She passed out, in vexation, leaving Gilbert in stupor. By her fiery breath she had blown aside a corner of the veil beyond which simmered the hell-broth of the Anti-Revolution.
"Let us look to ourselves," thought Gilbert, "the Queen is nursing a scheme."
"Plainly nothing can be done with this man," muttered the sovereign, regaining her rooms. "He is a strong one, but he lacks devotion."
Poor princess, to whom servility is thought to be devotion!
Marie Antoinette felt the weight upon her most when alone.
As woman and queen, she had nothing to lean upon or help her support the crushing burden.
Doubt or wavering was on either hand. Uneasy about their fortune, the sycophants fled. Her relatives and friends brooded on exile. The proudest of all, Andrea, gradually drew aside from her, body and soul.
The noblest and dearest man of all, Charny, was wounded by her fickleness and was a prey to doubt.
She who was instinct and sagacity themselves, was fretted by the crisis.
"This pure, unalloyed heart has not changed, but it is changing," she reasoned.