And it is only in the
lowest of whispers that I will admit that she was seven years older than
her handsome husband, whose years did not then number seventeen. Yet is
there indubitable charm in the simple grace wherewith Marie accepted her
marvellous transformation from pauper to queen. She disarmed criticism
by refusing to conceal her former poverty. "This is the first time in my
life I have been able to make presents," she frankly told the ladies of
the Court, as she distributed among them her newly got trinkets.

It is pleasant to remember that the early years of her wedded life
passed harmoniously. Louis, though never passionately enamoured of his
wife, yet loved her with the warm affection a young man bestows on the
first woman he has possessed. And that Marie was wholly content there is
little doubt. She was no gadabout. Versailles satisfied her. Three years
passed before she visited Paris, and then the visit was more of the
nature of a pilgrimage than of a State progress. Twin daughters had
blessed the union, and the Queen journeyed to the churches of Notre Dame
and Saint Genevieve to crave from Heaven the boon of a Dauphin: a prayer
which a year later was answered.

But clouds were gathering apace. As he grew into manhood the domestic
virtues palled upon Louis. He tired of the needlework which, doubtless,
Marie's skilled hands had taught him. We recall how, sitting between her
mother and grandmother, the future Queen had broidered altar cloths.
Marie Leczinska was an adoring mother; possibly her devotion to their
rapidly increasing family wearied him. Being little more than a child
himself, the King is scarcely likely to have found the infantile society
so engaging as did the mother. Thus began that series of foolish
infidelities that, characterised by extreme timidity and secrecy at
first, was latterly flaunted in the face of the world.

Marie's life was not a smooth one, but it was happier than that of her
Royal spouse. To me there is nothing sadder, nothing more sordid in
history, than the feeble, useless existence of Louis XV., whose early
years promised so well. It is pitiful to look at the magnificent
portrait, still hanging in the palace where he reigned, of the
child-king seated in his robes of State, the sceptre in his hand,
looking with eyes of innocent wonder into the future, then to think upon
the depth of degradation reached by the once revered Monarch before his
body was dragged in dishonour and