered, with a loud voice, and one of the guards ran to bring one of the broad, comfortable chairs of the judges, which was just then unoccupied, and carried it to the cardinal.

Prince Rohan thanked the judges with a slight inclination of his proud head, and sank into the arm-chair. The accused and the judges now sat on the same seats, and one would almost have suspected that the cardinal, in his magnificent costume, with his noble, lofty bearing, his peaceful, passionless face, and sitting in his arm- chair, alone and separated from all others, was himself the judge of those who, in their dark garments and troubled and oppressed spirits, and restless mien, were sitting opposite him.

"Will your eminence have the goodness to proceed?" humbly asked the president of the court, after a pause. The cardinal nodded as the sign of assent, and continued his narrative.

This letter of the queen naturally filled him with great delight, particularly as he had a personal interview with her majesty in prospect, and he had implored the Countess Valois all the more to procure this meeting, because, in spite of the forgiveness which the queen had given to the cardinal, she continued on all occasions, where he had the happiness to be in her presence, to treat him with extreme disdain. On one Sunday, when he was reading mass before their majesties, he took the liberty to enter the audience-room and to address the queen. Marie Antoinette bestowed upon him only an annihilating look of anger and scorn, and turned her back upon him, saying, at the same time, with a loud voice, to the Duchess of Polignac: "What a shameless act! These people believe they may do any thing if they wear the purple. They believe they may rank with kings, and even address them."

These proud and cutting words had naturally deeply wounded the cardinal, and, for the first time, the doubt was suggested to him whether, in the end, all the communications of the Countess Valois, even the letter of the queen, might not prove to be false, for it appeared to him impossible that the queen could be secretly, favorably inclined to a man whom she openly scorned. In his anger he said so to the Countess Lamotte, and told her that he should hold all that she had brought him from the queen to be false, unless, within a very short time, she could procure what he had so long and so urgently besought, namely, an audience with the queen. He desired this audience as a proof that Marie Antoinette was really changed, and, at the same time, as a proof that the Countess Lamotte-Valois had told him the truth. The countess laughed at his distrust, and promised to try all the arts of address with the queen, in order to gain for the cardinal the desired audience. The latter, who thought he recognized in the beautiful and expressive countenance of the lady innocence and honorableness, now regretted his hasty words, and said to Madame Lamotte, that in case the queen would really grant him a private audience, he would give her (the countess) fifty thousand francs as a sign of his gratitude.

A murmur of applause and of astonishment rose at these words from the spectators, comprising some of the greatest noble families of France, the Rohans, the Guemenes, the Count de Vergennes, and all the most powerful enemies of the queen, who had taken advantage of this occasion in order to avenge themselves on the Austrian, who had dared to choose her friends and select her society, not in accordance with lineage, but as her own pleasure dictated.

The president of the court did not consider this murmur of applause marked enough to be reprimanded, and let it be continued.

"And did the Countess Lamotte-Valois procure for you this audience?" he then asked.

Prince Rohan was silent a moment, his face grew pale, his features assumed for the first time a troubled expression, and the painful struggles which disturbed his soul could be seen working within him.

"May it please this noble court," he replied, after a pause, with feeling, trembling voice, "I feel at this moment that, beneath the robe of the priest, the heart of the man beats yet. It is, however, for every man a wrong, an unpardonable wrong, to disclose the confidence of a lady, and to reveal to the open light of day the favors which have been granted by her. But I must take this crime upon myself, because I have to defend the honor of a priest, even of a dignitary in the Church, and also because I do not dare to suffer my purple to be soiled with even the suspicion of a lie, or an act of falsehood. It may be—and I fear it even myself—it may be, that in this matter, I myself was the deceived one, but I dare not bring suspicion upon my tiara that I was the deceiver, and, therefore, I have to meet the stern necessity of disclosing the secret of a lady and a queen."

"Besides this," said the president, solemnly—"besides this, your eminence may graciously consider, in presence of the authority given you by God, all the tender thoughts of the cardinal must be silent. The duty of a dignitary of the Church commands you to go before all other men in setting them a noble example, and one worthy of imitation. It is your sacred duty, in accordance with the demands of truth, to give the most detailed information regarding every thing that concerns this affair, and your eminence will have the goodness to remember that we are the secular priests of God, before whom every accused person must confess the whole truth with a perfect conscience."

"I thank you, Mr. President," said the cardinal, with so gentle and tremulous a voice, that you might hear after it a faint sob from some deeply-veiled ladies who sat on the spectators' seats, and so that even the eyes of President de l'Aigro filled with tears—" I thank you, Mr. President," repeated the cardinal, breathing more freely. "You take a heavy burden from my heart, and your wisdom instructs me as to my own duty."

The president blushed with pleasure at the high praises of the cardinal.

"And now," he said, "I take the liberty of repeating my question, did the Countess Lamotte-Valois succeed in procuring for your eminence a secret audience with the queen?"

"She did," replied the cardinal, "she did procure an interview for me."

And compelling himself to a quiet manner, he went on with his story: The Countess de Valois came to him after two days with a joyful countenance, and brought to him the request to accompany the Countess Valois two days after to Versailles, where, in the garden, in a place indicated by the countess, the meeting of the queen and the cardinal should take place. The cardinal was to put on the simple, unpretending dress of a citizen of Paris, a blue cloth coat, a round hat, and high leather boots. The cardinal, full of inexpressible delight at this, could, notwithstanding, scarcely believe that the queen would show him this intoxicating mark of her favor; upon which the Countess Valois, laughing, showed him a letter of the queen, directed to her, on gold-bordered paper, and signed like the note which he had received before—" Marie Antoinette of France." In this note the queen requested her dear friend to go carefully to work to warn the cardinal to speak softly during the interview, because there were ears lurking in the neighborhood, and not to come out from the thicket till the queen should give a sign.

After reading this letter, the cardinal had no more doubts, but surrendered himself completely to his joy, his impatience, and longed for the appointed hour to arrive. At last this hour came, and, in company with the countess, the cardinal, arrayed in the appointed dress, repaired in a simple hired carriage to Versailles. The countess led him to the terrace of the palace, where she directed the cardinal to hide behind a clump of laurel-trees, and then left him, in order to inform the queen, who walked every evening in the park, in company with the Count and Countess d'Artois, of the presence of the cardinal, and to conduct her to him. The latter now remained alone, and, with loud-beating heart, listened to every sound, and, moving gently around, looked down the long alley which ran between the two fountains, in order to catch sight of the approach of the queen. It was a delightful evening; the full moon shone in golden clearness from the deep-blue sky, and illuminated all the objects in the neighborhood with a light like that of day. It now disclosed a tall, noble figure, clad in a dark- red robe, and with large blue pins in her hair, hurrying to the terrace, and followed by the Countess Valois.

To the present moment the cardinal had slightly doubted as to his unmeasurable good fortune—now he doubted no more. It was the queen, Marie Antoinette, who was approaching. She wore the same dress, the same coiffure which she had worn the last Sunday, when after the mass he had gone to Versailles to drive.

Yes, it was the queen, who was hurrying across the terrace, and approaching the thicket behind which the cardinal was standing.

"Come," whispered she, softly, and the cardinal quickly emerged from the shade, sank upon his knee before the queen, and eagerly pressed the fair hand which she extended to him to his lips. "Your eminence," whispered the queen to him, "I can unfortunately spend only a moment here. I cherish nothing against you, and shall soon show you marks of my highest favor. Meantime, accept this token of my grace." And Marie Antoinette took a rose from her bosom and gave it to the cardinal. "Accept, also, this remembrancer," whispered the queen, again placing a little case in his hand. "It is my portrait. Look often at it, and never doubt me, I—"

At this moment the Countess Valois, who had been waiting at some distance, hastily came up.

"Some one is coming," whispered she; "for God's sake, your majesty, fly!"

Voices were audible in the distance, and soon they approached. The queen grasped the hand of the Countess Lamotte.

"Come, my friend," said she. "Farewell, cardinal, au revoir!"

Full of joy at the high good fortune which had fallen to him, and at the same time saddened at the abrupt departure of the queen, the cardinal turned back to Paris. On the next day the Countess Valois brought a billet from the queen, in which she deeply regretted that their interview yesterday had been so brief, and promising a speedy appointment again. Some days after this occurrence, which constantly occupied the mind of the cardinal, he was obliged to go to Alsace, to celebrate a church festival. On the very next day, however, came the husband of the countess, Count Lamotte, sent as a courier by the countess. He handed the cardinal a letter from the queen, short and full of secrecy, like the earlier ones.

"The moment," wrote the queen—" the moment which I desired is not yet come. But I beg you to return at once to Paris, because I am in a secret affair, which concerns me personally, and which I shall intrust to you alone, and in which I need your assistance. The Countess Lamotte-Valois will give you the key to this riddle."

As if on the wings of birds, the cardinal returned to Paris, and at once repaired to the little palace which the countess had purchased with the fruits of his liberality. Here he learned of her the reason of his being sent for. The matter in question was the purchasing of a set of jewels, which the royal jewellers, Bohmer and Bassenge, had often offered to the queen. Marie Antoinette had seen the necklace, and had been enraptured with the size and beauty of the diamonds. But she had had the spirit to refuse to purchase the collar, in consequence of the enormous price which the jewellers demanded. She had, however, subsequently regretted her refusal, and the princely set of gems, the like of which did not exist in Europe, had awakened the most intense desire on the part of the queen to possess it. She wanted to purchase it secretly, without the knowledge of the king, and to pay for it gradually out of the savings of her own purse. But just then the jewellers Bohmer and Bassenge had it in view to send the necklace to Constantinople for the Sultan, who wanted to present it to the best-loved of his wives.

But before completing the sale, the crown jewellers made one more application to the queen, declaring that if she would consent to take the necklace, they would be content with any conditions of payment. In the mean time, the private treasury of the queen was empty. The severe winter had induced much suffering and misfortune, and the queen had given all her funds to the poor. But as she earnestly desired to purchase the necklace, she would give her grand almoner a special mark of her favor in granting to him the commission of purchasing it in her name. He should receive a paper from the queen's own hand authorizing the purchase, yet he should keep this to himself, and show it only to the court jewellers at the time of the purchase. The first payment of six hundred thousand francs the cardinal was to pay from his own purse, the remaining million the queen would pay in instalments of one hundred thousand francs each, at the expiration of every three months. In the next three months, the six hundred thousand francs advanced by the cardinal should be refunded.

The cardinal felt himself highly flattered by this token of the queen's confidence, and desired nothing more than the written authorization of the queen, empowering him to make the purchase at once. This document was not waited for long. Two days only passed before the Countess Lamotte-Valois brought it, dated at Trianon, and subscribed Marie Antoinette of France. Meanwhile some doubts arose in the mind of the cardinal. He turned to his friend and adviser, Count Cagliostro, for counsel. The latter had cured him years before while very sick, and since that time had always been his disinterested friend, and the prophet, so to speak, who always indicated the cardinal's future to him. This man, so clear in his foresight, so skilful in medicine, was now taken into confidence, and his advice asked. Count Cagliostro summoned the spirits that waited upon him, before the cardinal, one solitary night. He asked these invisible presences what their counsel was, and the oracle answered, that the affair was one worthy of the station of the cardinal; that it would have a fortunate issue; that it put the seal upon the favors of the queen, and would usher in the fortunate day which would bring the great talents of the cardinal into employment for the benefit of France and the world. The cardinal doubted and hesitated no longer. He went at once to the court jewellers Bohmer and Bassenge: he did not conceal from them that he was going to buy the necklace in the name of the queen, and showed them the written authorization. The jewellers entered readily into the transaction. The cardinal made a deposit of six hundred thousand francs, and Bohmer and Bassenge gave him the necklace. It was the day before a great festival, and at the festival the queen wanted to wear the necklace. In the evening a trusted servant of the queen was to take the necklace from the dwelling of the Countess Lamotte-Valois. The countess herself requested the cardinal to be present, though unseen, when the delivery should take place.

In accordance with this agreement, the cardinal repaired to the palace of the countess on the evening of February 1st, 1784, accompanied by a trusted valet, who carried the casket with the necklace. At the doorway he himself took the collar and gave it to the countess. She conducted the cardinal to an alcove adjoining her sitting-room. Through the door provided with glass windows he could dimly see the sitting-room.

After some minutes the main entrance opened, and a voice cried: "In the service of the queen!" A man in the livery of the queen, whom the cardinal had often seen at the countess's, and whom she had told was a confidential servant of the queen, entered and demanded the casket in the name of the queen. The Countess Valois took it and gave it to the servant, who bowed and took his leave. At the moment when the man departed, bearing this costly set of jewels, the cardinal experienced an inexpressible sense of satisfaction at having had the happiness of conferring a service upon the Queen of France, the wife of the king, the mother of the future king,—not merely in the purchase of the diamonds which she desired, but still more in preventing the young and impulsive woman from taking the unbecoming step of applying to any other gentleman of the court for this assistance.

At these words the spectators broke into loud exclamations, and one of the veiled ladies cried: "Lords Vaudreuil and Coigny would not have paid so much, but they would have demanded more." And this expression, too, was greeted with loud acclaims.

The first president of the court, Baron de L'Aigre, here cast a grave look toward the tribune where the spectators sat, but his reproach died away upon lips which disclosed a faint inclination to smile.

"I now beg your eminence," he said, "to answer the following question: " Did Queen Marie Antoinette personally thank you for the great service which, according to your showing, you did her? How is it with the payments which the queen pledged herself to make?"

The cardinal was silent for a short time, and looked sadly before him. "Since the day when I closed this unfortunate purchase, I have experienced only disquietudes, griefs, and humiliations. This is the only return which I have received for my devotion. The queen has never bestowed a word upon me. At the great festival she did not even wear the necklace which she had sent for on the evening before. I complained of this to the countess, and the queen had the goodness to write me a note, saying that she had found the necklace too valuable to wear on that day, because it would have attracted the attention of the king and the court. I confided in the words of the queen, and experienced no doubts about the matter till the unhappy day when the queen was to make the first payment to the jewellers, and when she sent neither to me nor to the jewellers a word. Upon this a fearful suspicion began to trouble me,—that my devotion to the queen might have been taken advantage of, in order to deceive and mislead me. When this dreadful thought seized me, I shuddered, and had not power to look down into the abyss which suddenly yawned beneath me. I at once summoned the Countess Lamotte, and desired her solution of this inexplicable conduct of the queen. She told me that she had been on the point of coming to me and informing me, at the request of the queen, that other necessary outlays had prevented the queen's paying me the six hundred thousand francs that I had disbursed to Bohmer at the purchase of the necklace, and that she must be content with paying the interest of this sum, thirty thousand francs. The queen requested me to be satisfied for the present with this arrangement, and to be sure of her favor. I trusted the words of the countess once more, took fresh courage, and sent word to the queen that I should always count myself happy to conform to her arrangements, and be her devoted servant. The countess dismissed me, saying that she would bring the money on the morrow. In the mean time, something occurred that awakened all my doubts and all my anxieties afresh. I visited the Duchess de Polignac, and while I was with her, there was handed her a note from the queen. I requested the duchess, in case the billet contained no secret, to show it to me, that I might see the handwriting of the queen. The duchess complied with my request, and—"

The cardinal was silent, and deep inward excitement made his face pale. He bowed his head, folded his hands, and his lips moved in whispered prayer.

The judges, as well as the spectators, remained silent. No one was able to break the solemn stillness by an audible breath-by a single movement.

At length, after a long pause, when the cardinal had raised his head again, the president asked gently: "And so your eminence saw the note of the queen, and was it not the same writing as the letters which you had received?"

"No, it was not the same!" cried the cardinal, with pain. "No, it was an entirely different hand. Only the signature had any resemblance, although the letter to the duchess was simply subscribed 'Marie Antoinette.' I hastened home, and awaited the coming of the countess with feverish impatience. She came, smiling as ever, and brought me the thirty thousand francs. With glowing, passionate words, I threw my suspicions in her face. She appeared a moment alarmed, confused, and then granted that it was possible that the letters were not from the hand of the queen, but that she had dictated them. But the signatures were the queen's, she could take her oath of it. I again took a little courage; but soon after the countess had left me, the jewellers came in the highest excitement to me, to tell me that, receiving no payments from the queen, they had applied in writing to her several times, without receiving any answer; their efforts to obtain an audience were also all in vain, and so they had at last applied to the first lady-in-waiting on the queen, Madame de Campan, with whom they had just had an interview. Madame de Campan had told them that the queen did not possess the necklace; that no Countess Lamotte-Valois had ever had an interview with the queen; that she had told the jewellers with extreme indignation that some one had been deceiving them; that they were the victims of a fraud, and that she would at once go to Trianon to inform the queen of this fearful intrigue. This happened on a Thursday; on the following Sunday I repaired to Versailles to celebrate high mass, and the rest you know. I have nothing further to add."

