have who never witnessed this spectacle! Well, all must admit it was worth losing a few hours' sleep to behold it!" These, and similar expressions of admiration, were eagerly re-echoed by the whole party; albeit, if we were to let the reader into a secret, we could tell him that many a one was present, who, had such been the fashion of the moment, would have coincided in the opinion of Louis XVI., namely, "that night was made for sleep," rather than in that of his queen, who loved

"To range th' empurpled mead, Where shepherds pipe, and virgins dance around,

To wander through the woodbine's fragrant shade,

To hear the music of the grove resound."

The queen's rapturous exclamations were all at once interrupted by sounds of merriment and joyous laughter, which at first came to them from a distance, but were now gradually approaching

nearer.

"See there!" cried Marie Antoinette, whose quick eye was the first to discover whence the bustle proceeded.

"See there!" and the queen pointed to a group of village youths and maidens, who were advancing towards the height where the royal party were assembled.

The merry group had nearly reached the eminence, as the queen made a sign that their approach should not be interrupted by the guards. The foremost of the party was a young girl, attired in her village holiday costume, with her short crimson petticoat, and her stiff, high-crowned cap, with its blue lining, infinitely becoming to her pretty round face, sparkling eyes, and brilliant complexion. As they approached, and by degrees caught a glimpse of the party, the sounds of merriment gradually died away, until at length they ceased altogether. The group then clustering together, seemed to deliberate as to the propriety of advancing or of receding; a signal from the queen, however, at once determined their purpose. The little village maiden already mentioned stepped forward, and dropping her quick, though respectful curtsey, awaited, with downcast eyes and heightened colour, the nearer approach of the royal party.

The mountain must here go to the

mouse," observed the Duke d'Ayen, perceiving the queen move forward.

All who have ever seen this loveliest of queens, have unanimously declared that she possessed in a most powerful degree that fascinating attraction of manner that cannot fail, in any rank of life, to be universally felt and acknowledged. Every action of Marie Antoinette's was full of grace; to every word she uttered, her manner lent an affability, a charm so irresistible, that she never failed to captivate all who approached her. And to these manners, alas! may perhaps be attributed some of her misfortunes; for such powers of pleasing are seldom proof against the invidiousness of the world ; and how much sooner does malignity attack individuals in her exalted station, than those of inferior rank, who are consequently so much less exposed, though none can move free from the shaft of malice or envy? Marie Antoinette, with a smiling countenance, and her usual benignity of manner, inquired of the young maiden what had induced her and her companions to wander forth thus early.

"We are going, madam," she replied, "to my sister, who lives two leagues off; her baby is to be christened to-day, and I am its god-mother."

"And who is your sister?'

"Claudine is the wife of a gardener, named Jean Villaret, the Rosière of Meudon last year."

"And what is your name, my pretty damsel?" asked Marie Antoinette.

"Fanchette, madam; my father is one of the under-gamekeepers of the château."

"And have you got a lover, Fanchette?" asked the Count de Vaudreuil, hoping to amuse the queen by the girl's embarrassment.

"Who has not, sir?" was the reply, whilst with brightened colour she glanced timidly towards a good-looking youth, who stood a little in the rear, busily twirling his hat.

"And why do you not marry him?” asked the queen, cheerfully.

"I have no dot, madam, and he is poor; besides, my father wishes me to marry an old man

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Whom, of course, you detest," rejoined Vaudreuil.

"Oh! no, sir; for he is good and

"Your ladyship is very good," said Fanchette, curtseying timidly," but we should gain nothing, for M. Richard is an austere man, and one that I know would not even oblige the king."

This intimation was received with a smile by the party.

"Let us see if he would be so ungallant as to refuse to oblige the queen," exclaimed the Count d'Artois.

