path: root/76772-0.txt

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 76772 ***





                          PALACES AND PRISONS.


                                    BY

                          MRS. ANN S. STEPHENS.

  AUTHOR OF “MARRIED IN HASTE,” “MABEL’S MISTAKE,” “HEIRESS,” “WIVES AND
 WIDOWS,” “DOUBLY FALSE,” “MARY DERWENT,” “THE SOLDIER’S ORPHANS,” “RUBY
  GRAY’S STRATEGY,” “REJECTED WIFE,” “GOLD BRICK,” “WIFE’S SECRET,” “THE
  CURSE OF GOLD,” “THE OLD HOMESTEAD,” “SILENT STRUGGLES,” “FASHION AND
                                 FAMINE.”

         How little art thou known, oh Liberty!
           Goddess so blindly worshiped on the earth—
         Worshiped, in broad and simple majesty,
           Most in the land which gave thee perfect birth;
         Ay, birth and baptism, not of tears and blood,
           Such as have stained thy hand in other climes:
         Not with a mockery of brotherhood,
           “Linked with some virtues and a thousand crimes’,”—

         But, with a mighty homage of the mind,
           We give to thee a lovely woman’s form;
         Because, in that should ever be enshrined
           All things opposed to treason, war and storm.
         Thy face is beautiful; we love thy name;
           If others dye those snowy garments red,
         And drag thee downward into utter shame,
           It is not through the path where we have led.

                             PHILADELPHIA:
                       T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS;
                          306 CHESTNUT STREET.




       Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1871, by
                       T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS,
    In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington, D. C.


                      MRS. ANN S. STEPHENS’ WORKS.

               Each Work is complete in one volume, 12mo.

              _PALACES AND PRISONS._
                      _MARRIED IN HASTE._
                              _RUBY GRAY’S STRATEGY._
                                      _THE CURSE OF GOLD._

              _WIVES AND WIDOWS; OR, THE BROKEN LIFE._
                      _THE REJECTED WIFE._
                              _THE GOLD BRICK._
                                      _THE HEIRESS._

              _FASHION AND FAMINE._
                      _THE OLD HOMESTEAD._
                              _SILENT STRUGGLES._
                                      _MARY DERWENT._

              _THE WIFE’S SECRET._
                      _THE SOLDIER’S ORPHANS._
                              _MABEL’S MISTAKE._
                                      _DOUBLY FALSE._

        Price of each, $1.75 in Cloth; or $1.50 in Paper Cover.

Above books are for sale by all Booksellers. Copies of any or all of the
above books will be sent to any one, to any place, postage pre-paid, on
receipt of their price by the Publishers,

             T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS,
                     306 CHESTNUT STREET, PHILADELPHIA, PA.




                               CONTENTS.


    Chapter                                                       Page
        I.— THE COUNTESS AND THE DOCTOR                             23
       II.— THE LADY IN THE PARK                                    28
      III.— THE EGYPTIAN SCARABEE                                   34
       IV.— KING LOUIS THE FIFTEENTH                                38
        V.— THE DWARF AND THE DAUPHINESS                            41
       VI.— HOUSEHOLD FAMINE                                        45
      VII.— THE PRISONER OF THE BASTILLE                            53
     VIII.— AN UNEXPECTED VISITOR                                   60
       IX.— COUNT DE MIRABEAU AND MONSIEUR JACQUES                  62
        X.— MONSIEUR JACQUES IS INTRUSTED WITH A DELICATE MISSION   67
       XI.— THE MARKET WOMAN                                        71
      XII.— EARLY IN THE MORNING                                    74
     XIII.— THEY THREE BREAKFAST TOGETHER                           79
      XIV.— MARGUERITE FINDS HER PATH OF DUTY AMONG THE FLOWERS     84
       XV.— IN THE DUNGEONS OF THE BASTILLE                         92
      XVI.— THE KING’S work-shop                                   100
     XVII.— THE KING AND THE WORKMAN                               105
    XVIII.— THE LANDLADY AND THE WHITE HENS                        113
      XIX.— THE SWISS COTTAGE                                      118
       XX.— ROYAL MILKMAIDS                                        122
      XXI.— DAME TILLERY TEACHES THE COURT AN ACCOMPLISHMENT       128
     XXII.— THE QUEEN’S PERIL                                      132
    XXIII.— COUNT MIRABEAU AND HIS FATHER                          137
     XXIV.— THE OLD NOBLEMAN MAKES CONCESSIONS                     142
      XXV.— THE LINK WHICH CONNECTED MIRABEAU WITH THE COURT       146
     XXVI.— THE LANDLADY OF THE SWAN PLUMES HERSELF                153
    XXVII.— DAME TILLERY PIQUED                                    157
   XXVIII.— UNWELCOME GUESTS                                       162
     XXIX.— THE QUEEN AND HER LADIES                               166
      XXX.— TRUE WOMANLY POWER                                     171
     XXXI.— THE JOY OF A GREAT SURPRISE                            175
    XXXII.— MONSIEUR JACQUES PLEADS BEFORE ROYALTY                 178
   XXXIII.— ZAMARA BRINGS BAD NEWS FOR HIS MISTRESS                182
    XXXIV.— MADAME’S CRIME COMES HOME TO TORTURE HER               186
     XXXV.— DAME TILLERY DINES WITH THE COUNTESS DUBERRY           190
    XXXVI.— THE DISGUISED COUNTESS                                 194
   XXXVII.— JOYFUL NEWS                                            199
  XXXVIII.— MIRABEAU AND HIS FOSTER BROTHER IN COUNCIL             203
    XXXIX.— A VISITOR AFTER DARK                                   207
       XL.— THE GOVERNOR AND THE PAGE                              211
      XLI.— THE COUNTESS AND HER VICTIM MEET                       216
     XLII.— THE PAGE TRANSFORMED                                   221
    XLIII.— THE LAST ROULEAU OF GOLD                               225
     XLIV.— DAME TILLERY OBTAINS AN AUDIENCE IN THE PARK           230
      XLV.— ONE VIRTUE LEFT                                        237
     XLVI.— WAITING FOR THE MORNING                                242
    XLVII.— DEAD SEA FRUIT                                         247
   XLVIII.— THE BITTERNESS OF DEATH                                251
     XLIX.— A WOMAN’S NATURE TRANSFORMED                           256
        L.— THE DAME OF THE DAIRY                                  261
       LI.— EFFORTS AT ATONEMENT                                   265
      LII.— MONSIEUR JACQUES TURNS BLACKSMITH AGAIN                272
     LIII.— LIGHT OUT OF DARKNESS                                  276
      LIV.— A DETERMINED BENEFACTOR                                281
       LV.— GENEROSITY AND DIPLOMACY                               285
      LVI.— THE ENERGY OF MADNESS                                  288
     LVII.— UNSEXED WOMANHOOD                                      292
    LVIII.— THE FIRST ROLL OF THUNDER                              297
      LIX.— THE FIRST DRAW-BRIDGE                                  301
       LX.— THE PRISONERS FREE                                     306
      LXI.— THEY THREE MEET AGAIN                                  309
     LXII.— THE PRISONER AT HOME                                   317
    LXIII.— SEARCHING FOR THE SERPENT RING                         321
     LXIV.— DOWN IN THE LEAFY SHADOWS                              326
      LXV.— THE PRISONER AND THE KING                              331
     LXVI.— ON TO VERSAILLES                                       336
    LXVII.— LOUISON BRISOT IN THE RUINS                            339
   LXVIII.— MARGUERITE COMFORTS HER FATHER                         348
     LXIX.— QUEENLY STRUGGLES                                      356
      LXX.— ENEMIES RECONCILED                                     360
     LXXI.— MIND SWAYING MIND                                      365
    LXXII.— SPYING AND WATCHING                                    371
   LXXIII.— FATHER AND DAUGHTER                                    376
    LXXIV.— LOVE                                                   381
     LXXV.— CRAFT MEETING TREACHERY                                388
    LXXVI.— CRIMINATION AND INDIFFERENCE                           392
   LXXVII.— AMONG THE FLOWERS                                      398
  LXXVIII.— THE MARKET WOMAN                                       402
    LXXIX.— THE WOMEN OF FRANCE                                    406
     LXXX.— TAKING AN OBSERVATION                                  412
    LXXXI.— THE MIDNIGHT REVEL                                     418
   LXXXII.— THROWING OFF DISGUISES                                 423
  LXXXIII.— THE DOUBLE SPY                                         430
   LXXXIV.— LOUISON AND MARGUERITE                                 436
    LXXXV.— MIRABEAU BUYS FLOWERS                                  443
   LXXXVI.— ANOTHER CUSTOMER                                       451
  LXXXVII.— THE SEALED LETTER                                      456
 LXXXVIII.— DAME TILLERY PROCLAIMS HER HEIRESS                     462
   LXXXIX.— MARGUERITE SEEKS THE QUEEN                             469
       XC.— A BITTER HUMILIATION ACCEPTED                          475
      XCI.— THE BAFFLED SPY                                        482
     XCII.— THE VIPER TURNS                                        487
    XCIII.— THE QUEEN’S LETTER                                     492
     XCIV.— LOUISON BRISOT VISITS ROBESPIERRE                      498
      XCV.— THE FRAUD OF FASCINATION                               507
     XCVI.— ZAMARA IS MASTER OF THE SITUATION                      512
    XCVII.— BAFFLED AND DEFEATED                                   518
   XCVIII.— A THANKLESS LOVER AND HOSTS OF ENEMIES                 525
     XCIX.— FETE IN THE CHAMP DE MARS                              530
        C.— THE QUEEN GIVES UP HER RING                            535
       CI.— ZAMARA IS TEMPTED TO EARN MORE GOLD                    540
      CII.— A LOVER’S QUARREL                                      545
     CIII.— PERFECT RECONCILIATION                                 551
      CIV.— A THEFT AND AN INSULT                                  555
       CV.— THE SECRET OF THE RING                                 561
      CVI.— THE OLD MAN FALLS ASLEEP                               564
     CVII.— THE SCARABEE DOES ITS DEADLY WORK                      570
    CVIII.— THE STORMING OF THE TUILERIES                          576
      CIX.— THE PRISONS                                            580
       CX.— BOUGHT BY BLOOD                                        584
      CXI.— THE GODDESS OF REASON                                  587




                          PALACES AND PRISONS.




                               CHAPTER I.
                      THE COUNTESS AND THE DOCTOR.


A beautiful woman—if a coarse nature ever can give beauty to faultless
features—sat in one of those charming little saloons which made the
Grand Trianon the gayest and most popular palace in France. She was not
alone—such women usually avoid solitude; but the person who stood before
her that day was so unlike any of the venal courtiers that usually
surrounded her, that his presence there, in itself, was remarkable. He
was a tall, spare man, a little under thirty. His hair was flaxen, soft,
and of that exceeding fineness, which is seldom found except upon the
head of an infant. His eyes were of a keen, variable gray, sometimes
pale in their color, sometimes almost black. The face was one of
remarkable refinement—exquisitely cut and perfect in the contour as the
best dreams of a sculptor; the complexion pure, changeable, delicate,
and fair. The least emotion brought a faint color over the forehead,
which was threaded about the temples with a network of azure veins.

Never was contrast more perfect than that which existed between this man
and the woman, in whose presence he was not allowed to sit. His air, his
gestures, the very bend of his person, was a protest of refinement
against the coarseness which, to his sensitive nature, made her
wonderful beauty repulsive. This woman was questioning him imperiously.
She wanted a favor, yet had not the grace to ask it gently.

“They tell me that you have this power—then why hesitate? When a subject
has the ability to serve his king, it is treason to waver.”

“But, madam, I may not have the power. Our Saviour himself carried
healing to the poor—never to kings; besides, it is given to man once to
die. That is a law which human art cannot reach, and divine power has
limited. The King of France is an old man, and, like the most humble of
us, his days are numbered.”

The woman started up in sudden terror.

“Is this prophecy, or is it rank treason?” she said.

“Madame, it is the simple truth. No art that I ever heard of can make an
old man young; the waters of eternal youth are fabulous. Great power
lies in human knowledge, but not such as you would evoke. Were it
otherwise——”

The man paused, and a faint color stained the pure whiteness of his
forehead. The countess seated herself. A glow of angry impatience had
succeeded to her sudden panic, and she seized upon his hesitation as a
wild animal snatches at food.

“Well, were it otherwise, what then?”

“Then it would be a consideration for any wise man, whether, in
continuing the king’s life beyond that period ordained of God, wrong
might not be done to the people of France.”

“Wrong done to the people of France!” cried the woman, grasping the arm
of her gilded chair with angry vehemence; “the people of France! What
are they but hounds, born to do the bidding of the king.”

“Forgive me, Madame la Countess; but it is said——”

“Well, what is said? Some miserable absurdity, no doubt; another scandal
of the people you talk of. Do not hesitate and stammer as if you were
afraid—I will help you out. It is said that not long since I, myself,
was one of the people—among the lowest, too. Is that it?”

The man bowed very gravely, and looked upon that beautiful face, which
had long since forgotten to blush, with a sentiment of profound pity.

The woman laughed scornfully, and clenched the arm of her chair in
fierce wrath.

“_You_ presume to pity _me_! I might have forgiven the rest; but this
you shall have good cause to remember.”

The man bowed, and made a movement toward the door. His face was
perfectly calm, his step even. She evidently had not terrified him by
her violence.

This wonderful composure astonished the woman, who had become so used to
adulation and assumed homage, that an assertion of self-respect took her
by surprise.

“I have not yet dismissed you, monsieur,” she said, with an effort at
self-control.

The man turned again, and waited while the countess took a golden tablet
from her bosom, and read a memorandum from its ivory leaves.

“This power of healing is not the most marvellous of your gifts, this
memorandum tells me.”

“It is the one I am most grateful for,” answered the man.

“But that of divination! Tell me if it is true that in Vienna the
Empress Maria Theresa sent for you to read the horoscope of her
daughter, the Dauphiness of France?”

“If her majesty had so honored my poor gifts, it would be a base return
to speak of it.”

“But it has got out already, do you think the Countess Du Berry can be
kept ignorant of what goes on in any court of Europe? there is no longer
a mystery. It is said that the Dauphiness turns pale if your name is but
mentioned in her presence.”

The man remained silent, and stood looking sadly on the floor. Some
painful thought seemed to carry him out of that woman’s presence—this
gave her new offence.

“You do not listen, monsieur. Must I be compelled to speak twice?”

The man started as if he had been dreaming.

“I crave your pardon, Madame la Countess. Other thoughts came across me,
and I forgot your presence. As I cannot accomplish the thing you most
desire, permit me to take my leave.”

“Not till you have given me a proof of the wonderful power which was
sufficient to gain you admittance to the cabinet of Maria Theresa. If
your prophesies could drive the blood from that proud heart, they must
be worth listening to. Tell me, monsieur, of my own future. How long——”

The countess checked herself, she had not the courage to ask, in so many
words, how long her evil power might last; for she knew well enough that
it was limited to the life of a wicked old man, and even she shrunk from
a direct question. But the man divined her reason for hesitation, and
answered quietly, as if she had spoken.

“Madame la Countess forgets that to divine the king’s death is treason.”

“But you can tell me this. Not his death—not his death! Heaven forbid
that it should be near enough for your gift of divination, whatever that
may be, to reach it! But tell me of his life. He is strong, he is
healthy; and men do, sometimes, live to be a hundred. Ah! if your
witchcraft could tell me that, it would make you the richest man, and me
the happiest woman in all France.”

“But, madame——”

“Do not dispute me. I have power—help me to perpetuate it. You have
great skill as a physician, if nothing more. The king’s physicians are
negligent, they permit him to be worried with questions of state. They
allow the courtiers to disturb him with their quarrels; De Chaiseul
never gave him rest, and for this he lost his portfolio. I say again, a
physician who will devote himself to the health and real good of the
king, who will be the friend of his friends, watchful and trustworthy,
might become anything his ambition pointed out. Do not shake your head,
monsieur—I ask nothing that an honest man may not perform.”

“You ask everything, madame, when you desire a student to give up his
pursuit of knowledge, and confine his life to any one man, though that
man be King of France.”

“Then you refuse me—refuse a position that would crown the highest
ambition of most men?”

“Madame, I have no ambition.”

The countess threw herself back in her chair and laughed aloud.

“A man with no ambition? This is a novel creature. But you are looking
through the window. What is it that you see there?”

The countess started up from her chair and ran across the room,
forgetting all her previous efforts at dignity in vulgar haste to learn
what had drawn this strange man’s attention so completely from her.




                              CHAPTER II.
                         THE LADY IN THE PARK.


The object that had arrested Doctor Gosner’s attention was a group of
ladies sauntering beneath the trees of the Park. One, who seemed the
superior of the rest, walked a little in advance. She was young, very
beautiful, and paused now and then to address some of the ladies with a
playful turn of the head, and a smile light and careless as that of a
school-girl enjoying her holiday. She was dressed in simple white
muslin, gathered up like a cloud around her slender person, and a jaunty
little straw hat gave piquancy to a dress which any pretty woman in
France might have worn without comment. This young person had broken a
straight branch from the shrubberies as she passed through them, and was
tearing away the green leaves with one ungloved hand. Once she turned
her eyes toward the palace, gave a quick look around, as if she had come
upon it unawares, and addressing the lady nearest to her, shook her
rustic whip in playful reproach.

The countess watched every motion of this lady through the window with
nervous trepidation, as if she half expected that she would enter the
palace. In her anxiety she leaned out of the window so far as to become
visible. The man who stood just behind her saw that the Dauphiness was
seriously annoyed. The quick crimson flashed over her face, and she
turned to retrace her steps with a queenly lift of the head, haughty as
it was graceful.

An exclamation, so fierce that it amounted to an oath, broke from the
countess; a flame of angry crimson rushed over her face, and with a rude
gesture, she flung herself away from the window.

“You saw this Austrian, how haughtily she turned away, as if
contamination lingered in the very walls of any place I live in. Yes, as
you said just now, I am one of the people, that is why she dashes that
whip against her dress, as if beating away the dust of my presence from
her garments. Tell me, you who profess to know everything, is it strange
that I hate her?”

Dr. Gosner took no heed of this question; he was gazing after the group
of ladies, silent and absorbed, while the countess paced the room to and
fro, panting with noisy rage. Not till a winding path hid the group from
view did he leave the window, or become aware of the angry storm that
lovely woman had provoked.

“You saw her—you saw that proud lift of the head when she discovered me,
as if I were the dirt under her feet, and she treading me down with her
heels. Oh! she shall pay for this!”

“Yes,” said the doctor, gently. “I have seen her once before in Vienna.
She was very young, then, and far less beautiful. It is the Dauphiness
of France. Poor lady! Poor, unhappy lady!”

“Ha! You speak as if the things they tell me were true; as if your
divination had found out some great misfortune in store for her. Is it
so? Is it so? I would give this right hand to be sure of it.”

“Madame, I cannot answer.”

“But you shall!”

The doctor smiled very gravely, but in a way that exasperated the woman,
who usually found slaves to her will on every side.

“You brave me! You will do nothing that I desire!”

“I will do anything honorable that appertains to yourself, madame.”

“Then sit down here. I would test your power, let it come from what
source it will. Tell me of my own fate?”

“If you insist, madame, I will.”

The countess went to a table, and began to array writing materials upon
it; but finding no pen, she rang a bell, all crusted with jewels, and
the figure of a dwarf, in a fanciful costume, presented itself at the
door.

“Bring me a pen, Zamara, and see that no one approaches nearer than the
ante-room.”

The dwarf went out, making a bow, as he walked backward, so deep, that
it amounted almost to an Oriental salam.

“That little marmoset is the only true friend I have at court, the only
creature I can really trust,” said the countess; and a gleam of light
softened the haughty boldness of her face. “I think he loves me! Yes, I
think he loves me!”

These words were said more to herself than as if she wished to be
answered. So the doctor took no heed of them in words, but seated
himself in a chair, which she wheeled toward the table, forgetting all
her assumed dignity in an eager desire to learn something of the future.

The doctor seated himself just as Zamara came in with a pen in his hand,
one of those golden and jeweled extravagances which it was the delight
of this low-born woman to have about her.

Dr. Gosner took the pen, and drawing a sheet of vellum toward him,
prepared to make a calculation. The countess, in her anxiety, placed
herself behind him, and folding her arms on the back of his chair,
watched his movements while a sensation of awe crept over her. The
dwarf, Zamara, knelt down upon a cushion, which still had an imprint of
the countess’ foot pressed in the velvet, and regarded first one and
then the other with the vigilance of a favorite dog.

Then a profound stillness fell upon the room. Gosner was making
calculations on the vellum, the other two were watching him. Neither of
them seemed to breathe.

At last the doctor turned his face to the woman, who was partly leaning
over his shoulder.

“You will have me go on, madame?”

“Yes, yes!”

“Remember, it is only at your imperative command. From the very first I
shrunk from this task.”

“I will remember anything you wish, only go on.”

Still he paused. She saw that his face was pale, and a quiver of light
on the jeweled pen, warned her that his hand was trembling.

“Reflect,” he said, very earnestly.

The countess was bold and brave to recklessness; the visible agitation
of this man only made her the more determined.

“Go on! go on!” she repeated, impatiently; but her face grew white, and
her eyes shone.

The dwarf sprang from his knees and caught hold of her dress.

“No, mistress, do not let him go on. It frightens you. It makes
him tremble. He sees something wicked coming out from the
parchment—something that will hurt you.”

The countess stooped down and patted Zamara’s head exactly as she would
have pacified a pet spaniel.

“Go back to your cushion, marmoset,” she said; “this will not hurt me.
It is only writing.”

“Strange writing,” muttered the dwarf, with a glance at the parchment.
“It is like the tracks of a spider, and spiders are venomous. I do not
like it—I do not like it.”

No one seemed to heed these muttered words. The doctor was absorbed by
the hieroglyphics he worked out, and the countess watched him in
breathless suspense. All at once he lifted his head and laid the pen
down.

“We are not alone; send that child out.”

“Child!” exclaimed the dwarf, laying his hand on a little poniard that
glittered in his belt. “Monsieur calls me a child, when I am twenty
years of age, and stay only to protect my mistress.”

The countess laughed. A few minutes before she had been white as a
ghost; but rapid transitions were a part of her reckless character; the
pompous bravery of this little creature was enough to change her mood.

“Go, go,” she said, waving her hand; “this gentleman does not wish to
hurt me. Keep watch at the door—I will call you presently.”

“But should some one call?”

“Send some one away.”

“What if it should be the king?”

“Oh! let the king wait!”

The low-born audacity of this answer did not astonish the dwarf, who
backed out of the room, saying, between his bows, that madame should be
obeyed.

“Now!” exclaimed the impatient woman, “now, monsieur, we are alone. Tell
me what it is that makes your face so pale.”

“Madame, you but now demanded that I should tell you what the future has
in store for Marie Antoinette, who will be Queen of France.”

“Will be Queen of France? When—where?”

“Have I not said it is treason to divine, or prophesy the death of the
king?”

“But I absolve you—I, who have more power than any queen, pardon this
treason in advance.”

“Still I must not speak.”

“Not when my entire destiny depends on that one question?”

“Madame, I have spoken.”

“And still refuse me?”

“Madame, I still refuse!”

“This is cruel! How can I bribe—how can I force you into speaking?”

“This much I can say, as you will have the truth; before another year
passes Marie Antoinette will be Queen of France.”

“Before the end of another year? You are trifling with me! The king is
not so very old, and his health—no, no! I will not believe that; the
stars cannot tell you such horrible things. You are angry because I
persisted. What is it now? Your very lips are white, your hand shakes,
your eyes are looking away into the distance. What is it that you see?”

The man answered like one in a dream. His eyes grew dim, his voice was
low and hoarse.

“I see a great concourse of people heaving and jostling each other along
many streets, all leading into a public square, in which a scaffold
stands reeking with blood, scattered over with saw-dust. Great heavens!
I have seen that picture before. A cart comes lumbering through the
crowd; a woman sits in the cart, her hands bound, her feet tied. She
reels to and fro in the seat; her cries for mercy are mocked by the mob;
the hair, cut short at the neck, has fallen over her face. She flings
herself back in the agony of a last appeal, the hair sweeps aside.
Woman, the face is yours!”

Gosner started up, cast a wild look on the countess, and retreated from
her backward till his progress was stopped by the wall, where he stood
shuddering like a man who had been aroused out of some terrible dream.

The woman seemed turned to marble. The rouge upon her cheeks stood out
frightfully scarlet from the dead whiteness of her lips and face. At
length she fell upon her knees by the chair she had left, threw her arms
over the cushion and shrieked aloud. The dwarf rushed in, seized upon
her dress, and began to cry. Gosner leaned against the wall, and must
have fallen but for its support; great drops of perspiration stood on
his forehead. He had come out of that fearful trance weak as a child.




                              CHAPTER III.
                         THE EGYPTIAN SCARABEE.


All at once Madame Du Berry sprang to her feet; her audacious courage
assumed all its force. She would not believe the fearful thing that man
had said with so much pain.

“Go,” she said to the dwarf, “there is no need of all this whimpering.
The man is an imposter; my enemies have sent him here. He will boast of
the fright he has given me, and they will enjoy the treat. Take your
hand from that poniard, Zamara. I will deal with this false wizard
alone.”

Zamara crept from the room, sobbing piteously. Then the countess turned
upon Gosner.

“Confess you were put up to this—some bitter enemy hoped to give me a
horrible fright. Perhaps it was the Dauphiness, herself, who could not
wait for a report, but came, with a crowd of her ladies, to be near when
your work was done.”

The doctor shook off his weakness, under this rude attack, and walked
firmly toward the angry woman.

“Madame will remember that I came here by her own command—I will add
now, much against my wishes. Heaven knows I do not willingly enter into
a scene like the one which has just passed! It has not surprised or
wounded you more than it has me.”

The countess laughed. Tears stood in her eyes, and her voice broke forth
in a shriek. She was hysterical with anger and affright.

“You still persist? You wish to leave me in abject terror. Know that in
my whole life I—I have never been afraid. Still it would be better to
tell me all. I will forgive this wicked attempt to terrify me. Make
yourself sure that it has failed—miserably failed. I shall only look
upon it as an absurd joke. So you may speak out, and have no fear of
punishment.”

“I have nothing to say, madame,” answered the doctor, “save that I came
here by your command, that I am now ready to retire.”

“Then you will not confess? Well, yes, I will appeal to you. I shall be
happier, not that I was really frightened; but I shall be happier to
know that this was the work of an enemy. Make yourself sure of this, no
queen ever rewarded or punished as I will reward or punish you.”

“Lady, permit me to depart as I came, deserving neither reward or
punishment.”

Dr. Gosner moved toward the door. The countess followed him.

“Still obstinate, still faithful to my enemies. Here, take this, it once
shone in the crown of France. If that is not enough, I will send Zamara
to the lord treasurer for gold. Only have some compassion, and do not
leave me haunted by that awful prediction. Oh, it is terrible!”

The countess took Gosner’s hand and attempted to force a large diamond
on his little finger; but he resisted. A ring was already there, so
singular in its form that it drew her attention. In a setting of rough
gold was a small beetle cut from a chrysoprase gem, and engraved with
hieroglyphics. The countess gave this ring a curious glance, and with
eager violence attempted to draw it from his finger in order to give
place for her diamond; but he tore his hand from her grasp, exclaiming
passionately,

“Not for ten thousand diamonds!”

“Why? It is but a green stone spoiled by the graver; let me look at it.”

“Lady, for your own sake, forbear. When this ring leaves my finger, it
will be to carry sorrow and misfortune wherever it goes. With me, or any
of my blood, it brings a blessing; away from us, nothing but evil will
follow it.”

The countess exhibited no haste to touch the ring again, but her eyes
dwelt on it curiously, until a sort of fascination possessed her. In her
intense interest she seemed to forget all that had passed before.

“Tell me about it! Give me its history! In what way did it become
possessed of this marvellous power of good and evil?

“As for its history, I can tell you this much. An ancestor of mine,
being warned of its existence by a power which I have no right to
explain, found this stone in the sarcophagus of an Egyptian monarch, who
had been inclosed in the marble many many thousand years. The gold which
encircles it was found coiled around the finger of the mummy in the form
of a serpent. This serpent seemed alive, its eyes were so bright and its
jaws closed on the fangs with such a clinging grip. In this form my
ancestor wore it during the rest of his life.”

“And it gave him prosperity—happiness?”

“I have said, madame, that it brings nothing but good to any man or
woman who has a drop of my ancestor’s blood in his or her veins—nothing
but evil to the person who has not. My ancestor, who lived centuries
ago, believed that his own line ran back thousands of years through the
man from whose tomb this chrysoprase was taken. He also believed that it
possessed a supernatural influence on the possessor; and the ring has
fallen to us from father to son as the most precious inheritance that
ever descended for generations in one family.”

“Always bringing happiness?” inquired the countess.

“The man who wears this ring finds all knowledge easy to him—and
knowledge to the men of our house is in itself happiness.”

“But it is sure to carry mental blindness and ruin into any strange
line?”

“So the tradition connected with the ring assures us.”

“Has it never passed out of the direct line?”

“Once.”

“And what happened?”

“The man who stole it died a maniac, with the ring upon his finger.”

“And you would not part with it for gold or honors?”

The doctor only answered with a smile—the idea seemed impossible to him.

Madame put the diamond slowly back upon her finger, still keeping her
eyes wistfully on the Egyptian relic. All at once her countenance
changed; an idea flashed through her brain, and shone upon her face. She
waved her hand in dismissal.

Dr. Gosner gladly accepted this permission to withdraw from a presence
which, from the first, had been hateful to him. The moment he was gone,
madame snatched up the bell and rang it sharply. Zamara answered it.

“Tell one of my people to follow that man even to Paris, if it is
necessary; trace him to his abode, wherever it is. Then, and not till
then, I shall expect my messenger back. Quick, Zamara, for he walks
fast; glad to escape.”

The Indian dwarf made a hurried salam, and left the room. In a few
moments madame had the pleasure of seeing one of her retainers, whose
talent as a spy she could depend on, stealthily following the track of
her late visitor.




                              CHAPTER IV.
                       KING LOUIS THE FIFTEENTH.


The two spies had scarcely disappeared when Madame Du Berry observed an
old man walking deliberately along the grand avenue leading to the
palace.

“Ah! how fortunate! I might have been compelled to wait, but for this.
He seems in good-humor, too; but I am trembling yet. Mon Dieu, how I
tremble! That awful shock has shaken every nerve in my body. He will see
that I am disturbed, and, perhaps, ask the cause. For the world, I would
not tell him. Zamara! Zamara!”

The dwarf, who was waiting close by the door, entered instantly.

“Wine, Zamara!”

The dwarf turned, and directly came back with a salver, on which was a
crystal flask, full of wine, and a tall glass, engraved with a
frost-work of vine-leaves. Madame forbade him to kneel, and filled the
glass herself, draining it like a bar-maid.

“Now go,” she said; “the king must not be kept waiting.”

She need not have been in so much haste, for the old man coming up the
avenue, walked but slowly. He seemed to enjoy the sunshine of that
pleasant day, and lingered in it as an idle old man might, to whom a
degree of weariness was to be endured every day of his life. Still, if
he walked slowly, it was with a jaunty affectation of youth, which his
costume and singularly handsome features carried out with some
appearance of truth. As the sun shone down upon his coat of plum-colored
velvet, with all its rich bordering of embroidery—on the little hat,
surmounting a peruke of flowing brown hair, and the soft, mist-like lace
fluttering at his wrists and bosom, the picture was far more youthful
than it would have appeared at a closer view, or with less elaborate
appointments. As he walked daintily forward in his high-heeled shoes, on
which the diamond-buckles shot out a tiny flame with each lift of the
foot, the old monarch—for this man was Louis the Fifteenth—saw the
flutter of a rose-colored dress at one of the palace windows, and paused
long enough to kiss his hand.

“Thank heaven, he is in excellent humor!” exclaimed the countess, moving
restlessly around the room, and hiding the parchment Dr. Gosner had made
his calculations on beneath a cushion. “This will make my task easy.”

She was right; the old monarch was in high spirits that day. Like a
school-boy, he had escaped from the etiquette of Versailles, and sought
an hour of relaxation in the pretty palace which, from its very
proportions, gave some idea of a home.

The countess stood near the door of her saloon, waiting to receive him,
her eyes sparkling and her cheeks flushed with the wine she had been
drinking. The nervous shock she experienced, subsided into what seemed a
pleasant excitement.

The king came in a little tired from his long walk, and breathing
quickly. There was no ceremony in his reception. The woman knew well
enough that half the charm of that place lay in an entire want of
formality. She wheeled a chair near the window, placed a gilded
footstool for the old man’s feet, when he sat down, and settling herself
on the floor close by it, began to chat with the careless grace of a
spoiled child. It was not till just as he was going away in high
good-humor, that she ventured on the object that had all the time been
uppermost in her mind.

“One minute—do not go quite yet, my friend; I have a little favor to
ask.”

“Oh! that is why you have insisted on keeping at my feet,” laughed the
old man. “One must pay for an hour like this. Well, well, if the price
is not heavy, we will consider it.”

The countess went to a table, and brought back a small portfolio, which
she opened upon one knee, sinking the other gently to the floor.

“Only a little signature—just one.”

She held out a paper, on which some lines had been hastily written by
her own hand. The king took it with a little hesitation, and holding it
a long way from his eyes, read the contents.

“What! another _lettre-de-cachet_!” he exclaimed, a good deal
disconcerted. “Do you know, my friend, these things are getting far too
common. The people are beginning to question them. Will nothing else
content you?”

“Nothing else, sire. Why, it is three weeks since I have asked for
one—and my enemies are so many.”

“Ah! I know; but this name—I have never heard of it. Who is the wretched
man?”

“He is a sorcerer, sire. It is not a day since he terrified me fearfully
in this very room.”

“In this room! How did an unknown man get here?”

“He bribed Zamara to give him access, under pretence of presenting a
petition, and once here, said horrible things, threatening me with
death.”

“Ha!”

“And saying, that to save the king’s life was rank treason.”

“Give me a pen.”

She opened the portfolio wide, spread it across his knees, and went to
the table for a pen. Her hand shook as she reached it toward him, and he
remarked it.

“I know! I know!” she said. “The fright has not left me yet.”

Louis signed the order, which was to bury Dr. Gosner in one of the
gloomiest vaults of the Bastille, and laying it in the portfolio, handed
it and the pen back to the countess.

“It will be very difficult for this bold man to frighten you hereafter,”
he said, rising a little wearily. “Such audacity must be checked. You
will know how to put the order in force?”

“Always gracious, always good!” exclaimed the countess. “Ah, sire! if
you could read all the gratitude in my heart!”

“I am just now content to read it in those eyes. Adieu! or rather, _au
revoir_, sweet friend!”

The woman permitted Louis to go. She was anxious to see him depart, that
she might use the cruel order he had just signed. She watched him
eagerly till he disappeared behind the trees of the Park, then rang her
bell for Zamara before seating herself to write a note, which she
completed without looking up, though the Indian dwarf stood by her chair
within a minute after her bell sounded.

“Take this,” she said, sealing the note which inclosed the
_lettre-de-cachet_, “deliver this yourself, and at once. Do not return
to me until you know that this audacious man is on his way to the
Bastille. Above all things, say that I want the ring from his left hand.
Without that, do not dare to look on my face again.”

“Madame shall be obeyed,” said the dwarf, taking the letter and darting
from the room.




                               CHAPTER V.
                     THE DWARF AND THE DAUPHINESS.


On the second day after this scene in the favorite’s bower room, Zamara
came unsummoned into the presence of his mistress, and laid a ring, with
its green scarabee in her hand. She started up with a shriek, and dashed
the ring from her vehemently.

The dwarf picked up the ring, and stood holding it with a frightened
look, astonished at the excitement it had occasioned.

“Madame commanded that Zamara should not return without it,” he said,
with tears in his eyes. “Is it wrong?”

“Lay it down—do not touch it, Zamara. Yet stay. An hour—a single hour
can do little harm. Zamara, do you know the palace? Have you ever been
at Versailles?”

“Often, madame. No one regards Zamara when he is not in these clothes,
especially if it should be night.”

“Could you find your way into the apartments occupied by the Dauphiness,
Zamara?”

“To give madame pleasure, Zamara would find his way anywhere.”

The countess patted the dwarf’s head with her white and beautiful hand.

A small enameled box stood on a _chiffonniere_ among other articles of
expensive jewelry. She opened the box, and bade Zamara drop the ring
into it; then she folded the box in a piece of silver paper, and gave it
again to the dwarf.

“You understand,” she said, “this must go directly into the hands of the
Dauphiness?”

“Madame, I understand.”

“And you will convey it there, at once?”

“At once.”

“But how? It must be done secretly, or you may come to harm, Zamara.”

“The harm will be welcome, if it comes in madame’s service,” answered
the dwarf.

“Then go. It is getting late, shadows are gathering over the Park; but
be careful. If any one sees you, say that you have a message for the
king. There is not a creature in the palace who will dare molest you.
Stay, I will write.”

The dwarf waited patiently till madame had completed a fanciful little
note, which she gave to his charge. Concealing this with the box in his
bosom, the dwarf set forth on his errand.

It was no unusual thing for Zamara to be seen coming and going to the
king’s apartments; but that night he seemed lost in the vast building,
and wandered about from room to room, hiding when the guards appeared,
and darting across each illuminated space like some deer in an open
glade. At last he found himself in a wing of the vast palace that he had
never visited before. The dwarf passed several persons unavoidably on
his way; but if any one observed him, he asked innocently if the king
was yet at dinner, and passed on.

At length, after trying several keys, he entered a spacious bedchamber,
dimly lighted, and rendered somewhat gloomy from the massive high bed
mounted on a dais, from which curtains of crimson damask swept almost
from the frescoed ceiling to the floor. In a smaller room, beyond this
chamber, Zamara saw a toilet brilliantly lighted up, and a casket of
jewels lying open upon it, from which a rope of pearls had fallen
loosely, and lay gleaming like frozen moonlight across an azure satin
cushion, on which the casket was placed.

Zamara knew that this was Marie Antoinette’s dressing-room. He moved
across the bedchamber cautiously, and looked in. The room was empty, but
a robe of some glittering white gauze lay upon a sofa near the toilet;
and near that was a pair of white satin shoes, with high, red heels, and
an enormous pearl in the center of each rosette. These preparations
warned the dwarf that he might any moment be discovered. Quick as
lightning he darted across the room, removed the casket from its azure
cushion, and laid the enameled box, containing the scarabee, in its
place. Before his hand left the box, he heard voices, and a gush of
sweet laughter, as of young persons approaching and conversing together.
That minute the room was empty again.

Zamara had just found time to flee across the bedchamber and hide
himself behind the voluminous curtains, when the Dauphiness came into
the dressing-room, followed by several of her ladies. She had just come
up from dining in public, where some strange characters among the
people, permitted by an old custom, to see the monarch dine, had excited
her mirthfulness.

The Indian looked upon her with admiration, increased by her youth and
wonderful beauty; the light from a dozen wax-tapers fell upon her
rounded arms, shaded at the elbows with a mist of lace; and her neck,
white as the purest leaves of a water-lily, gleaming through a kerchief
of lace so thin that it lay upon it like a shadow. That string of pearls
had fallen entirely from the casket when Zamara lifted it from the
cushion, and this attracted the attention of the Dauphiness. She stooped
and took them from the floor; then saw that the casket had been removed,
and its place occupied.

“What is this?” she exclaimed, unfolding the silver paper, and opening
the box. “Some new gift from my august father-in-law, no doubt. How
strange! Look ladies! what a singular thing!”

She took the Egyptian ring from its box and examined it curiously. “A
beetle with such strange writing on its breast; a serpent coiled around
it. Some valuable antique, I suppose.”

“A talisman, rather, which will bring good fortune to your Highness, and
to France,” said one of the ladies in waiting. “I have heard of such
things.”

“And I,” said the Dauphiness, removing one of the many jewels from her
finger, and putting the scarabee in its place. “It seems to have come
here by a miracle, and we will at least test its virtues.”

Here the dressing-room door was closed, and Zamara stole from his
hiding-place.

An hour after he rushed into the presence of his mistress, wild with
triumph.

“Madame! Oh, madame! she has got it! She accepts! I saw the serpent
coiled around her finger! It looked alive—it looked alive!”

In her gratitude for this evil act, the Countess Du Berry drew Zamara,
the dwarf, toward her, and kissed him on the forehead.




                              CHAPTER VI.
                           HOUSEHOLD FAMINE.


A narrow street in the heart of Paris; houses on each side, towering up
so high that the sunshine never reached the earth upon which they stood;
and those who lived in the lower stories scarcely knew what it was to
see a gleam of pure light from Christmas to Christmas. The houses,
solid, old, and moss-grown at the base, were crowded with human beings,
who would gladly have worked for a livelihood, had any work been
attainable in Paris that cruel season.

But there was stagnation in trade, and distress in all the land. Those
who depended on toil for their daily bread, found all their efforts
insufficient to appease the incessant cravings of hunger, which was a
terrible disease all over France that year. But there was no work. Those
who controlled capital held it close, thus paralyzing trade and adding
to the general distress. Thousands and thousands of those who longed to
be, in fact, the working people of Paris, suffered terribly for food.
This want was felt all through the neighborhood we speak of. Scarcely a
family within sight of it had enjoyed a sufficiency of food for weeks.
Poverty drove them from story to story, while it kept them almost too
weak to climb the stairs as they multiplied upward.

In a small room, under the roof of one of these houses, two women sat in
idleness. They would have been glad to work, but that poor privilege was
denied to them. They would more gladly have eaten something, but all the
provisions they had in the room would scarcely have set forth the ghost
of a meal. Still this destitution was borne with a sort of cheerful
patience, which nothing but a native of France could have maintained
under such circumstances. There was no abandonment to despondency—hunger
had, sometimes, made these two females serious, but seldom morose; their
burden of life grew heavier day by day, but up to this time it had not
broken down the patience which is the most beautiful part of womanhood.

They sat together in the darkening room, two worn and half-famished
creatures, wondering if the morrow would have something in store for
them with a sort of forlorn hope, which neither had the spirit to
express.

These two suffering women were mother and daughter; yet the mother was
not at full mid-age, and a powerful constitution made her seem younger
than she really was. She was handsome, too, spite of the famine that had
pinched her features, and given that hungry light to her eyes. A large,
fine woman, of the English type, full of natural health and energy this
person had been only a year before; now she was subdued and broken down
by sheer physical want.

The young girl who sat near her was a fair, gentle blonde, very thin,
white and delicate: her great, blue eyes enlarged with craving; and her
mouth tremulous, like that of an infant denied of its innocent wishes.

The woman had just come in from a long, long walk through country roads;
her shoes were heavy with clinging mud, and all the edges of her dress
were soiled. The girl noticed this, and said, with some anxiety,

“Mother, have you been far?”

“Yes, Marguerite, very far. Once more I have been to Versailles.”

“And for no good?”

“For no good! The guard refused me at the gate.”

These words were uttered with profound despondency. The poor woman
closed her eyes, and leaned her head against the wall of the room as
they left her lips, as if about to sleep or die. Marguerite started up
and went to her, shivering with mingled pain and nervousness.

“Mamma! mamma!”

The woman was insensible. She had been walking all day without food, and
come home hopeless. This had never happened before; through many a weary
year of disappointment and pain that noble form had held its strength,
but it gave way now, and a cold whiteness settled upon her. To her child
she seemed dead.

“Oh! my poor, poor mamma! What can I do?” she cried out, wringing her
hands in utter helplessness, for there was not even a cup of water in
the room.

“Monsieur! Monsieur Jacques!”

The frightened girl beat her hands against the partition which divided
her room from that of some poor neighbor; and cried out in her despair,
“Monsieur Jacques! Monsieur Jacques!”

Directly a heavy and most singular man appeared at the door with his
coat off, and an iron crucible in his hand.

“What is it, Marguerite, my child? What is hurting you!”

Marguerite came toward the man, and seized hold of his arms with both
hands.

“Monsieur Jacques, she is dead. Look, look! the great God has taken her
away from me!”

The poor girl was too horror-stricken for tears; but her face was so
wild and white that the strange man flung his crucible on the floor,
spattering the hot lead it held over the threshold, where it gleamed
like silver. The next moment found the head of that insensible woman on
his bosom, and his face close to hers. He was listening for her breath.

The girl stood by, mute as stone, watching him with her wild, blue eyes,
that seemed twice their usual size. At last the man spoke,

“No, little one, she is not dead. Give me your hand, I will make you
sure.”

Marguerite reached forth her hand, and Jacques laid it on the wrist he
was handling. The well-formed hand fell down from his hold in limp
immobility; but Marguerite, after bending her head a little while, cried
out joyfully as an infant does when it hears a watch tick, “Oh! my good
God! It beats—it beats!”

The girl fell down upon her knees, and, covering her face with both
hands, kept repeating amid her tears,

“It beats—it beats! She is alive!”

“Yes, little one, she is alive. Do not cry! Do not cry so!”

The girl looked up, radiant in spite of her pallor and her tears.

“Oh, Monsieur Jacques! it is because I am so happy! How kind the good
God is! How he makes us think light of trouble that seemed so great!
Only this morning I was so sad, weeping because she must go out, and no
breakfast; not a morsel of bread; not a drop of milk—in short, nothing.
It was the third morning I had seen this, and it made my heart sick with
trouble. But now that is so little, I smile at it. I have her here
alive—she breathes—she opens her eyes! Oh, mamma! you have been so close
to death, I thought you had gone and was about to die myself. Only for
that tiny flutter in your wrist I could not have helped it. Ah! you know
all about it. You look into my eyes, and say in your heart, ‘How this
poor child loves me. She is worth living for.’”

Here Monsieur Jacques put Marguerite on one side with his hand, in which
was a lump of brown bread. In the other he held a cup of water.

“Let her eat this, little one; then she will be strong, and tell us how
all this happened.”

Marguerite reached out her hand for the bread.

“Oh, monsieur! let me give it to her. I so longed to see her eat it from
my hand; but then it is yours—I have no right.”

Jacques was holding the woman’s head on his arm. She was conscious,—her
eyes were wide open,—but quiet from perfect exhaustion. He surrendered
the bread into those outstretched hands with a smile that illuminated
his grim free into something better than beauty ever was to a man.

Marguerite held the water to her mother’s lips, and then placed a morsel
of bread between them. This was feebly swallowed. At that moment, made
aware that food was near, the woman started up, snatched at the bread,
and devoured it ravenously. Marguerite began to cry again at this; then
she laughed through her tears, and turned to Jacques, who looked on with
two great tears rolling down his cheeks. Seizing his two hands, she fell
to kissing them rapturously.

“It is you that I must thank. Where did you get it? bread, and such
bread, all of flour; the last we had was half fern, that made our
throats dry. She would not eat, but gave it all to me, saying that she
had plenty put away, but liked to eat it by herself. That was wrong,
very wrong; it cheated me into eating so much. Do you know, Monsieur
Jacques, I fear—nay, I feel sure that she has eaten nothing. Oh! mamma,
mamma! if I forgive you, it will be after you have eaten every crumb of
monsieur’s bread.”

The woman, who had been devouring the bread like a hungry wolf, now
dropped the last crust from her hands.

“Forgive me! I had forgotten you, little one; but the day was so long,
and I walked fast both ways.”

Marguerite replaced the fragment of bread in her mother’s hands.

“Eat it all!” she said. “I have had enough, haven’t I, Monsieur
Jacques?”

“Plenty,” answered the man. “Never fear; there is yet another loaf—the
baker is my friend. Besides, I have made a discovery.”

“A discovery! What?” cried Marguerite. “I can believe anything since we
have food. See, mamma is listening. Where shall we look for this
discovery?”

“Here, in this house.”

“Here?”

“Yes, in the roof. We have been close to it all the time. What the
people want is, first bread, then arms.”

“Well, monsieur.”

“And ammunition. Look!”

Jacques pointed to the crucible, which lay upon the floor, and the
bright metal which covered the threshold, like a fantastic embroidery.
Marguerite shook her head; she could understand nothing of this.

“There is plenty of it under the roof and about the old windows. The
people want arms, powder, bullets—I make them, you understand. See, I
gather this up—no harm is done. I melt it over again, run it into a
mold, that you shall see—for Jacques not only works for the people, but
he invents. Then I take my bag of bullets to the proper place, do a
little work where I can get it, and come back with a pocket full of
sous, enough for a little bread that is all flour, such as madame has
eaten. So do not fear that she will faint again. To-morrow shall be a
holiday—I don’t just now remember the saint, but we will find one to
suit us, or do without. Between us, little one, saints are getting out
of fashion since liberty took the lead—not that I like it altogether,
mark; but we will have our holiday. In the morning I will go to
market—that is, you shall go with me, and I will buy you six eggs, a
sprig of parsley, perhaps an onion, who knows, with some milk, and—but
it does not do so well when we promise overmuch; still make sure of
this, it will be a feast providing we can get the work.”

Marguerite smiled, and took both her mother’s cold hands in hers.

“You hear, mamma, it is to be a feast!”

“Yes, I hear,” answered the woman, brightening into new life. “Give me
plenty of food and I can do anything.”

“Ah!” said Marguerite, with a sigh. “Even food will not bring _him_ out
of the Bastille.”

Monsieur Jacques laughed.

“The want of it may: people who starve are strong as giants. It is
hunger which makes lions fierce; famish a man, and he becomes a wild
beast. Food may not relieve your father, my little friend; hunger
can—but for that what would my bullets be worth?”

The woman, who was listening keenly to all this, sat upright, and you
could see the strong vitality of a great idea kindling through her
frame.

“Go on, Monsieur Jacques, your words are worth more than the bread; they
give life to ideas.”

“Yes, I know. We have found a saint worth all the martyrs in the
calendar—nay, we must not call it a saint, but a goddess. Let the clergy
take their saints; we want something to work for, not to pray to.”

The woman’s eyes grew bright as stars. Hunger had made them
supernaturally large.

“This very day I would have knelt to the king. After so many years of
waiting, I had made up my mind to speak to him, or be trampled under the
feet of his horses; but though I fell upon the earth, it was of no
avail, they would not allow me to reach him. Oh! those nobles are hard,
hard as the rock. He did not look that way; so many persons surrounded
him that I could no more get through them, or reach him, than I could
have stopped an army.

“The king was on his way to Meudon, to hunt, they told me, and no one
must impede the way. So they went by, horses and men, spattering me with
mud. Ah! how grand they were, how their clothes shone and glittered! How
rosy and plump they looked, while I was famishing, and _he_ in the
depths of the Bastille. Ah, Monsieur Jacques! there is a great gulf
between the good king and his people. Who will fill it up?”

“Wait,” said Jacques—“wait and work.”

“Ah! but mamma has already worked so hard,” said Marguerite, kissing her
mother with pathetic tenderness. “It is my turn now. I will find
something to do, if it is only to open and shut the mold in which
Monsieur Jacques runs his bullets.”

“But can you do nothing better than that, little one?”

“Oh, many things!” answered the girl. “I can embroider beautifully, and
make the loveliest things—but who will employ me? I have tried, oh! so
hard, to get work.”

“No doubt, no doubt; but then work is the thing which no one can get in
Paris. Even the earth refuses to do her part, and lets the seed dry up
in her bosom, that is why France is so restless. But madame has just
made a revelation—she spoke of some one in the Bastille.”

“She spoke of my father,” said Marguerite, in a sad, low voice.

“And is he in that awful place?”

“Sit down, monsieur, and I will tell you,” said the elder lady, “for you
are almost the only friend we have, and I must confide in some one.”




                              CHAPTER VII.
                     THE PRISONER OF THE BASTILLE.


Jacques sat down, and Mrs. Gosner went on with her narrative.

“We have not always been so poor as this—far from it. My husband was the
lateral descendant from a noble house; my own blood is not altogether
plebeian.”

Jacques nodded his head, and muttered,

“I thought so.”

Madame went on,

“My husband was a born subject of the empress. He was a learned man—nay,
he had higher powers than mere learning can give. In some things he was
great.”

Monsieur Jacques started up suddenly, and struck a table near him with
his clenched hand. Some idea had evidently excited him.

“Your name is Gosner—Dr. Gosner. I understand—I understand; but go on.”

“The fame of my husband’s powers reached Marie Theresa at her court. She
sent for him not long after our marriage. It was just before her
daughter came to France. He went, but returned greatly disturbed, and
for days was haunted by some distressing remembrance. When we mentioned
the Dauphiness, he would turn pale, and go off alone, as if afraid of
something. But this changed. He became tranquil as ever, and plunged
deeper and deeper into those sciences which were his very life. Some
happy years went by. One day my husband received a letter from France.
It had come all the way by a courier in the king’s livery, who was
ordered to escort the doctor to Versailles, where some person high at
court wished to consult with him.

“This summons disturbed us greatly. Instead of being pleased that his
renown as a physician had extended so far, he looked upon the summons as
a presage of evil. I felt differently, glorying in my husband. I
rejoiced that his great learning, and still greater powers, had won this
invitation to the court of Louis the Fifteenth, and urged his departure.
He went sadly enough.”

The woman paused here, and seemed to struggle with her voice against
some choking sensation.

“Well?” questioned Monsieur Jacques.

Madame Gosner answered in a single sentence.

“He never came back!”

“Truly, he never did come back,” repeated Monsieur Jacques, with a
strange smile.

“He was away a long time—no word came to us about him. We inquired of
every one who had been in France, but no tidings. At last we believed
him dead. Knowing that he had arrived in Paris, we sent a person, who
knew him well, to get certain tidings of his fate. This person traced
him to Versailles, learned that he entered the Grand Trianon, and
remained there more than an hour. It was the palace in which that vile
woman, Barry, lived. After that he returned to Paris, ate some supper at
the house where he lodged, and went out for a walk. A man was waiting
near the door, who joined him, and they went off together. That is all.”

“And you have never heard of him since?” questioned Monsieur Jacques.

“Not till last year. Then a letter reached me, written on a scrap of
soiled paper, and dated at the Bastille. It was in his handwriting, and
bore his signature; but it said little that I could understand. This
much was certain. Years and years my husband had been shut up in the
horrible place. There had been no crime, no charge—and his imprisonment
threatened to be eternal. Sometimes prisoners were taken out of their
subterranean dungeons, and permitted to breathe the air; but he had no
such privilege. Day after day, month after month, year after year, he
saw no one but his keeper, who seldom spoke, but was not devoid of pity.
Once he had given him a scrap of paper; on this he pierced some letters
with a pin; and after waiting months and months, got it carried out into
the world by a man who——”

“Who was called to mend the ponderous locks of his dungeon. I was the
man.”

“You, Monsieur Jacques—you?”

“I remember him well—a tall, thin man, with hair white as spun silk, and
a beard falling down his bosom; the face white, and pure as an infant’s;
the eyes luminous, even in the darkness of his dungeon. Was this like
your husband, madame?”

“It was my husband, no doubt.”

“This I saw as the keeper left me for a single minute. Then the prisoner
came eagerly toward me, his long white finger on his lips, his eyes
burning and eager. Thrusting that paper into my hand, he whispered a
name and an address. ‘Send it!’ he said. ‘For the love of God, send it!’
His hands shook, his face quivered, his teeth knocked together with
affright, for he saw the jailor coming back, and feared him.

“I thrust the paper into my bosom, saying only, ‘I will,’ He could not
answer, for the man was near, but instantly the fire in his eyes was
quenched in tears; he crept back to his corner, and sat down, with both
hands to his face, weeping.

“‘What was he saying?’ demanded the jailor, looking at me keenly. ‘I saw
his lips move.’

“‘Did you?’ I answered, carelessly twisting a screw in its socket. ‘I
did not observe, ask him.’

“My careless answer disarmed the man of his suspicions; but he did not
leave me again for a moment; and when I asked the prisoner’s name, he
answered, ‘We have no names here. This man has a number—that is all.’

“‘But how long has he been here?’ I asked.

“‘Since the year in which Louis the Fifteenth died,’ he said.

“The prisoner started up, and reached forth his hands imploringly, ‘Is
the old king dead?’ he questioned. ‘Then she is queen! Will no one tell
her that an innocent man suffers here? Is there no mercy in any human
heart?’

“The jailor answered him by a heavy clang of the door, and a grinding
noise of the lock I had just mended. I came away with the paper in my
bosom, and sent it to the name whispered in my ear when it was given. It
was the name of some curé in a town of Germany.”

“It was for me, that poor prisoner’s wife,” cried the woman, who had
been listening with intense interest. “The curé sent it to me—and then I
knew that my husband was alive, and in the Bastille. It was like a
revelation from the grave.”