"In the name of the court I thank your eminence for your open and clear exposition of this sad history," said the president, solemnly. "Your eminence needs refreshment, you are free to withdraw and to return to the Bastile."

The cardinal rose and bowed to the court. All the judges stood, and respectfully returned the salutation. [Footnote: 'Historical.—See "Memoires de l'Abbe Georgel," vol. i.]

One of the veiled ladies, sitting on the spectators' seats, cried with trembling voice: "God bless the cardinal, the noble martyr of the realm!"

All the spectators repeated the cry; and, while the words yet rang, the cardinal, followed by the officers who were to take him to the Bastile, had left the hall.

"Guards!" cried President de L'Aigre, with a loud voice, "bring in the accused, the Countess de Lamotte-Valois!"

All eyes directed themselves to the door which the guards now opened, and through which the accused was to enter.

Upon the threshold of this door appeared now a lady of slim, graceful form, in a toilet of the greatest elegance, her head decorated with feathers, flowers, and lace, her cheeks highly painted, and her fine ruby lips encircled by a pert, and at the same time a mocking smile, which displayed two rows of the finest teeth. With this smile upon her lips she moved forward with a light and spirited step, turning her great blazing black eyes with proud, inquisitive looks now to the stern semicircle of judges and now to the tribune, whose occupants had not been able to suppress a movement of indignation and a subdued hiss.

"Gentlemen," said she, with a clear, distinct voice, in which not the faintest quiver, not the least excitement was apparent—" gentlemen, are we here in a theatre, where the players who tread the boards are received with audible signs of approval or of disfavor?"

The president, to whom her dark eyes were directed, deigned to give no answer, but turned with an expressive gesture to the officer who stood behind the accused.

He understood this sign, and brought from the corner of the hall a wooden seat of rough, clumsy form, to whose high back of unpolished dirty wood two short iron chains were attached.

This seat he placed near the handsome, gaudily-dressed countess with her air of assurance and self-confidence, and pointed to it with a commanding gesture.

"Be seated," he said, with a loud, lordly tore. She shrugged her shoulders, and looked at the offered seat with an expression of indignation. "How!" she cried, "who dares offer me the chair of criminals to sit in?"

"Be seated," replied the officer. "The seat of the accused is ready for you, and the chains upon it are for those who are not inclined to take it."

A cry of anger escaped from her lips, and her eyes flashed an annihilating glance upon the venturesome officer, but he did not appear to be in the least affected by the lightning from her eyes, but met it with perfect tranquillity.

"If you do not take it of yourself, madame," he said, "I shall be compelled to summon the police; we shall then compel you to take the seat, and in order to prevent your rising, the chains will be bound around your arms."

The countess answered only with an exclamation of anger, and fixed her inquiring looks upon the judges, the accusers, the defenders, and then again upon the spectators. Everywhere she encountered only a threatening mien and suspicious looks, nowhere an expression of sympathy. But it was just this which seemed to give her courage and to steel her strength. She raised her head proudly, forced the smile again upon her lips, and took her seat upon the chair with a grace and dignity as if she were in a brilliant saloon, and was taking her seat upon an elegant sofa. The president of the court now turned his grave, rigid face to the countess, and asked: "Who are you, madame? What is your name, and how old are you?"

The countess gave way to a loud, melodious laugh. "My lord president," answered she, "it is very clear that you are not much accustomed to deal with ladies, or else you would not take the liberty of asking a lady, like myself in her prime, after her age. I will pardon you this breach of etiquette, and I will magnanimously pretend not to have heard that question, in order to answer the others. You wish to know my name? I am the Countess Lamotte-Valois of France, the latest descendant of the former Kings of Prance; and if in this unhappy land, which is trodden to the dust by a stupid king and a dissolute queen, right and justice still prevailed, I should sit on the throne of France, and the coquette who now occupies it would be sitting here in this criminal's chair, to justify herself for the theft which she has committed, for it is Marie Antoinette who possesses the diamonds of the jeweller Bohmer, not I."

At the spectators' tribune a gentle bravo was heard at these words, and this daring calumny upon the queen found no reproval even from the judges' bench.

"Madame," said L'Aigre, after a short pause, "instead of simply answering my questions you reply with a high-sounding speech, which contains an untruth, for it is not true that you can lay any claim to the throne of France. The descendants of bastards have claims neither to the name nor the rank of their fathers. Since, in respect to your name and rank, you have answered with an untruth, I will tell you who and what you are. Your father was a poor peasant in the village of Auteuil. He called himself Valois, and the clergyman of the village one day told the wife of the proprietor of Auteuil, Madame de Boulainvillier, that the peasant of Valois was in possession of family papers, according to which it was unquestionable that he was an illegitimate descendant of the old royal family.

The good priest at the same time recommended the poor, hungry children of the day-laborer Valois to the kindness of Madame de Boulainvillier, and the old lady hastened to comply with this recommendation. She had the daughter of Valois called to her to ask her how she could assist her in her misery."

"Say rather to gain for herself the credit that she had shown kindnesses to the descendants of the Kings of France," interrupted the countess, quickly.

"This would have been a sorry credit," replied President L'Aigre. "The Valois family had for a long time been extinct, and the last man of that name who is known, was detected in counterfeiting, sentenced, and executed. Your grandfather was an illegitimate son of the counterfeiter Valois. That is the sum total of your relation to the royal family of France. It is possible that upon this very chair on which you now sit, accused of this act of deception, your natural great-grandfather once sat, accused like you of an act of deception, in order, after conviction of his crime, to be punished according to the laws of France."

The countess made a motion as if she wanted to rise from the unfortunate seat, but instantly the heavy hand of the officer was laid upon her shoulder, and his threatening voice said, "Sit still, or I put on the chains!"

The Countess Lamotte-Valois of France sank back with a loud sob upon the chair, and for the first time a death-like paleness diffused itself over her hitherto rosy cheeks.

"So Madame de Boulainvillier had the children of the day-laborer Valois called," continued the president, with his imperturbable self-possession. "The oldest daughter, a girl of twelve years, pleased her in consequence of her lively nature and her attractive exterior. She took her to herself, she gave her an excellent education, she was resolved to provide for her whole future; when one day the young Valois disappeared from the chateau of Madame de Boulainvillier. She had eloped with the sub-lieutenant, Count Lamotte, and announced to her benefactress, in a letter which she left behind, that she was escaping from the slavery in which she had hitherto lived, and that she left her curse to those who wanted to hinder her marrying the man of her choice. But in order to accomplish her marriage, she confessed that she had found it necessary to rob the casket of Madame de Boulainvillier, and that out of this money she should defray her expenses. It was a sum of twenty thousand francs which the fugitive had robbed from her benefactress."

"I take the liberty of remarking to you, Mr. President, that you are there making use of a totally false expression," interrupted the countess. "It cannot be said that I robbed this sum. It was the dowry which Madame de Boulainvillier had promised to give me in case of my marriage, and I only took what was my own, as I was upon the point of marrying. Madame de Boulainvillier herself justified me in taking this sum, for she never asked me to return it or filed an accusation against me."

"Because she wanted to prevent the matter becoming town-talk," remarked the president, quietly. "Madame de Boulainvillier held her peace, and relinquished punishment to the righteous Judge who lives above the stars."

"And who surely has not descended from the stars to assume the president's chair of this court," cried Lamotte, with a mocking laugh.

President L'Aigre, without heeding the interruption, continued:

"The daughter of the laborer Valois married the sub-lieutenant Lamotte, who lived in a little garrison city of the province, and sought to increase his meagre salary by many ingenious devices. He not merely gave instruction in fencing and riding, but he was also a very skilful card-player—so skilful, that fortune almost always accompanied him."

"My lord," cried the countess, springing up," you seem to want to hint that Count Lamotte played a false game. You surely would not venture to say this if the count were free, for he would challenge you for this insult, and it is well known that his stroke is fatal to those who stand in the way of his dagger."

"I hint at nothing, and I merely call things by their right names," replied the president, smiling. "In consequence of strong suspicions of false play, Count Lamotte was driven out of his regiment; and as the young pair had in the meantime consumed the stolen wedding- money, they must discover some new way of making a living. The young husband repaired to the south of France to continue his card- playing; the young wife, having for her fortune her youth and the splendor of her name, repaired to Paris, both resolved de corriger la fortune wherever and however they could. "This, madame," continued the president, after a pause, "this is the true answer to my question, how you are called, and who you are."

"The answer is, however, not yet quite satisfactory," replied Lamotte, in an impudent tone. "You have forgotten to add that I am the friend of the cardinal, Prince Louis de Rohan, the confidante and friend of Queen Marie Antoinette, and that both now want to do me the honor to make me their bete de souffrance, and to let me suffer for what they have done and are guilty of. My whole crime lies in this, that I helped the Queen of France gain the jewels for which her idle and trivial soul longed; that I helped the amorous and light-minded cardinal approach the object of his love, and procured for him an interview with the queen. That is all that can be charged upon me; I procured for the queen the fine necklace of Messrs. Bohmer and Bassenge; I gave the cardinal, as the price of a part of the necklace, a tender tete-a-tete with the queen. The cardinal will not deny that in the garden of Versailles he had a rendezvous with the queen, that he kissed her hand and received a rose from her; and the queen will be compelled to confess in the end that the necklace is in her possession. What blame can be laid on me for this?"

"The blame of deception, of defalcation, of forgery, of calumny, of theft," replied the president, with solemn earnestness. "You deceived Cardinal de Rohan in saying that you knew the queen, that you were intimate with her, that she honored you with her confidence. You forged, or got some one to forge, the handwriting of the queen, and prepared letters which you gave to the cardinal, pretending that they came from the queen. You misused the devotion of the cardinal to the royal family, and caused his eminence to believe that the queen desired his services in the purchase of the necklace; and after the cardinal, full of pleasure, had been able to do a service to the queen, had treated with Bohmer and Bassenge, had paid a part of the purchase money, and gave you the necklace in charge to be put into the queen's hands, you were guilty of theft, for the queen knows nothing of the necklace; the queen never gave you the honor of an audience, the queen never spoke with you, and no one of the queen's companions ever saw the Countess Lamotte."

"That means they disown me; they all disown me!" cried the countess, with flaming rage, stamping upon the floor with her little satin- covered foot. "But the truth will one day come to the light. The cardinal will not deny that the queen gave him a rendezvous at Versailles; that she thanked him personally for the necklace which she had procured through his instrumentality."

"Yes, the truth will come to the light," answered the president. "I summon the crown attorney, M. de Borillon, to present the charge against the Countess Lamotte-Valois."

On this the attorney-general, Borillon, rose, and amid the breathless silence of the assembly began to speak. He painted the countess as a crafty, skilful adventuress, who had come to Paris with the determined purpose of making her fortune in whatever way it could be done. He then spoke of the destitution in which she had lived at first, of the begging letters which she addressed to all people of distinction, and especially to Cardinal de Rohan, in consequence of his well-known liberality. He painted in lively and touching colors the scene where the cardinal, struck by the name of the suppliant, went in person to the attic to convince himself whether it were really true that a descendant of the Kings of France had been driven to such poverty and humiliation, and to give her assistance for the sake of the royal house, to which he was devoted heart and soul. He painted further how the cardinal, attracted by the lively spirits, amiability, and intellectual character of Lamotte-Valois, had given her his confidence, and believed what she told him about her favor with the queen, and her intimate relations with her. "The cardinal," continued the attorney-general, "did not doubt for a moment the trustworthiness of the countess; he had not the least suspicion that he was appointed to become the victim of an intriguer, who would take advantage of his noble spirit, his magnanimity, to deceive him and to enrich herself. The countess knew the boundless devotion of the cardinal to the queen; she had heard his complaints of the proud coldness, the public slights which she offered to him. On the other hand, she had heard of the costly diamond necklace which Bohmer and Bassenge had repeatedly offered to the queen, and that she had refused to take it on account of the enormous price which they demanded for it. On this the countess formed her plan and it succeeded perfectly. She caused the cardinal to hope that he would soon have an audience of the queen, if he would give solid assurances of his devotion, and when he professed himself ready, she proposed to him, as acting under the queen's instructions, the purchase of the necklace. The cardinal declared himself ready to accede, and the affair took the course already indicated with such touching frankness and lofty truthfulness by his eminence. He brought the purchase to a conclusion; he paid the first instalment of six hundred thousand francs, and gave the necklace to the friend of the queen, the Countess Lamotte-Valois, after he had availed himself of her assistance in receiving from the lips and hand of the queen in the garden of Versailles the assurance of the royal favor. The countess at once brought the cardinal a paper from the queen, stating that she had received the necklace, and conveying to him the warm thanks of his queen. The cardinal felt himself richly rewarded by this for all his pains and outlays, and in the joy of his heart wanted to repay her who, in so prudent and wise a manner, had effected his reconciliation with the queen. He settled upon her a yearly pension of four thousand francs, payable her whole life, and the countess accepted it with tears of emotion, and swore eternal gratitude to the cardinal. But while uttering this very oath she was conspiring against her benefactor, and laughing in her sleeve at the credulous prince who had fallen into the very net which she had prepared for him. Her most active ally was her husband, whom she had long before summoned to Paris, and who was the abetter of her intrigue. The countess had now become a rich lady, and was able to indulge all her cravings for splendor and luxury. She who, down to that time, had stood as a supplicant before the doors of the rich, could herself have a princely dwelling, and could devote great sums to its adornment. The most celebrated makers were called on, to furnish the furniture and the decorations, and, as if by a touch of magic, she was surrounded by fabulous luxury; the fairest equipages stood ready for her, the finest horses in her stable, and a troop of lackeys waited upon the beck of the fair lady who displayed her princely splendor before them. A choice silver service glittered upon her table, and she possessed valuables worth more than a hundred thousand francs. More than this, she enjoyed the best of all, a tender and devoted husband, who overloaded her with presents; from London, whither he was called by pressing family affairs, he sent his wife a medallion of diamonds, which was subsequently estimated at two hundred and thirty louis-d'ors, and a pearl bracelet worth two hundred louis-d'ors. Returning from his journey, he surprised his wife with a new and splendid present. He had purchased a palace in Bar-sur-Aube, and thither the whole costly furniture of his hired house was carried. Would you know where all these rare gifts wore drawn? The Countess Lamotte had broken the necklace, and taken the stones from their setting. For the gold alone which was used in the setting she received forty thousand francs; for one of the diamonds, which she sold in Paris, she received fifty thousand francs; for another, thirty-six thousand. The diamonds of uncommon size and immense worth she did not dare to dispose of in Paris, and her husband was compelled to journey to London to sell a portion of them there. On his return thence he was able to buy for his wife the house in Bar-sur-Aube, for the sum received in London was four hundred thousand francs in gold, in addition to the pearls and the diamond medallion which he brought his wife from London. And of all this luxury, this extravagance, Cardinal de Rohan had naturally no suspicion. When he visited her, where did the countess receive him? In a poorly-furnished attic- chamber of the house hired by her. In simple, modest attire, She met him there and told him with trembling voice that the rich countess who lived in the two lower stories of the house had allowed her to have this suite next to the roof gratis. But when danger approached, and Lamotte began to fear that Bohmer and Bassenge, in claiming their pay from the queen, would bring the history of the necklace to the light, the countess came to the cardinal to pay her parting respects, as she was going into the country to a friend to live in the greatest privacy. She left Paris merely to repair to Bar-sur- Aube and live in her magnificent palace. She tarried there so long as to allow the police detectives to discover in the rich and elegant lady the intriguer Lamotte-Valois, and to effect the imprisonment of her husband and his friend, the so-called Count Cagliostro. Her other abetters had put themselves out of sight, and were not to be discovered. However, their arrest was not specially necessary, for the facts were already sufficiently strong and clear. Some of the diamonds which Lamotte had sold in London were brought back to Paris, and had been recognized by Bohmer and Bassenge as belonging to the necklace which they had sold to the queen. The goldsmith had been discovered to whom the countess had sold the golden setting of the necklace, and Bohmer and Bassenge had recognized in the fragments which remained their own work. It is unquestionable that the Countess Lamotte-Valois, through her intrigues and cunning, had been able to gain possession of the necklace, and that she had appropriated it to her own use. The countess is therefore guilty of theft and deception. She is, moreover, guilty of forgery, for she has imitated the handwriting of the queen, and subscribed it with the royal name. But the hand is neither that of the queen, nor does the queen ever subscribe herself 'Marie Antoinette of France.' This makes Lamotte open to the charge of both forgery and contempt of majesty, for she has even dared to drag the sacred person of the Queen of France into her mesh of lies, and to make her majesty the heroine of a dishonorable love- adventure."

