"I wish so, too," sighed Marie Antoinette, to herself; but softly as she had spoken the words, the sensitive ear of the child had caught them.
"You, too, want to go?" asked Louis Charles, in amazement. "Are you not queen now, and can you not do what you want to?"
The queen, pierced to the very heart by the innocent question of the child, burst into tears.
"My prince," said the Abbe Davout, turning to the dauphin, "you see that you trouble the queen, and her majesty needs rest. Come, we will take a walk."
But Marie Antoinette put both her arms around the child and pressed its head with its light locks to her breast.
"No," she said, "no, he does not trouble me. Let me weep. Tears do me good. One is only unfortunate when she can no longer weep; when— but what is that?" she eagerly asked, rising from her easy-chair. "What does that noise mean?"
And in very fact in the street there were loud shouting and crying, and intermingled curses and threats.
"Mamma," cried the dauphin, nestling close up to the queen, "is to- day going to be just like yesterday?" [Footnote: The very words of the dauphin.—See Beauchesne, vol. i.]
The door was hastily opened, and the king entered.
"Sire," asked Marie, eagerly advancing toward him, "are they going to renew the dreadful scenes of yesterday?"