"Yes, madame, I do," he answered softly, and with a touch of sadness. "I am only sorry that you have had to wait so long, but it is not my fault. It was striking eight from the tower of St. Jacques when I received the news."

"Eight," asked Madame de Campan, looking at the clock, "it is now scarcely nine. You do not mean to say that you have ridden the eighteen miles from Paris to Versailles in an hour?"

"I have done it, and I a.s.sure you that is nothing wonderful. I had four fresh horses stationed along the road, and they were good ones.

I fancied myself sometimes a bird flying through the air, and it seems to me now as if I had flown. I beg your pardon if I sit down in your presence, for my feet tremble a little."

"Do sit down, my dear young friend," cried Campan, and she hastened herself to place an easy-chair for the young man.

"Only an instant," he said, sinking into it. "But believe me it is not the quick ride that makes my feet tremble, but joy and excitement. I shall perhaps have the pleasure to have done the queen a little service, for you told me that it would be very important for her majesty to learn the verdict as quickly as possible, and no one has got here before me, has there?"

"No, my friend, the queen will learn the news first through your means, and I shall say to her majesty that I have learned it through you."

"No, madame," he cried, quickly, "no, I would much rather you would not tell the queen, for who knows whether the news is good, or whether it would not trouble the n.o.ble heart of the queen, and then my name, if she should learn it, would only be disagreeable to her-- rather that she should never hear it than that it should be connected with unpleasant a.s.sociations to her."

"Then you do not know what the sentence is?" replied Campan, astonished. "Have you come to bring me the sentence, and yet do not know yourself what it is?"

"I do not know what it is, madame. The councillor, the father of my sweetheart, has sent it by me in writing, and I have not allowed myself to take time to read it. Perhaps, too, I was too cowardly for it, for if I had seen that it contained any thing that would trouble the queen, I should not have had courage to come here and deliver the paper to you. So I did not read it, and thought only of this, that I might perhaps save the queen a quarter of an hour's disquiet and anxious expectation. Here, madame, is the paper which contains the sentence. Take it to her majesty, and may the G.o.d of justice grant that it contain nothing which may trouble the queen!"

He stood up, and handed Madame de Campan a paper. "And now, madame,"

he continued, "allow me to retire, that I may return to Paris, for my sweetheart is expecting me, and, besides, they are expecting some disturbance in the city. I must go, therefore, to protect my house."

"Go, my young friend," said Madame de Campan, warmly pressing his hand. "Receive my heartiest thanks for your devotion, and be sure the queen shall hear of it. farewell, farewell!"

"No," cried Marie Antoinette, emerging from behind the screen with a laugh, "no, do not go, sir! Remain to receive your queen's thanks for the disinterested zeal which you have displayed for me this day."

"The queen!" whispered Toulan, turning pale, "the queen!"

And falling upon his knee he looked at the queen with such an expression of rapture and admiration that Marie Antoinette was touched.

"I have much to thank you for, Mr. Toulan," she said. "Not merely that you are the bearer of important news--I thank you besides for convincing me that the Queen of France has faithful and devoted friends, and to know this is so cheering to me that even if you bring me bad news, my sorrow will be softened by this knowledge. I thank you again, Mr. Toulan!"

Toulan perceived that the queen was dismissing him; he stood up and retreated to the door, his eyes fixed on the queen, and then, after opening the door, he sank, as it were, overcome by the storm of his emotions, a second time upon his knee, and folding his hands, raised his great, beaming eyes to heaven.

"G.o.d in heaven," he said loudly and solemnly, "I thank Thee for the joy of this hour. From this moment I devote myself to the service of my queen. She shall henceforth be the divinity whom I serve, and to whom I will, if I can avail any thing, freely offer my blood and life. This I swear, and G.o.d and the queen have heard my oath!"

And without casting another glance at the queen, without saluting her, Toulan rose and softly left the room, tightly closing the door after him.

