“The people loved their queen once, and will love her again when the terrible clamor of the clubs has worn itself out,” she said, speaking from her simple wisdom, for she could not comprehend any of the great causes of discontent which lay seething in the riotous city of Paris—causes that were rooted so deep in the past, that it has taken almost a century to discover and trace them back through the awful convulsion they led to. “The people have their caprices,” she added, “and change easily. Wait a little, and all this popularity will come back.” “God grant it!” said Marie Antoinette, clasping her hands, and looking upward where the blue sky, bright with silvery sunshine, bent over her like a promise. “I did not know how sweet it was to be beloved until this terrible change came.” The queen was growing anxious, the bright spirits with which she had left the palace were saddened by the turn her conversation had taken. She walked on awhile thoughtfully, and with all the beauty of her face clouded, as it was so often of late; but after awhile she seemed to throw off this depression, and looked up with a smile. “You are a kind prophet, my Campan, and I will believe you. Why should a people I have never wronged hold me in perpetual dislike? I will not believe it! I will not believe it!” Madame Campan smiled till all her round face was aglow. She was delighted that any words of hers should have brought courage to her beautiful mistress. The queen had more genial sympathy with Campan than any other person in her household. During all her residence in France, this cordial, kind-hearted woman had been so closely knitted with her domestic life, that a spirit of sisterhood had sprung up in the queen’s bosom toward her. The little woman herself fairly worshiped her mistress, while she never forgot the vast distance that lay between them. “Let us turn down this shady path,” said the queen, who, for the moment, had outwalked all the ladies that had followed her, except Campan; “no matter if we do lose them. It is so pleasant to be alone; but we must talk of more cheerful things, my Campan. I, too, will believe that this black cloud will be swept away from France, and that our bright days will come back again. It shall be my policy, as it surely is my pleasure, to conciliate the people. That was not an unwise thing which his majesty did yesterday—I mean the pardon of that poor girl’s father.” “It was an act of justice—a brave act, because just now dangerous, perhaps.” “Dangerous, my Campan! How?” “Because the awful wrong done this man by one king, has been continued so far into the reign of another, that the people will never distinguish which has been most in fault.” “I did not think of this,” said the queen, thoughtfully, “but the pardon was right in itself; and if it had not been that lovely girl did, in fact, save me from being torn to pieces, I could not have refused her, though the life she gave me had been at stake.”