"But indeed, pretty queen, you should remember that you are not a rose-bud, but a full-blown rose, and it is time that you were putting forth rose-buds yourself."

"So it is, so it is," shouted the multitude. "The queen owes us a rose-bud, and we must have it." "See here, pretty queen," cried another fish-wife, "it is your fault if we stand here on the staircases and out in the hot sun to-day. If you had done your duty to France instead of leaving it to the princess in yonder, the lackeys would have been obliged to open the doors to us as well as to the great folks, and we would have jostled the dukes and princes, and taken our ease on your velvet sofas. The next time we come here, we must have a tramp into the queen's room, and she must let us see herself and a brave dauphin, too."

"Yes, yes," cried the fish-wives in chorus, "when we come back we must see the young dauphin."

The queen tried to look as though she heard none of this. Not once had she raised her eyes or turned her head. Now she was coming to the end of her painful walk through the corridors, for Heaven be praised! just before her was the door of her own anteroom. Once across that threshold she was safe from the coarse ribaldry that was making her heart throb and her cheeks tingle; for there the rights of the people ended, and those of the sovereign began.

But the "dames de la halle" were perfectly aware of this, and they were determined that she should not escape so easily.

"Promise us," cried a loud, shrill voice, "promise us that we shall have a young dauphin as handsome as his mother and as good as his father."

"Yes, promise, promise," clamored the odious throng; and men and women pressed close upon the queen to see her face and hear her answer.

Marie Antoinette had almost reached her door. She gave a sigh of relief, and for the first time raised her eyes with a sad, reproachful look toward her tormentors.

Just then a strapping, wide-shouldered huckster, pushed her heavy body between the queen and the door, and barring the entrance with her great brown arms, cried out vociferously: "You to not pass until you promise!

We love you and love the king we will none of the Count de Provence for our king; we must have a dauphin."

The queen still pretended not to hear. She tried to evade the poissarde and to slip into her room; but the woman perceived the motion, and confronted her again.

"Be so kind, madame," said Marie Antoinette, mildly, "as to allow me to pass."

"Give us the promise, then," said the fish-wife, putting her arms a-kimbo.

The other women echoed the words, "Give us the promise, give us the promise!"

Poor Marie Antoinette! She felt her courage leaving her--she must be rid of this fearful band of viragos at any price. She would faint if she stood there much longer.

Again the loud cry. "Promise us a dauphin, a dauphin, a dauphin!"

"I promise," at last replied the queen. "Now, madame, in mercy, let me have entrance to my own rooms."

The woman stepped back, the queen passed away, and behind her the people shouted out in every conceivable tone of voice, "She has promised. The queen has promised a dauphin!"

Marie Antoinette walked hurriedly forward through the first anteroom where her footman waited, to the second wherein her ladies of honor were assembled.

Without a word to any of them she darted across the room and opening the door of her cabinet, threw herself into an arm-chair and sobbed aloud.

No one was there excepting Madame de Campan.

"Campan," said she, while tears were streaming down her cheeks, "shut the door, close the portiere. Let no one witness the sorrow of the Queen of France."

With a passionate gesture, she buried her face in her hands and wept aloud.

After a while she raised her tearful eyes and they rested upon Madame de Campan, who was kneeling before her with an expression of sincerest sympathy.

"Oh, Campan, what humiliation I have endured today! The poorest woman on the street is more fortunate than I; and if she bears a child upon her arm, she can look down with compassion upon the lonely Queen of France,--that queen upon whose marriage the blessing of God does not rest; for she has neither husband nor child."

"Say not so, your majesty, for God has smitten your enemies, and with His own tender hand He is kindling the fire of love in the heart of the king your husband."

Marie Antoinette shook her head sadly. "No--the king does not love me.

His heart does not respond to mine. He loves me, perhaps, as a sister, but no more--no more!"

"He loves your majesty with the passion and enthusiasm of a lover, but he is very timid, and waits for some token of reciprocity before he dares to avow his love."

