Marie Antoinette felt this, and a smile flitted over her face like the evening glow of a summer's day. With this smile and a deep blush Marie Antoinette bowed and saluted the public.

A loud, unbounded cry of applause resounded through the vast room. In the parquette and in the boxes hundreds of spectators arose and hailed the queen with a loud, pealing "Vive la reine!" and clapped their hands like pleased children, and looked up to the queen with joyful, beaming countenances.

"Oh, my faith has not deceived!" whispered Marie Antoinette into the ear of her companion. "The good Parisians love me still; they, like me, remember past times, and the old loyalty is awaking in them."

And again she bowed her thanks right and left, and again the house broke out into loud applause. A single, angry glance of Marat's little eyes, peering out from beneath the bushy brows, met the queen.

"Only wait," said Marat, rising from his seat and directing his glances at the parterre. There stood the giant Santerre, and not far from him Simon the cobbler, in the midst of a crowd of savage- looking, defiant fellows, who all looked at their leaders, while they, Santerre and Simon, directed their eyes up to the box of Marat.

The glance of the chief met that of his two friends. A scornful, savage expression swept over Marat's ash-colored, dirty face, and he nodded lightly to his allies. Santerre and Simon returned the nod, and they, turning to their companions, gave the signal by raising the right hand.

Suddenly the applause was overborne by loud whistling and shouting, derisive laughter, and wild curses.

"The civil war has begun!" cried Marat, rubbing his hands together with delight.

The royalists continued to applaud and to shout, "Vive la reine!" Their opponents tried to silence them by their hisses and whistling. Marat's face glowed with demoniacal pleasure. He turned to the boxes of the second tier, and nodded smilingly to the men who sat there. At once they began to cry, "The chorus, the chorus, let them sing, 'Chantons, celebrons notre reine!'"

"Very well," said Marat. "I am a good royalist, for I have trained the people to the cry."

"Sing, sing!" shouted the men to the performers on the stage--"sing the chorus, 'Chantons, celebrons notre reine!'"

And in the boxes, parquette, everywhere was the cry, "Sing the chorus, 'Chantons, celebrons notre reine!'"

"No," roared Santerre, "no, they shall not sing that!"

"No," cried Simon, "we will not hear the monkey-song!"

And hundreds of men in the parterre and the upper rows of boxes echoed the cry, "No, we will not hear the monkey-song!"

"The thing works well!" said Marat. "I hold my people by a thread, and make them gesticulate and spring up and down, like the concealed man in a Punch and Judy show."

The noise went on; the royalists would not cease their applause and their calls for the chorus, "Chantons, celebrons notre reine!" The enemies of the queen did not cease hissing and shouting, "We do not want to hear any thing about the queen; we will not hear the monkey- song!"

"Oh, would I had never come here!" whispered the queen, with tearful eyes, as she sank back in her armchair, and hid her face in her handkerchief.

Perhaps because the real royalists saw the agitation of the queen, and out of compassion for her were willing to give up the controversy--perhaps Marat had given a sign to the false royalists that they had had enough of shouting and confusion--at all events the cry "Vive la reine" and the call for the chorus died away suddenly, the applause ceased, and as the enemies of the queen had now no opposition to encounter, nothing was left to them but to be silent too.

"The first little skirmish is over!" said Marat, resting his bristly head on the back of his velvet arm-chair. "Now we will listen to the music a little, and look at the pretty theatre girls."

And in fact the opera had now begun; the director of the orchestra had taken advantage of the return of quiet to give a sign to the singers on the stage to begin at once, and with fortunate presence of mind his command was obeyed.

The public, wearied it may be with the shouting and noise, remained silent, and seemed to give its attention exclusively to the stage, the development of the plot, and the noble music.

