“Really, Philippe, I do not understand you. Is it a crime to love? It shows that one has a heart; and in the eyes of this woman, in her voice, in everything, can you not read her heart? She loves; is it you? or is it another? I know not, but believe in my own experience: at this moment she loves, or is beginning to love, some one. But you are a philosopher, a Puritan, a Quaker, an American; you do not love; well, then, let her look; let her turn again and again; despise her, Philippe, I should say Joseph de Taverney.”
The old man hurried away, satisfied with the effect he had produced, and fled like the serpent who was the first tempter into crime.
Philippe remained alone, his heart swelling and his blood boiling. He remained fixed in his place for about half an hour, when the queen, having finished her tour, returned to where he stood, and called out to him:
“You must be rested now, M. de Taverney; come, then, for there is no one like you to guide a queen royally.”
Philippe ran to her, giddy, and hardly knowing what he did. He placed his hand on the back of the sledge, but started as though he had burned his fingers; the queen had thrown herself negligently back in the sledge, and the fingers of the young man touched the locks of Marie Antoinette.
CHAPTER XI.
M. DE SUFFREN.
Contrary to the usual habits of a court, the secret had been faithfully confined to Louis XVI. and the Comte d’Artois. No one knew at what time or hour M. de Suffren would arrive.
The king had announced his jeu du roi for the evening; and at seven o’clock he entered, with ten princes and princesses of his family. The queen came holding the princess royal, now about seven years old, by the hand. The assembly was numerous and brilliant. The Comte d’Artois approached the queen, and said, “Look around you, madame.”
“Well?”
“What do you see?”