“Coming to my senses.”

“All that we shall hear about when the king sees you.”

“I knew your picture on the snuffbox.”

“What snuffbox?”

“The one in the queen’s jewel-case.”

“Where did you find that jewel-case?”

“Do you remember the Marquis du Plessy?”

“Yes.  A lukewarm loyalist, if loyalist at all in these times.”

“My best friend.”

“I will say for him that he was not among the first emigres.  If the first emigres had stayed at home and helped their king, they might have prevented the Terror.”

“The Marquis du Plessy stayed after the Tuileries was sacked.  He found the queen’s jewel-case, and saved it from confiscation to the state.”

“Where did he find it?  Did you recognize the faces?”

“Oh, instantly!”

The door opened, deferring any story, for that noble usher who had brought me to the presence of Marie-Therese stood there, ready to conduct us to the king.

My sister rose and I led her by the hand, she going confidently to return the dauphin to his family, and the dauphin going like a fool.  Seeing Skenedonk standing by the door, I must stop and fit the key to the lock of the queen’s casket, and throw the lid back to show her proofs given me by one who believed in me in spite of himself.  The snuffbox and two bags of coin were gone, I saw with consternation, but the princess recognized so many things that she missed nothing, controlling herself as her touch moved from trinket to trinket that her mother had worn.

“Bring this before the king,” she said.  And we took it with us, the noble in blue coat and red collar carrying it.

“His Majesty,” Marie-Therese told me as we passed along a corridor, “tries to preserve the etiquette of a court in our exile.  But we are paupers, Louis.  And mocking our poverty, Bonaparte makes overtures to him to sell the right of the Bourbons to the throne of France!”

She had not yet adjusted her mind to the fact that Louis XVIII was no longer the one to be treated with by Bonaparte or any other potentate, and the pretender leading her smiled like the boy of twenty that he was.

“Napoleon can have no peace while a Bourbon in the line of succession lives.”

“Oh, remember the Duke d’Enghien!” she whispered.

Then the door of a lofty but narrow cabinet, lighted with many candles, was opened, and I saw at the farther end a portly gentleman seated in an arm-chair.

A few gentlemen and two ladies in waiting, besides Mademoiselle de Choisy, attended.

Louis XVIII rose from his seat as my sister made a deep obeisance to him, and took her hand and kissed it.  At once, moved by some singular maternal impulse, perhaps, for she was half a dozen years my senior, as a mother would whimsically decorate her child, Marie-Therese took the half circlet of gems from the casket, reached up, and set it on my head.