'You have got a companion!' said Berthier, at last, with his eyes fixed on Gabrielle. 'How is that, my good friend De Launay?'

'I did not know that you would object,' said the governor. 'You will surely remember that you allowed some of the servants to visit her occasionally, and bring her linen and fruit, and trifles to amuse her. If I am not mistaken, your wishes were express on that point.'

'My dear marquis, this girl is not one of our servants.'

'No,' answered the governor, 'but I understand that she was one till quite lately. If it is your wish that she be removed, it shall be complied with at once.'

'By no means. I do not object. Is she not a charming little creature, my friend? Gabrielle, sweetest! step from behind the curtain. Look how she blushes, how bewitchingly she hangs her head, what hair, what a neck, what lovely temples! Dearest! do not be shy. My worthy De Launay is quite a connoisseur in woman-flesh. Step out and show him your ankles. Now, marquis, what do you think of my taste?'

Gabrielle drew up her head and glanced at him scornfully; her little lips quivered with contempt and rage.

'She is out of humour,' said Berthier, laughing still; 'the rogue cannot twist out of me all the money she wants. She has set her heart on some diamonds. Now you be judge, De Launay, is she not ten thousand times more attractive, bewitching, luscious, in her charming peasant's dress, than in a suit of silk, and with a diamond brooch?'

'Perfectly so,' answered the governor.

'You hear that,' said Berthier, his fat sides shaking; 'you hear that, Gabrielle. It is the verdict of a man of all men the most competent to express an opinion on the subject.'

Madame Berthier now started forward.

'You liar, you coward!' she exclaimed, dragging in her hand the old jacket she had torn. 'See this! I have been mangling it. I thought for a moment it was you, and I bit it, and scratched it, and stamped on it, and beat it. Wait till I have the chance of serving you as I have served this dress. I pray night and morning for the chance, and I dream that it is about to be answered. I dream—' she put one hand to her brow, and looked frowning on the floor—'I dream that I hear voices from all the yards and courts, from all the cells and dungeons—thin shrill voices, all night long, crying out to Heaven;—the voices have waxed louder of late, and deeper in tone, and mightier in number, and I have felt the earth heave, and the walls reel, and the towers stagger. Every night the voices are louder and more numerous, and now they roar like thunder, and soon they will rend this prison, and fling its stones far and wide, and then! then, Berthier, I shall come leaping out from among the falling blocks, and run straight at you. I await my time.'

'She is raving,' said the Intendant to De Launay.

'Raving! yes, made so by you. But ah! though you have shut me in here, I shall not be here for long. Perhaps I may be out very soon. When you least expect me, I may come bounding in upon you, through the door or the window, or breaking my way up through the floor, or tearing my way through the ceiling, or burrowing through the walls to get at you.' She stopped, raised and clasped her hands over her head, and pirouetted round her chair two or three times; then, fronting her husband, she continued with a scream: 'I shall be out soon, very soon, and far away from you and my father, where you will never find me, that I am sure of, for, though I know the place, I do not know the name of it.'

'And pray, Madame Plomb, how are you going to get out?' asked Berthier, in a mocking tone; 'are you going to escape through that window, or dig through six feet of stone wall with your nails and teeth?'

'No,' she answered, slyly; 'there are other ways of getting released.'

'Ah!' said the Intendant, in the same bantering manner; 'you are depending on my well-known affection for yourself, which will not suffer me to remain long separated from you.'

'No,' cried Madame Berthier, laughing cunningly; 'I shall not trust to that.'

'Only one way remains,' observed her husband, rubbing his hands,—'a way as pleasant to both parties as could be desired,—a method whereby I shall be saved anxiety on your account, and be placed at liberty to contract a marriage, to raise, perhaps, my little pet to the position of wife.'

'What do you mean?' asked madame, sharply, fastening her restless eyes for the moment upon him.

Berthier tapped the walls with his knuckles.

'Ah!' said he; 'although whitened over there are hard blocks of granite behind, hard enough to split quickly such a cracked head as yours. Knock your own brains out against these stones, madame, and none will be better satisfied than your obedient servant.'

The unfortunate woman set her teeth. The cat was rubbing its head against her skirt; she stooped and picked it up and held it by the fore-legs against her breast, with the body hanging down. The cat, not satisfied with a position which undoubtedly distressed it, miawed; but Madame Berthier paid no attention to its complaints.

'Indeed,' continued Berthier, 'I have heard—but my good friend will correct me if I am wrong—that more than one captive here has so terminated his confinement, and it was greatly to their credit, I think; it showed a spirit, deserving admiration. Desirous of saving the privy purse the expense of their keep, they freed the crown, by their own act, of all anxiety about them. Certainly it cost a trifle to whitewash over the splashes of blood, where the head had been battered against the wall, but a few sous would cover that.'

The cat squalled, but Madame Berthier disregarded its cries. She laughed and glared at her husband, with her head bent forward, and her grey dishevelled hair falling over her breast and covering the cat.

'If you prefer it,' pursued Berthier, 'there is a strong stanchion in the window, quite capable of supporting your weight, and you could with the greatest facility extemporise a rope, surely out of a coverlet, torn up, or even a garter.'

'No,' shouted madame; 'no, not that way.'

'Then allow me to recommend a fragment of crockery. I have known a man hack through his windpipe with a sharp potsherd; and what man has done, woman may do.'

'No,' screamed the leaden woman; 'not so.'

'Then in the name of wonder, how?'

'Ah-ha!' she cried, advancing towards him, and throwing up the cat into the air and catching it, and swinging it above her head, and then bringing it back to its former position. 'Ah! have you never heard of pardons, of orders for release granted by the king?'

'I allow that I have; but I must assure you, dear Madame Plomb, that there is not the remotest chance of your obtaining one.'

'Not if Gabrielle pleads on her knees with the queen? Gabrielle loves me; she will do that, she has come to Paris on purpose to do that. She has got friends who will help her—we shall see! The queen is good, Gabrielle is earnest. We shall see.'

For a moment the Intendant looked disconcerted. His cheeks, lately puckered with laughter, hung down. He turned his red eyes on Gabrielle.

'Are you really going to Versailles on such a fool's errand?' he asked.

The girl, though much grieved at the poor deranged lady having disclosed her secret to the man of all others from whom it should have been preserved, when thus appealed to answered resolutely, 'By God's help, I shall!'

'In the devil's name, you shall not,' said Berthier, abruptly.

'Hark! what is that noise?' asked the governor, holding up his finger; 'I have heard it repeatedly.'

The Intendant listened; and directly heard a voice shouting in a peculiar, unearthly tone. The voice came from without, as though from some one floating in the air. What the words were that were spoken, they could not catch. Along with that sound rose inarticulate murmurs, which were wafted in through the window.

