Oh, Campan, what I feared is true. The Queen of France has become
the victim of cabals and intrigues. The Queen of France in her
honor, dignity, and virtue, is injured and wounded by one of her own
subjects, and there is no punishment for him; he is free. Pity me,
Campan! But no, on the contrary, I pity you, I pity France! If I can
have no impartial judges in a matter which darkens my character,
what can you, what can all others hope for, when you are tried in a
matter which touches your happiness and honor? [Footnote: The very
words of the queen See "Memoires de Madame de Campan," vol. ii., o.
23.] I am sad, sad in my inmost soul, and it seems to me as if this
instant were to overshadow my whole life; as if the shades of night
had fallen upon me, and--what is that? Did you blow out the light,
Campan?"

"Your majesty sees that I am standing entirely away from the
lights."

"But only see," cried the queen, "one of the candles is put out!"

"It is true," said Madame de Campan, looking at the light, over
which a bluish cloud was yet hovering. "The light is put out, but if
your majesty allows me, I--"

She was silent, and her bearing assumed the appearance of amazement
and horror.

The candle which had been burning in the other arm of the
candlestick went out like the one before.

The queen said not a word. She gazed with pale lips and wide-opened