It may be supposed that the Parisians were much entertained with this answer.

The Queen was exceedingly mortified at the mistakes made by her brother; but what hurt her most was being accused of preserving an Austrian heart.  Marie Antoinette had more than once to endure that imputation during the long course of her misfortunes.  Habit did not stop the tears such injustice caused; but the first time she was suspected of not loving France, she gave way to her indignation.  All that she could say on the subject was useless; by seconding the pretensions of the Archduke she had put arms into her enemies’ hands; they were labouring to deprive her of the love of the people, and endeavoured, by all possible means, to spread a belief that the Queen sighed for Germany, and preferred that country to France.

Marie Antoinette had none but herself to rely on for preserving the fickle smiles of the Court and the public.  The King, too indifferent to serve her as a guide, as yet had conceived no love for her, notwithstanding the intimacy that grew between them at Choisy.  In his closet Louis XVI. was immersed in deep study.  At the Council he was busied with the welfare of his people; hunting and mechanical occupations engrossed his leisure moments, and he never thought on the subject of an heir.

The coronation took place at Rheims, with all the accustomed pomp.  At this period the people’s love for Louis XVI. burst forth in transports not to be mistaken for party demonstrations or idle curiosity.  He replied to this enthusiasm by marks of confidence, worthy of a people happy in being governed by a good King; he took a pleasure in repeatedly walking without guards, in the midst of the crowd which pressed around him, and called down blessings on his head.  I remarked the impression made at this time by an observation of Louis XVI.  On the day of his coronation he put his hand up to his head, at the moment of the crown being placed upon it, and said, “It pinches me.”  Henri III. had exclaimed, “It pricks me.”  Those who were near the King were struck with the similarity between these two exclamations, though not of a class likely to be blinded by the superstitious fears of ignorance.

While the Queen, neglected as she was, could not even hope for the happiness of being a mother, she had the mortification of seeing the Comtesse d’Artois give birth to the Duc d’Angouleme.

Custom required that the royal family and the whole Court should be present at the accouchement of the Princesses; the Queen was therefore obliged to stay a whole day in her sister-in-law’s chamber.  The moment the Comtesse d’Artois was informed a prince was born, she put her hand to her forehead and exclaimed with energy, “My God, how happy I am!” The Queen felt very differently at this involuntary and natural exclamation.  Nevertheless, her behaviour was perfect.  She bestowed all possible marks of tenderness upon the young mother, and would