Leonard, had no more calls
upon his genius for new coiffures for her fair hair; a simple, dark
dress, that was the toilet of the queen, a lace handkerchief round
the neck, and a feather was her only head-dress.
Once she had rejoiced in her beauty, and smiled at the flatteries
which her mirror told her when it reflected her face; now she looked
with indifference at her pale, worn face, with its sharp grave
features, and it awoke no wonder within her when the mirror told her
that the queen of France, in spite of her thirty-six years, was old;
that the roses on her cheeks had withered, and that care had drawn
upon her brow those lines which age could not yet have done. She did
not grieve over her lost beauty; she looked with complacency at that
matron of six-and-thirty years whose beautiful hair showed the
traces of that dreadful night in October. She had her picture
painted, in order to send it to London, to the truest of her
friends, the Princess Lamballe, and with her own hands she wrote
beneath it the words: "Your sorrows have whitened your hair."
And yet in this life full of cares, full of work, full of pain and
humiliation--in these sad days of trouble and resignation, there
were single gleams of sunshine, scattered moments of happiness.
It was a ray of sunshine when this sad winter in the Tuileries was
past, and the States-General allowed the royal family to go to St.
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