Monsieur Jacques bent his large, earnest eyes upon the king as he spoke, and, spite of himself, the monarch bent his head in grave assent. “Madame, this is what I said to the king: ‘The people of France and the nobility of France are at variance; light has broken in upon the ignorance of the masses. They begin to look up to heaven and ask if they are not men? If they are to be downtrodden forever and ever by the dominant nobility? They look at your nobles, and measuring them by the standard of real manhood, find that their strength lies in traditions, that their privileges are hedged in by benefits wrested from the labor and strength of the people they despise. Strip them of their jewels and their laces, and sometimes they are found less than men.’” “Be still!” cried the queen, rising from her chair, scarlet with indignation. “It is men like you who teach these heresies to the people. I wonder if, in truth, you have dared to be so bold, that the king did not place you under arrest. But for the service which I cannot forget; but for that, sirrah, you should only leave this cabinet for the Bastille.” “Still his majesty will not send me there for better reasons than that I chanced to seize an infuriated beast by the horns, when he might not even have been dangerous—pray mention the ridiculous feat no more. I claim no gratitude for that, and only remember it because it has been the means of bringing me here. If so poor an act can induce you to listen with charity, the reward will be too much.” Marie Antoinette seated herself again. “We have promised that you should speak freely, and will be patient,” she said, fairly biting her lip to keep back the haughty words that crowded to them. “Madame, I have offended you, when it was my desire to be of service. Forgive me!” “What is this service?” inquired the king. “There lives a man in Paris, sire, who would be a firm friend to the King and Queen of France, were his friendship desired. This man was born a noble, but his quick intellect, burning genius, and indomitable will, carried him out from them into the great masses of the people. Still he possesses the instincts of his race, its power of command, its love of true royalty. Above all, he adores France as the people adore him.” “Go on,” said Marie Antoinette, in a cold, almost harsh tone, “let us have all the noble qualities of this wonderful man.” The voice cut through Monsieur Jacques’ enthusiasm like a knife. He stopped, caught his breath, and looked into the proud beauty of her face with a glance of reproach, which was absolutely pathetic from its intensity. “Madame,” he said, at last, “I think you guess who I am speaking of.” “Perhaps,” answered the queen, with a cold smile. “But go on, the king listens.”