"My lord," cried Countess Lamotte, with a loud laugh, "you are not driven to the necessity of involving the queen in dishonorable love- adventures. The queen is in reality the heroine of so many adventures of this character, that you can have your choice of them. A queen who visits the opera-house balls incognito, drives thither masked and in a fiacre, and who appears incognito on the terraces of Versailles with strange soldiers, exchanging jocose words with them- -a queen of the type of this Austrian may not wonder to find her name identified with the heroine of a love-adventure. But we are speaking now not of a romance, but of a reality, and I am not to be accused of forgery and contempt of majesty without having the proofs brought forward. This cannot, however, be done, for I have the proofs of my innocence. The cardinal had an interview with the queen, and she gave him a receipt for the diamonds. If she wrote her signature differently from her usual manner, it is not my fault. It only shows that the queen was cunning enough to secure an alibi, so to speak, for her signature, and to leave a rear door open for herself, through which she could slip with her exalted name, in case the affair was discovered, and leave me to be her bete de souffrance. But I am by no means disposed to accept this part, for I declare here solemnly, before God and man, that I am innocent of the crime laid to my charge. I was only a too true and devoted friend, that is all! I sacrificed my own safety and peace to the welfare of my exalted friends, and I now complain of them that they have treated me unthankfully in this matter. But they must bear the blame, they alone. Let the queen show that she did not give the cardinal a rendezvous in the park of Versailles; let her further show that she did not sign the promissory note, and the letters to his eminence, and then I shall be exposed to the charge of being a deceiver and a traitor. But so long as this is not done—and it cannot be done, for God is just, and will not permit the innocent to suffer for the guilty—so long will all France, yes, all Europe, be convinced that the queen is the guilty one; that she received the jewels, and paid the cardinal for them as a coquette and light- minded woman does, with tender words, with smiles and loving looks, and, last of all, with a rendezvous!"

"You are right," said the attorney-general, as the countess ceased, and looked around her with a victorious smile—"you are quite right, God IS just, and He will not permit the innocent to suffer for the guilty. He will not let your infernal intrigue stand as truth; He will tear away the mask of innocence from your deceiver's face, and lot you stand forth in all your impudence and deception."

"My lord," cried the countess, smiling, "those are very high- sounding words, but they are no proofs."

"We will now give the proofs," answered the attorney-general, turning to one of the guards. "Let the lady enter who is waiting in the room outside."

The officer gave a sign to one of the men who stood near the door leading to the witness-room; he entered the adjoining apartment, but soon after returned alone and whispered something in the officer's ear.

"The lady asks the court's indulgence for a few moments," said the officer, aloud. "As she must be separated some hours from her child, she asks permission to suckle it a few moments."

The president cast an inquiring look at the judges, who all nodded affirmatively.

The law was silent before the voice of Nature; all waited noiselessly till the witness had quieted her child.

And now the door of the witness-room opened, and upon the threshold was seen a woman's figure, at whose unexpected appearance a cry of amazement rose from the lips of all the spectators on the tribune, and all eyes were aflame with curiosity.

It was the queen—no one but the queen who was entering the hall! It was her slim, fine figure, it was her fresh, voting, rosy countenance, with the fair, charming oval of her delicately-tinted cheeks; it was her finely-cut mouth, with the full, lower lips; there were her large, grayish-blue eyes; her high forehead; her beautiful, chestnut-brown hair, arranged in exactly the manner that Leonard, the queen's hair-dresser, was accustomed to dress hers. The rest of her toilet, also, was precisely like that of the queen when she appeared in the gardens of Versailles and dispensed with court etiquette. A bright dress of light linen flowed down in long, broad folds over her beautiful figure; her chest and the full shoulders were covered by a short white robe a l'enfant, and on the loftily dressed hair lay a white cap, trimmed with lace.

Yes, it was the queen, as she had often been seen wandering up and down in the broad walks of Versailles; and even the ladies on the tribune, who often enough had seen the monarch close at hand and had spoken with her, looked in astonishment at the entering figure, and whispered, "It is she! The queen herself is coming to give her evidence. What folly, what thoughtlessness!"

While all eyes were directed upon this unexpected figure, no one had thought of the Countess Lamotte-Valois, no one had noticed how she shrank back, and then started from her seat, as if she wanted to fly from the horror which so suddenly confronted her.

No, the officer who stood near her chair had noticed this movement, and with a quick and strong grasp seized her arm.

"What do you want, madame? Why do you rise from your chair after being told to sit still, if you do not want to be chained?"

At the touch of the officer, Lamotte had, as it appeared, regained her whole composure, and had conquered her alarm.

"I rose," she said calmly, "to pay my respects to the Queen of France, like a good subject; but as I see that no one else stands up, and that they allow the queen to enter without rising from their seats, I will take mine again." And the countess slowly sank into her chair.

"Come nearer," cried President de L'Aigre to the royal personage; and she stepped forward, allowing her eyes to wander unconstrainedly through the hall, and then, as she approached the table, behind which the president and the judges sat, greeting them with a friendly nod and smile which caused her lips to part. Again there passed through the hall a wave of amazement, for now, when the lady opened her mouth, the first dissimilarity to the queen appeared. Behind her cherry-red lips there were two rows of poor, broken teeth, with gaps between them, whereas Marie Antoinette had, on account of her faultless teeth, been the object of admiration and envy to all the ladies of her court.

"Who are you, madame, and what are you called?" asked the president.

"Who am I, sir?" replied the lady, with a slight flush, "Good Lord! that is hard to answer. I was a light-minded and idle girl, that did not like to work, but did like to live well, and had no objection to dress, and led a tolerably easy life, till one day my heart was surprised by love. After being enamoured of my Sergeant George, I resolved to lead an honorable and virtuous life; and since my little son was born I have tried to be merely a good mother and a good wife. Do you now want to know what I am called? Down to the present time I am called Mademoiselle Oliva. You had me arrested in Brussels and brought here exactly nine days before the appointed time of my marriage with my dear George. He had promised me that our child should be able to regard us as regularly married people, and he wanted to keep his promise, but you prevented him, and it is your fault that my dear little boy was born in prison, and that his father was not there to greet him. But you will confess that I am guilty of no crime, and then you will fulfil my wish, and give me a written certificate of my innocence—that is," she corrected herself, blushing, "of my innocence in this matter, that I may be able to justify myself to my son, when I have to tell him that he was born in prison. It is such a dreadful thing for a mother to have anything that she is ashamed to confess to her child!"

A murmur of applause ran through the hall, and the ladies upon the tribune looked with sympathy upon this fair woman, whose faithful love made her beautiful, and whose mother-feeling gave her dignity.

"So your name is Mademoiselle Oliva?" asked the president.

"Yes, sir, that unfortunately is the name I am called by," answered she, sighing, "but as soon as I leave the prison I shall be married, and then I shall be called Madame George. For my child's sake, you would do me a great kindness now if you would call me madame."

At these naive words a smile lighted up the stern faces of the judges, and sped like a ray of sunlight over all the countenances of the spectators. Even the rigid features of the attorney-general were touched for an instant with the glow; only those of the Countess Lamotte darkened.

"Your majesty plays to-day the NAIVE part of a paysanne perversee," cried she, with a hard, shrill voice. "It is well known that your majesty loves to play comedies, and that you are sometimes content with even the minor parts. Now, do not look at me, Mrs. Queen, with such a withering look. Do not forget that you are playing the part of Mademoiselle Oliva, and that you have come secretly from Versailles to save your honor and your diamonds."

"Officer," cried the president, "if the accused allows herself to speak a single word without being asked, lock her up and gag her."

The officer bowed in token of his unconditional obedience, and drew out the wooden gag, which he showed the countess, going straight to her chair.

"I will comply with your wish," said the president, turning to the living portrait of the queen. "I will call you madame, if you will promise me in return to answer all my questions faithfully."

"I promise you that, by my child," answered Mademoiselle Oliva, bowing slightly.

"Tell me, then, do you know the person who sits in that chair?"

Mademoiselle Oliva cast a quick look at Lamotte, who glared at her from her seat.

"Oh, yes, I know her," she said. "That is, I do not know her name, I only know that she lives in a splendid palace, that she is very rich, and has everything nice."

"How do you know this lady? Tell us that."

"I will tell you, gentlemen, and I swear to you that so sure as I want to be an honorable wife, I will tell you the whole truth. I was walking one day in the Palais Royal, when a tall, slim, gentlemanly man, who had passed me several times, came up to me, said some soft things, and asked permission to visit me. I answered him, smiling, that he could visit me at once if he would take me into one of the eating-houses and dine with me. He accepted my proposition, and we dined together, and were merry and jolly enough for a new acquaintance. When we parted we promised to meet there again on the morrow, and so we did. After the second dinner, the amiable gentleman conducted me home, and there told me that he was very distinguished and influential, that he had friends at court, and was very well acquainted with the king and queen. He told me that he would procure for me powerful patrons, and told me that a very distinguished lady, who had interested herself in my behalf through his description, would visit me and make my acquaintance. On the next day he really came in company with a lady, who greeted me very friendly, and was astonished at her first glimpse of me."

"Who was that lady?" asked the president.

Mademoiselle pointed with her thumb over her shoulder. "The lady yonder," said she.

"Are you sure of it?"

"As of my own life, Mr. President."

"Good. Good. You saw the lady quite frequently?"

"Yes, she visited me twice more, and told me about the queen, and the splendid way they lived at the court; she promised me that she would bring me to the court and make a great lady out of me, if I would do what she wanted me to do. I promised it gladly, and declared myself ready to do every thing that she should order me, if she would keep her promise and bring me to the court, that I might speak with the king and the queen."

"But why were you so curious to go to the court and speak with the king and the queen?"

"Why? Good Lord! that is very simple and natural. It is a very easy thing for the king to make a captain out of a sergeant, and as the king, so people say, does nothing but what the queen tells him to, I wanted of course before every thing to have a good word from the queen. I should have liked to see my dear George wearing epaulets, and it must have tremendously pleased my boy to have come into the world the child of a captain."

"Did you tell that to the lady?"

"Certainly I told her, and she promised me that the queen would undoubtedly do me the favor, provided that I would do every thing that she bade me do in the name of the queen. She told me, then, that the queen had ordered her to seek a person suitable to play a part in a little comedy, which she was privately preparing; that I was just the person to play this part, and if I would do it well and tell nobody in the world, not even George, when he should come home from Brussels, she would not only give me her help in the future, but pay me fifteen thousand francs for my assistance. I consented with great joy, of course, for fifteen thousand francs was a magnificent dowry for a marriage, and I was very happy in being able to earn so much without having to work very hard for it."

"But did it not occur to you that that was a dangerous game that they wanted yon to play, and for which they were going to pay such a high sum?"

"I did have such thoughts once in a while, but I suppressed them soon, so as not to be troubled about my good fortune; and besides that, the countess assured me that every thing was done at the command of the queen, and that it was the queen who was going to pay the fifteen thousand francs. That quieted me completely, for as an obedient and true subject it was my duty to obey the queen, and show devotion to her in all things, more particularly when she was going to pay so magnificently. Meantime, I comforted myself that it could be nothing bad and criminal that the queen could order done, and the countess assured me that too, and told me that every thing I had to do was to represent another person, and to make a lover believe that he was with his love, which would, of course, please him immensely, and make him very happy. Besides, I did not think it any sin to do my part toward making an unfortunate lover have happy thoughts. I was very much pleased with this part, and made my plan to speak to him in very tender and loving tones."

"But were you not curious to know for whom you were playing this part, and what lady you had to represent?"

"I should certainly have liked very much to know, but the countess forbade me to ask, and told me that I must suppress my curiosity; and, on the other hand, make an effort to notice nothing at all, else I should receive only half of the money; and, besides, if they noticed that I knew what I was doing, I might be sent to the Bastile. I was still upon that, and did not trouble myself about any thing further, and asked nothing more, and only thought of learning my lesson well, that I might get the fifteen thousand francs for my marriage portion."

"So they gave you a lesson to learn?"

"Yes, the countess, and the gentleman who brought her to me, came twice to me, and taught me how I ought to walk, how to hold my head, to nod, and reach my hand to kiss. After teaching me this, they came one day and carried me in a splendid coach to the house of the countess. There I dined with them, and then we drove to Versailles. They walked with me in the park, and at a place near the pavilion they stood still, and said to me: 'Here is where you will play your little comedy to-morrow; this is the spot which the queen has herself appointed, and every thing which takes place is at the express command of her majesty.' That entirely quieted me, arid I turned back to Paris overjoyed, in company with the countess and her companion. They kept me that night in their beautiful home, and on the next day we drove again to Versailles, where the countess had a small suite of apartments. She herself dressed me, and condescended to help me like a waiting-maid."

"What kind of a suit did she put upon you?"

"Exactly such a one as I am wearing to-day, only when we were ready, and it had begun to grow dark, the countess laid a white mantle over me, and covered my head with a cap. Then she drove me into the park, gave me a letter, and said: 'You will give this letter to a gentleman who will meet us.' We went in silence through the paths and alleys of the park, and I confess that my heart beat right anxiously, and that I had to think a great deal upon the fifteen thousand francs, in order to keep my courage up."

"Did you go with the countess alone, or was some one else with you?"

"The gentleman who first made my acquaintance, and who was, as I believe, the husband of the countess, accompanied us. After we had walked about for a while, he stopped and said: 'Now you must walk alone; I shall, however, be there at the right time to make a noise, and to put the amorous lover to flight.' Then he stepped into the thicket, and we were alone. On this the countess gave me a rose, and said: 'You will give this rose with the letter to the person, and say nothing more than this. You know what that signifies.' The countess made me repeat that three times, and then said: 'You need not add a single word to that. The queen herself has selected these words, and she will hear whether you repeat them correctly, for she will stand behind you, and be a spectator of the whole scene.' On this the countess withdrew, leading me into a thicket, and soon the gentleman came, and I came out of the place of my concealment. After he had made me some very deep reverences, I handed him the rose and the letter, and repeated the very words the countess had taught me. The gentleman sank upon his knee, and kissed the hand which I extended with the rose. At this moment we heard a noise, as if of men's steps approaching, and the countess came running up. 'For God's sake!' she cried, 'we are watched! Quick, quick, come!' and she drew me hurriedly away. We left the garden, and returned to the dwelling of the countess, and there I remained alone, for the countess and her husband said, laughing, that they must go and console the old gentleman for having so short a rendezvous, and for being so quickly disturbed. I asked whether I had done my part well, and the countess said that the queen was very well satisfied with me—that she had stood in the thicket, and had observed all. Early next morning we rode back to Paris, and when we had arrived at their hotel, the countess paid me the fifteen thousand francs all correctly; but she made this condition, that I must go to see my George as soon as possible, and that till I should go, I must remain in a little room in her house. I wrote at once to George and announced my coming, and the time seemed endless till I received his answer, although the countess paid a great deal of attention to me, and always invited me to her petits soupers, where we had a right merry time. As soon as the answer had come from my George, who wrote me that he was expecting me, I took my departure in an elegant post- carriage, like a lady; for the countess was not willing that I should travel in a diligence, and her husband had paid in advance for all relays of horses as far as Brussels, so that I had a very agreeable, comfortable ride. And this, I think, is all that I have to relate, and my son will not have an unquiet night, for I have kept my word, and told every thing truthfully."

"You have nothing to add to this?"

"What could I add to this?" asked Oliva, sighing. "You know as well as I the end of my history. You know, that a fortnight after that little scene at Versailles, I was arrested by police agents in Brussels, and brought to Paris. You know, also, that I swore to take my life if my dear George were not allowed to visit me daily in prison. You know that my dear child was born in prison, and that it is now half a year old, while his poor mother is accused, and not yet gained her freedom. You know that all! What have I that I could add to this? I beg you, let me go and return to my child, for my little George is certainly awake, and his father does not know how to quiet him when he cries."

