The presentation began. Forth in their high-heeled shoes came the noble-born widows, who, old and faded, were loath to forget that in the days of the regency they had been blooming like the queen, and who, in happy ignorance of their crow's feet and wrinkles, were decked in the self-same costumes which had once set off their roses and dimples.
It was a ludicrous sight—these ugly old women, with their jewels and patches, their extraordinary head-dresses and their deep, courtesies, painful by reason of the aching bones of three-score and ten. The young princesses dared not raise their eyes to these representatives of by-gone coquetry, for they were afraid to commit a crime—they were afraid that they might laugh. But the ladies of honor, safe behind the hoops of the queen and her sisters-in-law made merry over the magnificent old ruins. Madame de Noailles was so busy with the front, that she overlooked the rear, where the lively young Marquise de Charente Tounerre, tired of standing, had glided down and seated herself comfortably on the floor. Neither could she see that the marquise, in the exuberance of her youthful spirits, was pulling the other ladies by their skirts, and amusing them with mimicry of the venerable coquettes before mentioned; so that while etiquette and ceremony were parading their ugliness in front of the throne, behind it, youth and beauty were tittering and enjoying the absurd pageant in utter thoughtlessness of all consequences.
The mistress of ceremonies was in the act of presenting one of the most shrivelled and most elaborately dressed of the ancients, when the queen, attracted by the whispering behind, turned her head in the direction of her ladies of honor. There on the floor, sat the Marquise de Charente Tounerre, imitating every gesture of the old comtesse; while the others, including the princesses themselves, were pursing up their lips, and smothering their laughter behind handkerchiefs and fans. The drolleries of the marquise were too much for the queen. She turned away in terror, lest they should infect her with untimely levity, and just at that moment the comtesse made precisely such a courtesy as the marquise was making behind her.
Marie Antoinette felt that her dignity was departing. She straggled to recall it, but in vain; and instead of the stately inclination which it was her duty to return, she suddenly opened her fan to hide the mirth which she was unable to control.
The gesture was seen not only by the austere mistress of ceremonies, but by the comtesse herself, who, furious at the insult, looked daggers at the queen, and omitting her third courtesy, swept indignantly to her place.
A short pause ensued. Madame de Noailles was so shocked that she forgot to give the signal for another presentation. The queen's face was still buried under her fan, and the princesses had followed her example. Discontent was manifest upon the countenances of all present, and the lady whose turn it was to advance did so with visible reluctance.
Marie Antoinette recovered her self-possession, and looked with perfect serenity toward the high and mighty duchess, whose titles were being pompously enumerated by the punctilious mistress of ceremonies. As ill luck would have it, this one was older, uglier, and more strangely bedizened than all the others together. The queen felt a spasmodic twitch of her face; she colored violently, and opening her fan again, it was evident to all that assemblage of censorious dames that for the second time youth and animal spirits had prevailed over decorum.
In vain Marie Antoinette sought to repair the contretemps. In vain she went among them with her sweetest smiles and most gracious words. Their outraged grandeur was not to be appeased—she had offended beyond forgiveness.
The Areopagus sent forth its fist. The queen was a frivolous woman; she had that worst of failings—a taste for satire. She despised all conventionalities, and trampled all etiquette under foot.
On that day the number of her enemies was increased by more than a hundred persons, who attacked her with tongues sharper than two-edged swords. The first thrust was given her on the morning that followed the reception; and the same people who a few days before had been singing her praises on the Pont-neuf, were equally, if not better pleased with the ballad of "La Reine moqueuse," of which the cruel refrain was as follows: