icularly happy at Lucienne.

I have compared her to Manon Lescaut, and I believe her to have been
also a sister to Ganesin. All three were destroyed by passion.

One day she found herself still young at Lucienne, although her sun was
setting. She loved the duc de Brissac, and how many pages of her past
romance would she that day have liked to erase and forget!

"Why do you weep, Countess?" asked her lover.

"My friend," she responded, "I weep because I love you, shall I say it?
I weep because I am happy."

She was right; happiness is a festival that should know no to-morrow.
But on the morrow of her happiness, the Revolution knocked at the castle
gate of Lucienne.

"Who goes there?"

"I am justice; prepare for destiny."

The Queen, the true queen, had been good to her as to everybody. Marie
Antoinette remembered that the favorite had not been wicked. The debts
of Du Barry were paid and money enough was given to her so that she
could still give with both hands. Lucienne became an echo of Versailles.
Foreign kings and Parisian philosophers came to chat in its portals.
Minerva visited shameless Venus. But wisdom took not root at Lucienne.

For the Revolution, alas! had to cut off this charming head, which was
at one time the ideal of beauty--of court beauty. Madame du Barry gave
hospitality to the wounded at the arrest of the queen. "These wounded
youths have no other regret than that they have not died for a princess
so worthy as your Majesty," she said. "What I have done for these brave
men is only what they have merited. I consoled them, and I respect their
wounds when I think, Madame, that without their devotion, your Majesty
would no longer be alive. Lucienne is yours, Madame, for was it not your
beneficence which gave it to me? All I possess has come to me through
the royal family. I have too much loyalty to forget it."

But negro Zamor became a citizen like Mirabeau. It was Zamor who took to
Du Barry her lover's head. It was Zamor who denounced her at the club of
the Jacobins. "The fealty (faith) of the black man is white," said the
negro. But he learned how to make it red. Jeanne was imprisoned and
tried before Dumas.

"Your age?"

"Forty-two years." She was really forty-seven. Coquetry even at the
guillotine.

The public accuser, Fouquier Tinville, was not disarmed by the sweet
voluptuousness still possessed by this pale and already fading beauty.
He accused her of treason against the nation. Could