“Come, I will attend you now,” he said, with the voice and look of a martyr. “Ah, me! if there were no Paris, and no statesmen to annoy me, I might, perhaps, finish one lock in peace.” “Sit down here,” said the queen, finding a chair for herself, and motioning that he should take a seat beside her. “This is the most private place we can find in a palace haunted with spies.” Louis declined the seat, and leaned against his work-bench in a weary attitude. “Nay, read it to me; I can understand it best so.” The queen began to read in a low, trembling voice, for the subject was hateful to her. Once she broke down altogether, and flung the letter from her in bitter passion. “I cannot read it,” she said. “My lips refuse to frame the hideous thing these people demand of us.” Louis took up the paper, folded it neatly, and laid it on his work-bench. “Tell me, for I see you have read the letter. Evil tidings can be told in a few words,” he said, tenderly. “Is this some new outrage from the Assembly or the people direct?” “From both. Louis, they band together in offering us nothing but insult. This letter is from Mirabeau.” “Then he, too, forsakes us.” “No. He professes to be firm in our cause, and I think he is; but his advice is terrible.” “In a word, tell me what it is?” “It is settled that a grand festival will be held in Paris, celebrating the taking of the Bastille.” “Ha!” “Deputies are to come from every district in the kingdom. This hideous blow, which made the throne totter under us, is to be made the subject of a grand jubilation.” A red flush shot over the usually calm features of the king; a little of that indomitable pride which gave the title of Grand to his great-grandfather kindled in his bosom. “These people dare to thus openly insult their king, after all he has yielded to them!” he exclaimed. The queen looked up; her eyes kindled. This sudden outburst of energy gave her hope. “That is not all; they will demand more.” “More? Is there no end to their insolent exactions?” “There never will be an end, so long as you yield, sire.” “You are right; I have already yielded too much.” Marie Antoinette shook her head, and sighed heavily. “In yielding that which is just, sire, you have opened the way to fearful exactions.” The king looked down; his troubled eyes sought the floor. “Tell me,” he said at length, “what do my people clamor for now—more than you have spoken? I see there is something beyond that.” The queen arose, pale and trembling with indignation. “There is to be a carousal—a great national orgie—in Paris, at which all the traditions that have made France the foremost government in Europe, are to be trampled under the heels of the _canaille_, and you, sire, you are selected as high-priest of the occasion. You will be invited to preside at a celebration which is to bury all the traditions of a long line of kings under its ashes. This is the news which Count Mirabeau sends.”