'Have you done?' asked the governor; 'I must make enquiries. Well, what is it, Guyon?' This question was addressed to a turnkey who came up.

'Monsieur, there is a crowd in the street. There is great excitement. They are collecting from all quarters.'

'What is bringing them together?'

'Monsieur, I do not know.'

'Curse the fellow! go and see.' The turnkey turned off; he had not reached the end of the corridor, before another came from that direction, met him, and ran towards M. de Launay.

'Well!'

'M. le Gouverneur!' said the jailer, 'the Marquis de Sade is congregating a mob.'

'What is he about? Has he got out?'

'Monsieur, you know that since the cannons on the battlements have been loaded, he has been interdicted the promenade there, and that he has been very angry about it.'

'I know, I know, Lassimotte!'

'Sir! he threatened me, that if I did not procure from your honour a favourable reply to his demand, that he should be allowed to resume his walk on the towers, he would arouse all Paris.'

'You never told me of this.'

'No, sir; I knew your honour did not want to be troubled with these messages. If I were to convey to you one-half of those given me——'

'I know; go on with the story. What has he done?'

'Why, you know, monsieur, he is allowed a long tin pipe with a funnel at the end for emptying his slops from his window into the moat. He has reversed the tube, and thus converted it into a speaking-trumpet.'

De Launay clapped his hands and laughed.

'Monsieur, he has been shouting for nearly half an hour to the people in the Rue S. Antoine, entreating them to assist him, crying out that you were assassinating him, that he was being tortured to death.'

'And the people have heard?'

'Monsieur, we did not know what it was that drew the people together. No one suspected for a moment——'

'Has the trumpet been removed from him, Lassimotte?'

'Yes, monsieur; the instant we discovered whence the voice came, we flew to his cell and wrested the instrument from his lips. He struggled to retain it, but Chouard and I took it from him by force.'

'M. Berthier,' said the governor, 'you must really excuse me; this must be looked to at once.'

'I am quite ready,' answered the Intendant; 'this girl had better be removed, had she not? And please remember I have no objection whatever to her revisiting my delectable wife. Madame Plomb, I bid you a respectful farewell, and please set your mind at rest upon the little matter we were speaking about. Gabrielle shall never procure your release, in the way you mentioned, or in any other.'

'Come!' said the jailer to the peasant-girl, 'it is time for you to be out of this. Come with me.'

'See her safely through the gates, Lassimotte.'

'Ay, sir!'

'Beast!' shouted Madame Berthier, before the door closed, glaring upon her husband, and swinging the yellow cat above her head; 'did you want me to dash my head against the walls, and spatter them with blood and brains?'

'Certainly,' answered the Intendant, mockingly, as he bowed with his hand on his heart.

'Or that I should strangle myself with my garters, slung to that stanchion?'

'Let me assure you that you have quite caught my idea;' with another bow, and a step back towards the door.

'Or you would have me hack through my throat with a broken potsherd?'

'Delighted,' exclaimed Berthier, standing on the threshold and throwing his arms apart, and raising himself.

'Then begone,' she screamed. 'I will not see you again, I swear, till I have your life. If you come to see me here, I will hide my face from you. Take that to remember me by—go, Gabriel! avenging angel!' She flung the yellow cat in his face. The beast lit upon his cheeks, with every claw extended, screaming with fear, and clinging with all its might, hung there one instant, then dropped, and darting to its mistress bounded to her shoulder and set up its back and tail, hissing and swearing.

Madame Plomb saw her husband recoil,—saw lines of crimson streak his face, heard his yell of pain, followed by a volley of blasphemous oaths, then the door was shut with a bang, double locked, and she was left to silence and reflection.

Gabrielle in the meantime had been hurried by the jailer to the gates. As she issued from them into the street, she saw that it was full of people in a condition of intense excitement. Every eye was directed towards the towers, with a look of threatening hate. A deep murmur rose from the throng, not loud, but intensely earnest.

Corporal Deschwanden caught Gabrielle's arm. He had been waiting for her.

'Is all right?' he asked, anxiously.

'I fear not,' she answered; and then told him what had occurred.

'Herr Je!' exclaimed the soldier; 'that will never do. If Berthier knows of your plan, he will take effectual means to stop its execution. What is to be done? You are not safe. Potts tausend! I must think of it.'

That evening, an express was sent to Versailles, and at day-break the Marquis de Sade was removed to Charenton. He was the last prisoner to leave the Bastille. He had been confined for horrible crimes of impurity. Being only a moral, not a political offender, he had been treated with a consideration never met with by those who had roused the suspicions of Government. He was allowed the walk on the towers interdicted to others, was permitted to carpet and hang his room with arras, and to have excellent meals, which he paid for out of his well-stocked purse.

That cry of his through the extemporised speaking-trumpet echoed from one end of Paris to the other, and, false as was the statement he made to the crowd about himself, it was terribly true about his fellow-prisoners. That cry roused Paris. The trumpet was but of tin, but it pealed the death-knell of the fortress that had stood four hundred years.

CHAPTER XXV.

When the Corporal and Gabrielle returned to the house, a council was held. Percenez, Nicholas, and the women sat upon the information given them by the old soldier.

Percenez was very decided in his opinion. Berthier, he was convinced, would take immediate measures to preclude Gabrielle from visiting Versailles.

This opinion was not shared by all the others. Madame Deschwanden justly argued, that, unless Berthier were a fool, he would know very well that an attempt at intervention with the queen must fail. 'But then,' she added, shrugging her shoulders, 'he may be a fool—most men are fools!'

Percenez with natural good taste said nothing of the Intendant's pursuit of the girl, and the reason he had formed, on that account, of desiring to place her in a security from further annoyance, now that Berthier knew she was in Paris, and was aware, or could inform himself at any moment, where she was staying.

The corporal rapped on the table.

'Meal-time!' he said. 'We are late; surely we can talk during dinner, and thus avoid throwing the routine of the evening out of gear.'

'Oh the wooden, clock-work man!' sighed Madame Deschwanden, rising and retiring in the direction of the kitchen.

During dinner the colporteur turned the conversation; he had formed his resolution, and he intended to communicate it privately to the corporal.

'And pray,' said Percenez; 'Nicholas, what is that statue you are engaged upon now? I have observed it becoming every day more distinct and life-like.'

'It is a S. Généviève,' answered the young man, slightly colouring; 'you know who she was—a shepherd girl.'

'So I have perceived. For whom are you carving it?'

'For S. Étienne du Mont. It has been ordered long, but I felt no inspiration till of late.'

