“And this Dr. Gosner was not a native of France, you say?” “No, sire, he was born subject to the great Empress Maria Therese, and at one time had frequent access to her highness. His name, I think, must have reached the queen, for she seemed to remember it.” “And you have no knowledge of the charges made against him?” “Sire, we did not know that he was in prison for many years after he left us.” The king looked grave and distressed. The very name of the Bastille had become a subject of solicitude to him. This prison had been, century after century, so completely a portion of his kingly prerogatives, that he could not hear of a cruelty practiced there without disturbance. “What,” he argued to himself, “will the people say when I let this wronged man out among them. His very presence will create a tempest of vituperation.” Marguerite saw the cloud gathering slowly on his face, and her heart fell. “Oh, sire! have compassion on him. Think what it is to live, year after year, without a glimpse of the blessed sunshine, without knowing of anything once beloved, without occupation, buried, but not dead.” The poor girl spoke with some vehemence. She was losing all hope; this hesitation in the king terrified her. “There is little need to remind us of all this,” answered the king; “but it is sometimes very difficult to redress wrongs for which others are alone responsible. This is an act of which we knew nothing; but when it once becomes public, great blame may be cast upon the throne for an injustice for which no living man is answerable.” “Nay, sire, the people are not so unreasonable.” Louis shook his head, and smiled gloomily. “They will rather rejoice, sire, that present mercy is strong enough to undo the cruelty of the past.” Louis hesitated. He was never a man of prompt speech, and the difficulties which this question of mercy brought to his mind were strong and numerous. Marie Antoinette, having recovered from the impulse of merriment that had seized upon her, turned her attention once more toward the king. She saw that the young girl had become fearfully anxious, and that a look of sullen thought was creeping over her husband’s face. She arose from her chair, and walking across the room, drew near the window to which Louis had retreated. “Sire,” she said, laying her hand on the king’s arm, “is it that you hesitate? Can the price be too heavy which you pay this brave girl for Marie Antoinette’s life—for she saved it? But for her intrepid act, that stout man, yonder, would never have sprung upon that beast as he did.” “Can we refuse her? No—a thousand times, no!” answered the king. “But how to accomplish it. When we release this poor gentleman, it will be to assail ourselves. The people clamor over every new revelation of wrong done by our grandfather as if we were directly in fault.” “But his release is right in itself, sire.”