pleasures and country freedom had been satisfied. If only she could fly to that beloved spot away from this horrible smell of blood, what happiness it would be to her jaded spirits! Only to think of it afforded her a dim pleasure overcoming the inevitable bitterness of the recollection.
Yes; it was the Petit Trianon which of all places in France she loved best. The bare memory of its trees and grass and cool shadows brought a little refreshment. It was there that she had always found a reprieve from the stately formalities of Versailles and that she had been able to unqueen herself and be on an equality with her friends. But was there no pang as she realised with fresh point that the King had just been deposed, and that she, by the voice of the only authority at present recognised in the country, was no longer Queen of France? That favourite pastime of pretending to be no queen in the privacy of Trianon had been a dangerous game! Marie Antoinette had not attempted to be on an equality with the old haute noblesse whose absence at this moment was so deplorable. Such familiarity would have lowered them in