'Do you carve the figures without copies or models?'

'I generally have a model; my father or Madeleine stands for me, but they will not suit all subjects.'

'And this S. Généviève?'

The young man became crimson.

'I thought I traced a resemblance,' said Percenez, slyly. 'Have you persuaded any one else to stand as a model?'

'No,' answered Klaus, looking down, and faltering; 'I am moulding this figure from an idea in my own mind.'

'I am thankful,' put in Madame Deschwanden, 'that you are at work upon a French saint. Those German saints are a disgrace to the Kalendar. I would not say "Bitte für uns" to them to save my life,—fusty, beer-drinking, tobacco-smoking fellows!'

'My good wife,' said the corporal, solemnly; 'you quite forget that for a considerable number of years the blessed hermit Nicholas von der Flue lived without food. The magistrates of the canton, desiring to verify the fact of his miraculous life, sent officers, who, for the space of a month, occupied night and day all the avenues of approach to his cell, in order that no person might bring provisions. The suffragan bishop of Constance subjected the brother to a similar test; he made him, on his obedience, eat a little bread, but the food caused the holy brother such pains that the bishop desisted. The Archduke Sigismund of Austria sent, for the same purpose, his physician, in order that he might attentively observe Nicholas during several days and nights. Frederick III, Emperor of Germany, also appointed delegates to examine him; but all these expedients served only to confirm the truth. My wife, it is a slander on the memory of Bruder Klaus to speak of him as——but I will not repeat the expressions you employed.'

'What does "Bitte für uns" mean?' asked Gabrielle, timidly.

'It means Pray for us,' answered Nicholas, beaming at her across the table; 'you would not mind calling on a Swiss saint to pray for you, I hope?'

'Certainly not,' answered Gabrielle; 'the prayers of such a holy man as the hermit Nicholas must be of great avail.'

'Bruder Klaus was no ordinary saint,' began the corporal; 'and the most remarkable evidences have been given of the power of his intercession. The walls of Sachselen church are hung with votive paintings.'

'Have pity on us!' exclaimed Madame Deschwanden, 'and spare us the catalogue of the Bruder's miracles.'

'Switzerland is especially favoured,' said the soldier. 'It is dotted all over with places of pilgrimage. Of course you have heard of S. Meinrad. Ah! he was a great saint. One day he made a fire of icicles, when he had consumed all his fuel. He preached on the Etzel, that is a place of great resort, and he founded Einsiedeln. He had two tame ravens, which fed out of his hand. One winter-day some robbers came and fell upon the saint, intending to plunder his chapel. When he saw they were intent on killing him, he lay down between two tapers which stood on the altar steps, and bade the murderers finish their work. So they killed him, and the candles lighted of their own accord, and when people found the body, the tapers were still burning. But do you know how it was discovered who had killed Meinrad? No! Well, I will inform you. The ravens flew after the murderers, screaming and pecking at them; and the folk recognised the saint's birds, and suspecting that something wrong had taken place, they arrested the men.'

'If you are going to talk of Switzerland, will you be good enough to let Madeleine and me go?' asked madame.

'By all means,' answered the corporal, rapping on the table.

'Ah!' he continued; 'you should see Maria Sonnenberg! It stands above the lake Uri, on a precipice, a little white chapel with a red-tiled roof, and a spirelet—so pretty; and within is the dear Lady who was found in a rose-bush.'

'So was our Lady of La Couture,' exclaimed Gabrielle.

'The Blessed Virgin of Sonnenberg was discovered by a shepherd-lad. His sheep strayed—and he followed them, and, lo! there was the beautiful image in a bush of blushing wild-roses.'

'It was the same exactly with our holy Virgin at my home.'

'How beautiful! Maria sey gelobt!' exclaimed Nicholas, clapping his hands, as a smile shone from his full honest face; 'you see the Holy Virgin loves equally our Switzerland and your Normandy.'

'And then,' pursued the corporal, with his usual gravity; 'there is the Virgin of Sarnen—of the convent there. That is a famous pilgrimage shrine. It came to pass thus:—One Christmas Eve all the sisters had gone to midnight mass, and they left one poor nun very sick upon her pallet in her cell. She was sorely grieved not to be able to assist at the holy mass, and she prayed with her face towards an image of the Virgin and Child. And, lo! as she prayed, the Mother raised the sacred infant, and the Divine Child smiled upon her and gave her the blessing with his little hand. When the sisters returned from the chapel, they found the nun in a rapture; and when she had recovered, she told all that had befallen her. I have seen the very statue——'

'And so have I,' said Nicholas, rubbing his hands.

'Then, again, there is the little chapel of Giswyl. Ah, what a beautiful spot!' The corporal shut his eyes and was silent for some moments; then he proceeded:—'Where stands the church of Giswyl now, was once an ancient castle that looked down upon a small clear lake; but the water was drawn off by a tunnel in 1761, just about the time my Nicholas was born, and now I suppose its site is occupied by green pastures. To the north you see the lovely lake of Sarnen; right and left are fearful precipices, and at their feet a pleasant meadow-land dotted over with fruit-trees. If one climbs the rocks by a little path that threads its way amongst pines and over great fragments of stone, far up in a lonely spot stands a tiny chapel with a little bell-cot, all of wood. Inside is a simple altar, and the walls are covered with votive pictures. Descend a few steps, and under the chapel is a little cell and a basin of crystal water. How comes the poor little shrine in that wilderness, far away from men? I will tell you. In 1492, some thieves broke into the church of Giswyl at night, and stole from it the pyx containing the Blessed Sacrament. The pyx was of precious metal, and the men carried it to the spot where the chapel now stands, then they examined it, and threw the Host upon the grass, after which they fled towards Pilatus. When the robbery was discovered, all the country rose, and one of the thieves was caught. He told where the Sacrament had been cast, and the priest of Giswyl and many of his people ran into the forest to seek it. As they approached the spot—it was evening—they saw a beautiful white light streaming between the pine-boles, and heard strains of enchanting music. They drew nearer, the music ceased, but there, on the grass, lay the Host, like a fallen planet illumining the flowers, the fir-boughs and the rocks, with a wondrous light.'

'Now, corporal,' said Madame Deschwanden, from the window, 'have you done with your fusty Swiss saints? I don't believe a word about their miracles.'

'Not believe, madame!' cried the soldier, wheeling his chair round; 'why, my wife, I have seen miracles wrought with my own eyes. When our Kridli——'

'Kridli! there's a barbarous name!'

