philippe, at this request of the queen, made a strong effort, and stopped the sledge abruptly.

“and now, rest yourself,” said she, coming out of it all trembling. “indeed, i never could have believed the delight of going so fast, but you have made me quite tremble;” and she took philippe’s arm to support herself, until a general murmur reminded her that she was once more committing a breach of etiquette.

as for philippe, overwhelmed by this great honor, he felt more ashamed than if his sovereign had insulted him publicly; he lowered his eyes, and his heart beat as though it would burst.

the queen, however, withdrew her arm almost immediately, and asked for a seat. they brought her one.

“thanks, m. de taverney,” said she; then, in a lower tone, “mon dieu, how disagreeable it is to be always surrounded by spying fools!”

a number of ladies and gentlemen soon crowded round her, and all looked with no little curiosity at philippe, who, to hide his confusion, stooped to take off his skates, and then fell into the background.

after a short time, however, the queen said, “i shall take cold if i sit here, i must take another turn;” and she remounted her sledge.

philippe waited, but in vain, for another order.

twenty gentlemen soon presented themselves, but she said, “no, i thank you, i have my attendants;” and she moved slowly off, while philippe remained alone.

he looked about for st. george, to console him for his defeat by some compliment, but he had received a message from his patron, the duke d’orleans, and had left the place.

philippe, therefore, rather tired, and half frightened at all that had passed, remained stationary, following with his eyes the queen’s sledge, which was now at some distance, when he felt some one touch him; he turned round and saw his father.

the little old man, more shrunk than ever, enveloped in furs like a laplander, had touched his son with his elbow, that he might not be obliged to take his hands out of the muff that hung from his neck.

“you do not embrace me, my son,” said he.

“my dear father, i do it with all my heart.”

“and now,” said the old man, “go quickly;” and he pushed him away.

“where do you wish me to go, sir?”

“why, morbleu, over there.”

“where?”

“to the queen.”

“no, i thank you, father.”

“how? no, i thank you! are you mad? you will not go after the queen?”

“my dear father, it is impossible!”

“impossible to join the queen, who is expecting you?”

“who is expecting me!”

“yes, who wishes for you.”

“wishes for me? indeed, father,” added he, coldly, “i think you forget yourself.”

“it is astonishing!” said the old man, stamping his foot. “where on earth do you spring from?”

“monsieur,” said his son, sadly, “you will make me conclude one of two things.”

“what?”

“either that you are laughing at me, or else, excuse me, that you are losing your senses.”

the old man seized his son by the arm so energetically that he made him start. “listen, m. philippe,” said he; “america is, i know, a country a long way from this, and where there is neither king nor queen.”

“nor subjects.”

“nor subjects, m. philosopher; i do not deny it; that point does not interest me; but what does so is that i fear also to have to come to a conclusion——”

“what, father?”

“that you are a simpleton, my son; just trouble yourself to look over there.”

“well, sir!”

“well, the queen looks back, and it is the third time she has done so; there! she turns again, and who do you think she is looking for but for you, m. puritan?”

“well, sir,” said the young man; “if it were true, which it probably is not, that the queen was looking for——”

“oh!” interrupted the old man, angrily, “this fellow is not of my blood; he cannot be a taverney. sir, i repeat to you that the queen is looking for you.”

“you have good sight, sir,” said his son, dryly.

“come,” said the old man, more gently, and trying to moderate his impatience, “trust my experience: are you, or are you not, a man?”

philippe made no reply.

his father ground his teeth with anger, to see himself opposed by this steadfast will; but making one more effort, “philippe, my son,” said he, still more gently, “listen to me.”

“it seems to me, sir, that i have been doing nothing else for the last quarter of an hour.”

“oh,” thought the old man, “i will draw you down from your stilts. i will find out your weak side.” then aloud, “you have overlooked one thing, philippe.”

“what, sir?”

“when you left for america, there was a king, but no queen, if it were not the dubarry; hardly a respectable sovereign. you come back and see a queen, and you think you must be very respectful.”

“doubtless.”

“poor child!” said his father, laughing.

“how, sir? you blame me for respecting the monarchy—you, a taverney maison-rouge, one of the best names in france.”

“i do not speak of the monarchy, but only of the queen.”

“and you make a difference?”

“pardieu, i should think so. what is royalty? a crown that is unapproachable. but what is a queen? a woman, and she, on the contrary, is very approachable.”

philippe made a gesture of disgust.

“you do not believe me,” continued the old man, almost fiercely; “well, ask m. de coigny, ask m. de lauzun, or m. de vaudreuil.”

“silence, father!” cried philippe; “or for these three blasphemies, not being able to strike you three blows with my sword, i shall strike them on myself.”

the old man stepped back, murmuring, “mon dieu, what a stupid animal! good evening, son; you rejoice me; i thought i was the father, the old man, but now i think it is i who must be the young apollo, and you the old man;” and he turned away.

philippe stopped him: “you did not speak seriously, did you, father? it is impossible that a gentleman of good blood like you should give ear to these calumnies, spread by the enemies, not only of the queen, but of the throne.”

“he will not believe, the double mule!” said the old man.

“you speak to me as you would speak before god?”

“yes, truly.”

“before god, whom you approach every day?”

“it seems to me, my son,” replied he, “that i am a gentleman, and that you may believe my word.”

“it is, then, your opinion that the queen has had lovers?”

“certainly.”

“those whom you have named?”

“and others, for what i know. ask all the town and the court. one must be just returned from america to be ignorant of all they say.”

“and who say this, sir? some vile pamphleteers!”

“oh! do you, then, take me for an editor?”

“no, and there is the mischief, when men like you repeat such calumnies, which, without that, would melt away like the unwholesome vapors which sometimes obscure the most brilliant sunshine; but people like you, repeating them, give them a terrible stability. oh! monsieur, for mercy’s sake do not repeat such things.”

“i do repeat them, however.”

“and why do you repeat them?” cried philippe, fiercely.

“oh!” said the old man with his satanic laugh, “to prove to you that i was not wrong when i said, ‘philippe, the queen looks back; she is looking for you. philippe, the queen wishes for you; run to her.’”

“oh! father, hold your tongue, or you will drive me mad.”

“really, philippe, i do not understand you. is it a crime to love? it shows that one has a heart; and in the eyes of this woman, in her voice, in everything, can you not read her heart? she loves; is it you? or is it another? i know not, but believe in my own experience: at this moment she loves, or is beginning to love, some one. but you are a philosopher, a puritan, a quaker, an american; you do not love; well, then, let her look; let her turn again and again; despise her, philippe, i should say joseph de taverney.”

the old man hurried away, satisfied with the effect he had produced, and fled like the serpent who was the first tempter into crime.

philippe remained alone, his heart swelling and his blood boiling. he remained fixed in his place for about half an hour, when the queen, having finished her tour, returned to where he stood, and called out to him:

“you must be rested now, m. de taverney; come, then, for there is no one like you to guide a queen royally.”

philippe ran to her, giddy, and hardly knowing what he did. he placed his hand on the back of the sledge, but started as though he had burned his fingers; the queen had thrown herself negligently back in the sledge, and the fingers of the young man touched the locks of marie antoinette.