“It was that scrap of paper, pierced with pinholes, that brought you
here?” said Monsieur Jacques. “It was to save him that you came to
Paris?”

“Yes; in less than a week we set forth. Marguerite had almost forgotten
her father; but she was restless to go in search of him. The little
property we had was almost gone, but we turned it into money, and came
away. Oh! it was a terrible undertaking. Day after day, I wandered about
that grim building hoping, in a wild fashion, that some chance would
give me sight of him—but nothing came of it. I knew that he was there,
and the knowledge wounded the heart in my bosom; but in Paris I was
helpless as in Germany. How would I get him from underneath that grim
pile of stones? It was like beating myself against a rock. I went to men
learned in the law; I wrote petitions, and gave money to have them
presented to the king; I made vain efforts to get speech of him; but all
was useless, our money melted away, my strength left me; from one place
to another we were driven here, helpless and starving, and oh my God! he
is in that hideous dungeon yet!”

“Take courage, my friend; it will not be forever. Do not let those poor
hands fall so despondently in your lap. Better times are coming. All
these terrible grievances will be laid before the king. He is not cruel;
some day he will open the doors of that awful Bastille, and let the
people look in. They are getting curious, impatient. No power can keep
them much longer in the dark. I have seen it; they thought me a
blacksmith, for I went in place of a man who had taught me something of
his craft; for, madame, it is my pleasure to know everything, and, like
the king, I have a taste for working in iron. I went over more than one
of those hideous dungeons, and saw their inmates. What I saw was given
to the clubs, and in that way to the people. They are learning all the
secrets walled-in by that pile of stone. The knowledge ferments—let it
work. By-and-by we shall know what it is to arouse millions of slaves to
a knowledge that liberty exists.”

The two women looked at the strange man in supreme wonder; his eyes
glowed, his figure drew itself up erectly; his right arm was extended,
as if addressing an audience. The glow of a powerful enthusiasm was upon
him.

The elder woman stood up, the food she had taken made her strong; this
man’s enthusiasm extended itself to her.

“I have knelt this day in the street, only to be covered with mud,” she
said. “I have worked, starved, entreated, that an innocent man might be
taken from a dungeon worse than the grave, and all to no avail. Others
suffer as I do; other women have seen their husbands buried alive, and
have heard the cries of their own anguish mocked by the nobility, which
stands between the people and their king. Tell me what to do, and if
human will can accomplish anything, it shall be done. Marguerite, come
hither.”

The young girl came at her mother’s bidding, an earnest light in her
eyes, a faint glow on her face. Her father was in prison, her mother
only an hour before had fainted from want of nourishment. She thought of
this, and her gentle nature was aroused to profound sympathy. The mother
took her hand, holding it firmly as she bent down and kissed the white
forehead uplifted to her face.

“We have been selfish, my child,” she said. “In our own troubles we have
forgotten others. What can two helpless women accomplish against wrongs
that have grown strong under centuries of endurance? My child, in
ourselves we are nothing; united with others equally unfortunate we may
do much. France has wronged us terribly—it is my motherland. It was I
who persuaded him to come and cast himself into dangers that seized upon
him, as wild beasts snatch their prey. ‘The king has sent for you,’ I
said. ‘The king is France.’ I was wrong, the king is not France—his
people cannot reach him; his heart is good and generous, but who can
appeal to it, standing so far off. Still, France is France, and this
king is not the old one; he continues abuses, but does not originate
them.”

Monsieur Jacques listened earnestly. He looked from madame to her
daughter, in wonder. Their energy had enkindled a new idea in his ardent
nature. He saw in it an element of strength that would be wielded with
force when the time of redemption arrived. The power and pride of a
Roman matron lay in that woman, who was lifted far above those with whom
poverty forced her to associate. Her intellect was quick and grasping;
she comprehended like a man, and felt like a woman—of such characters
among men leaders are formed. How would it prove with her own sex? Could
she control that subtle element? Would enthusiasm awake to the glance of
her eyes, and ignorance follow her lead unquestioning?

Monsieur looked upon her as she stood, tall, naturally robust, and
proud, flinging off all selfish weakness, and ready to suffer for her
country, as she had already suffered for her husband, alas! in vain.
Then he turned to Marguerite, fair and delicate as a lily; and saw in
her beauty another spirit of power; for this man had but one grand
idea—and that was “_Liberty!_”

“You think as she does?” he questioned, laying his hand upon her head
solemnly, as if consecrating her.

“Let her think for me, I am too young. Where she goes, I will go; where
she dies, I, too, will die!”

Her words were low and solemn; sweet as the rustle of living flowers,
but resolute, too. The girl felt their import, though she did not as yet
understand the magnitude of her concession.

“Those who dedicate themselves to liberty have no sex,” said Monsieur
Jacques. “Men and women suffer alike; let them resist alike.”




                             CHAPTER VIII.
                         AN UNEXPECTED VISITOR.


As Monsieur Jacques was speaking, a knock sounded at the door—a fierce,
loud knock, as if the person without had become impatient.

Jacques was going toward the door, when it was flung open, and a man
entered—a large, powerful man, dressed carelessly, but with something of
courtliness; for his clothes were of rich material, and slightly adorned
with embroidery; but his hair was of its natural warm brown, thick,
wavy, and abundant, giving a leonine power to the great head,
remarkable, because it was free of powder, and fell downward in natural
waves, which stirred heavily whenever he turned.

“Monsieur le count! I did not expect you so early.”

“So it seems,” answered the man, glancing at Madame Gosner, with
mischievous significance. “But I beg pardon; hearing voices in this
room, I supposed you had changed lodgings, and came in more rudely than
madame will forgive, I fear.”

The rough manner which had marked this person on his entrance, changed
to the most elegant courtliness the instant he saw Marguerite standing
near her mother. The hat was instantly lifted from his head, and once
more he begged leave to apologize.

He came in search of his foster-brother, and had no idea of the company
he was honored in finding himself.

The contrast of this man’s address, which was soft and persuasive, with
the rude grandeur of his head, had a sort of fascination in it. The two
ladies felt themselves transferred back to the saloons which nature and
education had given them a right to enter. In this man the energy of the
people seemed blended with the elegance of the court; thus they found
him in harmony with old memories and recent ideas.

Madame received his apologies with the grace of a Roman matron. She
waved her hand toward one of the rude chairs, and requested him to be
seated, while Monsieur Jacques, recovering from his surprise, presented
his visitor as the Count De Mirabeau.

Mirabeau seated himself, and began to converse; his words were directed
entirely toward Marguerite, who listened in breathless awe to his
brilliant sayings, without dreaming that they were all intended for her;
and that each glance of those eyes were sent to measure their effect.

In this presence Monsieur Jacques allowed himself to subside into
insignificance. He spoke in monosyllables, and sat with his hands
clasped, as if in adoration of the talent which broke forth in every
word this strange man uttered.

Marguerite, too, was fascinated and enthralled. At first the exceeding
ugliness of their visitor had repelled her; but the moment he spoke,
this feeling changed, and she listened with all her soul, and that shone
in her beautiful eyes.

Count Mirabeau saw all this, as only a man of quick intellect and
insatiable vanity can observe. He soon discovered that the surroundings
of these two women were far inferior to the rank to which they were
entitled—and this both inspired and surprised him. In his own person he
blended so much of the extremes of social life—coarse strength with
vivid imagination, pride of birth and pride of humanity—that a wild
sympathy for these two persons awoke almost to a passion in his nature
at the first sight. They were refined, delicate, sensitive, yet still of
the people, suffering with them, and, to a certain extent, feeling with
them.

If Count Mirabeau had any fixed ideas at this time, they were vague and
incomplete, shifting and changing with the current of public opinion,
which was firm only to one fixed point, a concentration of power in the
people. Mirabeau had watched the storm rising, which was to devastate
all France, with the interest of a man born to lead in tempests. How the
whirlwind, which he saw gathering, might rage, he, probably, had no
idea. Events rush forward in revolutions with a force that defies
individual strength; but he was a man to seize upon every means of power
as they presented themselves; and even now, with that lovely girl and
the stately woman before him, he was calculating how far they might be
made available to his ambition.

After a little, Mirabeau arose, and, with a graceful reverence, such as
he might have denied to a queen, left the room; begging permission to
call again when he might have the happiness to be of service to the
ladies.

Monsieur Jacques followed him, looking proudly back upon his friends.

“How strange, how grand, how ugly!” said Marguerite, drawing a deep
breath as the door closed. “Oh! if kings were like him, we should not
plead in vain!”

Madame Gosner answered with less emotion. She was wondering if this man,
who seemed both of the court and the people, would be able to aid her in
the one great wish of her life. If he had that power, she was ready to
become his slave.




                              CHAPTER IX.
                COUNT DE MIRABEAU AND MONSIEUR JACQUES.


Mirabeau and Monsieur Jacques went to a neighboring chamber and sat down
together; for, strange as the contrast was between them, they were
foster-brothers, and a stronger tie than that of absolute kinship
existed between them.

“Well, Jacques, where did you find these people? Who are they?” inquired
the count, flinging himself into a chair, and reaching forth his hand
for that of his foster-brother. “The demoiselle is beautiful. It is a
sin to find her here.”

Jacques gave a succinct account of his acquaintance with the mother and
daughter, and repeated, word for word, the conversation he had held with
them that evening.

Mirabeau listened eagerly. There was romance in this—a mother and
daughter devoting their lives to the hope of winning freedom for an
innocent man, had something sublime in it, which kindled his
imagination, and touched all that was good in his heart. He took out a
well-worn purse, which contained only a piece or two of gold, and
emptied it on the table.

“See that there is no more starvation. Women like these must not be
permitted to suffer,” he said, thrusting the empty purse back into a
pocket of his dress. “The girl is beautiful, the mother simply grand.”

“Ah! but the young lady is so good,” answered Jacques, who did not feel
quite satisfied with this sudden interest.

“Good, very possible—I am no judge; but she is fair as a lily, and
bright as a sunbeam. Did my face terrify her, Jacques?”

“Your face, Count Mirabeau—how should it? Why, your face is magnificent,
grand—it is that I glory in most of anything.”

Jacques believed all that he was saying. In his heart great love had
glorified that massive head, with its shock of ruddy hair, into
something beautiful. He heard the question put to him with genuine
surprise, as if some one had disputed the brightness of the sun; but
Count Mirabeau understood himself better. He rather gloried in the rude
grandeur of his appearance, the conquests which he made in spite of it
were doubly grateful to him. “It is a common thing to be beautiful,” he
would say; “but to be hideous and beloved in spite of it, is sublime.”

“Ah! you are no judge, brother Jacques. Of course, I am everything grand
and agreeable to you; but with a young lady, the thing is different. I
saw her look of surprise when I came in. No wonder; but she forgot to be
afraid after a little. Did you see that? How her eyes kindled! What a
smile came to her face—a lovely face, undoubtedly; a very lovely face!”

Count Mirabeau fell into a reverie here, and began to thread with his
hand the long waves of hair that fell to his shoulder.

Jacques remained silent, and sat watching him.

After awhile the count arose, and taking one of the gold pieces from the
table, dropped it into his pocket. Glancing at the two Louis d’or that
were left, he said, with a laugh.

“These will be enough for the present—one cannot do entirely without
money. Come to me, Jacques, when you want more.”

“But the ladies are proud; they will not accept it, knowing where it
comes from.”

“They must not know where it comes from. You understand?”

“Yes, I understand.”

“Now I will bid you good-night, Jacques. Do you know that my father is
in Paris?”

“In Paris! I did not know it. What brings him here?”

“He comes to be reconciled with his son, so I am told. I had a letter
from him this morning, appointing a time when I am to call on him. It
was this which brought me here.”

“Then you will go?”

“Yes. Why not?”

“But he has been so cruel, so harsh. It is not long since the doors of
his chateau were closed against you.”

“Yes. I am not likely to forget that; but in these times it is not
policy to be resentful. My father has influence with the king.”

“But I thought you were the enemy of Louis the Sixteenth, and of all his
family!”

“You forget the Duc d’Orleans.”

“But he is not your friend.”

“He is the friend of no man but himself. Still one does not quarrel with
him. A bad, weak friend, Jacques; but sometimes such characters carry
braver men into power. While he is popular with the people, who will not
readily release their hold on royalty of some kind, I, for one, shall
not abandon him.”

“Still, it is a terrible thing to know that he is plotting against his
own brother, his anointed king,” said Jacques.

“Nay, it is rather against the Austrian woman, who rules that brother.
Surely, Frenchmen owe little allegiance to her.”

“That is, perhaps, because they do not know her!” said Jacques.

“That is true. She makes sure that those men who love France, and seek
after liberty, never shall come near enough to know her.”

“Yet it is said that those who have opportunities of seeing the royal
family love her most. To them she is a beautiful, good woman.”

“Yes, she is beautiful. She has, sometimes, allowed your humble servant
to see her across the theatre; but disdains to receive him at court. Her
mother would have known better. She had some idea of statesmanship, and
understood how to employ talent, though it might exist a little outside
of court circles. She would never have left a Mirabeau to be converted
into an enemy.”

“Ah! if the queen only knew you as Jacques does—but how can she? The
courtiers who surround her are jealous of powers they cannot rival. The
queen will never be permitted to know how brave a friend is kept from
her.”

“She will learn, rest content, Jacques. She will learn who Mirabeau is,
and what he can do, before she sits firmly on the throne of France. She
will learn, to her cost, that nobility does not always convey talent;
and that the best adviser a monarch can have is the man who is most
popular with the people.”

“That you are, my count. I do not see you pass the streets of Paris
without acclamations!”

“Yes, they love me, and I love them. It was my great fault with that
grand old aristocrat, my father, that plebeians would love me, and that
I sometimes stooped to their companionship. Even then I felt what was
coming, and, knew where the best elements of power lay. But my
thickheaded old ancestor was never able to understand it. What do you
think he would say now if he knew where I have spent this evening? Yet a
lovelier creature, or more dainty, does not live in any court, than the
girl we left yonder.”

Monsieur Jacques colored crimson, and moved uneasily in his chair. He
did not like this open admiration in his foster-brother.

“Yes, the young lady is pretty and gentle as a bird; but I doubt if——”

Here Jacques paused, and colored still more violently than before.

“Doubt if what——”

“If—if she is used to such warm admiration. Is that it, brother
Jacques?”

“Exactly,” answered Jacques. “She is country bred, you know, and
innocent as a fawn.”

Mirabeau laughed rather boisterously.

“Why, you foolish fellow, that is her chief attraction. Had she been one
of your hackneyed court dames, her beauty would have passed as nothing.
As it is, she is charming. Simple as a violet, pure as a
lily-of-the-valley—not that I have seen one of late; but those things
still linger in my memory Jacques, man of the world as you may think
me.”




                               CHAPTER X.
         MONSIEUR JACQUES IS INTRUSTED WITH A DELICATE MISSION.


As Count de Mirabeau uttered these last words, Monsieur Jacques arose
from his chair, and came close to his foster-brother.

“Mirabeau,” he said, laying a hand on the count’s shoulder, and speaking
with deep earnestness, “forget this girl. Spare her for my sake.”

Mirabeau wheeled round in his chair, and gazed upon the man in laughing
astonishment. His great head was thrown back, his eyes danced with
merriment.

“What! You, Jacques—you in love with that pretty rustic—really, truly?
Do tell me how it happened! Why, man, how improbable!”

“No,” said Monsieur Jacques, humbly enough, “love is so far apart from
me, and so natural to you; but what man ever knows what destiny has in
store for him. I saw her so sweet, so gentle, given up to sorrow, which
she bore patiently, and, spite of myself, she became dear to me as my
own life.”

“And does she know this?”

“Not for the world! I should drop with very shame at her feet if she but
guessed it.”

“I dare say,” answered Mirabeau, with cruel sincerity. “So dainty a
creature as that might well be astonished. Why, man, I, myself, was half
in love with her.”

“I saw it.”

“And now you warn me off the chase.”

“I say to you only this. The foster-brother, who loves you better than
himself, has but one thing on this earth that he would withhold from
you, this single, forlorn hope of affection. Will you trample it under
foot—you who have but to smile, and the best beauty and brightest wit of
the land render the homage you scarcely deign to accept?”

“Ah! that is because they do render it. Can’t you remember, Jacques,
that, as a boy, I would never stoop to pick up the ripest and mellowest
fruit that fell to my feet; but was ever up in the topmost branches of
the tree, risking my neck for that which could only be got with
difficulty. It is my nature, man, and I cannot help it. Now pray
comprehend that in placing this interdict, which leaves all to my honor
and brotherly affection, you lift the fruit to the very topmost bough,
where I shall be forever tempted to climb for it.”

“But, for my sake.”

“Ay! in your behalf, I will make a brave effort to be good. It is asking
a great deal, and I am no saint; but then I am in no haste to give that
proud old man, who is waiting for me, a daughter-in-law who is neither
of the court or the people. So we will talk no more of this pretty
Marguerite, but let her fly, as we sometimes sent the birds we had
snared back to their native woods in the pure wantonness of benevolence.
Sometimes we would gladly have got them back, you know, Jacques, but the
little wretches would not come. Give me my hat, man; do you know that we
are keeping the proudest old man in France waiting?”

Jacques took up the hat which Mirabeau had flung to the floor when he
sat down. The count received it lazily, and putting a finger on two of
the triangular points, began to twirl it between his hands. He certainly
did not seem to be much distressed at keeping his father in suspense.

“Jacques,” he said, after a few moments’ silence, “Have you seen the old
gentleman?”

“Only for a moment.”

“Did he speak of—— Well, we may as well be frank. Did he mention
finances? Has he an idea of the trouble his close-fisted parsimony has
brought on me—of the shifts and arrangements I am constantly compelled
to make?”

“How can he help knowing it, monsieur count? A man of good family cannot
live on air; and what else has he provided for a son that—I must say
it—is the glory of his house?”

“Not much, Jacques—certainly, not much; but more perhaps, than you know
of. Still, he comes in good time, for I am fairly at my wits’ end for
means. Can you manage to let him know this, and impress upon him the
necessity of a liberal supply? Tell him of the great popularity you are
so confident of. Hint to him that I have had advances from the court,
and only need a little persuasion to carry me over, body and soul, which
will end in a thorough reconciliation between the people and the king.
In short, Jacques, you know what to say, and you know the man. It will
not be the first time you have done me good service with him.”

“Nor shall it be the last, by a thousand, if I can help it,” answered
Jacques, delighted with his mission. “God grant that what I say proves
true! Then, indeed, you will be the saviour of this unhappy country!”

“Well, well! you understand my wishes, and will know how to carry them
out. I have sworn never to ask my father for another sous on earth—and I
never will; but my oath does not reach you, brother Jacques. The old man
is a staunch royalist, and would do much for Louis. When he knows how I
stand between the court and the people, powerful with both, he will
forget past extravagance, and come forward to sustain the honor of his
house.”

“I will put the case before him in this light; I will tell him all that
he ought to know. Even now an agent of the queen is seeking you.”

“Ha! Where did you learn this?” cried Mirabeau, flushing scarlet with
sudden astonishment and delight.

“The agent came to me.”

“When?”

“Only this morning.”

“Well, well!”

“He talked cautiously at first; spoke of your power with the people—your
eloquence.”

“Yes, yes; I understand that—the usual sugared flattery. But come to the
essence of the matter. What did he want?”

“He wanted your influence in behalf of the court; and he spoke of
money.”

Mirabeau felt the hot blood leap to his face again; and with an angry
gesture he dashed the hat from his hand.

“They know how poor I am; they feel that I can be bribed. This proud
queen does not offer me her confidence, but money. Ah! this stings me!
It is an insult; but one which I dare not resent. Oh, Jacques! this
poverty breeds a nest of temptations. To want money is to be a slave.”

Mirabeau seized his hat, dashed it on his head, and left the room,
walking away so fiercely, that his footsteps sounded back from the
flights of stairs, like the tramp of a dragoon.

Monsieur Jacques listened till the footsteps died away in the street,
then he sat down, with tears in his eyes, muttering,

“Ah! what a grand nature he has! Yet a moment may shipwreck him forever.
Yes! forever and ever!”




                              CHAPTER XI.
                           THE MARKET WOMAN.


Monsieur Jacques started from his aroused reverie, by the sight of that
hard gold piece left by Mirabeau on his table.

“This will keep them from want a long time,” he thought, gloating over
the money as if it had been food, for which he was in fact famishing;
for the bread he had given those poor women, was taken from his own
hungry mouth.

Jacques, in his devotion to Count Mirabeau, would have starved rather
than take gold from him. Indeed, his own hard earnings had been swept
away many a time in the vortex of that man’s reckless extravagance; and
he had gloried in the sacrifice. But now, another feeling came in and he
yielded to it without a murmur. He could struggle and endure, but those
suffering women must be fed, even with Mirabeau’s gold. How? They were
delicate and proud—far too proud for almstaking.

“I know! I have a thought,” he exclaimed at last, dropping the gold into
his pocket. “They shall seem to earn this.”

Jacques went swiftly down stairs, and knocked at a door in a lower story
of the house.

A clear sharp voice bade him enter, and directly he stood before a
little woman,—perhaps fifty years old, who was tearing half a dozen
bouquets to pieces, and dipping their stems in hot water, thus partially
restoring their lost bloom.

“Ah, Monsieur Jacques, you have found me at my work, cheating the poor,
dear people. No matter, it serves them right; why didn’t they buy my
flowers yesterday, when they were fresh and charming? Ah, my friend,
these are hard times for us poor women of the market. With the court at
Versailles and food so dear, flowers go for nothing, especially when it
is only an old woman who offers them.”

“I understand,” said Jacques, sitting down by the old woman. “We all
have our troubles. That was what I came to talk about. Your business is
doubtless much disturbed by these unsettled times.”

“Disturbed; _mon Dieu_, it is broken up. One sells nothing but carrots
and turnips now. The fruit and flowers that brought in a reasonable
profit, are left to wither on our stalls. Working people have no money
for them, and your court lords never come to _la Halle_ for their
flowers.”

“But they purchase them yet. There is no famine among the courtiers,”
said Jacques, steadily pursuing the purpose of his visit.

“But, as I said before,” answered the old woman, sharply. “They never
come to _la Halle_, and one cannot be in two places at once. Our trade
there is sure, if but little, for people must eat.”

“Still, a great many flowers are sold. Every day I see pretty girls in
the streets with loads, and people buy them.”

“True, Monsieur Jacques, but Dame Doudel is no girl, and people no
longer call her pretty.”

“But if you had a daughter now.”

Dame Doudel sighed.

“Ah, yes, if I had, but she is dead.”

“Still, a kind heart might supply the place.”

“How! you talk folly, my friend.”

“There is a young girl in this very house, fresh as a lily, and lovely
enough to be your own daughter.”

“Poor child but _she_ was so beautiful.”

“I understand! This girl is beautiful too, and needs work _so_ much.
Every one says Dame Doudel has a kind heart; so, when I saw this poor
child and her mother pining from want, it was natural that I should come
here.”

“Yes, it was natural,” said the Dame, putting a strand of field grass in
her mouth, and twisting the loose end around the bouquet she had
arranged.

“The child might make herself useful in arranging flowers, but most of
all in selling them,” suggested the kind-hearted fellow.

“Poor thing. Yes, she might. Well, my friend, send her here, and we
shall see.”

“Would it not be better, being as it were an old resident, if you went
yourself to Madame Gosner; she might resent my intrusion, for suffering
has not killed her pride.”

“Yes, I will go, why not? It will not be the only time Dame Doudel has
taken the first step in a kind act.”

“The girl will have to learn; she may be awkward, at first, you
understand. In the meantime they must eat. If it would not be a liberty,
perhaps Dame Doudel would use this until the business began to pay.

“This! But it is gold,” said the shrewd little woman, eyeing her
neighbor suspiciously, “enough to keep two people with care half a
month.”

“In that time, your pretty protegée will have begun to earn something. I
do not forget that until she does, money will be wanted, and who can use
it with more discretion than Dame Doudel?”

The market woman dropped the gold into her pocket. There was no doubting
that man longer.

“Well, my friend, it is arranged, and my work is done. To-morrow the
little ope shall begin, if her mother consents.”

“She will consent; for heart and soul, she is with us.”

“With the people, you mean. Yes, yes, and the little one, what of her?”

“She is good as an angel.”

“And we will keep her so. Our work, Monsieur Jacques, is not for
children. The clubs are no places for girls. This one shall sell
flowers, and charm us with her innocence. We need something sweet and
young to keep us human in these strange times. Are you going? Well,
well, adieu.”

“Ah, dame, you are kind as an angel. I cannot thank you enough,” said
Jacques, bending before the market woman as if she had been an empress.

The dame blushed like a girl, and, gathering up her flowers, took her
way to the market in quick haste, ashamed of the pleasure this adroit
flattery gave her.




                              CHAPTER XII.
                         EARLY IN THE MORNING.


All night long, Madame Gosner lay awake, thinking of what she had
suffered, and of what she had heard. She was a woman of powerful mind
and corresponding physique; all her faculties were in vigorous harmony.
In peaceful times she might have been a court dame, leading a throng of
triflers into something like intelligent pleasures—for that woman could
never have contented herself with mediocrity in anything. As it was, one
great object had occupied her for years. The wrongs of a husband, whom
she had loved with all the force and tenderness of a great soul,
occupied every idea of her life. Even when she believed him dead, this
great love clung around him as a memory, which threw her whole being
into mourning. The scrap of paper, which seemed to have come to her by a
miracle, changed all this in a moment. Her husband lived. There was
something for her to do. The sleeping energies of her nature awoke with
a rebound. She determined to save her husband, or perish in the attempt.

Save her husband, rescue him from the Bastille, with walls twenty feet
thick between him and daylight; with green mould forming itself out of
the stagnant waters, which oozed through the very stones, and clung,
like an unwholesome sweat, to the sides of his dungeon. Was it in the
power of woman to free this unhappy man from the living grave that
inclosed him?

Against all the despairing replies, which came back to her from these
questions, the indomitable spirit of the woman answered, “I will free
him,” and her action corresponded with her words. She took her only
child, gathered up the fragments of property left to them, and came into
France, her own native country, resolved on obtaining freedom for her
husband. We have seen how she succeeded. Her money was all exhausted.
She had used it unsparingly, but with no avail up to this time—nothing
that she had done could win her even access to the king. Now she was
suffering for food; want had sapped the foundations of her strength, and
the energies of her soul were giving out.

That night, when she was ready to give up all hope and die, this man,
half-demagogue, half-patriot; this singular being, who, born of the
nobility, was still the idol of the people, came suddenly into her life,
and opened a broader and more sublime road by which her object might be
obtained. From that moment, the struggling wife became, what soon was no
uncommon thing among the women of France—a patriot; more than that, love
that burned in her bosom for the one man languishing in his dungeon,
made her an enthusiast; and out of her very womanliness this wronged
being was thinking how she might become a leader of that great element
which, for a time, ruled the very mobs of Paris.

When it became day, Madame Gosner arose and dressed herself with more
than usual care. The reflections of that night had resolved themselves
into a vague plan of action. Other women suffered like herself; other
husbands and fathers lay chained, like wild beasts, in those reeking
dungeons. How narrow and selfish her efforts had hitherto been. No
wonder God had not helped her when she asked his aid only for herself
and the man she loved, forgetting thousands and thousands of sister
women who suffered with her.

But little preparation for breakfast was needed in that poor room.
Indeed, when she awoke, Madame Gosner knew that there was not a fragment
of food at her command; but she was hardly dressed when a knock came to
the door.

Madame Gosner opened the door, and found a little old woman standing on
the threshold. She had seen that genial face before, going up and down
the stair-case, but it looked peculiarly bland and kind that morning,
and the dainty cap, tied around the head with a black ribbon, betrayed
an unusual toilet before the visit was made.

“If madame will excuse the liberty, we are neighbors, only one floor
between us, and, hearing that madame had been ill, I ventured to bring
her a little breakfast, nothing worthy of notice; still if madame will
accept the basket, in which she will find a tiny bouquet of violets for
mademoiselle, whom I am happy to find sleeping so sweetly. Indeed, it is
a part of my business to make a proposal about mademoiselle, whom I have
observed to be very fond of flowers. Might I be permitted to step in and
explain myself?”

The little woman was courteously invited to take a seat, and Madame
Gosner received the basket with a glow of thanks that went to her heart
at once. In a few words she explained the object of her visit.

Had an angel dropped from Heaven with hope and succor, it would not have
been more welcome. Here was employment, hopes of food, an opening
through which this brave woman could move toward the great object of her
life, untrammeled by the wants of humanity. She considered no occupation
mean for her child which promised to secure so much, and accepted it
with ardent thankfulness, which sent Dame Doudel away supremely content.

As for Madame Gosner, she accepted this visit as a blessing from Heaven
itself. It renewed her waning strength, and helped to kindle the new
idea born to her in the night. Just as the grander design of aiding
others was formed, God has sent the food necessary to her life, and she
accepted it as a token and an encouragement.

In the basket she found a little milk, some eggs, and a sprig of green
parsley, all promised to her the night before, though Jacques scarcely
knew then how the breakfast was to be provided. With these was a loaf of
white bread, and some charcoal for cooking.

In a few minutes, Madame Gosner was on her knees, kindling the fire
with her own breath. When the charcoal ignited and began to crackle,
she went to the bed, and looked tenderly down upon her daughter, who
slept soundly. How pale and delicate she was! Not a trace of color
remained on those cheeks; and want had almost quenched it from the
exquisitely-formed mouth, in which the white gleam of her teeth was
just visible as she breathed. No wonder the mother thanked God for the
food that had been brought to her when she saw all this; but she would
not awake her child then, that delicious breakfast should give her a
surprise. It would be, indeed, the beginning of a _fete_ day with
them.

So the now hopeful woman fell to beating her eggs and chopping up her
parsley, with as little noise as possible. At length, when her omelet
was on the fire, she went to the bed and aroused Marguerite.

“Come, my daughter, breakfast is ready!”

“Breakfast!” It was a strange word in that room, where no regular meal
had been served for a month. Marguerite started up in her bed, looked
around in bewilderment, and murmured,

“Let me sleep—I was dreaming so sweetly.”

“Dreaming of what, Marguerite?”

“Oh! it is you, mother! Nothing. Only it seemed as if you and I were
eating such a delicious meal together.”

“Indeed! Such as an omelet and white bread, perhaps.”

“An omelet! Oh, yes! and—and—— Why, mamma, there is a smell of it in the
room yet. I suppose it is Monsieur Jacques who is cooking. He said
something about a _fete_ day. Why, what is that? The table out, a cloth
on; and, oh, mamma! an omelet—a real, plump omelet. Where did you get
it? and parsley. Why, mamma, darling, have you been among the fairies?”

“Our fairy was a little market woman, who came with all these things in
a basket early this morning.”

“A little market woman, how good; how strange.”

“Come, come, child, everything is ready.”

Marguerite, who had been making a hasty toilet, twisted her hair in a
coil around her head, and sat down by the table, where both mother and
daughter commenced a delicious meal, thanking God for it in their
hearts.




                             CHAPTER XIII.
                     THEY THREE BREAKFAST TOGETHER.


The two women, suffering as they were from the pangs of hunger, scarcely
looked at each other, but sat rapidly feasting their eyes on the food
yet untasted, with a wild, eager craving which made them forgetful of
everything else.

All at once, Marguerite started up in absolute dismay.

“Oh, mamma! we have forgotten the good Monsieur Jacques, who all this
time has no breakfast.”

“True, my child! and he so thoughtful of us!”

Marguerite went to Monsieur Jacques’ room, and knocked eagerly.

“It is ready; we have a delicious omelet, my friend. Come, come! there
is enough for three!”

Jacques came to the door and opened it a little. His face was flushed,
his eyes sparkled.

“Do you really invite me?” he questioned.

“Invite you! Why our little feast is yours.”

“Wait a minute, then, while I wash my hands; perhaps madame will excuse
the dress, as I have no other.”

“Come in any dress. We are waiting, and the breakfast gets cold.”

Marguerite came back to her mother, and they placed the omelet near the
fire, that it might be kept warm for their guest. He came in soon after,
with his face shining, and his hair smooth, as if he had spent some time
in brushing it. His blouse was clean, and he looked more respectable
than they had seen him the night before. But the good man partook
sparingly of madame’s omelet, and sat gazing upon Marguerite when he
should have been eating.

The sweet girl knew that he was half-famished, and tempted him to eat,
until the animal instinct in him became ravenous, and for the moment, he
forgot that she was near him. Then the noble fellow grew ashamed of
himself, and drew back abashed.

Without appearing to heed this, Madame Gosner began to talk, and told
Jacques of Dame Doudel’s generous visit, and of the proposal she had
made for Marguerite.

Jacques received the intelligence calmly, but cast anxious glances at
the young girl, who looked from him to her mother with affright.

“I fear she will not consent,” he said, seized with compunction for the
part he had taken, when he saw the color driven from Marguerite’s face.

“Yes, yes,” gasped the girl. “It is work, it is food! Who am I to put
such blessings aside? Heaven forgive me if, for one moment, I hesitate!”

“Heaven has nothing to forgive its angels,” muttered Jacques, in a voice
so faint and deep that no one heard him.

Madame Gosner leaned over the table, and, her heart being full of the
subject, began questioning Jacques very closely about the state of
things in the city. She was earnest, clear, and searching in her
interrogatories. He saw that some grand idea was in her brain, and
answered her without comment.

All this was not wonderful to him. Such mental excitements were sure to
follow Mirabeau whenever he condescended to converse. Indeed, his most
subtle power lay among the women of Paris. But eloquent as Mirabeau was,
Jacques had more telling powers, for he had the merit of honest
conviction. There was truth in all this man said, for he possessed that
to which his foster-brother often pretended—a thorough knowledge of the
people, of their wants and aspirations. Even in the chaotic state into
which society was at this time thrown, Monsieur Jacques had wonderful
influence, of which his foster-brother took the credit.

When madame and Marguerite were left alone, the mother began to pace the
room to and fro in great excitement.

“Marguerite,” she said, laying a firm hand on each of her daughter’s
shoulders, “up to this day we have been cold and selfish.”

“Selfish! Oh, mamma!”

“Yes; cold, selfish, egotistical—and for this God has not prospered us.”

“Oh, mamma! have we not given up all? Have we saved anything, or spared
anything to win liberty for my father?”

“It is for this that I blush, Marguerite. Our poor martyr is but one of
many. The Bastille is crowded full. You are not the only child who pines
for her father’s liberty.”

“Alas, no!”

“Yet it is of him, and him alone, we have been thinking.”

“But what else could we do?”

“Open our arms, and embrace all humanity.”

“But we are only women—helpless and suffering women.”

“So much the better; our sister sufferers will have faith in us.”

“But what is it you intend? Something grand and strange—I can see it in
your eyes.”

“No, there is nothing grand in my object; it is simply to perform a duty
to others as well as to ourselves. To-day I am going among the
market-people. I know some of them, from whom we have made our meagre
purchases. They are brave and ardent, ready to act if they only had a
leader. The good dame who was here this morning will aid me in my first
step.”

“And that leader? Not my mother, surely! I see a power of command in
your gestures. All this terrifies me—what does this mean?”

“It means that our poor prisoner shall yet feel the grim walls of the
Bastille tremble around him like an earthquake. It means liberty for him
and for all. It means that while a woman loves the husband of her youth,
she should never forget the country of her birth.”

“But how can you, a lonely woman, without money or friends, accomplish
this?”

“I will make friends of my fellow-sufferers. I will make friends of
famine and want. Starvation shall be made powerful. Elements of great
strength are running to waste. I will gather them up, and hurl them
against the walls of the Bastille—hurl them against the throne itself.”

“Mother, you have been dreaming; the fatigue of yesterday has made you
ill.”

“No, I have not been dreaming. Last night I never closed my eyes; but I
thought, while you slept, thought of him, thought of France, till my
brain burned, and my heart grew large.”

“Mother, dear mother! sit down, I pray you! Want of food, and that long,
long journey yesterday, have made you wild.”

“No, my child, they have made me wise.”

“But you will not go out?”

Madame had taken a bonnet and shawl in her hand. Marguerite forced them
from her gently, but with firmness.

“It is the fever, which is said to rage when plenty of food is taken
after a long fast,” she said. “Let me put the things away.”

Madame smiled, but held firmly to her garments.

“You cannot comprehend,” she said; “but I will explain.”

“Not now, mamma, but when you are better. The disappointment of not
seeing the king, after so many efforts, is preying upon you; but do not
despair—I am young and strong. The next time I will go to the king or to
the queen. Perhaps I shall be more successful.”

“Well, what then?”

“I will kneel to him, and beseech him to set my father free.”

“And then, ‘he is but one man!’”

“But he is all the world to us!” said Marguerite, clasping her hands
with pathetic earnestness.

“I thought so once. God forgive me!”

“Mother, there is something on your mind that I cannot understand. Put
it aside, I pray you; or wait till Monsieur Jacques, or his friend
comes, that you may counsel with them.”

Madame sat down and drew a hand wearily across her eyes. It was true;
great fatigue, want of food, and intense wakefulness, were telling
fearfully upon her system, vigorous as it was. It is, sometimes, out of
such insanity, that great actions are wrought.

“Sit down and rest, mamma, after that I will listen to all you can say.”

“And help me?” asked the woman, fastening her large, eager eyes on the
girl’s face.

“With all my power and strength. Only rest awhile, and take full time
for thought.”

“Ah! if I rest, this resolve may pass from me. I have had such dreams
before,—that was in my sleep; but now, but now——”

“Now you will lie down and sleep sweetly, while I take your place.”

Madame sat down on the bed, releasing her hold on the shawl.

“You are right, my child,” she said, gently. “I must have rest and
strength before this great work begins; then you will understand it
better, and we both have our task, yours not less difficult than mine.”

“But you will rest first?” pleaded Marguerite, who looked upon this
sudden outbreak as the result of over exertion, and was troubled by it.
“Perhaps Our Lady will bless my poor efforts for your sake.”

“Yes—I can wait,” said the mother, sinking back upon the bed, and
closing her eyes. “To-day for rest, to-morrow for action.”

Marguerite sat down by her mother, took one of her hands and smoothed it
tenderly between her own palms, striving her best to induce the sleep
which would, she trusted, restore the tone of her mother’s mind, which
she believed to have been disturbed by great fatigue, and long fasting.
But she was not the less resolved to assume some portion of the work to
which that mother had almost given up her life.




                              CHAPTER XIV.
          MARGUERITE FINDS HER PATH OF DUTY AMONG THE FLOWERS.


The very next evening after Marguerite had entered on her new duties,
she was hard at work in Dame Doudel’s apartment, where she found delight
in arranging the garlands and bouquets, which were to be sold on the
morrow.

The good dame was in high spirits. The talent and rapid execution of her
young friend surprised her, and she chatted gaily as she handed flower
after flower from her lap, to be richly clustered by those active
fingers.

“And you have never seen my good husband, that is strange; he is often
on the stairs when off duty. Everybody loves him, for he is
tender-hearted as an infant. That is singular, people say, considering
that he is a prison guard, and has been years and years in the
Bastille.”

Marguerite uttered a faint cry, and dropped the flowers she was twining.

“The Bastille! The Bastille! Is your husband a guard in the Bastille?”
she cried.

“Of course he is. I thought everybody knew that; why, he has grown old
in the Bastille; old, but never hard-hearted—nothing can make him that,
my good Gaston; but he sees sights—such terrible sights, and hears moans
that make his blood run cold. But then sometimes he does a little good,
and that cheers him. I tell it you, in strict confidence, my child, but
many a time he has eaten little, and carried half his breakfast hid away
in his pocket, for some of the poor creatures, pining to death in those
awful vaults. Yes, yes; those poor prisoners would lose a good friend if
Gaston were to leave.”

Marguerite listened breathlessly. A strange, wild light came into her
eyes. Her words came swift and eagerly when she spoke.

“But will they let him. Is it possible? oh! if I could see your
husband!”

“Well, that is easy, little one; for he is coming now. You can hear his
step on the stairs. Ah—yes, that is Gaston. I can never mistake.”

A smile of kindly affection lighted the old woman’s face, as she turned
it to the door, which opened, admitting a tall, elderly man, who walked
wearily into the room.

“Ah! you are tired, my friend. I can see it,” exclaimed the dame,
emptying the flowers from her lap into a basket, and smoothing down her
dress. “Been walking the ramparts? It was your turn, I know. Hungry,
too, I dare say. Well, well; your supper is waiting. Ah! you see my
little friend here; and are surprised. No wonder.”

“Is she not lovely? Like some one, _mon chere_, we never talk about. You
observe that. Yes, yes, I see it in your face.”

“She is at least welcome,” answered Doudel, kindly. “Now dame, for our
little supper. I have had a hard day at the prison.”

Dame Doudel bustled off into the next room, which was one of those tiny,
neat kitchens, the French know how to make so inviting; and, after a
little time, looked through the door again.

“Come, my friend, come little one. There is a plate for you always,
remember.”

Marguerite arose eagerly; at another time she might have hesitated, now
she forgot everything in a wild desire to speak with the man who might
have seen her father. They sat down together, but the girl could not
eat, her heart was so full. Dame Doudel observed this, and, seeing how
thin she looked, heaped her plate with bountiful hospitality.

“No, I cannot, I cannot. He has seen my father, my poor, poor father,
who lies buried in the dungeons of the Bastille. How can I eat or sleep,
knowing this.”

“Your father, child, and in the Bastille. Our Lady forbid,” said Doudel,
with infinite compassion in his voice.

“In the Bastille—your own father? Heaven be good to us,” exclaimed the
dame, holding up both hands in amazement. “Oh, Doudel, if you know, tell
her about him—tell her about him.”

“His name is Gosner, Doctor Gosner, a learned man from Germany. He was
torn from us when I was a child. You have seen him, you know him; his
eyes are blue like mine, his hair soft and light. He was tall and
slender, with a benign look. Oh, tell me about him.”

The poor girl left her chair as she spoke, and clasping her hands, went
round to where the guard sat, and knelt before him.

“You have seen him? Oh tell me!”

“Poor thing, poor, sweet child, how can I tell her?” said Doudel,
appealing to his wife. “We have no names at the Bastille, nothing but
numbers.”

“I know the number; ah, I know that, monsieur, I——”

Here the girl checked herself, remembering that Monsieur Jacques had
given the number in confidence.

“Yes, I know the number. It is here; I wrote it down and laid it next my
heart, saying to myself, ‘some day our blessed lady will lead me to
him.’ Here it is.”

Doudel took the paper from her quivering fingers, and read it.

“My poor child, it is down in the very depths. I know this wretched
prisoner. Sometimes, I speak to him, not often; for it is against the
rules. He is gentle as a lamb.”

“Ah, it is like my father, every one says that.”

“Once,” continued the guard, “but that is a long time ago, his hair was
yellow and glossy, like yours, but it is white now; his beard is like a
snow drift, his eyes weak and faded. It is an old, old man you speak of,
little one.”

“Ah me, I ought to expect that. In darkness and solitude so many
miserable years, how could he be anything but old! Oh, monsieur, let me
see him, let me look on my father’s face.”

“See him, poor child, that is impossible.”

Marguerite turned imploringly to Dame Doudel.

“Plead for me, oh, think of some way. The good God did not send me here
for nothing,” she said, lifting her clasped hands upward.

“It is our child who asks this; our angel child pleading through the
eyes of this poor girl. Doudel, God ordains it. She must see her
father,” cried the wife with tears in her eyes.

“But how, dame, how?”

“You must do it, Gaston. There may be danger in it. What then, my
husband is brave.”

The guard turned his eyes from the kneeling girl to his wife, and
thoughtfully stroked his beard with one hand. Marguerite held the other
prisoner.

“Sometimes,” he said, slowly, “the children of the guards come to the
prison and are let in to the outer court. More seldom I have seen them
within the draw-bridge. Mademoiselle is so young, and like a child, they
might think her my own daughter; no one there will remember that she has
gone away from us forever. It is dangerous, but possible.”

“Wait, wait a minute, while I think,” said the wife, answering her
husband’s train of thought. “This is what we will do. The governor
trusts you, Gaston; he will give you privileges.”

“But not that, not that.”

“I know; but he may take an interest in this good child, thinking her
your daughter. She shall take her flowers to him, make him used to her,
as she passes in and out of his quarters; then some day she can watch
her opportunity and steal with you into the lower prison.”

“But this will take time, dame, and may get me into trouble in the end.”

“No, no, I will be cautious; no one shall know. I will die rather than
bring harm on you,” exclaimed the girl, who had been listening eagerly
to his words. “Let me once look on my father’s face, and I will bless
you forever and ever.”

“It is dangerous, and may cost me dear; but who can say no to a child
who only prays to look on her father?”

“He consents, he consents!” cried Marguerite, flinging up her clasped
hands in an ecstacy of delight.

“But it must be a secret with us; no human being must be told; a breath
would destroy us both,” answered the guard, half-frightened by the
promise he had made.

“She can be dumb. The child who has such courage knows how to keep a
secret,” answered the dame. “To-morrow, she shall try her fate with the
governor.”

“That will not be hard,” said the guard, with a grave smile; “he loves
to have plenty of flowers in the dim rooms of that old fortress, which
need them enough, and never is severe upon a pretty face. We shall
manage it—we shall manage it.”

Dame Doudel kissed her husband with the ardor of a sweetheart.

“Ah, you have courage! I knew it, I knew it. Come now, little one, let
us finish the flowers. Your very first attempt shall be at the
Bastille.”

Margaret went to her work in an ecstacy of delight; her eyes were on
fire, and her hands quivered like young birds over their work. She had
never known what real hope was before. Marguerite lay by her mother’s
side all that night, wide awake, and restless with thought. On the
morrow, the great task of her life was to begin. What her mother in her
experience and strength had failed to accomplish, she must undertake,
and in her very weakness carry out.

Very early in the morning, the young girl arose, and, after preparing
the breakfast she had no wish to eat, went forth into the street with
Dame Doudel’s blessing on her head, and a basket of blooming flowers on
her arm.

“Remember,” said the good dame as she heaped the basket with flowers,
“you are our own daughter; your name is Marguerite Doudel; you have just
begun to help your parents by selling bouquets, and turn first to his
excellency the governor, who perhaps will let you carry a few violets to
your father, one of his own faithful guards.”

“I know, I know; there is little danger that I shall forget,” said
Marguerite, breathless with agitation; and pale as marble, she went
forth to her great work.

“Will you sell me some of your roses?”

Marguerite had walked some distance from home, forgetful in her intense
excitement of the character she had assumed, when these words fell on
her ear, uttered in a sound so sweet and low that the heart in her young
bosom leaped for the first time to the voice of man. Marguerite stopped
in her swift walk and lifted her eyes to the speaker, a young man in
citizen’s dress, which he wore with a grace befitting our best ideas of
a nobleman. His eyes, soft and deep as a mountain spring, were bent upon
her in smiling admiration, for the flowers on her arm were scarcely more
beautiful than Marguerite appeared that morning.

“Will you sell me some of your flowers?” the young man repeated, lifting
his hat.

Marguerite drew a deep breath, and turned her fascinated eyes from the
wonderful beauty of that head and face.

“What shall I give you monsieur,” she faltered, trembling all over with
a sensation of delight that pure soul had never felt before.

“It shall be a white moss rose, I think,” said the young man, “can you
find one in your basket?”

Marguerite’s hand was instantly searching among her flowers, from whence
it brought forth a lovely moss rose.

“Will this please monsieur?” she said, holding up the rose by its long,
flexible stem.

The pallor had left her face then, and a soft bloom came over it, more
exquisite than a blush. She had forgotten even the Bastille, and her
father.

“Will it please me, oh yes—one seldom sees two objects so beautiful in a
day.”

Marguerite cast down her eyes, and the rose shook in her hand. Something
more sweet and subtle than its breath had entered her heart. The young
man’s face brightened all over. He took the flower and placed it gently
between his vest and the snow-white linen that covered his bosom.

“To-morrow it will be withered,” he said; “no matter, your basket will
be full again then, and I shall not fail to know when you pass this
way.”

He took a piece of silver from his pocket, and held it irresolutely. It
seemed like sacrilege to offer money to a delicate creature like that.
Stealthily, and half-ashamed of the act, he dropped the money into her
basket.

Marguerite saw the act, and the silver seemed to have fallen upon her
heart. She looked up with a hot flush overspreading her face, but
remembering that to sell was her business, dropped her eyes again, and
instantly their lashes were heavy with tears.

“Good morning, monsieur, I wish the roses were mine to give,” she said,
moving away almost with a sob.

The young man followed her a step or two, then turned back muttering to
himself.

“Can it be that the women of our clubs were like that? Is it possible
that any thing will make her one of them? Does liberty demand that
women, lovely and gentle as she is, should debase themselves?”

“Ha, St. Just, is it you? We missed your eloquence at the club last
night.”

The speaker was a low-browed, heavy featured man, ill dressed and
unwashed, coarse in his person, and rough in his speech.

St. Just lifted his hat, thus unconsciously rebuking the rude manner of
his companion, which seemed to challenge rather than salute him.

“Good morning, citizen Marat, I was busy elsewhere last night.”

“And especially busy this morning,” answered the demagogue with a coarse
laugh. “Do not look so black, citizen, or your frown may wither the
favor in your bosom. A dainty piece of mischief that. We must have her
at the clubs. How that Theraigne de Merecourt is exiled, there is great
need of fresh beauty and spirit there.”

St. Just clenched his hand with a sharp desire to knock the brutal man
down; but checked his wrath, and moved away with absolute loathing.

As Marat stood with a hand on each hip, laughing till his uncombed hair
shook like a fleece over his shoulders, a young woman came up the
street, dressed in the loose fashion of her class, and addressed him.

“Who was it, citizen, you were talking with a moment ago?”

“A gentleman whose name I will not give, he carried a white rose in his
bosom, which I saw him take from the prettiest flower girl you ever saw.
She has but just passed out of sight.”

“Ha! tell me, for I will know. Was it Mirabeau?”

A malicious pleasure came into the rude face of the demagogue, and he
answered warily: “You must not tell him that I said so, _citoyenne_
Brisot, but there is an excuse. The flower girl was so beautiful.”

“Ha! but just passed out of sight, and she went this way. Good morning,
_citoyen_.”

Fierce and swift the woman left Marat, and threw herself like a hound on
the track of that poor girl.




                              CHAPTER XV.
                    IN THE DUNGEONS OF THE BASTILLE.


“There is silver for your flowers, and I thank you for bringing the
first choice here. So you are Doudel’s daughter; I wonder he never gave
me a sight of you before. A faithful man is Doudel. So you wish to speak
with him,—have a message from his dame. Well, there is no treason in
that; few women can pass from this court across the ditch of the
Bastille; but you shall go with your flowers and brighten the gloomy
shadows, if that is possible. Ho! there! Pass this girl and her basket
across the draw-bridge, and find the guard Doudel; he is her father.”

Seldom had an order like that passed from the governor of the Bastille;
but Marguerite had brought him fresh flowers, of which he was
passionately fond; and Doudel, one of the oldest of his guards, had been
faithful to his trust so many years, that it seemed impossible that he,
or this beautiful young creature who called herself his daughter, could
be in any way dangerous.

A guard answered this order, and conducted Marguerite down the large
avenue, which led from the Cour de Gouvernment, to the deep stagnant
ditch of the Bastille, which coiled itself around that gloomy group of
towers like some hideous serpent, green and slimy with incessant slow
creeping.

A huge draw-bridge, with great rusty chains dangling from it, and
rust-eaten hinges, which shrieked and groaned like living things in
torment, began to move heavily, and at last fell with all its ponderous
weight across the ditch, over which the girl, now shivering and white as
a ghost, walked.

When she had crossed the bridge, which rose groaning behind her, it was
to pass through a guard house, full of wondering sentinels.

Then a strong barrier of crossed timbers, sheeted with iron, loomed
before her; and, passing that, she stood in the interior court, bound by
nine lofty towers linked together with massive stone walls, adown which
the sunshine never came. These towers, black, weather-stained, and
hideous in grim antiquity, were pierced here and there with narrow slits
widening inwards, and crossed with rust-corroded iron bars.

In the dread solitude of this place, the girl was left alone, while her
guide went in search of Doudel.

The damp dreariness of the court chilled her through and through. In the
dull gray light, her flowers looked like the ghost of blossoms long
since dead.

All at once, far above her, she heard a hoarse clangor, as of bells
clearing the rust from their throats. She looked up, and there, on the
grim face of the nearest tower, two iron figures, chained to the dial of
a huge clock, clanked forth the hour. The very soul in that poor girl’s
body, recoiled from this weird sound. She would gladly have fled from
the spot, but her limbs shook and refused to move.

At last some one approached, and a voice close behind her said,

“Little one, be still, be cautious, and you shall see him now.”

The blood stirred once more in those young veins. A glow of life rushed
through the frame that a moment before had seemed chilled to death.

“Come, tread softly, and keep close. It is my turn to visit the lower
vaults, and for this one minute we are alone. Keep close to the wall,
then no one can see us from the ramparts. Now be swift and still.”

Doudel spoke in a hoarse whisper; his voice was husky with apprehension.
A single cry or failure of courage on the part of that frail girl, would
inevitably plunge him into ruin. He moved close to the foundations of
the nearest tower, and turned his face back, to make sure that she was
following him. The face that met his was white as death.

“Do not fear,” she whispered, “I will follow.”

Doudel opened a ponderous door in the wall, and held it while she passed
through. Then it was closed and they stood together in total darkness,
but for the time safe from observation. Doudel felt for a lantern in a
niche of the wall, struck fire from a flint and lighted it. Then he
moved along a close stone passage, adown which Marguerite could hear the
great water rats scuttling from the light. Down a flight of steep,
slippery steps, and along other passages she followed her guide, as it
seemed to her, into the very depths of the earth; for she could hear the
waters sweeping and lapsing, as it seemed, above her head, and great
clammy drops fell down upon her as she walked. It was a weird sight, if
any one could have witnessed it—that tall man with his lantern, and the
pale, resolute girl, delicate as a lily, gliding on behind him with that
basket of bright flowers on her arm.

Doudel sat down his lantern, took a great key from a bunch in his hand,
and fastened it into the lock of a low iron-studded door, which swung
backwards into the darkness.

Marguerite heard a faint murmur and a rustling of straw, then a sharp
cry as Doudel lifted his lantern and threw its light into the cell he
had opened. She went forward, shivering all over with excitement, and
looked in.

A man was sitting upon some mouldy straw in a corner of the dungeon,
holding two thin pallid hands before his eyes, shielding them from the
sudden glare of the lantern. His beard, long and white, flowed down the
garments that fell in mouldered and decaying tatters around him. His
voice was feeble and broken, like that of an old, old man.

Marguerite stood at the door one moment, with this miserable picture
before her—the grim, dripping walls, the reeking straw, and that shadowy
man, sitting upon it in pathetic helplessness, uttering his feeble
protest against the pain of so much light. Then she stole across the
little space of rocky floor and sunk to her knees by his side.

“Father, father!”

The prisoner hushed his voice and seemed to listen, but still kept both
hands over his eyes. Marguerite placed her basket on the straw, and the
breath of her flowers arose to his nostrils. All at once a sob shook his
bosom, and the thin hands dropped away from his eyes, from which great
tears of delight were rolling. He looked down upon the blossoms and
touched them cautiously, with strange gleams of mingled joy and
distrust.

“They are yours, father,” said Marguerite in sweet, pathetic
thankfulness, that she had given one ray of joy to that dreary man.
“Will you not look at me now? I brought them for you.”

The prisoner turned his eyes slowly on the kneeling girl.

“That voice, sweet, like the flowers, comes from a great way off. I have
dreamed such things before, but that is long ago. Even the dreams have
left me at last. I suppose this drip, drip of water washed them from my
brain. But they have come back to me now, and you, you! Why, you were my
wife then. Don’t move. Don’t turn your eyes. I will not stir my hand.
Don’t I know how such things fade away when one reaches out his arms.”

“Oh, my father, if you would but touch me, or look into my face. Indeed,
indeed I am—not your wife—but your child, your own little Marguerite.”

The prisoner shook his head and a mournful smile crept over his wan
face.

“Now I know what a sweet snare it is; with that name you seek to win me
to move or cry out; then all would melt away. Why, do you think I have
forgotten because I am a prisoner? The child, my little Marguerite,
could just reach my knees. You are—yes, you _are_ like my wife; no
change, not a whit, since I married her; but you know that cannot be;
people must grow old; and it is a hundred years since I came here. You
must understand I can reason. People do grow crazy here sometimes, but I
can reason yet. That is why dreams do not cheat me; but this is very
sweet, very, very sweet.”