"The queen, sir!" cried Fanchette, evidently much alarmed: then, suddenly recollecting herself, she fell at Marie Antoinette's feet. "Oh! my lady, if you are indeed the queen, pray, pray boldness! I did not know". "Do not be alarmed, my girl!" said Marie Antoinette, kindly raising her. "Let us see if we cannot prevail upon M. Richard to do something for you and Auguste!"

forgive my

A messenger was despatched for M. Richard, and that formidable person, who would not even oblige the king, instantly acceded to the wishes of her majesty. Marie Antoinette promising Fanchette that she should shortly hear from her again, proceeded to her carriage, and the party returned to Versailles delighted with their morning's

excursion.

On Marie Antoinette's return to the Trianon, her first care was to ac

quaint the Countess de Noailles with the unfortunate passion of the Abbess de Montmartre.

"Your majesty surely jests!" cried the astonished lady of honour, when the queen had concluded.

Marie Antoinette assured her of the contrary, adding that she even feared age must have somewhat impaired the intellects of Madame de Laval-Montmorency. After some deliberation it was agreed that, as a friendship of forty-five years' duration gave Madame de Noailles the right at least of expostulating with her friend, she would, as the most delicate mode of proceeding, repair instantly to the convent, and have some explanation with the abbess. Having kissed the queen's hand, the countess entered her carriage, and drove to Montmartre at the utmost speed of her four horses.

Madame de Laval-Montmorency was seated in her oratory, absorbed in deep meditation, at the moment the portress of the convent entered to announce the arrival of the queen's first lady of honour. The venerable abbess, raising her hands and eyes to heaven, ejaculated a few words, which might have given a bystander reason to believe that some signal mercy had been vouchsafed to her by the opportune visit of the Countess de Noailles. She signed to the portress to leave her, and, after having addressed a short, but pious orison to her patroness, Sainte Geneviève, she proceeded to the apartment appointed for the reception of visitors.

These two ladies united, as we have already stated, in the strictest bonds of friendship for upwards of forty-five years, had not been, as may be imagined, in the habit of meeting as merely casual acquaintance. A warm embrace, and reciprocal enquiries as to their respective states of health, was their ordinary mode of salutation; but these affectionate greetings seemed in the present instance to have given place to a cold, reserved, and distant manner; both seemed shy of offering the accustomed kiss; a restraint was visible on the countenances

of each. The abbess looked pale, and her swollen eyes betrayed that tears had lately flowed down her furrowed cheeks; while the heightened colour of the lady of honour piercing through her

rouge gave her countenance a fiery and angry appearance, that might well have created the surprise of an old friend.

Both ladies were, however, too wellbred to omit any of the numerous courtesies exigent to the strictest etiquette. After the first salutations had thus coldly passed, the conversation turned upon the queen, the court, the royal family. The name of Monsieur was at length ventured upon by the abbess, who, at the same time, fixed an enquiring eye upon the still glowing features of her visitor: the dame-d'honneur's reply was accompanied by an equally scrutinising glance. The Count de Provence was extolled as a prince of acknowledged merit-his talents were praised-his wit-his manners-his amiability descanted upon, in short all his perfections were brought to light. The abbess observed that such a character was lost in a court, that the prince would have done honour to the sacred calling, and that it was a thousand pities he had no vocation for it. The lady of honour enquired if her venerable friend did not aspire to lead him into the right way. The abbess replied, turning up her hands and eyes piously: "Not the prince only, but all other erring mortals, would I lead into the right path if it were given me so to do, for," she added, sighing, "the sin and wickedness of the world is beyond belief -the very air of the court is contamination."

"You think so?" interrupted Madame de Noailles.

"I do;" replied the abbess, adding, at the same time pointedly, "for age is not even exempt."

I should almost fear that this contagious air sometimes even penetrates the cloister," interrupted the lady of honour coldly.

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Holy St. Geneviève! pardon such impiety," cried the horrified nun, clasping her hands fervently together. "What! cast a stigma upon the cloister! Oh! my sister!" she continued, after a lengthened pause, "has corruption then so wholly entered your heart? Are you then so utterly lost that you no longer retain even your respect for that most sacred of all professions?