"Singular," murmured the queen, "really singular. When he took the oath a shudder pa.s.sed through my soul, and something seemed to say to me that I should some time be very unhappy, and that this young man should then be near me."

"Your majesty is excited to-day, and so every thing seems to have a sad meaning," said Madame de Campan, softly.

"But the sentence, the sentence!" cried the queen. "Give me the paper, I will read it myself."

Madame de Campan hesitated. "Would your majesty not prefer to receive it in the presence of the king, and have it read by his majesty?"

"No, no, Campan. If it is favorable, I shall have pleasure in carrying the good news to the king. If it is unfavorable, then I can collect myself before I see him."

"But it is so dark here now that it will be impossible to read writing."

"You are right, let us go into my sitting-room," said the queen.

"The candles must be lighted there already. Come, Campan, since I am indebted to you for this early message, you shall be the first to learn it. Come, Campan, go with me!"

With a quick step the queen returned to her apartments, and entered her sitting-room, followed by Madame de Campan, whose countenance was filled with sad forebodings. The queen was right; the candles had already been lighted in her apartments, and diffused a light like that of day throughout her large sitting-room. In the little porcelain cabinet, however, there was a milder light, as Marie Antoinette liked to have it when she was alone and sans ceremonial.

The candles on the main chandelier were not lighted, and on the table of Sevres china and rosewood which stood before the divan were two silver candlesticks, each with two wax candles. These four were the only lights in the apartment.

"Now, Campan," said the queen, sinking into the armchair which stood before the table, near the divan, "now give me the paper. But no, you would better read it to me--but exactly as it stands. You promise me that?"

"Your majesty has commanded, and I must obey," said Campan, bowing.

"Read, read," urged Marie Antoinette. "Let me know the sentence."

Madame de Campan unfolded the paper, and went nearer to the light in order to see better. Marie Antoinette leaned forward, folded both hands in her lap, and looked at Campan with an expression of eager expectation.

"Read, read!" she repeated, with trembling lips. Madame de Campan bowed and read:

"First.--The writing, the basis of the trial, the note and signatures, are declared to be forged in imitation of the queen's hand.

"Second.--Count Lamotte is sentenced in contumacion to the galleys for life.

"Third.--The woman Lamotte to be whipped, marked on both shoulders with the letter O, and to be confined for life.

"Fourth.--Retaux de Vilette to be banished for life from France.

"Fifth.--Mademoiselle Oliva is discharged.

"Sixth.--The lord cardinal--"

"Well," cried the queen, pa.s.sionately, "why do you stammer, why do you tremble? He has been discharged; I know it already, for we are already at the names of the acquitted. Read on, Campan."

And Madame de Campan read on:

"The lord cardinal is acquitted from every charge, and is allowed to publish this acquittal."

"Acquitted!" cried the queen, springing from her seat, "acquitted!

Oh, Campan, what I feared is true. The Queen of France has become the victim of cabals and intrigues. The Queen of France in her honor, dignity, and virtue, is injured and wounded by one of her own subjects, and there is no punishment for him; he is free. Pity me, Campan! But no, on the contrary, I pity you, I pity France! If I can have no impartial judges in a matter which darkens my character, what can you, what can all others hope for, when you are tried in a matter which touches your happiness and honor? [Footnote: The very words of the queen See "Memoires de Madame de Campan," vol. ii., o.

23.] I am sad, sad in my inmost soul, and it seems to me as if this instant were to overshadow my whole life; as if the shades of night had fallen upon me, and--what is that? Did you blow out the light, Campan?"

"Your majesty sees that I am standing entirely away from the lights."

"But only see," cried the queen, "one of the candles is put out!"

"It is true," said Madame de Campan, looking at the light, over which a bluish cloud was yet hovering. "The light is put out, but if your majesty allows me, I--"

She was silent, and her bearing a.s.sumed the appearance of amazement and horror.

The candle which had been burning in the other arm of the candlestick went out like the one before.

The queen said not a word. She gazed with pale lips and wide-opened eyes at both the lights, the last spark of which had just disappeared.