And there is the fish-pond, along whose
shores the sheep used to pasture, where the courtly company,
transformed into shepherds and shepherdesses, used to lie on the
grass, singing songs, arranging tableaux, and listening to the songs
which the band played behind the thicket. All now is silent. No
joyous tone now breaks the melancholy stillness which fills the
shady pathways of the grove where Marie Antoinette, the mistress of
Trianon, now walks with bended head and heart-broken spirit; only
the recollection of the past resounds as an echo in her inner ear,
and revives the cheerful strains which long have been silent.
At the fish-pond all is still, no flocks grazing on the shore, no
picturesque groups, no songs. The spinning-wheel no longer whirls,
the hand of the queen no longer turns the spindle; she has learned
to hold the sceptre and the pen, and to weave public policy, and not
a net of linen. The trees with their variegated autumn foliage are
reflected in the dark water of the pond; some weeping-willows droop
with their tapering branches down to the water, and a few swans come
slowly sailing across with their necks raised in their majestic
fashion. As they saw the figure on the shore, they expanded their
wings and sailed quicker on, to pick up the crumbs which the white
hands of the queen used to throw to them.
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