Poor Marie Antoinette! She felt her courage leaving her—she must be rid of this fearful band of viragos at any price. She would faint if she stood there much longer.
Again the loud cry. "Promise us a dauphin, a dauphin, a dauphin!"
"I promise," at last replied the queen. "Now, madame, in mercy, let me have entrance to my own rooms."
The woman stepped back, the queen passed away, and behind her the people shouted out in every conceivable tone of voice, "She has promised. The queen has promised a dauphin!"
Marie Antoinette walked hurriedly forward through the first anteroom where her footman waited, to the second wherein her ladies of honor were assembled.
Without a word to any of them she darted across the room and opening the door of her cabinet, threw herself into an arm-chair and sobbed aloud. No one was there excepting Madame de Campan.
"Campan," said she, while tears were streaming down her cheeks, "shut the door, close the portiere. Let no one witness the sorrow of the Queen of France."
With a passionate gesture, she buried her face in her hands and wept aloud.
After a while she raised her tearful eyes and they rested upon Madame de Campan, who was kneeling before her with an expression of sincerest sympathy.
"Oh, Campan, what humiliation I have endured today! The poorest woman on the street is more fortunate than I; and if she bears a child upon her arm, she can look down with compassion upon the lonely Queen of France,—that queen upon whose marriage the blessing of God does not rest; for she has neither husband nor child."