slim, and graceful,—­a real daughter of Tyrol.  Her naturally majestic carriage in no way impaired the grace of her movements; her neck rising elegantly and distinctly from her shoulders gave expression to every attitude.  The woman was perceptible beneath the queen, the tenderness of heart was not lost in the elevation of her destiny.  Her light brown hair was long and silky, her forehead, high and rather projecting, was united to her temples by those fine curves which give so much delicacy and expression to that seat of thought or the soul in women; her eyes of that clear blue which recall the skies of the North or the waters of the Danube; an aquiline nose, with nostrils open and slightly projecting, where emotions palpitate and courage is evidenced; a large mouth, brilliant teeth, Austrian lips, that is, projecting and well defined; an oval countenance, animated, varying, impassioned, and the ensemble of these features replete with that expression impossible to describe which emanates from the look, the shades, the reflections of the face, which encompasses it with an iris like that of the warm and tinted vapour which bathes objects in full sunlight—­the extreme loveliness which the ideal conveys, and which by giving it life increases its attraction.  With all these charms, a soul yearning to attach itself, a heart easily moved, but yet earnest in desire to fix itself; a pensive and intelligent smile, with nothing of vacuity in it, nothing of preference or mere acquaintanceship in it, because it felt itself worthy of friendships.  Such was Marie-Antoinette as a woman.

XIII.

It was enough to form the happiness of a man and the ornament of a court:  to inspire a wavering monarch, and be the safeguard of a state under trying circumstances, something more is requisite.  The genius of government is required, and the queen had it not.  Nothing could have prepared her for the regulation of the disordered elements which were about her; misfortune had given her no time for reflection.  Hailed with enthusiasm by a perverse court and an ardent nation, she must have believed in the eternity of such sentiments.  She was lulled to sleep in the dissipations of the Trianon.  She had heard the first threatenings of the tempest without believing in its dangers:  she had trusted in the love she inspired, and which she felt in her own heart.  The court had become exacting, the nation hostile.  The instrument of the intrigues of the court on the heart of the king, she had at first favoured and then opposed all reforms which prevented or delayed the crises that arose.  Her policy was but infatuation; her system but the perpetual abandonment of herself to every partisan who promised her the king’s safety.  The Comte D’Artois, a youthful prince, chivalrous in etiquette, had much influence with her.  He relied greatly on the noblesse; made frequent references to his sword.  He laughed at the crises:  he