"You may go to your child," said the president, with a gentle smile.
"Officer, conduct Madame Oliva back to the witness-room."

Madame Oliva expressed her thanks for this by throwing a kiss of the hand to the president and the judges, and then hastily followed the officer, who opened the door of the adjoining room. As it swung back, a loud cry of a child was heard, and Madame Oliva, who was standing upon the threshold, turned her fair face back to the president with a triumphant expression, and smiled.

"Did I not tell you so?" she cried. "My son is calling, for he is longing for me. I am coming, my little George, I am coming!"

She sprang forward, and the door closed behind her.

"You have heard the statements of the witness," said the president, addressing Countess Lamotte. "You see now that we have the proof of the ignominious and treacherous intrigues which you have conducted. Will you, in the face of such proofs, still endeavor to deny the facts which have been given in evidence?"

"I have seen neither proofs nor facts," answered Lamotte, scornfully. "I have only been amazed at the self-possession with which the queen goes through her part, and wondered how far her light-mindedness will carry her. She is truly an adroit player, and she has played the part of Madame Oliva so well, that not a motion nor a tone would have betrayed the queen."

"How, madame?" asked the president, in amazement.

"Do you pretend to assert that this witness, who has just left the hall, is not Madame Oliva, but another person? Do you not know that this witness, this living portrait of the queen, has for ten months been detained at the Bastile, and that no change in the person is possible?"

"I only know that the queen has played her part well," said Lamotte, shrugging her shoulders. "She has even gone so far, in her desire to show a difference between Madame Oliva and the queen, as to make a very great sacrifice, and to disclose a secret of her beauty. She has laid aside her fine false teeth, and let us see her natural ones, in order that we may see a difference between the queen and Madame Oliva. Confess only, gentlemen, that it is a rare and comical sight to have a queen so like a courtesan, that you can only distinguish the one from the other by the teeth."

And the countess broke out into scornful laughter, which found a loud echo in some of the veiled ladies in the tribune.

"Moderate your pleasantry, madame," commanded the president. "Remember that you are in a grave and perilous situation, and that justice hangs over you like the sword of Damocles. You have already invoked your fate, in calling God to witness that the innocent shall not suffer for the guilty, and now this word is fulfilled in yourself. The whole edifice of your lies and intrigues crumbles over you, and will cover your head with the dust of eternal infamy."

"I experience nothing of it yet, God be thanked," cried Lamotte, shrugging her shoulders.

"You will be punished for these shameless deeds sooner than you expected," answered the president, solemnly.

"You said that you wanted proof that that was not the queen who gave the rendezvous to the cardinal in Versailles; that the promissory note was not subscribed by the queen, and that the letters to the cardinal were not written by her. If the proof of this were to be displayed to you, it would be right to accuse you of high-treason. We have already exhibited the proof that it was not Queen Marie Antoinette who made an appointment with the cardinal in Versailles, but that it was the comedy planned and brought out by yourself, with which you deceived the cardinal, and made him believe that he was going to buy the necklace of which you intended to rob him. It only remains to show you that the subscription of the queen and the letters to the cardinal were forged by you."

"And certainly," cried the countess, "I am very curious to have you exhibit the proofs of this!"

"That is a very simple matter," answered the president, calmly. "We confront you with him who at your direction imitated the handwriting of the queen and wrote the letters. Officer, summon the last witness!"

The officer threw open the door which led to the next room. A breathless silence prevailed in the great hall; every one was intensely eager to see this last witness who was to uncover the web of frauds of the countess's spinning. The great burning eyes of the accused, too, were turned to this door, and her compressed lips and her piercing glance disclosed a little of the anxiety of her soul, although her bearing and manner were still impudent and scornful.

And now the door opened, and a cry of amazement and rage broke from the lips of the countess.

"Retaux de Vilette," cried she madly, doubling up her little hands into fists and extending them toward the man who now entered the hall. "Shameful, shameful! He has turned against me!"

And losing for a moment her composure, she sank back upon the seat from which she had risen in her fright. A deathly paleness covered her cheeks, and, almost swooning, she rested her head on the back of the chair.

"You now see that God is just," said the president, after a brief pause. "Your own conscience testifies against you and compels you to confess yourself guilty."

She sprang up and compelled herself to resume her self-possessed manner, and to appear cool and defiant as before.

"No!" she said, "I do not confess myself guilty, and I have no reason to! My heart only shuddered when I saw this man enter, whom I have saved from hunger, overwhelmed with kindness, and whom my enemies have now brought up to make him testify against me! But it is over—I am now ready to see new lies, new infamies heaped upon me: M. Retaux de Vilette may now speak on, his calumnies will only drop from the undented mail of my conscience!"

And with possessed bearing and an air of proud scorn, Countess Lamotte looked at the man who, bowing and trembling, advanced by the side of the officer to the green table, and sedulously shunned meeting the eyes of Lamotte, which rested on him like two fiery daggers.

The president propounded the usual questions as to name and rank. He answered that his name was Retaux de Vilette, and that he was steward and secretary of the Countess Lamotte-Valois. On further questioning, he declared that after the count and the countess had been arrested he had fled, and had gone to Geneva in order to await the end of the trial. But as it lingered so long, he had attempted to escape to England, but had been arrested.

"Why do you wish to escape?" asked the attorney-general.

"Because I feared being involved in the affairs of the Countess
Lamotte," answered Retaux de Vilette, in low tones.

"Say rather you knew that you would be involved with them. You have at a previous examination deposed circumstantially, and you cannot take back what you testified then, for your denial would be of no avail. Answer, therefore: What have you done? Why were you afraid of being involved in the trial of Countess Lamotte?"

"Because I had done a great wrong," answered Retaux, with vehemence. "Because I had allowed myself to be led astray by the promises, the seductive arts, the deceptions of the countess. I was poor; I lived unseen and unnoticed, and I wished to be rich, honored, and distinguished. The countess promised me all this. She would persuade the cardinal to advance me to honor; she would introduce me to the court, and through her means I should become rich and sought after. I believed all this, and like her devoted slave I did all that she asked of me."

"Slavish soul!" cried the countess, with an expression of unspeakable scorn.

"What did the countess desire of you?" asked the president. "What did you do in her service?"

"I wrote the letters which were intended for the cardinal," answered Retaux de Vilette. "The countess composed them, and I wrote them in the handwriting of the queen."

"How did you know her handwriting?"

"The countess gave me a book in which a letter of the queen's was printed in exact imitation of her hand. I copied the letters as nearly as I could, and so worked out my sentences."

"He lies, he lies!" cried the countess, with a fierce gesture.

"And how was it with the promissory note to the jewellers, Bohmer and Bassenge? Do you know about that?"

"Yes," answered Retaux, with a sigh, "I do know about it, for I wrote it at the direction of the countess, and added the signature."

"Had you a copy?"

"Yes, the signature of the fac-simile."

"In the printed letter was there the subscription which you inserted?"

"No, there was only the name 'Marie Antoinette,' nothing further; but the countess thought that this was only a confidential way of writing her name, as a daughter might use it in a letter to a mother (it was a letter written by the queen to her mother), but that in a document of a more business-like character there must be an official signature. We had a long discussion about it, which resulted in our coming to the conclusion that the proper form would be 'Marie Antoinette of France.' So I practised this several times, and finally wrote it on the promissory note."

"He lies!" cried the countess, stamping on the floor. "He is a born liar and slanderer."

"I am prepared to show the proof at once that I speak the truth," said Retaux de Vilette. "If you will give me writing-materials I will write the signature of the queen in the manner in which it is written on the promissory note."

The president gave the order for the requisite articles to be brought and laid on a side-table. Retaux took the pen, and with a rapid hand wrote some words, which he gave to the officer to be carried to the president.

The latter took the paper and compared it with the words which were written on the promissory note. He then passed the two to the attorney-general, and he to the judge next to him. The papers passed from hand to hand, and, after they came back to the president again, he rose from his seat:

"I believe that the characters on this paper precisely accord with those on the note. The witness has given what seems to me irrefutable testimony that he was the writer of that signature, as well as of the letters to the cardinal. He was the culpable instrument of the criminal Lamotte-Valois. Those of the judges who are of my opinion will rise."

The judges arose as one man.

The countess uttered a loud cry and fell, seized with fearful spasms, to the ground.

"I declare the investigation and hearings ended," said the president, covering his head. "Let the accused and the witnesses be removed, and the spectators' tribune be vacated. We will adjourn to the council-room to prepare the sentence, which will be given to- morrow."

BOOK II.

CHAPTER VII.

THE BAD OMEN

The day was drawing to a close. That endlessly long day, that 31st of August, 1786, was coming to a conclusion. All Paris had awaited it with breathless excitement, with feverish impatience. No one had been able to attend to his business. The stores were closed, the workshops of the artisans were empty; even in the restaurants and cafes all was still; the cooks had nothing to do, and let the fire go out, for it seemed as if all Paris had lost its appetite—as if nobody had time to eat.

And in truth, on this day, Paris had no hunger for food that could satisfy the body. The city was hungry only for news, it longed for food which would satisfy its curiosity. And the news which would appease its craving was to come from the court-room of the prison! It was to that quarter that Paris looked for the stilling of its hunger, the satisfying of its desires.

The judges were assembled in the hall of the prison to pronounce the decisive sentence in the necklace trial, and to announce to all France, yes, all Europe, whether the Queen of France was innocent in the eyes of God and His representatives on earth, or whether a shade of suspicion was thenceforth to rest upon that lofty brow!

At a very early hour of the morning, half-past five, the judges of the high court of Parliament, forty-nine in number, gathered at the council-room in order to pronounce sentence. At the same early hour, an immense, closely-thronged crowd gathered in the broad square in front of the prison, and gazed in breathless expectation at the great gate of the building, hoping every minute that the judges would come out, and that they should learn the sentence.

But the day wore on, and still the gates remained shut; no news came from the council-room to enlighten the curiosity of the crowd that filled the square and the adjacent streets.

Here and there the people began to complain, and loud voices were heard grumbling at the protracted delay, the long deliberations of the judges. Here and there faces were seen full of scornful defiance, full of laughing malice, working their way through the crowd, and now and then dropping stinging words, which provoked to still greater impatience. All the orators of the clubs and of the secret societies were there among the crowd, all the secret and open enemies of the queen had sent their instruments thither to work upon the people with poisonous words and mocking observations, and to turn public opinion in advance against the queen, even in case the judges did not condemn her; that is, if they did not declare the cardinal innocent of conspiracy against the sovereign, and contempt of the majesty of the queen.

It was known that in his resume, the attorney-general had alluded to the punishment of the cardinal. That was the only news which had worked its way out of the court-room. Some favored journalist, or some friend of the queen, had heard this; it spread like the wind all over Paris, and in thousands upon thousands of copies the words of the attorney-general were distributed.

His address purported to run as follows: that "Cardinal de Rohan is indicted on the accusation, and must answer the Parliament and the attorney-general respecting the following charges: of audaciously mixing himself up with the affairs of the necklace, and still more audaciously in supposing that the queen would make an appointment with him by night; and that for this he would ask the pardon of the king and the queen in presence of the whole court. Further, the cardinal is enjoined to lay down his office as grand almoner within a certain time, to remove to a certain distance from the royal residence and not to visit the places where the royal family may be living, and lastly, to remain in prison till the complete termination of the trial."

The friends and dependants of the cardinal, the enemies and persecutors of the queen, received this decision of the attorney- general with vexation and anger; they found fault with the servility of the man who would suffer the law to bow before the throne; they made dishonorable remarks and calumnious innuendoes about the queen, who, with her coquetry and the amount received from the jewels, had gained over the judges, and who would, perhaps have appointed a rendezvous with every one of them in order to gain him over to her side.

"Even if the judges clear her," cried the sharp voice of Marat from the heart of the crowd, "the people will pass sentence upon her. The people are always right; the people cannot be bribed—they are like God in this; and the people will not disown their verdict before the beautiful eyes and the seductive smiles of the Austrian woman. The people will not be made fools of; they will not believe in the story of the counterfeited letters and the forged signature."

"No," shouted the crowd, laughing in derision, "we will not believe it. The queen wrote the letters; her majesty understands how to write love-letters!"

"The queen loves to have a hand in all kinds of nonsense," thundered the brewer Santerre, in another group. "She wanted to see whether a pretty girl from the street could play the part of the Queen of France, and at the same time she wanted to avenge herself upon the cardinal because she knew that he once found fault with her before her mother the empress, on account of her light and disreputable behavior, and the bad manners which, as the dauphiness, she would introduce into this court. Since then she has with her glances, her smiles, and her apparent anger, so worked upon the cardinal as to make him fall over ears in love with the beautiful, pouting queen. And that was just what she wanted, for now she could avenge herself. She appointed a rendezvous with the cardinal, and while she secretly looked on the scene in the thicket, she allowed the pretty Mademoiselle Oliva to play her part. And you see that it is not such a difficult thing to represent a queen, for Mademoiselle Oliva performed her part so well that the cardinal was deceived, and took a girl from the streets to be the Queen of France."

"Oh, better times are coming, better times are coming!" cried Simon the cobbler, who was close by, with his coarse laugh. "The cardinal took a girl from the streets for the Queen of France; but wait a little and we shall see the time when she will have to sweep the streets with a broom, that the noble people may walk across with dry feet!"

In the loud laugh with which the crowd greeted this remark of the cobbler, was mingled one single cry of anger, which, however, was overborne by the rough merriment of the mass. It came from the lips of a man in simple citizen's costume, who had plunged into the mob and worked his way forward with strong arms, in order to reach a place as near as possible to the entrance-door of the prison, and to be among the first to learn the impending sentence.

No one, as just said, had heard this cry; no one had troubled himself about this young man, with the bold defiant face, who, with shrugged shoulders, was listening to the malicious speeches which were uttered all around him, and who replied to them all with flaming looks of anger, pressing his lips closely together, in order to hold back the words which could hardly be suppressed.

He succeeded at last in reaching the very door of the prison, and stood directing his eyes thither with gloomy looks of curiosity.

His whole soul lay in this look; he heard nothing of the mocking speeches which echoed around him; he saw nothing of what took place about him. He saw only this fatal door; he only heard the noises which proceeded from within the prison.

At last, after long waiting, and when the sun had set, the door opened a little, and a man came out. The people who, at his appearance, had broken into a loud cry of delight, were silent when it was seen that it was not the officer who would announce the verdict with his stentorian voice, but that it was only one of the ordinary servants of the court, who had been keeping watch at the outer gate.

This man ascended with an indifferent air the steps of the staircase, and to the loud questions which were hurled at him by the crowd, whether the cardinal were declared innocent, he answered quietly, "I do not know. But I think the officer will soon make his appearance. My time is up, and I am going home, for I am half dead with hunger and thirst."

"Let the poor hungry man go through," cried the young man, pressing up to him. "Only see how exhausted he is. Come, old fellow, give me your hand; support yourself on me."

And he took the man by the arm, and with his powerful elbows forced a way through the crowd. The people let them pass, and directed their attention again to the door of the prison.

"The verdict is pronounced?" asked the young man, softly.

"Yes, Mr. Toulan," he whispered, "the councillor gave me just now, as I was handing him a glass of water, the paper on which he had written it."

"Give it to me, John, but so that nobody can see; otherwise they will suspect what the paper contains, and they will all grab at it and tear it in bits."

The servant slid, with a quick motion, a little folded paper into the hand of the young man, who thanked him for it with a nod and a smile, and then quickly dropped his arm, and forced his way in another direction through the crowd. Soon, thanks to his youth and his skill, he had worked through the dense mass; then with a flying step he sped through the street next to the square, then more swiftly still through the side streets and alleys, till he reached the gate that led out to the street of Versailles. Outside of this there was a young man in a blue blouse, who, in an idle and listless manner, was leading a bridled horse up and down the road.

"Halloo, Richard, come here!" cried the young man.

"Ah! Mr. Toulan," shouted the lad in the blouse, running up with the horse. "You have come at last, Mr. Toulan. I have been already waiting eight hours for you."

"I will give you a franc for every hour," said Mr. Toulan, swinging himself into the saddle. "Now go home, Richard, and greet my sweetheart, if you see her."

He gave his horse a smart stroke, pressed the spurs into his flanks, and the powerful creature sped like an arrow from a bow along the road to Versailles.

In Versailles, too, and in the royal palace, this day had been awaited with anxious expectations. The king, after ending his daily duties with his ministers, had gone to his workshop in order to work with his locksmith, Girard, upon a new lock, whose skilful construction was an invention of the king.

