Nooneofherfriendswasnowatherside，shehadlostthemall。Noonewastheretosharethemiseryofthequeenofallwhohadsharedherhappiness。TheDuchessdePolignac，theprincessesoftheroyalhouse，thecheerybrotheroftheking，Countd’Artois，theCountdeCoigny，LordsBesenvalandLauzun，wherearetheyallnow，thefriends，thesuppliantsofformerdays？Far，farawayindistantlands，flownfromthemisfortunethat，withitsdarkwingssinking，washoveringlowerandloweroverVersailles，anddarkeningwithitsuncannyshadowsthisTrianonwhichhadoncebeensocheerfulandbright。Allnowisdesolateandstill!Themillrattlesnomore，theopenwindowisswungtoandfrobythewind，andthemillernomorelooksoutwithhisgood-natured，laughingface；themillerofTrianonisnolongertheking，andtheburdensandcaresofhisrealmhavebowedhishead。Theschool-house，too，isdesolate，andthelearnedmasternolongerwriteshissatiresandjokesuponthegreatblack-boardintheschool-room。Henowwriteslibelsandpamphlets，buttheyarenowdirectedagainstthequeen，againsttheformermistressofTrianon。Andthereisthefish-pond，alongwhoseshoresthesheepusedtopasture，wherethecourtlycompany，transformedintoshepherdsandshepherdesses，usedtolieonthegrass，singingsongs，arrangingtableaux，andlisteningtothesongswhichthebandplayedbehindthethicket。Allnowissilent。NojoyoustonenowbreaksthemelancholystillnesswhichfillstheshadypathwaysofthegrovewhereMarieAntoinette，themistressofTrianon，nowwalkswithbendedheadandheart-brokenspirit；onlytherecollectionofthepastresoundsasanechoinherinnerear，andrevivesthecheerfulstrainswhichlonghavebeensilent。
Atthefish-pondallisstill，noflocksgrazingontheshore，nopicturesquegroups，nosongs。Thespinning-wheelnolongerwhirls，thehandofthequeennolongerturnsthespindle；shehaslearnedtoholdthesceptreandthepen，andtoweavepublicpolicy，andnotanetoflinen。Thetreeswiththeirvariegatedautumnfoliagearereflectedinthedarkwaterofthepond；someweeping-willowsdroopwiththeirtaperingbranchesdowntothewater，andafewswanscomeslowlysailingacrosswiththeirnecksraisedintheirmajesticfashion。Astheysawthefigureontheshore，theyexpandedtheirwingsandsailedquickeron，topickupthecrumbswhichthewhitehandsofthequeenusedtothrowtothem。
Butthesehandshaveto-daynogiftsforthesolitary，forgottenswans。Allthedear，pleasantcustomsofthepastareforgotten，theyhaveallceased。
Yettheswanshavenotforgottenher；theysailunquietlyhitherandthitheralongtheshoreofthepond，theytossuptheirslendernecks，andthenplungetheirredbeaksdownintothedarkwaterseekingforthegratefulbitswhichwerenotthere。Butwhentheysawthattheyweredisappointed，theypouredforththeirpeculiarlymournfulsongandslowlysailedawaydownthelakeletintotheobscurityofthedistance，lettingtheircomplainingnotesbeheardfromtimetotime。
“Theyaresingingtheswan’ssongofmyhappiness，“whisperedthequeen，lookingwithtearfuleyesatthebeautifulcreatures。“Theytooturnawayfromme，andnowIamalone，allalone。“