Here the wretched man stooped forward and seemed to give himself up to
the perfume of the flowers, weeping softly all the time.

Marguerite looked on in piteous helplessness. At last she reached out
her arms, clasped them around that bowed neck, and kissed the pallid
forehead.

A shudder ran through the prisoner. His feeble arms clasped themselves
around the form that clung to him, and he murmured in a quiet, dreamy
way:

“Yes, yes; we will not disturb it. This is not the first time you have
been here, but never, I think, never did you seem so real. Why, I can
hear your heart beat; your very breath stirs my beard; and there is my
guard, my good, kind guard, looking on. Does this light come from his
lantern? Are you a real breathing woman? Tell me, my guard. I know your
voice. If you will speak to me, I shall believe.”

“My poor friend, it is your daughter; for years and years, she and her
mother have been searching for you.”

“My daughter, my own little Marguerite!” said the prisoner, holding
Marguerite back with both hands, that he might look on her face. After
perusing it eagerly for awhile, he shook his head and sighed heavily.

“Is it her or her mother? I cannot tell them apart, and it wearies me to
make it out. She was so little, you know.”

“But years have made me a woman, father. You will not love me the less
for that.”

“Love you less! Why, what have I had to love but your shadow and hers,
all these years—hundreds on hundreds, I think, only for awhile I lost
the count.”

“And all these years we have been searching for you. The letter you sent
us——”

“Hush! hush! we might do that good man harm; even my guard must not know
of that.”

“He brought me here. He will permit me to come again and again. Now and
then, I shall send you a little fruit, fresh out of the sunshine.”

The prisoner laughed, and patted her head like a thankful child.

“And a flower which the good Doudel can hide in his bosom. We—mamma and
I—will think of nothing but you. Some day we shall come with the king’s
order and take you home with us.”

The prisoner shook his head. The idea of freedom seemed to give him
little pleasure. Nor did he question about his wife. His feeble memory
could not disconnect the child in his arms from the woman who was most
vividly on his mind, as a bride. Marguerite was, from that day, both
mother and child to that solitary man.

After a while, Doudel went into the passage, and came back with some
sodden black bread and a pitcher of water, which he placed on the
dungeon floor, saying gently to Marguerite,

“It will be dangerous to stay longer.”

Marguerite cast her eyes on the repulsive food, and shuddered.

“Not that—not that,” she cried. “Oh God! make us thankful. There is
something in the bottom of my basket. The good dame put it there, lest I
should be hungry before my flowers were sold. See, here it is.”

Marguerite thrust her hand eagerly among the flowers, and drew forth a
tiny loaf of white bread, and two purple figs.

“Take these—take these!” she said, tearing one of the figs apart, and
holding its juicy pulp to the old man’s lips. “They are fresh; they are
sweet. Oh! thank God that they were in my basket. See how he eats, how
he loves them. Oh, my good kind Doudel, was there ever happiness like
this?”

“I have tasted these before,” said the prisoner, earnestly, pausing a
moment in his delicious repast, to examine the half devoured fig; “but
the name—I cannot remember the name.”

“Must we go? Oh! for another ten minutes. It is such pleasure to see him
eat; but we will come again. Oh, I will be so crafty, so cautious; but
then it shall not be long now. I will find my way to the king, or be
trampled to death under the hoofs of his horses.”

“Do not go near the king; he is a hard old man. It was he who put me
here,” said the prisoner. “No wife or child of mine, shall go near
enough to look in his evil face.”

“That king is dead long ago,” answered Marguerite. “I should have no
hope if he was on the throne.”

“Dead! Is he dead, and I living here? Well, well; I cannot understand
it. Louis the Fifteenth is gone. Then who rules in France?”

“His grandson, who was the Dauphin.”

“And the Queen?”

“Is Marie Antoinette of Austria.”

“Marie Antoinette of Austria?”

A look of wild inquiry, more vivid than anything the prisoner had
expressed yet, flashed over his face; but Marguerite had no time for
questions or answers.

Doudel would not give her another moment; so she left the dungeon so
full of thankfulness, so resolved to set her father free, that the dark
corridors and gloomy sounds had no terror for her. Her father was a
reality now. She had seen him—felt his arms around her, fed him with her
own hands. Yes and she would set him at liberty or die.




                              CHAPTER XVI.
                         THE KING’S work-shop.


The thoughts of her father, in that awful dungeon, took entire
possession of that young girl; all other things became as nothing to
her. Her new occupation, her old friends, only presented themselves to
her mind as aids to the one great object. She would go to the king. She
would obtain freedom for her father, or die at the cruel monarch’s feet.

Marguerite had promised secrecy to Doudel, and could tell her mother
nothing. The great secret preying on her soul, drove her wild. In her
impatience she went to Monsieur Jacques, and besought him to find a way
to the king.

Jacques promised, and fortunately for her, Madame Gosner had fallen ill;
the reaction of great excitement had left her weak as an infant, so weak
that she scarcely knew when Marguerite went away, and left her to the
generous care of Dame Doudel. The next morning, Monsieur Jacques and
Marguerite presented themselves at the guarded entrance of the palace of
Versailles. The man was admitted, for he brought a message to the king,
from a person whom the guard had been ordered to respect. But the poor
girl was sent away, and she went drearily back to The Swan, a public
house kept by a sister of Dame Doudel, to whom Marguerite was consigned
with a kind message.

The palace which Monsieur Jacques entered seemed gloomy to him, in spite
of its regal splendor; for even then the shadow of coming events was
gathering around the vast edifice, which the queen herself forsook
whenever she could get an opportunity, for the freedom and pleasure of
her bijou of a palace in the great park.

Though France was one grand field of excitement, and had already begun
to tremble with the moral earthquake that shook it to the very
foundations, it seemed impossible to convince the court of the awful
danger that threatened it. The very anxieties of her position drove the
queen from the distractions of gayety, the gloom that gathered around
her, made even pleasure tiresome; and it was with an effort that she
flung off the cares of state, which fell heavily, indeed, on a nature so
light, so gay, and so womanly as hers.

Our readers have seen Marie Antoinette years ago, and only for a
moment—the girlish, beautiful, and lovely Dauphiness, burdened with no
care heavier than that imposed by court etiquette, and anxious only
about the day’s amusement. They see her again escaping from the
anxieties that beset St. Cloud and Versailles, striving to bring back
the light-hearted gayeties of her youth in _La Petite Trianon_, which of
all places on earth seemed most likely to accomplish that object.

On the day that Marguerite presented herself at the gates of Versailles,
Marie Antoinette was making one of her rustic sojourns at the little
palace, while the king, glad to escape from cares equally burdensome,
had retreated into the private chamber, in which an anvil and a chest of
tools promised him at least amusement equal to any she could hope for.

It is true that matters of state called for royal attention; that the
cries of a suffering and impatient people ought to have been heard, even
among the click of locks and rasping of files; but it was the fault of
this really good man, that he was always ready to put away troublesome
cares, and permitted others to think for him, save where, with a
stubborn sense of right, he would persist on a given point without
understanding all its relations. Indeed, at this time the burdens of
state were so heavy, that a greater man might have willingly laid them
down, even for the primitive employment which Louis loved so well.

That day Louis the Sixteenth was alone in his work-shop. A furnace was
all aglow in the chimney, and a bench across one of the windows, was
scattered over with tools. To this bench a vise was attached, and a
heavy man, somewhat awkward in his movements, was hard at work there.
His velvet coat, heavy with gold-lace and embroidery, hung across the
back of a chair, and a diamond star on the breast shot out gorgeous rays
of light, whenever a fitful flame from the furnace flashed up and
quivered over it.

No one, to have seen that man working so earnestly at the lock which was
in the fast grip of that vise, would have believed him capable of
exasperating a great nation into such crimes as soon left France lying,
like a monster, saturated with the blood of its own children. His face
was gentle and serious, a little full and heavy, perhaps, but neither
wanting in dignity or character. The lace-ruffles had been loosened at
his wrist, and, with the garment to which they were attached, rolled
back to his elbows, revealing a strong, rounded arm, white as a woman’s,
but which was sprinkled with iron-filings. Indeed, this metallic dust
had fallen over the rich lace on his bosom, and glistened in dark specks
among the powder of his hair. As he worked, the intricacies of the lock
seemed to puzzle him; he unscrewed the vise, and examined its
workmanship with great earnestness. Nothing could be more intelligent or
patient than his face, as he bent over the work-bench. Again and again
he attempted to fit the parts together, but something was wrong about
them, and each attempt proved a failure.

At last he sat down and wiped the perspiration from his face, to all
appearance resigned to his defeat. He was evidently a man to suffer, to
endure, but not to trample obstacles under foot. As he sat pondering
thoughtfully over the disjointed lock, a servant came to the door. The
king shook the iron-dust from his hands, and turned toward his coat,
evidently a little ashamed of his undress.

“Sire,” said the man, decorously looking downward, that he might not see
what his master wished unobserved, “a man has just come from Paris, who
says that De Witt is taken ill, and sends him to ask your majesty’s
pleasure. He brings a written recommendation, which states that he is
trustworthy, and master of his craft. Shall I send him back, or is it
the royal pleasure that he should be received?”

The king looked at his disjointed lock, hesitated, and at last gave
orders that the mechanic from Paris should be sent up.

When the door was closed, Louis began to arrange his dress with true
regal pride. He would rather have been found at a disadvantage by a
prince of the blood, than discovered wanting in any appendage of royalty
by this strange mechanic. Directly the work-room door was opened again,
and a short, stout, and almost uncouth man, presented himself before the
king. He had evidently been conducted to the room by some private
entrance, for his hat was left outside, and some attempt had,
undoubtedly, been made to render his rude toilet presentable since his
entrance into the chateau.

Rude and strange as this man appeared, he was neither awkward nor
abashed, but approached the work-bench, and leaning one hand upon it,
waited to be addressed. There was something manly, and indicative of
strength, in this attitude, which took the king by surprise; for the
moment he realized that he was in the presence of one of the people.

“De Witt sent you, and vouches for your faithfulness,” said Louis, more
embarrassed than his visitor; for at times he was rather ashamed of his
passion for mechanics.

The locksmith bowed, and his eyes turned on the lock which had been
taken apart, but all the genius of the king had failed to put it
together again.

“You see that I have only the power to do mischief,” said Louis, smiling
pleasantly.

“So the people of France have been bold enough to say,” was the prompt
answer.

Louis frowned at this bold reply; but directly his brow cleared, and he
looked earnestly into the man’s face, as if questioning that instead of
his words.

“The people of France know but little of their king,” he said, gravely;
“but let us to our work.”

The man again bent his head, and took up the disjointed lock, which was,
in fact, a new invention, full of complications.

“Yes,” he said, “this is after De Witt’s plan. I have seen it before;
but here is something I do not understand.”

“Ah!” said Louis, coloring a little, “that is my own improvement.”

The locksmith smiled, examined the new complication well, and nodded his
head in approval.

“This is really an improvement—but it fits ill; a free use of the file,
and a screw here, will make the thing perfect.”

The man reached out his hand for a file; but Louis had already flung off
his coat again, and was fastening a bolt into the vise.

“Give me the file, I see what is lacking,” he said, eagerly. “So you
like the improvement. De Witt may not be of your opinion. He is not
willing that the king should be considered so good a craftsman as
himself. This lock is for the queen’s chamber. I shall present it to her
myself when it is complete.”

“It will be safe and strong,” said the workman; “delicate, too, for the
metal is of the best. I put one upon a dungeon of the Bastille after the
same pattern, lacking the royal improvement; but that was of ponderous
iron, which is by this time thick with rust.”

The king started as the Bastille was so suddenly mentioned, and, holding
his file in suspense, looked steadily at his strange instructor.

“You have been in the Bastille, then?”

“Yes, sire; more than once.”

“And you have been in the dungeons?”

“Almost every one of them.”

“And what did you see there?”

“Souls in torment—some of them innocent.”

“You are a bold man,” said Louis, after a brief pause.

“Because I am a true one!”

“And so our commissioners should be; but they give no such report.”

“There it is,” cried the locksmith, with sudden warmth. “There is no one
to report the wrongs of the people. The ministers are deaf to them; the
king hears them when their cries have been smothered by
commissioners—owned by these men. Ah, sire! if you could once go among
your subjects, see and hear them as I do, France might yet be saved.”




                             CHAPTER XVII.
                       THE KING AND THE WORKMAN.


The king drew back as if a viper had sprung out from the iron he was
filing, when the workman who had entered his presence so strangely made
this direct appeal. Anger, astonishment, and something like
consternation, rose to his face. Perhaps a King of France had never been
addressed in such language before by a man of the people. The fact
seemed incredible, even to the kindest and least exacting monarch of his
race.

“Who is it that dares use words like these to the king?” he said, at
length, drawing his heavy figure up with dignity.

“One who loves his king better than anything on earth, save France,” was
the reply given firmly, but with profound respect.

“Our grandfather used to say that the king _was_ France,” answered
Louis, so impressed by the earnestness of the man that he forgot, for
the moment, his low origin.

“A good king, who loves his people as fathers love their children, might
say this, and ask God’s blessing upon it. Ah, sire! it is in this spirit
the people would recognize their sovereign: let him represent France in
his own person; let him open his heart to their love, his mind to their
great needs, his hand to help them; and no monarch ever lived who would
be worshiped like Louis the Sixteenth. Oh! think of this when the proud
men who surround you seek to crowd back the people from your presence.”

The locksmith fell upon his knees as he spoke, and clasping his hard
hands, held them up, quivering with emotion; for, brave as he was, this
interview with the king, face to face, shook his stout frame from head
to foot.

Louis stood up proudly above him—for that moment the man was striving
nobly against all the traditions and prejudices of the monarch. He was
angry that any human being should dare to address him with the manner
and words used by this workman, whom he now thought had gained access to
his presence by a strategem. But the humble position and absolute
bravery of the man awoke more generous feelings in the really good heart
of the monarch. After the first rush of angry surprise, he rested one
hand on the work-bench, and said almost smiling,

“Stand upon your feet, my good friend, and for once let me hear from my
people directly through one of their number. If you are, indeed, what
your appearance indicates, a worker in iron, and nothing more, even
though your craft has been used as a device, I will forgive it. Speak
the truth, and that fearlessly, as if this were your work-shop, and not
mine.”

This speech, so different to what the man expected, took all his
presence of mind away. Anger he could have borne; danger he was prepared
for; but this generous composure took him unawares. He began to tremble
with a rush of strong emotions; once or twice the rough hand was drawn
across his eyes. When he did speak, his voice was low and broken.

“My king, I thank you.”

Louis smiled. He liked the generous homage betrayed in this rude
emotion, better than the position this man had just left at his feet.

“Speak frankly. We will leave our work for awhile, and learn if you are
as well skilled in state craft as in this other, of which you, indeed,
seem to be master. Half an hour ago this lock was chaotic fragments of
iron, which puzzled my poor brain sadly. Now it is almost compact, its
bolts slide with a touch of the key—all its parts are in harmony. Tell,
if you have the knowledge, can my kingdom be so arranged?”

“Not with its present workmen,” answered the smith, resuming all his
powers of mind; “never while the nobility hedge their king in from the
common people as with a wall of granite. Sire, sire, old traditions are
melting away, the people are losing their reverence for the greatness
which has for generations set its heel upon them. They begin to
understand that labor has its privileges, and should not forever be
taxed that arrogance and idleness may become more powerful, and only use
that power for oppression. They want the King of France to be the
monarch of all the people of France, not of a privileged class.”

“That is, they desire the king to commence a revolution, and begin it by
despoiling himself of power, and his court of rights hereditary since
the foundations of the monarchy. By what excuse can he wrest privileges
from one class and distribute them to another?”

“By the right of humanity he should do it, and human progress will give
him the power. Those vast privileges were secured to the nobility in the
ignorance of the many and grasping ambition of the few. Then physical
might ruled supreme, and the people were in fact serfs; now mind,
thought, energy, are at work through the masses. They begin to feel the
great strength that lies in numbers; they clamor for a share of God’s
blessings. Yes, sire, a spirit of revolution is abroad among the people
who love their king, and ask him to be at the head of a grand reform.”

Louis listened gravely, while troubled shadows settled upon his face. He
felt dimly all the truth that lay in his strange visitor’s words, but
still more clearly the formidable powers opposed against them. Nobility
clinging to the rights which, in fact, upheld his throne; the clergy,
which in no country ever loosened its grasp on wealth or power without a
death-struggle—all were to be braved and despoiled in behalf of a people
of whom he, personally, knew nothing, and for whom his sympathies had
never been thoroughly enlisted. The people, had, in fact, never
approached their king, save in clamorous multitudes, or in committees,
that sometimes appealed to his reason, seldom to his sympathies.

The most difficult man to deal with in the world is one of just mind and
kind heart, who, holding power, has not the mental force and stern will
necessary to its vigorous execution. To such men half-measures are sure
to present themselves, and as certain to prove inadequate to the
occasion when great difficulties are to be overcome. Indeed, it is
seldom that they thoroughly understand the danger until it is upon them.

This was true with regard to Louis the Sixteenth. It required a gigantic
mind even to comprehend the dangers that had each year crowded closer
and closer to his throne; and he had no ministers capable of giving him
thorough enlightenment, because they did not themselves understand these
terrible signs of the future.

Was it strange, then, that he received the suggestions of this singular
man with astonishment; that his kind heart swelled to his rude
eloquence, and he felt, for the time, ready to lead his people on to the
broader liberty they asked for?

Was it strange, either, that while the man was talking, the influences
which had surrounded the king for life came back and stifled the
generous impulse? He knew that in order to benefit a class of which he
knew little, he must first enter into bitter contest with those who had
been the friends and supporters of his house since it was royally
planted on the throne!

“These are vast questions, and involve much which my people do not
understand,” said Louis, a little impatiently; for if his reason had not
been convinced, it certainly was disturbed. “I am not sorry, even in
this way, to meet one of the people who dares to speak the truth. Had it
been a courtier, now, or even a minister, who ventured so far, I am not
sure that he would have been a stranger to our prison of the Bastille
to-morrow morning.”

The locksmith shuddered.

“Ah! that fearful prison, sire, planted in the very heart of Paris, it
has become so hateful to the people, that they mutter curses on it in
passing.”

“That bespeaks them unreasoning and factious. Nations that build up
thrones, at the same time lay the foundation of prisons; crime must be
punished that the people may live. The palace in which I stand is not
more an appendage of royalty than the prison of the Bastille.”

Louis spoke the truth; despotism had no monument more closely allied to
itself than the Bastille. It had so long been an appendage to royalty,
that no king, not even the kind-hearted Louis, ever thought of its
horrors, save as necessary to the punishment of those who were
considered as his enemies.

“Sire,” answered the locksmith, turning pale under the memories that
crowded upon him, “I have been in the Bastille, and know all the horrors
of its dungeons. Has any man ever told your highness of the deep, fetid
caves and cells that are dug to a level with the common-sewers of the
city, where men born, perhaps, to luxury, have to struggle with toads,
rats, and every species of foul vermin, for the privilege of breathing
the pestilential air? Have they told you of strong men chained by the
waist to walls reeking with slime, till they become little better than
skeletons; when the rusty girdles were unclasped, and they were carried,
in the dead of night, to the cemetery of St. Paul, and buried without
name and without record, save some rude inscription scratched upon the
walls of a dungeon by the rusted nail, which some poor wretch had
hoarded as a treasure?”

The king turned white as the man who addressed him with such passion and
power, that the picture of the Bastille seemed to loom up, and cast its
gaunt shadows over them both.

“Have they told you of this cruel man, Latude, crawling back and forth,
like some wild animal, on those ponderous rope ladders, by which he
descends the grim towers, and swings himself to the earth? Do the dainty
commissioners, who go once each year to examine this place of horrors,
tell the king of these things, and can he still say that this monster
pile is an appendage of the throne?”

The king made a gesture with his hands, and turned away, as if this
description revolted him. But the locksmith had plunged into the subject
with all the fierce energy of a man so completely in earnest, that he
lost all sense of the rank and power of his auditor.

“And if these enormities exist now under a monarch that all men know to
be good and merciful, what must it have been when men less gracious held
sway over the palaces and prisons of France? How many generations of
Frenchmen have moaned, and suffered, and perished, under those black
towers? How many innocent hearts have broken in despair? What oceans of
rageful tears have been spent in vain! How many heads have been dashed
against those pitiless stones? It stands there yet! Ay, king, it stands
there yet! Innocent men are even now buried within its walls, sent there
in the wantonness or cruelty of your grandfather—not many, not many.
They do not live so long in the Bastille; but that old man——”

“Silence, I command you!” broke forth the king, pale with agitation,
trembling with anger.

The locksmith dropped his uplifted arm, the word upon his lip broke in
an angry sob.

“Sire, forgive me! I was standing in that awful prison. I heard the
moans of agonized men coming up from under my feet; I heard the clank of
chains, and saw such sights. Sire, forgive, or punish me; I, who have no
self-command, and should claim little mercy.”

The king sat down and wiped away the beaded drops from his forehead; his
breath came unevenly, his white hands shook.

“Tell me, in one word—is what you have said the truth?”

The locksmith fell upon his knees, and again held up his clasped hands.

“As heaven sees me, sire, every word I have uttered is a terrible
truth.”

“And for this I am responsible!” said the king, as if speaking to
himself. “It shall be remedied! It shall be remedied! Good man, I thank
you! It is seldom that a monarch hears the truth, when it cuts him to
the heart like this. I can listen to no more,” he added, lifting his
hand as the locksmith opened his lips to speak. “Some other time you
shall come to me again, but not here. I had hoped in this place to
escape from all cares of state; but I do not complain. You have
performed the duty of a good citizen, and have the king’s gratitude.
Mark me, when the people say that Louis is inaccessible to his subjects,
tell them that he not only sees them, but listens to painful truths
without anger, when they are honestly told. Some day hereafter I may
need you as a medium between me and the people, for whom you plead so
boldly.”

The locksmith bent his head in deeper reverence than he had yet given to
the monarch.

“When I entered the gates of Versailles, sire, my heart went out first
to the people of France, then to the king. I go away with them united so
firmly in my love, that death itself shall not tear them apart.”

The locksmith laid one hand on his breast as he said this, bent low, and
turned to quit the room. Louis recalled him.

“Your name, citizen?”

“They know me as ‘Monsieur Jacques’ in the city.”

“Leave that and your address with the guard as you go out. You may be
wanted.”

“At the gate!” These words seemed to arrest the man, and he turned
suddenly. But the king had arisen, and was leaving the room by another
door. Whatever Monsieur Jacques wished to say was thus rendered
impossible; and he left the work-room with a baffled and dejected look.
This was the second time he had represented De Witt, the locksmith, very
successfully; but he could hardly hope to gain access to the king in
that way again; and in the excitement of his patriotism, he had utterly
forgotten the most immediate object of his visit until it was too late.

“Heaven forgive me! It will break her heart! And he would have done it—I
am sure he would have done it!” exclaimed the noble-hearted man who had
forgotten everything in his love of France.




                             CHAPTER XVIII.
                    THE LANDLADY AND THE WHITE HENS.


All that morning a young girl sat in the parlor of a little public house
in the town of Versailles, waiting with such impatience as can only be
felt by anxious youth, for the appearance of Monsieur Jacques.

“Have no fear,” he had said, in going out with a box of tools in his
hand. “I shall see the king, and so plead with him that you will read my
good news on my face at the first sight. Perhaps I shall have managed to
get an interview for yourself; so keep a brave heart, and watch for me
at the little window yonder.”

She had watched, poor child, until the minutes seemed turning into
hours, until her eyes grew dim, and her heart faint; for one moment hope
grew strong in her bosom; the next a pang of dread would seize upon her,
and she longed to flee away and hide herself from the disappointment
which seemed sure of coming.

As she sat looking wearily through the window, the landlady came into
the room once or twice, and, standing close by her, looked through the
upper panes into the street, as if in expectation of some one.
Marguerite lifted her eyes to this woman’s face anxious for sympathy,
for it was a sister of Dame Doudel who kept the house. But the good
woman was that moment filled with anxiety on her own account.

“Ah! here he comes a third time, and all for nothing!” exclaimed the
woman, excitedly. “As if little hens, with wings and bosoms like snow,
could be picked up in a minute. I dare say the queen thinks such things
are hatched full-grown. Good morning, monsieur. Good morning once again!
No better news!”

“What, nothing yet, and her majesty so impatient?”

“Ah! you know it sometimes happens that nature will have her own way in
spite of the queen.”

“Then nature is full of rank treason,” answered the man, who stepped
across the threshold, and threw himself into a seat where he could stare
at Marguerite more conveniently. “Your daughter, dame, I suppose, and a
demoiselle worth looking at. Where have you kept her till now?”

“We were talking about hens, monsieur, not about daughters; but you are
mistaken, I have no child—though this pretty creature does remind me of
a niece who is in her grave. Do not blush, child, for she was good as
well as beautiful.”

“And this one is beautiful, let her be good or not,” muttered the man,
who wore a royal livery, and seemed to assume great authority thereat.

Marguerite turned her face away, and looked out of the window more
earnestly than ever; for she heard the remark, and those bold, searching
eyes annoyed her.

“Well, monsieur, step this way,” said the woman.

“No, I will wait here,” answered the man, crossing his feet on the
floor, and stretching himself into an easy position.

“But it is no use to wait; the thing you want cannot be found in the
whole town. I have sent to the market in Paris, and among the farmers in
the country. Perhaps one will come in, but it may not be for a week.”

The man changed his position a little and laughed.

“Oh! I prefer to wait awhile,” he answered.

“Then mademoiselle will, perhaps, walk upstairs?” said the woman. “Other
windows than this overlook the street.”

Marguerite arose, blushing deeply, and cast a grateful look on the
landlady who was so kindly attempting to shield her from this man’s
impertinent admiration.

“Pardon, I would not incommode any one for the world, so will take
myself off at once. But you have not yet divined my whole business. I
was ordered to summon the good dame herself to the little palace.”

“What, me? No, no! There is some mistake.”

“Not at all. Her majesty is in a dilemma.”

“That is not unlikely,” muttered the landlady. “It seems to me that all
France is in a dilemma.”

“She has discovered that none of her ladies know how to make butter.”

“To make butter?”

“Exactly. Thus you can understand all the choice cows that live so
daintily around the Swiss cottages are a sad reproach. Her majesty knows
how to set the cream; but when it comes to churning butter, that is
beyond her. Not even the Princess Lambella or Madame Campan can aid her
in that, clever as they are.”

The landlady laughed, holding her side with both hands.

“I should think not—I should think not,” she said, at length rocking
herself to and fro in jovial enjoyment of this absurd idea. “What have
court ladies to do with useful things like that?”

“So this is one reason that I am sent here. You are wanted, dame, quite
as much as the white hen.”

“Me! Wanted for what?”

“This is it. Her highness, the queen, desires a perfect dress, and sends
for a _modiste_ to superintend her toilet. In the same way she wants
golden butter from a herd of the most beautiful cows in the world—butter
of her own making, remember; but is compelled to send for the mistress
of The Swan, who will now put on her shawl and proceed to one of the
Swiss cottages, to which I shall have the honor of conducting her. It is
her majesty’s order.”

Still the landlady laughed; she was half flattered, half incredulous.
The idea that she was summoned to teach the queen was too astonishing
for belief.

“Monsieur has had his little joke,” she said, doubtfully.

“But it is no joke. I come by the queen’s order to demand your
attendance.”

“Monsieur, if you trifle with me, I shall be angry.”

“And with good cause. But I do not trifle.”

“And you wish me to go?”

“At once.”

“But it is a long walk.”

“Look through the window, and you will see that her majesty has made
provision for this difficulty.”

The landlady leaned over Marguerite and saw that a calashe, drawn by a
pair of fine horses, stood outside. Her eyes brightened; she nodded her
head and began to untie her apron.

“Monsieur shall not be made to wait,” she said. “It is not every woman
who can say that the queen has sent for her.”

Just as the delighted woman went out of one door, Monsieur Jacques came
in at the other, stooping forward dejectedly, and turning his eyes away
from Marguerite, as if afraid to look her in the face.

Marguerite started as he came in, and clasped her hands; but when she
saw his face, her fingers fell slowly apart, and she sunk back in her
chair moaning unconsciously.

“Do not punish me with that look!” exclaimed the unhappy man, drawing
close to her in deep humiliation; “I have betrayed you, and left my
errand unfulfilled, but it came out of my love of France. In my insane
enthusiasm I forgot you, and everything else, when a little moderation
would have won all. Can you forgive me?”

Marguerite lifted her great blue eyes to his face, and he felt their
mournful reproach tremble through his heart.

“And you did not see him?” she said.

“Yes, I saw him, and forgot you—everything else but France and its
sufferings.”

“Ah, me! and I had hoped so much.”

“It is I—your best friend—who have betrayed you.”

“But is the opportunity entirely lost? We may never again be so near the
king. He is in the palace; oh! if I could obtain entrance! Tell me, sir,
is it possible?”

Marguerite addressed the queen’s messenger, who sat with his legs
crossed, regarding her with smiling interest.

“Is what impossible, mademoiselle?”

“That I can gain one minute’s speech with the king?”

“Utterly impossible, I should say!”

Marguerite dropped into her chair with a look of broken-hearted
disappointment, which cut Monsieur Jacques to the soul.

“It is I that have done it,” he said desperately. “I who would rather
have perished.”

“Are you her father?” inquired the queen’s messenger, with interest.

“Her father? No!”

“Her friend, then?”

“No, I am her worst enemy. Ask her.”

“Indeed he is not,” cried Marguerite. “We expected him to accomplish
impossible things, and he could not—for this he condemns himself.”

“Is it that you so much desire an interview with the king?”

“No,” answered Monsieur Jacques. “It is I who have thrown an interview
away—wasted it in complaints and invectives, when I should have been
pleading for mercy.”

“That is a misfortune!” said the messenger, striding up and down the
door, “a great misfortune, but not, perhaps without its remedy.”

Marguerite turned her eyes upon him. He met the look of wild entreaty,
and paused in his walk.

“To get an interview with the king is beyond my managing; but her
majesty keeps no state just now. I could almost venture to——”.

Marguerite started up, her sweet face on fire with sudden hope.

“Take me to the queen—take me to the queen, and I will bless you
forever,” she pleaded.




                              CHAPTER XIX.
                           THE SWISS COTTAGE.


“What is this? Who is it that is begging and praying to see her majesty?
My young friend here, with the mournful eyes? Why not? If I had a
daughter now, she should follow me into her presence, and look on while
I give her majesty a lesson. Not having the daughter, why not take this
pretty pigeon under my wing? What say you, monsieur? They could only
refuse to let her in, and no great harm done?” cried the landlady,
entering the room in haste.

“I was about to propose as much,” answered the queen’s messenger, upon
whom the landlady had borne down with this burst of eloquence as she
entered the room, equipped for an excursion.

“You will consent,” cried Marguerite, turning from one to the other in
breathless anxiety; “you will let me go?”

“Look in her face now, and say if she is not enough like me to pass for
my own child. Blue eyes, hair with a dash of gold in it—that is before
mine turned to silver; a nice trim waist, such as mine was not so very
long ago—in fact, the girl is patterned after me, and I have a mind to
run some risk for her, especially as it will please my good sister
Doudel, and monsieur seems willing.”

Marguerite clasped her hands and turned her beaming face on Monsieur
Jacques.

“You will not leave me? Wait till I come back. It is best that we appeal
to the queen. Had it been otherwise you would never have forgotten.”

Monsieur Jacques came out of his dejection. The thoughtfulness and hope
in that sweet face inspired him.

“Go,” he said, “I will follow you. When fate closes one door, she opens
another.”

“It is not fate, Monsieur Jacques, but our Lady; I was praying to her
all the time you were out.”

A curt smile died on Monsieur Jacques’ lips. He was beginning to have
very little reverence for “our Lady” or any other being, human or
divine; but the most irreligious man prefers to find devotion in the
woman he loves; so this stout democrat stifled the sneer that had almost
curved his lip, and bent his massive head in homage to the simple piety
in which he did not believe.

“Now,” said the dame, taking Marguerite by the arm in cordial
good-humor, and marching toward the carriage with a stir and bustle,
which would have drawn the attention of passers-by, had the royal livery
been insufficient to produce that effect, “you shall see what power the
mistress of The Swan has at court. There, climb up over the front wheel,
while some one brings me a stool. Thank you, monsieur; it is not that I
am unable to mount the wheel as she does, but my shoe is a little tight.
There, let me rest my hand on your shoulder—it helps famously. Oh! here
we are, comfortable as birds in a nest. Now for a swinging ride through
the town.”

They had a swinging ride, and a handsome man, in royal livery, attending
them on horseback. More than that—a stout, hardy working man tramped
after on foot, resolved to keep his charge in sight, if vigorous walking
would do it. But the queen’s horses were full of fire, and soon left
Monsieur Jacques toiling in the mud far behind, while they dashed toward
the _Petite Trianon_, fairly taking Marguerite’s breath away.

The carriage stopped, the attendant dismounted and opened the door.
Directly the portly person of our hostess of The Swan was safely planted
in front of a rustic gate which led to a _bijou_ of a Swiss cottage,
fanciful as a fairy dwelling in its construction, sheltered by the green
old trees that spread out from the Park, and surrounded by grass that
grew greener and thicker than could be found elsewhere, upon which a
drove of choice white cows were feeding luxuriously.

The landlady turned as she touched the earth, and held out her two stout
arms, as if Marguerite had been an infant who claimed her help. But the
young girl scarcely touched the kindly offered arms. She sprang to the
earth in breathless haste, white to the lips, trembling in every limb.
Her friend gave a nod of encouragement, over her shoulder, and led the
way toward the cottage.

A beautiful woman came to the door, and looked out; a merry laugh was on
her lips; her large eyes were bright as sunshine. A dress of brown
stuff, looped up from a blue underskirt of the same material, gave
piquancy and grace to a figure, which had the rare beauty of perfect
womanhood. A dainty little cap was tied over an abundance of rich brown
hair, in which there seemed to be a slight grey tinge; but, on a closer
view, this tinge was produced by traces of powder, which could not be
entirely brushed from tresses so habitually accustomed to its use.

The lady spoke a few words, still laughing, to some one within the
cottage; then two or three other faces crowded into the background, and
bright eyes glowed out upon the portly figure of Dame Tillery, as she
came up the walk, almost concealing the slight figure of Marguerite, who
came trembling behind her.

The women of France were a brave, outspoken class even when they came in
contact with all the exclusiveness of a court. When the people and the
nobility met, face to face, honest truths were often spoken, which could
not have been palatable to king or courtier. Of this fearless class,
Dame Tillery was a superior specimen. She walked with something like
dignity, toward the cottage; the heavy shawl folded over her ample bosom
neither rose nor fell, with a quickened breath: a bland smile was on her
face. She was pleased to be summoned, but in no way embarrassed.

“My queen!” said the Dame, addressing the lady in the door-way, “you
have sent for me, and I have come.”

Dame Tillery looked at the white hand, which lay in beautiful relief
against the brown dress, as if she longed to kiss it.

Marie Antoinette smiled, and held out her hand, about which the sweet
smell of milk still lingered.

“Ah, dame! we are in sad trouble,” she said, laughing pleasantly. “The
cream is obstinate to-day, or we are sadly ignorant. It is delightful to
see how helpless we all are. Here is Madame Campan breaking her heart.”

“If your highness permit——”

“Nay, dame, there is no highness here, remember. All that is left
behind, at Versailles. It is only a company of dairy-women, more
ignorant of their business than is proper. As a dame of experience we
have sent for you.”

“Yes, your—That is, certainly; I have some experience.”

“And discretion,” rejoined Marie Antoinette, looking anxious for the
moment, and scanning Dame Tillery’s face with a clear, keen glance, with
which the queen sometimes examined those who approached her.

“And discretion, if that means silence,” answered the dame.

Once more the careless light came back to the queen’s face; and throwing
off the thoughtfulness which had made her appear ten years older, she
turned and entered the cottage.

“Madame, your highness, can my companion come in also?”

Marie Antoinette frowned and regretted the step she had taken. She was
evidently annoyed by this constant appeal to her royalty.

“Ah! your daughter. Yes, yes, let her come in. She, too, may be able to
teach us something.”

Marguerite, in a wondering way, knew that she was in the presence of the
queen. She would have spoken, but the words died on her lips, for the
frank, smiling woman who met them so cordially, had been in an instant
transformed into a creature of evident power; her frown was ominous as
her smile was bright; but Marie Antoinette was a creature of wonderful
variability, and almost on the instant took up her _role_ of dairy-maid.




                              CHAPTER XX.
                            ROYAL MILKMAIDS.


Marguerite followed Dame Tillery into the cottage. A confused sound of
voices, and low bursts of laughter met them at the threshold, and with
this was mingled the tinkling sound of metal-pans jarring against each
other, and the patter of high-heeled shoes upon the wooden door of a
room beyond.

“Put aside your hood and shawl, dame,” said the queen; “you are wanted
at once.”

Dame Tillery took off her outer garments, and drawing an apron of white
linen from her pocket, tied it around her stout waist with the air of a
woman about to perform some important duty, then she entered the room
which seemed so full of merriment, as if it had been her own parlor in
The Swan Hotel.

The room was a singular one; the floor was of dark walnut, and entirely
uncarpeted. Along one end ran a range of shelves, cut from thin slabs of
marble, on which pans, some silver, some of white porcelain, were
arranged in rows. These pans were full of milk, on which the cream was
mantling richly. Pails of almost snow-white wood, hooped and mounted
with silver, hung on brackets against the opposite wall. At a long,
marble table, which occupied the center of the room, stood two or three
pans of milk, with a long, porcelain dish half full of thick cream. Two
or three ladies were by the table busy at work, but laughing, chatting,
and making merry over their labor, as if they had been accustomed to it
all their lives.

One, a little, plump woman, with blue eyes, and a round, pleasant face,
had rolled her sleeves to the elbows, and drawn the skirt of her dress
through the pocket-holes, while she skimmed the cream from one of the
pans, and dropped it into the long, porcelain dish preparatory for
churning. A fair young girl, habited in like rustic fashion, but with a
good deal of blue in her dress, was washing milk-pans at a marble sink
in one corner of the room; while a piquant little lady, with red ribbons
in her cap, stood ready with a long, white towel, with which she
polished the pans into brightness.

The person who washed these pans was Elizabeth, the king’s sister; the
lady who received them was the Princess Lambella—but all titles were
ignored in this rustic retreat, and each highborn lady went by her
simple name.

“See, Dame Campan, I have brought a person here who will set us all
right,” cried the queen, introducing Dame Tillery, with mischievous
laughter in her eyes.

The lady, who was skimming milk, dropped her hand to the edge of the
pan, and turned her pleasant eyes on the landlady.

“Ah! I dare not go on with my work,” she said, laughing merrily; “that
is, with any one who understands it better than I do standing by.”

“No wonder,” answered Dame Tillery, going up to the table and taking the
skimmer from the plump, little hand that held it. “Why, you are ladling
out more milk than cream; and that makes sour butter.”

With a subtle turn of her wrist, the landlady glided the skimmer between
the strata of golden cream and impoverished milk with a dexterity that
separated them entirely.

“There,” she said, allowing the rich mass to glide into the dish, “that
is the way to skim a pan of milk.”

“Ah! what a bungler I have been!” exclaimed Madame Campan, clasping her
hands in mimic humiliation; “but I can never do it like that.”

The landlady laughed, and stood with a hand resting on either hip, while
Campan made an effort to imitate her dexterity; but that moment the
queen called her away. She stood by a tall churn of spotless wood,
mounted with silver and with the dasher grasped in both hands, called
out,

“Come hither, landlady—come hither! Dame Capet stands in more need of
help than any one. This churn is obstinate as a mule. See how it has
bespattered my dress.”

Certainly, there did seem to be cause for the queen’s complaint, for
little rivulets of cream were running down the side of the churn, and a
shower of drops hung like pearls upon her white arms and her dress;
while she worked so vigorously with the dasher that her cheeks were one
glow of roses, and her eyes sparkled brighter than all the diamonds she
had ever worn.

“What is it that makes the cream grow thinner and thinner the more I
beat it?”

Dame Tillery took the dasher from those beautiful hands, lifted the lid
of the churn, and examined its contents with wistful interest. Then she
drew a fancy milking stool towards her, sat down upon it, and holding
the churn between her knees, began to agitate the cream with a slow rise
and fall of the dasher, which would have irritated Marie Antoinette with
its dull monotony.

“There, there! let me try!” she exclaimed, all impatience. “It is easy
enough.”

She took the dasher, while Dame Tillery moved her stool back and looked
on. A few moments the rise and fall of the dasher was slow and cautious;
but after a little, the impulsive character of the queen broke into
action. A shower of snowy drops flashed upward, the lid was knocked one
side and then the other, frothing cream dashed tumultuously against the
sides of the churn, and everything was in commotion again.

“There, you see! You see nothing can be more obstinate. I have been
following your method perfectly, but it comes to this.”

“Nay,” answered the dame, resting an elbow on each knee, as a broad,
genial smile swept her face, “it is because you try too much. Slow and
sure—slow and sure is a good maxim, both on the farm and at court.”

“Hush! we have no such thing as court here, good woman,” whispered a
tall, dark lady, who had just come in. She was in a rustic dress, like
the rest; but Dame Tillery instantly recognized her as a lady of the
royal household. “Dame Capet has no knowledge of the queen, remember
that.”

Marie Antoinette had relinquished her hold of the dasher.

“It takes away my breath,” she said, moving toward a window and looking
out.

Dame Tillery drew the chum between her knees again, and went on with her
monotonous work. Marguerite came and leaned upon her chair; she was very
pale, and her eyes shone with suppressed anxiety.

“Tell me,” she whispered, “is this lady, in truth, the queen?”

“In truth she is,” answered the dame, suspending the motion of her
dasher a moment.

“And if I speak to her?”

“Speak to her! Ah! now I remember, it was something more than a wish to
see how royal ladies can amuse themselves, that made you so anxious to
come.”

“It was life or death—nothing less.”

“So serious as that? I am sorry for it. Of all places in the world, this
is the last for such things. The queen and her ladies came here to
escape them.”

“I see. It is almost hopeless; but I must speak.”

“Not yet—wait a little. I will watch for an opportunity. Go to the other
window yonder, and tell me what they are all looking at.”

Marguerite went quietly to the window, and saw a drove of cows coming up
from their pasture in the Park, beautiful creatures, with coats like
velvet, and coal-black horns curving inward like cimeters.

A group of young men, wearing blouses and ribbons upon their hats, were
driving the cows, all laughing, chatting, and making the air riotous
with mirth. Marguerite saw one or two of these young men go up to the
window, around which the inmates of the room were grouped.

“It is of no use inviting us out,” said Marie Antoinette to a young man
who protested, with grave earnestness, that the cows suffered for want
of milking. “We have our own duties to perform first; so, my Lord de ——,
I beg ten thousand pardons, my gentle herdsman; you must watch and wait
a little longer.”

“But how long, Dame Capet? My companions are getting impatient of their
idleness.”

The Princess Elizabeth ran out of the room, and returned with a sickle
in each hand, which she held out of the window with a demure smile.

“Let them cut grass for the cows,” she said, “while we go on with our
butter-making.”

The young Duke de Richelieu, for it was no less a person, took the
sickles, and tossing one to the feet of his companion, fell upon his
knees beneath the window, and made an awkward attempt at cutting the
grass.

The ladies at the window burst into shouts of mellow laughter, and
smoothing their aprons, went to work again like so many dairy-maids.

“Now,” said Marie Antoinette, approaching the churn, “I will be more
obedient.”

She took the dasher between her hands, and continued the slow, steady
motion, which seemed so easy to Dame Tillery. The work had almost been
done in her hands. Directly she saw the ridges of cream that gathered in
a circle about the dasher divide off into particles, while the rejected
milk flowed in thin bluish drops back to the churn.

“It has come!” exclaimed Dame Tillery, with mild triumph.

“What has come?” demanded her pupil, astonished to hear a liquid-splash
come up from the churn, instead of a mellow sound, half-smothered in the
richness of the cream, which her dasher had all the time produced.

“What has come? Your, your —— My pretty dame! why, the butter, of
course. You can hear it floating in lumps against the dasher.”

“Butter! and I have really made it! Oh! how delicious, Campan. Elizabeth
Polignac, come and see your Capet in her glory. Butter of her own
churning—golden butter, sweet as violets, and such quantities! Look!
look!”

The queen lifted the lid of her churn, and a swarm of pretty women
crowded around it.

“Oh! this is something like!” exclaimed one.

“Superb!” cried another. “But how are we to get it out?”

“Bring a dish,” said Dame Tillery, whose portly figure seemed to swell
and broaden under a consciousness of superior knowledge. “Bring a dish,
little one.”




                              CHAPTER XXI.
           DAME TILLERY TEACHES THE COURT AN ACCOMPLISHMENT.


Marguerite sprang from her place at the window, and taking a long
porcelain dish from the table, brought it to the churn, and kneeling on
the door, held it up to be filled.

Dame Tillery arose, slipped the lid of the churn over the handle of the
dasher, and gave the whole group a view of the golden treasure floating
within. Then she gave the dasher a dexterous twirl, and drew it up
gently, laden with fragrant butter, from which a white rain of milk
dripped back in showers. Easily and daintily she deposited this first
relay upon the dish, and dropped the dasher for another deposit. But
here the queen broke in,

“No, no! I must gather it with my own hands. I promised the ki—— that
is, my good man, that he should breakfast on butter of my own making,
and so he shall. This is the way you separate it from the milk?”

She gave the dasher a vigorous twirl, which produced a tumult in the
churn, but accomplished nothing.

“Softly, softly,” urged Dame Tillery, rubbing her fat hands together.
“There, sink the dasher so, give it one turn under the milk, then lift
it daintily. Oh! what butter! it makes my mouth water! Oh! you are an
apt scholar. If the people could only teach you other things as easily.”

“Hush, woman! You will offend the queen!”

Dame Tillery lifted her eyes to the haughty woman who gave her this
warning, and answered gravely,

“Be careful, madame, that you and your mates do not offend the people.”

The lady’s eyes flashed, and her red lip curved ominously, still there
was no real dignity in her resentment; that small commonplace figure had
nothing imposing in it, and a low, heavy forehead spoiled the otherwise
beautiful face. She turned to the queen.

“Madame, do you know whom we have here?”

“A kind woman, who has taught me how to make the most beautiful butter,”
answered Marie Antoinette, laughing gleefully. “Why, Polignac, I am
delighted! It is a triumph over the—over my good man, who disputed my
power to accomplish anything of the kind. You shall all see my success
astonish him. It will be delicious! Now what are we to do next, dame?
This is to be made into little pats, somehow, with pretty devices on the
top.”

“But first, the milk must be worked out.”

“Ah, I see; but how?”

Dame Tillery placed a hand on each knee, and lifted herself slowly from
the stool. Taking the dish of butter from Marguerite, with a deep, long
breath, she carried it to the table, where a butter-stick had been lying
all the morning, with its uses quite unknown. With this in one hand, the
dame tilted the dish a little that the milk might drain off, and began
patting, pressing and moulding the butter with a dexterity that excited
even the queen to rival her in a work so delightfully pleasant. Directly
her own white fingers closed on the butter-stick, and with much laughter
and infinite grace, she managed to press out the few drops of milk Dame
Tillery had left, and sent them rolling out of the dish like waste
pearls, that broke as they fell.

When the fragrant mass lay on the dish, pure and golden, the queen was
at a loss once more. How were the delicate little pats and balls, which
sometimes graced her table, produced? In order to make her triumph
complete, the precious contents of that dish must take this last
artistic form.

Again Dame Tillery chuckled, and this time her hand plunged deeply into
her pocket, and brought forth a little wooden mould carved daintily in
the inside. This she dipped into water and thrust into the butter,
closing it like a pair of scissors. When it was drawn forth, a large
golden strawberry dropped from its clasp, which so delighted and
surprised the group of ladies looking on, that their soft murmurs of
wonderment filled the room.

“Oh! the enchantress! the beautiful, beautiful, golden strawberry. I
shall not only supply delicious butter to my friend over yonder, but it
will come to him as from the hands of an artist. Isn’t the idea
charming?”

“Beautiful!”

“Charming!”

“Exquisite!”

Each cherry lip had some epithet of praise to bestow on Dame Tillery’s
pretty device, except that of the Duchess de Polignac. She swept
discontentedly toward the window, jealous even of this woman of the
people, as she had been for years of any one who approached the queen.

“Shall we never be admitted to take our share in the work?” cried one of
the young men who had been making a vain attempt to cut grass.

“In the folly, you mean,” answered the duchess, angrily; “for my part,
this practice, which brings one on a level with women of the city,
becomes repelling.”

“Ah! that is because you have no taste for simple pleasures like her
majesty, who evidently finds them charming.”

“And you?” questioned the duchess.

“I,” answered the young man, with a thrill of deep feeling in his voice,
“I shall never have the audacity to condemn anything that gives relief
to the existence our royal lady must find so full of care.”

The duchess gave him a keen look, which brought the blood to his face;
but that moment Marie Antoinette lifted up the wooden mould, and bade
them all look on while her first strawberry was forming. When it fell,
round and perfect, into the silver dish, a little shout rang up from the
crowd. With a group of admirers watching each graceful movement, she
proceeded to fill her dish, and thus accomplished what seemed to her a
great triumph.

By this time the day was drawing to a close; a tinge of gold melted into
the atmosphere from the coming sunset, and gleams of crimson shot in and
out through the great elms in the Park. The cows, which had been driven
up to the cottage ready for milking, began to low, as if they were
getting weary of standing there, hoof deep, in the velvet grass. While
others, still wandering in the Park, answered back with something like
general dissatisfaction.

“Now for the milking,” cried the queen, taking a pail from one of the
brackets. “Each one find a stool for herself, and this good dame shall
teach us how to be less awkward.”

Obeying this suggestion, each lady took her pail in one hand, with a
stool in the other, and went forth into the soft grass, where a dozen
cows were waiting to be milked. Here the gentlemen came into active
service, and made laughable attempts at milking in company with the
ladies. Dame Tillery had placed her ample proportions on the broadest
stool she could find, and was sending double streams of liquid whiteness
into the pail lodged against her knees, while the queen and Elizabeth
looked on, when a shout started the animal she was milking. It made a
leap, struck the pail with its foot, and overturned that and Dame
Tillery into the grass, where she lay clutching at her stool, and crying
lustily for help.

No help came. The cause of alarm was too serious. Some newly-purchased
cow, selected for the wildness of her beauty, suddenly darted from its
covert in the Park, and careering like a mad creature across the lawn,
bore furiously down upon the group of fancy workers. With her eyes on
fire, and her head tossing savagely, she plunged through the group of
milkers, scattering them as she went—turned suddenly, leveled her sharp
horns, and made a leap at the queen, whose shrieks of terror increased
the animal’s fury.




                             CHAPTER XXII.
                           THE QUEEN’S PERIL.


That instant a young girl, pale as death, sprang before the queen, her
white lips apart, her eyes burning with heroism and terror. With both
arms she flung up the folds of her scarlet shawl, thus maddening the
creature afresh in a wild effort to drive her back.

For one moment the vicious animal shook her fierce head, veered, turned
again, and gathered up her limbs for a great leap forward. But as she
made the plunge, and the leveled horns almost touched the girl, a man
sprung upon the beast, seized her by both horns, and with the strength
of a giant, bore her head down, even forcing her back until her fore
hoofs were lifted from the ground.

That instant Marie Antoinette fell upon her knees, and flung her arms
around the brave girl, who had leaped in between her and death, clinging
to her in wild gratitude.

“Who is it? who is it that flings her life down to save mine?”

Marguerite turned her white face to the queen, and answered with a
single sentence,

“Thank God, and the mother of God!”

Still the queen clung to her. Even then, she did not feel entirely safe;
though the animal which had assailed her was lying upon its side,
panting for breath, tethered head and hoof, and bellowing fiercely under
the pain of her sudden bondage, while her conqueror stood with one foot
on her panting side, tightening the thongs that held her down.

“Sister! sister! Are you safe? are you safe?”

It was Elizabeth, the king’s sister, one of the sweetest women that ever
drew breath. In all the terror of her flight, she had come back to learn
of the queen’s welfare.

“Yes; thanks to this brave girl,” said Marie Antoinette. “Had the beast
kept on she would have been trampled down first.”

“How can we thank her, sister?” said Elizabeth, turning her grateful
face on the girl. “What can we do in return for this brave act?”

“It was not brave. I did not think—there was no time. Pray, pray do not
thank me so much! It will make a coward of me; I shall not dare ask
anything—not even _his_ life. Forgive me, forgive me! I did not know
what I was doing.”

“If you are grateful, lady, give her the thing she asks for. Give
liberty and life to her father, who has been years on years in the
torments of the Bastille. That is what she came here to implore at your
hands.”

“Who is it that speaks for her so warmly?” said the queen, still pale
and trembling, but assuming something of her royal dignity.

“A man of the people, your highness, and her friend.”

“But—but surely, you are not the person who conquered that cruel beast?
The face is like——”

She turned and cast a shuddering glance where the brute, that had so
terrified her, lay panting out its rage.

The man laughed a little scornfully.

“Oh! it was nothing; I only held her back till some one flung me a rope
from the window; besides, I had help to bind the brute, a young fellow
who ought to belong to the people, for they love bravery in lord or
workman.”

“I saw him, your highness. It was Richelieu,” whispered Elizabeth.

The conversation was drifting away from the subject which lay so close
to Marguerite’s heart. She looked around, almost in despair. Elizabeth,
with that keen delicacy which seems like intuition, saw this, and
touched the queen’s arm.

“She is anxious—she suffers.”

“But Dame Tillery has no husband in the Bastille, that her daughter
should crave freedom for. I do not understand.”

“Madame, it is a mistake; I am not the daughter of this good woman. In
her kindness she brought me here, without knowing how urgent my business
was.”

“Then tell me whose daughter you are, that I may better understand.”

“My father, your highness, was Dr. Gosner.”

The queen uttered a sudden cry, and retreated a step, as if the name had
inflicted a pang.

“Ah! I have heard the name. It was one which made even my imperial
mother tremble.”

“But that could not have been his fault; he was good, and gentle as any
child, I have heard my mother say,” pleaded Marguerite.

“No, child, it was not his fault—and God forbid that it should be our
misfortune. Dr. Gosner! It is years since I have heard that name. We
thought him dead.”

“In a living tomb; but not dead, your highness.”

“But how came he in the Bastille?”

“That I do not know.”

“How long has he been there?”

“Since the year of the old king’s death.”

“Heavens! and we not know; but it shall be remedied.”

Marguerite clasped her hands, and her eyes filled with tears.

“You will pardon him? You will free him?”

Marie Antoinette smiled; she was now all the queen. With a wave of her
hand she had kept the little crowd of her friends back, while this
dialogue was going on. It was now sunset; a red glow was kindling up the
landscape, and the last slanting beams fell across the group, revealing
each figure clearly, like light thrown across a picture.

“I promise,” said the queen, extending her hand: “your father shall be
set free. It thrills me with horror to think of him in a prison.”

Marguerite sunk upon her knees, and kissed the hand extended so
graciously. Her beautiful face was aglow with gratitude; her lips
quivered with emotions they would never have the power to express.

“Oh! if I could thank your highness.”

“But you cannot, and must not. It is I who should give thanks for a life
saved.”

Again Marie Antoinette held out her hand. This time Marguerite observed
that her lips touched a serpent coiled around a green stone, which
circled one finger. She started; a strange sensation crept over her, and
she seemed fascinated, as if a real serpent were charming all her
faculties.

“There, you have our promise and our gratitude,” said the queen, gently
withdrawing her hand. “To-morrow I will have this case inquired
into—that is, I will suggest it to the king.”

“God bless you!”

This benediction broke from the lips of Monsieur Jacques, who had been
listening eagerly.

The queen turned a look upon the man which made his heart swell.

“Oh! if the people of France could see their queen now,” he exclaimed.

“They would believe no good of her,” answered Marie; and all at once her
eyes filled with tears.

The features of the strong man were troubled. He looked upon that proud,
beautiful woman, with evident compassion.

“Ah, madame!” he said, with a genial outburst of admiration. “If the
people of France could only look through these eyes, you would be
adored.”

The queen gave him an eloquent glance, and turned away.

“To-morrow,” she said, “conduct this girl to the palace. The king will
be glad to thank her and you. Now, ladies and gentlemen, let us back to
the _Petite Trianon_. Dame Tillery, you will take care of these good
people, and accept something better than thanks for the trouble.”

