Bœhmer drew out a pocket-book, and in his turn produced a letter. “I do not believe,” said he, “that if your majesty had wished to return the necklace, you would have written this.”
“I write! I never wrote to you; that is not my writing.”
“It is signed,” said Bœhmer.
“Yes, ‘Marie Antoinette of France.’ You are mad! Do you think that is the way I sign? I am of Austria. Go, M. Bœhmer; you have played this game unskilfully; your forgers have not understood their work.”
“My forgers!” cried the poor Bœhmer, ready to faint at this new blow. “You suspect me?”
“You accuse me, Marie Antoinette?” replied she.
“But this letter?”
“This receipt? Give it me back, and take your letter; the first lawyer you ask will tell you how much that is worth.” And taking the receipt from his trembling hands, and throwing the letter indignantly down, she left the room.
The unfortunate man ran to communicate this dreadful blow to his partner, who was waiting in the carriage for him; and on their way home their gestures and cries of grief were so frantic as to attract the attention of every passer-by. At last they decided to return to Versailles.
Immediately they presented themselves they were admitted by the order of the queen.