“Living,” said he, “at this distance from the place of events which succeed each other with such strange rapidity, we can scarcely judge of any thing.  But, if the king would rely more on his peasantry and less on his populace, and more on his army than either, he might be king of France still.”

“True!—­true!” was the general acclamation.

“He should have clung to his noblesse, like Henri Quatre,” said a duke.

“He should have made common cause with his clergy,” said a prelate, with the physiognomy of one of Titian’s cardinals.

“Any thing but the Tiers Etat,” was uttered by all, with a general voice of horror.

“My letters of this evening,” said Mordecai, “tell me that the fete at Versailles has had dangerous consequences.”

“Ciel!” exclaimed a remarkably handsome woman of middle age, with the “air noble” in every feature.  “Pardon me, it must be an error.  I was present.  It was the most brilliant of all possible reunions.  It was a pledge to the salvation of France.  I hear the sound of ’Richard, O mon Roi!’ in my ear at this moment.  When, oh when, shall I hear it again!” She burst into a passion of tears.

The name was electric.  All began that very charming air at the moment.  Sobs and sighs stole in between the pauses of the harmony.  Their rich and practised voices gave it the sweetness and solemnity of a hymn.  Fine eyes were lifted to heaven; fine faces were buried in their clasped hands; and the whole finished like the subsidence of a prayer.

But madame la duchesse was full of her subject, and we were full of curiosity.  We implored her to give us some idea of a scene, of which all Europe was thinking and talking.  She required no importunity, but told her tale with the majesty of a Clairon.  It was at first all exclamation.  “O my king!—­O my unhappy but noble queen!—­O my beloved but noble France! O Richard!  O mon Roi!—­Le monde vous abandonne!” She again wept, and we again sympathized.

“For weeks,” said she, “we had been tortured at Versailles with reports from the capital.  We lived in a perpetual fever.  The fury of the populace was terrible.  The wretches who inflamed it constantly threatened to lead the armed multitude to the palace.  We were almost without defence.  The ministers could not be prevailed on to order the advance of the troops, and we felt our lives from hour to hour dependent on chance.”

“It was my month of waiting as lady of honour.  I found the queen always firm; or, if she ever trembled, it was at the want of firmness in others.  She had made up her mind for the worst long before.  She often said to me, in those revolutionary nights when we sat listening for the sound of the cannon or the tocsin from Paris—­’France is an abyss, in which the throne must sink.  But sovereigns may be undone—­they must not be disgraced.’  The world never possessed a more royal mind.