“Your highness, I came from Paris three days ago. One day I was on the route to Versailles; another I took for rest; and this morning I came here with Dame Tillery.” A faint smile crept over the queen’s face. “Dame Tillery is your companion, then—a kinder could not be found; but you have something more than she knows of to say, I trust?” “Oh, yes! I have a letter!” “A letter! From whom?” “Your highness, it is from Count Mirabeau.” “From Mirabeau! Hush! Speak lower. Even here spies creep in. Surely, the stout old dame whom you speak of knows nothing of this?” “Your highness, the letter was intrusted to me. I told no one.” “That was wise—that is truly loyal. Turn down this path and follow me.” Marie Antoinette turned into the path which led to the summer temple, where she had met Mirabeau, and hurrying up the eminence, entered the building. Marguerite followed her into the little retreat, and, looking around to make sure that no one was watching them the queen closed the door and locked it. “Now,” she said, in nervous haste, “give me Count Mirabeau’s letter.” Marguerite took the letter from her bosom, and dropping upon her knees, held it up. It was a heavy package, containing two or three sheets of closely-written paper. The queen attempted to control herself, but constant anxiety had shaken her nerves, and she sat down on a low couch, which circled half the temple like a Turkish divan. She broke the seal in trembling haste, for she had heard nothing of her new ally for weeks, and, giving way to her old prejudices, had begun to distrust him. Marguerite leaned against the opposite wall, and watched the queen as she bent over the closely-written sheets. Once or twice she saw that face in all the rare beauty, which humiliation and constant dread had failed to kill. Bright smiles kindled it into youth again, and for a moment, it was exultant; but most of the time anxious frowns swept the white forehead, and the red lips worked in an agony of proud impatience. She read the letter twice. Once, hurriedly snatching the pith from each sentence, and again with grave thoughtfulness. At last she folded the paper, and grasped it between her fingers with nervous violence. It was hard to guess whether it had given her most pain or pleasure. She seemed to have forgotten that Marguerite was looking at her, but murmured whole sentences together, as if arranging them in her memory. “A grand federation in Paris. So they wish us—us to join the people in a carousal over the downfall of the great stronghold of the monarchy. He advises it. This man, who claims to be ours at heart, advises me to urge this new humiliation on the king. Is this friendship, or subtile treason?”