"Promise, then, not to talk of the horrid _tiers etat_," replied the lady addressed, with a little shudder. "Those who saw the dreadful women dancing and shouting like fiends as they marched in triumph from the Bastile, will not forget the spectacle." "Madame la Princesse de Lamballe was always nervous," laughed M. de Castellane. "Yes," replied the princess, simply. "I don't know why, but I am desperately afraid of a mob." "We were all a little frightened at first," observed the queen; "for when we heard the booming of artillery which sounded so terribly close, and beheld the infatuated madcaps carrying away their dead, we could not comprehend the freak. 'Tis a pity it was crowned with success, for it will put foolish ideas into ignorant minds. But it will lead to nothing, I am assured, and all's well that ends well. When the king announced this morning that he was going to the Assembly, without guards or escort, I thought he must have lost his wits; but events showed that he was wise, as he always is. His confidence in the loyalty of the deputies combined with his simple and touching address, excited the keenest enthusiasm. The shouting throng escorted him on foot all the way hither to the palace. I am not ashamed to say that as from a balcony Lamballe and I contemplated the affecting scene of warm devotion, we clasped each other and wept." "For every precious tear," murmured de Castellane, "we'll have the life-drops of the canaille!" "God forbid!" ejaculated the queen, with sudden pallor. "I wish them no ill if they would spare his majesty their vagaries. Love them I cannot, for I am not Christian enough to love my enemies. I wonder--I wonder----" "What, dear mistress?" inquired a tall young lady plainly dressed in white, who was the most beautiful member even of that favoured circle. "What causes our queen to wonder?" "I wonder what will be the end--that's all, dear Gabrielle," laughed the volatile Marie, recovering her spirits. "What will happen to me; to our precious Lamballe; to you; to your shocking pedant of a husband there, who as usual is in cloudland?" The beautiful lady whom she called Gabrielle, glanced at the abstracted Marquis de Gange, who was her husband, and shivered. There was an odd look upon his face sometimes which she had not the wit to decipher. What was he doing in cloudland so far removed from her? Then, when he dropped down to earth again, he would smile vaguely but pleasantly enough, and the strange impression would fade from her mind. Her wistful eyes were more often fixed on him than his on hers, which is curious, considering her beauty. "The veil which hides the future is a precious boon," reflected the queen, "and yet we all burn to pierce it."