“More than one morning came, and I had not tasted food. I should not have cared for that had my pretty friend been with me; but I had called him so often, searched for him so long, that hope gave out. It was worse than a prison now, he had left me and the light came into my cell. This was indeed solitude. Then I thought of you, Therese, and wondered if you would not come to me.” “And I am here. It was I that thought of the ruins, I, who have found you sitting here alone and half-famished,” exclaimed Marguerite. “But I have brought you plenty of food. There will be enough for the marmousette as well; poor little fellow! He came back at last to comfort you.” “Yes. I awoke in the night and found him nestled in my bosom. Let him have a crumb first, I can wait.” The girl opened her basket, and drew forth some bread and a flask of pure water. The old man crumbled some of the bread into his hand and tempted the pet-mouse with it; but the poor little thing had been too severely hurt, and, instead of eating, closed its eyes, and lay down in the palm out of which the prisoner had made a nest for him. “To-morrow,” said the girl, answering the startled look of the old man, “to-morrow I will bring white bread, then it will eat. But you are hungry, take some of the bread.” “I cannot, I cannot,” cried the old man. “When he eats I will.” The mouse seemed to understand these words; its tiny limbs moved, its little head was uplifted, and when Marguerite held the crumbs toward him, he crept forward and began to nibble them. Then, with tears of thankfulness rolling down his cheeks, the old man fell to eating also. CHAPTER LXIX. QUEENLY STRUGGLES. Months passed, and each day widened the gulf that yawned between the people of France and their king. Marie Antoinette began to lose courage. More than once Monsieur Jacques had been summoned to the royal work-shop, but he always passed from that to the queen’s cabinet. One day, after the Court had removed from its forced residence at the Tuileries to St. Cloud, a horseman came riding along the highway which led from Paris. A lady stationed at one of the palace windows leaned out and looked keenly after the man, as if trying to recognize him with certainty. He rode slowly, his head was turned toward the chateau, and she saw his face. There was no mistaking those features after seeing them once. The great leonine head, with its shock of heavy hair; the seamed cheeks, and massive chin, could only belong to one man, Count Mirabeau. The lady drew away from the window, and directly entered the presence of Marie Antoinette, whose friend and confidential attendant she had been for some dangerous years.