'Then let her name be Marguerite, but I must say our Swiss name, Kridli, is the sweetest; so! when she was a little baby, her eyes were sore, and inflamed. We took her to the doctor at Stanz, he could do nothing for her; then we went by boat to Lutzern, and the doctors there said she must lose her sight; then we took her home to Sachseln, and we had recourse to the holy Bruder Klaus. We touched her eyes with the hem of his garment, and on the following day she had perfectly recovered her sight. In gratitude, we named our next child—this boy here, after him.'

'Where is Kridli now?' asked Gabrielle. Nicholas, hearing her mention his sister by her German name, nodded approvingly at her and smiled.

'Kridli is at Lutzern—Lucerne, the French call it,' answered the old soldier; 'she was a good girl, a sweet, simple girl, as fresh as one of our wild roses, as good as an angel.' He looked over at Gabrielle; 'sometimes you remind me of dearest Kridli. Poor, gentle Kridli! it seems to me to be but yesterday that I saw her. She used to have her hair platted and fastened up behind with broad silver spoons—that is the fashion in Unterwalden; and with her large white straw hat, she was enchanting. Poor Kridli!' he wiped his eye. 'Ah! she is happy. She is in such a pretty place. She lies on the south side of the great church of S. Leger, which rises with twin taper spires above the lake. There is a cloister all round the grave-yard, and as you walk in it you look through windows upon the blue expanse of water and away beyond to the Engelberg snow-peaks, and on the right stands Pilatus, cutting sharply against the evening sky. She is happy,' he said, in a low tone to himself; 'she is at Home, she is in Switzerland;' and then he began to hum sadly to himself the song, 'Herz, mein Herz.'

'Is it not time for prayers?' asked Madame Deschwanden, snappishly; 'it is very dark.'

The soldier looked at his watch, started, rapped on the table, and led the way into Klaus's workshop.

As soon as the ordinary devotions were over, Madame Deschwanden and her daughter rose. The corporal and his son wheeled round towards the niche containing the life-sized figure of the hermit of Sachseln, and began their German orisons to the saints of Switzerland.

Gabrielle hesitated for a moment whether to rise or to remain. Her heart had softened to the old corporal, and his legends had kindled devotion towards the wonderful patrons of the Alpine land. She therefore remained, and directed her eyes towards the grave, sad face of Bruder Klaus, irradiated by the tiny lamp that hung before it.

In changing his position Nicholas observed the girl; he looked over his shoulder and nodded, whilst a flash of pleasure lit up his large blue eyes.

It so happened that on the change in the position of the worshippers, the son knelt immediately in front of the image of Bruder Klaus, and that his father was thrown into the background. During the former part of the prayers, the corporal had occupied the most advanced post, that nearest the window and the crucifix, but, in turning towards the hermit, Nicholas was placed in the van. The old soldier, however, still conducted the worship:—

'Heiliger Meinrad!'

To which, in condescension towards Gabrielle's infirmities, young Deschwanden responded with emphasis in French:—

'Priez pour nous.'

'Heiliger Gallus!'

'Priez pour nous.'

'Heiliger Beatus!'

'Priez pour nous.'

'Heiliger Moritz und deine Gefährte!'

'Priez pour nous.'

'Heiliger Bonifacius!'

'Priez pour nous.'

'Heiliger Victor!'

'Priez pour nous.'

'Heiliger Bruder Klaus!'

'Priez pour nous.'

'Heiliger Bruder Konrad Scheuber!'

'Priez pour nous.'

'Heilige Verena!'

'Priez pour nous.'

'Heilige Odilia!'

'Priez pour nous.'

An interruption, sudden and extraordinary, broke the litany short off. Madeleine rushed into the workshop, and whispered—'The police are at the door; they have come for Gabrielle!'

'Herr Gott!' exclaimed the corporal, starting to his feet; 'what is to be done?'

'Only one thing,' answered Madeleine, passing Nicholas, and darting upon the image of Bruder Klaus. 'Remain where you are, Nicholas, remain, for Heaven's sake.'

She swung the image from its place in the niche.

'Quick! quick, Gabrielle!' she urged; 'come here!' She caught the frightened girl by the shoulders, and thrust her into the recess lately occupied by the patron of the Deschwandens, made her stand upon his pedestal, and said, 'Remain perfectly motionless. Do not move a limb. Do not look up. Fix your eyes on the floor.' Then, turning to her brother, she said: 'Pray, pray on in French before your patroness S. Généviève. Everything depends on you.'

The boy looked wonderingly at her, then at Gabrielle, then upon the ejected hermit, then at his father.

'Do as she bids you,' said the corporal; 'it is Gabrielle's only chance.'

The sound of steps was heard on the stairs.

The corporal stalked out, and stood upon the landing. Madame Deschwanden was before him.

'Ah! Du Pont! are you come at last?' called the little woman. 'You bad fellow! We waited dinner a full half hour. And now! when all is over!—But—my faith! it is not Du Pont, but strangers. I am thunderstruck. But pray come in and take chairs.'

The gendarmes entered the sitting-room, where the relics of the dinner remained on the table.

'You will allow me to pour you out a glass of wine each, before you speak,' said madame, not waiting for an answer, but handing each a tumbler. 'Now, what is it?'

'We have come, with order to bring Mademoiselle André, whom we have reason to believe is here, before M. Berthier, the Intendant.'

'Mon Dieu!' exclaimed madame, 'how vexing! I have been persuading her to wait on M. Berthier; she has some request to make of him, I believe, but I do not know her concerns. Women, however, are wilful. So are men, too—I have been married twice, and I know them. I have had my share of experience, and I should say that obstinacy, wilfulness, pigheadedness are the characteristics of man. But that is neither here nor there. Take some more wine?—No! Well, the girl would not listen to me. She has gone off on foot.'

'Gone, madame, where to?'

'Why, to Versailles, on foot, at this time of night. Did you ever hear anything more absurd, and the country so disturbed? Said I to her, You cannot walk it—you must know she is quite a stranger in these parts, and knows no more the way to Versailles than she does to Strasbourg. If you will wait till to-morrow morning, I told her, I will send Klaus with you—Klaus is my son—you hear him in his workshop muttering his prayers. He is a pious fool. But that, again, is neither here nor there. Well, gentlemen, I said to the girl Gabrielle, If you will go, stop the night at Sèvres. There is a nice little inn there, the "Golden Goose,"—do you know it, gentlemen? It is kept by M. Touche Gripé; he married my cousin, as pretty a girl as you ever set eyes on, but she has grown fat—and he sells good wine, at moderate rate.'

'Will you be so good, madame, as to let me know when the girl left here?'

