A distant curlew was whistling cautiously to its benighted mate, but
all other sounds were still. The day was over.

"You remember," said Colville to his companion, "that six months
after the execution of the King, a report ran through Paris and all
France that the Dillons had succeeded in rescuing the Dauphin from
the Temple."

"That was in July, 1793--just fifty-seven years ago--the news
reached me in Austria," answered the Marquis.

Colville glanced sideways at his companion, whose face was set with
a stubbornness almost worthy of the tenacious Bourbons themselves.

"The Queen was alive then," went on the Englishman, half
diffidently, as if prepared for amendment or correction. "She had
nearly three months to live. The separation from her children had
only just been carried out. She was not broken by it yet. She was
in full possession of her health and energy. She was one of the
cleverest women of that time. She was surrounded by men, some of
whom were frankly half-witted, others who were drunk with excess of
a sudden power for which they had had no preparation. Others,
again, were timorous or cunning. All were ignorant, and many had
received no education at all. For there are many ignorant people
who have been highly educated, Marquis."

He gave a short laugh and lighted a cigarette.

"Mind," he continued, after a pause devoted to reflection which
appeared to be neither deep nor painful, for he smiled as he gazed