Dame Tillery, who had been lying prostrate in the grass, among the
wrecks of her milking stool and broken pail, for a longer time than I
dare relate, had at last rolled, and plunged, and scrambled to her feet,
deluged with milk, and a little lame from a blow she had received, when
the cow trampled over her. Feeling in a state of dilapidation, she
hesitated to draw near until the queen called her by name. Then she came
rolling forward, took Marguerite by the hand, and making a profound
reverence, led her charge away, followed by Monsieur Jacques.




                             CHAPTER XXIII.
                     COUNT MIRABEAU AND HIS FATHER.


An old man sat in the saloon of a hotel in Paris, awaiting an interview
which had been delayed beyond the appointed time, a fact that seemed to
give him no little annoyance. He rang the bell upon his table with
violence the third time; and when the servant came, in obedience to his
summons, asked if any one had called—a question the same man had already
answered three times that morning.

The man answered with profound respect, that no one monsieur expected to
see had as yet presented himself.

While the man was speaking, a loud, ringing step was heard on the oaken
stair-case, and Count Mirabeau strode up to the door, which was
obsequiously held open for his reception.

The old noble arose, and a faint color came into his face, while the
young man approached and held out his hand.

“Welcome to Paris, my lord count. I had not dared to hope for this
pleasure.”

The delicate and slender fingers of the old man clung around the large,
white hand of his son with a touch of irrepressible affection. The light
blue eyes, a moment before keen and anxious, grew misty; and the thin
lips moved with a visible tremor before they framed the words of
welcome, that seemed to harden and grow cold as they were uttered. In
his pride, the first impulse of nature was suppressed on the moment; and
dropping the hand he had not touched in many a year, the old nobleman
sat down quietly, and motioned his renegade son to occupy a chair close
by.

Mirabeau threw himself heavily on the chair, and dropped his hat
carelessly on the floor beside it; at which the old man motioned the
servant, who still lingered, and bade him place Count Mirabeau’s hat in
a proper place, and then betake himself from the room.

Mirabeau laughed, stretched himself lazily in his chair, and waited for
the man to withdraw. When he had gone, the count turned abruptly toward
the old man, and said, in a voice full of the deep feeling which made
his eloquence so impressive,

“Father, I am grateful to you for coming here. It is long since we have
met, and longer, I fear, since you have cared to meet me. But now, I
think, you will confess that I have not altogether degraded the name I
bear. If men of my own class shrink sometimes from Mirabeau—the people
love him.”

“Yes, I have learned this, even in the seclusion of my retirement. But I
have also learned that Mirabeau uses this influence against his own
class—against his king.”

“Not when his king is true to the people!” answered the count, promptly.
“It is only when he refuses to be the monarch of all France that I
oppose him.”

“They tell me also that my son has degraded himself into becoming the
editor of a factious journal.”

“Degraded himself! Who dares to call a full use of one’s intellect
degradation? I cannot make myself heard and known to the people of
France by speeches only—the thought in these speeches must take various
forms, and be brought home to every man’s understanding. Yes, I am the
editor of a journal which speaks of hope, progress, liberty for the
people. If such engines of power are a terror to the king and his
haughty Austrian wife, so much the worse for him, and the better for
us.”

“But, this is treason!” broke in the old man, angrily.

“Father, there is no such word as treason now. We have rebaptized the
sentiment, and call it liberty!”

“And is this the doctrine taught by a son of mine! He forgets the noble
blood in his veins, and gives himself up to the rebellious spirit which
would equalize refinement with ignorance, nobility with degradation. The
very ermine of royalty he is ready to drag in the dust.”

“And why not, if it fails to protect the people?”

“But the people are rising up in antagonism against the class to which
you belong; this feeling may reach the king.”

“May!” exclaimed the count, with a mocking laugh. “Why, it is already
upon him.”

“And you exult over it?”

“I exult over it,” was the prompt, and almost coarse answer. “Why should
you be surprised at this? Was it not my own father who first repudiated
me—drove me from men of my own class, and sent me downward to rule among
the canaille. Was it not my own mother who denounced her son as unworthy
of companionship with highborn women?”

“No, no!” interposed the old noble. “Your mother was blind to your
faults, gentle with your sins. She, at least, deserves no censure at
your hands. Many a tear has she shed over the alienation which was not
her fault.”

Mirabeau drew a hand across his eyes, then dashed it down, as if
impatient with himself for the feeling that disturbed him.

“My mother is an angel,” he said; “God bless her!”

“Night and morning she blesses you,” answered the old man, in a broken
voice.

“But I do not deserve it.”

“No,” said the old man; “the best men on earth rarely deserve the
blessings good mothers are ready to lavish on their sons.”

“Spare me—spare me! If I have given her pain, it has fallen back on
myself with many a sharp heartache. But for her I should, undoubtedly,
have been a worse man.”

A faint smile quivered across the thin lips of the old noble; some
sarcastic reply was evidently trembling there. Mirabeau saw it, and his
face flushed.

“You smile; you think it impossible that I could descend to a deeper
level.”

“Was it not a terrible stride downward when you left our old ancestral
home for the Jacobin clubs and gambling saloons of Paris?”

“Granted; but what sent me there?”

“Your own predisposition to low company.”

“Rather the parsimony of my father, who withheld the means by which a
man of birth could maintain his position.”

The old noble drew his slight figure up with a dash of angry pride.

“Young man,” he said, “let me tell you now, if you have never learned it
before, that my estate is yet cumbered with legal obligations, every
dollar of which went to pay your debts. Years of economy have been
forced upon us, that the honor of my name might be redeemed.”

Mirabeau, flushed and indignant, made a rude gesture of dissent, at
which the old man turned pale; for the manners which his son had slowly
adopted from low associations seemed threatening and coarse to a man of
his superior refinement.

“Mirabeau! Is this gesture intended as a denial of my assertion, or is
that hand clenched as a threat of violence?”

“I scarcely knew,” answered the count, “that my hand was clenched; we
learn these things in our rough life here, and adopt the manners of the
people with their sentiments. But this is certain, I did not intend to
contradict a word you were saying. If I was rude, it was from impatience
with myself that I had given you so much trouble, and with fate that
cast my lot among gentlemen, without giving me the means of maintaining
a position with the best.”

There was something natural and frank in this man, bad as he was, which
won even upon the fastidious old noble, who, perhaps, understood his
faults better than any man living. He smiled faintly, and held out his
hand.

“Ah! my son, have you yet to learn that extravagance is not necessary to
the maintenance of a great name?”

“No, father; but one cannot live upon a great name. Sometimes I have
found it an incumbrance; the people distrust the aristocracy which
traces too far back; and, spite of everything, my lot is cast with the
people.”

“Against the court? Do I live to hear a son of mine say that?”

“I have not said that. But the court, and that proud Austrian woman at
its head, have repudiated me from the first. It is royal scorn and
courtly injustice that has driven me into the arms of the people, who
adore me; the more because I am turned out from my own class and belong
to them. In this way my nobility is worth something.”

“I have heard of your apostacy, and read your speeches, with shame and
bitter sorrow,” said the old man, with touching earnestness. “If any
severity of mine has driven you into this ruinous course of thought and
action, I have come to redeem the mistake. Throw off these associations,
so unworthy of your birth and breeding; return to the higher
associations which you have abandoned; stand firmly by our good king and
most gracious queen in the troubles and perils that gather around them,
and no man in all France can rise higher or win such gratitude from king
and people. Do this, my son, and all my poor possessions shall be
divided with you from the hour of your renewed allegiance.”




                             CHAPTER XXIV.
                  THE OLD NOBLEMAN MAKES CONCESSIONS.


Mirabeau looked at his father in amazement a moment, then he turned upon
his heel and walked the room with quick, heavy strides, gnawing his
under lip and working his fingers with nervous energy, as if the
thoughts in his bosom were crowding upon him almost to suffocation. At
last he stopped, and stood before his father again; his eyes, burning
with restless fire, and his face pale, as if the struggle of a moment
had drank up all its color.

“And if I did, there would be no frank reception of my homage. That
haughty queen would throw it back with such scorn as only a beautiful
woman can use in crushing the man who might have worshipped her. Were I
to follow your advice, and offer to wield the mighty power, which it
were folly to say I do not possess, in favor of the court; were I to
defend it with my eloquence; sustain it with my pen; cast myself in the
breach between royalty and its foes; what reward should I have?—the
covert scorn of this royal beauty, the distrust of the king; a defection
of the people, for a time, at least, perhaps an entire loss of
popularity, which alone enables me to be of service anywhere.”

“But you would be doing right, my son.”

There was tenderness and persuasion in the old man’s voice that touched
the mercurial nature of his son. He no longer paced the floor, like a
caged panther, but went close to his father, and answered him with an
earnestness so deep, and evidently so sincere, that the old man, for the
first time in his life, was thrilled with a sentiment of respect for his
wayward son.

“But I am not sure that it is right. These good people of Paris are
beginning to feel that humanity has been trampled down too long; that a
king is invested with the purple for some higher purpose than
self-indulgence. If I attempt to lead the people to the feet of Louis
the Sixteenth, he must meet them half-way.”

“Louis the Sixteenth is a just king.”

“But he is surrounded by unjust courtiers, influenced by a wife trained
in the Austrian school of statesmanship. No real truth will ever be
permitted to reach him while a cordon of churchmen and noble leeches is
drawn closer and closer around him every day. Nothing but a moral
earthquake can root out the traditions of royal prerogatives and noble
privileges which have chained the people down till the shackles are
eaten through with age and rust, and it only wants a vigorous blow to
dash them asunder. When the king is made to understand this, his good
heart may bring him in real sympathy with the people.”

“You do not understand Louis,” said the father, after a moment of
breathless silence, for Mirabeau had spoken with an outburst of feeling
that astonished the old man. “No king ever lived who felt more kindly
towards his subjects.”

“But Louis must do something more than feel; he must act in his own
person fearlessly, independently. The people love him, no matter how
deeply they hate his nobles; he can never convince them that his heart
is in the right place while the Bastille is crowded full of groaning
humanity, that their malice may be appeased; while the prisons all over
France are choked up by victims that are yet suffering injustice done
them by the old king and his parasites. I tell you, sir, these evils
must be redressed, or the people will rise up in their wrath and learn
what strength lies in multitudes.”

“But who would dare to speak such language to the King of France!” said
the old man, half-frightened by his son’s impetuosity. “In the very
thought there is something like treason.”

“I dare,” answered Mirabeau, proudly. “Why not; there are hard truths
that must be accepted, sooner or later, either from the lips of such
friends to France as I am, or at the point of the bayonet.”

“The point of the bayonet, and against the king.”

“Father, do not remain wilfully blind, for, as surely as you and I live,
it will come to that unless the king arouses himself to the peril which
threatens him, and asserts his own authority.”

“But who will dare to tell him this?”

“Some one must, or the people of France will enlighten him with a roar
of thunder. If you love him, and have sufficient courage—”

The old man drew himself up with a sudden impulse of pride.

“The men of our house have been supposed to possess sufficient bravery
for any occasion that might present itself. Convince me that these harsh
truths should be spoken to the king, and I shall not shrink from the
task.”

“Then say this: King Louis, the days of despotism are at an end; the
people have learned to think, and neither superstition nor all the
traditions of power made manifest, in your prisons, your armies, or in
the force of ancient usages can perpetuate the bondage in which they
have been held. In order to make them loyal, make them free. Ask the
nobility and the clergy to take their feet from the necks of the
working-men; they want work, bread for their children, freedom from
oppressive taxation; in short, they ask the king to acknowledge their
manhood, for this they will surround his throne with a power stronger
than the nobility which has undermined all its foundations ever gave.”

Mirabeau was going on with increasing vehemence, when the door was
opened by a servant, and Monsieur Jacques stood in the passage. The
count held out his hands in cordial good-fellowship, that surprised the
fastidious parent; who looked upon the good Jacques as little better
than a servant; and had other prejudices against him; for in all the
contests and troubles that had arisen between the son and father,
Jacques had resolutely adhered to his foster-brother.

“Well, what news, good brother? for I take it you have been gathering
something from the people, since the business that I sent you about has
been so entirely neglected,” said Mirabeau, good-humoredly.

“Forgive me,” answered Jacques, bending low before the elder noble; “if
I was unable to obey your wishes at the moment, it was from a reason
that you will approve, and which I trust no one here will condemn. Count
Mirabeau, I have seen the king.”

“You, Jacques? Has his majesty been out hunting again, and wheeled his
horse, rather than trample you under his hoofs?”

“You will not believe me, but I have been at Versailles, and have talked
with the king in his own work-shop.”

“In his own work-shop?” exclaimed the old noble, holding up his two
white hands in astonishment.

“Jacques, you are getting crazy?” rejoined Mirabeau.

“Almost,” replied Jacques, excitedly; “for I have not only seen the
king, and uttered stern truths to him, face to face, but I have, so they
tell me, though I can hardly comprehend it, saved the queen’s life.”

“Anything else, Jacques?” cried the count, with a broad laugh. “This is
a noble romance; perhaps you have taken the Bastille with a
toasting-fork.”

“But, I am speaking the truth.”

The father and son looked at each other in questioning amazement; the
man seemed so earnest, and so wounded by the half-scoffing unbelief with
which his assertion had been received, that they began to put some trust
in it.




                              CHAPTER XXV.
           THE LINK WHICH CONNECTED MIRABEAU WITH THE COURT.


“Well, well, go on with your story,” said the count, while suppressed
laughter still trembled on his lips. “I, for one, am ready to believe
anything, even that Marie Antoinette, having trampled _me_ and my
services under her feet, is ready to atone for it by a tender passion
for my foster-brother.”

“Do not scoff at me,” said Jacques; “I cannot bear that from you.”

Mirabeau was touched by the deep pathos which lay rather in Jacques’
voice than his words.

“I did not scoff, man; go on, go on. My father is ready to listen, and I
am anxious to believe. Indeed, an explanation is necessary, for I fully
expected that you would have preceded me here, and was somewhat annoyed
on hearing that you had not yet presented yourself.”

“I come now in all haste directly from Versailles.”

“And what took you there?” asked the count.

“A young girl whom you saw in her mother’s room. You know what her
business was, and how hopeless it seemed that she should obtain an
interview either with the king or queen.”

“Yes, I can imagine that.”

“But she would go; helpless, young, beautiful as she was, the girl was
determined, and I was not coward enough to let her undertake the journey
alone. A second time, I took advantage of my acquaintance with my
friend, the locksmith, and in his stead forced myself into the king’s
presence.”

“And the girl; did she, too, obtain an interview?”

“No; the guard refused her admission through the gates. I went in to
urge her cause; and, God forgive me! came away without having mentioned
it.”

“How?”

“It was because I love France better than anything on this earth; how
else could I have forgotten the poor girl, who sat weeping in the public
house, while I was pleading for the country, and forgetting her?”

“Sit down, Jacques; sit down, my good friend,” said the old noble,
composing himself in an easy chair. “This is a strange story, and I
should like to hear all its details. Be seated, my son, here is
evidently something worth listening to.”

Mirabeau seated himself but Monsieur Jacques stood leaning on the back
of his chair, while he related all that had happened to him at
Versailles the day before.

“I went there,” he said, “with a forlorn hope of helping this young
girl; but when I found myself in the presence of the king, and saw how
kind and good he was, enthusiasm for once swept everything else out of
my mind, and my heart turned traitor to this unhappy girl.”

“And what did you say to the king?”

Jacques repeated his conversation with Louis in the work-shop, word for
word.

“And he endured this without anger—he listened?”

“Without anger, truly, but not without agitation. Indeed, I could see
that he felt every word I said, and would ponder over it.”

“Yes,” muttered the count, “until the next man comes to argue it all out
of his head.”

“Do not think so, count; the king is a good man, and loves France.”

“If he had the strength to govern France it would be better; good hearts
are charming in social life, but to govern kingdoms power of intellect
and power of will must be added, and these Louis the Sixteenth never
had. Those around him will always govern—most of all the Queen.”

“Ah! my brother,” said Jacques, resting one hand on the count’s
shoulder, “if you and the queen only could understand each other all
would go well with France.”

“But we never shall understand each other; her prejudices are bitter;
her ideas of royal prerogatives tenacious. Among them she considers that
of crushing all who swerve from the royal path as an inherited power. I
have joined my interests with those of the people, and Marie Antoinette
will never forgive it.”

“Not while your enemies keep so resolutely in the way,” answered
Jacques.

The old man listened to the conversation, but just then took no part. He
seemed astonished at the familiarity which existed between his son and
the foster-brother, whom he had always considered as little better than
a servant. Was this the fraternity and equality which was becoming so
broadly popular in France? The very idea shocked all his lordly
prejudices. Yet Jacques was, in fact, seconding his own arguments, and
rendering them far more forcible than anything he could have uttered.
The old man felt this, and the idea galled his pride.

“There it is, my enemies always are in the way, and my worst enemy is
here.”

Mirabeau turned his face full upon Jacques, and smoothed his chin with
one hand. It was indeed, a rough face, but full of power, like that of a
sleeping lion—a face that, from its very ugliness, carried fascination
with it. The expression was so intense, the outlines so full of rugged
grandeur, that no man could look upon it without feeling its force, and
no woman turn from it with indifference. Still this proud and most
reckless man was, sometimes, angry with the rude features that met him
in the glass; and there had been seasons in his life when he would
gladly have exchanged them for the beauty of weaker men, which is so
taking at first sight, especially with women.

This distrust of himself had in early life, no doubt, led Mirabeau into
many adventures unworthy of a great mind. His restless vanity was
forever asserting itself, and calling for proofs which he was always
ready to seek for at the sacrifice of his own self-respect. It was the
glory of this man to step in between some elegant courtier and his love,
and, spite of his ugly face, carry off the prize, which he really did
not care for after it was won. It filled him with bitterness when women
of his own rank would sometimes resist his efforts at conquest, and
ridicule them, as beautiful women sometimes will. It was here that the
bitter drop lay.

Mirabeau had at one time dared to lift his eyes to the queen herself—a
conquest there would have rounded his ambition grandly. To love Mirabeau
was to be a slave, as many an aching heart had learned; to make the
Queen of France his slave would have crowned this man’s vanity and his
ambition at once. Through her he would have ruled the king, the court,
and in his own might the people. It was a daring venture, founded upon
the slanderous reports which had so long been in circulation regarding
the queen, and it ended in an ignominious failure.

Repulsed by his presence, and shocked by the character he bore, Marie
Antoinette had absolutely refused to accord him an interview, and even
opposed his appearance at court, thus unwisely adding to her personal
enemies a man whose sarcasm was ruinous, and whose eloquence would yet
make her tremble. To wound the vanity of a man like that was to fill his
soul with bitterness.

This had all happened at a time when Marie Antoinette was all powerful,
when she could reward her friends unquestioned, and scorn the power of
her enemies with all the force of her queenly pride. Is it wonderful,
then, that Mirabeau spoke loftily, and waited for some advances from
Versailles before he acceded to the wishes of his father, or the rough
eloquence of his foster-brother?

“The Queen of France does not look or speak like a woman who would turn
from the face of a friend, because it did not happen to charm her eye at
the first sight,” said Jacques, after awhile; “to me she appeared frank,
simple, and honest. In her fright, at least, she was like any other
woman. Not so brave as Marguerite, truly, for that brave girl sprang
between her and danger; but she is no coward, I can swear to that, and
not ungrateful; for, in spite of my protest, she would insist upon
thanking me for an act any man living could have performed as well.”

“And for all this she has accorded you an interview,” said the count,
while his face darkened and took new shades of ugliness.

“I shall scarcely have time to get back to Versailles before the hour
appointed,” answered Jacques. “The moment I had left Marguerite in a
place of safety, I travelled by night to Paris, and, failing to find you
at home, came here.”

“And you return at once,” inquired Mirabeau.

“Within the hour. I shall not be in time else.”

“And what is the object?”

“The queen commanded it; and for the sake of the poor man who lies in
the Bastille, I will accept gratitude for an act that deserves nothing
of the kind. But that brave girl has herself earned freedom for her
father. I can claim another reward without harming her—and it was for
this I came. At first I refused any acknowledgment; but thinking of you
and of France, I remembered that great good might be wrought out of this
simple act of mine, both to the man I love, and the country I adore.”

“What good can you expect to win out of this heroism; for, pass it over
slightingly as you may, it was still a brave act? In what will it affect
the count?” asked the elder noble.

“I hope that it will bring him face to face with their majesties.”

Mirabeau’s eyes sparkled. He started up and began to pace the floor, as
he had done on his first entrance to the room. This was his habit when
any new idea struck him. After a time, he slackened the heavy pace at
which he had been walking, and moved slowly, and more slowly across the
room as the thoughts which had sprung, hot and fast, into his mind
cooled down to a deliberate purpose. This woman had scorned him,
repulsed his aid, laughed at his supreme ugliness; but this was in the
days of her triumph, in the first bloom of her beauty, when all men
worshiped her. Now clouds were gathering around the throne upon which
she sat; her footsteps were beset by enemies; her actions were
misrepresented; her words distorted. The man she had so scornfully
repudiated might hope for a different reception now. But he would not
seek a rebuff; the queen must be won to send for him and offer the
interview once so scornfully refused. If Jacques managed his one
opportunity adroitly, she might be won to this measure. He turned to
Jacques with a frank smile that transfigured his face into something
almost beautiful.

“Yes, my brother, you shall do this, and both my father and myself will
thank you; for his sake I will consent to make concessions. Mirabeau is
a stronger and more powerful person than he was when no higher aims were
known at court than a masked ball, or a state drawing-room. He might not
have figured to the content of a handsome queen in such pastimes; but
where sterner matters are to be handled, she will be mad to turn her
back upon the help he can offer. Go, my brother, and for reward, know
that half France will bless you.”

“And I have leave to use your name as I may think best to the king or
queen?” said Jacques, turning his radiant face first to the count, then
to the elder noble.

“Always remembering that it is the influence of an old and noble family
that you offer,” said the old man, with a courtly bend of the head.

“And of one who controls multitudes when he but opens his lips,” added
Mirabeau, with haughty triumph.

“I will remember,” answered Jacques; “the honor of the house and of the
man shall suffer nothing in my handling.”

The singular man turned as he spoke, made a low, sweeping bow, and left
the room.

The father and son looked at each other in silence, until the sound of
Jacques’ footsteps was lost in the noise of the street; then the count
said, with more respect than he usually exhibited to any one,

“I trust that you are satisfied, my father.”

“More than satisfied, Mirabeau; the coming of this man is fortunate. It
would have been a severe stain upon our pride had I been compelled to
make advances in your behalf, though I would have done it for the sake
of my country—I would have done it; for it wounds me to know that a son
of mine should be an alien from the court of his sovereign—not to say a
leader among his enemies. The adventure of our retainer will save us
from much humiliation. Is his discretion to be trusted?”

“Entirely. He has but one ambition in this world, and that rests in the
exaltation of our family. Even your fastidious pride is safe with
Jacques.”

“I am glad to hear it. If this reconciliation can be brought about, I
shall go back to my estate satisfied that a noble work has been done.”

The old gentleman took out his gold snuff-box, tapped the
diamond-studded lid daintily, and gathering a pinch between his thumb
and finger, inhaled it with gentle satisfaction.

“Now,” he continued, softly, inhaling his snuff, while he held the box
in his left hand ready for a second application, “I can pay my homage to
their majesties without a blush. Once more my son is in harmony with his
family—all shall be forgotten, all forgiven.”

Mirabeau’s face kindled hotly. He had so long commanded those around him
that this tone of forbearance and forgiveness irritated his pride, and
the effeminate indulgence into which the old man so readily sunk, came
near to arousing his contempt. To a man whose life was spent among the
clubs of Paris, and whose ambition had been appeased by the homage of
that roaming class of citizens, which was even now ready to throw off
all law at his command, the refinements to which he was born seemed
trivial and weak. In his riotous life he had long since cast aside all
the gentler habits of his class, and was disposed to regard the old man,
who had spent half his life in redeeming the waste of a son’s
extravagance, as a supine old aristocrat, who might be induced to make
even greater sacrifices, in order to win him back from the people.




                             CHAPTER XXVI.
                THE LANDLADY OF THE SWAN PLUMES HERSELF.


Marguerite spent the morning after her adventure at the Swiss cottage,
in the front chamber, to which Dame Tillery had been ready to conduct
her on the previous day. The good dame was in high spirits after her
experience with royalty. It was with great difficulty she could keep
back the exhilaration of her pride sufficiently to preserve that
discreet silence which the queen had so delicately recommended. Whenever
a customer came in, she found dangerous words of triumph struggling to
escape; and nothing but an application of the plump hand to her mouth
kept them from proclaiming the glory of her visit to the whole town.

Feeling her weakness, and resolute against temptation, the good woman
was constantly appeasing her desire to talk, by passing in and out of
the room in which Marguerite sat, where she could indulge in comments on
her high good fortune with safety.

“To think of it,” she would say over and over again. “Only yesterday you
and I were strangers, and now we have been at court together, saved the
very life of the queen, to say nothing of teaching her how to make
butter, and have a right to enter the palace and be thanked graciously
with the highest of the land. While you sprang forward and flung
yourself before the queen, I kept the animal I was milking from plunging
at her, by throwing myself on the earth under her very feet. She had not
the power to leap over me; besides, the pail and stool got under her
feet and tamed her down; but for that there is no knowing what sorrow
might have fallen on the nation. In a great event like this it is an
honor to have acted the principal part; I feel it so—I feel it so. That
idea it was what made me so patient while I lay before the cow, a
bulwark between her and the queen; but you did your part, I must confess
that, and shall say as much to her majesty.”

Five or six times the proud dame visited Marguerite in her chamber to
say this; and for half an hour together she would sit by the window with
a hand on each knee, looking radiant as a full moon, while she described
the scene in the park, in which her own chivalrous action became more
and more prominent.

While the good woman was solacing her vanity after this fashion, a young
man passed the house more than once, and looked up to the window where
Marguerite and her friend were sitting. Dame Tillery saw him, bustled up
from the chair, and threw the window open.

“Monsieur! Monsieur! are you looking for me? Is the queen getting
impatient. Don’t be bashful, but come up and tell me all about it.”

The young man’s face brightened, he lifted his hat, smiled pleasantly,
and came into the house. Marguerite heard his light step on the stairs,
and the next minute saw him standing within the door, his hat in one
hand, his coat glittering with embroidery, and a profusion of gossamer
lace floating over his bosom.

Dame Tillery lifted herself from the chair, which creaked under her
weight, and stood up to receive her courtly guest. Marguerite followed
her example, and shrinking behind her portly figure, stood, blushing and
confused, while the young man’s eyes were fixed upon her. She remembered
him well. He was the young man who had made such awkward attempts to cut
grass with a sickle the day before. He had sprung to her relief when she
and the queen were clinging together in mutual terror, while Monsieur
Jacques was conquering the vicious beast which had frightened them so.

“I trust,” said the young man, treading his way daintily into the room,
as if that humble chamber had been the boudoir of a princess, “I trust
that the affair of yesterday has left no bad effect on Dame Tillery or
mademoiselle?”

“Oh, monsieur! do not think of us,” said the dame; “but relieve our
minds about her majesty, the queen.”

“I have not seen her highness this morning; but Madame Campan reports
her in no degree injured by her adventure. The king, she says, is most
disturbed of the two, and declares the Swiss cottages shall be razed to
the ground, and all the pretty cows butchered.”

“Oh! that would be cruel!” protested the dame; “just as her majesty was
getting such a knack at churning, too.”

“True, it would be a great privation; for her highness loves these
rustic amusements. All her ladies have been trying to make the king
understand that there was no malice in the beast; but he will not be
convinced.”

“How should he,” cried the dame; “it was a savage monster, and would
have led the whole drove into mischief, if I had not flung myself before
her, heaven only knows at what peril. I hope the king understands all
about that.”

A mischievous smile came into the blue eyes of Richelieu, but his lips
gave no evidence of amusement. On the contrary, he answered, with great
appearance of interest, that the king knew how much he was indebted to
the landlady of the Swan, and it was that he might be assured of her
safety, and that of her fair protégée, that he had himself ventured to
call upon them.

The young duke took a chair as he said this, begged Marguerite to sit
down with his eyes, and Dame Tillery to oblige him in the same way, with
his voice. When they had obeyed him, he dropped into a conversation,
which soon arose far above Dame Tillery’s capacity, though she listened
attentively, and occasionally raised her plump hands in admiration.

At first Marguerite answered him shyly, and with blushes; but, after a
little, her interest deepened, and she spoke with less restraint. He had
found the way to her heart, and was talking of the queen—of her
goodness, her beauty, and the gratitude she was sure to feel for the
fair girl who had thrown herself, with such heroic self-sacrifice,
between her and danger.

“Let me say to you,” he continued, in a low, earnest voice, “that there
is nothing you can ask of the king which he will not grant, in return
for this one act of devotion to the woman he loves better than anything
on earth. I was told, last night, that some friend or relative of yours
is in the Bastille, and that your object in coming here was to ask mercy
for him. There is nothing, perhaps, that the king shrinks from so much
as this subject of the Bastille. The clamors of the people have only
made him regard it more resolutely as one of the royal appendages, which
they threaten to destroy, and he is bound to defend. Say as little as
possible of the horrors of that terrible prison, but confine yourself
entirely to pleading the cause of this one man, be he friend or
relative.”

Tears came into Marguerite’s eyes; she lifted them to his face with an
expression of gentle thankfulness that went to the young man’s heart.

“You are kind,” she said; “I will not forget what you have suggested,
and I shall always be thankful that you have remembered my mournful
errand with interest.”

“Who could look on that lovely face and not be interested. Surely,
surely, you are not related to that stalwart man, who——”

“Who saved the queen,” said Marguerite, quickly. “No, he is no relative
of mine; only the very best man that ever lived.”

“I hope you will not always think so,” was the gentle reply. “But now I
come to say, that the queen will expect you two hours hence.”

Marguerite gave him a quick, frightened look.

“But Monsieur Jacques may not be here,” she said, anxiously.

“Then I will escort you,” said the duke. Then, with a smile and a wave
of the hand, he left the room.




                             CHAPTER XXVII.
                          DAME TILLERY PIQUED.


Marguerite was still at the Swan, waiting with great anxiety for the
appearance of Jacques, for the landlady of the hotel had so often
repeated and improved upon the exploits of the day before, that she was
getting weary of the subject and almost ashamed of the whole affair. She
had noticed that the chamber which she occupied was by no means
exclusive to herself. Dame Tillery not only kept coming and going, but
now and then other persons would drop in with her, and remain to listen
while she related the wonderful exploits which had lifted her into
sudden notoriety. But in this she satisfied her conscience by mystifying
the position, and speaking of the queen as if she were some court lady
walking by the place where Dame Tillery was milking quite by chance.

The truth was, Dame Tillery was almost as shrewd as she was loquacious.
She dearly loved talking, especially about herself; but she also knew
the danger there was in handling the name of the queen with too great
familiarity; still she managed to win considerable glory out of her
confreres by weaving her narrative up into a half romance, in which the
queen was shadowed out as a high court lady, whom she had rescued from
the most imminent peril by rolling in the grass, throwing her milking
stool in the right direction, and performing other great feats of valor.

Sometimes the dame would appeal to Marguerite to confirm her story,
which grew and grew till the young girl became weary of hearing it, and
shrunk from giving the confirmation so often demanded. When this
happened, the dame would laugh, and repeat herself again with liberal
additions. Thus the time was spent between young Richelieu’s visit and
the return of Jacques.

Among the persons who came and went so unceremoniously to her room,
Marguerite noticed a little creature scarcely larger than a child, but
with the lines and expression of a man past thirty-five in his dark and
shrunken face. Threads of gray were in the coarse, black hair, which
fell a good deal over his forehead, and that sharp, fox-like look of the
eyes no child ever possessed. It could only have been learned by
experience in the world. This little personage never spoke, and seemed
scarcely to listen; but occasionally Marguerite caught a glance of those
keen eyes, and wondered who he was, and why he regarded her so furtively
all the while Dame Tillery was talking.

At last Jacques came, breathless with haste and bespattered with mud,
for he had traveled at a furious rate, and almost despaired of reaching
Versailles in time for the promised interview. The little personage we
have spoken of was lingering near the door when Jacques passed through,
and placed himself in a position to listen so quietly that no one
observed him.

“I am ready!” exclaimed Monsieur Jacques, wiping the beaded perspiration
from his face.

“The horse I rode fell lame; for the roads are heavy and I pressed him
hard.”

Marguerite sprang up all in a glow of expectation when she saw Jacques.
She had waited so long, and watched so earnestly, that it seemed like a
release from prison when his kind face beamed upon her.

“You have been to Paris?” she said. “You have seen my mother? She knows
that I am safe?”

“Yes, I have seen your mother. She knows that you are safe. I left her
upon her knees, thanking the blessed Virgin for the great hope I brought
her.”

“But you should not have been so certain—my heart fails me when I think
of going to the palace. While she is beaming with hope, I may bring
nothing but disappointment.”

Monsieur Jacques saw that the nerves of this poor girl were shaken with
too much thought; suspense had left her almost hopeless. He sat down by
her side and kindly encouraged her. During the conversation he spoke of
her father by name. “When this great and good man was set free, some
clue would be found to the person who had sent him there, and who had
torn out so many years of his life. That person, whoever he or she was,
should meet with severe punishment—the people would attend to that. For
his part, to avenge the wrongs of this one man should be the object of
his life.”

Jacques, supposing himself alone with Marguerite, spoke in his natural
voice, and with some energy. All the time that Indian dwarf lingered
near the door and listened. As the conversation went on his face
contracted, and his eyes gleamed—the words he gathered interested him
deeply, there could be no doubt of that.

After awhile Dame Tillery presented herself, ready for an excursion to
the palace. The amplitude of her dress, and the gorgeous incongruity of
colors with which she arrayed her person, fairly brightened the old
rooms and filled them with the bustle of her presence, as she passed
through into the chamber where Marguerite was sitting.

“Ah, monsieur!” she said, in high good-humor, “I am glad you are ready,
for we should have been greatly put about for some one to give us
countenance before the king, not that it is needed, now that we are
friends with her majesty, but one likes to go with a party. Besides, you
were of some use. I shall take great pleasure in saying that much to
their majesties, you can depend on me for that.”

Monsieur Jacques looked at the woman from head to foot, half in anger,
half in amusement.

“Are you prepared for a visit to the palace, dame?” he inquired.

“What—me? Who else should go? Did not her majesty say to her deliverers,
‘Come in the morning that the king may thank you?’”

“But she spoke particularly to the demoiselle, as I understood it.”

Dame Tillery turned scarlet in an instant; all her garments began to
flutter ominously. She turned upon Marguerite.

“Does the demoiselle, then, reject my company? Does she fancy herself
able to penetrate to the presence of the queen without me, that is what
I wish to know?”

This terrified the girl. She turned pale and shrunk away from that angry
face.

“After taking her with me to that little cottage, and placing her in the
way of favor; after saying what I did about her resemblance to my own
precious niece, who will this day protest in heaven against such
ingratitude to her poor aunt; after adopting her, as it were, into the
very bosom of The Swan, she empowers this rude man to say that she alone
was invited to the presence—that I am nobody. I, who flung myself
headlong in the path of that infuriated cow. Oh! the ingrate—the
ingrate!”

Here the dame flung herself upon a chair, took out a voluminous
pocket-handkerchief and applied it to her face, while heaving sobs shook
her frame.

Marguerite was distressed by all this. She arose and laid her fair hand
caressingly on the dame’s shoulder.

“You mistake,” she said. “I do wish your company. You were kind—very
kind to me. I shall never forget it. My good friend here meant nothing
that could wound you. Perhaps he is a little too thoughtful of me over
others; but you will forgive that—you who are so kind.”

Dame Tillery wiped her face, hushed the sobs that were heaving her broad
bosom, and opening her arms, gathered Marguerite into a warm embrace.

“I knew—I knew she could not look so much like my niece and be an
ingrate,” she said. “It was all a mistake. Monsieur meant no harm. It is
only my sensitive nature, that is my chief fault. I strive to conquer
it, but cannot. Kiss me, child, and we will think no more about it. You
understand, all is forgiven, forgotten? It must not wound her majesty by
anything that seems like discord—we who saved her life only yesterday.”

Marguerite obeyed this request, and kissed the plump lips of the dame,
casting a pleading look at Monsieur Jacques, who was by no means
satisfied with the conclusion of this little scene, but would rather
have died than dispute that lovely girl in anything.

“Now it is all over, except that crying always makes my poor eyes as red
as a ferret’s; but a little fresh wind will change all that,” murmured
the dame, drawing forth a huge green fan, with which she deliberately
commenced cooling her face, the motive power being one fat hand laid in
her lap, which moved the enormous fabric with a slow, continuous motion,
that kept all her ribbons in a flutter, and soon reduced the redness of
her face into a glow of self-complacency.




                            CHAPTER XXVIII.
                           UNWELCOME GUESTS.


One thing was certain, Dame Tillery never remained many minutes together
without finding something to say. Just now her mind was occupied by two
important subjects: This visit to the palace, which she had assumed the
right to make, and the arrival of a guest at The Swan, who had brought
her no little tribulation.

“Would you believe it, monsieur,” she said, addressing Jacques in the
most confidential manner, “just as I am getting on such excellent terms
with her majesty, comes an annoyance—something that threatens to bring
disaster, if not disgrace, upon our house. Last night a carriage drove
up directly from Paris, and a lady got out so quietly that I didn’t know
she was there until the carriage drove off, and she came in with a
little mite of an attendant, that woke me up to what I was risking the
minute I set eyes on him. The woman asked me for a private room. I was
just going to say that we hadn’t an empty chamber in The Swan, when she
walked up stairs, followed by her attendant, and, pushing a door open,
took possession, as if it had been her house instead of mine.

“‘Get me some supper, and see that my people are made comfortable,’ she
said, throwing her cloak off and sitting down. ‘We have had a long ride,
and are hungry.’

“She spoke like a princess, and waved her hand as if that was enough to
make any one obey her. I did not move. I knew this person. Years had
changed her; the ups and downs of life had done their work on her
face—but I knew her. Now, tell me, can you guess who the woman was?”

Monsieur Jacques moved his head impatiently.

“How should I know, dame?”

“True enough. There may be found so many women travelling from Paris to
Versailles, any day of the week, that guessing at this one might be
hard. Well, will you believe me when I say——”

Here the dame arose, drew close to Monsieur Jacques and whispered so
loud that Marguerite heard her.

“It was the Countess Du——”

“What, that infamous woman!” exclaimed Monsieur Jacques, now thoroughly
interested, “at Versailles, too? Why, it is understood that she is in
England.”

“I tell you she is in this house, with Zamara, that pestilent dwarf that
every one hated so. I saw him prowling along the passage just as you
came in.”

“But what is the woman doing here?”

“That is the question, monsieur. She looks anxious and unsettled, older,
too, and worn; but there may be found many persons at Versailles who
would know her at the first sight, and some of them would not mind doing
her an injury. The truth is, I tremble to think that this person is
under my roof. If the queen should hear of it, that would be the end of
my visit to the Swiss cottages.”

“But she must have some strong motive for venturing so near the court,
dame; this woman, who comes from the dregs of the people, is worse than
an aristocrat. It was her cruelty that choked up the Bastille with
innocent victims. With her malice and her beauty she ruled the old king,
and oppressed his people, till they hate her even yet when her power is
gone.”

“Well, as I was saying, she wanted supper, and I ordered the best of
everything; went into the kitchen myself and made a delicate patty with
my own hands, for she has pleasant ways; and I saw that a purse, which
she held in her hand, was heavy with gold. When she had eaten and drank
a glass of wine, the anxious look went out from her face, and she
insisted that I should sit down and sip a glass of wine with her. Well,
this was a change—I can remember when it was almost as much as one’s
life was worth to approach her without leave. I sat down. Why not? The
queen had permitted it in her presence, and I had no need to be afraid
of this woman who would not dare to present herself before her majesty.
Thinking all this, I took the glass she offered and drank the wine,
waiting quietly to learn what she wanted of me.

“Well, she began by asking questions about the townspeople; then spoke
of the court, and wanted to know the smallest things that was going on.
I told her everything. Why not? There is no secret about it. The king is
getting more and more unpopular every day—the people will not trust him;
and they hate the queen—yes, hate is the word; while I, yes, since
yesterday, I adore him. They do not understand; but the time will come
when Dame Tillery will enlighten them——”

“But you were speaking of this woman,” said Jacques, impatiently. “She
was questioning you about their majesties.”

“I was about to say that, monsieur, when you interrupted me; but it was
all questions—not a morsel of news did she give me in return; and when
she had got all out of me that I had to tell, the politeness with which
she permitted me to withdraw was enough to aggravate a saint. Now this
is what I want to know—what brings the woman here? Her coming is an
insult to the people. They hated her when she lived here, and they hate
her worse now, for she was of the nobility only by the fraud of a
marriage, and was always hard and cruel to the class she first
disgraced, then left.”

“For a higher range of infamy!” muttered Monsieur Jacques.

“Exactly,” answered Dame Tillery. “That is why her coming here seems so
wonderful; but her impudence is something beyond belief. It is not so
very long since she came here one moonlight evening, when the great
waters were all aflow, and seated herself, side by side, with her
majesty. The whole town rang with this audacious boldness; but the queen
knew nothing about it, I am told, and never dreamed that the lady who
sat so quietly beside her, not once looking out from behind her veil,
was, in fact, the Countess Du Berry, a creature from whom she had always
turned her eyes in scorn while she was Dauphiness of France.”

Here Dame Tillery ceased walking up and down the room, and closed the
huge fan, which had waved faster and faster as she grew more angry and
vehement, using it now as a baton.

“I hear a knock at the door,” she said. “It is the voice of that young
man, the duke. Do not be frightened, mademoiselle—remember, I am with
you.”

Marguerite did not hear these encouraging words; her eyes were fixed on
the door, her breath came hurriedly. She knew that the most important
event of her life was approaching, and the terror of it made her pale
and faint.

Monsieur Jacques arose, took his cap from the table, and stood ready for
anything that might arise.

As these three persons waited in breathless expectation, the Duke de
Richelieu entered the room.

“Come,” he said, addressing Marguerite, “their majesties will see you.”




                             CHAPTER XXIX.
                        THE QUEEN AND HER LADIES


A more beautiful woman than Marie Antoinette was not to be found in all
Paris. Above the medium height, splendidly proportioned, and graceful in
all her movements, she possessed a presence that was more than queenly.
In her first youth she had been gentle, caressing, and so “pure
womanly.” Then her simplicity had been a cause of complaint with the
royal family. But time, and the cares of her regal station, had deepened
these qualities into the elegant repose of assured power; added to that,
anxious lines had begun to reveal themselves faintly on her beautiful
forehead, and around a mouth that had at one time known nothing but
smiles.

On the day we present her again to the reader she was at her toilet,
surrounded by the ladies of her household, beautiful, stately, and given
up to the strict etiquette of the court, as if they had never seen a
Swiss cottage, or dreamed that butter could be made with human hands.

“This young person has seen us at our play, where she, in reality, had
no right to know the persons she met. She must be made to feel that the
dairy-maid, whose life she saved, is a creature to be forgotten, or we
shall have those vile prints in Paris touching up the scene with malice
for their Paris readers.”

“Ah! it was, perhaps, imprudent to admit her,” said the Duchess de
Polignac. “Just now your highness cannot be too careful. This
demoiselle, modest as she seems, may be nothing but a spy of the
people.”

“She is not that,” answered the queen, with generous warmth. “No one can
look upon her face and believe ill of her. She is a brave, noble young
creature, to whom we owe a debt of gratitude that shall be right
generously paid.”

“As all your majesty’s debts are,” murmured the grateful little Madame
Campan, who loved the queen with all her heart.

The queen turned a bright look on the fair, plump face turned upon her,
and replied with a beaming smile,

“Your flattery always comes from the heart, my Campan, and we find it
pleasant.”

All this time the queen was standing among her ladies half-dressed;
garment after garment had been handed to her by the lady in waiting of
highest rank; and now she stood with her neck and shoulders exposed, her
white arms folded over her bosom, ready for the robe which was to
complete her toilet, and a little impatient of the etiquette which
prolonged her hour of dressing. Directly the robe of crimson velvet was
looped back from her white brocade underskirt, and with exquisite yellow
lace falling from her elbows and around her bosom, she walked out of her
dressing-room a queen in every look and movement.

In the audience-chamber, attached to her own apartments, she found the
king, who had been aroused to keener admiration and deeper tenderness by
her late danger. He approached her with smiles of welcome, and pressed
his lips upon her hand as if she had been a goddess, and he her slave;
happiness gave grace and quick intelligence to his face; for when Louis
the Sixteenth thought from his heart, the result was always correct and
full of tenderness.

“We have been waiting your presence, almost with impatience,” he said.
“My heart will never rest till it has done something to reward the man
who saved me and France from a great calamity. This person is now in the
outer room.”

“But there is another, sire; a young girl, fair as a lily, and as
modest. She must not be forgotten.”

“We forget nothing which relates to our wife and queen. No one ever
gives her help or pleasure unthought of. The demoiselle is also in
attendance—shall they come in at once?”

The ladies of the household had ranged themselves behind her majesty
with more than usual regard to appearances. Some of the king’s gentlemen
were present; in fact, it might have been some foreign ambassador that
their majesties were about to receive, rather than a poor girl and a
working man from the city.

The queen gave a smiling glance at her mistress of ceremonies. Directly
the door opened, and Marguerite was led into the room by the young Duke
de Richelieu, who seemed as proud of his charge as if she had been one
of the highest born ladies in the land. Behind him Monsieur Jacques
walked alone, his head just visible over the broad shoulders of Dame
Tillery, who spread her enormous fan as she crossed the threshold, and
performed a courtesy so low and profound that she came near falling
headlong at the queen’s feet, in a bungling effort to recover herself.

The mistress of ceremonies, terribly shocked, made a dignified motion
that Dame Tillery should draw back; but the good woman placed herself at
Marguerite’s side, shook out her skirts, and settled into position,
smiling broadly upon the mistress of ceremonies as if a mutual
understanding on all subjects of court etiquette had existed between
themselves from the cradle up.

The queen, who sometimes enjoyed the discomfiture of her own hard
task-mistress, where etiquette was concerned, cast a quick, mischievous
glance on her ladies, and allowed a faint smile to quiver on her lips.
But for that smile, Marguerite would have been completely bewildered.
She saw the same faces that had met her the day before, but so changed
in expression, so rigidly proud, that their very identity seemed
doubtful. The long, trailing robes, the elaborate head-dresses, the
floating masses of yellow lace were so unlike the short, rustic dresses
in which she had seen the same persons only a few hours before, that she
could not realize her position.

The queen saw her embarrassment, and hastened to relieve it. With a
gentle smile, she extended her hand.

Marguerite fell upon one knee, and touched the hand reverently with her
lips, then, with a gesture of exquisite humility, looked up to the
beautiful face bent over her, and clasping her hands, broke forth in a
voice so sweet and pathetic, that it thrilled every heart within
hearing.

“Oh! sweet lady! you promised to pardon my father. He has been in the
Bastille since I was a little child. Only as a beautiful shadow can I
remember him—but you will set him free. I shall look in the eyes which
they tell me were always soft with infinite tenderness. I shall come
here some day when you show yourself to the people in your carriage, or
on the balcony, and together we will look upon the benefactress who has
brought him back to life. Then his grateful heart will give you
blessings, while I, oh, lady! I will work for you, pray for you, die for
you! Indeed, indeed I will!”

“My good little girl, you were very near doing that yesterday,” said the
queen, taking those two quivering hands in her own, and pressing them,
while her fine eyes filled with tears; “but it is the king who grants
pardons. We shall soon learn if he can withhold anything from the person
who was so ready to come in between his wife and a great peril.”

As she spoke, Marie Antoinette gently raised the girl from her kneeling
position, and led her to the king. The poor girl would have knelt at his
feet also, for no homage seemed sufficient for the great boon she was
asking; but Louis received her hand from that of the queen with such
kindness, that the impulse of humiliation was lost.

“Tell us,” he said, “all that relates to the father you would have us
pardon. This is the first time that we ever heard his name, or knew of
his incarceration.”

Marguerite gave her father’s name, and told so much of his history as
was known to herself. She spoke low and rapidly; her eyes were suffused,
her voice was full of tears. The name uttered more than once, reached
the queen. She was seized with a nervous dread; she seated herself; the
whiteness of her face alarmed the persons who surrounded her, but before
any one of her ladies could approach, Dame Tillery swept forward, opened
her fan, and planting herself directly in front of the queen, commenced
fanning her with both hands so vigorously that all the lace and ribbons
on the royal dress fluttered as if a high wind were passing over them.

The queen looked up. The consternation of her ladies at the ponderous
attentions of the dame, struck her with a sense of the ridiculous so
exquisite, that all the superstition which had shaken her nerves fled at
once; she leaned back in her chair and laughed outright.




                              CHAPTER XXX.
                          TRUE WOMANLY POWER.


The king, who was listening intently to Marguerite, looked toward his
queen as the light, musical laugh rippled by him, and frowning a little,
drew the young girl further down the room, for his interest in her story
was becoming painful.

“And this Dr. Gosner was not a native of France, you say?”

“No, sire, he was born subject to the great Empress Maria Therese, and
at one time had frequent access to her highness. His name, I think, must
have reached the queen, for she seemed to remember it.”

“And you have no knowledge of the charges made against him?”

“Sire, we did not know that he was in prison for many years after he
left us.”

The king looked grave and distressed. The very name of the Bastille had
become a subject of solicitude to him. This prison had been, century
after century, so completely a portion of his kingly prerogatives, that
he could not hear of a cruelty practiced there without disturbance.
“What,” he argued to himself, “will the people say when I let this
wronged man out among them. His very presence will create a tempest of
vituperation.”

Marguerite saw the cloud gathering slowly on his face, and her heart
fell.

“Oh, sire! have compassion on him. Think what it is to live, year after
year, without a glimpse of the blessed sunshine, without knowing of
anything once beloved, without occupation, buried, but not dead.”

The poor girl spoke with some vehemence. She was losing all hope; this
hesitation in the king terrified her.

“There is little need to remind us of all this,” answered the king; “but
it is sometimes very difficult to redress wrongs for which others are
alone responsible. This is an act of which we knew nothing; but when it
once becomes public, great blame may be cast upon the throne for an
injustice for which no living man is answerable.”

“Nay, sire, the people are not so unreasonable.”

Louis shook his head, and smiled gloomily.

“They will rather rejoice, sire, that present mercy is strong enough to
undo the cruelty of the past.”

Louis hesitated. He was never a man of prompt speech, and the
difficulties which this question of mercy brought to his mind were
strong and numerous.

Marie Antoinette, having recovered from the impulse of merriment that
had seized upon her, turned her attention once more toward the king. She
saw that the young girl had become fearfully anxious, and that a look of
sullen thought was creeping over her husband’s face. She arose from her
chair, and walking across the room, drew near the window to which Louis
had retreated.

“Sire,” she said, laying her hand on the king’s arm, “is it that you
hesitate? Can the price be too heavy which you pay this brave girl for
Marie Antoinette’s life—for she saved it? But for her intrepid act, that
stout man, yonder, would never have sprung upon that beast as he did.”

“Can we refuse her? No—a thousand times, no!” answered the king. “But
how to accomplish it. When we release this poor gentleman, it will be to
assail ourselves. The people clamor over every new revelation of wrong
done by our grandfather as if we were directly in fault.”

“But his release is right in itself, sire.”

“It is impossible to suppose otherwise; but sometimes the most difficult
thing in the world is to redress a long-standing injustice.”

Marie pressed her white hand still more caressingly on that arm, and the
sweet persuasiveness of her speech was enforced by the expression of her
face.

“Ah, Louis! I have promised. Remember, it was your wife who was saved.”

The heavy features of the king brightened; he took the white hand from
his arm and kissed it tenderly.

“It was only of your future safety I was thinking,” he said. “The people
are so ready to clamor against us, and this will be a new excuse. But it
shall be done. This day I will speak to the minister.”

“To the minister, sire! Ah, no! Write it yourself. I must see this young
creature made happy before she leaves the palace. Step to my cabinet,
Louis, and write the order with your own hand.”

She drew him gently with her while speaking, and they entered a little
cabinet, or boudoir, in which the queen usually spent her hours of
retirement. Drawing her husband up to the ebony desk, she gently forced
him into the chair that stood before it, arranged some paper, and put
the pen in his hand.

“Now,” she said, leaning over his chair, and bending her cheek almost to
a level with his, “now write the order, if you would not have me
kneeling at your feet.”

Louis dipped the pen in the crystal inkstand, which stood upon golden
supporters just before him, and began to write. A sunbeam struck the
single, large diamond that flamed on the handle, and quivered over the
signature as it was formed. The queen smiled; it seemed to her like a
good omen.

“Ah!” she whispered, “how pleasant it is to make others happy; but,
alas! our lives must be spent in atoning for the wrongs that were
perpetrated before we were born. This poor man now was imprisoned by
your grandfather.”

“Worse than that,” answered Louis gravely. “This wicked act belongs to
Madame Du Berry. My grandfather probably never knew of it.”

“That horrible woman!” exclaimed the queen. “How much misery has she
brought upon France!”

The king, who had signed the pardon, laid down his pen.

“Let us be merciful, my friend, even to this woman; some good there may
be in her. Since the people we love so well have begun to say harsh
things about us, we should be careful not to join them in reviling
others. Let us bury the sins of that old man in his tomb. Our Lady
forbid that we should be called upon to excuse, though it is our
misfortune to answer for them.”

“But this woman—oh! I remember her so well! She was my enemy! She hated
me from the moment I entered France an inexperienced girl. My cheek
warms even now when I remember how she was forced upon me before I could
understand her position, or protect myself from her society.”

The queen spoke with angry vehemence; she had of late been subject to
these sudden outbursts of feeling. The hard throes of life accumulated
on her so heavily, that her sweet temper was sometimes submerged in a
sea of troubles. The king took her in his arms and kissed her tenderly.

“Be calm, my angel, be calm! It grieves me that reminiscences of this
woman can disturb you so. Remember, my own, it was by your advice that
we left her in undisturbed possession of the estates she had gathered
together.”

“The estates? Why—yes! Let her keep them. They could not again become
appendages to the crown without disgracing it. Besides, at the last, she
was humble enough; and you know, my good friend, the daughter of Maria
Theresa never does battle with a fallen foe?”

“Well, let this woman pass,” said Louis. “Pleasanter things await us in
the next room. At least, we can give happiness to this young girl.”

“And I had forgotten her; let us go! Every moment is a year to her; let
us go!”

There had been nothing but whispers in the reception-room since the
royal personages left it. Marguerite stood where the king had left her,
near the window, growing paler and more hopeless every moment. The
darkened countenance of the monarch had struck her to the heart. After
that one night of hope the reaction was terrible.

Louis and the queen entered the room together, but so quietly that the
poor girl was ignorant of their presence until they stood close by her.
Then she looked up with sudden affright. A mist came before her eyes,
and through it she saw a paper in the king’s hand.

“Take it,” said the queen. “It is an order for your father’s release.
Take it, and remember that now and always the Queen of France is your
friend——”

She broke off suddenly, and uttered a sudden cry. Marguerite, in
reaching out her hand for the paper, had dropped like a dead creature at
her feet.




                             CHAPTER XXXI.
                      THE JOY OF A GREAT SURPRISE.


Monsieur Jacques, who had stood near the door, watchful, but inactive,
came forward, and, kneeling on one knee, lifted the fainting girl in his
arms. She was deathly white, and the stillness of the grave seemed to
have fallen upon her.

“Joy has killed her,” said the queen, pressing her hand upon the pale
forehead. “We were so abrupt. The poor child had lost all hope, and we
brought it back too suddenly.”

“Is that the pardon?” exclaimed Monsieur Jacques, forgetting the rank of
those he questioned.

“It is the order for her father’s release from the Bastille,” answered
the queen. “Where no crime has been committed it is impossible to grant
a pardon.”

“Ah! she will live to hear that!” cried Monsieur Jacques, gazing
steadily down into the pale face. “Look up, look up, and bless with a
glance of your beautiful eyes the—the—”

Monsieur Jacques broke off in confusion; words were upon his lips which
he would not have dared to utter for the whole world. He looked around,
and made a motion to unclasp his arms from around that inanimate girl;
but that instant her eyelids began to quiver, and her lips parted with a
struggling breath.

“Look up; do not be afraid to smile. It is a pardon—it is all you want,”
whispered the strange man.

A smile dawned softly over those pale lips, tinting them like a rose.

