. had cynically predicted would follow after him.

In fact, the end came sooner than any one had guessed. Louis XV., who
had become hopelessly and helplessly infatuated with the low-born Jeanne
du Barry, was stricken down with smallpox of the most virulent type. For
many days he lay in his gorgeous bed. Courtiers crowded his sick-room
and the adjacent hall, longing for the moment when the breath would
leave his body. He had lived an evil life, and he was to die a loathsome
death; yet he had borne himself before men as a stately monarch. Though
his people had suffered in a thousand ways from his misgovernment, he
was still Louis the Well Beloved, and they blamed his ministers of state
for all the shocking wrongs that France had felt.

The abler men, and some of the leaders of the people, however, looked
forward to the accession of Louis XVI. He at least was frugal in his
habits and almost plebeian in his tastes, and seemed to be one who would
reduce the enormous taxes that had been levied upon France.

The moment came when the Well Beloved died. His death-room was fetid
with disease, and even the long corridors of the palace reeked with
infection, while the motley mob of men and women, clad in silks and
satins and glittering with jewels, hurried from the spot to pay their
homage to the new Louis, who was spoken of as "the Desired." The body of
the late monarch was hastily thrown into a mass of quick-lime, and was
driven away in a humble wagon, without guards and with no salute,
save from a single veteran, who remembered the glories of Fontenoy and
discharged his musket as the royal corpse was carried through the palace
gates.

This was a critical moment in the history of France; but we have
to consider it only as a critical moment in the history of Marie
Antoinette. She was now queen. She had it in her power to restore to
the French court its old-time grandeur, and, so far as the queen was
concerned, its purity. Above all, being a foreigner, she should have
kept herself free from reproach and above every shadow of suspicion.

But here again the indifference of the king undoubtedly played a strange
part in her life. Had he borne himself as her lord and master she might
have respected him. Had he shown her the affection of a husband she
might have loved him. But he was neither imposing, nor, on the other
hand, was he alluring. She wrote very frankly about him in a letter to
the Count Orsini:

My tastes are not the sa