The queen spoke with angry vehemence; she had of late been subject to these sudden outbursts of feeling. The hard throes of life accumulated on her so heavily, that her sweet temper was sometimes submerged in a sea of troubles. The king took her in his arms and kissed her tenderly. “Be calm, my angel, be calm! It grieves me that reminiscences of this woman can disturb you so. Remember, my own, it was by your advice that we left her in undisturbed possession of the estates she had gathered together.” “The estates? Why—yes! Let her keep them. They could not again become appendages to the crown without disgracing it. Besides, at the last, she was humble enough; and you know, my good friend, the daughter of Maria Theresa never does battle with a fallen foe?” “Well, let this woman pass,” said Louis. “Pleasanter things await us in the next room. At least, we can give happiness to this young girl.” “And I had forgotten her; let us go! Every moment is a year to her; let us go!” There had been nothing but whispers in the reception-room since the royal personages left it. Marguerite stood where the king had left her, near the window, growing paler and more hopeless every moment. The darkened countenance of the monarch had struck her to the heart. After that one night of hope the reaction was terrible. Louis and the queen entered the room together, but so quietly that the poor girl was ignorant of their presence until they stood close by her. Then she looked up with sudden affright. A mist came before her eyes, and through it she saw a paper in the king’s hand. “Take it,” said the queen. “It is an order for your father’s release. Take it, and remember that now and always the Queen of France is your friend——” She broke off suddenly, and uttered a sudden cry. Marguerite, in reaching out her hand for the paper, had dropped like a dead creature at her feet. CHAPTER XXXI. THE JOY OF A GREAT SURPRISE. Monsieur Jacques, who had stood near the door, watchful, but inactive, came forward, and, kneeling on one knee, lifted the fainting girl in his arms. She was deathly white, and the stillness of the grave seemed to have fallen upon her. “Joy has killed her,” said the queen, pressing her hand upon the pale forehead. “We were so abrupt. The poor child had lost all hope, and we brought it back too suddenly.” “Is that the pardon?” exclaimed Monsieur Jacques, forgetting the rank of those he questioned. “It is the order for her father’s release from the Bastille,” answered the queen. “Where no crime has been committed it is impossible to grant a pardon.” “Ah! she will live to hear that!” cried Monsieur Jacques, gazing steadily down into the pale face. “Look up, look up, and bless with a glance of your beautiful eyes the—the—”