"No, he does not love me," repeated Marie Antoinette with a sigh. "I have tried every means to win his heart. He is indulgent toward my failings, and kindly anticipates my wishes; sometimes he seems to enjoy my society, but it is with the calm, collateral affection of a brother for his sister. And I!--oh, my God! my whole heart is his, and craves for that ardent, joy-bestowing love of which poets sing, and which noble women prize above every earthly blessing. Such love as my father gave to my happy mother, I would that the king felt for me."

"The king does not know the extent of his love for your majesty," said De Campan soothingly. "Some fortunate accident or dream of jealousy will reveal it to him before long."

"God speed the accident or the dream!" sighed the queen; and forthwith her tears began to flow anew, while her hands lay idly upon her lap.

Those burning tears at last awakened her from the apathy of grief.

Suddenly she gave a start and threw back her head. Then she rose from her seat, and, like Maria Theresa, began to pace the apartment.

Gradually her face resumed its usual expression, and her demeanor became, as it was wont to be, dignified and graceful. Coming directly up to Madame de Campan, she smiled and gave her hand. "Good Campan," said she, "you have seen me in a moment of weakness, of which I am truly ashamed. Try to forget it dear friend, and I promise that it shall never be repeated. And now, call my tire-women and order my carriage. Leonard is coming with a new coiffure, and Bertin has left me several beautiful hats. Let us choose the very prettiest of them all, for I must go and show myself to the people. Order an open carriage, that every one may see my face, and no one may say that the queen envies the maternal joys of the Countess d'Artois. Tonight we are to have the opera of 'Iphigenia'--it is one of my magnificent teacher's chefs-d'oeuvre. The emperor and I are to go together to listen to our divine Gluck's music, and Paris must believe that Marie Antoinette is happy--too happy to envy any woman! Come, Campan, and dress me becomingly."

CHAPTER CXI.

THE ADOPTED SON OF THE QUEEN.

An hour later, the queen entered her carriage in all the splendor of full dress. Leonard had altered her coiffure. Instead of the three-story tower, her hair was low, and she wore a most becoming hat, chiefly made up of flowers and feathers. She also wore rouge, for she was very pale; and to conceal the traces of weeping she had drawn a faint dark line below her lower lashes which greatly increased the brilliancy of her eyes.

She ordered her coachman to drive through the town. Wherever the royal outriders announced her coming, the people gathered on: either side of the streets to wave their hats and handkerchiefs, and greet her with every demonstration of enthusiasm and love.

Marie Antoinette greatly enjoyed her popularity, she bowed her head, and smiled, and waved her hand in return, calling upon the ladies who accompanied her to sympathize with her happiness.

"Indeed," said she to the Princess de Lamballe, [Footnote: The Princess de Lamballe was subsequently beheaded, and her head was carried through the streets of Paris on a pike.--Trans.] "the people love me, I do believe. They seem glad to see me, and I, too, like to see them."

"Your majesty sees that in Versailles, as in Paris, you have thousands of lovers," replied the princess.

"Ah," said the queen, "my lovers are there to be seen; but my enemies, who lie concealed, are more active than my friends. And how do I know that they are not now among the crowd that welcomes me! How dreadful it is to wear a mask through life! They, perhaps, who shout 'Long live the queen,' are plotting against her peace, and I, who smile in return, dare not trust them!"

The royal equipage had now reached the gates, and was passing into the country. Marie Antoinette felt a sense of relief at the change. She gazed with rapture upon the rich foliage of the trees, and then looking pensively above for a few moments, she watched the floating clouds of blue and silver, and then followed the flight of the birds that were soaring in such freedom through the air.

"How I wish that I could fly!" said she, sighing. "We mortals are less privileged than the little birds--we must creep along the earth with the reptiles that we loath! Faster, tell the coachman to drive faster!"

cried she, eagerly, "I would like to move rapidly just now. Faster, still faster!"

The command went forward, and the outriders dashed ahead at full speed.

The carriage whirled past the cottages on the wayside, while the queen, leaning back upon her satin cushions, gave herself up to the dreamy enjoyment which steals over the senses during a rapid drive.

Suddenly there was an exclamation, and the horses were reined in. The queen started from her reverie, and leaned forward.

"What has happened?" cried she of the equerry, who at that moment sprang to the side of the caleche.

"Your majesty, a child has just run across the road, and has been snatched from under the horses' feet."