'At five. Curiously enough, I know the time to the minute, for I was so provoked with her for her obstinacy, that I accompanied her to the Celestins, scolding and entreating alternately; and when I turned back, there was a clock in a watchmaker's shop window at the corner struck the hour. You may have noticed the clock; it is ingenious, there is a door above it, and a cuckoo comes out and sings. I stood and listened to the bird. It was droll. The cuckoo threw open its little door, and walked out, opened its yellow beak, bowed and said, "Cuckoo!" Mon Dieu! I laughed. It went just so—' she bent her body, opened her mouth, and called 'Cuckoo!'

It was impossible for the officers to restrain their laughter.

'Well!' continued madame, 'five times did that absurd creature bow and call. Once more, and I should have died, positively died of laughter.'

'Excuse me, madame,' said one of the gendarmes, 'how was the girl dressed?'

'She wanted to see the queen,' answered the little lady, 'and nothing would do for her but to borrow some of Madeleine's smart clothes. She has dressed herself in a faded rose-coloured silk, and wears a tiny cap with blue ribands on her head. You cannot mistake the dress. It was mine in the dear old times when I was a young bride. Ah! those were times. I made my good man,—I can tell you, he was flesh and blood, and not wood and clock-work,—I made him buy it for me. Oh! how I have danced in that pink silk. It is looped at the sides with rose-coloured bows and some gold thread. When Madeleine,—that is my daughter,—became old enough to wear it, I made it over to her. And now that rogue of a Gabrielle André has wheedled her out of it, that she may appear grand before the queen. My idea is that she will not get into her majesty's presence. What is your opinion, gentlemen?'

'You must allow us to search the house,' said one of the gendarmes, looking first at madame, and then at the corporal.

'By all means,' answered the little woman; 'let me show you the way. Corporal! you need not follow; you can go back to your prayers; I know that your heart is far away, saying "Bitte für uns" to old fusty, beer-drinking, snuff-taking, tobacco-smoking, hawking, spitting Bruder Klaus.' Then, drawing up close to the officers, she said: 'You don't know what it is to be married to a man who is a Jacquemart. Listen! do you hear his son? My husband, as you see by his uniform, is a Swiss, but mind! I am a French woman. Come along, you shall see all!' Then, throwing open the door of the work-room, she said: 'Pray look in at that precious boy Klaus at his prayers. He is a carver of saints; and he is not a poor hand. Some of his images are quite life-like. There is a S. Christopher; there, in the niche, his patroness, S. Généviève; there, a snuffy old hermit, Bruder Klaus. But come along, there is nothing there.'

One of the men, however, remained behind, and looked in every corner, especially behind the S. Christopher. It never occurred to him to direct his attention to the S. Généviève, to whom Klaus was addressing an impassioned prayer:—

'Oh, blessed one! my heart addresses thee; thou alone canst make a poor disconsolate lad happy. Thou, who hast taken possession of the heart of thy suppliant, hearken to my prayer. Turn a gracious ear to my request, heavenly being whom I adore; Angel of Paradise, before whom I bow, obtain for thy servant that happiness which thou alone canst grant.'

The search was hurried and superficial, for the man heard madame ascending the stairs with his companion, rattling away, and making him burst into a peal of laughter, in which her shrill voice chimed.

The men were shown all over the house, and left it, after renewed assurances that Gabrielle had taken the road to Versailles, that she was sure to put up at the 'Golden Goose,' at Sèvres, and that she was equipped in pink silk, somewhat faded, and a hat with blue ribands.

'Now, then,' said Madame Deschwanden, when she had seen the backs of the gendarmes, 'I have sent them to the sign of the Goose, indeed. Nice-looking fellow the taller one, was he not, Madeleine? What superb moustaches! I could scarce keep my fingers off them. And his eyes! They were the eyes of a seraph. They were men, too—men of courtesy and breeding; they saluted me before they left the house, first on one cheek and then on the other, in the most accomplished manner, and not on the mouth, as does a German clown. But go! Madeleine, release S. Généviève, and replace the Bruder. Mon Dieu! I could hardly refrain my laughter, when I saw our good owl Klaus at his devotions, and the Bruder standing on one side and staring in his stolid German fuddle-headedness, unable to make out how he had tumbled out of his niche, and a woman had got into it.'

'What is to be done?' asked the corporal, running his fingers through his hair.

'You need not be anxious,' said Percenez; 'I have already resolved to take Gabrielle to Versailles.'

'But I have told the men—men, indeed! they were angels—that they were to look for the girl on her way there.'

'We can go in a hackney coach. They will not suspect her of being in that. To Versailles we must go, and Gabrielle must see the queen at once, and then return to Bernay.'

'The king and queen are at Marly,' said Madeleine; 'I have ascertained that to-day. To-morrow is my day for taking bouquets to the royal family; I shall go to Marly, and Gabrielle can accompany me.'

'To Marly!' exclaimed Percenez; 'that is better still.'

'Well,' exclaimed madame, suddenly turning upon Klaus, 'has S. Généviève answered your prayers? They were impassioned enough, especially for a German-Swiss.'

CHAPTER XXVI.

The palace of Marly is no more. It was built by Mansard for Louis XIV, and was architecturally a little pretentious, and very ugly. Louis, finding the great Versailles he had created too splendid a world, built Trianon as a refuge from it; but the world flowed towards Trianon, and then he fled to Marly; not that he hated the world and its pomp, but that every man, even a Grand Monarque, loves to snatch a moment or two of tranquillity, and shake off his starched ruffles and stiff court-dress, that he may stretch his limbs at ease, forget politics, even forget pleasure, and do nothing and think of nothing. Marly was to be the sans souci of French royalty; but care was not to be evaded, it pursued the great Monarch there, and there also it fastened on the little king.

St. Simon relates that in the construction of Marly, whole forests of full-grown trees were brought from Compiègne, and that as they died, they were replaced by others; extensive tracts of copse were converted into lakes and ponds, and then, at the caprice of the king, were reconverted into shady groves, and all to adorn a small villa in a contracted valley, in which Louis might pass a week or fortnight in the course of the year.

To Marly, Louis XVI had been hurried by the queen, that, in its comparative quiet and retirement, she might be able to mould him to her will, or rather to the will of that party whose interests she had at heart.

Much cruel slander has been cast upon the memory of the unfortunate queen; her moral character has been defamed, her virtues called in question. This has been as unjust as it is untrue. Marie Antoinette was a good wife and a good mother. Her fidelity to her husband and her affection for her children should never have been doubted. The hatred which she inspired caused every evil to be believed of her, and those, whose interest it was to stir up disaffection, were not slack in spreading calumnious reports, which everyone retailed and some believed.

Louis, amiable, simple and weak, mistrusting his own opinion, was a puppet in her hands. He loved his wife passionately, and trusted her implicitly.

