The scene we look upon is a tranquil and a pretty one, despite certain vague and ominous rumours which, intangible, permeate the air. The favourite saloon of Her Majesty, Marie Antoinette, in the Palace of the Tuileries, is a small, square chamber decorated with raised garlands, flutes, and tambourines in carved wood, painted a dead white, mellowed now by the glimmer of many candles, shaded. Curtains and furniture are yellow, embroidered with gold; the bare floor is waxed and polished, reflecting the costly and varied rainbow garb of some forty assembled guests. Through open casements--it is a warm evening in July--we mark the majestic outline of the venerable Louvre cut black against the blue--a calm unclouded blue, loftily oblivious of angry curls of darkling smoke which two days since uprose from the ruins of the stormed Bastile. Doors as well as windows are spread wide to woo the air; a bevy of ladies, glittering with gems, are fanning themselves languidly. Through the portals on the right you obtain a glimpse of the remains of supper: a dainty repast, fit for fastidious fairies; such an ideal cosy feast as the queen loved to conjure for her familiars. Through the left door we may perceive an array of green tables with gilt legs, at which gentlemen clad in satins of delicate hue are squabbling over the devil's books. Their voices from time to time grow angry, their talk unduly loud. But for the adjacent presence of the queen, swords might be drawn and blood spilt. Young Monsieur de Castellane, officer in the Swiss Guard, has just lost his paternal acres to the Marquis de Gange, a fact which, in the latter, seems to evoke no sign of interest. With the usual luck of players who are quite indifferent, Fortune had befriended the marquis, and yet, as things were, the prize was an empty bauble--a mere meaningless array of lands with high-sounding names which looked vastly well--on paper. The Marquis de Gange was an absentminded person, given to reverie and the contemplation of the infinite, and it is somewhat annoying to lose even paper property to one so utterly unappreciative. Roused by the congratulations of the surrounding group of butterflies, the marquis descended for a moment to earth, and laughed lightly. "A profitable stake to win, in sooth," he observed, with a yawn. "Castellane! I hereby resign your empty title-deeds, having quite enough such foolish lumber of my own. Your part of the country is a caldron, mine is a furnace. Thank heaven, my wife's estates are in a land of peace, or, like many more, we should be beggars." "It is not given to everyone to mate with a great heiress," remarked rueful Castellane, feeling in his empty pocket. "You should look out for one," said the marquis, serenely smiling, "for you know that since the Third Estate has raised its ugly head, you don't dare to show your nose at Castellane. The tenants would growl of rights of man, and prod your silk stockings with their pitchforks."