"That is because we should not," observed Madame de Lamballe, with conviction, "on the principle of Eve and the apple, you know. A fortune-teller once took my hand to read my fortune, and what she read on my palm was so appalling that she fainted. I have had the discretion never to inquire further." "Pooh, I am not so prudent," mused her majesty. "Three times have I sought to pierce the veil, with the same result--repentance." "I pray you in pity--hush!" implored the Marquise de Gange. "My husband dragged me once to see a horrible old hag who lived like a savage in a den somewhere--I know not where. She performed incantations and drew my horoscope. It makes my flesh creep to think of it!" "Was it so ghastly?" inquired Marie Antoinette in a low tone of awe. "So was mine. Horoscopes are nightmares. And so it seems was that of our beloved Louise. I wonder--how I wonder what will be the end of it?" She glanced around at the company, and all looked sympathetically glum. If the gipsies had with one accord been so audaciously rude to the three beauties as to hint at unpleasant things in the future, what was to be done? Was a crusade to be preached, for the annihilation of the peccant race? Fat old de Breze might pay expenses, and, like Peter the Hermit, rally the avenging force. Old de Breze was a soldier who had won his spurs, yet instead of sounding a clarion and calling squires to arm him _cap-a-pie_, he only shuffled in his chair and snuffled uneasily while de Castellane snorted with ardour. Clearly the crusade was not likely to answer; it was a trifle out of date; and yet the fact remained that the fiat of the Fates had gone forth against the lovely trio. The Marquis de Gange was a mystic, well acquainted with the tortuous ways and spiteful tricks of the fatal three. Perhaps he would kindly elucidate the situation? No. His wife gazed wistfully at him. He looked furtively at her, then, smiling, lowered his eyes, and again sank into his accustomed reverie. The marquise sighed deeply, and concealed her face behind her fan. The April visage of the queen was sombre; then the cloud cleared. "Are we not silly," she exclaimed, "to sit trembling before a bogey? A fig for the gipsies! Despite their lugubrious hints here am I, after over fifteen years of prosperous wedded life, queen of the land most favoured by nature in the world, adored by my husband and my children. What can woman desire more than complete domestic bliss? What say you, Gabrielle?" The Marquise de Gange, target for a circle of inquiring eyes, blushed crimson and turned away.