“Are you sure—are you quite sure?” she murmured, fixing her eyes on the
rude face bent above her.

“Indeed, he is quite sure,” answered the queen, with tears in her eyes;
“The order but now dropped from your hand. It is the king’s gift.”

Now the color came back to Marguerite’s face quick and warm. She
withdrew herself from Monsieur Jacques’ arms, and stood up trembling
with joy, as a rose quivers when the first gush of morning sunshine
bursts upon it.

“Oh, this is joy!” she said, lifting her eyes to the queen, “this is
joy! I never knew what it was before in all my life. Let me go—let me
go, that I may tell her! She is waiting; she sits with her hands
clasped, holding her breath till I come. Oh, lady, forgive me! joy has
made me wild. I forget that it is the queen to whom I speak, or that
this is the king, at whose feet I should throw myself. I only know this,
the happiest mortal that ever drew breath is prostrate before you,
overwhelmed with gratitude for which she has no words.”

Marguerite was on her knees, her face uplifted, beaming with smiles and
glistening with tears. The queen bent down and kissed her. Good-hearted
little Madame Campan sobbed aloud, at which the mistress of ceremonies
drew herself up and frowned darkly. In all her experience it had not
been considered etiquette for a Queen of France to shed tears in her
audience-chamber. No wonder the pillars of state were tottering under
such innovations.

After the first ecstacy of her gratitude had subsided, Marguerite arose
and retreated toward the door, drawing close to Monsieur Jacques. Dame
Tillery followed, and seeing her flushed face, opened the green expanse
of her fan, and shed its cool air upon her, whispering,

“Hush! hush, my child! do not weep any more—remember, I am here to
protect you. See, her majesty smiles; that is because she knows that
Dame Tillery is caring for you. Why, there goes monsieur up to the
king—what confidence, what audacity. I, who have so much greater right,
hesitated and lost the opportunity, being modest.”

True enough, Monsieur Jacques had respectfully approached the king, but
not before he was informed by the young duke that her majesty desired
it. Up to this time Louis had not looked directly at the man. His
attention had been completely taken up by that beautiful girl and he
gave little heed to anything else. But as Jacques came slowly toward him
he remembered the features, and a slight frown contracted his brows.

“What, our strange locksmith!” he muttered. “Can this man have been of
service to the queen?”

“Sire,” said Marie Antoinette, “this is the person who conquered that
wild animal. The heroic girl would have died for me, but his strength
saved us both.”

Louis hesitated, cleared his throat, and, after a moment, addressed the
man as if he had never seen him before.

“You have rendered the queen a great service,” he said, “and for that we
are glad to thank you, not in words alone. A king has always the power
to be grateful, and here he has the wish. Name the thing you most want
without hesitation.”

“Sire, I wish to speak with the King and Queen of France alone.”

Again Louis frowned; he had not forgotten that interview in his
work-shop, and the bold words spoken there.

“It is an unusual request,” he said, glancing uneasily at the queen;
“and one which her majesty must decide upon, after she has been fairly
warned of the free speech which may await her compliance.”

“Ah, Louis! I can deny nothing to this man—he has saved my life.”

“I know,” answered the king; “but that does not give him a right to
lecture his monarch.”

“He will never attempt that,” answered Marie Antoinette, smiling. “Let
us go to your private cabinet, sire; this good man has some favor to
ask, and is modest. Why not see him alone?”




                             CHAPTER XXXII.
                MONSIEUR JACQUES PLEADS BEFORE ROYALTY.


Louis made a motion with his hand. A door was opened, and he led the
queen from her presence-chamber into a small cabinet, to which he was
followed by Monsieur Jacques. Here the king seated himself after first
conducting the queen to a chair. He was very grave, and seemed to be
dreading that some unpleasant subject might be forced upon them; but
Jacques stood in the presence, modest, grave, and unpresuming as a
child. The king could hardly recognize in that still face the man who
had almost terrified him the day before.

“Now speak freely,” said Marie Antoinette, who had no idea that this
person was not an entire stranger to her husband, “speak out your
wishes. It is our desire to gratify them.”

“Lady, I but ask the privilege of free speech.”

The king moved uneasily in his seat. He had grave fears that even
gratitude would not make Marie Antoinette tolerant of such bold language
as he had listened to the day before; but the lady answered,

“But a moment since we desired you to speak freely.”

“Then I will ask his majesty to remember all that I said to him
yesterday.”

“Yesterday!” exclaimed the queen; “and you saw his highness yesterday?”

“Yes, madame. I intruded myself upon him, rudely, perhaps, for I am but
one of the people; and I said things that would have cost me life or
liberty had they been uttered to his grandfather; but they were honestly
said, and our good king forgave their roughness because of the truth
that was in them.”

Monsieur Jacques bent his large, earnest eyes upon the king as he spoke,
and, spite of himself, the monarch bent his head in grave assent.

“Madame, this is what I said to the king: ‘The people of France and the
nobility of France are at variance; light has broken in upon the
ignorance of the masses. They begin to look up to heaven and ask if they
are not men? If they are to be downtrodden forever and ever by the
dominant nobility? They look at your nobles, and measuring them by the
standard of real manhood, find that their strength lies in traditions,
that their privileges are hedged in by benefits wrested from the labor
and strength of the people they despise. Strip them of their jewels and
their laces, and sometimes they are found less than men.’”

“Be still!” cried the queen, rising from her chair, scarlet with
indignation. “It is men like you who teach these heresies to the people.
I wonder if, in truth, you have dared to be so bold, that the king did
not place you under arrest. But for the service which I cannot forget;
but for that, sirrah, you should only leave this cabinet for the
Bastille.”

“Still his majesty will not send me there for better reasons than that I
chanced to seize an infuriated beast by the horns, when he might not
even have been dangerous—pray mention the ridiculous feat no more. I
claim no gratitude for that, and only remember it because it has been
the means of bringing me here. If so poor an act can induce you to
listen with charity, the reward will be too much.”

Marie Antoinette seated herself again.

“We have promised that you should speak freely, and will be patient,”
she said, fairly biting her lip to keep back the haughty words that
crowded to them.

“Madame, I have offended you, when it was my desire to be of service.
Forgive me!”

“What is this service?” inquired the king.

“There lives a man in Paris, sire, who would be a firm friend to the
King and Queen of France, were his friendship desired. This man was born
a noble, but his quick intellect, burning genius, and indomitable will,
carried him out from them into the great masses of the people. Still he
possesses the instincts of his race, its power of command, its love of
true royalty. Above all, he adores France as the people adore him.”

“Go on,” said Marie Antoinette, in a cold, almost harsh tone, “let us
have all the noble qualities of this wonderful man.”

The voice cut through Monsieur Jacques’ enthusiasm like a knife. He
stopped, caught his breath, and looked into the proud beauty of her face
with a glance of reproach, which was absolutely pathetic from its
intensity.

“Madame,” he said, at last, “I think you guess who I am speaking of.”

“Perhaps,” answered the queen, with a cold smile. “But go on, the king
listens.”

Monsieur Jacques knew well enough that it was the queen to whom he was
to address himself. When the two royal personages were together, her
energy was sure to prevail. While he looked proud and unyielding, he
seemed anxious, if not distressed.

“This man, lady, can be the friend of royalty, and the friend of the
people; take him into your councils—not publicly, that might not be
prudent—but let him come to you, time by time, fresh from the people;
let him bring the two elements of human power, statesmanship and labor,
into harmony. He can do it—he will do it. It is the work for a great
mind like his.”

“And what is the name of this wonderful personage?” inquired the queen,
speaking in cool and bitter irony.

“The Count de Mirabeau.”

“Enough!” cried the queen, rising from her seat. “When we need the help
of this admirable gentleman, he shall be notified. But the King of
France is not so near his downfall as to require support like that.”

Louis arose, greatly agitated.

“My angel,” he said, kissing her hand, “is not this a rash message? Can
we afford to repulse a man like this?”

“When we cannot, the monarchy of France is no longer worth preserving,”
answered Marie vehemently. “The royalty of a great nation must protect
itself—the trust is too stupendous for demagogues. No, sire, it is not
rash.”

“But we may, perhaps, wish to reconsider,” expostulated the kind
monarch. “Let us send him at least a courteous message.”

“Frame it as you will, sire, only let the rejection be positive. From my
first sight of this man Mirabeau, I detested him.”

“Ah, lady! you could not understand how this great man adored you,” said
Jacques.

Marie Antoinette drew her figure proudly up to its full height, glanced
at the king, and turned upon Monsieur Jacques.

“You have our answer concerning this person. Now say what can be done
for yourself.”

“Nothing! I ask nothing—accept nothing. But the time will come when you
will seek this man—he who is now spurned a second time from your feet.”

Before the queen could answer this audacious speech, Monsieur Jacques
had left the cabinet.




                            CHAPTER XXXIII.
                ZAMARA BRINGS BAD NEWS FOR HIS MISTRESS.


The woman who had given Dame Tillery so much anxiety, sat in the chamber
she had so resolutely possessed herself of, waiting for the dinner
ordered an hour before. She was wonderfully restive, for oppressive and
exciting memories became peculiarly vivid and harassing in that place.
With the royal chateau clearly in sight, it was impossible to forget the
time when its inmates were almost her slaves; when the daughters of
France, in all their royal pride, had been compelled to receive her with
honors, while all the assembled nobility of the court witnessed her
triumph. Even the haughty and beautiful queen, who reigned there now,
had, as Dauphiness, submitted to her companionship at the royal table,
in the first flush of her bridal honors.

No wonder the woman walked to and fro in the mingled triumph and
arrogance of these thoughts. If they brought some relief to her vanity,
they were also full of bitterness, for never again could such homage and
power return to her. Even now, with the scenes of her former grandeur in
sight, she felt herself to be an intruder in that commonplace house,
where the lowest mechanic in the town had a right to come. She knew well
enough that one glimpse of her through the window might bring a mob
about the house who would be glad to hunt her down. People who formerly
considered it an honor to be soiled by the mud from her carriage-wheels,
would, she felt sure, be among the first to hoot her out of town, and
follow her with all sorts of coarse revilings. Madame Du Berry knew this
well, and felt it keenly, for, depraved and despotic as she had been,
she still possessed some good impulses, and had not yet outlived that
first great want of womanhood, a desire to be loved.

For once in her life, Madame Du Berry was possessed of a noble object.
She had never liked Marie Antoinette in the days of her supreme
popularity; but as years wore on, and troubles gathered about the
throne, this woman’s sympathies grew strong in her behalf. She had
tasted too deeply of the sweets of power not to feel for those who were
struggling that it might not be wrested from them. Perhaps some memory
of the old monarch, who had been more than generous to her, had aroused
a loyal feeling for his grandson. In a wayward creature like her, it is
impossible to give any act an undivided motive; but that day she had
come to Versailles in a spirit of noble self-sacrifice, and was anxious
to give back to the heirs of Louis no inconsiderable portion of the
wealth his prodigal hand had bestowed upon her. In the mockery of her
own royal state, she had become deeply enamored with the prerogative of
kings.

Filled with these generous ideas, anxious to fulfill them, she walked
the floor to and fro, waiting impatiently for the return of her
messenger, who had found his way to the palace. The dinner was brought
in, but she could not force herself to eat. The very atmosphere of the
place excited so many emotions that she could neither conquer nor fling
them off. For the time this woman was both loyal and munificent.

A noise in the street brought her as near the window as she dared to
venture. She looked out and saw two females approaching the hotel. One
was Dame Tillery, who swept her portly figure forward with a pompous
swell of importance calculated to dazzle the citizens who had seen her
sail through the palace gates, where the guards saluted her with all
honor; for up to that point the young Duke de Richelieu had accompanied
the party. The other was Marguerite, modest, quiet, and so preoccupied
with her own great happiness, that she scarcely heeded the crowd that
gathered after them, or cared that Dame Tillery was making herself so
absurdly conspicuous with her gorgeous complications of dress, and by
the solemn spread of her great fan, which she used as a screen or baton,
as she wished to lay down law, or keep the sun from her face.

Du Berry broke into an immoderate fit of laughter as she saw the
landlady coming through the streets of Versailles in all the inflated
glory of a late reception at court. A keen sense of the ridiculous, and
a coarse relish of fun, had been one of the principal charms this woman
had carried with her through life. It was, in fact, this contrast with
the elaborately elegant women of the court, which had formed the chief
element of her power in former years. Neither time nor misfortune had
dulled this broad sense of enjoyment; she had thrown herself into a
chair, and was laughing until the tears rolled down the rouge and tiny
black patches on her face, when Zamara, who had undertaken to convey a
message to the palace, came in and paused at the door, astonished by
this outburst of hilarity.

Madame composed herself a little, and wiped the tears from her laughing
face.

“Did you see her, my Zamara? Did you watch her progress down the street,
wielding that green fan, kissing her hand to the crowd? Oh! it was
delicious! Come here, marmosette, and tell me your news. I have not had
such a laugh in years; in fact, that heavy climate of England would take
the laugh out of Hebe herself. It is an enjoyment, and I feel all the
better for it. Now tell me all about it.”

“I have failed to reach the queen. These people were in the way, so I
brought the letter back.”

“Oh! that is bad! It will compel us to wait another day in this dismal
place—and that I can hardly endure!” exclaimed the countess, losing all
desire to laugh. “How unfortunate!”

“But that is not the worst,” answered the dwarf.

“Well, what can be worse than two long days in this hole; let me have
it, if that is not enough. I have learned how to bear evil tidings, as
you know, rogue—so out with your news.”




                             CHAPTER XXXIV.
               MADAME’S CRIME COMES HOME TO TORTURE HER.


Zamara drew close to his mistress.

“Madame will, perhaps, remember a man whom she once summoned from his
home in Germany—a learned physician——”

The countess put a hand up to her forehead, and seemed to search her
memory. All at once she looked up.

“You mean that Dr. Gosner, with the ring?”

“Yes; that is the man.”

“Well, what of him? He was sent to the Bastille; I remember it all. It
seems to me that I intended to let him out; but the king died, and then
all my power for good or harm ended. Of course, there was no one to
intercede for him. The Bastille makes quick work with its inmates. Of
course, he died.”

“No, my mistress, he still lives; and the young girl you saw yonder with
Dame Tillery has his release in her bosom. To-morrow he will be the lion
of Paris. All France will know that a word of yours took this man from
his family, and shut him up in a dungeon deep below the sewers of the
street, where his best companions have been toads and creeping things
from which human nature revolts. In this dungeon a good man, a learned
man, has grown old in misery. He will come forth with hair like the
drifted snow, weak and tottering, perhaps imbecile; and the people, who
hate you, will cry out, ‘This is the work of that monster, Du Berry. She
kills souls! She had no mercy! She——’”

The countess uttered an impatient cry, and clapped both hands to her
ears.

“Stop, Zamara—stop, if you have not resolved to kill me. All that was so
long ago, I had almost forgotten it. Can men live forever under ground?”

“Not often; but some lives defy nature, and all that outrages it.
Another man has spent half a lifetime in those hideous vaults, and came
out at last to exasperate the people. This will complete their frenzy.
Gosner will appear in the clubs, in the marketplaces, everywhere. His
white hair will madden the people like a hostile banner; his own lips
will tell the story of his wrongs. This will draw tears from the women,
clamors of rage from the men. They will demand the author of this
cruelty, and he will pronounce your name.”

Madame shrunk back in her chair, white and craven with fear; the dwarf
had drawn his picture with terrible force. Shuddering, she acknowledged
its truth, and cried out,

“What can I do, Zamara? How can all these horrors be averted? They know
that I am in France. I cannot leave; I cannot exist in that horrible
England. Oh! why will all one’s little errors keep upon the track so
long? I had forgotten this but for the ring—you remember the ring,
Zamara?”

“Yes, my mistress. It was only to-day that I saw it coiling around the
queen’s finger. They tell me it never leaves her hand.”

“I placed it there. It was only by the ring I remembered this man Gosner
at all. It was to get that I obtained the _lettre-de-cachet_. You know
how I hated her then. She scorned me so, it was natural; but when the
king died how forbearing she was, how generous. No insults reached me
from her; all my estates were left; she crushed me beneath the grandeur
of her magnanimity. Then I repented; then I would gladly have taken that
fatal serpent from her finger. I remember well what he said of its
power—to every hand but his it would bring disgrace and sorrow. Without
it, all these evils would fall on him. I took it from him and gave it to
her. See how his prediction has turned out, Zamara—from that day to this
he has languished in a dungeon; while she, who wears the ring, has seen
her great popularity vanish from the hearts of the people. All the power
of the throne began to crumble beneath her feet from the very hour that
she mounted it.”

“I have often thought of that,” said Zamara, who was now more than
formerly the companion of his mistress. “When I heard that he was alive,
a great terror seized upon me, for I saw danger to the queen in his
release, more fearful danger to yourself. The people will know that you
cast this learned man into prison without even naming his crime; they
will believe that the queen kept him there through all these long
years.”

“When she did not even know of his existence!” exclaimed the countess.
“See how just this great monster, the people, is!”

“Just! It is a ferocious wild beast, with no higher reason than instinct
of rage and greed—a wild beast that may easily be goaded into madness.”

“And the release of this man may do it—I see that, I see that!” cried
the countess. “But how to avoid the peril? The populace had almost
forgotten me; this will arouse the old hatred afresh. Ah! if I had but
one friend!”

Poor woman! this was a mournful cry from one who had seen a whole nation
at her feet; but of all that host of abject flatterers, this Indian
dwarf, the creature of her bounty, the plaything of her fancy, the scoff
of her former worshipers, alone stood faithful. This it was that wrung
the cry from her heart.

The dwarf stood near her, troubled and anxious as a dog waiting for
orders. At last he drew close to her chair, a gleam of partial relief
came into her face as she looked into his.

“You have thought of something,” she said. “What is it, my friend?”

“Mistress, this man must not come out of the Bastille.”

Zamara spoke almost in a whisper, and looked warily around, as if afraid
of being overheard.

“But how can we prevent it?”

“You know the governor?”

“Yes. When he was young, I obtained for him a subordinate place in the
prison,” answered the countess.

“That is a pity!”

“But why?”

“Gratitude does not often stretch back so many years—it has neither the
life or grasp of revenge. I would rather this man owed you nothing.”

A low, bitter laugh broke from the countess as she replied,

“Never fear, the man will have forgotten it.”

“Then our task is easier. I do not know how it is to be done. Give me a
little time for thought. Will it be possible to keep this young girl
here till morning?”

“Not of her own free will, if she has her father’s pardon, as you say,
in her bosom. I have never seen so much happiness in a human face. She
is very lovely. Ah! it is a terrible thing to break up all this joy!”

“But more terrible to be driven to a strange land, or torn by a mob,”
answered Zamara.

“I know—I know. Oh! why did I not let this poor man alone! He would have
done me no harm. Now, I think of it, the girl looks like her father; his
face was almost as fair as hers, his eyes of the same tender blue. It is
strange how clearly I remember them—and she is so happy?”

There was irresolution in the woman’s words, and in her heart.
Disappointment, trouble, and ingratitude, had broken down her arrogance
and humanized her conscience. She felt a yearning desire to protect this
young girl in her happiness, and give her wronged father back to his
life.

Zamara saw all this, and trembled. He understood better than she did the
danger that lay before them.




                             CHAPTER XXXV.
             DAME TILLERY DINES WITH THE COUNTESS DU BERRY.


Before the dwarf could urge the conversation further, Dame Tillery came
into the room, followed by a maid-servant, who carried a tray, on which
were some delicate trifles, and a plate of fresh figs, for madame’s
dessert.

The good dame burst into a torrent of exclamations when she found that
the first courses of her dinner were untouched, and became pathetic in
her entreaties that madame would just taste the fresh fruit, and
delicate cakes, which were to have been the crowning glory of her meal.

The countess consented to taste the fruit, but only on condition that
Dame Tillery should, in the meantime, help dispose of the viands which
had been so long neglected.

Dame Tillery was not so elated by her reception at the palace as to lose
any portion of her fine appetite. “It was a shame,” she said, “to allow
this delicious pâte, and that lovely pullet, without mentioning the
delicate salad, to be taken back ignominiously to the kitchen. They
might be a little cold; but, even then, any one must understand that a
cold dinner at the Swan was worth a dozen hot ones at any other public
house in Versailles. She would just cut a slice from the breast of the
pullet; perhaps seeing her eat would give madame an appetite.”

Here Dame Tillery put away her outer garments, set her fan in a corner,
and drawing a chair to the table, buried it under the amplitude of her
skirts, while she squared her elbows and carved the pullet with
professional dexterity, stopping now and then to nibble a dainty bit
from her fork.

“She had known people,” the dame said, “who lost their appetite the
moment a great honor or grief came upon them; but, for her part, she was
well used to such things, and took them quietly. Now there was the
little girl down stairs, who absolutely refused to take a morsel of
dinner, just from the excitement of having spoken with the queen; while
she, who was, in fact, the person who had introduced her to their
majesties, was ready for a hearty meal, and felt even increased appetite
from all the honors that had been showered upon her.”

Du Berry sat quietly peeling the purple coat from a fig while Dame
Tillery was speaking; but her quick mind was at work, and the expression
of her face revealed a new idea.

The sensual nature of this woman had, for many years, prevailed over her
intellect. But one noble feeling had found root in her heart, and
aroused the sympathy of her faculties. _She was grateful._ When we say
this, it is to acknowledge that a noble capacity for goodness still
lived in this woman, as lilies spring up, pure and snow-white, from a
soil prolific with impurities. Thus it was that she had come to
Versailles on an errand which would have been pronounced noble in a
better woman.

But while she seized upon every word calculated to help out her object,
quick animal sympathy awoke her slumberous appetite. She saw with what
hearty relish Dame Tillery devoured the savory chicken, and filled her
mouth with the delicious salad; and the sight was appetizing. “I declare
it makes me wish to eat,” she said, placing the half-peeled fig on its
dish, and holding out her plate for some of the more substantial viands,
which the good dame seemed content to monopolize.

“Ah, that is pleasant!” exclaimed the landlady, heaping some of the
white meat and savory dressing on the plate. “To dine alone is always
desolation to me; but as madame has found her appetite, my place is no
longer here. I only sat down to save the credit of the house, which
would have been in peril had a dinner gone down to the kitchen untasted.
Permit me to open a flask of wine for madame.”

“Yes, certainly,” answered the countess, laying her white hand on the
landlady’s arm, “but only as my guest. I cannot permit a person who has
been honored by a presentation at the chateau to serve me except as a
friend.”

Dame Tillery flushed like a peony, and fluttered like a peacock under
this compliment.

“There,” she said, drawing the cork from a wine-flask with the prong of
a fork. “It is not often this wine sees the daylight; but on a day like
this, and with guests that may be considered as old friends—”

“You know me, then?” exclaimed the countess, turning pale wherever the
rouge on her face would permit of pallor. “You know me?”

“I confess that I knew madame from the first minute.”

An impulse of gratified vanity conquered the caution that Du Berry had
resolved to maintain.

“Then I cannot have changed so much; years have not entirely swept away
the beauty which—which——”

“Oh!” interrupted the dame, so full of vanity herself that she had no
thought for that of another. “It was the little dwarf. He has grown old,
and has wrinkles; but no one can forget the monkey, especially those who
hated him so.”

The painted woman, whose pride had plumed itself for a moment, sunk back
in her chair with a heavy sigh; but continued despondency was not in her
nature. She drank off a glass of the wine Dame Tillery poured out, and
resumed the conversation.

“It is not known that I am here, I trust. Zamara has been in the street
but once, and then he was dressed like a child,” she said, anxiously.

“No, the people have not yet discovered him. If they did, his life would
not be worth the half of that fig.”

“Do they, indeed, hate us so?” questioned the countess, really
frightened. “Poor Zamara! he is the only faithful friend I ever knew. In
killing him they would break my heart; but you will keep our secret?”

Dame Tillery laid a broad hand on her broader bosom.

“From every one but her majesty, the queen,” she said, solemnly; “from
her I can keep nothing, being, as one might say, one of her council.
When I go to her majesty to-morrow morning——”

“To-morrow morning! Will you have access to the queen then?”

“Of course,” answered the dame, “an especial interview. When we came out
of the audience-chamber to-day, that little roly-poly lady, Madame
Campan, followed after us, and bade me return again at the same hour
to-morrow. ‘It was the queen’s order,’ she said. No doubt her majesty
was disturbed by the way in which that man from the city put himself
forward—I assure you his audacity was abominable. One could scarcely get
an opportunity to look at their majesties, much less say a word.”

“And you will see her to-morrow?” murmured the countess, taking up the
fig again, and burying her still white teeth in its pulp.

“To-morrow, and the next day, if I wish. Is there any one who doubts
it?”

“I certainly do not,” answered Du Berry, removing the fig from her
mouth, and stripping away the last fragment of skin with her fingers.
“On the contrary, I was about to ask a favor.”

“A favor! Ah! madame knows my weakness.”

“As you just now hinted, it would not be safe or possible for me to
attempt an entrance into the chateau; but it is of great importance that
I should send a message to—to her majesty.”

“Her majesty! You?”

The countess waved her hand with a dash of her old impatience.

“A message which you can carry, and be sure of a kind reception, with a
rouleau of gold from my hand when it is delivered. Is it understood
between us, my friend?”

Dame Tillery smiled, shook her head, and repeated, “Ah! madame knows my
weakness!”

“Then it is understood,” replied the countess, rising. “Pray see that
Zamara is neither allowed to famish, or to expose his presence here; but
first tell him to bring my travelling-desk, he will find it among the
baggage. Good-day! good-day! I am sorry you are compelled to leave me so
soon; but, of course, the citizens, who have been gathering around the
door, will be impatient to hear about this visit to the chateau. I can
understand that, and you describe it so well.”




                             CHAPTER XXXVI.
                        THE DISGUISED COUNTESS.


The adroit flattery of Madame Du Berry carried Dame Tillery out of the
room, quite unconscious that she had, in fact, been summarily dismissed.
The moment she was gone, Zamara entered, bearing a little ebony
travelling-desk, which he opened and placed on the table before his
mistress.

“Madame,” he said, anxiously, “they are going; before dark, they will be
in Paris with the order for that man’s release.”

“But they cannot present it before morning; no man living can gain
access to the Bastille after three o’clock. Besides, Zamara, it goes to
my heart to disappoint the poor child.”

“If you do not, it will cost you your life,” answered the dwarf.

Du Berry arose and began to walk the floor. It was hard for her to go
back into her old, cruel life, just as some dawnings of compassion had
made her understand how sweet goodness was. But with this woman
existence was everything—she had enjoyed it so much; and with her fine
constitution had years and years to enjoy yet. This man had, doubtless,
become accustomed to his dungeon; or, if he must die, it would be a
relief. If she could only save him without hurting herself, how pleasant
it would be to let that poor girl depart with all her warm hopes
undisturbed. But, after all, nothing like what the child expected could
come to pass. She need not hope to find her father, but an old man,
weak, blind, dazed, to whom this world would be a bitter novelty. The
strength of manhood never could return to her victim, though a thousand
daughters stood ready to lavish tenderness upon him. What was a life
like this compared to hers! Even if the canaille did not accomplish her
death, it was sure to drive her back to England, a country which was
like a prison to her. No, no, she had concluded.

“Zamara.”

The dwarf approached her.

“Bring the dress in which I came back from England.”

“Madame shall be obeyed.”

“Order the groom to have a horse saddled.”

The dwarf bowed.

“Say to that abominable woman that I am weary, and have a headache which
nothing but rest and quiet will cure; on no account must any one
approach my room.”

“I will guard the door, mistress.”

“That is well. Now bring the dress; it was left in your keeping.”

The dwarf went out almost smiling. He knew that his argument had
prevailed over the scruples of the countess, who walked the room in a
restless fashion still, but with stern and settled determination in her
face.

Directly Zamara came back, carrying a heavy bundle in his arms.

“Shall I prepare to attend, madame?” he questioned, anxiously.

“No; the people would recognize you on horseback, and I must ride with
speed. Follow the directions I have given, and keep guard at the door;
be vigilant and cautious.”

“Does madame find it necessary to say that to Zamara?”

“Perhaps not: but there is danger here—great danger; a word, a look,
might betray me. You have examined the house, and know all its
entrances?”

“All; there is a back door leading to the stables. No matter how fast it
may be locked, you will find it ajar at any hour between this and
to-morrow morning.”

“Always on the alert! always anticipating my orders!” said the countess,
patting him on the head. “At least, I have one faithful friend left.”

Zamara lifted his dark eyes to the face she bent over him—they were full
of tears.

“There, there! we must not be children,” she said, giving the little
figure a gentle push. “Go and order the horse to be saddled.”

The dwarf disappeared, and instantly the door was bolted after him. When
he came back, announcing himself with a respectful knock, a person,
undersized, and with the air of one who had at some period of his life
been a lady’s page, stood upon the threshold so disguised, that Zamara
scarcely recognized his mistress.

“Is the passage clear? Will no one see me go out?”

“Everything is clear.”

Zamara glided away as he spoke, and the page followed. Through a back
door, only used by servants, across a yard strewn with worn-out
vehicles, empty boxes, broken bottles, and refuse lumber, he led the way
into the stables, where a horse stood caparisoned for the road.

The page lifted himself to the saddle, and bending down, whispered,

“No sleep; watch and listen till I come back.”

Zamara smiled till all his white teeth shone again; then laying a tiny
hand on his bosom, he bent low muttering,

“Did Zamara ever sleep when his mistress was absent?”

These words were lost in the clatter of hoofs, as horse and rider passed
out of the stable. There was nothing about this page to draw particular
attention; he might have belonged to any nobleman at this time in
Versailles, and thus have passed unquestioned. A few turned to look at
him as his horse trotted leisurely through the town, wondering to whom
he belonged; but no one became really interested, and he passed away
into the country unmolested.

Some three or four miles along the road to Paris, the page saw two
persons on horseback just before him—a man and a woman, who seemed to be
urging their unwilling steeds to unusual exertion.

The page touched his beast with the spur, and in a few minutes brought
himself on a level with the travelers.

Marguerite, when she saw a stranger so near, drew the hood of dark silk
over her face, and made a fresh effort to urge her horse forward.
Monsieur Jacques turned in his saddle, looked keenly at the new comer,
and once more gave his attention to the road.

“Rough roads,” observed the page, addressing Jacques.

“Very!” answered Jacques, glancing at Marguerite with a sense of relief
as he saw that the hood had been drawn over her beautiful hair, and
almost concealed her face.

“Going towards Paris?” continued the stranger.

“Yes,” was the laconic reply.

“Then, perhaps, you will not take it amiss if I offer to bear you
company; in these disturbed times, there is safety in numbers.”

“We travel but slowly,” answered Jacques; little pleased with the
proposal, for every moment that he spent alone with Marguerite was a
grain of gold to him. “You seem better mounted than we are, and will
find it hard to keep to our dull pace.”

“I think not; these rough roads fret my poor beast all the more because
of his spirit; besides, the country between Versailles and Paris is not
always free from highwaymen! I trust you have nothing very precious
about you?”

Marguerite raised a hand to her bosom and gave the page a terrified
glance from under her hood. The most precious thing on earth lay close
to her heart—that order for her father’s release.

Jacques gave no answer to this adroit question, but allowed the page to
talk on while he listened in sullen silence.

After a few more efforts to be sociable and enter into conversation, the
page rode on, but now and then took a sweeping circuit back, keeping the
two travellers in sight until they entered Paris. After that, he
followed them at a distance, saw them dismount, and took note of the
residence in which they disappeared. This object obtained, the page
turned his horse and rode toward that portion of the city in which the
Bastille stood, dark, grim, and terrible to look upon.




                            CHAPTER XXXVII.
                              JOYFUL NEWS.


“Mamma! Mamma! I have come! He is saved!”

A woman started up, still and white as a ghost, from the dim shadows
that had settled around her. She would not believe the joyful news. The
very sound of a voice cheerful, and ringing as that which startled the
silence of the room had a thrill of mockery for her. She had been so
long used to disappointment that joy fell away from her heart
unrecognized.

“Mamma! dear mamma! do you understand? I have spoken to the queen, the
beautiful queen, and the king; so kind, so gentle! Oh, mamma! his
goodness is unspeakable! To-morrow, one more night, and you will see my
father!”

The woman gave a deep gasp, flung out her arms, and fell to the floor
insensible—the whitest living thing that joy ever prostrated.

“Oh! it has killed her! What can I do? What can I do?” cried the poor
girl, appealing piteously to Jacques.

“Give her air! Give her water! We broke up the pain of her suspense too
suddenly,” answered Jacques, lifting the lady in his arms, and laying
her on the bed. “She was strong to battle against sorrow, but this good
news has almost taken her life.”

Marguerite flung open the windows, and brought water, with which Jacques
bathed that white face; but it was very long before a faint breath
proclaimed that the locked heart had commenced to beat again.

“Mamma! Mamma! Can you hear me?”

The woman turned her great eyes wistfully upon that eager face.

“Let me tell you slowly, mamma. Do not try to take it in all at once,
but word by word.”

Madame Gosner sat upright, but she seemed like a person coming out of a
dream. She swept the hair back from her temples, threading it through
her fingers, and whispered,

“There is white in it. He would not know me.”

Then she turned slowly toward Marguerite, and questioned her. “You were
saying something about _him_?—or is it that I have dreamed?”

She said this mournfully and in doubt, not yet having come out of her
bewilderment; but as her heavy eyes were uplifted to the girl’s face,
they kindled under the glow of happiness which met them in every
beautiful feature.

“Is it true? Did they give us hope?”

“Mamma, I have an order for his release.”

“No! Tell it me again. I do not believe it—of course I do not believe
it, such words have mocked me so often; but you look as if it might
be—and this man. Ah! it is Monsieur Jacques; tell me, monsieur, and I
will believe you. Is there really a hope?”

“Dear lady, have a little patience, try and compose yourself. To-morrow
your husband will be here!”

“And you say this? To-morrow! Oh, mother of God! how I have prayed,
worked, suffered, and now my heart refuses to receive this great joy. It
is so used to sorrow—oh, my friend! it is so used to sorrow.”

“But a brighter day is coming,” said Monsieur Jacques.

“I cannot believe it. God help me, I cannot believe it.”

The poor woman lifted both hands to her face, and, all at once, burst
into a storm of tears. Thus she sat, rocking to and fro, while the ice
in her heart broke up and let the sunshine of a mighty joy shine in.

When the woman lifted her face again it was wet, but radiant. Marguerite
threw herself upon her knees before the transfigured woman.

“You are beginning to believe, I see it in your face, I can feel it in
the heaving of your bosom, in the trembling of your hands. Mamma, mamma!
it is true.”

“I know; but to-morrow seems so far off. Could we not go at once? After
so many years, they might cut off an hour or two.”

She appealed to Monsieur Jacques, who shook his head.

“I should feel sure then?” she said, piteously.

“Be sure, as it is; no one would deceive you.”

“He might—I mean the king.”

“Not so. Louis is a kind man, lacking somewhat in courage to act
promptly; but there is neither treachery or falsehood in him.”

Madame Gosner drew a deep breath, and a look of forced resignation came
to her face.

“It seems but a little time,” she said, “and I have waited so long; but
these few hours seem harder to bear than all the lost years.”

“But they will soon pass.”

“Yes; and he will be here. You have seen him, monsieur? Tell me, has
imprisonment made him old as sorrow has left me?”

“It was an old man that I saw in the dungeon.”

“Yet my husband should have been in the prime of life; and I, when he
went away, monsieur, I was not much older than Marguerite, and so like
her.”

Monsieur Jacques glanced at the lined and anxious face of the
middle-aged woman, from which perpetual grief had swept away all the
bloom, and hardened the beauty into a sad expression of endurance. Then
his eyes turned upon Marguerite, more lovely a thousand times than he
had ever seen her before; for the happiness had left bloom upon her
cheeks, and lay like sunshine in the violet softness of her eyes. The
contrast struck him painfully. Was grief then so much more powerful than
time? How many women in France even then suffered as she had done? Was
this to be a universal result? Would oppression in the end destroy all
the sweets of womanhood, by forcing a sex, naturally kind and gentle,
into resistance wilder and fiercer, because more unreasoning, than men
ever waged on each other?

These thoughts disturbed the man. In admitting the unnatural influence
of women into their revolutionary clubs, had they not already begun to
uproot all that was holy in social life? In order to gain liberty, were
they not giving up religion, and trampling down all the beautiful
influences of home life? He looked at Marguerite where she stood, in all
the gentle purity of young maidenhood, wondering if she could ever be
drawn into the vortex of those revolutionary clubs in which he was a
leading spirit. Why not? Others as young, as lovely, and as good, had
followed the cry of liberty and equality into places quite as dangerous
and unnatural. Might not the time arrive when in the turmoil and
disorganization of a government which France was beginning to hate, even
he might seize on any help, to carry out the wild idea of liberty which
was driving the people of France mad. Might not he urge her, and
creatures innocent and enthusiastic like her, into the surrender of
everything that makes a woman’s life beautiful, in order to obtain that
political liberty which France never knew how to use or keep.

Monsieur Jacques sat moodily in a corner of the room, and thought these
things over as Marguerite knelt by her mother, and told her in detail
all that had happened during her sojourn at Versailles. He saw that the
narrative did more to convince the mother that her husband’s release was
a reality than all his reasoning could have done. Once or twice he
observed a faint smile quiver across that firm mouth, while Marguerite
caught the infection as flowers meet the sunshine, and laughed while
telling Dame Tillery’s mishap.

Jacques felt the influence of this low, rippling laugh, a sound he had
never heard in that gloomy place before, and thought to himself how
naturally happiness brought back all the soft, sweet traits of womanhood
in these two persons.

“No, no!” he said, “from the strongest to the weakest, women should be
the creatures of our care and protection. It is unnatural that they
should struggle and fight for us—more unnatural that we should assail
them. Thank God this great happiness will rescue a noble woman from the
vortex toward which she was drifting! The moment her husband is free, I
will myself take them across the frontier. In their old home they shall
find rest while the storm bursts over France.”




                            CHAPTER XXXVIII.
              MIRABEAU AND HIS FOSTER BROTHER IN COUNCIL.


“Monsieur Jacques!”

Jacques started up and went to the door, which had been slightly opened.
It was the voice of Mirabeau.

“Come out, I would speak with you in your own room,” said the count,
abruptly. “It seems to me you are never at home now.”

“But you know where to find me,” said Jacques, good-humoredly.

“Yes, always with these women. I think the girl has bewitched you, my
friend.”

Jacques made no answer, but his face flushed crimson as he unlocked the
door of his own room, and stood back for Mirabeau to enter.

“Well, what news have you that will give me pleasure!” demanded the
count, the moment they were alone.

“Nothing, my count; but I fear much that will anger you.”

“From that woman? Well, speak out. It will only be another rejection of
the power that could save her.”

Mirabeau refused a seat, and kept walking up and down the chamber like a
wild beast in its cage. While Jacques hesitated how to tell his story
best, he turned fiercely upon him.

“Well, my friend, has the Austrian struck you dumb?”

“No, count; but I can scarcely relate my interview with a hope that you
will understand it as I did. The words were discouraging enough; there
was something in the king’s manner that convinced me of his wish to
accept your help.”

“No doubt. He has some little discernment; but the woman is guided
entirely by her prejudices. Tell me what she said.”

Jacques did tell him word for word; but he said nothing of the look of
scornful pride that made each syllable so bitter. Mirabeau paused in his
walk and listened.

“And this is all?” he said, when Jacques paused. “Why, man, this is
better news than I expected—the woman leaves a loop-hole for the future;
the stubborn pride would not all come down at once, but it is yielding.
We must not speak discouragingly to my father, or all his generous plans
may freeze up again. He has set his proud old heart on making me the
saviour of the monarchy—and so it may be, Jacques; so it shall be.”

“But the people—who shall save them?” questioned Jacques, a little
sternly; for with all his fond admiration of the man, he could not blind
himself to the sublime egotism of this speech, or the utter selfishness
which inspired it.

Mirabeau turned suddenly; the grand ugliness of his face was illuminated
by a smile.

“Will you never understand, my friend? When Mirabeau has saved the
monarchy, he will, in fact, be king. This haughty queen once at his feet
the creature of his power, subdued by his genius, as many a woman, proud
and self-sufficient as she is, have been, who shall dare oppose any
reform he may decide upon for the consolidation of his power, or the
benefit of the people? Mirabeau is already made sovereign, by his own
will, of the great revolutionary movement, which has terrified the
Austrian into something like civility. A few months later and she shall
implore the aid she now dares to reject. This will make his father the
happiest man on earth, and give this irresolute, good-hearted king the
quiet he so much craves.”

“But the people—the clubs—the women of Paris? Remember how they
worshiped Necker, yet he failed to satisfy them.”

“Necker!” exclaimed Mirabeau, with infinite scorn in his voice. “A man
of money, a financier, whom the insane populace expected to bring corn
out of the parched earth by magic. Failing in this, he had no resources
within himself by which to win the discontented back again; but it is
different with Mirabeau. His voice is persuasive, his will potent, his
power over multitudes is supreme; with his foot upon the throne, he will
reach forth his hand to the people, and sustain their rights. You, my
friend and foster-brother, shall be a connecting-link between Mirabeau
and his old followers. Thus he will control the court, the assembly, and
the populace.”

“That would be a glorious combination, if it could be carried out,” said
Jacques.

“If,” repeated the count; “can you doubt it? Think what the pen and
eloquence of one man has accomplished already. Ah, Jacques! this idea of
reaching the people through newspapers and pamphlets, was an inspiration
of liberty. This is a power which we have learned how to wield with
force, and which can be used in behalf of the throne as well as for the
people.”

“But not against the people, at least with my poor help,” said Jacques.

Mirabeau turned upon him angrily.

“Will you never understand that it is by the power of the people alone
the monarchy can be sustained?” he said, in his rough, dogmatical way.
“There is but one man living who can bring these great elements in
harmony; because it requires the union of two extremes in the same man;
a nobleman who carries in his own person the traditions of the past, but
whose life and sympathies have been with the people. A man God-gifted
with eloquence both of speech and with the pen; in short, a being who
concentrates in one existence two distinct and opposing characters. Does
France contain more than one man of whom you could say this, my friend?”

“No; France has but one Mirabeau.”

“Then have no fear, for on all sides our prospects are brightening. This
coalition once made, our good father opens his money-bags, then all this
harassing anxiety about finance will be at an end. You did me good
service with the old gentleman, my brother, though he did wince now and
then, as the conviction was forced upon him that we were in fact, as
well as in sentiment, equals before the people, in defiance of the blue
blood of his ancestors. It was amusing to see how the old man’s
prejudices rose against this simple fact. He did not comprehend that the
people glory in having persons of the old pure descent advocating their
cause; why that old buffoon, the Duc de Orleans, has seized upon the
idea, and even now is using it against the king. If this old renegade
only had brains, he might prove a dangerous man. As it is, he is sure to
make some stupid blunder, from which even that clever woman, De Genlis,
cannot save him; so the best wisdom is to leave him to work out his own
ruin. This prince has ambition, and nothing else. Now tell me all that
passed at Versailles.”

Mirabeau had by this time exhausted his excitement, and sat down to
listen. Monsieur Jacques informed him, in a few brief words, of all that
had passed during his absence. When he had finished, the count arose and
took his hat from the table.

“Let us go and pay our respects to Madame Gosner,” he said. “It will be
pleasant to congratulate her.”

Monsieur Jacques arose reluctantly, and the two men went out together.




                             CHAPTER XXXIX.
                         A VISITOR AFTER DARK.


The governor of the Bastille had retired to his own apartments within
that grim old fortress. All the duties of the day had been performed.
The allowance of black bread and impure water had been doled out to the
prisoners, and the doors closed, leaving them in utter darkness. All
these horrible duties being settled to his satisfaction, the governor
was ready for his own luxurious supper, and sat waiting for it with some
impatience. Originally this man was neither hard-hearted or cruel; but
holding a position where these qualities were exacted from him, they had
gradually become a part of his nature. Unlimited power of the worst kind
had made him a tyrant, and hardened his heart to iron.

As this man sat, calm and indifferent, in an atmosphere of misery, which
rose around him like a miasma, a grim, stalwart man, in the dress of a
keeper, knocked at the door and stood upon the threshold, removing the
cap from his head in token of respect for the presence he was in.

The governor turned in his chair and recognized the man.

“Well, Christopher, what news from the city? A little more quiet, I
hope.”

“Not a bit,” answered the keeper, promptly. “I have been among the
clubs, as you bade me, and have made my observations. The feeling of
discontent grows stronger and stronger.”

“Well, what do they expect to accomplish by grumbling, the varlets? I
wish we had them here, Christopher; a week or two of such lodgings and
fare as we could give them, would bring down their courage. We have that
whole lower range of cells unoccupied now, for our Louis is
chicken-hearted about sending his subjects here, merely to oblige his
friends; and he has no favorites, Marie Antoinette looks well to that.”

“Yes; and she it is who prevents the prison being full, as it was in the
good old time, when we registered a _lettre-de-cachet_ every day. It is
this clemency that emboldens the people, and sets them clamoring for the
thing they call ‘liberty!’ Liberty, indeed, we would give them enough to
quarrel about if we had them all here but for a single month.”

“Ah!” said the governor, who seemed on excellent terms with his man.
“But how are we to get them here, when we never see the king’s
signature, except it be to empty our cells of their prisoners? He seems
to forgive all men before they are sentenced, especially his own
enemies. I tell you, Christopher, this king, in his leniency, has
brought this fortress of the Bastille down to the level of a common
jail; and his conduct fills me with such disgust, that I am at times
half resolved to throw up my commission.”

The keeper looked through one of the narrow windows, and took a survey
of the ponderous walls; then, turning with a grim smile, he said,

“If the walls were less thick, a resignation might be prudent just now;
but I think they will defy all the clubs in Paris.”

“Or in all France,” answered the governor, laughing. “My draw-bridge
once up, and no monarch in Europe sits as firmly on his throne as I do.
Would to heaven his majesty was half as safe in Versailles!”

“Nay, I think the people hate the man they call their tyrant of the
Bastille worse than they do the monarch at Versailles,” said the keeper,
a little maliciously—“for cruel men are very seldom kind to each other.”

“Let them hate,” laughed the governor. “It will be a long time before
their malice can reach him.”

“Yes, as I said, the walls are thick.”

“And here comes my supper, Christopher, which your news from the city
shall not spoil,” cried the governor, interrupting his subordinate, as a
door was opened, and a daintily-arranged table revealed in the next
room. “Step in, though, and let me hear all the news you have gathered.”

The man entered the supper-room, and stood leaning against the
door-frame, while his superior placed himself at the table.

“It is the Bastille against which the people hurl hatred, and launch
their curses most bitterly,” he said. “Thinking me one of them—for I
wore this—they spoke freely enough.”

Here Christopher took a red cap from his pocket, and shook it viciously,
as if he hated the very color.

The governor looked up and laughed again.

“So they thought you one of their order, my poor Christopher, and took
you into their confidence on the strength of that red abomination. Well,
when do they intend to tear down the Bastille?”

“Tear down the Bastille! Have we not decided that the walls may defy
them?” replied the keeper, uneasily. “If I thought otherwise——”

“Well, what then, my good Christopher?”

“Why, then I should be glad to exchange places with any prisoner in the
cells.”

“A hard alternative, Christopher,” said the governor, smiling over his
well-filled plate, “and one not likely to happen. But we must be
careful. If the rabble hate us, as you say, we must do nothing to arouse
them.”

That moment the loud clangor of a bell sounded down the passages of the
building.

“What is that, Christopher?” inquired the governor, laying down his
knife and fork with something like consternation.

“Some one claiming admittance, who rings boldly, either an enemy, or an
officer under authority of the law, I should say,” answered the keeper.

“Go and see, Christopher.”

The keeper went out, passed from the prison to the draw-bridge, and
looked across. Beyond the huge timbers and drooping chains, he saw a
single, slight figure claiming a passage over, both by voice and
gesture.

“Why was the bell rung?” asked Christopher of the guard.

“Because it is some one with an order for the governor. He held up a
paper.”

“Is he quite alone?”

“Yes, I saw him dismount from a tired horse, which you may yourself
discover standing within the shadow of yonder building.”

“Let down the draw-bridge; but see that but one man enters—it may be a
messenger from the court.”

Directly the great chains of the draw-bridge began to shake and rattle,
the mighty hinges turned with ponderous heaviness, and the great mass of
wood fell slowly downward.

A slight figure crossed the bridge with a quick, nervous step, which
soon brought him to the keeper, who keenly regarded him during his
progress.

“A letter for the governor,” said the stranger, promptly taking a folded
paper from his girdle.

“Where from?” questioned Christopher.

“Directly from Versailles. Besides this, I am entrusted with a message
which can only be given in person; oblige me by saying so much in my
behalf.”

Christopher took the letter and held it between his teeth, while the
ponderous machinery of the bridge was put in motion again, and the whole
fabric loomed up.

The stranger started as he saw the huge timbers uplifted like some
massive gate rising between him and the world he had left; but he made
no protest, and only grew a little paler than before, as the awful
blackness of its shadow fell upon him.

“There is no danger from any one on this side,” muttered the keeper,
moving slowly away, leaving the stranger standing by the guard; “but in
these times it is hardly safe to admit even a stripling like that after
dark.”




                              CHAPTER XL.
                       THE GOVERNOR AND THE PAGE.


Christopher found the governor deep in his meal, which he enjoyed with
the zest of a man who has few sources of occupation or amusement, and,
therefore, gives free scope to the appetite. He was just filling a glass
of wine as the man came in, and holding it up, smiled to see its amber
hues sparkle in the lamplight. Indeed, he was too pleasantly occupied
for any remembrance of the errand on which the keeper had gone.

“Ah! is it you again, my Christopher?” he said, draining the glass with
a mellow smack of the lips. “Well, what news? The bell rang, if I
remember. What unreasonable person was so bold?”

“It is a person from Versailles, your excellency; some one with a
letter, and a special message to yourself.”

“From Versailles? Let him in; let him in. It is not often that Louis the
Sixteenth requires my services. That is why the rabble has dared to lift
its clamor against the Bastille. If he would open its gates to the
populace and crowd the old prison from foundation to roof with the
disaffected, there would be no more cries of ‘Down with the Bastille!’
in the streets of Paris. Let the king’s messenger present himself, he is
welcome.”

Christopher went out, and directly returned with the page in close
company. When this person was seen in the full glare of the light, his
appearance of extreme youth vanished. He was slender, elegant, and
bright; but there was something in the curve of the mouth, and a depth
of expression about the eyes, which belied the boyish air and foppish
costume so completely, that the governor arose to receive him with
unusual courtesy.

“This letter,” said the page, “will inform you of my business; after
that let me pray that we converse alone.”

“Christopher, you may go,” said the governor, filling another glass of
wine, and holding it toward his visitor with one hand while he
replenished his own glass with the other. “Now, sir, sit down while I
read this missive.”

The page accepted the wine, and drank it off, for he felt the need of it
after a long and wearisome ride of hours. While the slow color came back
to his face, the governor was earnestly perusing the letter. It
evidently caused him some disturbance, for a flush of hotter red than
the Rhenish wine could give, rose into his face, while his eyes grew
large and opened wide with astonishment.

“From her,” he muttered, uneasily. “Why it is years and years since I
have seen her name. How came she at Versailles? Must talk freely with
her messenger! As if I wanted anything to do with him or her either! Why
it might cost me dear with his majesty, and set the rabble to hunting me
down like a dog! My own safety! Danger! Humph! Humph!”

All this was muttered incoherently by the astonished governor, while the
page sat keenly regarding him, catching up here and there a disjointed
word, which made his eyes sparkle and his lips curve scornfully.

“Well,” said the governor, crushing the letter slowly in his hand, where
he rolled it indolently between his thumb and finger, “you come to me
from Madame Du Berry—a beautiful woman in her time, and in some sort a
friend of mine.”

“In some sort?” repeated the page, almost with a sneer. “I thought from
what madame said, that she had been a most earnest and all-powerful
friend to you in times when her friendship was a fortune, and her enmity
ruin.”

“Did she say that? Very natural. The importance of objects magnifies as
they recede. It is many years since I knew the madame; and in those
years she has ceased to be powerful, either in love or hate. Even her
beauty, they tell me, is all gone—and in that lay the power she makes
such boast of. Still I have a tender remembrance of the madame, who had
a kind of loveliness that was distracting. At one time I almost adored
her; as for the lady herself—Well, it would not be quite proper to state
how much of her boasted kindness sprang from a more tender sentiment
than she would have liked to acknowledge before the king; but I have my
memories.”

Here the page sprang to his feet, clenched one white hand under its
frills of common lace, advanced a step, as if to dash it in that flushed
face, and let it fall again with a sharp, unnatural laugh.

“Another glass of wine,” he said, unclinching the hand; “these
reminiscences are so pleasant they amuse me!”

The governor lifted the bottle near him, and dashed a flood of the amber
liquid over the white hand which held the glass, for his own was
rendered a little unsteady by the sudden action of the page; who tossed
off the wine with a laugh that rang mockingly through the room.

“Well,” he said, “as you and the Du Berry were such intimate friends, we
can talk with the more freedom. Both you and the lady are just now in
imminent peril.”

“Peril! How?”

“Both with the king, which is not so threatening, but with the people,
who are getting dangerous.”

“As how? Speak out! This is the second time to-day I have been warned of
the people’s hate. But the king—in what way have I offended him?”

“In nothing that I know of. But occasions arise in which our best
friends act, unconsciously, with our worst enemies. The king, in his
goodness, works hand-in-hand with the people, who hate him and us.”

“In what way?” inquired the governor, now deeply interested. “Why should
his majesty do aught to imperil an old and faithful officer like me?
That he should hold some malice against Du Berry is not remarkable. She
was impudent enough while he was Dauphin to account for any ill-feeling
he may have toward her now; but with me, who have always been a
favorite, the thing is impossible.”

The page still kept on his feet and walked up and down the room,
forgetting all forms of politeness in his excitement. He paused at last,
and flashed a glance of brilliant scorn upon the governor.

“There is no such thing as impossibilities where the selfishness or
ingratitude of men are concerned,” he said. “The idol of the people
to-day is not sure of his position for a week.”

“Of the people? Yes. But I claim nothing of them; my strength lies in
the king.”

The page gave his antagonist—for such these two persons were fast
becoming—a sharp glance, but made no answer to his last speech, which
had apparently made little impression upon him.

“The king, the queen, and, most of all, you and the lady on whose behalf
I come, are in danger. A single new cause of discontent against this
prison, and the smouldering hate of the people will break forth. Louis
foresaw this, but had not force of will enough to prevent it. One word
from his wife, and he was ready to brave everything.”

“But what has he done?”

The page drew close to the table and leaned one hand upon it.

“Years ago, the very last of our old king’s reign, a man was brought to
the Bastille—his name was Gosner.”

“Gosner—why that man is alive yet. Neither dampness or famine seem to
have any impression on him. He was brought here under a
_lettre-de-cachet_, and was one of Madame Du Berry’s enemies. I
remember, she came here to the prison, just after the old king died, and
upbraided this man with having killed him by his necromancy. She was
very bitter against the prisoner, and seemed afraid that he might be
pardoned out. That woman had a hard heart.”

“Yes; she had a hard heart,” repeated the page; “but often, ah! so
often, she was forced to be cruel in self-defence. It is so now—it is so
now!”

Once more the page commenced walking up and down the room; he paused
suddenly.

“This man, Gosner, was, at the request of madame, put into the
underground cells,” he said, “where he has been until within the last
year. When we took him out for a week or two, and found him almost
blind—a poor, enfeebled creature, hardly worthy of the new life we gave
him.”

“And now?” questioned the page.

“Now he is but little better—a gleam or two of light and air does not
change a prisoner of many years so much as you might imagine; besides,
this man was feeble from the first, but lived on, withering away into
the shadow he is; we have put him back again; the sight of his decay was
too much.”

“Well, this is the man they will parade before the people as a proof of
the terrible cruelties practiced here.”

The governor half rose from his feet in sudden alarm.

“Who will do this?” he exclaimed.

“The king; or, rather, his Austrian wife.”

“The king!”

“Who has pardoned this man, Gosner.”




                              CHAPTER XLI.
                   THE COUNTESS AND HER VICTIM MEET.


The ruddy countenance of the governor lost its tone, and a cold
whiteness crept over his lips. At last he turned a blanched and scared
face upon the page. The great danger of his position had forced itself
upon him.

“And the king has done this? I cannot believe it.”

“You may, for to-morrow will bring the proof. The order of Gosner’s
release was signed this morning, and is now in Paris.”

The governor was on his feet at once.

