After the laugh came silence, for were they not all in the same battered boat? No matter. Whate'er betide, they must sink or swim together.
"Awkward customers, the Third Estate," some one remarked presently. "That untoward matter of the Bastile may prove an evil precedent."
"Pooh!" yawned a stout old gentleman, whose weatherbeaten visage was round and of a bluish red. "A flash in the pan--a paltry riot--a piece of low impertinence which ministers, if they were not hopelessly idiotic, should have foreseen and smothered. Stick to the title-deeds, son-in-law. If you live long enough, they will be useful some day."
"No," replied de Gange, carelessly. "Thanks to you, maréchal, my nest's well feathered. Gabrielle has enough for both."
The wealthy old Maréchal de Brèze looked pleased. When you have hit on a suitable match for your heiress during an epidemic of impecuniosity, it is well to be assured that the fortunate spouse is not a greedy gold-seeker. "Clovis!" he cried heartily, "give me your hand. You are queer and dreamy, beyond my poor comprehension; but I believe--yes, I do!--that you are an upright and honest man!"
"Treason, maréchal! High treason! How dare you say rude things of ministers? Come and join the ladies. We affect learning, remember, nowadays, and can bandy wisdom with the best of you!"
It was the magical voice of Marie herself, whose silver tones had fluttered so many hearts to their undoing; whose radiant beauty and light spirits had given rise to such dark intrigues. The gentlemen, obeying the merry summons, streamed into the saloon, and were soon bowing, with bent spines and squared elbows, over the tiny cups of coffee, which, as her wont was, she distributed with her own hands. The king was not present, for he abhorred gambling and late hours, and on the soirées intimes of his consort invariably sought refuge in his study.
"Louise de Savoye," commanded the queen in mock tragic tones, "hand round the cakes. Perform your office of mistress of the household. From your fair fingers they will taste all the sweeter."
"Promise, then, not to talk of the horrid tiers état," 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."
"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 Brèze might pay expenses, and, like Peter the Hermit, rally the avenging force. Old de Brèze 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.
"This is too good!" cried the queen in glee, drawing her friend towards her to imprint a kiss upon her brow. "You naughty, wayward girl! You are wicked and tempt Providence. A blush and something like a tear--ay, and a sigh, from the bosom of Gabrielle, Marquise de Gange--the only woman in the country who has any money--the most beautiful girl in France, whose wonderful complexion has gained for her the sobriquet of 'the Lily.' Yes, you are, and I admit it without envy. Blessed with a passable husband and two lovely babes, and an admirable mother and a doting father! Fie! You are ungrateful, but we must not see you punished."
Marie Antoinette's enjoyment increased as she poured forth her raillery, and marked the confusion of the marquise.
"Monsieur de Gange. Descend to earth and come into court!" she cried. "Confess! What have you done to Gabrielle? Have you lost heavily at cards? No? You are jealous that her name should be the toast on every lip? No? You are put out because she understands nothing of the philosopher's stone? Not even that? I give it up. Fortune has spoiled you, child. As Figaro says, 'Qu'avez vous fait pour tants de biens? Vous vous êtes donnée la peine de naître--rien de plus!'"
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