A more beautiful woman than Marie Antoinette was not to be found in all Paris. Above the medium height, splendidly proportioned, and graceful in all her movements, she possessed a presence that was more than queenly. In her first youth she had been gentle, caressing, and so “pure womanly.” Then her simplicity had been a cause of complaint with the royal family. But time, and the cares of her regal station, had deepened these qualities into the elegant repose of assured power; added to that, anxious lines had begun to reveal themselves faintly on her beautiful forehead, and around a mouth that had at one time known nothing but smiles. On the day we present her again to the reader she was at her toilet, surrounded by the ladies of her household, beautiful, stately, and given up to the strict etiquette of the court, as if they had never seen a Swiss cottage, or dreamed that butter could be made with human hands. “This young person has seen us at our play, where she, in reality, had no right to know the persons she met. She must be made to feel that the dairy-maid, whose life she saved, is a creature to be forgotten, or we shall have those vile prints in Paris touching up the scene with malice for their Paris readers.” “Ah! it was, perhaps, imprudent to admit her,” said the Duchess de Polignac. “Just now your highness cannot be too careful. This demoiselle, modest as she seems, may be nothing but a spy of the people.” “She is not that,” answered the queen, with generous warmth. “No one can look upon her face and believe ill of her. She is a brave, noble young creature, to whom we owe a debt of gratitude that shall be right generously paid.” “As all your majesty’s debts are,” murmured the grateful little Madame Campan, who loved the queen with all her heart. The queen turned a bright look on the fair, plump face turned upon her, and replied with a beaming smile, “Your flattery always comes from the heart, my Campan, and we find it pleasant.” All this time the queen was standing among her ladies half-dressed; garment after garment had been handed to her by the lady in waiting of highest rank; and now she stood with her neck and shoulders exposed, her white arms folded over her bosom, ready for the robe which was to complete her toilet, and a little impatient of the etiquette which prolonged her hour of dressing. Directly the robe of crimson velvet was looped back from her white brocade underskirt, and with exquisite yellow lace falling from her elbows and around her bosom, she walked out of her dressing-room a queen in every look and movement.