BOOK II._Marie Antoinette and Her Son

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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

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.