The queen, too, had not left her room the whole day, and even her friend, the Duchess Julia de Polignac, had not been able to cheer up the queen by her pleasant talk.

At last, when she saw that all her efforts were vain, and that nothing could dissipate the sadness of the queen, the duchess had made the proposition to go to Trianon, and there to call together the circle of her intimate friends.

But the queen sorrowfully shook her head, and gazed at the duchess with a troubled look.

"You speak of the circle of my friends," she said. "Ah! the circle of those whom I considered my friends is so rent and broken, that scarcely any torn fragments of it remain, and I fear to bring them together again, for I know that what once is broken cannot be mended again."

"And so does your majesty not believe in your friends any more?" asked the duchess, reproachfully. "Do you doubt us? Do you doubt me?"

"I do not doubt you all, and, before all things else, not you," said Marie Antoinette, with a lingering, tender look. "I only doubt the possibility of a queen's having faithful friends. I always forgot, when I was with my friends, that I was the queen, but they never forgot it."

"Madame, they ought never to forget it," replied the duchess, softly. "With all their love for your majesty, your friends ought never to forget that reverence is due you as much as love, and subjection as much as friendship. They ought never to make themselves your majesty's equals; and if your majesty, in the grace of your fair and gentle heart, designs to condescend to us and make yourself like us, yet we ought never to be so thoughtless as to raise ourselves to you, and want to make ourselves the equals of our queen."

"Oh, Julia! you pain me—you pain me unspeakably," sighed Marie Antoinette, pressing her hand to her heart, as if she wanted to keep back the tears which would mount into her eyes.

"Your majesty knows," continued the duchess, with her gentle, and yet terribly quiet manner, "your majesty knows how modestly I make use of the great confidence which you most graciously bestow upon me; how seldom and how tremblingly my lips venture to utter the dear name of my queen, of whom I may rightly talk only in intimate converse with your exalted mother and your royal husband. Your majesty knows further—"

"Oh! I know all, all," interrupted the queen, sadly. "I know that it is not the part of a queen to be happy, to love, to be loved, to have friends. I know that you all, whom I have so tenderly loved, feel yourselves more terrified than benefited; I know, that with this confession, happiness has withdrawn from me. I look into the future and see the dark clouds which are descending, and threatening us with a tempest. I see all; I have no illusions more. The fair days are all past—the sunshine of Trianon, and the fragrance of its flowers."

"And will your majesty not go there to-day?" asked the duchess. "It is such beautiful weather, the sun shines so splendidly, and we shall have such a glorious sunset."

"A glorious sunset!" repeated Marie Antoinette, with a bitter smile. "A queen is at least allowed to see the sun go down; etiquette has not forbidden a queen to see the sun set and night approach. But the poor creature is not allowed to see the sun rise, and rejoice in the beauty of the dawn. I have once, since I was a queen, seen the sun rise, and all the world cried 'Murder,' and counted it a crime, and all France laughed at the epigrams and jests with which my friends punished me for the crime that the queen of France, with her court, had seen the sun rise. And now you want to allow me to see it set, but I will not; I will not look at this sad spectacle of coming night. In me it is night, and I feel the storms which are drawing nigh. Go, Julia, leave me alone, for you can see that there is nothing to be done with me to-day. I cannot laugh, I cannot be merry. Go, for my sadness might infect you, and that would make me doubly sad."

The duchess did not reply; she only made a deep reverence, and went with light, inaudible step over the carpet to the door. The queen's face had been turned away, but as the light sound of the door struck her ear, she turned quickly around and saw that she was alone.

"She has left me—she has really gone," sighed the queen, bitterly. "Oh! she is like all the rest, she never loved me. But who does love me?" asked she, in despair. "Who is there in the world that loves me, and forgets that I am the queen? My God! my heart cries for love, yearns for friendship, and has never found them. And they make this yearning of mine a crime; they accuse me that I have a heart. 0 my God! have pity upon me. Veil at least my eyes, that I may not see the faithlessness of my friends. Sustain at least my faith in the friendship of my Julia. Let me not have the bitterness of feeling that I am alone, inconsolably alone."

She pressed her hands before her face, and sank upon a chair, and sat long there, motionless, and wholly given over to her sad, bitter feelings.

After a long time she let her hands fall from her face, and looked around with a pained, confused look. The sun had gone down, it began to grow dark, and Marie Antoinette shuddered within herself.

"By this time the sentence has been pronounced," she muttered, softly. "By this time it is known whether the Queen of France can be slandered and insulted with impunity. Oh! if I only could be sure. Did not Campan say—I will go to Campan." And the queen rose quickly, went with a decisive step out of her cabinet; then through the toilet-room close by, and opened the door which led to the chamber of her first lady-in-waiting, Madame de Campan.

Madame de Campan stood at the window, and gazed with such a look of intense expectation out into the twilight, that she did not notice the entrance of the queen till the latter called her loudly by name.

"The queen!" cried she, drawing back terrified from the window. "The queen! and—here, in my room!"

Marie Antoinette made a movement of impatience. "You want to say that it is not becoming for a queen to enter the room of her trusted waiting-maid, that it is against etiquette. I know that indeed, but these are days, my good Campan, when etiquette has no power over us, and when, behind the royal purple, the poor human heart, in all its need, comes into the foreground. This is such a day for me, and as I know you are true, I have come to you. Did you not tell me, Campan, that you should receive the news as soon as the sentence was pronounced?"

"Yes, your majesty, I do hope to, and that is the reason why I am standing at the window looking for my messenger."

"How curious!" said the queen, thoughtfully. "They call me Queen of France, and yet I have no one who hastens to give me news of this important affair, while my waiting-maid has devoted friends, who do for her what no one does for the queen."

"I beg your majesty's pardon," answered Madame de Campan, smiling. "What they do to-day for me, they do only because I am the waiting- maid of the queen. I was yesterday at Councillor Bugeaud's, in order to pay my respects to the family after a long interval, for his wife is a cousin of mine."

"That means," said the queen, with a slight smile, "that you went there, not to visit your cousin, the councillor's wife, but to visit the councillor himself. Now confess, my good Campan, you wanted to do a little bribery."

"Well, I confess to your majesty, I wanted to see if it was really true that Councillor Bugeaud has gone over to the enemy. Your majesty knows that Madame de Marsan has visited all the councillors, and adjured them by God and the Holy Church, not to condemn the cardinal, but to declare him innocent."

"That is, they will free the cardinal that I may be condemned," said the queen, angrily. "For to free him is the same as to accuse me and have my honor tarnished."

"That was what I was saying to my cousin, Councillor Bugeaud, and happily I found supporters in his own family. Oh, I assure your majesty that in this family there are those who are devoted, heart and soul, to your majesty."

"Who are these persons?" asked the queen. "Name them to me, that in my sad hours I may remember them."

"There is, in the first place, the daughter of the councillor, the pretty Margaret, who is so enthusiastic for your majesty that she saves a part of her meagre pocket-money that she may ride over to Versailles at every great festival to see your majesty; and then particularly there is the lover of this little person, a young man named Toulan, a gifted, fine young fellow, who almost worships your majesty—he is the one who promised me to bring news at once after the sentence is pronounced, and it is more owing to his eloquence than to mine that Councillor Bugeaud saw the necessity of giving his vote against the cardinal and putting himself on the right side."

At this instant the door which led into the antechamber was hastily flung open, and a lackey entered.

"The gentleman whom you expected has just arrived," he announced.

"It is Mr. Toulan," whispered Madame de Campan to the queen; "he brings the sentence. Tell the gentleman," she then said aloud to the lackey, "to wait a moment in the antechamber; I will receive him directly.

"Go, I beg your majesty," she continued as the lackey withdrew, "I beg your majesty to graciously allow me to receive the young man here."

"That is to say, my dear Campan," said the queen, smiling, "to vacate the premises and leave the apartment. But I am not at all inclined to, I prefer to remain here. I want to see this young man of whom you say that he is such a faithful friend, and then I should like to know the news as soon as possible that he brings. See here, the chimney-screen is much taller than I, and if I go behind, the young man will have no suspicion of my presence, especially as it is dark. Now let him come in. I am most eager to hear the news."

The queen quickly stepped behind the high screen, and Madame Campan opened the door of the antechamber.

"Come in, Mr. Toulan," she cried, and at once there appeared at the open door the tall, powerful figure of the young man. His cheeks were heated with the quick ride, his eyes glowed, and his breathing was rapid and hard. Madame Campan extended her hand to him and greeted him with a friendly smile. "So you have kept your word, Mr. Toulan," she said. "You bring me the news of the court's decision?"

"Yes, madame, I do," he answered softly, and with a touch of sadness. "I am only sorry that you have had to wait so long, but it is not my fault. It was striking eight from the tower of St. Jacques when I received the news."

"Eight," asked Madame de Campan, looking at the clock, "it is now scarcely nine. You do not mean to say that you have ridden the eighteen miles from Paris to Versailles in an hour?"

"I have done it, and I assure you that is nothing wonderful. I had four fresh horses stationed along the road, and they were good ones. I fancied myself sometimes a bird flying through the air, and it seems to me now as if I had flown. I beg your pardon if I sit down in your presence, for my feet tremble a little."

"Do sit down, my dear young friend," cried Campan, and she hastened herself to place an easy-chair for the young man.

"Only an instant," he said, sinking into it. "But believe me it is not the quick ride that makes my feet tremble, but joy and excitement. I shall perhaps have the pleasure to have done the queen a little service, for you told me that it would be very important for her majesty to learn the verdict as quickly as possible, and no one has got here before me, has there?"

"No, my friend, the queen will learn the news first through your means, and I shall say to her majesty that I have learned it through you."

"No, madame," he cried, quickly, "no, I would much rather you would not tell the queen, for who knows whether the news is good, or whether it would not trouble the noble heart of the queen, and then my name, if she should learn it, would only be disagreeable to her— rather that she should never hear it than that it should be connected with unpleasant associations to her."

"Then you do not know what the sentence is?" replied Campan, astonished. "Have you come to bring me the sentence, and yet do not know yourself what it is?"

"I do not know what it is, madame. The councillor, the father of my sweetheart, has sent it by me in writing, and I have not allowed myself to take time to read it. Perhaps, too, I was too cowardly for it, for if I had seen that it contained any thing that would trouble the queen, I should not have had courage to come here and deliver the paper to you. So I did not read it, and thought only of this, that I might perhaps save the queen a quarter of an hour's disquiet and anxious expectation. Here, madame, is the paper which contains the sentence. Take it to her majesty, and may the God of justice grant that it contain nothing which may trouble the queen!"

He stood up, and handed Madame de Campan a paper. "And now, madame," he continued, "allow me to retire, that I may return to Paris, for my sweetheart is expecting me, and, besides, they are expecting some disturbance in the city. I must go, therefore, to protect my house."

"Go, my young friend," said Madame de Campan, warmly pressing his hand. "Receive my heartiest thanks for your devotion, and be sure the queen shall hear of it. farewell, farewell!"

"No," cried Marie Antoinette, emerging from behind the screen with a laugh, "no, do not go, sir! Remain to receive your queen's thanks for the disinterested zeal which you have displayed for me this day."

"The queen!" whispered Toulan, turning pale, "the queen!"

And falling upon his knee he looked at the queen with such an expression of rapture and admiration that Marie Antoinette was touched.

"I have much to thank you for, Mr. Toulan," she said. "Not merely that you are the bearer of important news—I thank you besides for convincing me that the Queen of France has faithful and devoted friends, and to know this is so cheering to me that even if you bring me bad news, my sorrow will be softened by this knowledge. I thank you again, Mr. Toulan!"

Toulan perceived that the queen was dismissing him; he stood up and retreated to the door, his eyes fixed on the queen, and then, after opening the door, he sank, as it were, overcome by the storm of his emotions, a second time upon his knee, and folding his hands, raised his great, beaming eyes to heaven.

"God in heaven," he said loudly and solemnly, "I thank Thee for the joy of this hour. From this moment I devote myself to the service of my queen. She shall henceforth be the divinity whom I serve, and to whom I will, if I can avail any thing, freely offer my blood and life. This I swear, and God and the queen have heard my oath!"

And without casting another glance at the queen, without saluting her, Toulan rose and softly left the room, tightly closing the door after him.

"Singular," murmured the queen, "really singular. When he took the oath a shudder passed through my soul, and something seemed to say to me that I should some time be very unhappy, and that this young man should then be near me."

"Your majesty is excited to-day, and so every thing seems to have a sad meaning," said Madame de Campan, softly.

"But the sentence, the sentence!" cried the queen. "Give me the paper, I will read it myself."

Madame de Campan hesitated. "Would your majesty not prefer to receive it in the presence of the king, and have it read by his majesty?"

"No, no, Campan. If it is favorable, I shall have pleasure in carrying the good news to the king. If it is unfavorable, then I can collect myself before I see him."

"But it is so dark here now that it will be impossible to read writing."

"You are right, let us go into my sitting-room," said the queen. "The candles must be lighted there already. Come, Campan, since I am indebted to you for this early message, you shall be the first to learn it. Come, Campan, go with me!"

With a quick step the queen returned to her apartments, and entered her sitting-room, followed by Madame de Campan, whose countenance was filled with sad forebodings. The queen was right; the candles had already been lighted in her apartments, and diffused a light like that of day throughout her large sitting-room. In the little porcelain cabinet, however, there was a milder light, as Marie Antoinette liked to have it when she was alone and sans ceremonial. The candles on the main chandelier were not lighted, and on the table of Sevres china and rosewood which stood before the divan were two silver candlesticks, each with two wax candles. These four were the only lights in the apartment.

"Now, Campan," said the queen, sinking into the armchair which stood before the table, near the divan, "now give me the paper. But no, you would better read it to me—but exactly as it stands. You promise me that?"

"Your majesty has commanded, and I must obey," said Campan, bowing.

"Read, read," urged Marie Antoinette. "Let me know the sentence."

Madame de Campan unfolded the paper, and went nearer to the light in order to see better. Marie Antoinette leaned forward, folded both hands in her lap, and looked at Campan with an expression of eager expectation.

"Read, read!" she repeated, with trembling lips. Madame de Campan bowed and read:

"First.—The writing, the basis of the trial, the note and signatures, are declared to be forged in imitation of the queen's hand.

"Second.—Count Lamotte is sentenced in contumacion to the galleys for life.

"Third.—The woman Lamotte to be whipped, marked on both shoulders with the letter O, and to be confined for life.

"Fourth.—Retaux de Vilette to be banished for life from France.

"Fifth.—Mademoiselle Oliva is discharged.

"Sixth.—The lord cardinal—"

"Well," cried the queen, passionately, "why do you stammer, why do you tremble? He has been discharged; I know it already, for we are already at the names of the acquitted. Read on, Campan."

And Madame de Campan read on:

"The lord cardinal is acquitted from every charge, and is allowed to publish this acquittal."

"Acquitted!" cried the queen, springing from her seat, "acquitted! Oh, Campan, what I feared is true. The Queen of France has become the victim of cabals and intrigues. The Queen of France in her honor, dignity, and virtue, is injured and wounded by one of her own subjects, and there is no punishment for him; he is free. Pity me, Campan! But no, on the contrary, I pity you, I pity France! If I can have no impartial judges in a matter which darkens my character, what can you, what can all others hope for, when you are tried in a matter which touches your happiness and honor? [Footnote: The very words of the queen See "Memoires de Madame de Campan," vol. ii., o. 23.] I am sad, sad in my inmost soul, and it seems to me as if this instant were to overshadow my whole life; as if the shades of night had fallen upon me, and—what is that? Did you blow out the light, Campan?"

"Your majesty sees that I am standing entirely away from the lights."

"But only see," cried the queen, "one of the candles is put out!"

"It is true," said Madame de Campan, looking at the light, over which a bluish cloud was yet hovering. "The light is put out, but if your majesty allows me, I—"

She was silent, and her bearing assumed the appearance of amazement and horror.

The candle which had been burning in the other arm of the candlestick went out like the one before.

The queen said not a word. She gazed with pale lips and wide-opened eyes at both the lights, the last spark of which had just disappeared.

"Will your majesty allow me to light the candles again?" asked
Madame de Campan, extending her hand to the candlestick.

But the queen held her hand fast. "Let them be," she whispered, "I want to see whether both the other lights—"

Suddenly she was convulsed, and, rising slowly from her arm-chair, pointed with silent amazement at the second candlestick.

One of the two other lights had gone out.

