The Maid of Honour: A Tale of the Dark Days of France. Volume 1 of 3. Wingfield Lewis

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!'"

      The marquis made a low bow and contemplated his fair wife with a moonlit kind of satisfaction, but answered nothing.

      "He disdains to plead!" laughed Madame de Lamballe.

      "Guilty or not guilty-say!" cried Marie Antoinette. "Dumb? Maréchal de Brèze! we surrender to you the prisoner that you may investigate and do your duty. We have respectful confidence in that strange phenomenon, a rich man, at a time when all others are paupers. Look after Gabrielle, Mr. Money-bag! Shield her from a designing husband who, I begin to believe, conceals the raffish vices of a rake under the mask of recondite erudition."

      The Marquise de Gange was unnecessarily perturbed by the lively sally, and tapped her wooden heel upon the floor.

      "Alack, madam!" declared the marquis, compelled to speak, "I regret to be so unmodish as to have few of the fashionable vices. Instead of pleading in my own behalf, I would, if I dared, take up the cudgels for another. Doctor Mesmer-"

      "The arch charlatan!" exclaimed the queen, raising both hands in protest.

      "Not so. Others have aped his ways; have draped themselves in tawdry frippery which bore some semblance to his robes. In spite of calumny, and persecution, and fraudulent imitation and roguish arts, the master remains the master still, although he be unjustly banished by those whom he has benefited."

      "The statue has come to life!" tittered Madame de Lamballe. "Cagliostro was unmasked as a cheat, so the one who went before wisely shook off his dust at him. Let us all agree to be convinced that Mesmer is a persecuted saint. We have the marquis's word for it. Let us have Mesmer back at once from banishment. Perchance he will employ his occult essences to calm the Parisian mob!"

      "The king will not permit him to return to France," the queen said doubtfully; "yet as an empiric he was fascinating."

      "When your majesty deigns to say I am in cloudland," remarked the marquis, with a high-bred courtesy, in which was a tinge of scorn, "you will understand that my spirit is on earth-at Spa-the refuge in exile of the master."

      "I see it all!" said Madame de Lamballe, flourishing her fan. "It is Gabrielle who is jealous-and of Mesmer! What singular complications are produced by mystical alliances. A husband has a lovely wife, for whom everyone else is sighing, and is no whit jealous of her because he is an absorbed neophyte at the fount of wisdom. The prophet usurps his soul and his will. Where is the poor wife then?"

      "What cruel things are said in jest!" Gabrielle cried hotly, breaking her silence at last. "I am not unhappy; and if I were, it would be no one's concern but mine. I care no sou for Mesmer or Cagliostro, or any of the conjuring rout. Jealous of such creatures-faugh!"

      A shrunken dame who had been slumbering in a corner awoke with a start, and guiltily conscious of a nap, became garrulous in a weak piping treble like the irresponsible murmur of a rivulet.

      "Your majesty is misinformed," she