The fortunes of the ill-fated Louis Seize and his beautiful consort are followed to the final tragedy of 1793 with its momentous consequences. We have seen how the good citizens of Dieppe celebrated the joyful occasion of the birth of the dauphin by the gift to the queen-mother of a precious fan of carved ivory. On the more humble printed fan, Immortality, amid a great concourse of people, with fireworks and illuminations in the background, presents the royal infant on a cushion, to kneeling, admiring, and devoted France, who offers a basket of hearts. The inscription, ‘Le Dauphin présenté par l’immortalité, la France saisie d’admiration offre pour hommage à son Prince chéri les cœurs unis et respectueux de ses fidèles sujets.’ Again the fan sings the birth of the dauphin; in this the royal infant, in leading-strings, advances to meet the king, his father, who is standing near. Above, a genius floats in the air, with a wreath and two shields of arms bearing fleurs-de-lys and two dolphins. On either side are verses entitled ‘Chanson sur la Naissance du Dauphin. Air, de la Pantoufle.’ [Illustration: Title Page of Nicolas Loire’s ‘Desseins des grands Eventails.’ Schreiber Coll^n. British Museum.] [Illustration: La Coquette. Bibliothèque Nationale.] ‘Vénus, en ce jour, Comble nos cœurs d’allégresse Vénus en ce jour Donne naissance à l’amour, François chérissons, Et donnons notre tendresse François chérissons Cet auguste rejetton,’ etc. The song of ‘Malbrouk’ came once again into fashion in 1782. It was sung by the nurse to the infant dauphin, and hence became one of the favourite tunes of Marie-Antoinette. Beaumarchais introduced it into _Le Mariage de Figaro_ in 1784, the piece having been privately performed before the king at Versailles, the queen taking the part of Suzanne. ‘Malbrouk,’ say the authors of the _Mémoires Secrets de Bachaumont_, ‘has become the hero of every fashion—to-day everything is “à la Malbrouk”—ribbons, head-dresses, waistcoats, above all, _hats_ “à la Malbrouk,” and one sees all the ladies, either walking in the streets, on the promenade, or at the play, “rigged out” in this grotesque couvre-chef.’ Most things mundane, however, come to an end sooner or later—even the star of Malbrouk, in its turn, is eclipsed: ‘Malbrouck n’a plus d’empire, Les beaux jours sont passés, Ce guerrier a fait rire Les gens les plus sensés, Mais changeant de méthode Au gré de nos sçavans, Chacun se prend de mode Pour les globes mouvants!’