Only one was now burning, and dark shadows filled the cabinet. The one light faintly illumined only the centre, and shone with its glare upon the pale, horrified face of the queen.

"Campan," she whispered, raising her arm, and pointing at the single light which remained burning, "if this fourth light goes out like the other three, it is a bad omen for me, and forebodes the approach of misfortune."

At this instant the light flared up and illumined the room more distinctly, then its flame began to die away. One flare more and this light went out, and a deep darkness reigned in the cabinet.

The queen uttered a loud, piercing cry, and sank in a swoon.

CHAPTER VIII.

BEFORE THE MARRIAGE.

The wedding guests were assembled. Madame Bugeaud had just put the veil upon the head of her daughter Margaret, and impressed upon her forehead the last kiss of motherly love. It was the hour when a mother holds her daughter as a child in her arms for the last time, bids adieu to the pleasant pictures of the past, and sends her child from her parents' house to go out into the world and seek a new home. Painful always is such an hour to a mother's heart, for the future is uncertain; no one knows any thing about the new vicissitudes that may arise.

And painful, too, to the wife of Councillor Bugeaud was this parting from her dearly-loved daughter, but she suppressed her deep emotion, restrained the tears in her heart, that not one should fall upon the bridal wreath of her loved daughter. Tears dropped upon the bridal wreath are the heralds of coming misfortune, the seal of pain which destiny stamps upon the brow of the doomed one.

And the tender mother would so gladly have taken away from her loved Margaret every pain and every misfortune! The times were threatening, and the horizon of the present was so full of stormy signs that it was necessary to look into the future with hope.

"Go, my daughter," said Madame Bugeaud, with a smile, regarding which only God knew how much it cost the mother's heart—" go out into your new world, be happy, and may you never regret the moment when yon left the threshold of your father's house to enter a new home!"

"My dear mother," cried Margaret, with beaming eyes, "the house to which I am going is the house of him I love, and my new home is his heart, which is noble, great, and good, and in which all the treasures in the earth for me rest."

"God grant, my daughter, that you may after many years be able to repeat those words!"

"I shall repeat them, mother, for in my heart is a joyful trust. I can never be unhappy, for Toulan loves me. But, hark! I hear him coming; it is his step, and listen! he is calling me!"

And the young girl, with reddening cheeks, directed her glowing eyes to the door, which just then opened, where appeared her lover, in a simple, dark, holiday-suit, with a friendly, grave countenance, his tender, beaming eyes turned toward his affianced.

He hastened to her, and kissed the little trembling hand which was extended to him.

"All the wedding guests are ready, my love. The carriages are waiting, and as soon as we enter the church the clergyman will advance to the altar to perform the ceremony."

"Then let us go, Louis," said Margaret, nodding to him, and arm-in- arm they went to the door.

But Toulan held back. "Not yet, my dear one. Before we go to the church, I want to have a few words with you."

"That is to say, my dear sir, that you would like to have me withdraw," said the mother, with a smile. "Do not apologize, my son, that is only natural, and I dare not be jealous. My daughter belongs to you, and I have no longer the right to press into your secrets. So I will withdraw, and only God may hear what the lover has to say to his affianced before the wedding."

She nodded in friendly fashion to the couple, and left the room.

"We are now alone, my Margaret," said Toulan, putting his arm around the neck of the fair young maiden, and drawing her to himself. "Only God is to hear what I have to say to you."

"I hope, Louis," whispered the young girl, trembling, "I hope it is not bad news that you want to tell me. Your face is so grave, your whole look so solemn. You love me still, Louis?"

"Yes, Margaret, I do love you," answered he, softly; "but yet, before you speak the word which binds you to me forever, I must open my whole heart to you, and you must know all I feel, in order that, if there is a future to prove us, we may meet it with fixed gaze and joyful spirit."

"My God! what have I to hear?" whispered the young girl, pressing her hand to her heart, that began to beat with unwonted violence.

"You will have to hear, my Margaret, that I love you, and yet that the image of another woman is cherished in my heart."

"Who is this other woman?" cried Margaret.

"Margaret, it is Queen Marie Antoinette."

The girl breathed freely, and laughed. "Ah! how you frightened me, Louis. I was afraid you were going to name a rival, and now you mention her whom I, too, love and honor, to whom I pay my whole tribute of admiration, and who, although you ought to live there alone, has a place in my heart. I shall never be jealous of the queen. I love her just as devotedly as you do."

A light, sympathetic smile played upon the lips of Toulan. "No, Margaret," said he, gravely, "you do not love her as I do, and you cannot, for your duty to her is not like mine. Listen, my darling, and I will tell you a little story—a story which is so sacred to me that it has never passed over my lips, although, according to the ways of human thinking, there is nothing so very strange about it. Come, my dear, sit down with me a little while, and listen to me."

He led the maiden to the little divan, and took a place with her upon it. Her hand lay within his, and with a joyful and tender look she gazed into the bold, noble, and good face of the man to whom she was ready to devote her whole life.

"Speak now, Louis, I will listen!"

"I want to tell you of my father, Margaret," said the young man, with a gentle voice—" of my father, who thirsted and hungered for me, in his efforts to feed, clothe, and educate me. He had been an officer in the army, had distinguished himself in many a battle, was decorated, on account of his bravery, with the Order of St. Louis, and discharged as an invalid. That was a sad misfortune for my father, for he was poor, and his officer's pay was his only fortune. But no—he had a nobler, a fairer fortune—he had a wife whom he passionately loved, a little boy whom he adored. And now the means of existence were taken away from this loved wife, this dear boy, and from him whose service had been the offering of his life for his king and country, the storming of fortifications, the defying of the bayonets of enemies; and who in this service had been so severely wounded, that his life was saved only by the amputation of his right arm. Had it not been just this right arm, he would have been able to do something for himself, and to have found some employment in the government service. But now he was robbed of all hope of employment; now he saw for himself and his family only destruction, starvation! But he could not believe it possible; he held it to be impossible that the king should allow his bold soldier, his knight of the Order of St. Louis, to die of hunger, after becoming a cripple in his service. He resolved to go to Paris, to declare his need to the king, and to implore the royal bounty. This journey was the last hope of the family, and my father was just entering on it when my mother sickened and died. She was the prop, the right arm of my father; she was the nurse, the teacher of his poor boy; now he had no hope more, except in the favor of the king and in death. The last valuables were sold, and father and son journeyed to Paris: an invalid whose bravery had cost him an arm, and whose tears over a lost wife had nearly cost him his eyesight, and a lad of twelve years, acquainted only with pain and want from his birth, and in whose heart, notwithstanding, there was an inextinguishable germ of hope, spirit, and joy. We went on foot, and when my shoes were torn with the long march, my feet swollen and bloody, my father told me to climb upon his back and let him carry me. I would not allow it, Suppressed my pain, and went on till I dropped in a swoon."

"Oh!" cried Margaret, with tears in her eyes, "how much you have suffered; and I am learning it now for the first time, and you never told me this sad history."

"I forgot every thing sad when I began to love you, Margaret, and I did not want to trouble you with my stories. Why should we darken the clear sky of the present with the clouds of the past? the future will unquestionably bring its own clouds. I tell you all this now, in order that you may understand my feelings. Now hear me further, Margaret! At last, after long-continued efforts, we reached Versailles, and it seemed to us as if all suffering and want were taken away from us when we found ourselves in a dark, poor inn, and lay down on the hard beds. On the next, my father put on his uniform, decorated his breast with the order of St. Louis, and, as the pain in his eyes prevented his going alone, I had to accompany him. We repaired to the palace and entered the great gallery which the court daily traversed on returning from mass in the royal apartments. My father, holding in his hand the petition which I had written to his dictation, took his place near the door through which the royal couple must pass. I stood near him and looked with curious eyes at the brilliant throng which filled the great hall, and at the richly-dressed gentlemen who were present and held petitions in their hands, in spite of their cheerful looks and their fine clothes. And these gentlemen crowded in front of my father, shoved him to the wall, hid him from the eye of the king, who passed through the hall at the side of the queen, and with a pleasant face received all the petitions which were handed to him. Sadly we turned home, but on the following day we repaired to the gallery again, and I had the courage to crowd back some of the elegantly-dressed men who wanted to press before my father, and to secure for him a place in the front row. I was rewarded for my boldness. The king came, and with a gracious smile took the petition from the hand of my father, and laid it in the silver basket which the almoner near him carried."

"Thank God," cried Margaret, with a sigh of relief, "thank God, you were saved!"

"That we said too, Margaret, and that restored my father's hope and made him again happy and well. We went the next day to the gallery. The king appeared, the grand almoner announced the names of those who were to receive answers to their petitions—the name of my father was not among them! But we comforted ourselves with the thought, it was not possible to receive answers so quickly, and on the next day we went to the gallery again, and so on for fourteen successive days, but all in vain; the name of my father was never called. Still we went every day to the gallery and took our old place there, only the countenance of my father was daily growing paler, his step weaker, and his poor boy more trustless and weak. We had no longer the means of stilling our hunger, we had consumed every thing, and my father's cross of St. Louis was our last possession. But that we dared not part with, for it was our passport to the palace, it opened to us the doors of the great gallery, and there was still one last hope. 'We go to-morrow for the last time,' said my father to me on the fifteenth day. 'If it should be in vain on the morrow, then I shall sell my cross, that you, Louis, may not need to be hungry any more, and then may God have mercy upon us!' So we went the next day to the gallery again. My father was to-day paler than before, but he held his head erect; he fixed his eye, full of an expression of defiance and scorn, upon the talkative, laughing gentlemen around him, who strutted in their rich clothes, and overlooked the poor chevalier who stood near them, despised and alone. In my poor boy's heart there was a fearful rage against these proud, supercilious men, who thought themselves so grand because they wore better clothes, and because they had distinguished acquaintances and relations, and yet were no more than my father—no more than suppliants and petitioners; tears of anger and of grief filled my eyes, and the depth of our poverty exasperated my soul against the injustice of fate. All at once the whispering and talking ceased,—the king and the queen had entered the gallery. The king advanced to the middle of the hall, the grand almoner called the names, and the favored ones approached the king, to receive from him the fulfilment of their wishes, or at least keep their hope alive. Near him stood the young queen, and while she was converging with some gentlemen of the court, her beautiful eyes glanced over to us, and lingered upon the noble but sad form of my father. I had noticed that on previous days, and every time it seemed to me as if a ray from the sun had warmed my poor trembling heart—as if new blossoms of hope were putting forth in my soul. To-day this sensation, when the queen looked at us, was more intense than before. My father looked at the king and whispered softly, 'I see him to-day for the last time!' But I saw only the queen, and while I pressed the cold, moist hand of my father to my lips, I whispered, 'Courage, dear father, courage! The queen has seen us.' She stopped short in her conversation with the gentleman and advanced through the hall with a quick, light step directly to us; her large gray- blue eyes beamed with kindness, a heavenly smile played around her rosy lips, her cheeks were flushed with feeling; she was simply dressed, and yet there floated around her an atmosphere of grace and nobleness. 'My dear chevalier,' said she, and her voice rang like the sweetest music, 'my dear chevalier, have you given a petition to the king?' 'Yes, madame,' answered my father trembling, 'fourteen days ago I presented a petition to the king.' 'And have you received no answer yet?' she asked quickly. 'I see you every day here with the lad there, and conclude you are still hoping for an answer.' 'So it is, madame,' answered my father, 'I expect an answer, that is I expect a decision involving my life or death.' 'Poor man!' said the queen, with a tone of deep sympathy. 'Fourteen days of such waiting must be dreadful! I pity you sincerely. Have you no one to present your claims?' 'Madame,' answered my father, 'I have no one else to present my claims than this empty sleeve which lacks a right arm—no other protection than the justice of my cause.' 'Poor man!' sighed the queen, 'you must know the world very little if you believe that this is enough. But, if you allow me, I will undertake your protection, and be your intercessor with the king. Tell me your name and address.' My father gave them, the queen listened attentively and smiled in friendly fashion. 'Be here to-morrow at this hour—I myself will bring you the king's answer.' We left the palace with new courage, with new hope. We felt no longer that we were tired and hungry, and heeded not the complaints of our host, who declared that he had no more patience, and that he would no longer give us credit for the miserable chamber which we had. His scolding and threatening troubled us that day no more. We begged him to have patience with us till to-morrow. We told him our hopes for the future, and we rejoiced in our own cheerful expectations. At length the next day arrived, the hour of the audience came, and we repaired to the great gallery. My heart beat so violently that I could feel it upon my lips, and my father's face was lighted up with a glow of hope; his eye had its old fire, his whole being was filled with new life, his carriage erect as in our happy days. At last the doors opened and the royal couple entered. 'Pray for me, my son,' my father whispered—'pray for me that my hopes be not disappointed, else I shall fall dead to the earth.' But I could not pray, I could not think. I could only gaze at the beautiful young queen, who seemed to my eyes as if beaming in a golden cloud surrounded by all the stars of heaven. The eyes of the queen darted inquiringly through the hall; at last she caught mine and smiled. Oh that smile! it shot like a ray of sunlight through my soul, it filled my whole being with rapture. I sank upon my knee, folded my hands, and now I could think, could pray: 'A blessing upon the queen! she comes to save my dear father's life, for she frees us from our sufferings.' The queen approached, so beautiful, so lovely, with such a beaming eye. She held a sealed paper in her hand and gave it to my father with a gentle inclination of her head. 'Here, sir,' she said, 'the king is happy to be able to reward, in the name of France, one of his best officers. The king grants you a yearly pension of three hundred louis-d'or, and I wish for you and your son that you may live yet many years to enjoy happiness and health. Go at once with this paper to the treasury, and you will receive the first quarterly payment.' Then, when she saw that my father was almost swooning, she summoned with a loud voice some gentlemen of the court, and commanded them to take care of my father; to take him out into the fresh air, and to arrange that he be sent home in a carriage. Now all these fine gentlemen were busy in helping us. Every one vied with the others in being friendly to us; and the poor neglected invalid who had been crowded to the wall, the overlooked officer Toulan, was now an object of universal care and attention. We rode home to our inn in a royal carriage, and the host did not grumble any longer; he was anxious to procure us food, and very active in caring for all our needs. The queen had saved us from misfortune, the queen had made us happy and well to do."

"A blessing upon the dear head of our queen!" cried Margaret, raising her folded hands to heaven. "Now I shall doubly love her, for she is the benefactor of him I love. Oh, why have you waited until now before telling me this beautiful, touching story? Why have I not enjoyed it before? But I thank you from my heart for the good which it has done me."

"My dear one," answered Toulan, gravely, "there are experiences in the human soul that one may reveal only in the most momentous epochs of life—just as in the Jewish temple the Holy of Holies was revealed only on the chief feast-days. Such a time, my dear one, is to-day, and I withdraw all veils from my heart, and let you see and know what, besides you, only God sees and knows. Since that day when I returned with my father from the palace, and when the queen had made us happy again—since that day my whole soul has belonged to the queen. I thanked her for all, for the contentment of my father, for every cheerful hour which we spent together; and all the knowledge I have gained, all the studies I have attempted, I owe to the beautiful, noble Marie Antoinette. We went to our home, and I entered the high-school in order to fit myself to be a merchant, a bookseller. My father had enjoined upon me riot to choose a soldier's lot. The sad experience of his invalid life hung over him like a dark cloud, and he did not wish that I should ever enter into the same. 'Be an independent, free man,' said he to me. 'Learn to depend on your own strength and your own will alone. Use the powers of your mind, become a soldier of labor, and so serve your country. I know, indeed, that if the hour of danger ever comes, you will be a true, bold soldier for your queen, and fight for her till your last breath.' I had to promise him on his death-bed that I would so do. Even then he saw the dark and dangerous days approach, which have now broken upon the realm—even then he heard the muttering of the tempest which now so inevitably is approaching; and often when I went home to his silent chamber I found him reading, with tears in his eyes, the pamphlets and journals which had come from Paris to us at Rouen, and which seemed to us like the storm-birds announcing the tempest. 'The queen is so good, so innocent,' he would sigh, 'and they make her goodness a crime and her innocence they make guilt! She is like a lamb, surrounded by tigers, that plays thoughtlessly with the flowers, and does not know the poison that lurks beneath them. Swear to me, Louis, that you will seek, if God gives you the power, to free the lamb from the bloodthirsty tigers. Swear to me that your whole life shall be devoted to her service.' And I did swear it, Margaret, not merely to my dear father, but to myself as well. Every day I have repeated, 'To Queen Marie Antoinette belongs my life, for every thing that makes life valuable I owe to her.' "When my father died, I left Rouen and removed to Paris, there to pursue my business as a bookseller. My suspicions told me that the time would soon come when the friends of the queen must rally around her, and must perhaps put a mask over their faces, in order to sustain themselves until the days of real danger. That time has now come, Margaret; the queen is in danger! The tigers have surrounded the lamb, and it cannot escape. Enemies everywhere, wherever you look!—enemies even in the palace itself. The Count de Provence, her own brother-in-law, has for years persecuted her with his epigrams, because he cannot forgive it in her that the king pays more attention to her counsels than he does to those of his brother, who hates the Austrian. The Count d'Artois, formerly the only friend of Marie Antoinette in the royal family, deserted her when the queen took ground against the view of the king's brothers in favor of the double representation of the Third Estate, and persuaded her husband to comply with the wishes of the nation and call together the States-General. He has gone over to the camp of her enemies, and rages against the queen, because she is inclined to favor the wishes of the people. And yet this very people is turned against her, does not believe in the love, but only in the hate of the queen, and all parties are agreed in keeping the people in this faith. The Duke d'Orleans revenges himself upon the innocent and pure queen for the scorn which she displays to this infamous prince. The aunts of the queen revenge themselves for the obscure position to which fate has consigned them, they having to play the second part at the brilliant court of Versailles, and be thrown into the shade by Marie Antoinette. The whole court—all these jealous, envious ladies— revenge themselves for the favor which the queen has shown to the Polignacs. They have undermined her good name; they have fought against her with the poisoned arrows of denunciation, calumny, pamphlets, and libels. Every thing bad that has happened has been ascribed to her. She has been held responsible for every evil that has happened to the nation.