She, loving pleasure above all things, cared only to be the most brilliant centre of a brilliant circle. She wanted the treasury to be full, that she might lavish gifts on her friends, and live extravagantly herself.

Sometimes she acquiesced in reforms, when they appeared inevitable; more often, when she thought the royal authority was menaced, she restrained the king, and drove away the popular ministers.

The queen was walking on the terrace at Marly, with her inseparable friend, the Princess de Lamballe, a little fair-haired, soft-eyed, pretty creature, and Madame Elizabeth, the sister of the king, who had left her charming villa at Montreuil to assist the queen in turning Louis from the Liberal party towards that of the Court.

Madame Elizabeth was a noble woman, with a firm lip and eye, very like her brother, but with a refinement and a determination foreign to his face. None doubted the purity of her intentions, and her devotion to what she believed to be the right cause, though, unfortunately, she was mistaken in her appreciation of events.

Afterwards, when the king and queen were in peril, and all their friends took refuge in voluntary exile from probable death, she hesitated for a moment whether to follow her aunts or to remain with the prisoners.

'What! will you desert us?' asked the queen. Elizabeth instantly resolved on sharing their fate; and on the 9th May, 1794, her head fell on the scaffold.

'There is my little flower-girl,' said the queen, as Madeleine Chabry appeared with her basket of roses, and Gabrielle near her; 'but do look, sister, at the funny little peasantess at her side!'

'She is a Normande, your majesty,' said Mademoiselle de Lamballe; 'I know the cap well enough.'

'It is picturesque,' observed the queen; 'I should like to examine it closer. Suppose I were to adopt it, and set the fashion?'

The hint was sufficient. Marie Thérèse de Lamballe ran towards the girls, and bade them approach the queen.

Poor little Gabrielle was bewildered by what she saw. On entering the park, her eyes had wandered down the alleys to the fountains and statues terminating them; but when she stood on the terrace and looked down the twelve avenues, each leading to a temple of one of the zodiacal signs, which Mansard had designed in compliment to Louis XIV, who was the central sun in his shrine of Marly, she held up her hands and laughed with delight.

'Hush!' said Madeleine; 'there is the queen.'

'But where is her crown?'

'Oh! she forgot it and left it under her pillow, when she woke this morning.'

Gabrielle folded her hands and stood still, with her large eyes staring.

'See!' exclaimed Madeleine; 'she is sending for us.'

'Her majesty desires you to wait on her,' said the Princess de Lamballe; 'bring your flowers, Madeleine, and let the little Norman girl accompany you. What is her name?'

'Mademoiselle,' said the girl Chabry; 'my cousin is called Françoise Rolin.'

Gabrielle looked round at Madeleine with surprise, but the queen's flower-girl repeated, fixing her eye steadily on her, 'Françoise Rolin.'

'Well, follow me, my girls,' said the princess.

When they stood before the queen, Madeleine bent, as she was accustomed; but Gabrielle, unacquainted with etiquette, looked earnestly in the face of Marie Antoinette.

The queen smiled. The expression of the young countenance was one of simple admiration.

'Oh! how beautiful you are, madame!' escaped involuntarily from the lips of the peasantess.

The queen was pleased; a little colour rose to her cheek, and she held out her hand, which Gabrielle kissed reverently.

'It is not polite to flatter any person to her face,' said Marie Antoinette; 'but, as you have broken rule, I must follow suit, and assure you that you have a charming little face. What is your name, mignonne?'

'Her name, if it please your majesty, is Françoise Rolin,' answered Madeleine.

The queen turned to her and said, sharply, 'When I speak to you, answer me. I addressed my question to this child. Is she any relation of yours?'

'Your majesty, she is my cousin.'

'And where do you live, mignonne?' she asked of Gabrielle.

'Madame, at Bernay.'

'Bernay,' echoed the queen; 'where is that?'

'Madame, it is in Normandy.'

'Ah! you are a brave Norman, then?'

'Yes, madame.'

'How long have you been in Paris?'

'Madame, ever since the end of April.'

'Alas!' said Marie Antoinette, with a sigh; 'you little bird of ill-omen, you came fluttering towards the capital to announce the coming on of care and worry. Who knows but you may have come here to Marly to give omen of more care and more worry, and perhaps of disaster?'

'No, dear, beautiful queen!' cried Gabrielle, looking full in her eyes; 'I should cry my eyes out if I thought so.'

'Why do you call me "dear?"' asked Marie Antoinette, with an accent of sadness; 'your people do not generally express much affection for me.'

'My people!'

'Well, well; I mean the people,—the mob, the lower orders.'

Gabrielle remained silent.

'What brought you to Paris?' again asked the queen; 'have you come like little David, in the naughtiness of your heart, to see the battle?'

'Madame!'

'I asked you a simple question,' said the queen, petulantly.

'Her majesty asked you why you left Normandy and came to Paris,' said Marie Thérèse de Lamballe.

Gabrielle fell at the queen's feet.

'Dear, beautiful madame!' she cried, raising her hands and her eyes, which filled instantly with tears; 'I came to see you.'

The queen surprised, and by no means offended, looked at her with benevolence; this encouraged Gabrielle, who pursued,—'Madame! I had a dear mistress, one so kind, so good, and so gentle; she loved me, and I loved her. I was not long with her, but that was quite long enough for her to have gained my heart; and then, madame, she had no one else to love, except yellow Gabriel.'

'Yellow what!' exclaimed the queen.

'Her cat, madame,—she had dyed it saffron; and she was passionately attached to it. Then, poor thing, she had nothing else to love,—no little child to hug, no sisters to confide to, her mother dead, and her father so cold and hard and dreadful.'

'Why, what was there dreadful about him? Jump up, don't kneel there.'

'Please let me remain here, dear, good queen; I used to kneel before my dear mistress and talk to her, and she would console me in my dreadful troubles.'

'Were your troubles very bad?'

'Oh, madame!' she said, wringing her hands; 'my poor father!'

'What of him?'

'Madame, he hung himself.'

The queen recoiled, shocked and pained. With tenderness, she stooped over the girl, and said, 'I am sorry to have distressed you by asking that question; go on with your story about the mistress. What was she like?'

'Madame, do you mean in disposition or in appearance?'

'You have told me that she was good and kind; was she old or young, handsome or plain?'

'Oh, madame, she was like lead.'

'What do you mean, Françoise, my girl?'

'Her face was like lead,—the colour of lead, blue-grey.'

'My God! how dreadful.'

'And that was why her husband hated her, and teased her beyond endurance. Besides, he was a bad,—oh! such a wicked man.'

'Where is the poor lady now?' asked the queen.