“What is to be done? You came here for something more than this. Madame
Du Berry has heard of Gosner’s pardon. She sent you here. What does she
propose? This is a case that concerns us all, and may destroy us all.”

“Unless proper steps are taken,” said the page, in a low voice.

“But what steps can be taken?”

“You ask me that?” answered the page, with a strange smile on his lips;
“you, who know all the mysteries of this prison, who receive men without
record, and send them forth for burial with a number instead of a name?”

“Who told you these things?” demanded the governor, with a sudden panic.

“No matter; I know, also, that this man, Dr. Gosner, is not an inmate of
this prison. He was buried within the month, and the number attached to
his name is registered against it.”

“You know this?” cried the governor. “Rather you suggest it.”

“Yes, I suggest it. This man must not be let loose to prowl the streets
of Paris, and drive the rabble wild with his stories of the Bastille,
its cruelties, its dungeons, and its underground horrors. He was a man
of wonderful eloquence, and freedom will touch his tongue with fire. His
white hair, the wonderful pathos in his eyes, and that shadowy form,
will excite the people to terrible wrath.”

The governor was trembling visibly throughout his entire frame. He
leaned his hand so heavily on the table that the glasses, with the amber
and ruby-tinted drops left in them, shook and rattled together beneath
his pressure.

“Madame Du Berry was the person who cast this man into prison, the
people hate her already,” continued the page, who was himself growing
strangely pale. “This man will first assail her; as for yourself——”

The governor dropped into the chair he had left, and gazed upon the page
with frightened eyes and parted lips, a remembrance of all he had done
to the prisoner since his incarceration, of the neglect, starvation, the
awful solitude in which he had been left, year after year, scarcely
speaking to a human being, swept over him in all the blackness of its
horrors.

“As for yourself,” continued the page, “all the enormous cruelties
practiced in the Bastille, during the last twenty years, will be heaped
upon your shoulders. This man has been an inmate of the lower-cells; he
has been chained by the waist to your dank walls, over which reptiles
were eternally dragging their slime across and around him; he has heard
the perpetual lapping of fetid waters against the enormous walls, which
were not thick enough to keep the poisonous drops from creeping down
them and dropping on his hands, his hair, and his emaciated limbs——”

“Hold! hold!” cried the governor. “If this man says but half of these
things to the people, they will seize upon me in the street and tear me
limb from limb.”

“But the danger must be avoided. It is a question of life and death with
you and the madame. The king in his clemency is flinging fire-brands
among his own enemies, with which they will consume him.”

“When did you say the pardon would come?” inquired the governor.

“In the morning, very early.”

“We will be prepared!”

The color was coming back to that broad face. The governor had arrived
at a conclusion—his prisoner should never go forth to the world to fire
the hearts of men against him. He rang a little house-bell that stood
upon the table with a sharpness that soon brought Christopher to the
room.

“Bring me a light, Christopher, and lead the way to the office where our
books are kept.”

Christopher lighted a lamp, and led the way into a dark stone chamber,
which contained several oaken desks, on which lay ponderous books
chained to staples driven deep into the wall. The governor opened one of
these imposing volumes, and, after turning over several of its leaves,
ran his finger down a column which bore a date that ran back to a period
in which Louis the Fifteenth reigned in France.

“Only two entered at this period left,” he muttered; “and this delicate
man one of them. How fearfully strong life is. It seems as if some men
never would die.”

“Who are you seeking for—the man who died this morning?” inquired
Christopher, who was greatly astonished that the governor should have
entered that room, or thought of examining the books.

“Did a man die this morning?” demanded the governor, quickly. “What is
his name? How long has he been here?”

“His name,” answered Christopher, with a grim smile, “has died out long
ago; but we can trace it by the number, if you will give me time. As to
the how long—I cannot remember when he was not here.”

Here the page stepped forward.

“You have seen the man who remains, I suppose—tell me, was he fair or
dark, large or small, old or young?”

“He was fair, young, sir, when I first knew him, slender, too, and of
most gentle bearing. As to age, men grow old here rapidly.”

“But he seems old?”

“Yes, a little, worn, old man.”

“That will do,” said the governor, promptly. “Now let us see this
person. Get the keys, Christopher, I will go with you to the cells—there
is the number.”

Christopher took the scrap of paper, on which a number was written, and
selecting a bunch of keys from a heap that lay in one of the desks, took
the lamp in his disengaged hand. The governor made a sign to the page,
and all three plunged at once into the black labyrinth of passages which
led into the stony heart of the prison. Through long, vault-like halls,
down narrow chasms, that seemed hewn from the original rock, far into
the very bowels of the earth, these three persons penetrated. After a
time, they heard low, sobbing murmurs, indiscribably mournful, which
came to them out of the darkness, as if the very stones were saturated
with tears. Once the clank of a chain broke sharply through these
murmurs, and the grinding sound of a curse broke across the blackness of
their progress.

At last they stopped before an oaken door, studded heavily with great
iron knobs, over which time and dampness had woven a coat of reddish
rust. A great, clumsy lock of iron spread far out on the ponderous oak,
into which Christopher thrust an equally clumsy key, which ground its
way through the rasping rust, and was only turned by a vigorous wrench
of both the keeper’s powerful hands.

At last the door was forced open, and there, sitting upon the bare, wet
stones was a human being. He had just been aroused from a dreary sleep,
and, supporting himself by the palms of both hands pressed upon the
floor, was peering at them through a fall of snow-white hair, which
drooped over the most mournfully white face that human eye ever gazed
upon. When he saw the light, and more than one human face looking in
upon his misery, this man, who scarcely knew what the presence of a
fellow-creature was, began to tremble with strange apprehension, and
crept half across the floor, whispering,

“Has she come—has she come?”

His eyes were bright as diamonds, his white face was full of piteous
entreaty; his voice sounded like the heartbroken prayer of a dying man.

They did not speak to him, but drew back, and partly closed the door
upon him. Then a wild shriek broke from the dungeon, a cry of anguish so
terrible that the page covered his face with both hands, and went
staggering through the dark passage like a drunken creature.

“Oh! if I could but take it back—if I could tear this one sin from my
soul!”

The governor heard this cry of anguish, but did not comprehend the
words. He had witnessed too many scenes like the one they had left to
tremble at the sight.

“Have no apprehensions,” he said. “They will not find him here in the
morning, rest content; not even the king knows all the secrets of the
Bastille. There exist lower dungeons yet.”




                             CHAPTER XLII.
                         THE PAGE TRANSFORMED.


At daylight the next morning, a dashing page, clothed in the livery of
some great house, which no one in Versailles could satisfactorily
identify, came riding up the streets of the town entirely at his
leisure, and looking around curiously as if the place were new to him.
He dismounted in front of The Swan, and calling for a hostler in the
affected and somewhat effeminate voice so fashionable among his class,
entered the inn.

“What do I please to want?” he said, giving a twirl to the long
love-lock that waved down his shoulder. “First, I shall want some
breakfast, and a room in which this dilapidated toilet can be arranged;
for, upon my honor, madame, I am ashamed to stand in this guise before a
lady of so much taste, and so fine a presence—queenly I might say, but
that I fear so much familiarity might——”

“Nay, speak out—speak frankly, my friend,” said Dame Tillery, fluttering
heavily. “It is true, the air of a court may cling to one; indeed, I
feel that it is so. Since yesterday this inn, large and commodious as
every one will admit, seems too small for me. There is no room for the
expansion that comes natural after a free intercourse with royal
personages.”

“Ah! I understand; but there is nothing surprising in the fact that
royalty knows where it can bestow favors.”

“Not favors, but confidence,” interposed the dame.

“Yes, confidence. I dare say it is you who have granted favors.”

Dame Tillery drew close to the page, first looking over her shoulder to
make sure that no one was listening.

“Would you call it a favor if a person I will not mention, being modest,
had saved the queen’s life?”

“Would I?” answered the page, stepping back and throwing a world of
reverence and astonishment into his air; “that would be to make one’s
self immortal. Ah! if the chance had been given me.”

“You could not have done it. Such things require strength and wonderful
presence of mind.”

“I dare say; in fact, the thought was presumption. If I could but obtain
an audience with her highness, it would be glory enough for me, even
though I do bring her good news.”

“Indeed,” said the dame. “Is that your business? Good news for her
highness, and no one to introduce you. Well, we shall see what can be
done.”

“Kind and noble, as they told me,” answered the page, with enthusiasm.
“‘Go to Dame Tillery, of The Swan. She has power, she has influence with
the court; her introduction will be the making of you.’ This was what
was said to me.”

“But who said it? Pray tell me, who said it?”

“Ah! that is my secret. Some one who knows you well and understood how
you are considered up yonder;—but we will mention no names—diplomacy
forbids it.”

“Diplomacy!” said the dame, somewhat puzzled by the word. “Certainly, I
understand. He is the lord you serve, who sends good news to the queen.
It would be a shame, a pity, if you could not reach her; but, as I said
before, we shall think of it.”

“And now for the room and the breakfast,” answered the page, accepting
her patronage with a profound bow.

“The breakfast I can promise you—in that respect The Swan is never
wanting; but as for a room, the truth is, I have a person here whose
name I need not mention, as it might be an offence to some one we know
of—a lady whom one neither wishes to entertain or offend, but who has
taken every room in my house for herself and her train; but there is a
closet next her own chamber, which a little marmosette of a page sleeps
in; I will turn him out and give the room to you. Only move softly and
speak low, for the partition is thin, and there is danger of being
overheard.”

The page bowed low again with a hand on his heart.

“I see that the praise I heard of madame’s goodness is well bestowed.
Place me anywhere, I shall be content, so long as there is a pallet on
which I may snatch a few hours’ rest, and light enough to refresh my
toilet by.”

“The room has a glazed window, and you shall not be disturbed.”

“Meanwhile, perhaps you will think of some method by which I can speak
to the queen.”

“It is difficult, very difficult; but there are few things that Dame
Tillery cannot accomplish when all her energies are set upon it. This is
the room; marmosette has arisen—go in, go in; if he has left anything
there, set it outside the door, and draw the bolt. I see his bed has not
been touched.”

The page stepped over the threshold, saying,

“I will not disturb the lady with any noise.”

“Oh! never mind her—she cannot rule here! The time was—but no matter; a
good morning’s sleep to you. When the breakfast is ready you shall be
informed.”

The page entered the little room assigned to him, threw himself on the
pallet-bed, and burst into a low, rich gush of laughter, that was little
in keeping with the promise he had made not to disturb the lady in the
next room. A few minutes after Zamara came to the door. The page sprung
up, drew the bolt, and gave the dwarf a glimpse of his laughing face.

“Go away!” he said, “I am here safe and well. Your lady will sleep late;
she is ill—has an abominable headache. I should not wonder if she keeps
her bed all day.”

Zamara left the door infinitely relieved, for he had been very anxious
during the night. In the passage he met Dame Tillery.

“How has your lady rested?” she inquired. “Have you seen her this
morning?”

“No; but I will inquire,” answered the dwarf.

“It is time, we must be thinking about her breakfast.”

“I fear madame will have but little appetite; she was not well last
night.”

“Still we must take her orders. Yes, yes, I am coming! Was ever a house
like this! Dame Tillery here, Dame Tillery there! If I could cut myself
into a dozen, it would not be enough. You hear how they are calling me,
marmosette. In ten minutes I will be back again—expect me.”

Zamara went at once to the door which he had just left, and, after a
faint knock, put his lips to the key-hole, and whispered something to
the person he heard moving inside. Then he sauntered away, waiting
patiently for the reappearance of the dame. She appeared at last,
breathing heavily, and flushed with the exertion she was forced to make
in lifting her ponderous weight up the stairs.

“Now you will make inquiries about madame,” she said. “It is important;
I have so much to accomplish before presenting myself at the chateau.”




                             CHAPTER XLIII.
                       THE LAST ROULEAU OF GOLD.


Zamara walked softly to Madame Du Berry’s chamber and knocked at the
door. A voice bade him come in, and he disappeared. Directly he came
back and beckoned to the dame, who was glad enough to enter the
sleeping-room of her guest. She would not have known the room in her own
house, so completely was it metamorphosed. Silken hangings fell over the
windows through which the light came, richly filling the chamber as with
a warm sunset. The only table in the room had been covered with a
scarlet cloth, on which golden scent-bottles, pomade-boxes, and caskets,
shone in gorgeous profusion. Instead of the best sheets and blankets
that her linen-closet could afford, Dame Tillery saw sheets of the
finest linen peeping out from blankets of delicate lamb’s-wool, and over
them was a coverlet of pale green satin, which swept the oaken floor
with a border of delicate embroidery.

In this bed, with her hair all loose, and her night-dress open at the
throat, lay Madame Du Berry, with all the rouge washed from her face,
and her head resting languidly on the snowy whiteness of her pillows.
She certainly had all the appearance of an invalid. The countess held
out her hand with a gentle smile.

“This is kind,” she said; “I have been so ill in the night. You are
looking at these things. It is foolish, I know, but they please me—they
have become necessary; so, when I travel, Zamara always has them ready.
I hope you are not offended.”

“Offended! Well, I was, almost! Her majesty, I think, would not have
scorned to sleep in my best room as it was.”

“Ah, dame! but she is the queen. She has everything, while I possess
nothing but old memories and habits, that make commonplace things
repulsive.”

“I do not know about it. Princes have slept in this room before now, and
never seemed to feel a want. Well, madame, if you are so dainty, the aid
of Dame Tillery can be nothing to you. I shall not take your message to
the queen, remember that.”

“Ah, dame! this is unkind.”

“I think it is only prudent.”

“Well, if you really refuse, I have nothing more to say. There was a
time when the most courageous woman in Versailles would have been afraid
to refuse a request of mine.”

“But now it would take the bravest woman in Versailles to grant a
request from the Countess Du Berry.”

“But you have courage for anything.”

“Not for that. When the Queen of France selects a favorite from the
people, she expects discretion—and that she shall find with Dame
Tillery.”

“But you have already introduced a stranger—that young girl.”

“Ah! but that is another matter; the difference here is that Madame Du
Berry is not a stranger.”

Du Berry almost laughed at the blunt frankness of this speech.

“Well, well,” she said, “if you will have nothing to do with me, I
cannot help it; but you have lost a rouleau of gold which I had already
counted out.”

Dame Tillery had evidently forgotten the gold, or she might not have
been in such haste to assert her determination. Her countenance fell;
her fat fingers worked nervously in the folds of her dress.

“Well,” she said, “tell me what the message is and I will
decide—everything depends on that.”

A mischievous smile quivered around Du Berry’s mouth, and amusement
twinkled in her eyes.

“No,” she said, “I will not embarrass you; perhaps I shall myself go to
the chateau.”

“What, you?”

“Possibly. At any rate, I will bring no one else into disrepute.”

Dame Tillery was crestfallen enough. She had expected to be argued with
and implored, but found herself utterly put aside.

“But I did not mean to be altogether unaccommodating. It was the slight
you put upon my room that aggravated me. There is not a more obliging
woman in the world than Dame Tillery, if she is a little restive at
times. So, if your message is a safe one——”

Du Berry rose to her elbow, and with her still fine hair falling around
her shoulders, drew a ponderous gold watch, flaming with jewels, from
under her pillow.

“It is getting late,” she said. “You will have scarcely time to prepare;
as for me, talking makes my head ache.”

Dame Tillery arose, feeling the poorer by a rouleau of gold.

“Madame has had no breakfast,” she said, still lingering.

“Not a morsel,” murmured Du Berry, closing her eyes with an appearance
of disgust. “I shall not eat a mouthful to-day.”

“But, shall I send nothing?”

“On the contrary, I must have profound rest. No one but Zamara need
approach me. He will understand if I want anything.”

Dame Tillery went out, feeling herself put down; but she had no time to
dwell on her disappointment. The breakfast of that dashing page had not
yet been served, and the time was fast approaching when she was to
appear at the royal chateau. She hurried down to her kitchen, saw that
the stranger’s meal was in reasonable forwardness, and then gave herself
up to the mysteries of a most wonderful toilet, in which she appeared an
hour after, armed with her fan, and rustling like a forest-tree in
October.

The dame joined her latest guest, who seated himself at the table, with
his hair freshly curled, his laces spotless as gossamer, and the ribbons
on his dress fluttering airily.

“Ah! but this is magnificent!” he said, with an affected lisp. “Who
shall say after this it is the nobility alone that understand what is
befitting the presence of royalty? Under such protection I shall be sure
of success.”

Dame Tillery had found such unthought of success in her last protégée
that she was emboldened to test her fortune again, and, being a woman,
was particularly pleased that this time her companion would be a
handsome and dashing fellow, who would not feel abashed by anything he
might see at the palace.

“You are in haste, I see,” observed the page, helping himself to the
nearest dish; “but this omelet is delicious, and I must detain you for
another plate.”

“Take your time; take plenty of time,” answered the dame, charmed that
he should have praised the dish she had herself prepared; “it will be
half an hour before her majesty can be kept waiting, so there is no
especial haste; still it is always well to be ready.”

The page finished his omelet, shook off a crumb or two of bread, that
had fallen among his ribbons, and arose.

“Pray, my good dame, glance your eyes over my person, that I may be sure
that all is right,” he said, pluming himself like a bird. “It seems to
me that this love-lock might be brought forward the fraction of an inch
with good effect. Pray let me have your judgment on the matter.”

Dame Tillery took the glossy curl between her fat thumb and finger, laid
it very daintily a little forward on the shoulder, and stood back with
her head on one side to mark the effect.

“That is perfect,” she said. “The Duke de Richelieu’s love-lock fell
just in that way when he presented us yesterday. He is a handsome man, a
little younger than you, I should think; but if I were to choose——”

“Younger than me, dame, that seems impossible. Look again.”

It seemed as if the page were determined to challenge the woman’s most
critical attention, for he went close to her that she might scrutinize
his face, and exclaimed at last,

“Now, can you persist in saying that I am not younger than the Duke de
Richelieu?”

“Well, I am not sure. At a little distance I should say no; but with the
light on your face—”

“There, there! do not say it, the very thought breaks my heart,” said
the page, interrupting her airily. “One does so hate to feel the bloom
of his youth going. But I am keeping you. It is time—it is time.”

Dame Tillery took her fan from a corner where she had placed it, and
settling all the amplitude of her garments, led the way into the street,
and sailed off toward the palace like a frigate with all her canvas set
to a stiff breeze.

The people of the town, who had by this time heard pretty generally of
her good fortune, crowded to their doors and windows to see the dame
pass. Children paused, open-mouthed, in the street, wondering at her
finery; and those who met her stood aside, as if contact with royalty
had given her some mysterious prerogatives, which they were bound to
reverence.

The dame felt all this glory with wonderful exhilaration. She bowed
graciously, right and left, as she moved on; gave one or two near
acquaintances the tips of her plump fingers in passing, and swept
through the palace gates like an empress.




                             CHAPTER XLIV.
              DAME TILLERY OBTAINS AN AUDIENCE IN THE PARK


There had been no audience arranged for Dame Tillery that day. The queen
wished to see her, that some proper reward might be given for the danger
she had run, and, perhaps, promised herself some little amusement from
the eccentric vanity of the good woman, whose superb airs had excited
the merriment of all her ladies. But the day happened to be very lovely,
and Marie Antoinette forgot her gratitude so far that she went into the
Park with one or two of her favorites, ready for any amusement that
might present itself, and in a humor to enjoy the bright, fresh air of
those green glades with peculiar relish. She was unusually happy that
day—kind acts bring a glow of contentment with them. She was pleased
with the great blessing her interposition had secured for that young
girl; she was grateful that an outstanding wrong of such terrible
duration had been redressed. No harassing intelligence had reached her
from the city, and she went forth from her palace cheerfully, like a
child let out from school before the stated hour.

“After all, my Campan, this is a beautiful world,” she said, lifting the
folds of her dress enough to reveal her dainty high-heeled shoes, as she
descended the broad flight of steps that led to the grand fountain. “It
is full of music and lovely colors. How greenly the trees overarch that
arcade; how bright the grass is. Oh! if these people in Paris would only
let us alone for a little while we might be very happy here. The king
asks so little; and I—tell me, my Campan, am I very unreasonable? Do I
require so much more than other women?”

Madame Campan lifted her soft eyes to the handsome face bent upon her,
and Marie Antoinette saw that they were misty with tears, such as sprang
readily from her affectionate heart.

“Ah, my mistress! if the people only knew how little would satisfy you,
how earnestly you seek their welfare, rather than your own, all the
discontent we hear of might pass away as yonder mist arises from the
lawn, and turns to silver in the sunshine.”

“How I wish it might,” answered the queen, fervently. “Sometimes I think
it is my presence in France that has occasioned all this broad-spread
discontent. Yet the people seemed to love me once. You remember how they
would go into a tumult of delight if I but waved a bouquet to them from
my box at the theatre; how they would crowd around my carriage only for
a sight of my face. Tell me, Campan, was it because I was younger then
and more beautiful, or is it that they have really learned to hate me?”

Campan shook her head, and heaved a deep sigh while her affectionate
glance rested on that queenly face.

“The people loved their queen once, and will love her again when the
terrible clamor of the clubs has worn itself out,” she said, speaking
from her simple wisdom, for she could not comprehend any of the great
causes of discontent which lay seething in the riotous city of
Paris—causes that were rooted so deep in the past, that it has taken
almost a century to discover and trace them back through the awful
convulsion they led to. “The people have their caprices,” she added,
“and change easily. Wait a little, and all this popularity will come
back.”

“God grant it!” said Marie Antoinette, clasping her hands, and looking
upward where the blue sky, bright with silvery sunshine, bent over her
like a promise. “I did not know how sweet it was to be beloved until
this terrible change came.”

The queen was growing anxious, the bright spirits with which she had
left the palace were saddened by the turn her conversation had taken.
She walked on awhile thoughtfully, and with all the beauty of her face
clouded, as it was so often of late; but after awhile she seemed to
throw off this depression, and looked up with a smile.

“You are a kind prophet, my Campan, and I will believe you. Why should a
people I have never wronged hold me in perpetual dislike? I will not
believe it! I will not believe it!”

Madame Campan smiled till all her round face was aglow. She was
delighted that any words of hers should have brought courage to her
beautiful mistress. The queen had more genial sympathy with Campan than
any other person in her household. During all her residence in France,
this cordial, kind-hearted woman had been so closely knitted with her
domestic life, that a spirit of sisterhood had sprung up in the queen’s
bosom toward her. The little woman herself fairly worshiped her
mistress, while she never forgot the vast distance that lay between
them.

“Let us turn down this shady path,” said the queen, who, for the moment,
had outwalked all the ladies that had followed her, except Campan; “no
matter if we do lose them. It is so pleasant to be alone; but we must
talk of more cheerful things, my Campan. I, too, will believe that this
black cloud will be swept away from France, and that our bright days
will come back again. It shall be my policy, as it surely is my
pleasure, to conciliate the people. That was not an unwise thing which
his majesty did yesterday—I mean the pardon of that poor girl’s father.”

“It was an act of justice—a brave act, because just now dangerous,
perhaps.”

“Dangerous, my Campan! How?”

“Because the awful wrong done this man by one king, has been continued
so far into the reign of another, that the people will never distinguish
which has been most in fault.”

“I did not think of this,” said the queen, thoughtfully, “but the pardon
was right in itself; and if it had not been that lovely girl did, in
fact, save me from being torn to pieces, I could not have refused her,
though the life she gave me had been at stake.”

“Our Lady forbid that I should say anything against a clemency as
fearless as it was just. I did but speak of the unreasonableness of the
people,” said Madame Campan, glancing anxiously at the queen’s face,
which was again overclouded.

The king must have had some apprehensions when he hesitated, she
thought; but in my impulsive gratitude I forgot everything but the fact
that this poor man was unjustly incarcerated, and that his child had
flung herself between me and death. Well I am glad, only these ideas
were in my mind; too much caution makes cowards of us all. I, also,
might have hesitated, for these times harden one’s heart fearfully.
Still, with those wistful eyes looking into mine, I must have done
it—and I am glad it is done.

When she came to this conclusion in her mind, Marie Antoinette lifted
her head from its bent attitude, and looked around smiling.

“I think we have escaped our ladies,” she said, with a gleam of the
sparkling mischief in her eyes which Madame Campan knew well, but had
seen so rarely of late. “Oh! here they are coming, I can see their
dresses through the branches. We must take up our state now, my Campan,”
she said with a sigh, “there is no escaping it.”

“But it is not the ladies,” said Campan, shading her eyes and looking
through the trees; “but—but——Why, your highness, it is the woman who
taught us how to churn.”

“What, my dame of the dairy! I had forgotten all about her,” answered
the queen, laughing. “Well, I am glad, she finds us here. But who is
this coming with her?”

“A page; but I do not know the livery,” answered Madame Campan. “He
lingers behind, now that he has seen your highness. Shall the woman
approach?”

“Oh, yes! We shall find amusement in her, if nothing more. You have my
purse; it will be needed, for, after all, the woman has done us a
service; but for her we should never have met that young girl, or the
man who took that fierce animal by the horns. Let her approach.”

Madame Campan laughed with the faintest, mellow chuckle in the world,
spite of the high sense of etiquette that reigned at court. In fact, she
could not help it; for Dame Tillery was approaching toward them, her
face all smiles, her dress in a flutter of gorgeous colors, her closed
fan held in the middle like a baton, and her body swaying forward now
and then in a ponderous salutation, which was repeated over and over
again as she approached the queen.

Marie Antoinette had too keen a sense of the ridiculous to think of
reprimanding her lady; in fact, she put up one hand, and gave a little
cough behind it to break up an impulse to laugh, which was almost
irrepressible with that woman in sight; but as Dame Tillery drew close
to her, a gentle gravity covered this feeling, and she kindly bade the
dame draw near.

With all her boastfulness, there was something in that presence which
subdued the exuberance of Dame Tillery’s self-conceit. So she came
forward smiling and blushing like a peony in the sunshine, and waited in
a flutter of expectation for the queen to address her.

“So, my good dame, you have found your audience, though we had forgotten
it,” said Marie Antoinette.

Dame Tillery performed one of her profound courtesies, which swept the
grass with the swelling circumference of her garments.

“The gentleman up yonder knowing that the queen desired my company, bade
me and my companion walk in the Park until the pleasure of your highness
should be known; these were his very words.”

“So you came out here to see our Park, and chanced upon this spot. Well,
dame, all places are proper where a service is to be rewarded. Madame
has a purse of gold that I have desired her to present to you.”

Madame Campan arose, smiling, and placed the purse in Dame Tillery’s
hand, which was rather reluctantly extended. The queen who was not
accustomed to see her favors received with awkward silence, looked a
little annoyed; but before she could speak, Dame Tillery had dropped
down on her knees in the grass, making what a school-girl would have
called enormous cheeses with her dress, and clasped her plump hands in a
passion of entreaty.

“Take the money back. Oh! your royal highness and sacred majesty, take
back the gold! It is another reward I want.”

“Another,” said the queen, scarcely caring to check the burst of
sunshiny humor that came over her face. “Well, let us hear what it is
that you love better than gold.”

“Oh, madame! Oh, my queen! I love the wife of our king ten thousand
times better than gold or precious stones. I want to serve her; I want
to adore her. I pine to go forth among the people and say how good, how
grand, how beautiful she is! I wish to say that it is not always from
the nobility she chooses those who serve her; but where the people have
ability, she is ready to acknowledge it.”

“And so I am,” answered Marie Antoinette, looking at Madame Campan for
sympathy with this new idea. “So I am, if that would please our
subjects; but how to begin.” The queen had addressed her companion in a
low voice, but Dame Tillery heard her. Leaning forward, and pressing one
hand into the grass, she lifted herself up and spoke with great
earnestness, before the little governess had time to collect her
thoughts.

“I do not ask to be made a lady of the palace!”

Here the smile that had hovered about the queen’s lips broke into a
laugh, so clear and ringing that the dame stopped abruptly, and looked
around to see what object could have given her majesty such amusement;
but discovering nothing, she went on,

“No, I ask nothing of that kind; but there is a position, a title, as
one may assert, that a woman of the people might fairly claim. Make me
the Dame of the Dairy.”

Again that laugh rang out louder and more prolonged, until tears
absolutely leaped down the queen’s cheek, and so sparkled in her eyes
that she was obliged to use her handkerchief.

Dame Tillery drew slowly back, and her broad face clouded. She began to
comprehend that the laughter was for her.

“Is it so strange,” she said, with something like dignity, “that a woman
of the people should ask to be mistress of the queen’s cows?”

Marie Antoinette arose, and continued wiping the tears from her laughing
eyes. Dame Tillery’s face grew more and more stormy. She cast the purse
at Madame Campan’s feet, and was turning away in hot anger, when Marie
Antoinette’s voice arrested her.

“Strange, dame—no, it is not strange. Only the title; but, after all, it
is a good one, and expresses the duties well. So, henceforth, consider
yourself as belonging to the court, and Mistress of the Dairy at the
little Trianon. But all positions have a salary attached, so take up the
purse, it contains yours for the next half year.”

Dame Tillery stooped with some difficulty, and lifted the purse from
Madame Campan’s feet. Her broad face was rosy with happiness as she
turned it on the queen.

“The people shall hear of this—they know Dame Tillery. When she speaks
they listen and believe. The queen has enemies among the people of
Versailles—they shall disappear.”

When the good woman ended this speech, tears stood in her eyes. She
turned to go away, but saw the page lingering a little way off, and was
reminded of her promise.




                              CHAPTER XLV.
                            ONE VIRTUE LEFT.


“Madame, your highness.”

The queen, who had been somewhat moved by Dame Tillery’s earnestness,
met her return with a pleasant, questioning look.

“Your highness, before coming here I made a promise. Yonder page, who
has something that he wishes to lay before your highness, besought me to
let him follow my poor footsteps to the royal presence. Bethinking me of
the great good which chanced to the young demoiselle who was made so
happy yesterday, simply because she came under Dame Tillery’s wing, I
could but give this young man his opportunity.”

The good-humor with which Marie Antoinette had received the woman, who
took such extraordinary liberties, was not yet exhausted. She glanced
toward the page, and her practised eye discovered at once that he must
belong to some powerful family. She made an assenting gesture with her
hand, which the page comprehended even better than Dame Tillery, and he
advanced at once.

Marie Antoinette’s keen eyes were bent on his face as he came clearly
out of the shadows. Somewhere, it seemed to her, that she had seen it
before, but she could not recognize the colors that ought to have
distinguished him as the follower of any great family well known to the
court, and was a little puzzled to guess who he was.

Nothing could be more courtly than the manner of the page as he drooped
his hat, and bent his perfumed head low before the queen.

“You have some message? You would speak with us?” she said, with that
gentle grace in which she was surpassed by no queen in Europe.

“Your highness, may I crave an especial indulgence, and ask that my
message may be given to your majesty alone?”

The queen looked at her strange visitor searchingly a moment, then waved
her hand; at which Madame Campan drew discreetly out of ear-shot, after
giving Dame Tillery the signal that she was expected to withdraw.

“Now,” said the queen, “what is the message you bring, and from whom?”

She lifted her hand as she spoke, from which the glove had been
withdrawn, and among the jewels that blazed on the slender fingers was
the serpent holding that scarabee in its folds. Marie Antoinette saw
that the face she looked upon was turning coldly pale; this agitation
disturbed her a little, and she drew a step back, watching it keenly.

“I come,” said the page at length, recovering from what seemed to have
been a sudden shock, “I come from one who wishes to be a friend to the
Queen of France, and who may have some power to aid her; but at present
I am forbidden to reveal the name.”

“This is a strange message,” said the queen.

“Not strange, unless gratitude is unusual,” answered the page, with
profound respect. “This person has once received great kindness and much
undeserved forbearance from the King and Queen of France, and she would
gladly prove, in some way, that the favors so royally conferred have not
been thrown away.”

A faint and almost bitter smile curled the lips of the queen.

“This is, indeed, a stranger thing than I dreamed of. Does some one
offer the king help out of simple gratitude?”

“Out of simple gratitude, nothing more. Nay, so anxious is the lady——”

“Then your principal is a lady,” cried the queen, interrupting him, “and
one who has been the recipient of royal favors, too; this is more and
more remarkable. Well, what is it that she wishes?”

“Only this, your highness; through the royal munificence this lady has
become rich.”

The queen lifted her hand while she seemed to reflect; but after a
little she shook her head.

“There have been so many such, that I fail to guess at your mistress
from the number: but out of them all she seems to be foremost in finding
a memory for thanks.”

“My mistress would do more. She has heard—it may not be true—but she has
heard that in these disturbed times the royal exchequer is often in want
of money. She has some to spare, that is, to give back, if it will help
the king to struggle through the difficulties that beset the throne.”

Marie Antoinette drew herself up as the object of this speech dawned
upon her; but the color gradually grew fainter on her face, and a flush,
as of hardly suppressed tears, came about her eyes when the page ceased
speaking, and with downcast look awaited her answer.

“This is kind, but very, very strange,” she said, as if reasoning with
herself. “Where and when have we dealt so generously with this lady,
that she is ready to stand by the throne when so many that should have
upheld it to the last are ready to flee anywhere to save themselves even
from unpopularity.”

“I was forbidden to explain further than I have already done,” answered
the page; “but of this your highness may be certain, so long as my
mistress possesses a Louis d’or, it belongs to the Queen of France.”

Marie Antoinette was touched by this strange offer. Such generous acts
had been very rare with the court of late; and she felt this all the
more keenly. She would have given much to know who the friend was who
offered such help, and yet concealed everything.

“That your highness may have no doubt,” continued the page, “I was
empowered to beg your acceptance of this, and to say that twice the
amount will await the royal order whenever it is needed.”

The page took from the bosom of his dress a slip of paper, which
represented so large a sum of money that the queen opened her eyes in
astonishment.

“There is no need of this now,” she said, with deep feeling; “take it
back to the generous lady who sent it. Say that the queen is grateful,
but can yet look to the people of France for such support as the throne
may need.”

“But should the time ever come?” said the page, receiving the order with
hesitation.

“Then we will refuse help from no loyal man or woman of France who has
power or wealth to give—for it will be for the nation not ourselves that
we shall receive.”

“May the time be far away when France shall be so menaced,” said the
page, looking wistfully at the queen’s hand, from which the green tints
of the scarabee stood out in dull relief among so many jewels. “But the
time may come when even the best friends of the monarchy may not find
easy access to the queen, when even the little help my mistress could
give would not find its way to the royal coffers.”

“Nay, this is a dark view to take even of gloomy times. Those who love
their sovereigns have seldom found it difficult to gain access to them
through friends or enemies.”

“Even now,” said the page, “when my object was a loyal one, I was
compelled to crave assistance from yonder good-natured dame, who almost
forced a passage for me through the guards.”

The queen looked toward Dame Tillery, who was walking up and down in a
neighboring avenue, watching the interview between her protegé and the
queen with some jealousy and impatience. The smile which brightened that
beautiful face seemed to encourage the page.

“If I had anything that would insure me entrance to the royal presence
without such delay as has impeded me now,” he said, looking so wistfully
at the queen’s hand that she observed the glance.

“That is easy,” she said, with the quick imprudence of action which cost
her so dearly, “one of these——”

She was about to take one of the jewels from her finger, but with an
impulse he could not control, the page cried out,

“Not that; not that, your highness, it is of value; but that serpent
with the dull-green beetle in its coil. Oh! I pray you, let me have that
as a token!”

Marie Antoinette drew the scarabee half off her finger, then thrust it
back, remembering how little she knew of the person before her.

“No,” she murmured, “this is a talisman;” and with a sudden gesture of
dismissal, she walked toward Madame Campan, leaving the page standing
there, trembling under what might have seemed a trivial disappointment.




                             CHAPTER XLVI.
                        WAITING FOR THE MORNING.


All night long Marguerite Gosner lay by her mother’s side, with that
precious paper folded close to her heart. She did not sleep, though the
last two days had been full of excitement and fatigue; but her wild,
bright eyes were wide open, looking through the darkness, and picturing
there a scene of exceeding joy that would come to them upon the morrow.
How often during that night did she steal her hand under the pillow, and
draw forth the ivory crucifix hidden there, that her lips, all quivering
with thankfulness, might kiss it in blessing of the Holy Mother for the
great happiness that filled her heart. Yet all this was done so quietly
that the woman by her side thought the girl asleep, and scarcely dared
to draw an irregular breath lest she might disturb her. Thus the morning
found both mother and child so restless with happiness, that it amounted
almost to pain.

“What if they would not give him up,” thought the poor woman, who had
been so often thrust back from her hope, that nothing good ever seemed
quite sure to her; “or he may be taken suddenly ill and unable to move.
The king might be persuaded to retract his mercy—she had heard of such
things.”

Thus the poor woman, who had been so long inured to suffering that she
did not know how to be happy, tormented herself through that long, long
night; but when the day broke and Marguerite’s eyes looked into hers all
this changed. Her heart leaped toward the hope held out to it. She
reached forth her arms, and drawing the young girl to her bosom with an
intensity of affection never known to her before, cried out,

“To-day, this very day, we shall see your father, so good, so learned,
so wonderfully beautiful! Ah, Marguerite, my child! I almost feel his
last kiss on my lips, my forehead, my hair. You were clinging to me, one
arm about my neck, the other reaching forth to him. ‘Only a few days,’
he said, ‘and I may come back covered with honors. The King of France
has sent for me—Louis has learned that Gosner is wise, that he has a
knowledge of wonderful things. Perhaps, my wife, we may yet lay up
honors and riches for our little one.’ Then in this beautiful hope he
would come back and embrace us again. I was weeping, for a strange,
black presentiment of evil crept over me; but you sent kisses after him,
fluttering that little hand in the air like a butterfly. He waved his
hand in adieu; I saw him through my blinding tears; I watched him
depart. His voice sounded like a knell through my whole being; the
sorrows of an eternal parting fell upon me. Then I felt your arms around
my neck, and the soft pressure of your lips on my face; your tiny hands,
soft and white as rose-leaves brushed away my tears. Oh! how I loved
you, how I do love you—_his_ child, his child and mine.”

She threw her arms around the girl in a passion of love; then she pushed
the young creature away, and looked down in her face with a wild
consciousness of the great change that had fallen upon her. Beautiful as
the face was, it seemed to fill her with infinite regret.

“But his child is gone,” she cried out; “this is a woman who holds up
her arms and tries to comfort me. Gosner will not know her; he will not
know me. This child is the creature I was when he left us, young,
beautiful, delicate. In her he may recognize the woman he loved; but in
me what will he find, lines of sorrow where he left dimples, golden hair
turned to ashes, which long years of suffering strews upon the head.
Alas, alas! this is not all joy; these cruel people have dug a gulf
between us since I was like you, my child. When we meet, the young man
and that girlish wife will have disappeared forever. A man and a woman
will clasp hands, broken down with sorrow, each carrying a weight of
years that cruelty has rendered a dead blank. The king has pardoned him,
the queen has smiled on you; but is there in all their royalty power
enough to take back the awful wrong that has been done to us?”

Marguerite trembled and grew pale in her mother’s arms. Never, since her
first remembrance, had she seen that look of wild excitement on her
face, or heard that thrill of agony in her voice. And this was the
morning that should have been so resplendent in their lives. What did it
mean? Was it possible that the woman who had suffered so long and
struggled so bravely was lost to all sense of enjoyment? Had sorrow
absolutely killed hope in her bosom?

“But, mamma, you would both have grown older even if this great calamity
had not fallen upon you,” said the young girl, striving to reassure her
mother.

“Yes; but not here, not here,” cried Madame Gosner, pressing a hand upon
her heart. “Ah! this is terrible—we shall meet and not know each other.
We shall look into each other’s eyes and see nothing there but wondering
sorrow.”

“But there will be love also,” murmured the girl.

“Love? Yes, but never again the old love; regret, compassion, that
infinite tenderness which springs out of infinite sorrow will be ours;
but the darkness of the past will forever cast its shadows upon us.”

“Not so, mamma. We will leave this terrible country; back in your own
home, you and my poor father will yet find that life has its sunshine.”

“But this is my own native land.”

“I know it, mamma; but it has only given you sorrow.”

“And what have I given it? Nothing but the selfishness of my grief.”

“What else had you to give? Alas! what else?”

“My life, my energies, every thought of my brain, every pulse of my
heart; but I was selfish—one idea filled my existence. In my love for
him all other duties, all other wrongs merged themselves. I was a wife,
and could not be a patriot.”

“God be thanked that it is so!” said Marguerite. “The woman who loves
her husband and her home best is a patriot in spite of herself, for she
gives strength and power to the man whose duty it is to govern.”

Madame Gosner kissed the lips that uttered this noble truth, and lay
back upon her pillow silent and thoughtful. Then she murmured to
herself, “He will know, he will decide.”

Marguerite was also silent, the words uttered so passionately by her
mother troubled her. Did she, indeed, think with so much regret of the
country they were in? Could that overbalance the gratitude for the royal
clemency? Could she accept this noble act of pardon with a feeling of
revolt in her mind?

“Henceforth,” said Marguerite, with gentle firmness, “it will be our
duty to pray for the King and Queen of France, to live for them, die for
them, if need be.”

The mother was silent; to her this obligation of eternal gratitude was a
question of sacrifice. In her heart she loved France; but her life in
Paris had gradually uprooted all love of royalty there. To save her own
life she would not have asked mercy at the hands of a Bourbon king; to
save her husband she had done more, sunk upon her knees at the roadside,
only to be covered with mud by the royal cavalcade as it swept by her.
She remembered, though her daughter did not, that the pardon had been
granted as a reward for services rendered to the queen, not from an
absolute sense of justice. With all the passions and prejudices of a
Jacobin strong in her bosom, it was hard for this woman to accept simple
obligations of gratitude from a king she had learned to hate, and a
queen slander and misrepresentation had taught her to despise.

All this passed while the gray dawn was breaking, and after a night of
utter sleeplessness; but when the sunshine came, warm and golden, into
the windows, the woman arose in her bed, held out her arms to the light,
and thanked God for the blessed day, which was to give back her husband
from his living tomb! Then a feeling of intense gratitude possessed her.
She flung aside the dark thoughts that had haunted her soul in the
night, and was once more pure, womanly. All that she asked, was, that
_he_ might share her life in any peaceful place that promised safety and
shelter for the coming age which would soon be upon them.

Marguerite saw the change, and it completed her happiness. To her
gratitude had been prompt and natural as rain is to the earth. Heart and
soul she was devoted to the royal couple of France. Next to her mother,
and the father she expected to see, at perfect liberty, that day, her
thoughts were given to the two persons who had been so good and kind to
her.

The sun was scarcely up when these two persons were ready for the
summons which they expected from Monsieur Jacques. The remnants of a
poor wardrobe were brought forth and arranged by Marguerite so deftly
that an air of youth and refinement was imparted to the mother, which
gave back something of her lost loveliness. Never had that girl’s face
looked so bright; never had the eyes danced with such living joy; those
slender fingers absolutely seemed to be doing fairy-work with the
ravages of time.




                             CHAPTER XLVII.
                            DEAD SEA FRUIT.


It was a great relief to Marguerite that there was something for her to
accomplish; but for that the suspense would have been terrible. As it
was, Monsieur Jacques called an hour before there was any hope of being
admitted into the prison. “They would walk slowly,” he said, “and be
there at the moment. It would not be the first time he had wandered
around that old moat, and watched the grim towers as they blackened the
sky. Now, thank God! he could look upon them with hope.”

Marguerite lifted her blue eyes to his face as he said this. They were
bright as stars, and for the first time this strong man felt a thrill of
something like hope in his bosom. But for him Marguerite knew well
enough that her father’s freedom would never have been wrought out, and
she longed to throw herself at his feet, and bless him for all the joy
that made the morning a heaven to her.

They set forth more than hour before the time—Marguerite still carrying
the precious pardon in her bosom; the mother, pale as death, for to her
the next hour was momentous beyond anything a human life can experience
but once; and Jacques, so strong, so hilarious in his rejoicing, that
his very steps seemed regulated to martial music, and his face was
almost handsome in its exceeding brightness.

“Another hour,” he said, as he came in sight of the Bastille, “another
hour, and the sun will shine on him.”

All at once a new idea struck the man. He had been to the Bastille in
disguise more than once, through that means many of its secrets had
become known, among the most important that of Dr. Gosner’s identity. If
he presented the king’s pardon, the keeper might recognise him, and thus
destroy all chance of further information.

This fear made Monsieur Jacques hesitate. Madame Gosner saw this, and
the color left her face. At every step she had feared some delay, for
nothing but disappointment and trouble seemed absolutely real to her.

“What is it?” she said, in breathless terror. “Why do you hesitate?”

Monsieur Jacques explained the cause of his uneasiness. But directly the
cloud left his face. “It proves nothing,” he argued, “except that I am
connected with those who have power with the king. Let them recognize my
face, the paper itself is our indorsement of loyalty.”

Madame Gosner drew a deep breath, and the light came back to
Marguerite’s frightened eyes.

“I feared you were about to forsake us,” she said.

“Did you, indeed, fear it?” he asked, kindling with gratitude.

The intensity of his voice surprised her; she looked up wonderingly. To
her Monsieur Jacques was like a brother on whom her weakness could lean
with a certainty of support. Could she have seen the smothered passion
that lay crouching like a lion in his heart, ready to leap forth at a
word or smile from her, the truth would have frightened her. As it was,
she gave him a pathetic smile; for, with her whole being so preoccupied,
she could do no more than that, but it touched him to the heart.

By this time they were in sight of the Bastille, which was approached
through a tangle of narrow streets, and surrounded, so far as the
defences would permit, by low and squalid buildings, for the very
atmosphere of the prison drove thrift and cheerfulness away. Nothing but
misery itself could be forced into propinquity with the fetid waters of
that moat, or the sounds that came across it sometimes, when the night
was still.

Those three persons stood before the draw-bridge, which led to the
governor’s quarters; and looked across it with eager, wistful glances.
The gaunt towers, blackened with age, into which the light crept
sluggishly through narrow loop-holes that gashed them like wounds; the
flat, dead walls, thick almost as the quarries from which they were dug,
pierced in like manner with deep slits, which drank up all the light
before it penetrated to the dungeons, flung their terrible shadows in
the distance. Before them was the draw-bridge, with its ponderous
timbers uplifted and held in place by bars of iron that seemed to have
rusted in their staples, against which it strained and wailed like a
monster bolted to the wall.

Madame Gosner was deadly pale. She was looking upon the tomb of her
living husband. Would it ever be opened? Was there force enough in that
little slip of paper to loosen the hinges of the massive draw-bridge,
and unlock the iron-clad door that frowned behind it?

Time wore on. They saw the golden sunshine creep slowly down the towers,
bathing the top, but leaving the base in eternal shadows. Then there was
a movement at the draw-bridge, the chains began to rattle, the timbers
groaned, swayed, and settled heavily downward. Guards were being placed
for the day.

Monsieur Jacques advanced to the guard house and presented his order.
The guards passed him and his companions without a word—the king’s
signature was enough. In the guard-room they found Christopher. A grim
smile quivered across his mouth as he read the paper. Madame Gosner
shuddered. She could not mistake that smile for one of pleasure that a
prisoner was to be released. Still nothing could be more urbane than
this man. “He would call the governor; when an order of release came
directly from his majesty, it was usually honored by that high
functionary in his own person. Would monsieur and the ladies walk this
way?”

There was something forced and hollow in all this politeness, that made
the heart in that poor woman’s bosom sink like lead as she followed
Christopher into the presence of his master. Marguerite, who remembered
the good Doudel, remained outside with Jacques, afraid that the governor
would recognise her as the flower girl who had sought his presence once
before.

The governor, like his subordinate, was eloquent in expressions of
pleasure that the good king had at last extended mercy to a prisoner
whose fate had so much in it to deplore. “But he had a doubt, a fear,
that the prisoner might be unable to leave the Bastille for a day or
two. There had been a report that he was not quite well; indeed, that
was not wonderful. Dr. Gosner was almost the oldest prisoner now in the
Bastille, that is, counting from the date of his entrance into the
fortress. But the goodness of the king might give him new life. Madame
should judge for herself; they had no concealments in that place. When
the relatives of a prisoner come with an order from the king, all doors
were flung open. Would madame please to descend?”

Christopher appeared with the keys, and taking upon himself the air of a
commander, led the way into the heart of the prison. There was something
unnatural in this man’s demeanor, an air of bravado, which they all
noticed without comprehending.

“I think,” he said, loitering by the side of Jacques, “that I have had
the pleasure of meeting monsieur before, but where, I cannot remember.”

Jacques had dressed himself that morning with unusual care. A suit of
clothes, discarded during the last year, had been brought forth for the
occasion; and though Jacques was deficient in the high breeding which so
strongly distinguished the man of birth at that period, he possessed the
air and look of a man who had thought much, and would act his part
bravely, whatever it might be. The wild masses of hair that usually
half-concealed his eyes, was now parted, perfumed, and curled in waves
that revealed the white breadth of his forehead, and the keen power of
those deep-set eyes. With his coarse clothes he had flung off the
slouching gait and heavy tread of a workman, and it was with the air of
a person who considers the familiarity of strangers an impertinence,
that he turned full upon the head keeper.

“If you have been much in Paris when gentlemen happen to stir abroad, it
is possible,” he said, “though I have no recollection of the honor.”

He looked earnestly at Christopher as he spoke, and moved on with an
appearance of so much tranquillity that the man was baffled, and
muttering an excuse, walked on swinging his keys.




                            CHAPTER XLVIII.
                        THE BITTERNESS OF DEATH.


That little group moved forward in silence; the guards restless and
preoccupied; the two females, pale with expectation, and faint from the
nauseous atmosphere into which they were descending. Along dark, damp
passages, down slippery stairs, in and out of vaulted corridors, they
made progress toward that dungeon one of the party had visited only the
previous night. The door was heavy, and so sodden with damp, that the
iron-headed spikes rattled in their sockets as it was swung open, and
they could see water-drops glistening thickly on the walls as the light
was held into the dungeon a moment before Christopher entered.

At last he stepped in, and advancing to some mouldy straw that lay in a
corner, spoke to the man outstretched upon it, motionless, and
apparently asleep.

“Wake up, number five!” exclaimed the keeper, swaying his lantern to and
fro over the prostrate man. “Dr. Gosner! Dr. Gosner! Look up, if you
have not outlived the name; here is your wife come to take you home!”

The man did not move, his face was turned to the wall, a mass of gray
hair swept back and mingled itself with the straw, in which there was
the stir and sound of something creeping away from sight.

Madame Gosner pushed the keeper aside, and falling upon her knees, took
the gray head between her trembling hands. The moment she touched it, an
awful whiteness came to her face. Seized with trembling, she turned upon
the guard, her eyes full of horrible questioning, her lips apart, her
teeth gleaming. She spoke no word, uttered no sound, but fell down by
the dead body, lifeless, and still as it was.

Marguerite saw it all, and recognized the calamity that had fallen upon
them; but the disappointment was too mighty for words, far too awful for
tears; the light reeled before her eyes, the dungeon seemed to contract
itself into a grave. She felt herself falling, but Monsieur Jacques
caught her in his arms, and carried her from the dungeon. With the speed
and strength of a wild animal he threaded that labyrinth of horrors,
mounted the broken stairs, and carried her out into an open guard-room,
through which the morning air swept. Here he bathed her face with water,
rubbed her hands—but all was in vain; the dead man he had just left upon
the straw did not seem more lifeless than this young girl.

Jacques had left two living persons in the cell with the dead man, but
they were more like ghosts than human beings. The guard was
terror-stricken; the lantern shook in his strong hand.

“Is she, too, gone?” faltered Jacques, who had left Marguerite when she
returned to life, and stood looking down at the pale form lying by the
dead upon the straw. “God help us! This is fearful!”

“I do not know, she does not seem to breathe,” answered Christopher,
holding the light on a level with the deathly face. “If it were so, a
world of trouble might be spared us,” he whispered to himself. “I almost
wish we had not meddled with this. I fear me his death will bring us
greater evil than if we had turned him free into the street.”

“She is not dead,” exclaimed Jacques. “She moves, her eyes open.
Heavens, how they look!”

The woman arose upon her hands and knees painfully, and with evident
dizziness. Then she stooped over the dead man, and turned his face to
the light. The whole body moved in the straw as she did this; but
wonderful strength seemed given to her, and though it was like turning a
statue of marble, she did it tenderly. She put the scattering locks back
from the worn face, and pored over it with yearning fondness, as if she
had parted from her husband but yesterday, and hoped yet to arouse him.

“Changed! Oh, my love! how changed! and it seems such a little time, now
that we are together. Wake him for me—you can; it is the chill and the
damp of this awful place. No wonder he is cold! I, too, am shivering.
Wake him, I say—you should know how.”

“My poor woman, he is dead! I have no power over him now,” answered the
guard, shrinking from her outstretched arms.

Madame Gosner arose and stood upright, regarding the two scared faces
with a fixed look.

“It was you that killed him,” she said; “but who gave the order? Was it
the king?”

“The king! Madame, this is treason!”

“And this is death!” cried the woman, pointing downward with her finger,
“death! for which there shall be a terrible atonement. Where is my
child? Is she afraid of this poor clay, which was her father—her father?
Oh, my God! and he was alive but yesterday. Only one day too late. Where
is my child, I say? There is something for her to do.”

“She has gone away with your friend; he was here a moment ago, but has
gone back again; doubtless they are in the guard-room. Shall I show you
the way, madame?”

“No. Bring them to me here—my daughter and my friend.”

Christopher went out, glad to leave the woman whose very presence
terrified him. He found Marguerite just coming out of her fainting fit,
and besought her to go down and persuade her mother to leave the
dungeon.

Marguerite arose, shuddering at the thought of going down those horrible
passages again; but she gathered up her strength, and half supported,
half-carried by Monsieur Jacques, moved away into the darkness.

“Come hither! Come hither, my child! it is your father who speaks. It is
he who asks us with those mute lips to avenge his murder. Kneel down, my
child—kneel down, my friend. It is he who commands it. It is the dead
who speaks.”

Awed by her words, and the deep solemnity of her manner, Marguerite sunk
upon her knees and touched the cold hand of her mother that lay upon the
dead man’s forehead. Marguerite felt the chill strike through her
fingers, but she was brave, and did not once attempt to draw back.
Madame Gosner turned her eyes upon Jacques; he, too, knelt and bent over
the dead.

Madame Gosner lifted her right hand,

“Listen, oh, my God! here, in this awful place, and in the presence of
my dead, I swear, that I will neither rest or take thought of any other
thing, until the place in which my husband met his slow murder is razed
to the ground, and those who slew him are brought to justice. This child
in her innocence, this man in his strength, shall bear witness to my
oath.”

The woman arose slowly to her feet as she spoke, her hand still
uplifted, her finger pointed heavenward, the fire of a terrible resolve
burned in her eyes; her lips were set, her form dilated. She turned to
the guard, commanding him like a sibyl.

“Bring men hither who shall carry forth my dead. The people of Paris
must know how innocent men can be tortured out of their lives. Send two
of your guards. I will not leave the dungeon save with him.”

“It cannot be, madame. The king’s order demands the living body of
Doctor Gosner. It is not here. The man who died was a prisoner, and as
such he must be buried. This is the law.”

“But I, his wife, having the king’s order, command you.”

“Hardly, if the king himself commanded, could I obey him, for even he
must bow to the law.”

“Even he and his myrmidons shall bow to that stronger and grander power
than kings—the people!” she exclaimed; and turning to the dead man, she
took off her muslin scarf and laid it reverently over his face.
“Stronger now than in his life,” she said, passing out of the dungeon
with a firm step. “The last stone of this fortress shall be his
monument, and the people of France shall build it for him.”




                             CHAPTER XLIX.
                     A WOMAN’S NATURE TRANSFORMED.


Madame Gosner moved through the door, as she uttered a threat which was
treason in itself, leading Marguerite by the hand. Monsieur Jacques
remained behind, though Christopher stood waiting for him to depart,
holding the door with his hand. He had set down the lantern in the
passage that those who went out might have more light.

All at once, Jacques took up the lantern, passed through the door, and
lifting Madame Gosner’s scarf from the dead man’s face, held down the
light and closely examined the features. A quick intelligence came to
his eyes. He glanced at Christopher, and saw that he watched these
proceedings uneasily.

“Monsieur forgets that his friends are standing in the dark,” said the
guard, impatiently.

“No,” answered Jacques; “monsieur forgets nothing.”

Saying this, he set down the lantern, drew a knife from his pocket, and
stooping down, cut a lock of hair from the dead man’s temple. All this
was done with his back to the guard, who sprang forward and snatched up
the light at the moment, and thus was unconscious of the act.