The queen is accountable for the financial troubles that have broken over us, and since the ministry have declared the state bankrupt, Parisians call the queen Madame Deficit. Curses follow her when she drives out, and even when she enters the theatre. Even in her own gardens of St. Cloud and Trianon men dare to insult the queen as she passes by. In all the clubs of Paris they thunder at the queen, and call her the destruction of Prance. The downfall of Marie Antoinette is resolved upon by her enemies, and the time has come when her friends must be active for her. The time has come for me to pay the vow which I made to my dying father and to myself. God has blessed my efforts and crowned my industry and activity with success. I have reached an independent position. The confidence of my fellow- citizens has made me a councillor. I have accepted the position, not out of vanity or ambition, but because it will give me opportunity to serve the queen. I wear a mask before my face. I belong to the democrats and agitators. I appear to the world as an enemy of the queen, in order to be able to do her some secret service as a friend; for I say to you, and repeat it before God, to the queen belong my whole life, my whole being, and thought. I love you, Margaret! Every thing which can make my life happy will come from you, and yet I shall be ready every hour to leave you—to see my happiness go to ruin without a complaint, without a sigh, if I can be of service to the queen. You my heart loves; her my soul adores. Wherever I shall be, Margaret, if the call of the queen comes to me, I shall follow it, even if I know that death lurks at the door behind which the queen awaits me. We stand before a dark and tempestuous time, and our country is to be torn with fearful strife. All passions are unfettered, all want to fight for freedom, and against the chains with which the royal government has held them bound. An abyss has opened between the crown and the nation, and the States-General and the Third Estate will not close it, but only widen it. I tell you, Margaret, dark days are approaching; I see them coming, and I cannot, for your sake, withdraw from them, for I am the soldier of the queen. I must keep guard before her door, and, if I cannot save her, I must die in her service. Know this, Margaret, but know, too, that I love you. Let me repeat, that from you alone all fortune and happiness can come to me, and then do you decide. Will you, after all that I have told you, still accept my hand, which I offer you in tenderest affection? Will you be my wife, knowing that my life belongs not to you alone, but still more to another? Will you share with me the dangers of a stormy time, of an inevitable future with me, and devote yourself with, me to the service of the queen? Examine yourself, Margaret, before you answer. Do not forget your great and noble heart; consider that it is a vast sacrifice to devote your life to a man who is prepared every hour to give his life for another woman—to leave the one he loves, and to go to his death in defence of his queen. Prove your heart; and, if you find that the sacrifice is too great, turn your face away from me, and I will quickly go my way—will not complain, will think that it happens rightly, will love you my whole life long, and thank you for the pleasant hours which your love has granted to me."

He had dropped from the divan upon his knee, and looked up to her with supplicating and anxious eyes. But Margaret did not turn her face away from him. A heavenly smile played over her features, her eye beamed with love and emotion. And as her glance sank deep into the heart of her lover, he caught the look as if it had been a ray of sunlight. She laid her arms upon his shoulders, and pressing his head to her bosom, she bowed over him and kissed his black, curly hair.

"Ah! I love you, Louis," she whispered. "I am ready to devote my life to you, to share your dangers with you, and in all contests to stand by your side. Soldier of the queen, in me you shall always have a comrade. With you I will fight for her, with you die for her, if it must be. We will have a common love for her, we will serve her in common, and with fidelity and love thank her for the good which she has done to you and your father."

"Blessings upon you, Margaret!" cried Toulan, as breaking into tears he rested his head upon the knee of his affianced. "Blessings on you, angel of my love and happiness!" Then he sprang up, and, drawing the young girl within his arms, he impressed a glowing kiss upon her lips.

"That is my betrothal kiss, Margaret; now you are mine; in this hour our souls are united in never-ending love and faithfulness. Nothing can separate us after this, for we journey hand in hand upon the same road; we have the same great and hallowed goal! Now come, my love, let us take our place before the altar of God, and testify with an oath to the love which we cherish toward our queen!"

He offered her his arm, and, both smiling, both with beaming faces, left the room, and joined the wedding guests who had long been waiting for them with growing impatience. They entered the carriages and drove to the church. With joyful faces the bridal pair pledged their mutual fidelity before the altar, and their hands pressed one another, and their eyes met with a secret understanding of all that was meant at that wedding. They both knew that at that moment they were pledging their fidelity to the queen, and that, while seeming to give themselves away to each other, they were really giving themselves to their sovereign.

At the conclusion of the ceremony, they left the church of St. Louis to repair to the wedding dinner, which Councillor Bugeaud had ordered to be prepared in one of the most brilliant restaurants of Versailles.

"Will you not tell me now, my dear son," he said to Toulan—"will you not tell me now why you wish so strongly to celebrate the wedding in Versailles, and not in Paris, and why in the church of St. Louis?"

"I will tell you, father," answered Toulan, pressing the arm of his bride closer to his heart. "I wanted here, where the country erects its altar, where in a few days the nation will meet face to face these poor earthly majesties; here, where in a few days the States- General will convene, to defend the right of the people against the prerogative of the sovereign, here alone to give to my life its new consecration. Versailles will from this time be doubly dear to me. I shall owe to it my life's happiness as a man, my freedom as a citizen. They have done me the honor in Rouen to elect me to a place in the Third Estate, and as, in a few days, the Assembly of the Nation will meet here in Versailles, I wanted my whole future happiness to be connected with the place. And I wanted to be married in St. Louis's church, because I love the good King Louis. He is the true and sincere friend of the nation, and he would like to make his people happy, if the queen, the Austrian, would allow it."

"Yes, indeed," sighed the councillor, who, in spite of his relation to Madame de Campan, belonged to the opponents of the queen—" yes, indeed, if the Austrian woman allowed it. But she is not willing that France should be happy. Woe to the queen; all our misery comes from her!

CHAPTER IX.

THE OPENING OF THE STATES-GENERAL.

On the morning of the 5th of May, 1789, the solemn opening of the States-General of France was to occur at Versailles. This early date was appointed for the convocation of the estates, in order to be able to protract as much as possible the ceremonial proceedings. But at the same time this occasion was to be improved in preparing a sensible humiliation for the members of the Third Estate.

In the avenue of the Versailles palace a large and fine hall was fixed upon as the most appropriate place for receiving the twelve hundred representatives of France, and a numerous company of spectators besides; and, being chosen, was appropriately fitted up. Louis XVI. himself, who was very fond of sketching and drawing architectural plans, had busied himself in the most zealous way with the arrangements and decorations of the hall.

It had long been a matter of special interest to the king to fit up the room which was to receive the representatives of the nation, in a manner which would be worthy of so significant an occasion. He had himself selected the hangings and the curtains which were to protect the audience from the too glaring light of the day.

When the members of the Third Estate arrived, they saw with the greatest astonishment that they were not to enter the hall by the same entrance which was appropriated to the representatives of the nobility and the clergy, who were chosen at the same time with themselves. While for the last two the entrance was appointed through the main door of the hall, the commoners were allowed to enter by a rear door, opening into a dark and narrow corridor, where, crowded together, they were compelled to wait till the doors were opened.

Almost two hours elapsed before they were allowed to pass out of this dark place of confinement into the great hall, at a signal from the Marquis de Brize, the master of ceremonies.

A splendid scene now greeted their eyes. The Salle de Menus, which had been fitted up for the reception of the nobility, displayed within two rows of Ionic pillars, which gave to the hall an unwonted air of dignity and solemnity. The hall was lighted mainly from above, through a skylight, which was covered with a screen of white sarcenet. A gentle light diffused itself throughout the room, making one object as discernible as another. In the background the throne could be seen on a richly ornamented estrade and beneath a gilded canopy, an easy-chair for the queen, tabourets for the princesses, and chairs for the other members of the royal family. Below the estrade stood the bench devoted to the ministers and the secretaries of state. At the right of the throne, seats had been placed for the clergy, on the left for the nobility; while in front were the six hundred chairs devoted to the Third Estate.

The Marquis de Brize, with two assistant masters of ceremonies, now began to assign the commoners to their seats, in accordance with the situation of the districts which they represented.

As the Duke d'Orleans appeared in the midst of the other deputies of Crespy, there arose from the amphitheatre, where the spectators sat, a gentle sound of applause, which increased in volume, and was repeated by some of the commoners, when it was noticed that the duke made a clergyman, who had gone behind him in the delegation from this district, go in front of him, and did not desist till the round-bellied priest had really taken his place before him. In the mean time the bench of the ministers had begun to fill. They appeared as a body, clothed in rich uniforms, heavy with gold. Only one single man among them appeared in simple citizen's clothing, and bearing himself as naturally as if he were engaged in business of the state, or in ordinary parlor conversation, and by no means as if taking part in an extraordinary solemnity. As soon as he was seen, there arose on all sides, as much in the assembly as on the tribune, a movement as of joy which culminated in a general clapping of hands.

The man who received this salutation was the newly-appointed minister of finance, Necker, to whom the nation was looking for a reestablishment of its prosperity and of its credit.

Necker manifested only by a thoughtful smile, which mounted to his earnest, thought-furrowed face, that he was conscious to whom the garland of supreme popularity was extended at this moment.

Next, the deputation of Provence appeared, in the midst of which towered Count Mirabeau, with his proud, erect bearing, advancing to take the place appointed for him. His appearance was the sign for a few hands to commence clapping in a distant part of the hall, in honor of a man so much talked of in Prance, and of whom such strange things were said. But at this instant the king appeared, accompanied by the queen, followed by the princes and princesses of the royal family.

At the entrance of the king, the whole assembly broke into a loud, enthusiastic shout of applause and of joy. The Third Estate as well, at a signal from Count Mirabeau, had quickly risen, but continued to stand without bending the knee, as had been, at the last time when all the estate were assembled, the invariable rule. Only one of the representatives of the Third Estate, a young man with energetic, proud face, and dark, glowing eyes, bent his knee when he saw the queen entering behind the king. But the powerful hand of his neighbor was laid upon his shoulder and drew him quickly up.

"Mr. Deputy," whispered this neighbor to him, "it becomes the representatives of the nation to stand erect before the crown."

"It is true, Count Mirabeau," answered Toulan. "I did not bend my knee to the crown, but to the queen as, a beautiful woman."

Mirabeau made no reply, but turned his flaming eyes to the king.

Louis XVI. appeared that day arrayed in the great royal ermine, and wore upon his head a plumed hat, whose band glistened with great diamonds, while the largest in the royal possession, the so-called Titt, formed the centre, and threw its rays far and wide. The king appeared at the outset to be deeply moved at the reception which had been given him. A smile, indicating that his feelings were touched, played upon his face. But afterward, when all was still, and the king saw the grave, manly, marked faces of the commoners opposite him, his manner became confused, and for an instant he seemed to tremble.

The queen, however, looked around her with a calm and self-possessed survey. Her fine eyes swept slowly and searchingly over the rows of grave men who sat opposite the royal couple, and dwelt a moment on Toulan, as if she recalled in him the young man who, two years before, had brought the message of Cardinal Rohan's acquittal. A painful smile shot for an instant over her fine features. Yes, she had recognized him; the young man who, at Madame de Campan's room, had sworn a vow of eternal fidelity to her. And now he sat opposite her, on the benches of the commoners, among her enemies, who gazed at her with angry looks. That was his way of fulfilling the vow which he had made of his own free will!

But Marie Antoinette wondered at nothing now; she had witnessed the falling away of so many friends, she had been forsaken by so many who were closely associated with her, and who were indebted to her, that it caused her no surprise that the young man who hardly knew her, who had admired her in a fit of youthful rapture, had done like all the rest in joining the number of her enemies.

Marie Antoinette sadly let her eyes fall. She could look at nothing more; she had in this solemn moment received a new wound, seen a new deserter!

Toulan read her thoughts in her sad mien, on her throbbing forehead, but his own countenance remained cheerful and bright.

"She will live to see the day when she will confess that I am her friend, am true to her," he said to himself. "And on that day I shall be repaid for the dagger-thrusts which I have just received from her eyes. Courage, Toulan, courage! Hold up your head and be strong. The contest has begun; you must fight it through or die!"

But the queen did not raise her head again. She looked unspeakably sad in her simple, unadorned attire—in her modest, gentle bearing— and it was most touching to see the pale, fair features which sought in vain to disclose nothing of the painful emotions of her soul.

The king now arose from his throne and removed his plumed hat. At once Marie Antoinette rose from her armchair, in order to listen standing to the address of the king.

"Madame," said the king, bowing to her lightly, "madame, be seated,
I beg of you."

"Sire," answered Marie Antoinette, calmly, "allow me to stand, for it does not become a subject to sit while the king is standing."

A murmur ran through the rows of men, and loud, scornful laughter from one side. Marie Antoinette shrank back as if an adder had wounded her, and with a flash of wrath her eyes darted in the direction whence the laugh had come. It was from Philip d'Orleans. He did not take the trouble to smooth down his features; he looked with searching, defiant gaze over to the queen, proclaiming to her in this glance that he was her death-foe, that he was bent on revenge for the scorn which she had poured out on the spendthrift- revenge for the joke which she had once made at his expense before the whole court. It was at the time when the Duke d'Orleans, spendthrift and miser at the same time, had rented the lower rooms of his palace to be used as stores. On his next appearance at Versailles, Marie Antoinette said: "Since you have become a shopkeeper, we shall probably see you at Versailles only on Sundays and holidays, when your stores are closed!" Philip d'Orleans thought of this at this moment, as he stared at the queen with his laughing face, while his looks were threatening vengeance and requital.

The king now began the speech with which he proposed to open the assembly of his estates. The queen listened with deep emotion; a feeling of unspeakable sorrow filled her soul, and despite all her efforts her eyes filled with tears, which leisurely coursed down her cheeks. When, at the close of his address, the king said that he was the truest and most faithful friend of the people, and that France had his whole love, the queen looked up with a gentle, beseeching expression, and her eyes seemed as if they wanted to say to the deputies, "I, too, am a friend of the people! I, too, love France!"

The king ended his address; it was followed by a prolonged and lively clapping of hands, and sitting down upon the chair of the throne, he covered his head with the jewelled chapeau.

At the same moment all the noblemen who were in the hall put on their own hats. At once Count Mirabeau, the representative of the Third Estate, put on his hat; other deputies followed his example, but Toulan, whom Mirabeau had before hindered from kneeling—Toulan now wanted to prevent the proud democrats covering themselves in presence of the queen.

"Hats off!" he cried, with aloud voice, and here and there in the hall the same cry was repeated.

But from other sides there arose a different cry, "Hats on! Be covered!"

Scarcely had the ear of the king caught the discordant cry which rang up and down the hall, when he snatched his hat from his head, and at once the whole assembly followed his example.

Toulan had gained his point, the assembly remained uncovered in presence of the queen.

At last, after four long, painful hours, the ceremony was ended; the queen followed the example of the king, rising, greeting the deputies with a gentle inclination of her head, and leaving the hall at the side of the king.

Some of the deputies cried, "Long live the king!" but their words died away without finding any echo. Not a single voice was raised in honor of the queen! But outside, on the square, there were confused shouts; the crowd of people pressed hard up to the door, and called for the queen. They had seen the deputies as they entered the hall; they had seen the king as he had attended divine service at the church of St. Louis. Now the people were curious to see the queen!

A joyful look passed over the face of the queen as she heard those cries. For a long time she had not heard such acclaims. Since the unfortunate 1786, since the necklace trial, they had become more rare; at last, they had ceased altogether, and at times the queen, when she appeared in public, was hailed with loud hisses and angry murmurs.

"The queen! The queen!" sounded louder and louder in the great square. Marie Antoinette obeyed the cry, entered the great hall, had the doors opened which led to the balcony, went out and showed herself to the people, and greeted them with friendly smiles.

But, instead of the shouts of applause which she had expected, the crowd relapsed at once into a gloomy silence. Not a hand was raised to greet her, not a mouth was opened to cry "Long live the queen!"

Soon, however, there was heard a harsh woman's voice shouting, "Long live the Duke d'Orleans! Long life to the friend of the people!"

The queen, pale and trembling, reeled back from the balcony, and sank almost in a swoon into the arms of the Duchess de Polignac, who was behind her. Her eyes were closed, and a convulsive spasm shook her breast.

Through the opened doors of the balcony the shouts of the people could be heard all the time, "Long live the Duke d'Orleans!"

The queen, still in her swoon, was carried into her apartments and laid upon her bed; only Madame de Campan remained in front of it to watch the queen, who, it was supposed, had fallen asleep.

A deep silence prevailed in the room, and the stillness awoke Marie Antoinette from her half insensibility. She opened her eyes, and seeing Campan kneeling before her bed, she threw her arms around the faithful friend, and with gasping breath bowed her head upon her shoulder.

"Oh, Campan," she cried, with loud, choking voice, "ruin is upon me! I am undone! All my happiness is over, and soon my life will be over too! I have to-day tasted of the bitterness of death! We shall never be happy more, for destruction hangs over us, and our death-sentence is pronounced!"

CHAPTER X.

THE INHERITANCE OF THE DAUPHIN.

For four weeks the National Assembly met daily at Versailles; that is to say, for four weeks the political excitement grew greater day by day, the struggle of the parties more pronounced and fierce, only with this qualification, that the party which attacked the queen was stronger than that which defended her. Or rather, to express the exact truth, there was no party for Marie Antoinette; there were only here and there devoted friends, who dared to encounter the odium which their position called down upon them—dared face the calumnies which were set in circulation by the other parties: that of the people, the democrats; that of Orleans; that of the princes and princesses of the royal family. All these united their forces in order to attack the "Austrian," to obscure the last gleams of the love and respect which were paid to her in happier days.

When Mirabeau made the proposition in the National Assembly that the person of the king should be declared inviolable, there arose from all these four hundred representatives of the French nation only one man who dared to declare with a loud voice and with defiant face, "The persons of the king and queen shall be declared inviolable!"

This was Toulan, the "soldier of the queen." But the Assembly replied to this demand only with loud murmurs, and scornful laughter; not a voice was raised in support of this last cry in favor of the queen, and the Assembly decreed only this: "The person of the king is inviolable."

"That means," said the queen to the police minister Brienne, who brought the queen every morning tidings of what had occurred at Paris and Versailles, "that means that my death-warrant was signed yesterday."

"Your majesty goes too far!" cried the minister in horror, "I think that this has an entirely different meaning. The National Assembly has not pronounced the person of the queen inviolable, because they want to say that the queen has nothing to do with politics, and therefore it is unnecessary to pass judgment upon the inviolability of the queen."

"Ah!" sighed the queen, "I should have been happy if I had not been compelled to trouble myself with these dreadful politics. It certainly was not in my wish nor in my character. My enemies have compelled me to it; it is they who have turned the simple, artless queen into an intriguer."

"Ah! madam!" said the minister, astonished, "you use there too harsh a word; you speak as if they belonged to your enemies."

"No, I use the right word," cried Marie Antoinette, sadly. "My enemies have made an intriguer of me. Every woman who goes beyond her knowledge and the bounds of her duty in meddling with politics is nothing better than an intriguer. You see at least that I do not flatter myself, although it troubles me to have to give myself so bad a name. The Queens of France are happy only when they have nothing to trouble themselves about, and reserve only influence enough to give pleasure to their friends, and reward their faithful servants. Do you know what recently happened to me?" continued the queen, with a sad smile. "As I was going into the privy council chamber to have a consultation with the king, I heard, while passing OEil de Boeuf, one of the musicians saying so loud that I had to listen to every word, 'A queen who does her duty stays in her own room and busies herself with her sewing and knitting.' I said within myself, 'Poor fellow, you are right, but you don't know my unhappy condition; I yield only to necessity, and my bad luck urges me forward." [Footnote: The queen's own words.—See "Memoires de Madame de Campan," vol ii., p. 32.]

"Ah! madame," said the minister with a sigh, "would that they who accuse you of mingling in politics out of ambition and love of power—would that they could hear your majesty complain of yourself in these moving words!"

"My friend," said Marie Antoinette, with a sad smile, "if they heard it they would say that it was only something learned by heart, with which I was trying to disarm the righteous anger of my enemies. It is in vain to want to excuse or justify myself, for no one will hear a word. I must be guilty, I must be criminal, that they who accuse me may appear to have done right; that they may ascend while they pull me down. But let us not speak more of this! I know my future, I feel it clear and plain in my mind and in my soul that I am lost, but I will at least fight courageously and zealously till the last moment; and, if I must go down, it shall be at least with honor, true to myself and true to the views and opinions in which I have been trained. Now, go on; let me know the new libels and accusations which have been disseminated about me." The minister drew from his portfolio a whole package of pamphlets, and spread them upon a little table before the queen.

"So much at once!" said the queen, sadly, turning over the papers.
"How much trouble I make to my enemies, and how much they must hate
me that I have such tenacity of life! Here is a pamphlet entitled
'Good advice to Madame Deficit to leave France as soon as possible.'
'Madame Deficit!' that means me, doesn't it?"

"It is a name, your majesty, which the wickedness of the Duke d'Orleans has imposed upon your majesty, answered the minister, with a shrug of his shoulders.

The eyes of the queen flashed in anger. She opened her lips to utter a choleric word, but she governed herself, and went on turning over the pamphlets and caricatures. While doing that, while reading the words charged with poison of wickedness and hate, the tears coursed slowly over her cheeks, and once in a while a convulsive gasp forced itself from her breast.

Brienne pitied the deep sorrow of the queen. He begged her to discontinue this sad perusal. He wanted to gather up again the contumelious writings, but Marie Antoinette held his hand back.

"I must know every thing, every thing," said she. "Go on bringing me every thing, and do not be hindered by my tears. It is of course natural that I am sensitive to the evil words that are spoken about me, and to the bad opinion that is cherished toward me by a people that I love, and to win whose love I am prepared to make every sacrifice." [Footnote: The queen's own words.—See Malleville, "Histoire de Marie Antoinette," p. 197]

At this moment the door of the cabinet was dashed open without ceremony, and the Duchess de Polignac entered.

"Forgiveness! your majesty, forgiveness that I have ventured to disturb you, but—"

"What is it?" cried the queen, springing up. "You come to announce misfortune to me, duchess. It concerns the dauphin, does it not? His illness has increased?"

"Yes, your majesty, cramps have set in, and the physicians fear the worst."

"O God! O God!" cried the queen, raising both her hands to heaven, "is every misfortune to beat down upon me? I shall lose my son, my dear child! Here I sit weeping pitiful tears about the malice of my enemies, and all this while my child is wrestling in the pains of death! Farewell, sir, I must go to my child."

And the queen, forgetting every thing else, thinking only of her child—the sick, dying dauphin—hurried forward, dashing through the room with such quick step that the duchess could scarcely follow her.

"Is he dead?" cried Marie Antoinette to the servant standing in the antechamber of the dauphin. She did not await the reply, but burst forward, hastily opened the door of the sick-room, and entered.

There upon the bed, beneath the gold-fringed canopy, lay the pale, motionless boy, with open, staring eyes, with parched lips, and wandering mind—and it was her child, it was the Dauphin of France.

Around his bed stood the physicians, the quickly-summoned priests, and the servants, looking with sorrowful eyes at the poor, deathly- pale creature that was now no more than a withered flower, a son of dust that must return to dust; then they looked sadly at the pale, trembling wife who crouched before the bed, and who now was nothing more than a sorrow-stricken mother, who must bow before the hand of Fate, and feel that she had no more power over life and death than the meanest of her subjects.

She bent over the bed; she put her arms tenderly around the little shrunken form of the poor child that had long been sick, and that was now confronting death. She covered the pale face of her son with kisses, and watered it with her tears.

And these kisses, these tears of his mother, awakened the child out of his stupor, and called him back to life. The Dauphin Louis roused up once more, raised his great eyes, and, when he saw the countenance of his mother above him bathed in tears, he smiled and sought to raise his head and move his hand to greet her. But Death had already laid his iron bands upon him, and held him back upon the couch of his last sufferings.

"Are you in pain, my child?" whispered Marie Antoinette, kissing him affectionately. "Are you suffering?"

The boy looked at her tenderly. "I do not suffer," he whispered so softly that it sounded like the last breath of a departing spirit. "I only suffer if I see you weep, mamma." [Footnote: The very words of the dying dauphin.—See Weber, "Memoires," vol. L, p. 209.]

Marie Antoinette quickly dried her tears, and, kneeling near the bed, found power in her motherly love to summon a smile to her lips, in order that the dauphin, whose eyes remained fixed upon her, might not see that she was suffering.

A deep silence prevailed now in the apartment; nothing was heard but the gently-whispered prayers of the spectators, and the slow, labored breathing of the dying child.

Once the door was lightly opened, and a man's figure stole lightly in, advanced on tiptoe to the bed, and sank on his knees close by Marie Antoinette. It was the king, who had just been summoned from the council-room to see his son die.

And now with a loud voice the priest began the prayers for the dying, and all present softly repeated them. Only the queen could not; her eyes were fastened upon her son, who now saw her no more, for his eyes were fixed in the last death-struggle.

Still one last gasp, one last breath; then came a cry from Marie Antoinette's lips, and her head sank upon the hand of her son, which rested in her own, and which was now stiff. A few tears coursed slowly over the cheeks of the king, and his hands, folded in prayer, trembled.

The priest raised his arms, and with a loud, solemn voice cried:
"The Lord gave, the Lord hath taken away, blessed be the name of the
Lord. Amen."

"Amen, amen," whispered all present.

"Amen," said the king, closing with gentle pressure the open eyes of his son. "God has taken you to Himself, my son, perhaps because He wanted to preserve you from much trouble and sorrow. Blessed be His name!"

But the queen still bowed over the cold face of the child, and kissed his lips. "Farewell, my son," she whispered, "farewell! Ah!, why could I not die with you—with you fly from this pitiful, sorrow-stricken world?"

Then, as if the queen regretted the words which the mother had spoken with sighs, Marie Antoinette rose from her knees and turned to the priest, who was sprinkling the corpse of the dauphin with holy water.

"Father," said she, "the children of poor parents, who may be born to-day in Versailles, are each to receive from me the sum of a thousand francs. I wish that the death-bed of my son may be a day of joy for the poor who have not, like me, lost a child, but gained one, and that the lips of happy mothers may bless the day on which my boy died. Have the goodness to bring me to-morrow morning a list of the children born to-day."

"Come, Marie," said the king, "the body of our son belongs no more to the living, but to the grave of out ancestors in St. Denis; his soul to God. The dauphin is dead! Long live the dauphin! Madame de Polignac, conduct the dauphin to us in the cabinet of his mother."

And with the proud and dignified bearing which was peculiar to the king in great and momentous epochs, he extended his arm to the queen and conducted her out of the death-chamber, and through the adjacent apartments, to her cabinet.

"Ah!" cried the queen, "here we are alone; here I can weep for my poor lost child."

And she threw her arms around the neck of her husband, and, leaning her head upon his breast, wept aloud.

The king pressed her closely to his heart, and the tears which flowed from his own eyes fell in hot drops upon the head of the queen.

Neither saw the door beyond lightly open, and the Duchess de Polignac appear there. But when she saw the royal pair in close embrace, when she heard their loud weeping, she drew back, stooped down to the little boy who stood by her side, whispered a few words to him, and, while gently pushing him forward, drew back herself, and gently closed the door behind them. The little fellow stood a moment irresolutely at the door, fixing his eyes now upon his father and mother, now upon the nosegay of violets and roses which he carried in his hand. The little Louis Charles was of that sweet and touching beauty that brings tears into one's eyes, and fills the heart with sadness, because the thought cannot be suppressed, that life, with its rough, wintry storms, will have no pity on this tender blossom of innocence, and that the beaming, angel-face of the child must one day be changed into the clouded, weather-beaten, furrowed face of the man. A cheering sight to look upon was the little, delicate figure of the four-year-old boy, pleasing in his whole appearance. Morocco boots, with red tips, covered his little feet; broad trousers, of dark-blue velvet, came to his knees, and were held together at the waist by a blue silk sash, whose lace- tipped ends fell at his left side. He wore a blue velvet jacket, with a tastefully embroidered lace ruffle around the neck. The round, rosy face, with the ruby lips, the dimple in the chin, the large blue eyes, shaded by long, dark lashes, and crowned by the broad, lofty brow, was rimmed around with a profusion of golden hair, which fell in long, heavy locks upon his shoulders and over his neck. The child was as beautiful to look upon as one of the angels in Raphael's "Sistine Madonna," and he might have been taken for one, had it not been for the silver-embroidered, brilliant star upon his left side. This star, which designated his princely rank, was for the pretty child the seal of his mortality—the seal which ruin had already impressed upon his innocent child's breast.

One moment the boy stood indecisively there, looking at his weeping parents; then he turned quickly forward, and, holding up his nosegay, he said: "Mamma, I have brought you some flowers from my garden."

Marie Antoinette raised her head, and smiled through her tears as she looked at her son. The king loosened his embrace from the queen, in order to lift up the prince.

"Marie," said he, holding him up to his wife, "Marie, this is our son—this is the Dauphin of France."

Marie Antoinette took his head between her hands, and looked long, with tears in her eyes, and yet smiling all the while, into the lovely, rosy face of her boy. Then she stooped down, and impressed a long, tender kiss upon his smooth forehead.

"God love you, my child!" said she, solemnly. "God bless you, Dauphin of France! May the storms which now darken our horizon, have long been past when you shall ascend the throne of your fathers! God bless and defend you, Dauphin of France!"

"But, mamma," asked the boy, timidly, "why do you call me dauphin to-day? I am your little Louis, and I am called Duke de Normandy."

"My son," said the king, solemnly, "God has been pleased to give you another name and another calling. Your poor brother, Louis, has left us forever. He has gone to God, and you are now Dauphin of France!"

"And God grant that it be for your good," said the queen, with a sigh.

The little prince slowly shook his locks. "It certainly is not for my good," said he, "else mamma would not weep."

"She is weeping, my child," said the queen—" she is weeping, because your brother, who was the dauphin, has left us."

"And will he never come back?" asked the child, eagerly.

"No, Louis, he never will come back."

The boy threw both his arms around the neck of the queen. "Ah!" he cried, "how can any one ever leave his dear mamma and never come back? I will never leave you, mamma!"

"I pray God you speak the truth," sighed the queen, pressing him tenderly to herself. "I pray God I may die before you both!"

"Not before me—oh, not before me!" ejaculated the king, shuddering.
"Without you, my dear one, my life were a desert; without you, the
King of France were the poorest man in the whole land!"

He smiled sadly at her. "And with me he will perhaps be the most unfortunate one," she whispered softly, as if to herself.

"Never unfortunate, if you are with me, and if you love me," cried the king, warmly. "Weep no more; we must overcome our grief, and comfort ourselves with what remains. I say to you once more: the dauphin is dead, long live the dauphin!"

"Papa king," said the boy, quickly, "you say the dauphin is dead, and has left us. Has he taken every thing away with him that belongs to him?"

"No, my son, he has left every thing. You are now the dauphin, and some time will be King of France, for you are the heir of your brother."