She unfolded the letter again, and read a portion of it with evident repulsion. “This assembly will draw many people from the provinces, whose loyalty will be enkindled to enthusiasm by a sight of the king and his family joining in a celebration, which may yet be made to win him a triumph over his enemies. Do not be surprised when you hear that Mirabeau has gone into this idea with all his heart. There may be danger in it; but leave that to him, and out of these threatening elements shall be moulded a new foundation to the throne of France. Take the advice of one who knows the people; show yourself and your children at the——” Here the excited woman broke off, and crushed the paper in her hand with passionate vehemence. “Never! Never!” she cried. “How dare this man advise me so? Are we to grovel on our knees in order to keep the shadow of power they have left to us. Great heaven! has it come to this?” The haughty woman flung herself forward on the divan, and writhed in her tortured pride, feeling in her soul that she would be compelled to accept the advice her whole nature revolted at. Then she began to sob, and, covering her face with both hands, wept and moaned in piteous distress. Marguerite stood watching her, filled with gentle compassion. She saw that the poor queen wept like any other woman, and wondered at it. Then her timidity gave way to the flood of pity that swelled her heart, and, drawing close to the divan, she fell upon her knees, and touched her trembling lips to the white hand, which still grasped the paper, as if it were strangling a serpent. “Oh, lady! sweet, sweet lady, do not cry so! It breaks my heart.” Marie Antoinette had been too cruelly wounded in her troubles not to feel the genuine sympathy conveyed in these words. She lifted her face, all flushed and bathed with tears, and let it fall on the girl’s shoulder. It was sweet to know that some one, pure and good as an angel, could feel for her. So, in her womanhood, she forgot all sovereignty, and clung to the girl, still weeping. “Who are you?” she said, at length, looking wistfully at the fair, young face. “Oh, I remember.” “Only a poor girl, who loves you, and would die for you. Oh, madame! if a drop of my best blood could fall for each of those tears, you should never weep again.” Marie Antoinette smiled through her tears. “They try to persuade us that we have no friends among the people,” she said. “Yet aid and comfort comes to me through a young creature like this. But how came Count Mirabeau to trust you?” “He knew that I was to be trusted.” “Do you know this man well?” “No, madame. I scarcely know him at all; but he trusts me. It was Count Mirabeau who chose me from among so many to speak for the women before the king that day at Versailles.” “Ah! now I comprehend the whole. Poor girl, poor girl! Your father in prison—alas! alas! how much we have permitted you to suffer. How much you have forgiven!”