A moment after the two men passed into the passage, the dungeon-door
fell to with a crash, and Christopher turned his key in the ponderous
lock with a smothered exclamation of thankfulness.

In the upper corridor Madame Gosner turned and addressed a sentence to
the guard, who was walking fast as if anxious to escape from the gloom
of the place. She paused a moment while speaking, and stood close by the
oaken door which marked the position of some cell which her voice had
penetrated. From that cell came a cry so wild, so plaintive and
thrilling, that the whole group stopped awe-stricken.

“Move on,” said the guard. “It is only some prisoner who has heard our
voices. No wonder he cries out; few strangers are ever admitted here,
and conversation in these vaults is an unknown thing.”

Marguerite went close to her mother, who stood immovable, listening
keenly.

Again the noise commenced, and a tumult of words seemed forcing
themselves through the oaken door, against which some heavy weight flung
itself with a violence that made all the rusty iron holding it together
rattle in staples and sockets.

“Move on! Move on!” cried the guard, stamping his foot with vehement
impatience. “Move on, madame! The prison has laws, and you are in the
act of breaking them.”

Christopher, who carried the light, walked forward with rapid strides,
and the rest were forced to follow him.

When Madame Gosner came into the light of the guard-room her eyes
gleamed like stars, and the deadly pallor of her face was terrible to
look upon. It seemed as if she had been walking through burning
ploughshares, and was ready to go still further along the fiery path.
The disappointment, which would have taken away all strength from
another woman, had given to her almost superhuman power.

When they reached the governor’s quarters, Christopher desired them to
enter, but Marguerite saw Doudel by one of the guard houses and went to
him, thus separating herself from the rest. The good man saw by her face
that some great evil had fallen upon her, and placed her on a stone
bench near him where she could rest in peace while her mother and
Monsieur Jacques followed Christopher into the governor’s presence. Here
the guard reported the death of his prisoner, which was received with an
appearance of profound commiseration.

The governor had recovered all his silky equanimity. With urbane
politeness he invited madame and her friend into his own apartments,
offered them wine and confections, as if people so disturbed could
partake of such dainties; and with elaborate hypocrisy regretted the
event which had made their visit to the prison so severe a
disappointment.

Madame Gosner listened to all this dumbly, and like one in a trance. Had
the man been a statue of granite, she could not have looked into his
face with less consciousness of the life that was in him. Some new idea
had taken possession of her faculties and locked up her whole being.

Glances of unrest passed between the governer and his subordinate; the
marble stillness of this woman seemed to threaten them with danger; her
appearance puzzled them. In her dress, and somewhat in her air, she
might have belonged to the people; but her language was pure, her manner
commanding. If she really was of the lower order, she must be one of
those who wield a powerful influence among her compeers, for when she
spoke, her words were impressive; when passion swayed her, as it had
done in the dungeon, they swelled into powerful eloquence that would
have stirred crowds with enthusiasm. She was the very woman to sway
ignorant masses; and such women were even now kindling up terrible
discontent among the people of Paris.

It was for this reason the governor strove to conciliate the woman
before she left the Bastille.

But Madame Gosner would neither eat or drink in his presence. Once she
crossed the room suddenly, as he was speaking, and laid her hand on his
arm, as if about to question him. But a change evidently came over her
purpose, and she drew back without having uttered a word.

Then, in dread silence, she left the prison, pale, haggard, and so
depressed by bitter disappointment, that she seemed more like a
prisoner, worn out with suffering than a human being acting from her own
free will.

Madame Gosner entered her room, and bade her two companions enter also.
Up to this time she had not spoken, but walked rapidly through the
streets of Paris, looking straight ahead and pressing her lips firmly
together, as if some sharp cry were attempting to break forth which she
would not permit to escape her.

When the door was closed and bolted, she turned upon Monsieur Jacques,
and looked him steadily in the face.

“Monsieur, you visited the prisoners once. Was the man we saw lying dead
in a dungeon of the Bastille my husband?”

“Madame, you ask me a hard question. I had my doubts, I have them still.
This man was of the same size, thin, emaciated, tall, with masses of
gray hair—all these belonged to your husband; but his eyes were closed,
all the sweet expression which made his face beautiful, even in that
dungeon had disappeared. It may have been the work of death, but my mind
rejects the identity.”

“My God, help us! How are we to know? In what way can the truth be
discovered?” exclaimed the woman passionately.

Monsieur Jacques drew a lock of hair from his bosom, which he held
toward her.

“I cut this from his head. The suspicion was strong upon me, and I
thought it might aid us in discovering the truth. Look! You should know
the color of his hair, for this is not all gray.”

Madame Gosner reached forth her hand, but drew it back again, shrinking
from a touch of the hair. She dreaded the conviction it might bring, for
wild as the hope was that had sprung up in her heart, she felt that all
strength would go from her if it should utterly fail. She took the hair
at last, something in the color reassured her.

“It is darker, less silky, coarser!” she exclaimed. “His hair was like
an infant’s, almost flaxen, with gleams of pale gold in it.”

“But time changes the hair more than anything else,” said Monsieur
Jacques. “I was wrong to think it a sure test. We must have some more
certain proof.”

“For another this may be insufficient, but I ask nothing more. My
husband’s hair never could become so dark or coarse as this.”

“Still opinion is no proof. Why should an imposition be practiced upon
us? How did the governor know that a pardon was coming?”

“Only through one channel. The king who signed the pardon may have taken
this method of evading it.”

“No, no! he never did that,” cried Marguerite.

“No one else had the power,” answered Madame Gosner. “If my husband is
yet alive, as I solemnly believe he is, and that I have heard his voice
this day, the fraud practiced upon us was known to the king, and done
under his sanction.”

“I would give my life to know the truth,” murmured Marguerite. “Oh! if
they would have taken my liberty in exchange for his!”

Monsieur Jacques drew close to the girl and bent over her.

“Would you give the man who searched out the truth, and afterward saved
your father, something dearer than liberty, your love?” he said.

She looked up earnestly.

“As God witnesseth the promise, I will try!”

Monsieur Jacques fell upon his knees, pressed a burning kiss upon her
hand, dropped it, and left the room.




                               CHAPTER L.
                         THE DAME OF THE DAIRY.


Dame Tillery called her household together, maids, grooms, and helpers,
and standing at a long table in one end of the most public room in her
house, proclaimed to them the high honor that day conferred on her by
the queen.

“Not altogether to myself has her majesty done this honor,” she said,
lifting her closed fan on high, and looking around benignly on her
retainers; “but as the sun sheds light on the weeds and the grass, as
well as the flowers, my glory shall, in some sort, fall on the humblest
of my servants; from this hour you may look upon yourselves as next in
service to the retainers of the high nobility of France. I have not
decided yet upon a livery or a badge, all that will be left to more cool
deliberation; but you can go forth with a feeling of high preferment;
and as such honors can no longer be kept secret, you have my free
permission to promulgate this good news throughout the town as occasion
may offer. Now, my humble friends, you may disperse for a holiday. In
the tap-room a cask of wine has been broached, free to every man and
woman in my employ. All that I ask is, that you drink the health of
their majesties, and your liege lady, The Dame of the Dairy.”

Dame Tillery opened her fan with the slow spread of a peacock’s tail,
waved it once or twice with superb dignity, and closing it into a baton
again, retired amid the bewildered shouts of her household. On her way
from the room she met the strange page, who came in hurriedly and
flushed with excitement. He was about to pass the landlady, but she
stood smiling in his way, and rendered that impossible.

“You had an audience, and such an one as no other person outside the
court could have obtained for you,” she said, in high good-humor. “Did
her majesty speak of the great honor conferred on your humble servant?
Did she say that, in her serene goodness, she had lifted Dame Tillery,
who stands here before you, into the nobility of France? Did she tell
you that this day a new order has been created, and Dame Tillery, of The
Swan, stands at its head?”

The page listened impatiently and did not seem to comprehend what the
woman was talking about; but, with a sudden start of memory, he drew a
rouleau of gold from his pocket and handed it to her.

“What is this? For whom is it intended?” she inquired, drawing her
portly figure up with a swell of importance.

“It is the gold I promised for the service you have rendered me, with
enough added to cover the cost of my lodging here,” answered the page.
“I give it now, because in a few minutes I shall take the road again.”

“Nay,” replied the dame, waving the gold aside with her fan, “that was
all well enough yesterday, when I was only mistress of The Swan; but I
have my doubts about it now. Can a person of my rank receive money in
her own person? I—I am in doubt—I think not.”

“I crave pardon,” said the page, and a laughing imp came dancing into
his eyes. “If there is any person in your household who can act as
treasurer, I will give the money to him.”

Dame Tillery, who had been all the while eyeing the rouleau of gold
askance, broke into an approving smile, and called aloud for one of the
men she had left in the public room, whom she ordered to take charge of
the money, and see that it was properly bestowed in her strong coffer;
then she turned to address the page again, but he was gone.

“Zamara.”

The dwarf started up and opened the door through which the page came in
haste.

“Zamara, I have failed; the ring is on her finger, but I cannot get it
off. Oh, Zamara! how often I have wished that wretched man had never
crossed my path!”

“It was a great misfortune, my lady. Nothing seems to have gone well
with us since that terrible ring was taken from his finger.”

“If we could only get it back again—if we could devise some way. Zamara,
can you think of no device by which it can be obtained? The poor queen
has given us nothing but kindness, and to her we have brought perpetual
disappointment—perhaps undreamed of trouble. Try, marmosette. In the old
times you were never at loss for invention—help me in this strait. I
cannot go away and leave that accursed serpent clinging to her hand.”

Tears stood in this hard woman’s eyes, she was passionately in earnest.
Zamara started up, and seizing her hand, kissed it with heathenish
devotion.

“Madame has spoken; Zamara has seen her tears, and will give his soul to
the task she appoints him.”

“My good Zamara, my kind, kind friend! I know that you will wrest this
talisman from her hand, if human ingenuity can do it. If I have trust in
mortal being, it is in you, my poor marmosette. But to help me in this
you must stay at Versailles, while I go up to Paris. Ah! this task of
uprooting the wrongs one has perpetrated is a hard one. Something
baffles me ever when I strive to do good, while it was so easy to be
kicked. Why is this, I wonder! Ah me! how different it might have proved
had I been born among the great, rather than forced upon them.”

“Madame, I hear some one at your chamber-door.”

“Go, go. It is doubtless that tiresome woman.”

The next moment Zamara stood by Dame Tillery, who was knocking loudly at
the door of Madame Du Berry’s chamber.

“Ah!” he said, “let me congratulate you, Dame; all the house is in
commotion—such joy, such unheard-of good fortune. Why, it is like being
made a princess. They wanted me to come down into the public room and
drink to this new dignity—but I said no. When madame herself appears, I
will drink to her health, but not with servants, only in her own august
presence. This was what I said, madame.”

Zamara pressed a tiny hand upon his heart, and bent low as he finished
speaking.

“That was the thought of a person endowed with most gentle breeding,”
said the dame, wheeling from the door full of hospitable thoughts. “Come
with me to my own room, where you will find something better than the
people down yonder would know how to relish. You shall taste of Burgundy
from the best bin in my cellar, the more readily because I wish to send
a flask to your mistress. It was this that took me to her door but now.”

Zamara stood by bowing and smiling, while the dame filled a goblet with
wine from a bottle that seemed to have rested years in her cellar, and,
though compelled to hold it between both hands, he drained it to the
bottom.

“Now,” said the dame, giving him a salver to carry, on which she had
placed a second bottle and glasses. “Follow me to madame’s room; she
must not be neglected when the lowest scullion in the kitchen rejoices.”

There was no difficulty of access now. The page had disappeared. His
clothes lay huddled in Zamara’s closet, and Madame Du Berry was in bed,
resting in a recumbent position on her pillows in a demi-toilet, but
with her hair less elaborately arranged than usual. She received Dame
Tillery with a smile, congratulated her warmly when she heard the good
news, tossed off a goblet of the sparkling Burgundy, and declared that
the exaltation of her friend had made her well—so well that she would
start for Paris within the hour, leaving Zamara behind to arrange the
baggage, and follow her when she should send for him.

Dame Tillery expostulated a little; but finding her guest positive,
allowed her to depart, but not till the bottle of Burgundy had been
drained in honor of her new dignity. What Du Berry refused to drink, the
jovial dame insisted on dividing with Zamara, whose eyes twinkled with
infinite mischief when she sat down with the bottle on her knee, and
proposed that he should drain glass for glass with her.

So confused became the happy landlady of The Swan before the hour was
gone, that she arose in the morning with a vague idea that the page had
left rather abruptly, but of the period when Madame Du Berry took her
departure, she had no recollection at all.




                              CHAPTER LI.
                         EFFORTS AT ATONEMENT.


Madame Gosner was absent from her apartments. The terrible
disappointment which had fallen upon her preyed so heavily upon her mind
that anything like repose was impossible. For the time she was at war
with life itself. The doubt that her husband was still living haunted
her like a cry of destiny. She said little, and scarcely tasted food.
The never-ending pain of her existence renewed itself, and threatened
destruction to both reason and life.

Marguerite felt the change and was so wounded by it that her young life
was doubly embittered. She did not share in her mother’s doubts of the
king and queen; but honestly believed that her father had perished in
prison, as thousands had died in that terrible place.

All these thoughts weighed down the heart of that young girl, for now
she felt more lonely than ever. She was crying bitterly in her solitude
when Monsieur Jacques came in. The man was greatly changed, both in
person and manner, since she first saw him. He had gradually thrown off
the rude dress and seeming of a plebeian, and assumed the garments and
habits of a gentleman of the second class. His hair no longer concealed
a noble forehead under its tangled masses; his hands were cleansed from
the dust of the work-shop; his features, having thrown off their heavy
expression, were grand rather than harsh. Marguerite did not know that
she herself had won this man out of his extreme radicalism, and lured
him back to his old nature, but it produced a kind and winning
impression on her, which deepened the gratitude already in her heart,
and would have made love a possibility but for the face she had seen
that day in the streets of Paris, when her first flowers were offered
for sale.

“Why is it that you weep?” he inquired, seating himself by the girl, and
taking her hand tenderly in his, as if it had been a lost bird he feared
to frighten.

“You ask me this, as if I had not double cause for tears,” she said,
lifting her eyes to his face with a look of pathetic desolation. “My
poor father is dead, I can no longer have a hope for him; my mother is
silent, stern, self-absorbed—she leaves me alone. Still you ask me not
to weep.”

“Marguerite!”

She looked up quickly; then her eyelids drooped, and the slow color came
to her cheeks. “You were about to say something, monsieur,” she said,
very softly.

“Is there nothing else that makes you unhappy? Has repentance for the
words you spoke the other day nothing to do with it? Is it that you
think it a promise, and so weep?”

“I think it a promise, but do not weep for that,” she answered, lifting
her mournful eyes to his face. “But, oh, monsieur! it will never be—my
poor father is dead.”

Monsieur Jacques dropped her hand. Was it the certainty of her father’s
death that had made Marguerite so willing to give that promise?

“Marguerite!”

It was the second time he had called her by that name, in a voice so
sweet and low that it thrilled her to the heart. She attempted to
answer, but could not.

“Marguerite, I love you! How much no human being can ever know, and I
dare not attempt to tell you, lest you think me mad; but I do love you,
and hope to win some little return. You did promise to _love_ the man
who brought your father alive from the Bastille. Or was that one of my
wild dreams?”

“It was a promise,” said Marguerite, timidly.

“And if I give freedom to your father?”

The color left the face on which his pleading eyes were fastened. It
seemed to him that a look of affright broke into her eyes; but after a
moment she held out her hand.

“It was a promise,” she said, simply.

Monsieur Jacques flung himself on his knees before that young girl. He
grasped her hands and covered them with kisses; and then she felt great,
warm tears falling over them, as if in penitence he was striving to wash
the kisses away.

“If it is in the power of mortal man to break through those walls to
find and liberate your father, it shall be done,” he said, rising from
his knees.

Marguerite followed him with her eyes, which slowly filled with tears.

“It will be all in vain,” she murmured, “my poor father must be dead. It
was no fraud that the beautiful queen and that good king committed. How
can my mother, how can you, Monsieur Jacques, believe them guilty of
this cruel deception?”

“Wait! Do not let us judge yet! By-and-by we shall know; for as there is
a just God in heaven, not a stone shall be left upon another of that
hideous building!”

As Monsieur Jacques spoke, a clear, ringing knock sounded at the door of
the room. Marguerite arose, but it was flung open, and a man, dressed as
a page, and with the audacious air of a superior, entered the room.

“I was ordered,” he said, looking around, “to find a lady, the wife or
widow of one Dr. Gosner, who died last week in the Bastille. Is this her
apartment, or have I been directed amiss?”

“Madame Gosner has gone out,” answered Monsieur Jacques, for Marguerite
was so taken by surprise that she could find no voice.

“Then I must wait,” said the page, seating himself; “it is my orders.”

“Fortunately, that is madame’s step on the stairs,” answered Monsieur
Jacques; and that moment Madame Gosner entered the room, her noble
presence, the air of refinement and authority with which she presented
herself, brought the page to his feet, and prompted a low bow, to which
madame turned a calm and questioning look.

“Madame will forgive what may seem like an intrusion,” said the page;
“but I am ordered by a personage that I dare not venture to disobey, and
must do my errand. This personage has heard with profound regret that
the husband of madame has perished in the Bastille just as the royal
clemency had ordered that he should be set at liberty. There is no power
in France that can bring back life, but all that justice and sympathy
can offer to his widow and child I am empowered to give. In this
portfolio, lady, are twenty thousand francs, which I am ordered to
present to your daughter as a marriage portion, should she ever choose
to leave her mother’s protection. For yourself there is an annuity
already secured, which will make your future life free from care.”

The page paused, and held out a small portfolio; but Madame Gosner put
it gently back.

“Did this come from the king?” she inquired.

“Madame, I am forbidden to answer.”

“Or the queen?”

“Here also I must be silent.”

“If it comes from either the King or Queen of France, take it back, with
this message: say that the wife of Dr. Gosner accepts no bribes, and has
no price for her husband’s liberty. Say that she knows——”

Here Monsieur Jacques laid his hand on her arm, and checked the
imprudent words that trembled on her lips—words that had left the cheek
of the page suddenly colorless.

“The lady simply means to say that she can accept no bounty from the
King or Queen of France,” he interposed with dignity; “therefore your
errand is so far accomplished.”

The page put away the portfolio in the folds of his tunic, and moved
toward the door, but a sudden thought struck him, and he turned back,
drawing it forth again.

“Madame, this money does not come from their majesties, who are at this
moment, for aught I know, ignorant of Dr. Gosner’s death; nor is it a
gratuity. In his early life, that learned man did a service to the
person who sent me here—a service which has never been repaid, and
which, at this time, nothing but money can repay. Hearing of his hard
fate, that person was conscience-stricken. A debt so justly due should
have been paid to his widow or his heirs; but it was unknown in France
that the unfortunate gentleman had either a wife or child. You will not
wrong a person who wishes to redeem a neglect that may have caused much
trouble by refusing the privilege of restitution.”

“But what was the nature of this debt? In what way was it created?”
demanded Madame Gosner.

“Without danger to the person in question I cannot explain,” answered
the page; “but of this be assured, it is justly due, and this money will
never be used for any other purpose. Indeed, a portion of it is invested
in your name beyond recall. The rest I will not carry from this room—it
is my orders.”

The page waited for no answer, but laid the portfolio on a table, and
went swiftly out of the room, leaving its inmates gazing on each other
in blank amazement.

“Follow that man Monsieur Jacques,” exclaimed madame; “I will receive
none of his money. Who has dared to force a charity on me in this way?”

Monsieur Jacques took the portfolio and hurried with it down stairs. He
reached the door just in time to see the page spring upon his horse, and
flung the portfolio at the animal’s feet. The page dismounted, took up
the portfolio, and rode away with a dejected air.

Monsieur Jacques entered Madame Gosner’s room again.

“Have you done right to reject this money?” he said. “Perhaps his story
is true. With all his knowledge and power, it would be strange if your
husband might not have performed some act which would entitle him to a
sum like this.”

“But I will not take it! Who in all France, save the royal pair at
Versailles, knew that my husband was supposed to have died so lately? No
one but the governor of the Bastille; and he is not likely to have
appeased his conscience in this way.”

“But even from the king it might have been accepted in behalf of France!
It would help to feed many a famished mouth.”

“The people of France! Oh! I had forgotten them!” cried Madame Gosner,
with enthusiasm. “But, no, no! I could not have taken it even for them.
Gold coming from the man or woman of Versailles would blister my palm.
Let us think no more of it; while they have hands to work, neither
Gosner’s wife or child will ever accept alms.”

“God grant that the good man still lives!” said Monsieur Jacques.

“God grant it!” answered the woman, sadly; “but sometimes it seems such
a forlorn hope. If he is alive? How the words torture me! Oh! of all
torments, uncertainty is the greatest!”

“Trust me it shall not long be uncertainty.”

“What do you mean—is this a promise?”

“Upon which more than my poor life depends. Within three days we will
know of a certainty that Dr. Gosner is alive and still a prisoner in the
Bastille, or dead. Then it becomes our duty to save or avenge him.”

“But in either case?” questioned the woman, wistfully.

“In either case that monstrous pile is doomed. It shall no longer crouch
like a monster on the heart of France. Will you not breathe one prayer
for me?”

These gentle words were spoken to the young girl, who lifted her
beautiful eyes and met his gaze with a gentle smile.

“I shall not cease to pray till we meet again,” she said.

Madame Gosner heard this conversation, and was struck by the thrilling
tenderness of Monsieur Jacques’ voice.

“What is the meaning of this?” she inquired, sharply. “I do not
understand.”

“It means,” answered Monsieur Jacques, “that I love her better than my
own soul. When I have rescued her father from his dungeon, this will be
the reward I shall dare to claim.”

The strong man fell upon his knees as he spoke, and pressed Marguerite’s
hand to his lips. Then he arose, saying aloud, “God and our Lady prosper
this day’s work—the reward is so great that it makes a coward of me.”




                              CHAPTER LII.
                MONSIEUR JACQUES TURNS BLACKSMITH AGAIN.


Monsieur Jacques went to his room and prepared, with more trepidation
than he had ever felt in his life, for the enterprise which would give
him the only object he asked for on earth, or throw him back into utter
disappointment. Once more he flung off all the appearances of a
gentleman, and put himself on a level with the rudest workmen of the
city. The thick masses of his hair were dulled with powdered dust, his
brows and lashes were darkened, and with a few touches of the pencil,
dark circles under the eyes deepened them almost to blackness. Directly
a stout, high-shouldered mechanic, in coarse workman’s clothes, and
carrying a box of tools in his hand, came out of the room; a cap of
faded cloth was on his head, and his hair fell in unkept locks over his
forehead, half concealing his eyes. Marguerite saw him pass the door,
and a faint smile stirred her lip. It was in this guise she had first
seen him, and the memory of all his kindness since that day made the
heart swell in her bosom. Monsieur Jacques cast one glance through the
door, and went on his way, nerved by the look with which those beautiful
eyes had followed him. He passed through several streets, nodding now
and then to a fellow workman whom he chanced to encounter, and at last
entered the shop of a gunsmith and general worker in iron, where he
seemed to be well known.

“Is the master no better?” he inquired of an apprentice, who was working
at a vise near one of the windows.

The boy looked up, blew some iron-filings from his fingers, and answered
carelessly,

“No better, and cross-grained as a file. Step in yonder, you will find
him there, I suppose.”

Monsieur Jacques went into the inner room to which the lad pointed, and
found his friend in a great easy chair, with his night-cap on, nursing
an unfortunate leg, which was cruelly tortured with the rheumatism.

“Ah! you have come at last; that young reprobate out yonder protested
that he did not know where to find you. Can anything be more
aggravating? Here is the governor wanting me at the Bastille. Some
prisoner has nearly battered down one of the crazy doors, and so
wrenched the lock, that they can neither get in or out of his cell. So
there is a chance that the fellow may starve to death for his pains, for
I could not walk a step to save my life.”

The locksmith gave a dash at his aching leg, as if violence could help
the matter, and, settling back in his chair, waited for his visitor to
speak.

“I heard that you were ill, and happened to remember that this was your
usual day for service at the prison. Having represented you before, I
suppose they will accept me again. If there are keys to be fitted, let
me have them; and if you will write a line to the governor, saying that
I am sent as the most trusty of your workmen, it will save all trouble
about the admission.”

“You are kind, my friend. So good a craftsman is not often found ready
to take a sick man’s place. Give me pen and paper, I will write a line
to my friend Christopher—it is not necessary to trouble the governor;
but you must put forth all your strength here, for they are getting
terribly anxious about the safety of their prisoners. No wonder, the
damps of those vaults are enough to corrode the best lock ever forged in
a single month, and after that there is no key that will turn against
the rust. Still I ought not to complain, it rolls up my bill handsomely
at the end of the year; and there is no lack of good wine at the
Bastille after the work is done.”

“I remember it,” said Jacques, with a relishing movement of the lip;
“one does not readily forget such wine. I hope they will be as liberal
to the man as they are to the master. Oh! you have finished the paper,
and I have no time to lose.”

Monsieur Jacques took up his case of tools, put the paper in his pocket,
and went out, smiling cheerfully. In half an hour he stood before the
draw-bridge of the Bastille, presented his note to the guard, and was
admitted to the interior of the prison. He found Christopher in a
guard-room, where he was giving some extra orders to half a dozen of the
prison-guards, who had done something to displease him. He looked around
as Jacques entered, recognized him as a person who had done duty there
before, and went on with his lecture, not considering a humble
blacksmith worthy of his immediate attention.

Jacques sat down his tool-case, and seemed to be absorbed in the pompous
reprimand Christopher was dealing out to the poor fellows who had been
so unfortunate as to offend him. This attention touched the keeper’s
vanity, and he launched out into more fervid eloquence for his especial
benefit. At last he sent the delinquents away with a lofty wave of the
hand, and bestowed his entire attention on the locksmith.

“So,” he said, reaching forth his hand for the paper which Jacques gave
him, “the old locksmith is down again, chained by the leg as fast as any
prisoner in the Bastille. It is no time for strange hands to be let into
the fortress; but if he is so ill, there is no help for it. Wait a
moment; if I remember rightly you have been here before?”

Monsieur Jacques would have betrayed himself by a sudden flush or pallor
but for the brown hue which had been liberally imparted to his
complexion that morning. As it was, a flickering light in the eye alone
revealed the panic that seized upon him. It was needless. Christopher
only alluded to the workman whom he remembered to have come on the same
errand once before. He had not the remotest idea that he had so lately
seen this man in another capacity, nor did he recognize the voice which
was peculiarly rich and deep, for Jacques had put a leaden bullet under
his tongue, which confused all the tones and vulgarized his speech.

“Shall I go to work now?” he asked, in an awkward, deprecating way. “It
will need a light, I suppose.”

Christopher took a lantern from the wall and lighted the candle within.

“I will go with you myself,” he said. “In these times we trust but few
of the keepers where you are going, not even our oldest guard Doudel,
who is suspected of having fed a prisoner.”

Monsieur Jacques’ heart fell. He had hoped that a common guard would be
sent with him, one whom it would be possible to evade for a moment; but
Christopher took some keys from the drawer of a desk, and moved toward
the interior of the prison.

Perhaps in his whole life that brave man had never felt such keen
anxiety as stirred every nerve in his body during his descent into those
gloomy corridors. How was he to prosecute the investigation he had come
purposely to make? By what means was he to reach the particular cell,
from which that cry came, with Christopher on the watch? There was not
one chance in a hundred that it was the lock that poor prisoner had
shaken, with so much violence, that wanted mending; yet a wild hope
possessed him that he might be led there. No, he was conducted down a
damp corridor that branched off in another direction, and shown into an
empty cell, from whose wall the staples had been wrenched out by some
desperate man, to whom suffering had given a giant’s strength.




                             CHAPTER LIII.
                         LIGHT OUT OF DARKNESS.


The disappointment which fell upon Monsieur Jacques was terrible. Still,
actuated by a despairing thought that God, in his mercy, would open some
way to the truth, he went vigorously to work with a heavy sledge, and
drove the staples back into the granite wall with a force that echoed
through those vaulted passages like the roar of a wild beast. When this
ponderous work was done, he turned upon his companion, and, with a
faltering voice, asked if that was enough.

Christopher hesitated, and answered,

“Follow me, and remember, not a word must be spoken to any prisoner. The
man who breaks this rule will stand a fair chance of occupying a cell
himself. Am I understood?”

Monsieur Jacques took up his tools, muttering that he had nothing to
say, and had no wish to talk with any prisoner, but to get out of that
unwholesome place as soon as possible.

While he was speaking, Christopher turned into a passage he recognized,
and Jacques scarcely drew his breath till they came opposite the very
door which had so painfully fastened itself on his memory. There the
keeper paused, and set down his lantern.

“It is seldom we permit any workman to enter a cell in which prisoners
are—but this door cannot be opened. It is some days since we have been
able to get food or water through, and we must reach him now, or he will
starve to death.”

Jacques sat down his tools and tried the lock with his hands, but they
shook violently, and fell away red with wet rust.

“The bolt has got twisted, no doubt,” said Christopher. “The whole lock
must be taken apart, and the hinges fastened. Pah! that was a lizard
creeping across my ankle, and here drops a spider into my very hair. It
makes the flesh creep on my bones. Come, come, my friend, have done
sorting your tools, this is not a pleasant place to linger in. The light
is burning blue already. Oh! there it goes! that was a powerful wrench!
Pry away! pry away! force the staple! Hercules! what powerful arms! How
the door trembles—open at last. Ah! our friend has fainted, so much the
better.”

Christopher entered the cell first, and stooping lifted a truss of
straw, which he flung over the deathly face of a man who lay in the
furthest corner. Then he placed himself directly between the prostrate
form and Jacques, who was examining the door. Without appearing to
observe these movements, he went on with his work, and seemed to be
laboring with great zeal, but made so little progress that Christopher
became impatient.

“Why, man, at this rate we shall not get away from here in an hour,” he
said, casting impatient glances around the dungeon.

“An hour! Why if I get through all that is to be done here in three
hours, it will be better than I expect.”

“Then, by our Lady! you will not spend them here! Come out into the
passage, and mend the lock there. I see little chance that this poor
fellow will be disturbed by the noise; but, in common charity, be quick,
or he may die on our hands.”

Monsieur Jacques had hoped to weary the man out by naming so many hours;
but failing in this, he answered that it was impossible to remain all
the time outside the door, he must go in and out while repairing it;
but, for the prisoner’s sake, he would lose no time.

“Well, see that you don’t,” answered Christopher, setting his lantern on
the floor. “I wouldn’t spend three hours in this place to save the
Bastille from destruction.”

The seeming locksmith muttered that it was equally disagreeable to him,
and went on with his work; but his eyes were now and then turned upon
the lantern, and Christopher might have seen that the hand which was
turning a screw in one of the hinges worked unsteadily. After an
interval of some ten minutes, he swung the door back, as if to try the
hinge; it struck the lantern, overturned it, and the next instant they
were in profound darkness.

An oath broke from the keeper, and he began to grope for the lantern;
but Jacques had been before him, the lantern was in his hand, the door
open, and he was about to grasp the candle, when a sudden jerk sent it
flying into the darkness.

“What is to be done?” questioned Jacques, rising from his knees. “How
are we to get a light?”

“Confound your awkwardness!” answered the keeper, fumbling about for the
lantern. “The door is broken open and the candle gone. This is an awful
fix. You may thank your stars that the only man in the Bastille who can
thread its passages by night, is in this infernal place with you.”

“Thank heaven it is only an inconvenience!” said the locksmith.

“If to sit here from fifteen minutes to half an hour in the dark,
breathing this pestilential air is only an inconvenience, you may,
perhaps, be grateful. For my part, I have no fancy for groping my way
through the black labyrinth of passages that lie between us and the
guardrooms; and you can tell your master, from me, that when we want
work done again in the Bastille, he must come himself. We want no more
bunglers.”

“I beg ten thousand pardons—it was an accident!”

“We do not permit of accidents here!” answered the man, by no means
appeased by the humility with which the workman strove to atone for his
fault. “For ten thousand francs I would not grope my way through the
places that lead to this, with those slimy things creeping around one.
Pah! It is bad enough when a light is there to frighten them away; but
now, curses on your blundering! if I come back without a battle with the
rats, it is more than I expect.”

Monsieur Jacques knew by the keeper’s voice that he was outside of the
cell. He could hear the lantern rattling against the stones of the wall
as he staggered forward in the darkness; but he did not hear the
muttered words which followed.

“Confound the fool! he is safe enough from any chance of mischief. The
prisoner hasn’t got the strength to speak; and as for seeing his face,
let him try. One might as well look through sheet-lead as that darkness.
Steady! Steady! How close the walls are together! How plainly you can
hear the waters of the moat licking the stones. Heaven have mercy! Help!
Help!”

Christopher’s foot had slipped on the wet slabs of the floor; he caught
at the wall but his hand had no power to clutch the dripping stones, and
he went down with a crash, which reached the locksmith, who sat in the
darkness, listening keenly. After a little Jacques heard a volley of
muttered curses, and slow footsteps, picking their way through the
distance. Then all was still, save the horrible lapping of waters
against the walls, and the hard breathing of his fellow-prisoner, who
seemed to stir faintly in the straw. For a half minute Jacques held his
breath, and listened for those footsteps, or that voice to renew
themselves. Then he reached cautiously forward and began to feel for
something in his tool-case. A moment of stillness followed, then the
sharp click of steel striking flint, and a few sparks of fire ignited on
the dungeon floor. Quick as thought the man sprung to his feet, snatched
a wisp of straw, and held it close to the sparks, blowing them with all
the slow strength of his lungs into a tiny flame.

The sparks flashed upward, the straw blazed, and for one instant the
whole dungeon was illuminated. Jacques caught one glance at a deadly
white face, with the eyes wide open, looking at him. He had no time for
recognition, but was searching for the candle. It lay at his feet, and
had been trodden upon. What of that? A wick was there, and tallow enough
to last a minute—he asked no more. He began to tremble, for the wick had
gathered moisture from the floor, and refused to ignite.

“Great God! stand by me this one minute!” he exclaimed, passionately,
forcing his hand to hold the burning straw with steadiness. He had given
the straw a twist, and it kept fire. The spluttering wick broke into an
uncertain flame, trembled, half went out, and rose to a clear light.

“Thank God!”

Jacques went close to the prisoner with these words on his lips. He held
the light down to that white face. The wild glitter of those eyes
frightened him.

“Speak to me! If you remember a name, tell it before any one comes.
Speak! For God’s sake, speak! Are you Dr. Gosner?”

The prisoner began to tremble violently; his thin hands clasped
themselves; every feature in his face quivered, and from his white lips
dropped these faltering words;

“That was my name when I had one.”

Jacques blew out the candle, and flung it into the darkness.




                              CHAPTER LIV.
                        A DETERMINED BENEFACTOR.


The Count De Mirabeau had just come in from an exciting debate at the
club. This man seemed to have changed places with his foster-brother;
for while one had, to a certain extent, cast off the coarseness which
made him a favorite of the people, the man of noble birth had been
striving to brutalize himself down to a level with the lowest strata of
civilized life. Marie Antoinette’s rejection of his advances had plunged
him deeper and deeper into the abysses of popular favor. But there was a
natural revolt in all this; Mirabeau would much rather have been the
saviour of monarchy than the leader of the mob, and his very power as a
demagogue sometimes filled him with disgust.

That particular night the count was in a restive frame of mind; by
bringing out the very coarsest powers of his nature he had excited the
crowd that day into the most clamorous homage—homage that never would
have been given to the splendid genius and great powers that he knew
himself to possess, unaided by the rudest and lowest passions. It is
doubtful if even his powerful intellect foresaw the terrible scenes that
the eloquence of men like him was destined to fasten upon France. That
night his better nature recoiled from the hideous work his genius was
doing, and he flung himself down on a chair, weary and sickened by the
clamorous adoration of his followers.

Some one knocked at the door of his chamber while he was in this
dissatisfied mood, and he called out roughly for the person to come in,
thinking that, perhaps, it was some messenger from the printing-office.

A woman entered, elegantly dressed, and scattering a delicate perfume
from her garments as she moved. She held a small mask before her face,
such as ladies sometimes carried to protect their complexions from the
sun; but when the door was closed, she dropped it, and moving softly
across the room, bent over the chair on which Mirabeau was sitting.

He started up in surprise, stood a moment irresolute, and then broke
forth,

“Madame Du Berry, and here!”

“So you did know me,” she said, with a gleam of pride and thankfulness
that he had so readily recognized her features.

“Know you?” answered the count, reaching forth his hand to grasp hers
heartily, as if she had been a man. “When will the time come when
Mirabeau can forget——”

The woman held up her finger.

“Ah, count! that was before the days of Versailles, when you were the
gayest young scapegrace among the nobility, and I one of the people. I
wonder if either of us are the better for having changed places.”

“I was just asking myself that question,” said Mirabeau, gloomily.
“After all, the greatness that springs out of a false position must ever
be unsatisfactory; but tell me of yourself, fair countess. It is years
since I have known much of your good or evil fortune.”

Du Berry shrugged her shoulders.

“The last few years I have languished in England—that cold, cruel
country, where the sun never shines fairly out as it does in France. Is
not that enough of misfortune? But I must not talk of myself. Of course,
I did not come here simply for the pleasure of seeing you. There is a
man in whom you take interest—a person who calls himself Monsieur
Jacques.”

“My foster-brother, and as true-hearted a man as ever drew breath; but
how did he come to attract your notice, my friend?”

“No matter, it is a long story; besides, it is not the man that I am so
much interested in, but a young woman whom he loves.”

“A young woman! You cannot mean Mademoiselle Gosner?”

“Yes, that is the young person, a fair girl, whose father, I, in some
sort, wronged in the days of my power. I wish to make atonement for that
wrong, and cannot—she rejects it; so, in the desperation of my good
intent, I come to you. My belief is that these two persons love each
other.”

“Love each other! What, will he persist in loving that girl?” cried
Mirabeau, starting to his feet. “Does he not know that Mirabeau has
honored her with his admiration?”

Du Berry flung herself into the chair from which the count had risen,
and burst into a fit of laughter.

“An excellent reason why no honest man should think of her for himself,”
she said, wiping away the quick tears of merriment that flashed down her
painted cheeks. “Oh! but you are droll as ever, my friend.”

“But the girl is beautiful!”

“So much the more reason that your foster-brother should be desperately
in love with her, as he certainly is—that is what brings me here.”

“But I tell you that he will not presume——”

“My dear friend, he has presumed; and what is more, the girl will marry
him!”

“What, after I had condescended to be pleased with her? Du Berry, you
have ceased to be discriminating.”

“Come, come, be pacified. She is only one, and Paris has so many; let
the poor fellow have his love unmolested—I ask it of you.”

“Now I remember,” said the count, “it is weeks since I called; in fact,
I neglected her after the first impression. Of course, it was my own
fault, and, as you say, Mirabeau can afford to be magnanimous. Besides,
I really think it is the fellow’s first love. Nay, do not go off into
another fit of laughter—such things do happen. Then again, I remember he
asked my forbearance, and I almost promised it. Well, the best thing I
can do for him is not to go near the demoiselle—that might unsettle
things.”

“If you would be so good,” said the countess, with a droll look of humor
in her eyes, “it was a part of the favor I was about to ask. This man
is, I believe, poor—he possibly cannot afford to marry.”

Mirabeau thought of the little estate, whose income had been so
generously given up to his extravagance, and had the grace to hesitate
in answering. Was the countess going to suggest that he should
relinquish that income? Had that, indeed, been the truth, she might have
found more difficulty than had accompanied his renunciation of the girl;
but she promptly set his mind at rest.

“I take it for granted that he cannot afford to marry,” she said, “and
in this I want your help. Be my banker; let me leave money enough for
their comfortable independence in your hands!”

“In my hands!” exclaimed Mirabeau, laughing. “My dear friend, you should
know better. It would melt away while the priest was giving his
blessing. If you have any sharp notary who will arrange it so that it
may be a trust; in short, that will insure it to him, and save it from
me—I should not mind undertaking the business—I dare say that can be
done.”

“But it must seem to come from you. They would not touch it else,” said
Du Berry.

“He will never believe it; but we can manage that; it can be done in my
father’s name. Now, fair lady, as your conscience is at rest, tell me——”

“Not yet—not yet! I have another thing to ask.”

“Of the same kind? I warn you now, do not lead a reckless man too far.
Money is a sad temptation, when one needs it so much.”




                              CHAPTER LV.
                       GENEROSITY AND DIPLOMACY.


Du Berry hesitated, and sat for some moments in silence, now and then
casting a doubtful glance at Mirabeau, while the color came and went
under her rouge. She had lost all delicacy years before; but there was
something in what she wished to propose that taxed all her ingenuity. At
last she spoke out.

“Mirabeau, you are the enemy of royalty.”

“Well!”

“You hate the queen.”

“And if I do?”

“This cannot be real, there is something personal under it all.”

“What makes you think so?”

“You are the idol of a people you despise!”

“Go on.”

“And might be the saviour of France; should be a close friend to the
queen.”

Mirabeau laughed again; but there was angry fire in his eyes, and a
curve of scorn on his lips.

“How long is it since the Countess Du Berry became the advocate of Marie
Antoinette?” he demanded.

“Ever since she was too generous for the persecution of a fallen enemy;
ever since she has been cruelly unfortunate, and most unjustly reviled.
Of all the people in France, I have most cause to love the woman for
whose overthrow you are toiling.”

“Nay, let me tell you a secret. You are a woman of sense, and can
comprehend the situation—Marie Antoinette rejects the friendship of
Mirabeau.”

“Has it been offered her?”

“Twice, indirectly.”

“But the time may come when that friendship will be implored. Then,
Mirabeau, be generous, be noble, use your great power for the defence of
the throne. Earn the queen’s gratitude, force her to acknowledge the
power of your genius, the grandeur of your magnanimity—promise this, my
Mirabeau.”

“When Marie Antoinette seeks my aid it will be time enough to promise.”

“But if she does seek it—if she asks your influence with the people,
your protection from her enemies—what will be your answer?”

“Perhaps, that it is too late.”

“The time will come, and then you must remember Du Berry, who wishes to
aid in this; who implores your permission to pay a vast debt of
gratitude to the grandson of Louis the Fifteenth—to the daughter of
Maria Theresa, who was so pure and good herself that she never went out
of her way to taunt and insult those who were less fortunate. To the
clemency and forbearance of Louis, and his most persecuted queen, I am
indebted for every franc that makes up my wealth; I ask nothing better
than to employ it all in their service. When you are a friend of the
monarchy, let me find the money which the cause will so much need. Thus
you and I will unite in a holy work, which shall redeem much evil that
we may have done. You, with your eloquence, and I, with money, which
justly belongs to the crown, may, perhaps, be so fortunate as to save
the monarchy of France.”

The woman spoke earnestly, sometimes with passionate warmth, that
astonished the man she addressed. He knew that she was in earnest, that
a grander element than could be found in his heart was speaking through
her words. Perhaps he felt, through all its subtle indirection, that
something like a bribe for his influence lay under all this real
generosity; but Mirabeau was not a man to revolt at an idea, so long as
it took no offensive clearness. On the contrary, he reflected that his
own power would be wonderfully enhanced by wealth, let it come in what
form it would. If his proud old father fell short of his expectations,
here was a resource.

“Have you spoken of this to the queen?” he inquired.

“How could I? She would reject it. No, there is but one way, and that I
have pointed out. The time will come when this persecuted lady will seek
the friendship of a man who controls the people of Paris, who knows how
to excite or depress the passions of her enemies. When that day arrives,
the money she would scorn now can be used in her behalf.”

“God grant that the rabble does not get beyond all control before she
comes to her senses,” said the count, thoughtfully. “Ignorance and
passion are hard things to manage; but if Mirabeau cannot control
them—where is the human power that can?”

Du Berry laid her hand on his arm.

“Some day your old friend may ask that protection for herself,” she
said.

“It shall not be asked in vain,” answered the count, holding the door
for her to pass.

When Madame Du Berry reached her lodgings she found Zamara, who had just
come in from Versailles. His clothes were muddy, his face heavy with
disappointment.

“Madame, Zamara has failed; I could not get the ring; she never takes it
from her finger,” he said. Madame only answered,

“The fates are against us, Zamara.”




                              CHAPTER LVI.
                         THE ENERGY OF MADNESS.


Madame Gosner and Marguerite were alone in their room, which had become
more gloomy than ever since their disappointment. All the spare time
these two women could obtain from their sorrow was given to the toil
which earned their daily bread. Marguerite spent every day in the
street, carrying her sweet burden of flowers from purchaser to
purchaser. Her evenings were occupied generally in preparing bouquets
for market, but on this particular night Madame Gosner was employed on
some embroidery which was wanted in haste for a court-dress. The very
nature of her employment, perhaps, exasperated the poverty of the elder
woman, whose hatred of the monarchs of France amounted almost to
monomania. She went on sewing with sharp energy, taking her stitches
with jerks, as if she picked them out with the point of a dagger. Her
breath came heavily as she worked, and her lips were pressed
together—she had not spoken in an hour.

Marguerite was sewing also—for the work must be done at a given time—but
her thread came out with a more even pull, and the delicate surface of
her work revealed no imperfect stitches. The dull, heavy gloom which lay
upon her mother was not dark enough to kill all the girlhood in that
young bosom; and more than once a faint smile flitted across her lips,
as if the thoughts in her mind were not altogether melancholy.

At last the young girl looked up from the dull monotony of her work,
and, pausing with her thread half-drawn, listened eagerly. She had heard
a step on the stairs, though her mother had not; for one moment the
heart leaped in her innocent bosom, and a smile of loving expectation
trembled on her lips, the next it died away and her face bowed in
disappointment over her work.

Madame Gosner heard the step also, and suspended her work. Was it
possible that some one was coming with news! Even in her despair this
poor woman was always expecting news, and holding her breath as a
footstep passed her door.

It opened now, and Monsieur Jacques came in, pale, worn, and so weak
from protracted excitement that he fell upon a chair, and wiped the
heavy drops from his forehead before speaking a word. Madame Gosner
looked at him earnestly. He understood the question in her eyes, and
answered as if she had spoken.

“Yes, my friend, I have been to the Bastille. I have wandered through
those infernal vaults, and seen such sights.”

“Have you been in _that_ cell?”

Madame Gosner’s voice was sharp as the cry of an eagle. She had lost all
control over herself.

“Yes, I have been there, and I have seen him—your husband——”

“Alive?”

“Alive! I held his hand—I spoke with him. He told me his name. It was he
who cried out when your voice penetrated his dungeon. They have
practiced a foul fraud on us—one that shall be answered by the thunders
of stones as we hurl down that accursed building.”

Madame Gosner stood up, and lifted her clasped hands on high.

“So help me God, I will never rest till this thing is done!”

She spoke like a woman inspired; her very stature seemed to rise higher;
her chest expanded itself.

“Be it so. I have already sworn,” said Monsieur Jacques; and the two
went out together, leaving Marguerite alone upon her knees, where she
had fallen.

All was changed now in the humble dwelling of Madame Gosner. No more
work was done; scarcely was there food enough prepared to sustain the
strength of that excited woman. Solemn duties lay before her—a gigantic
task, which she would perform or die. The people of France were to be
aroused into keener vindictiveness—the women organized—the clubs urged
to swifter action. Stern and terrible had been the effect of Monsieur
Jacques’ intelligence on the woman who had refused to consider herself a
widow. Her whole being rose up in bitter wrath against what she deemed a
horrible fraud. So fixed and deep were her prejudices against the royal
family, that she never, for a moment, doubted that the king himself, if
not the queen, had sanctioned the awful wrong that had been done, rather
than cast a new witness of royal cruelty among the people to bear
testimony against them.

With these feelings, it is not strange that all the sweet sentiments of
undisturbed womanhood was swept out of her nature. No amazon, born to
war, ever suffered or felt a deeper thirst for vengeance than possessed
this wronged wife. From that day her very face changed; all its fine
features were set, and locked with the iron resolution that possessed
her. In some way her husband should be set free, or fearfully avenged.
Many a woman besides herself had equal wrongs and equal sufferings to
redress or avenge; but, lacking a leader and organization, this great
force, this underlying principle, which was enough to stir the already
excited passions of the lower order into anarchy at any moment, had as
yet been allowed to exhaust itself in complaint and denunciation. Now it
should be centralized and spread forth from an organized power.

Madame Gosner knew that she was eloquent, and felt within herself the
force of great individual strength. That which had been an idea before
was a fixed resolve now. In order to liberate her husband, freedom must
first be given to the French people. She could only reach his dungeon
through the ruins of the Bastille, only avenge him by hurling the king
from his throne.

That day a strange sight was witnessed in the marketplaces of Paris. A
lady, being clad like the commonest working-woman, but of commanding
presence, was seen moving from stall to stall with the firm, energetic
tread of an officer mustering recruits. At each stall she uttered words
that burned and thrilled through the heart of the occupant like the
blast of a trumpet, yet they were spoken in a low voice, and circulated
through the market from lip to lip, drawing the women together in
clusters, who told each other the story of this woman, and swore to
avenge her.

Her low, stern utterance of wrongs that seemed without a parallel, was
like a spark of living fire flung into their own smouldering passions.

That night a Jacobin club-house was crowded with eager women. From the
market, the garrets, and the cellars of Paris, they gathered, crowding
their husbands and sons aside that they might hear something of their
own wrongs from the tongue of a terribly persecuted woman.

Gosner’s wife stood among them like a priestess. Unlike the women around
her, she was educated, eloquent, powerfully impassioned, but capable of
deep reasoning. She had dwelt so long on the wrongs of France that her
acute mind searched down to the very roots of all the grievances that
disturbed her people, and laid them bare before the rude women, who
seized upon them as hounds fasten upon game, routed from bush and covert
by the huntsman.

For two hours she filled that Jacobin stronghold with such burning
eloquence as never before had fired the hearts of those rude, impetuous
women, not cruel then, but who afterward leaped into the fight, unsexed,
fierce, wicked female tigers, who, having tasted blood, lost forever
afterward all relish for the milk of human kindness.

It was this awful element that the genius of Madame Gosner aroused in
the heart of France; it was this which cast eternal shame upon one of
the greatest nations of the earth; it was this which makes all true and
refined women tremble when they are called upon to plunge into the arena
of politics, or the strife of nations.




                             CHAPTER LVII.
                           UNSEXED WOMANHOOD.


The women of France had, perhaps, more excuse for revolt than those of
any other country. Misery, hardship and injustice, drove them into a
storm of politics with terrible violence. With a single leap they sprang
out of absolute subjugation into a wild chaos of ideas. In riot, rapine,
and bloodthirstiness, they shamed the coarsest men by their unbridled
excesses. While violating all law, and trampling human rights under
foot, they sang pæans to liberty, and inaugurated their terrible orgies
with declarations of equal rights and eternal brotherhood. Such were the
women who, claiming political equality with men, and superiority over
monarchs, flung all the sweet attributes of the sex behind them in the
turmoil of politics, and in a subsequent carnival of blood forgot that
they had ever been wives and mothers.

How could it be otherwise? The woman who once flings aside all the
beautiful entanglements of home, and assumes duties which never were
intended for her; who gives free rein to the coarser passions, plunges
into such fierce struggles as brutalize men and degrade her beneath
their lowest level. If a woman like this expects to return at any period
to the gentle immunities of home life, she knows little of the destiny
she is carving out for herself.

Imagine these women going home from a fierce debate at the clubs to
caress their little ones, and teach them their prayers at night; could
they touch the smiling mouths of innocent children with lips hot with
smouldering hate, or curl their silken tresses over fingers wet with
human blood? Could they, without an outrage on humanity, permit their
little ones to kneel in holy prayer at the feet which had just been
treading down saw-dust around the guillotine? After partaking of such
scenes, could any woman expect to go back to her sweet motherhood in the
shelter of a pure love? No; the quiet life, the care of childhood, the
love of strong men, are not for such women. Let them once forsake the
shelter of home, the blessedness of a calm hearthstone, and half that is
valuable in existence lies behind them. When they enter the turmoil of
moral or physical war, return is impossible; a great gulf has been dug
between them and the happiness of womanhood, which can never be
re-passed.

In her despair, Madame Gosner thought nothing of the great moral effect
her action might produce. She had for years been urged forward by one
grand, womanly motive—the freedom of her husband. If this object had
sometimes led her into strange positions, great love had always
sanctified them. She had endured poverty, humiliation, sickness, with
the strength of a martyr, and in all things had protected the delicacy
of her child. Even in the depths of her sorrow she had found time to
educate this girl, and fill her mind with all the refinements which make
womanhood beautiful. But now, in the madness of her despair, she forgot
everything but her wrongs, and the agony of a slain hope. What was that
miserable shadow of a home to her? What was there on the broad earth but
sorrow and desolation for a woman so bereaved, and so cruelly dealt by?
In her anguish she felt a yearning sympathy for thousands and thousands
of women, who haunted the market places and streets of Paris, with an
eternal craving for bread written on their half-famished faces; for the
earth, as well as the rulers of the earth, had, for two successive
years, been cruel to the poor. The sufferings of these people became a
part of her own wrongs. In the mighty thirst of her revenge, she was
ready to embrace the whole universe of suffering. Was she insane? Had
one idea preyed so heavily on her mind that it swept all other thoughts
before it?

Be this as it may, from the hour that terrible deception was made known
to Madame Gosner, the woman was lost in the patriot. In gaining freedom
for her husband, she took upon herself the gigantic task of giving
liberty to France. This spirit animated her whole being; it inflamed her
speeches, it aroused her in the dead of night, and filled her dreams
with burning pictures of liberty. She had but two possessions left—her
own talents and her daughter. In the depths of her soul she devoted both
to her country. All hopes of individual happiness became a thing of the
past to her.

With Monsieur Jacques the ideas of liberty, as they were given forth to
the people, like an inspiration from the tongue and pen of Mirabeau, had
consolidated themselves into a passion; but, like Mirabeau, he still
clung to the monarchy, and hoped to liberalize France, by making its
king the enemy of his own power. Brought up and educated as he had been,
day by day, with his foster-brother, sharing the same lessons, caressed
by the same motherly hand, he could not, all at once, yield up the
traditions of a superior race to which, by implication and experience he
almost belonged. It was in vain that he took upon himself the habits of
the people, that he lived in a garret, and gave up the income of a
little property which he had inherited from his own parents, to swell
the extravagance of his foster-brother. A neglected toilet, unwashed
hands, and coarse clothing, were insufficient to brutalize this man into
one of the monsters that baptized themselves patriots.

Notwithstanding his moderation, and his wish to save the monarchy, and
give freedom to the people at the same time, Monsieur Jacques went
hand-in-hand with Madame Gosner, and threw himself into this fearful
work with equal energy and unswerving determination. He, too, believed
that a wicked deception had been practiced upon a long-suffering woman,
and could find no way of accounting for it which did not implicate the
King and Queen of France. Sometimes, when he thought of the honest, kind
face of Louis the Sixteenth, of the simplicity of his words, the shy
gentleness of his manner, this belief became almost an impossibility to
him. Nor could he think of the queen, so earnest, so generous and
beautiful, without recoiling in his heart and reason from the thought
that she could have known and sanctioned an act so full of dishonor, so
bitterly cruel.

But the fact still remained, no matter where the blame lay. A terrible
wrong had been done, a human life worse than sacrificed. More than this,
out of that awful place one soul had made its cries of agony heard; but
how many others lay in those vaults, unknown. Those awful walls, with
their seven feet in thickness, were built thus massively, that the cries
of human anguish might never penetrate them. What became of the hundreds
on hundreds who had crossed that draw-bridge, never to be heard of
again? Had they been carried out in the silence of midnight to unknown
graves, or were they still chained to those reeking walls, and crouching
in cells so far beneath the earth that they possessed all the horrors of
a grave, without its peacefulness?

The fire spread. Mirabeau heard the story from his foster-brother, and
thundered it through the clubs. It burned like a romance on his lips,
and glowed out in words of fire on the pages of his journal. In less
than three days all Paris was in a storm of indignation, and poured
itself tumultuously into the streets. If human ingenuity could have
imagined anything more terrible than the horrors of that man’s fate, the
passions of an ignorant people would have invented something more awful
than the truth; but here the bitterest passion failed, and the simple
fact was far more powerful than exaggeration ever could have been.

Monsieur Jacques told the story, and in his own stirring language
described the scenes he had himself witnessed in the Bastille. Madame
Gosner pleaded with a woman’s pathos and a man’s power for the husband
who had been torn from her in his youth, and was now perishing in the
cells of that hideous prison. All the terrible traditions of the old
kingly fortress were nothing to the story of this man, as it came from
the lips of his wife.

