"I stood at the head of the stairway, your majesty, awaiting her highness's return. For a while all was silent; then I heard a piercing shriek and I hastened to the vault—"
"Was it my child?" asked the empress, now as rigid as a marble statue.
"Yes, your majesty. I found her highness kneeling, with her head resting upon the tomb of the emperor."
"Insensible?"
"No, your majesty. I approached and found her icy cold, her eyes dilated, and her face covered with drops of cold sweat. She was scarcely able to speak, but in broken accents she related to me that, as she was making her way toward the altar at the head of the emperor's tomb, she suddenly became sensible that something was holding her back. Horror-stricken, she strove to fly, but could not. When, as she turned her head, she beheld the coffin of the Empress Josepha, and saw that from thence came the power that held her back. With a shriek she bounded forward, and fell at the foot of the emperor's tomb. I supported her until we reached the chapel—door, when she fainted, and I had to call for help to bear her to her carriage."
"And now?" asked the empress, who was weeping bitterly.
"She is still unconscious, your majesty. Herr van Swieten and the emperor are at her bedside."
"And I," cried the unhappy empress, "I, too, must be with my poor, martyred child."
Marie Antoinette would have followed, but her mother bade her remain, and hastening from the room, Maria Theresa ran breathless through the corridors until she reached her daughter's apartments.
There, like a crushed lily, lay the fair bride of Naples, while near her stood her brother in speechless grief. At the foot of the bed Van Swieten and one of the maids of honor were rubbing her white feet with stimulants.