As M. Bertrand had grandchildren, he could well appreciate the pleasure of the queen at an incident which closed one of his audiences.  While he was thus receiving her commands, the little dauphin, “beautiful as an angel,” as the minister describes him, was capering about the room in high delight, brandishing a wooden sword, a new toy which had just been given him.  An attendant called him to go to supper; and he bounded toward the door.  “How is this, my boy?” said Marie Antoinette, calling him back; “are you going off without making M. Bertrand a bow?” “Oh, mamma,” said the little prince, still skipping about, and smiling, “that is because I know well that M. Bertrand is one of our friends....  Good-evening, M. Bertrand.”  “Is not he a nice child?[10]” said the queen, after he had left the room.  “He is very happy to be so young.  He does not feel what we suffer, and his gayety does us good.”  Alas! that which was now perhaps her only pleasure—­the contemplation of her child’s opening grace and amiability—­before long became even an addition to her affliction, as the probabilities increased that the madness of the people and the wickedness of their leaders would deprive him of the inheritance, to preserve which to him was the principal object of all her cares and exertions.

But these moments of gratification were becoming fewer as time went on.  Each month, each week brought fresh and increasing anxieties to engross all her thoughts.  As the Girondin leaders began to feel their strength, the votes of the Assembly became more violent.  One day it passed a fresh decree against the priests, depriving all who refused to take the oath to the new ecclesiastical constitution of the stipends for which their former preferments had been commuted, placing them under strict supervision, and declaring them liable to instant banishment if they should venture to exercise their functions in private.  Another day it vented its wrath upon the emigrants, summoning the Count de Provence by name to return at once to France; and, with respect to the rest of the body, now very numerous, declaring their conduct in being assembled on the frontier of the kingdom in a state of readiness for war in itself an act of treason; and condemning to death and confiscation of their estates all who should fail to return to their native land before a stated day.

But in these decrees the advocates of violence had for the moment gone too far—­they had outrun the feelings of the nation.  The emigrants, indeed, neither deserved nor found sympathy in any quarter.  The main body of them was at this time settled at Coblentz, where their conduct was such that it is hard to say whether it were more offensive to their country, more injurious to their king, or more discreditable to themselves.  They could not even act in harmony.  The king’s two brothers established rival courts, with a mistress at the head of each.  Madame de Balbi still ruled the Count de Provence; Madame de