nswer quite clearly about her two
knights: the Prince de Poix has taken a lodging in town, and she talks
of letting her house here, if she can. In short, I thought she had a
little of an Ariadne-air--but this was not what I was in such a hurry to
tell you. She showed me several pieces of letters, I think from the
Duchesse de Bouillon: one says, the poor Duchesse de Biron is again
arrested[1] and at the Jacobins, and with her "une jeune etourdie, qui
ne fait que chanter toute la journee;" and who, think you, may that
be?--only our pretty little wicked Duchesse de Fleury! by her singing
and not sobbing, I suppose she was weary of her _Tircis_, and is glad to
be rid of him. This new blow, I fear, will overset Madame de Biron
again. The rage at Paris seems to increase daily or hourly; they either
despair, or are now avowed banditti. I tremble so much for the great and
most suffering victim of all, the Queen,[2] that one cannot feel so much
for many, as several perhaps deserve: but her tortures have been of far
longer duration than any martyrs, and more various; and her courage and
patience equal to her woes!

[Footnote 1: The Duchess, with scores of other noble ladies, was put to
death in the course of these two horrible years, 1793-94.]

[Footnote 2: Marie Antoinette was put to death the very next day. And I
cannot more fitly close the allusions to the Revolution so frequent in
the letters of the past four years than by Burke's description of this
pure and noble Queen in her youth: "It is now sixteen or seventeen years
since I saw the Queen of France, then the Dauphiness of Versailles; and
surely never lighted on this orb, which she hardly seemed to touch, a
more delightful vision. I saw her, just above the horizon, glittering
like the morning star, full of life and splendour and joy. Oh! what a
revolution! and what a heart must I have to contemplate without emotion
that elevation and that fall! Little did I dream, when she added titles
of veneration to those of enthusiastic, distant, respectful love, that
she should ever be obliged to carry the sharp antidote against disgrace
concealed in that bosom; little did I dream that I should have lived to
see such disasters fallen upon her in a nation of gallant men and
cavaliers. I thought ten thousand swords must have leaped from their
scabbards to avenge even a look that threatened her with insult"
("Reflections on the French Revolution ").]

My poor old friend, the Duchesse