'In the Bastille.'

The queen started, and Madame Elizabeth and the Princess de Lamballe looked at one another. A cold shadow passed over the queen's face.

'Well,' she said, in an altered voice; 'what do you want now?'

'I want to get her out of that horrible prison.'

'Indeed!'

'Yes, madame, with your kind help.'

'Do not count on that.'

'But, madame, when you know all the circumstances.'

'Tell me the lady's name.'

'She is Madame Berthier de Sauvigny, wife of the Intendant of Paris.'

'Oh, indeed!'

'Come here, little girl,' said Madame Elizabeth, stepping forward; 'come with me apart and tell me the whole story, and I will talk to her majesty about it.'

'Do go, Elizabeth,' the queen said; 'but give her no hopes. Now, Madeleine, let me see your bouquets.'

Whilst the queen was selecting a bunch of flowers which pleased her, Monseigneur de Narbonne approached from the house, and stood at a little distance, after having made a formal bow.

'Ah, monseigneur,' said the queen; 'do come here and choose me a bouquet. We want your opinion on their respective merits. I like this one, and Mademoiselle de Lamballe prefers that.'

'Whichever your majesty prefers is sure to be the most beautiful,' said the bishop, placing his hand on his breast and bending.

'No compliments!' exclaimed Marie Antoinette; 'I have had several paid me already by an untutored mouth,' and she nodded towards Gabrielle.

'I have a few remarks I desire to make to your majesty,' said the bishop, with another bow; 'if your majesty will allow me to make them in private?'

'Mademoiselle de Lamballe can be no hindrance to your speaking, my lord,' said the queen; 'you have some news from Versailles.'

'I have,' answered the bishop.

'Good or bad? but,' added Marie Antoinette, shaking her beautiful head, 'of course bad.'

'Very bad; indeed, most serious,' said the prelate.

'And my influence with the king is wanted?'

'My royal mistress, unless that influence which your virtue and your charms unite to make irresistible, be exerted to the uttermost, everything will be lost.'

'What is the news, then?' she asked, somewhat impatiently, for the fulsome flattery of the bishop was too much even for her to endure.

'I have just received news by special messenger from the cardinal, that the clergy are resolved on uniting with the Commons. He says——' the bishop drew a letter from his pocket; 'he says:—"I will do the best I can to protract the business, so as to postpone the vote till to-morrow, but I have no hope of putting it off later. The Abbé Maury is speaking against time, and that demagogue Lindet, your Évreux man, is branching off into all kinds of irrelevant subjects; but I insist, the union will be voted by a majority; I leave it to you to communicate with her majesty and consider whether a bold stroke of policy is not the only resource left us. The Archbishop of Paris and I shall post to Marly the moment we are released." Such is his message; and I venture to express my humble opinion that it contains a warning of the most serious description.'

'And if the union does take place?' said the queen, stamping her foot on the gravel, and plucking at a rose in the bouquet she had selected.

'If the union takes place, everything goes. Remember, M. Necker persuaded his majesty to consent to the doubling of the Third Estate. Therefore, the Commons will have a majority over the two other orders; and remember that, once united with the Commons, more than half the clergy will oppose all privileges and break down all rights, so that the last check is removed from the Assembly, which seems to me to be whirling down-hill into sheer democracy as fast as it can go.'

'Go on,' said the queen, pouting.

'The fault lay with M. Necker at the first, in giving to the Commons a double representation.'

'I always thought so,' exclaimed Marie Antoinette.

'An immense importance and preponderance was given to the lowest house, to those who had nothing to lose and much to gain by a revolution. The popular will, which first insisted on a convocation of the States-General, which then demanded a doubling of the representation of the mob,—the nobodies, clamours now for the union of the orders. The largest body always attracts the smaller ones to it. Now that the equipoise is disturbed, there is of necessity a gravitation towards the compact mass of the Tiers. That house which feels it most is the house of the Clergy, the majority of the members of which are bound up in interest rather with the people than with the aristocracy. The wound opened on the first day of session, and the cardinal had much ado to hold the lips together. Now, healing it is impossible. What course lies open? One only, if the crown and the coronet are not to be trampled under foot by the Assembly.'

'You exaggerate, monseigneur.'

'I hope sincerely that I do, your majesty; but believe me, I am sincere. Judge, I pray you, for yourself. At present, the king is supported by the great body of the nobles, and by the heads of the Church, who are ready to resist any encroachment on his prerogative; but if you allow this breakwater to be blown into the air, the waves of popular opinion will be allowed to burst over the throne with nothing to protect it from violence and to preserve it from wreck. Excuse my vehemence, I speak strongly because I feel strongly. The bough on which you are seated is being sawn through. Necker supplied the saw when he called together the States. Does your majesty ask what is to be done? One thing alone can be done,—insist on the separation of the orders.'

The queen looked down on the gravel and mused. The bishop continued: 'War has now been declared. M. Necker has allowed the orders to try their arms, and now they have proclaimed war and no quarter. He has temporised, he has left the orders to themselves, and by so doing, he has assured the victory to the strongest. I believe he has, throughout, determined that the Third Estate should conquer the others. How else explain his silence on the subject of the separation or union of the houses? His attitude has been one of indecision, and that indecision has been taken advantage of as, I think, he intended. The nobility have declared in their house that the separation of orders is a fundamental principle of the constitution. They have refused to give their pure and simple adhesion to the conciliatory plan proposed by his majesty. On the other hand, the Third Estate has taken a decisive line; it has constituted itself a National Assembly, has summoned the other orders to attend, and has proclaimed itself the sole representative of the French nation. It is a double declaration of war. Each party has taken up a position. The time for arbitration is past, utterly and irrevocably past.'

'I see,' said the queen, sharply, raising her head, and showing a face crimson with anger. 'You would have the king not arbitrate, but give in his adhesion to one side or the other.'

'Your majesty has understood me. He must do that; he cannot hesitate; he must choose his side, with the people or with the nobles. He must yield at once and become nothing, or he must strike a coup d'état and make himself master of the field.'

'Yes,' said the queen, vehemently; 'I am satisfied, it must be so.'

'It is probable that a bold stroke may establish the position of the throne, which has been somewhat shaken.'

'It shall be done,' the queen said, passionately; 'never, never shall it be said of Louis XVI that he flung his crown into the dirt. In a weak moment he yielded to that banking fellow Necker, and he surrendered a part of his supreme, absolute authority to a convocation of the people, and already has he learned to rue it. Well says the Gospel, "give not that which is holy to the dogs;" and what more holy than the royal prerogative,—"lest they trample them under their feet and turn again and rend you."' Marie Antoinette was thoroughly roused, her pride was stung; she walked up and down the terrace with heaving bosom, flushed face, and sparkling eye, turning every moment to the bishop to utter some caustic remark.