Where the teachers are no longer entitled to our respect," said Madame

"Certainly, madam, I agree with you," returned the abbess coldly, "where respect is lost for the teachers, the profession is no longer regarded in the same light. I admit the justice of your remark, but as your words seem to bear allusion to the deviation of a reverend character from the paths of rectitude, may I" and the old lady paused hesitatingly..

"The Abbess of Montmartre can scarcely be ignorant of the subject to which I allude," returned Madame de Noailles, stiffly. "My object here this morning, had my project not been defeated by the unusual coldness of my reception, was to endeavour to make the person, whom of all others I most respected and considered as my best friend, listen to-."

"Oh, my daughter!" interrupted the Abbess bitterly, at the same time rising, and nearly overpowered by her emotion, "blame not, I entreat you, my seeming want of perception; delicacy-delicacy alone, forbade my touching on the unfortunate circumstance, which besides was confided to me under the seal of secrecy, with the express condition, that unless you, yourself—.”

"Confided to you!" repeated Madame de Noailles, in a voice of astonishment; "What mean you?"

"I mean," replied the Abbess, in a subdued tone, "the unhappy affair relative to Monsieur."

"Oh!" returned Madame de Noailles, thoughtfully; "I imagined I had misunderstood you."

"You know not," pursued the Abbess, in a voice wherein dejection was apparent, "what my sufferings have been since the unfortunate discovery; but, thanks be to the saints, my intercessions have, I trust, been effectual. Oh! my friend! to have passed nearly the whole of one's allotted term free from the contagion of bad example, free from the whispers of malice, from the attacks of slander, whose envenomed tooth pierces even the fairest reputations; to have lived, in short, a saint, and then to fall off at the eleventh hour!" and the poor nun wrung her hands in agony, while the big tears chased each other down her

aged cheeks. "Oh!" she continued in broken accents, "broad is indeed the way, and straight the road, that leads to destruction; but," after a pause, and smiling faintly through her tears, "but," she cried, "thanks be to the holy saints, the right, though narrow path can yet be traced! Hope is not utterly lost-the open gate still lies before us, and we are invited to enter; repentance, repentance, ere it be too late." Again the nun paused, overcome by her emotion. Her friend offered a few words of consolation, which were received with a kind of vacant stare by the abbess, as though she understood them not.

"Can you tell," enquired Madame de Montmorency at length, "if this affair has come to the knowledge of the queen?" Madame de Noailles, unwilling to distress her friend more than she could absolutely avoid, replied:

"I think, indeed I am certain, the queen does know something of it: but let not that distress you; one is perfectly safe with her majesty. Neither the king nor Madame de Provence have heard a word of it."

"So much the better: and her majesty did refer to it with you?"

"Yes, it was even at the queen's instigation I came hither to speak to you: her majesty, aware that our friendship has not been one of brief duration, thought that an explanation between you and myself would be less painful to our mutual feelings than the interference of a third person."

"Her majesty has judged wisely," observed Madame de Laval-Montmo

rency.

Suffer me, then, my dearest friend," cried the Countess de Noailles, as eagerly as her cold stiff nature could permit, "to testify my most unfeigned sorrow for what has passed, and my most sincere, most ardent hope that the matter may here end altogether. I consider that any further communication with the Count de Provence would only serve to render the affair public. Monsieur is, I am led to believe, much distressed; indeed, no man of real honour or feeling could be otherwise than distressed. When things of the sort occur in youth, they are very shocking, certainly, but then there may be causes for excuse; but when they happen at our age (and to

those like ourselves, who have, I am proud to say, preserved unblemished reputations during a lengthened period of existence), they become real misfortunes, matters of deep and solemn import, affording subject for universal sorrow and meditation rather than matter to be blazed about to a cold unfeeling world, which, seeing not our motives of action, is incompetent to form other than erroneous judgments. I trust to you, then, that no letter shall for the time to come pass from you to Monsieur." The countess paused, fixing a penetrating eye upon her friend as if awaiting reply.

"You may depend upon me," replied the nun calmly, "I will have no communication whatever with Monsieur, unless you desire it."