Marie Antoinette breathed freely again; her pale cheeks began to have color once more, her eyes were again bright, and she seemed transported beyond the sore battles and dreadful discords of her life; she listened respectfully to the sweet melodies, and the grand harmonies of the teacher of her youth, the great Gluck. Leaning back in her armchair, she allowed the music to flow into her soul, and the recollection of past days awoke afresh in her mind. She dreamed of the days of her childhood: she saw herself again in Schonbrunn; she saw her teacher Gluck enter the blue music-room, in which she with her sisters used to wait for him; she saw the glowing countenance of her mother, the great Maria Theresa, entering her room, in order to give Gluck a proof of her high regard, and to announce to him herself that Marie Antoinette had betrothed herself to the Dauphin of France, and that she would soon bid her teacher farewell, in order to enter upon her new and brilliant career.

A low hum in the theatre awakened the queen from her reveries; she raised herself up and leaned forward, to see what was going on. Her glance, which was directed to the stage, fell upon the singer Clairval, who was just then beginning to give, with his wonderfully full and flexible voice, the great aria in which the friend comes to console the grief-burdened, weeping Queen Alceste, and to dry her tears by assuring her of the love of her faithful adherents. Clairval had advanced in the aria to that celebrated passage which had given to Marie Antoinette a half year before her last great triumph. It ran:

"Reine infortunee, ah! que ton coeur Ne soit plus navre de douleur! Il vous reste encore des amis!"

But scarcely had Clairval begun the first strophe when the thundering voice of Santerre called, "None of that, we will not hear the air!"

"No, we will not hear the air!" shouted hundreds and hundreds of voices.

"Poor Gluck," whispered Marie Antoinette, with tears in her eyes, "because they hate me, they will not even hear your music!"

"Sing it, sing it!" shouted hundreds and hundreds of voices from all parts of the house.

"No, do not sing it!" roared the others; "we will not hear the air."

And suddenly, above the cries of the contestants, rose a loud, yelling voice:

"I forbid the singer Clairval ever again singing this air. I forbid it in the name of the people!"

It was Marat who spoke these words. Standing on the arm-chair of the Princess de Lamballe, and raising his long arms, and directing them threateningly toward the stage, he turned his face, aglow with hate and evil, toward the queen.

Marie Antoinette, who had turned her head in alarm in the direction whence the voice proceeded, met with her searching looks the eyes of Marat, which were fixed upon her with an expression equally stern and contemptuous. She shrank back, and, as if in deadly pain, put her hand to her heart.

"0 God!" she whispered to herself, "that is no man, that is an infernal demon, who has risen there to take the place of my dear, sweet Lamballe. Ah, the good spirit is gone, and the demon takes its place--the demon which will destroy us all!"

"Long live Marat!" roared Santerre, and his comrades. "Long live Marat, the great friend of the people, the true patriot!"

Marat bowed on all sides, stepped down from the easy-chair, and seated himself comfortably in it.

Clairval had stopped in the air; pale, confused, and terrified, he had withdrawn, and the director whispered to the orchestra and the singers to begin the next number.

The opera went on, and the public again appeared to give itself during some scenes to the enjoyment of the music. But soon this short quiet was to be disturbed again. One of the singers, Madame Dugazont, a zealous royalist, wanted to give the queen a little triumph, and show her that, although Clairval had been silenced, the love and veneration of Dugazont were still alive and ready to display themselves.

Singing as the attendant of Alceste, Dugazont had these words to give in her part: "Ah! comme faime la reine, comme faime ma maitresse!"

She advanced close to the footlights, and turning her looks toward the royal box, and bowing low, sang the words: "Comme faime la reine, comme j'aime ma maitresse!"

And now, as if this had been the battle-cry of a new contest, a fearful din, a raging torrent of sound began through the whole house. At first it was a mixed and confused mass of cries, roars, hisses, and applause. Now and then single voices could be heard above the horrid chaos of sounds. "We want no queen!" shouted some.

"We want no mistress!" roared others; and mingled with those was the contrary cry, "Long live the queen! Long live our mistress!"

"Hi!" said Marat, full of delight, twisting his bony form up into