"Speak so. What is to be done?"
"Nothing."
"What?" cried she, emboldened by the protest from among the gold-laced coat and gold-hilted sword wearers, "nothing? do you, a Lorraine prince, tell this to the Queen of France when the people are killing and burning?"
A fresh murmur, this time approbative, hailed her speech. She turned, embraced all the gathering with flaring eyes, and tried to distinguish whose flamed the most brightly, thinking they would be the most loyal.
"Do nothing," repeated the prince, "for the Parisians will cool down if not irritated—they are warlike only when teased. Why give them the honors of a war and the risks of a battle? Keep tranquil, and in three days Paris will not talk about the matter."
"But the Bastile?"
"Shut the doors and trap all those who are inside."
Some laughs sounded among the groups.
"Take care, prince," said the lady; "now you are going to the other extreme, and too much encouraging me."
With a thoughtful mien, she went over to where her favorite, the Countess of Polignac, was in a brown study on a lounge. The news had frightened the lady; she smiled only when the Queen stood before her and that was a faint and sickly smile like a wilted lily.