An eternal farewell, eh? I would have something to say about that, I was resolved. My hat and cloak—that Mademoiselle had provided me with the night before—were fetched, and after a good breakfast, which seemed to have been brought from his own table, he conducted me to a closed carriage and I was driven a long distance through the country, arriving at last at a place that I afterward found to be Versailles. I tried several times to converse with my guards, but neither would talk to me. I resigned myself to whatever was coming, therefore, and busied myself with thoughts of Mademoiselle. I had been to Versailles seeking Dr. Franklin, but had never seen the royal palace. Consequently I did not recognize it when the carriage stopped and I was led forth. I supposed that it might be one of the residences of the great Duc de Rivau-Huet. Before I had time to speculate, however, I was blindfolded and led through numberless corridors, up and down flights of stairs, in rooms and out in bewildering succession. I made no resistance. It would have been useless, and the officers who brought me thither informed me that no harm was intended. Finally we stopped, hands fumbled at the bandage, and I opened my eyes to find myself in a magnificent apartment—an antechamber of some sort, evidently. It was void of people, save ourselves and a sentry in the uniform of the Swiss Guards at the door at the farther end. Running my hand through my hair with the natural instinct of a young man, and shaking myself as if to free my person by the motion, at a gesture from my guide I stepped boldly to the door. The Swiss presented arms, the official tapped on the door and stepped back, a voice I recognized bade me enter, and in another moment I was in the presence of Mademoiselle. She was standing near the door. I took one step toward her and fell on my knees, when a scandalized voice exclaimed in my ear: “Monsieur, do you not see the Queen?” “I do,” I answered, without taking my eyes off Mademoiselle, “and I kneel to her with all the homage of my heart.” Mademoiselle blushed vividly and stepped aside. “She means the Queen of France, Monsieur,” she said softly. As I knelt there, my eyes fell upon a young woman—she was only twenty-four—seated farther off at the opposite side of the room, a beautiful woman with a fresh, sweet, innocent face, with nothing especially regal about her, that I could see. I knew in a moment that this was Marie Antoinette. Such was my astonishment, however, that I remained kneeling, my mouth open, in great surprise. Her Majesty was pleased to laugh. She laughed as merrily as a girl. “Make your homage to the Queen of France, Monsieur,” exclaimed the elderly woman who had spoken to me first, evidently one of the great ladies of the Court. “Your Majesty,” I replied, finding my wits at last, “I knelt as every gentleman should, to the queen of his heart, and when she stepped aside and revealed to me the queen of all hearts, I was unable to rise.”