The Maid of Honour: A Tale of the Dark Days of France. Vol. 2 (of 3) — John Shaqi
The Maid of Honour: A Tale of the Dark Days of France. Vol. 2 (of 3)Wingfield, Lewis
History
The Maid of Honour: A Tale of the Dark Days of France. Vol. 2 (of 3)
Wingfield, Lewis
France -- History -- Revolution, 1789-1799 -- Fiction; Historical fiction
Her forebodings were but too soon realized. Only seven weeks later the
Palace of the Tuileries was stormed, and the devoted guards massacred
under circumstances of peculiar atrocity. Soon afterwards the royal
family were removed to the Temple, whence, in the course of a long
drawn martyrdom, the unfortunate queen was transferred to a squalid
hole in the Conciergerie on her rough road to the scaffold and
release.
CHAPTER XVII.
GABRIELLE HAS AN IDEA.
Loth as she was to leave her benefactress in so critical a plight,
there was no denying that the Marquise de Gange was an incumbrance in
the royal dwelling; yet another helpless female for the men to
protect; and that there were duties with regard to others, that
demanded the attention of the heiress.
Clovis had valid reason for his impatience to be off. The prisons were
opening their maws to swallow the blue-blooded, who tumbled in by
shoals on frivolous and ridiculous charges. Paris was becoming so
disagreeably warm, that self-preservation bade all and sundry to
depart unless tied by special reasons. Now, as the abbé pointed out
(who grew almost as impatient as his brother, in his enforced
idleness), there was nothing whatever to detain the provincials from
returning to their chateau, since the queen had dismissed the
marquise.
Gabrielle agreed that the time was come for a journey, and even made
an attempt to induce the aged maréchale to join the party. It would be
nice to have her mother with her, and perhaps the suburban residence
might be fraught with unknown drawbacks. But at the suggestion, the
old lady lifted up her voice in such querulous screechings that her
daughter was silenced.
"You should know, but for your innate selfishness," complained the old
dame, "that I can't bear the place. Its crepuscular corridors and
frowning front give me the shivers. I wonder you can endure it
yourself, but you always were so peculiar and inconsiderate. I will
visit you for a week or so some day, if I pluck up courage; but, live
there? The family vault with a pile of coffins for furniture, would be
more cheerful as a dwelling-place."
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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