'When Mob is king, my Lord, what will become of us, the anointed of God? We shall have to fly the country, and who will take us in?'

'If such a dire event were to happen,' answered the prelate, obsequiously, 'our ancestral castle of Lara should be at your majesty's disposal.'

If the bishop had seen the expression of contempt which came over the queen's face at his absurd remark, he would have instantly withdrawn. He saw her turn abruptly from him and converse with her friend, but he was too self-sufficient to suppose for a moment that he had offended her.

Madame Elizabeth came up, leading Gabrielle by the hand.

'I cannot attend to her story now,' said the queen.

'But it really is touching, and it may interest you,' said the sister of Louis; 'do let her tell it to you in full,—it is quite a romance.'

The queen tossed her head. Madame Elizabeth saw that something was wrong, but what it was she did not know.

'Berthier!' said the queen; 'the wife of Berthier in the Bastille, that is it. Monseigneur,' her lips curled; 'this little idiot has come from—what was the name of the place?'

'Bernay,' answered Elizabeth.

'Has come all the way from Bernay; and what do you think is her object? She has read the fable of the mouse and the netted lion, and she thinks she can get the wife of the Intendant of Paris out of the Bastille.'

'I venture to suggest that she should be driven out of your majesty's presence,' said the bishop; 'this is too audacious, too insolent to be tolerated. We are beginning to discover that the people are utterly lost to the sense of decency and modesty. Let her be turned out.'

'Not if I choose to listen to her history,' answered the queen, sharply, glad to cross her chaplain, whom she despised, whilst she sought to retain him about her.

'By all means,' said De Narbonne; 'but if your majesty will condescend to allow me to make a remark,—I am well, I may say very well, acquainted with M. Berthier, and his most amiable father M. Foulon, Bernay being in my diocese, and my desire ever being to make myself acquainted with all the influential laity in it. I have seen much of those two most estimable gentlemen, and I appreciate their urbanity of manner equally with their moral excellence.'

'That is rather a different account from what we have received from this girl,' said the queen; 'perhaps you are inclined to take too favourable a view of their conduct. What about Madame Berthier? Do you know her?'

'I cannot say that I know more of her than this, that she is a maniac, and as such is obliged to be kept in custody. Berthier himself told me once that she assaulted him with a knife.'

'Madame and Monsieur!' exclaimed Gabrielle; 'you do not know the reason of that. I was there when that took place; she defended me.'

'Defended you!' echoed the queen; 'who did she defend you from?'

Gabrielle became crimson; she hung her head and whispered, 'from her husband.'

'This is insufferable,' said the bishop; 'Berthier is my friend, and I will answer for his conduct. If your majesty were to listen to all the slanders that are cast against their betters and superiors by the rag-tag of the lower orders, you would become a revolutionist.'

'Monsieur! Madame!' pleaded Gabrielle; 'ask Madame Berthier herself if it be not true; ask M. le Curé Lindet!'

'What!' the bishop turned upon her savagely, whilst his red face became purple,—'what about him?'

'Monsieur le Curé received me into his house when I ran away; he knows all about me, and about the truth of what I say.'

'Enough, amply enough to satisfy me,' said the prelate, in a loud voice, as he scowled upon the frightened girl; 'I know you now. Go from this terrace instantly!' He turned towards the queen, composed his face, and said, as calmly as he could, 'Your majesty must really not see any more of that unfortunate girl. On her account, I have had to inhibit one of the priests in my diocese,—the very priest, by the way, of whom the Cardinal de la Rochefoucauld speaks in his letter as a demagogue,—a priest elected by the malcontents to represent them in the States-General,—a man without principle and without morals,—a turbulent leveller, and a violent democrat.'

'Good, dear queen!' cried Gabrielle, casting herself once more at the feet of the royal lady; 'do not believe him, listen to me! Pray obtain the release of my dear mistress from the Bastille!'

Marie Antoinette looked at her for one moment with coldness and with disgust, then turned her back upon her and walked away.

Madeleine waited till the queen and her party had passed to the farther end of the terrace, and then running to Gabrielle, she caught her up in her arms, kissed her, and drew her away. 'You have tried your best in one quarter,' she said; 'do not despair, if that be closed to you. Another may open ere long. You have appealed in vain to the majesty of royalty; let your next appeal be to the majesty of the people, and that, I promise you, shall not be in vain.'

CHAPTER XXVII.

That evening a cabinet council was held at Marly. There were present M. Necker, Minister of Finance; M. de Barentin, Keeper of the Seals; M. de Puységur, Minister of War; MM. De Montmorin, De Saint-Priest, De la Luzerne, and De Villedeuil.

It was obvious to everyone that affairs had reached a critical point, and that the decision of the king must now turn the scale.

The Minister Necker, seeing that the royal intervention was necessary, had formed a project of sufficient boldness to arrest the development of that Revolution which some began to fear was on the eve of breaking out. He proposed that the king should, in a royal session, order the reunion of the three houses for the purpose of discussing measures of common interest; but privileges, rights attached to fiefs, &c., were to be discussed separately. However, the king was to promise the abolition of all feudal privileges, such as the corvée, mortmain, &c., equal admission of all Frenchmen to civil and military offices by merit, and not by private patronage; also equality of taxation; he was to assure to the States-General a share in the legislation, especially in the measures calculated to touch individual liberty, the liberty of the press, the reform of civil and criminal codes, and in the levying of taxes.

If Necker's project had been accepted frankly, there is no reason to doubt that the establishment of a constitutional monarchy upon the English model would have been the extreme result of the convocation of the States-General; but it was not accepted.

In the cabinet council of the 19th, there was apparent a general disposition to accept the proposal of the Minister of Finance, with slight modifications. The king appeared to be liberally inclined. Necker urged the importance of coming to an immediate decision, as time was of value. A majority of the ministers strongly favoured the scheme, and Necker hoped to see it approved and adopted that night; but at the last moment, whilst the portfolios were being closed, one of the royal servants entered and whispered to the king, who rose instantly, commanding his ministers to remain in their places.

M. de Montmorin, who was sitting by the side of Necker, said to him, 'We have effected nothing; the queen alone could have ventured to interrupt a Council of State; she has been circumvented by the princes.'

When the king returned, after a delay of some minutes, it was to suspend the council, leaving everything undecided, and postpone a final settlement till the morrow.

When the council met again, it was weighted with the Count d'Artois and the Count of Provence.

The conservative party triumphed, and thus deliberately rejected the plank Necker offered them.