"Me!-oh no, my dear friend; on the contrary, I wish, nay entreat, that all communications may cease. I know I may ask this from your friendship; and I, on my part, solemnly promise, nay protest, that not a syllable of it shall ever pass my lips---no, not even under the sacred seal of confession."" The abbess started.

"Know you not," asked the latter gravely, almost solemnly," that without confession' there is no remission of sin ? and though here has been no actual crime-still-pardon me, my friend "seeing the countess about to speak"there is sin-sin in heart-in thought though not in deed."

Madame de Noailles stared as though she knew not the meaning of her friend's words. "I never considered," she said, after some moments' pause, "that confession' obliged us to disclose the faults -secrets, perhaps I should say—of our friends."

"Nor does it," returned the abbess. "We are only required to confess our own sins and alas! how great is the burden even to the most perfect amongst

us!"

:

"Thus I always understood it," returned the lady of honour; "I therefore commit no sin in passing the matter over in silence."

The nun clasped her hands in mute astonishment.

"You seem surprised," said Madame de Noailles; "but I consider it would be an unpardonable breach of trust-of confidence of friendship-were I to betray

you to the Abbé de who happens to be your confessor as well as mine."

To betray me!" ejaculated the abbess, staring almost wildly at her companion-" betray me!-what can you mean?"

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Why to mention this businessI mean about Monsieur."

"Ah!" exclaimed the nun; who after a pause continued-" but, as I was remarking, without confession absolution avails nothing—and without absolution

"Absolution! confession!" responded Madame de Noailles. "I don't understand these words-wherefore preach these things to me? My rule is to leave every one free to manage his own spiritual affairs; surely I have nothing to do with yours."

"With mine!" shrieked the abbess; are you mad ?" "Not more so than you seem!" retorted her friend, losing patience. "I repeat, I have no confession to make nothing to do with your spiritual matters; I only interfered out of friendship, and to hinder you, if possible, from making a further fool of yourself."

"A fool of myself!" and the nun repeated the words over and over again, while her face became red with anger. "If there is a fool," she continued, her utterance nearly choked with passion, "I consider it to be the person who, by her blind infatuation for Monsieur, has made herself the laughing-stock of the whole court; and who, moreover, as a married woman

"It was now the turn of the lady of honour to be enraged.

"A married woman!-the laughingstock of the court!" she repeated in a voice of thunder-" to whom do you allude, madam? "

"To you to your infatuation-your love, if at your age the sentiment may be so called-for Monsieur."

"Mine-my love for Monsieur!" shrieked the astonished lady of honour.

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Aye, yours-Madame la Comtesse de Noailles."

"Proofs !" ejaculated the nun. "Aye-the love-letters you have been in the habit of writing to Monsieur."

"You are mad! you mean the letter I received, stating the whole of your conduct, and the probability of the separation with your husband, and the ".

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you

"Nonsense!" cried Madame de Noailles, losing her exemplary politeness, together with her temper: are in your dotage. Are you not in the habit of writing two, three, and four loveletters a-day to the prince?"

"Love-letters!" again reiterated the abbess: "I call all the saints in paradise to witness that I never wrote such a piece of foolery as what is called a loveletter in my life!"

Madame de Noailles looked incredulously at her friend. To doubt her word was however impossible,-here, then, was at least some misunderstanding.

66

But," resumed the abbess, after a short silence, "I have got extracts from those you have written to the Count de Provence-I can show them to you;" and she rang a bell.

The countess stood aghast ;-she seemed to have lost the power both of speech and motion.

A novice entered, and Madame de Laval Montmorency desired her to fetch a casket that lay on the table in her private apartment.

"These papers," resumed the Abbess of Montmartre, upon her return, taking a packet from the casket, "I received the night before last: I have no doubt that the writing, although disguised, is that of the prince-read them, madam, and you will see that as your oldest and best friend, I am enjoined to endeavour to make you listen to reason. The letter says you have made yourself the laughing-stock of the whole court, by your infatuation - your unfortunate passion for the prince, to whom you are in the habit of writing several letters dailythat a separation from the count, your