Through the work-shops, the markets, the quays, and the clubs, the fact
of a man’s incarceration, after a pardon had been granted, and his death
proclaimed, sped like fire along a train of powder.

The reckless demagogues, who had been so long striving to fire the
people into a fiendish spirit of revolt, saw in all this an element of
revolution stronger than their eloquence, and seized upon it with sharp
energy. The clubs arose at once, uniting in one grand effort; but it was
in answer to a clamorous demand from the people, who, ready for
revolution, called aloud for guides and leaders.




                             CHAPTER LVIII.
                       THE FIRST ROLL OF THUNDER.


The time had come.

One night the streets of Paris were darkened by crowds of silent, stern
men whose eager faces looked sinister in the lamplight, as they turned
invariably toward the Place do Grève. The men moved swiftly on in
comparative silence; but wherever they paused a warehouse was broken
open, and everything of iron or steel it contained taken therefrom,
though all other articles were scrupulously left untouched.

Women, too, came out of their domicils, and swelled the stream that
poured into the Place de Grève. Each carried some burden—a loaf of
bread, a bar of rusty iron, or a ponderous fire-shovel, from her own
hearthstone. Before midnight the Place de Grève, and the adjoining
streets broke into a blaze. Anvils and forges in full blast seemed to
start out of the very earth, lighting up all the grand outlines of the
Hotel de Ville and the great crowds of men and women that swarmed around
it, with gleams of light thrown against deep, deep shadows, that made
the whole scene terrible. To this was added the sharp ring of iron
against steel, the roll of wheels bringing in heavy loads of plunder,
the crash of hammers thundering to each other, and the awful hum and
swell of angry voices in suppression.

Men toiled that night like demons. Many who had thought themselves too
feeble and famished for exertion, now wrangled with each other for a
chance of work at the forges. Pale, hungry faces grew stern as death in
the lurid light of the fire; while demagogues from the clubs, and
Bohemians of the press, passed in and out of the crowd with inflammatory
words, which kept the wild enthusiasm at a white heat.

Women crowded in, some with their arms bare to the shoulders, unloading
wagons like men; others enforcing the fiery ardor of the demagogues with
passionate appeals, and hurling bitter taunts on those who stood aloof.
The market women, having broken up their stock for the next day,
distributed stores of provisions to the workmen, and fed the hungry with
their own hands. Some even seized upon the tools, and began to forge
instruments of slaughter with the skill and energy of men; some mounted
on piles of arms already forged, and harangued the men as they worked.
Among these appeared Madame Gosner, the martyr of the day, whose
presence was everywhere heralded with tumults of sympathy and applause.

“Not for my sake,” she cried, mounting a wagon in which crude metal had
been brought to the forges, where she stood like some Roman matron in a
victorious car, “not for my sake, nor for the redemption of one man do I
urge you forward——”

Here the impassioned orator was interrupted by shouts from the women,
and wilder demonstrations from the men, who paused in their work to
listen, and snatch a mouthful of bread from the hands of such women as
were giving food to the hungry, that no man’s strength need fail till
his work was done.

“Let no man stop his work that my voice may be heard,” continued Madame
Gosner. “God will give strength to my lungs, and you shall hear me,
though ten thousand anvils rang out such glorious music as this at a
single crash. In this sound I hear the downfall of that odious prison,
where kings deal with their victims like incarnate demons, chaining them
to walls like beasts of the fields—burying them alive in eternal
darkness—rendering them up to worms and reptiles while yet alive.

“Citizens, this is not the work of one generation, but of many. Kings
and Queens of France have, for generations, held those accursed ramparts
of stones as a monument of their greatness, dear to royalty as the
throne itself. It is an awful contrast which makes the luxury of their
palaces more perfect. Without misery for the people, courts and kings
would never feel how much they are above us. In order to know how high
they are, it is their eternal effort to debase us. We are the beasts of
burden that drag forward their triumphal chariots; creatures to starve
while they riot. By our labor they are fed; by our toil they are
exalted, till pride becomes arrogance, and their very laws are made to
protect them and degrade us.

“The wealth of a nation lies in its labor. Where has that gone which our
forefathers created by the strength of their hands? Look for it in the
enormous estates which cover France from border to shore. Has one of
them descended to the laborers, whose toil wrested them from the
wilderness? Who among you owns a rood of land? Not one. If to you
belongs the sledges you wield, and the spades with which you dig, it is
all that they will give you out of a thousand years of hard toil,
rendered with reckless generosity to these pampered lordlings. What are
these creatures, after all, but things of our own creation? Their
palaces, their estates, their jewels belong to us, and are made the
instruments of our debasement. It has taken a thousand years to
consolidate the power that crushes us. Men and women of France, let us
unite, and a single year shall tear it down.

“I have a husband in one of those hideous dungeons; for years and years
they have buried him from my sight. When we parted, he took me in his
arms, and promised with many a farewell kiss, to return within the
month. My hair was bright with the gloss of youth then—look at it now; I
have not seen his face since then. But I do not plead for him alone;
other women have husbands to lose—other women, for ages on ages have
been made widows, knowing their husbands living, but buried far from the
light of day, as mine is. It is for them I plead and implore you to
shatter these enormous walls, and let God’s free sunshine into those
hideous vaults.

“Every stone of those blackened towers is cemented with blood and
saturated with groans. I ask you to sweep an awful plague spot from the
bosom of France. Let us tear it away, stone by stone—uproot it, rock by
rock; break through those rugged walls, and choke up the festering moat
with their ruins. Citizens, the strong arms of your fathers built this
prison, which your kings have turned into a place of torment that fiends
would shrink from. Are your arms weaker than theirs? What they built
have not you the strength to pull down, or shall the women of France
show you the way?”

A yell went up from that portion of the crowd which surrounded Gosner’s
wife, for there the women of Paris had assembled in the greatest
numbers.

“Give us arms—give us arms, and we will take the prison ourselves,”
shrieked the infuriated women. “There are plenty of arms at the Hôtel
des Invalides—will the men of France get them for us? or shall we storm
the place ourselves?”

These women were answered with one simultaneous shout.

“To the Invalides! to the Invalides!”

A huge mass of the people left the Place de Grève, shouting this cry. In
half an hour they were thundering at the gates of the Invalides.

The governor would have temporized, but some one cried out,

“He only wants time to defeat us!”

That cry was enough to set the whole crowd in motion. They leaped the
ditches, disarmed the sentinels, and plunged headlong into the vaults
below where the arms were stored. The confusion was fearful. These men
crowded on each other in masses, the torches were extinguished, the weak
were trampled down by the strong, but through it all twenty thousand
muskets and some pieces of cannon were taken into the streets of Paris.




                              CHAPTER LIX.
                         THE FIRST DRAW-BRIDGE.


As an ocean broken and heaving with the underswell of a continued
tempest, rushes upon some rock-bound coast, the people of Paris poured
themselves upon the Bastille, wave upon wave, thousands upon thousands,
armed and unarmed. Some cool and resolute, others noisy and clamorous as
bloodhounds, men, women and children, swarmed through the streets and
threw themselves in tumultuous masses on the grim old prison.

The French guards had fraternised with the mob and gave to a small
portion of it something like organization. So they came on, armed with
spears, axes, bludgeons and muskets, dragging cannons and carrying
hammers, a fierce, wild, terrible crowd, thundering at the outer gates
like a besieging army.

The draw-bridge which led to the Cour de Gouvernment, was closed against
them; its massive timbers barred their progress, as rocks drive back the
waves of an ocean. But this only swelled their numbers and inspired
their courage. Every hour made their power more formidable. The governor
had been summoned, and refusing to give up one foot of his fortress,
retreated into the deeper security of the prison itself. Thuriot,
commissioned by the city authorities, was allowed to pass in alone.
Directly he was seen by the insurgents on the battlements of La
Bazinière, a lofty tower that overlooked the arsenal and the whole vast
length of the Faubourg St. Antoine, which was black from end to end with
human beings, wild, fierce, terrible! whose menaces rolled and gathered
like thunder, around the tower on which that doomed man stood. The
cannons, pointed and ready for action, ranged upon the towers and
guarding the entrance, drove the people mad. When Thuriot came down and
addressed the crowd from a window of the governor’s house, the general
rage turned on him, and he barely escaped with his life. The Bastille
was wholly surrounded; every foot of ground was covered. The outward
pressure drove those before it forward, with irresistible force; there
was no retreat and no wish for retreat, but to advance seemed
impossible.

Before them was a lifted draw-bridge, a double row of sentinels, and two
guard houses crowded with soldiers.

Some small houses were to be seen close to the walls of the outer court;
their windows choked up with wrathful faces—their roofs black with human
beings, who swarmed over them till their rotten timbers threatened to
give way.

All at once, a wild shout rang up from the crowd. Two men had dropped
down from one of these roofs to the wall, which joined the guard house,
and creeping cautiously over it, leaped into the court. One of these men
was Monsieur Jacques, whom the people recognized.

Two old soldiers followed these bold men, and directly a yell of delight
answered the reverberation of four ponderous axes, crashing against the
chains of the draw-bridge.

The great mass of iron-bound timbers fell with a thundering sound, and
the crowd rushed over it, trampling each other down, like wild beasts,
in their furious haste.

A volley of musketry was poured in among them. Some men fell dead—others
were wounded, which completed the rage of the insurgents, who filled the
Cour de Gouvernment with cries for vengeance.

The French guards were now in motion. A detachment of grenadiers and
fusiliers hurried toward the Bastille. With them came thousands of
workmen, and bourgeoise, headed by Pierre August Hullin, who fought, and
looked like a gladiator. With them came two pieces of cannon, dragged
from the Place de Grève.

When the soldiers, followed close by this fresh relay of insurgents,
poured into the Cour de Gouvernment, the governor’s residence, the
barracks and guard houses, were in flames. A great mass of burning wood
and straw raged in front of the second draw-bridge, and the people were
shouting for oil and phosphorus that they might burn the very stones.

Now flames and volumes of turbid smoke rolled around that grim old
fortress, among which the insurgents worked like dragons. But its
massive strength defied them. Those black towers,—the moat, deep,
stagnant, torpid as a gorged anaconda, coiling around their base,
sending up a fetid odor as that serpent does when suddenly aroused—the
immovable draw-bridge, all defied the multitudinous strength that
assailed them. They stood in the midst of this awful tumult, grim, gaunt
and silent; save when the cannons belched forth fire, or a rattling
storm of bullets came hissing across the moat. Near the draw-bridge two
cannons were pointed, threatening destruction to any one who attempted
to break its chains.

The thwarted people grew desperate. Was all that mass of brute strength
nothing against those giant towers, whose cannons still defied them?

From the house tops, from the windows, from every point of command, men,
women and children fired wildly.

Five hours went by, and the maddened people seemed fighting in a
whirlwind; citizens, soldiers, priests, women and children, struggled in
one dense mass around the old prison whose walls they had scarcely
grazed. At this time, a deputation from the city authorities raised a
white flag in front of the draw-bridge, over which came a volley of
musketry, killing three men.

Now the rage of the besiegers arose to madness.

“We will choke up the ditch with our dead bodies,” they cried, “and pass
over them.”

“Let us begin here,” shouted a man who came from the burning residence
of the governor, dragging a young girl with him. “She is Delaunay’s
daughter! drag her to the foot of the fortress and let us burn her
alive, if he does not surrender.” They dragged the poor child along the
pavement, they heaped straw about her, and were applying the torch when
a young man leaped from the crowd and struck the dastard down, with the
burning torch in his hand.

“It is St. Just, it is St. Just!” shouted the crowd. “Let the girl live.
He has a right to her.”

Within the Bastille the governor entrenched himself like a lion at bay.
During five hours he had seen that great human ocean swell larger and
larger, till its black waves stretched beyond his vision. With merciless
bravery he had hurled death from tower and platform, till his heart
sickened within him. But up to this time he had no thought of yielding.
Now a portion of his soldiers came into his council-room, and besought
him to surrender. They had scarcely spoken, when an officer from the
Swiss guards rushed in.

There was no sign of being relieved from without. The cannon of the
insurgents was pointed against the second draw-bridge. The Swiss were
waiting for orders. Must they sweep the avenue?

“Surrender! surrender!”

Half the garrison joined in this cry. The Swiss guards with equal force
urged a more desperate defence.

Delaunay answered nothing; his face was white as death, his eyes shone
with some terrible resolve. He seized a burning match and hurried with
it towards the powder magazine. The Swiss officer seized him by the arm,
thus preventing the awful death he meditated for them and himself.

Delaunay flung down the match and trod upon it.

“I had forgotten that there were more lives than my own,” he said.
“Wait.”

He sat down by his council-table and wrote,

“We have twenty thousand pounds of powder; we will blow up the garrison
and all the quarters if you do not accept the capitulation.”

The officer took this note and held it through an opening of the
timbers. A plank was laid across the moat, and one of the insurgents
attempted to span it, but was shot down; another took his place, and
brought back the note which was read aloud.

When the French guards pledged themselves that no harm should come to
the garrison, the draw-bridge was slowly lowered, and, following their
leader, a furious crowd rushed over it.

The governor, pale, firm, and strengthened by the heroism of despair,
came forward and received their leaders bareheaded and resting on his
sword. A ruffian from the crowd menaced him with an uplifted dagger,
which was wrested from his hand.

Hullin and some of his followers volunteered to escort the Governor to
the Hôtel de Ville, and pledged themselves to protect him from the mob.
He surrendered himself to these men and left the Bastille forever.




                              CHAPTER LX.
                          THE PRISONERS FREE.


A strange thing happened as the insurgents poured across that
draw-bridge and entered the vast gloom of the prison they had conquered.
Silence, like that of death, fell on them all; the pallor of ghosts
settled on that sea of faces. They felt the awe of four centuries
gathering around them. It was like rushing suddenly into a vast charnel
house.

With mingled loathing and dread they lifted their faces upward, where
the ponderous rope ladders coiled down the towers and swayed heavily
into the darkness forever sleeping below. They stirred sluggishly
against the walls, and took an appearance of awful life, like great
serpents writhing there, and the crowd watched them in ominous silence.

Then an awful scene arose. A man flung himself over the battlements and
snatching at one of these weird ladders, attempted to escape some danger
from above.

Before he was half way down, the body and most evil face of another man,
leaned over the stone-work, and, with an awkwardly held hatchet, began
to hew the ropes.

One after another the strands gave way, till only a single rope was
left. A blow of the hatchet upon this, and the rope began to uncoil,
swifter and swifter, whirling the poor wretch with it, until the last
strand tore apart, and he fell, with a dull, heavy crash, to the court
below.

That poor body was so broken upon the stones, that no one could have
told the bruised face as that of Christopher, the head keeper.

For one awful minute, the crowd had been held dumb with suspense; but,
like wild beasts, those awe-stricken men grew ferocious with the sight
of blood. A shout of triumph from the men overhead, drove them on to
action.

Once more the tumult raged all the fiercer, from this hush of passions.
A hoarse cry rang through the prison,

“To the cells—to the cells! What are we doing here, while a prisoner
remains to be set free? Down to the depths! Down to the depths!”

This cry threw the crowd into fresh tumults of rage. A wild rush was
made for the cells.

Borne forward by the torrent of people, two women kept together,
clinging to each other, and making frantic efforts to come up with a
man, who carried a heavy ax in his hand.

Pale, eager, and panting for breath, the youngest of these females, a
fair delicate girl, was guiding her mother toward a low door, in one of
the towers.

“That is the door; I know it again! Keep close, mamma; Monsieur Jacques
is just before us. He will break it in with his ax. Come, come! Oh God!
help me, they have tore us apart!”

It was true. The woman, in her wild desire to push through the crowd,
was unconscious that Marguerite was not still by her side.

A man passed her bearing a lighted torch. She snatched it from him,
saying sharply, “I have the greatest need.”

The tumult raged louder and more fiercely. Men and women remembered
their hatred of the place, and they roamed through it like tigers. The
doors of the prison began to crash under their axes, while the maddened
crowd rushed downward into the bowels of the earth, burning with
passion, but awe-stricken and silent as an army of ghosts.

The first man who entered the lower corridors was Monsieur Jacques; he
was followed by a woman with a face of marble, who carried a burning
torch in her hand. Three times his ax circled around the head of
Monsieur Jacques, and each time the iron-studded door resisted the blow.
Another and the mass of oak fell in, scattering splinters over a man,
all trembling and white, with eyes gleaming through the long, silver
hair that fell over them, who stood up in the center of the cell,
holding out both hands imploringly.

When the flame of the torch fell upon his face, he uttered a sharp cry,
and shielded his sight with both hands.

Then a voice, hoarse and broken, thrilled the air of the dungeon.

“My husband! Oh, Henry! will you not look upon me?”

A slow shiver ran through the prisoner, the hands fell downward. His
eyes turned wistfully on the eager face bending toward him.

“Henry!”

Again the poor man was seized with a shivering fit. He put the long hair
back from his eyes, looked in that troubled face, and motioned with his
hand that the woman should speak again.

“My poor husband—my own, own Henry!”

He looked around, smiling, and nodded his head.

“That was my name!”

The words fell from his lips at intervals, as if he were counting them;
but the sound pleased him, and he repeated over and over again,

“That was my name!”

“Ah, Henry! try to remember mine. Therese, your wife!”

“My wife! My wife! That was _her_ name!”

He looked at the woman again shyly, and touched her with his finger. She
was crying now, and seeing this, he took up a long tress of his hair and
attempted to wipe the tears from her face; but his hand wandered wide of
its intent, and fell upon her shoulder. She took the pale hand up
tenderly and kissed it, while her tears fell thick and fast.

Something in the touch of her hand, or the mournful look in her eyes,
awoke that dormant soul. He clung close to her hand, his eyes looked
steadily into hers, a soft tremor stole over the gentle whiteness of his
face.

“He knows me,” she said, claiming sympathy from Jacques, who had taken
the torch from her hand. “I think he knows me.”

Jacques nodded his head, great tears were rolling down his cheek, and he
held the torch unsteadily.

“Therese was my wife’s name,” said the prisoner, with the plaintive wail
of a child.

She bent toward him, a smile beamed on her face, one arm stole around
his neck, she pressed her lips upon his.

That instant all strength left him, and he fell into her arms, murmuring
incoherent words.

Had some sweet link of affection drawn that poor soul back to its old
life? The woman thought so, and laying his head upon her bosom, wept
over him.




                              CHAPTER LXI.
                         THEY THREE MEET AGAIN.


Well might Marguerite Gosner cry to her God for help; for with the force
of a whirlwind she was swept back toward the draw-bridge and in danger
of being trampled to death. Her plaintive cry for the mother she had
lost, was answered by a rude hand which grasped her by the shoulder.

“Ha! I have reached you at last,” hissed the fierce voice of a woman in
her ear. “Citizens, here is the daughter of old Doudel, who has been
twenty years torturing prisoners in this accursed pile. Which of you
want a dainty morsel for his hatchet? Take her while I pick off the old
fox. I see him on the ramparts now.”

With a powerful swing of her arms, Louison Brisot hurled the helpless
creature back upon a group of young men who followed her like a pack of
fiends, shrieking and howling as they went.

As she fell at their feet, the woman who had flung her there, snatched a
musket from the nearest insurgent, and leveled it at Doudel, who was
steadily pacing the ramparts up and down, as if no work of death were
going on beneath him.

“Oh, my God, spare him, spare him,” cried Marguerite, struggling against
the rude hands that had lifted her from the earth.

A young man heard her cry, and knew the voice. With the bound of a
panther, he sprang upon Louison Brisot and dashed down the musket, with
which she was coolly taking aim. Then he turned, and tore Marguerite
from the ruffians that held her.

“Are you men, or brutes?” he thundered, dashing the foremost back with
his disengaged hand. “When women turn fiends, can Frenchmen be found to
do their evil work.”

The sharp crack of a rifle mingled with these indignant words. Down from
the nearest tower a human form plunged headlong, and fell in an awful
heap at Louison’s feet. The woman coolly returned the musket that had
done this fearful work, and strode up to the young man who had so
bravely attempted to prevent it.

“The women of France can do their own work, Monsieur St. Just, and by
the looks of that white face, I should say that my shot had killed two
birds.”

St. Just looked down upon the deathly face on his bosom and, in his
terror at its whiteness, forgot the fiendish laugh of the woman whom he
believed to have killed an innocent girl. Gathering the lifeless form in
his arms, he carried it across the thronged draw-bridge, and finding an
empty bench in the Cour de Gouvernment, laid her upon it.

There seemed no hope of getting restoratives in that fearful place,
which was still crowded with the mob, and dark with rolling smoke. But
as St. Just laid his burden down, a man came reeling up from the cellars
of the governor’s dwelling, which the fire had not reached, carrying a
bottle of wine in his hand, which he flung about ferociously. St. Just
caught this man by the arm.

“Citoyen, give me some of the wine, here is a poor girl dying for want
of it.”

“Is she one of us?” answered the man.

“Yes, yes.”

The ruffian glanced at Marguerite’s humble garments, and was satisfied.

“Oh, yes, I see; too young for the work. There, citoyen. What is your
name?”

“St. Just.”

“Long live Citoyen St. Just! Down with the Bastille!” shouted the man,
striking the neck of his bottle against the stone bench, and giving it,
all dripping with red wine, to St. Just.

“It is some of the governor’s Burgundy; don’t fear to use it. He will
never want it, our people over yonder have taken care of that.”

“Dead, great Heavens! they have not murdered him,” exclaimed St. Just,
filled with new horror. “We promised him safe conduct.”

“It seems our friends thought better of it. I saw him half an hour ago
on his way to the Hôtel de Ville. He was bareheaded then, and looked
brave enough, with all our people hooting at him. Hullin was at his
side, and did his best to quiet our patriots; but somehow, his foot
stumbled, and when he got up again, Delaunay’s head was on a pike,
dancing over the crowd.”

“It was a dastardly act, treacherous to him and to us,” said St. Just
sternly.

“For my part, I think the fellow fought bravely enough for his life to
have kept it,” said the man. “But Down with the Bastille! Down with the
enemies of France! I will get another bottle of his wine; keep that,
citoyen; the girl needs it more than I do, especially as I can get more.
Take some yourself. It will bring the color back to your face, which
looks like a ghost through the smoke. Bah! it stifles one.”

St. Just did indeed look pale, and his hand trembled, as he held the
wine to Marguerite’s lips. They did not move, and he was compelled to
force the wine between them. Still, she did not stir. These two persons
were quite alone in the crowd now. No one observed them, no one cared
whether the girl lived or died. St. Just bent over her, greatly
troubled. His breath bathed her cheek, his hand pressed hers, his voice
of agony pursued her sleeping spirit.

“Marguerite—Marguerite, for Heaven’s sake, for my sake, open your eyes.
Do you wish me to die, Marguerite? One word—one look—one breath, only
let me know that you are alive.”

His voice reached the girl’s soul, wherever it was. Her eyelids began to
tremble, her lips parted and grew red with a soft, gradual color.

“Marguerite, my Marguerite!”

“I hear, I am coming,” murmured the girl; “oh my beloved, I hear you.”

But for the crowd St. Just would have fallen down upon his knees and
wept over her such tears as men like him alone can shed. For the first
time, in that half unconscious state, she had confessed her love for
him.

Marguerite came to herself at last, and opening her great, dreamy eyes,
answered back the smile that glowed on St. Just’s face.

“I knew, I felt sure of it,” she said, quite unconscious that any words
had escaped her lips before. “When I come out of my dreams that face is
always near, but it fades away.”

All at once the girl was aroused out of her dreamy weakness—a new gang
of insurgents swept by the bench where she lay, shouting, howling, and
brandishing their pikes in the air.

Marguerite started up wildly.

“What is that?”

“A fresh outburst of the crowd, Marguerite, but have no fear, you are
safe.”

“Safe! oh yes,” she answered, and a soft smile stole over her face; but,
all at once she started up.

“My mother, my mother! oh, how could I forget her! Who will say that she
is safe?”

“I will, Marguerite. Look yonder.”

Marguerite sat up on the bench, and saw her mother with Monsieur
Jacques; between them, half walking, was an old man, who strove to hide
his face from the light.

“It is my father,” she said, almost in a whisper. “He has not seen the
light since I was a little child.”

St. Just went forward, and supported the prisoner toward the bench where
Marguerite rested. Madame Gosner came forward sadly, and took the girl
in her arms.

“It is your father, Marguerite; but he does not know me. They have
killed his mind.”

Marguerite took her mother’s hand, and kissed it tenderly.

“He will remember, mamma. God never can kill so sweet a thing as love in
the human soul. Oh yes, he will remember.”

Marguerite saw that her father was drawing near, and the tremor of a
great expectation shook her frame; her eyes grew misty, and the
faintness again crept over her, as she turned them upon him.

The bench on which Marguerite sat was in the deep shadow of a wall. She
saw the wind blow that white hair back from the old man’s face, which
had been covered till then. It was the most benign and gentle face that
human eyes ever looked upon. She left the bench and moved timidly toward
that angel-faced man, who held back his hair with both hands, that he
might look upon her. She sunk to her knees at his feet, for great
suffering had made him sacred to her. A single holy word trembled on her
lips.

“Father!”

A look of touching bewilderment came over that gentle face; the prisoner
looked from the beautiful girl at his feet to the face of the mother.

“This is Therese,” he said.

“This is your child,” said madame, keeping back her tears. “She was a
little thing when you went away.”

“A—yes—I remember! So small—so small! But this one—— This is Therese!”

“Father, will you not speak one word to me?”

“One word? There was something I used to do;” he seemed troubled with
thought a moment, then bent down and laid his hand on her head, “God—God
bless them!”

He turned his pleased face upon his wife.

“These words I kept close—here, here!”

While his hand was on Marguerite’s head a great tumult came surging
through the court. Some women, driven frantic by continued resistance at
a second draw-bridge, had gone in a body to the Place de Grève, from
whence they dragged another cannon and were now wheeling it furiously
onward, determined on firing it themselves in rebuke of the men who,
more patient and less ferocious than they, had waited to negotiate.

When they saw the draw-bridge down and their fellow insurgents swarming
over the prison, a yell of triumph rent the smoky air and, rushing
forward, they met Louison Brisot surrounded by a mob of blackened
ruffians, who bore the keeper Doudel’s head upon a pike.

Through all the fiendish noise that followed this horrible encounter,
one shrill cry pierced like an arrow, and a little old woman, who had
anxiously followed the fiendish gang rather than join it, fell lifeless
on the pavement.

It was Dame Doudel, the murdered man’s widow.

“Take her up and carry her home,” cried Louison Brisot. “One man is not
much to give to France, besides, her’s was a traitor.”

For one dread moment there was silence in the crowd. Those women were
not all fiends, and Dame Doudel was popular among them. Deep and bitter
murmurs rose up against Louison. The crowd was ready to turn and rend
her where she stood.

The woman, who was audacious, but hardly brave, saw her danger and
trembled; but a flash of courage saved her.

“Behold, there stands the prisoner Gosner. Women of France, it was I
that set him free. Let us bear him home in triumph.”

Murmurs of rage were now turned to a wild shout of approval. Those mad
women swarmed around the prisoner and his family. They recognized Madame
Gosner, and smothered her with hot kisses from lips that tasted of
gunpowder. They lifted that poor old man to the cannon brought for
another purpose, and prepared to drag him through the streets of Paris
as a proof of their victory.

Madame Gosner clung to her husband till fragments of his tattered
garments were torn off and left in her hand.

“Mount, mount!” cried the women, poising her upon the cannon, where she
threw both arms around her husband and kept him from falling.

Louison Brisot snatched a red cap from the head of an insurgent, and
throwing it over the white locks of the prisoner, flung herself across
one end of the gun, astride, as if she had been mounting a war charger.

“On, on!” she shouted, tearing the flame-colored scarf from her
shoulders, and streaming it through the circling smoke. “Let the people
of Paris see how the king deals with them!”

A hundred hands, grim with dust, blackened with powder, quivering and
eager as the claws of hungry vultures, seized upon the rope and hurled
the cannon forward. The crowd was torn apart, or trampled down. Thunders
of applause followed this army of women, which was engulfed in the black
masses of the streets, as a stormy ocean swallows up the ships tossing
on its waves.

Marguerite Gosner saw both father and mother thus forcibly swept away
without the power to speak, and found herself quite alone with Monsieur
Jacques and St. Just.

“Oh, take me home,” she pleaded, reaching forth her arms to the younger
man, “it is terrible, I shall die!”

St. Just gathered her close to his side, forgetful of the other
presence, and bent his face to hers.

“Have no fear, my beloved. Am I not with you!”

Jacques heard these words, and saw the glance of tender gratitude which
shone from those uplifted eyes. Saw it, and the great heart in his bosom
gave one leap and was still, like an eagle shot through the breast.

“Oh, take me, take me with you,” pleaded an old voice, quivering with
pathetic pain. “Let me go with you, Marguerite, for I have no one else
in the world now.”

It was Dame Doudel, who had come out of her fainting fit, and crept
toward the only faces she knew.

“Take care of her, she needs help more than I do,” said the girl,
withdrawing herself from the arm that supported her.

“I will do that.”

Monsieur Jacques’ voice was harsh with agony as he said this, but he saw
Marguerite draw back to that beloved shelter, and gave no other sign of
the war within him.




                             CHAPTER LXII.
                         THE PRISONER AT HOME.


They were together at last, that weary old man, his wife and child. That
crowd of women had brought him to the door of his home, and set him down
on its threshold. When he saw the steep flight of stairs, stretching
darkly upwards, a look of bewilderment and dismay came to his face. He
had forgotten their uses. So those triumphant furies carried him up in
their arms and would have laid him on the bed, but he struggled away
from them, and creeping into a corner, laid his face against the wall,
as if he felt some comfort in its coldness. Then the women went away in
search of better work than the caring for an old, worn out man.

Madame Gosner aroused him; she carried a plate of soup in her hand, and
when he sat up on the floor, held a spoonful to his mouth; but lifting
his terrified eyes to her face, as if she were something to dread, he
refused it, with a look of gentle repugnance.

“He is dazed with the noise, they have killed him with their violence,”
said Marguerite in a passion of grief. “Oh father, will you eat
nothing?” She brought him fruit and wine. He seemed pleased with their
rich colors, but refused to touch them.

All at once the girl bethought herself and got an earthen pitcher full
of water and some black bread. His eyes brightened. He looked at this
food wistfully, and when she turned her back, began to eat.

Marguerite sat down on the floor beside her father. She broke his bread
and held the water to his lips. Then he began to smile and lying down by
the wall again, dropped into a broken sleep.

Once or twice during that night Madame Gosner bent over the sleeping
man, but even in his dreams her presence made him shrink. She had
clasped him in her arms, and held him to view in that awful crowd. The
wretched man had lost many things in that dungeon, but his sensitive
delicacy nothing could destroy. It was a part of his soul. A dawning
consciousness that she was his wife had struggled in his brain for a
little time at their first meeting, but that rude scene on the cannon
obliterated it entirely. From that hour he recognised Marguerite as
Therese, who had no other embodiment for him.

The next day a crowd of women came forcibly in, and demanded that feeble
old man for exhibition at the Place de Grève, where his presence was
intended to enflame the populace, and prepare it for deeper revolt and
still more awful scenes.

Marguerite protested against this coarse outrage, and would have
defeated it had that been in her power. But the wife, given up heart and
soul to the spirit of anarchy, joined with her fierce compatriots, and
placed the wronged man by her side on the platform from which she
harangued the people.

Was it strange that a being so true and gentle, refused to recognize in
this amazon the sweet and loving wife from whom he had been torn in his
youth?

One night, when everything was still in the house, the prisoner got up
from the floor, and wandered about in the darkness, which he had learned
to love in those long years, when it became second nature to him.
Marguerite heard him, and left her bed.

“Father!”

“My Therese! I know the voice.”

Marguerite, guided by the glad tone in which her father spoke, crept
toward him, and put her hand in his.

“What is it that troubles you, my father?”

“I want to go back, Therese; this is not home. Everything is so warm and
dry here; I cannot hear the water whispering to me. I cannot find my
friend. Ah me! I want to go back, life is so full of noises.”

“Your friend! had you a friend in the Bastille, father?”

“Hush, Therese! they did not know it. I used to hide him when they came.
They would have killed him else. Ah me! he may be dead now. My little
friend who never left me, cannot know that they forced me away from
him!”

“Father, of whom are you speaking?”

“Hush, hush; I will not tell, only I must go back: say nothing, Therese;
but let me go back. I cannot rest here. The stars keep me awake; you
know where to look for me, I remember how you came there with Doudel.”

Marguerite shuddered at the sound of that name.

“Dear father, try to rest,” she pleaded.

“Rest, Therese? there will be no rest for me, or any of my race, until
that ring of old Egypt is found. Oh! where is it—where is it?”

“What ring, father?”

“What ring? that which gave to the possessor of our blood the power and
wisdom of a god. The ring which was wrested from my hand, on the day I
was torn from the light.”

“Tell me about it, father; I have heard my mother speak of it as an
ancient relic, such as comes out of the tombs of monarchs, and once I
saw one like the thing she described.”

“Where? when—who had it? tell me its form and color. There was but one
such in the world; treasures of wisdom are locked up in that ring!
Therese, Therese, the ring is gone! It is gone! The Talisman, which
gives happiness to me and mine, but misery to all others! Alas! until
that is found, I am nothing. Worse than that, worse than that. I know
full surely that it will bring sorrow and death to any hand that wears
it! Describe to me, Therese, the ring you saw.”

“It was a serpent of twisted gold, father, holding a beetle, cut from
some green stone, in its coils. The beetle was covered with strange
characters.”

The prisoner started forward in the darkness and grasped Marguerite by
the arm.

“It is my ring—It is my ring! tell me where you saw it!”

“Father, I saw it on the hand of Queen Marie Antoinette.”

The prisoner gasped for breath. Even in that dim light Marguerite could
see the glitter of his eyes.

“She wears it and it is cursing her. All France is in mad rebellion. Ah,
now I understand how the poison has been working! Therese, where is the
queen?”

“At Versailles.”

“I know where that is—she is there—and the ring? Go away, Therese, I
want to think. I want to be still.”

Marguerite went back to her bed and had hardly closed her eyes, when
that shadowy old man crept softly down the stair-case and was gone.




                             CHAPTER LXIII.
                    SEARCHING FOR THE SERPENT RING.


The Queen of France nearly lost her courage when news reached her of the
storming of the Bastille, but she kept bravely up in presence of the
court, and only indulged in sad forebodings when a moment of solitude
was given her.

One evening as the sun went down, she escaped from her ladies and went
alone into the park. Finding a secluded seat she fell into a painful
reverie, and gave way to it until the new moon dropped down among the
purplish whiteness of the clouds, from which all the scarlet and gold
had died softly out, and hung there like a golden sickle, waiting for a
harvest of stars. Then Marie Antoinette remembered the hour, and how far
she was from the palace, with a little thrill of fear. She gathered the
shawl over her head, and, holding its shadowy lace to her bosom with one
hand, went out into the Park, and walked swiftly away.

Everything was still as death; the birds had ceased their soft
fluttering among the leaves; and all the pretty animals had crept away
to their coverts among the ferns and undergrowth.

All at once the queen paused, and stepped back with a faint shriek. The
shadow of a man fell across her path—the man himself stood in her way.
The moon had just traveled through an amethystine cloud, and came out
clear as crystal, illuminating that strange face, the bright blue eyes,
the ivory forehead, and that long, white beard, which waved down the
man’s bosom.

“Lady,” he said, “you look kind and good; tell me how I can gain access
to the daughter of Maria Theresa.”

The voice was low and broken, but sweet with humility. There was nothing
to fear from a man who spoke like that.

“You speak of the queen?” said Marie Antoinette, with gentle dignity.

“Yes, I speak of the queen; that fair, brave woman, whose mother, a
saint in heaven, was once my friend.”

“You have seen my mother?” cried Marie Antoinette, surprised out of all
prudence.

“Your mother? Oh! that I do not know. It was Maria Theresa, the good
Empress of Austria, of whom I was speaking; and it is her child, the
young queen of France, I wish to see.”

“The young Queen of France! Alas! she is no longer young,” said Marie
Antoinette, with a pathetic recollection of the silver threads that were
creeping into her hair.

The man shook his head, and lifted one hand to it with an air of
bewilderment.

“You mistake, lady; I saw her twice, and she was young and fair, like
the lilies—so fair, so beautifully fair!”

“Was that in Austria, old man?”

“Yes, it was in Austria. She stood by the side of her mother, a grand,
princely woman, dauntless as a lion—but I saw her tremble. It is awful
to see such terror in the eyes of a brave woman; but it was there, and I
had done it. Ah, me! there is a power beyond that of monarch’s—a fearful
power. They wrested it from me—they wrested it from me; and I am only a
poor, weak old man.”

“Who are you? I cannot make out by the tones of your voice to what
nation you belong; they carry the accent of no country with them that I
can discern.”

“That is because I have been born again; buried, you know, and risen
from the grave.”

Marie Antoinette looked anxiously about her. This was the talk of a
madman. How had he come there? By what device could she escape him?

“You cannot understand me,” persisted the man, plaintively. “You are
afraid of a poor, helpless old man, who has but one wish in the world.”

“And what is that?” inquired the queen, reassured by his meek
earnestness.

“To see Marie Antoinette, to take the serpent from her hand, and the
curse from her destiny.”

Again the queen recoiled; these words seemed to her the wild talk of a
madman.

“Can you tell me how to reach her, lady?”

“That is impossible. The queen admits no strangers to her presence.”

“Ah, me! and I am a stranger to every one now. They all seem afraid of
the creature they have dragged up from his grave.”

“Who are you?”

“No matter; you would not care to know; a great many do not love the
queen; but I think you are something to the daughter of Maria Theresa,
or you would not be in this place. It is strange, but at first I thought
it was the queen walking by herself—as if she ever did! It would be
dangerous, I can tell her that—very dangerous; for there exist people
over yonder who hate this fair young queen. But I pity her; oh, yes! I
pity her from the depths of my heart!”

“Why—why do you pity her?”

“Because I know. Because they have taken the good from me and turned it
into evil for her. Ah! if I could see her; if she would only believe
me!”

“Believe you in what?”

“In the thing I would ask of her.”

“What would that be?”

“No matter. I can tell no one but herself.”

“Tell me, and if the thing you want is reasonable, I will ask it of
her.”

“Do you see her? Are you one of her ladies! You should be, else how came
you here?”

“How came you here?” demanded the queen.

“Oh! I accomplished it at last. Days and days I have waited and watched;
but this morning I saw a man go warily through a gate. He left it
unlocked. I dared not follow, but lingered near, for the temptation was
strong upon me. I waited patiently. Oh, lady! I have learned to be
patient; to wait, and wait, and wait——”

The man broke off dreamily. His hand waved to and fro in the air, as if
grasping at the moonbeams.

“But you have not told me?”

“Told you about what?”

“About the man.”

“About the man—I have seen a great many people since then; and they all
talk before me, thinking that I, most of any one, must hate the man they
call Louis Capet, and his wife. Poor thing! Poor thing! Why should I
hate her or him! He was not to blame for the cruel acts of his
grandfather. But about the man, he went out of the gate without locking
it, then I crept in. What if I had been an enemy? but I am not. No one
shall ever make me that.”

“Well, no harm is done,” said the queen.

“Not yet; but, lady, if you see the queen, warn her about the gate. I
would, but that my business with her is so much more important.”

“I will warn her,” said the queen.

“That is kind. Oh! if I could only see her, and undo the evil thing
which is sure to carry a curse with it, when a minute could turn it into
a blessing. You could not ask her?”

His great, wistful eyes were turned on her face imploringly; he grasped
the lace of her shawl with his eager hand. She stepped back nervously,
and wrenched the lace from his grasp. In doing this her hand flashed out
from its covering; the moonlight struck the great starlike diamonds on
her fingers, and dimly revealed a serpent of twisted gold, with a green
beetle in its coils, twined around one finger.

The old man uttered a cry so sharp and wild that it rang through the
park.

“Give it me! Give it me! It is mine! It is mine!” he cried, snatching at
the hand on which he had seen the serpent ring. “Oh, my God! it shall
not escape me again! All the fiends themselves shall not keep it from
me!”

The old man caught the hand, which again buried itself in the black
shawl; but he trembled so violently that the lace tore in his grasp, and
the queen broke from him in extreme terror. This insane violence
convinced her that the man was mad. She darted away, and ran for her
very life, not daring to cry out, but rushing on, and on, till the
breath left her.

The old man followed the flying woman, calling after her with pathetic
cries, and beseeching her to stop. She looked back, a hand grasped at
her shoulder, but she swerved aside quickly, and the old man fell
headlong.

The queen uttered a quick cry of thankfulness, and sped on, and on, till
she came in sight of the palace.

The old man, who had fallen headlong on the turf, lay insensible for a
few minutes; but after a little he lifted himself up, and looked around
for the lady who had almost reached the private door.

“Gone! gone! gone!” he cried out, with pathetic mournfulness. “How near
I was! My hand touched it! I felt the thrill and the power flash through
me like an arrow, and then it was gone! Who was the lady? How did that
ring come on her finger? Does she know that to her it will bring nothing
but curses, to me power, strength, the blessedness of memory—spring of
youth. Ah! why does she escape me!”

He stood awhile with his clasped hands uplifted, his eyes full of tears.
The agony of his disappointment quivered in every mild feature. Then he
tottered on, muttering to himself.

“Oh! how they baffle me! How long am I to wait! Are the fiends forever
to have mastery? Oh, me! I could bear it if no evil came to others,
while good is withheld from me. How long am I to wait?”

There was no madness in the old man’s voice, but unutterable
disappointment, the very mournfulness of despair. His step was slow and
feeble; tears dropped from his eyes, and fell upon his beard, where they
trembled like jewels. His lips quivered, and gave out soft murmurs of
distress, as he followed after the queen, who fled from him.




                             CHAPTER LXIV.
                       DOWN IN THE LEAFY SHADOWS.


The old man who had so terrified Marie Antoinette, followed her with
piteous entreaties, until she reached the private door, which had been
carefully left open for her. He even tried to enter by the same passage,
but she had drawn the bolt inside; and he turned from it in meek
despair, muttering to himself and smoothing his silvery beard in the
moonlight. Another man would have gone home, perhaps, spending the whole
of that beautiful night on his way to Paris; this weary pilgrim had lost
all ideas of home that were not connected with his cell in the Bastille,
which now lay a heap of ruins in the heart of the city. During the days
in which he had been at liberty, this broken being had refused to take
up his old habits of civilization; his limbs had never pressed a bed;
and his food was always the same, a crust of black bread and a cup of
water. The free air of a bright day oppressed him; but when the clouds
lowered, and the rain fell, a sense of enjoyment awoke in his bosom, and
he was sure to wander into the streets, and search with mournful
fascination for the ruins of his old prison.

A bright sunshine, and even moonlight, clear and broad as that which lay
around him, oppressed and bewildered this poor wanderer, who had spent
nearly half his life in utter darkness. Below the palace was a
thickly-wooded path, filled with shadows, through which he could, from
time to time, see the sparkle of waters leaping up to meet the
moonlight. As I have said, imprisonment had made darkness a second
nature to this man; so he stole away from the soft radiance that fell
around him, and went into the deep shadows. Here the moist atmosphere,
to which all his frame had become habituated, cooled the fever in his
veins, and the soft tinkle of falling waters lulled him back into the
dull monotony of his prison days. He sat down at the foot of a tree,
where the earth was cushioned all over with emerald-green moss, and
leaning his head against it, grew tranquil under the languid sense of
solitude that crept over him. To be alone was now the great luxury of
his life, as it had formerly been its punishment.

As the old man rested against his pillow of rugged bark, a shadow broke
the moonlight that quivered on the edge of the path, and the footsteps
of a man coming down the broad avenue leading that way startled him.
With a thrill of fear he drew closer to the tree that sheltered him, and
waited for the man to pass; but the path that led close to him was
darkened, and after a minute or two a gentleman stood within three paces
of his retreat. The old man could see enough of the face to read it
clearly, for a break in the tangled boughs overhead let in a stream of
radiance, which the surrounding darkness increased, and this lay full
upon the intruder.

The stranger took off his three-cornered hat, and sighed gently as the
moist air swept across his forehead. Then he moved a step forward, and
seemed about to rest himself on a seat opposite the elm, against which
Gosner was leaning.

The old prisoner, seeing this, arose to his feet and stood before this
man like a ghost; his soft, white beard sweeping to the wind, and his
frightened face etherealized by the light that struggled down to it.

“Forgive me; I was but resting,” he said, in the low quivering voice
with which he had been accustomed to address his keeper. “The air down
here was so cool; and I love the sound of dripping water—it is such
company!”

“Who are you, old man, and how came you here? Have you not been told
that no person is permitted to enter these grounds but the household of
the king?”

“No one told me; but I felt that it was wrong to be so near the palace,
so I came down into this dark path, quite out of the way. Is there any
harm in that?”

“I cannot think that harm of any kind need be apprehended from a person
who speaks with such gentle humility,” answered the stranger. “But tell
me, what brought you here?”

“I was sent! I was sent! But for that I had not come.”

“But how did you gain an entrance?”

“God opened the gate for me!”

“What? I do not understand.”

“I was waiting on the highway, thinking that our Lady, to whom I had
never ceased to pray, might, by a miracle, open some gate, through which
I might pass to the palace. Well, at last the blessed Virgin answered
me. A man came through a little gate which led to the gardens, and left
it ajar. I crept after him holding my breath, and went in among the
flowers, which covered me with perfume, which I do not like—that which
comes from sleeping water, green at the top, is best—the breath of
flowers is so subtle it makes me dizzy!”

“But you have not given his name?”

“Why should I? That is—I know—”

“Well, speak out. I wish to know who it is that I find at night in the
private grounds of Versailles.”

“Are you a friend to the king?”

A sad smile came over the stranger’s face, and he answered with feeling,

“If the king has a friend, I am one!”

“Then caution him—there is some harm intended him by the people of
Paris.”

The stranger drew a deep breath.

“Ah! I understand; you speak wisely and kindly; the king shall hear of
it.”

“No, no! Why should he, after all? They are right, I ought not to warn
this king, whose grandfather slew my youth, and turned my manhood into
this!”

Here the old man grasped the end of his white beard, and held it up in
the moonlight.

The stranger stepped back, and stood for a moment gazing with
astonishment on the old man’s face.

“Who is it that has wronged you so? What is your name? once more I ask
it.”

“The man who wronged me was Louis the Fifteenth. Once people knew me as
Dr. Gosner.”

“Gosner—Gosner! You were a prisoner in the Bastille?”

“Oh, yes! A prisoner of the Bastille!”

“Whom the present king pardoned?”

“And then cast into a deeper dungeon, while his minions gave forth that
I was dead!”

“Was the king guilty of treachery like this?”

“There was treachery somewhere; but what matters it now that you and I
should ask where it rested? The peoples’ hate has fallen with awful
heaviness on one man—that one who so oppressed the sufferers placed
under his despotism. When they led me forth from my dungeon into that
carnival of blood, the head of Delaunay went before me on the point of a
pike. If vengeance had not died out of my soul years before, it would
have sickened and perished then.”

“How, you a prisoner of the Bastille, and do not hate the king?”

“Hate him? No! Come closer, and I will tell you. An evil thing fell upon
him and the fair girl he married on the day I was cast into prison.”

“What was that evil thing?”

“A blessing and a curse; the blessing was taken from me and turned into
a curse for the daughter of Maria Theresa. Ah! If I could see her—if I
only could!”

“You speak of the queen?”

“Yes, of the woman who was wronged and wounded worse than myself, when
they buried my youth in the Bastille.”

“But how?”

“Ah! that is my secret. I will tell it to no human soul—not even to
her.”

The stranger looked earnestly at the singular old man whom he began to
recognize as mildly insane;—a poor wanderer, who had strayed into the
Park through some carelessly closed gate;—possibly a victim of the
Bastille, whose mind had gone astray in his dungeon; but, in any case,
worthy of infinite compassion.

“Would you like me to show you the way out from the Park?” he said,
gently, as if he had been addressing a child. “In a few minutes the
gates will be closed, and the guards doubled.”

The old man shook his head.

“No. I will rest here till daylight comes; then, perhaps, I can see her
again.”

“Whom would you see? Tell me, perhaps I can aid you.”

“The woman who was out yonder to-night.”

“The woman—did you know who she was?”

“No.”

“Did you see her face?”

“No. She gathered her veil over it and fled. Oh! if she had but waited!
I would have wrenched it from her hand, if she had not given it up; but
only to save her—only to save her. Fate has done its work with me.”

There was something mournfully pathetic in the old man’s words; his
thin, white hand trembled visibly as he clenched it in his beard; his
eyes shone in the moonlight, which now and then came down fitfully
through the branches, and seemed to cover him with alternate smiles and
frowns.




                              CHAPTER LXV.
                       THE PRISONER AND THE KING.


The stranger laid his hand in gentle compassion on the old man’s arm.
There was something so sweet and kind in his lunacy, that he could not
resist the pitying impulse which possessed him. What if this gentle old
man had, indeed, been a prisoner of the Bastille—a terrible place, which
the nobility had used with such fearful recklessness, without pausing to
understand what awful sins they were committing against human rights.

“Sit down,” he said, “you tremble, and seem very old; while I rest here,
tell me something of that prison—of your life there. Was it, indeed, so
horrible as the people say?”

The old man sat down as bidden, for he had learned to obey until
submission had become an impulse. The stranger leaned against the trunk
of a willow that drooped over him a perfect cataract of leaves, and
prepared to listen.

“What would you have me say?” asked the old man, lifting his meek eyes
to the thoughtful face of his questioner. “There is much suffering in
twenty years—where shall I begin?”

“Tell me everything. It is well that I should know how far men can
suffer and live.”

The old man shook his head.

“Ah! it is all a dream now, a dull, heavy dream of darkness, and hunger,
and awful rest. At first I yearned and struggled for the freedom which
despotism, not crime, had torn from me. I raved in my cell; I beat my
hands against the great oaken door, which answered me with the mockery
of hollow noises; I beat my head upon the stone flags of my cell, hoping
thus to end the torment of my longing. I cried aloud for my wife and
child. Oh, my God! my God! how I suffered then—I, who had done nothing
that was evil, but always sought out the right; I, who had kept myself
humble, and loved the poor with affectionate brotherhood, who had
nothing on earth but my sweet young wife and her little child!

“At first I said this outrage against an innocent man cannot last. In a
few weeks they will let me out, and I shall flee on the wings of love to
find my wife and child; they will have suffered, but my coming will
bring back all the old joy into their lives. Monsieur, do you know what
it is to have such dreams die out of the soul?”

The old man clasped his hands, bowed his face down to his bosom, over
which the white beard flowed, and began to sob. The tenderness of a most
affectionate nature had come back to him so far that a swell of
self-pity heaved his breast when he remembered the pangs of anguish with
which he had given up all the hopes of his youth.

“Go on,” said the stranger, in a broken voice; “it is well that I should
hear this.”

“In the darkness of that dungeon,” answered the old man, “I felt my soul
going from me, I struggled hard to keep it—but it went, it went; the
cruel wants of the body conquered it. Hunger, cold, the eternal drip of
stagnant waters drove me mad, I think, for days lengthened into black
years, and years grew into eternity. To me there was neither heaven or
earth, nothing but that dungeon and its four dripping walls. As the
memory of my sweet home among the vineyards died out, I began to love
those walls; my eyes transformed themselves for the darkness, and
learned to watch the creeping things that came and went into my dungeon;
the bright-eyed toads, that sat hour by hour looking into my face, as if
they wondered what manner of animal I was, sitting there so inert and
helpless; or, hopping from place to place. They never felt the closeness
of those four walls. After a time these creatures, so loathsome at
first, became dear as children to me. I watched their coming with eager
longing, and out of my scant food saved a little for them, that they
might not be tempted to leave me. I would sit hours together holding one
of these creatures in my hand, counting the spots on its back with my
fingers, and smoothing its soft throat with gentle touches, while his
bright eyes shone on me through the darkness.

“Sometimes these pretty reptiles would creep into my bosom as I slept at
night. Then I dreamed that the little hand of my child was caressing me.
You understand, monsieur, as my sight had shaped itself to the darkness,
so my heart, closed in by despair, found something to love even in that
loathsome cell.”

“Go on! go on!” said the stranger, sharply, “I am listening!”

“Sometimes a keeper was harsh and cruel when he came to my cell, but
oftener he was grim and silent, refusing to speak or answer one word
of the questions which at first almost choked me as they crowded up
from my heart. By degrees I did not care—what was the outer world to
me, sitting there in the darkness of my tomb. Sometimes this man
brought a lamp, and let me cut off the long hair which flowed over my
shoulders like a woman’s. At first it was soft and golden, then it
grew whiter—whiter—whiter; and by this I marked the time. When I came
out the other day, it was drifted snow like this.

“One day the people rose like a great tidal wave, and swept over my
prison. A woman plunged down into the bowels of the earth, and fell upon
my neck, crying out that the people had won back my liberty. I did not
understand her—I did not know her; her eagerness wearied me. She talked
of things I had never heard of. She said that she was my wife. My wife,
with those bright, eager eyes; those curling lips; that free speech,
often sharp with denunciation. If she was my wife, too much light had
changed her more completely than darkness had worked on me. While her
arms were around me, I thought of the fair, meek creature I had left in
that cottage among the vineyards, and mourned for her as we mourn for
the dead. Then they brought a young creature to me, so like my first
wife that I stretched out my arms with a cry of joy; but they told me it
was my daughter. Wife and daughter had both gone. The old king had dug a
chasm of years between them and me. I could not cross it—I could not
cross it!”

The stranger took a handkerchief from his bosom, and wiped away some
great drops that had gathered on his forehead.

“No more to-night,” he said; “I cannot bear it.”

“Then I will go, since you will not let me rest here; but the road to
Paris is long, and suffering has made me an old man.”

The stranger reflected a moment.

“Not here,” he said, “the air is moist and the earth damp.”

“Ah! but I learned to love this dampness in my dungeon,” said the old
man, plaintively.

“Still it is no safe resting-place. I must not turn you upon the highway
in the night; besides, the guard might treat you ill. Come with me;
there is a place where you can be safe, and more comfortable.”

The old man picked up his staff and followed the strange person, who had
taken this singular interest in him, with docile obedience.

The two mounted upward from the secluded path, and walked toward another
portion of the park, where a tiny summer-house was embowered.

The stranger opened the door and let a flood of moonlight into the
pretty place.

“Here are easy-chairs and cushions, you can make out a resting-place
from them,” he said, kindly, addressing the old man.

“No; I will sleep on the marble floor—a bed suffocates me.”

“Have no fear, then; no one will molest you.”

“Fear! What has a prisoner of the Bastille to fear—death? How many of us
prayed for that every hour of our miserable lives,” answered the old man
with a gentle smile. “You are kind, and I thank you. Gratitude, I
sometimes think, is the only feeling imprisonment has left me. I am
grateful to you, sir.”

“Grateful to me! Do you know that I am THE KING?”




                             CHAPTER LXVI.
                           ON TO VERSAILLES.


Madame Gosner had done the true work of her lifetime when she saw her
husband set free from the Bastille. Then if all the sweet womanhood of
her nature had not been embittered by the radical fury of the times, her
own reward would have been assured. But, instead of a wife suffering and
toiling for a beloved husband’s freedom, this woman had become an
avenger—a patriot—that most loathsome thing, a female demagogue. It was
painful but not strange that the husband for whom she had toiled,
suffered, and almost died, should have failed to recognize in this woman
the sweet young wife he had left in that vineyard home.

Marguerite was to him now what the wife had been then. His tortured
memory could neither associate this amazon with his wife, or the lovely
girl with the child he had left with her. He knew that each represented
the other, but could not feel it. To him Marguerite was the Therese of
his memory; the little child haunted him like a dream, nothing more. As
for the woman, he was afraid of her. In her enthusiasm she had become
his persecutor. It was she who forced him into crowds, and turned the
fierce eyes of a clamorous mob upon him. It was she who called down a
storm of curses on the sovereigns of France whenever his white hair was
seen. It was she who filled their humble apartments day and night with
red-capped men and hideous women, who swarmed around the sensitive old
man like birds of prey. So oppressive and terrible did this become at
last, that the old man crept from his home with cautious stealth, and
sometimes remained away for hours, no human creature knowing where he
went. More than once he remained out for days, and search the streets as
they might, no one could find him.

Madame Gosner was baffled and defeated in her wild ambition. Neither her
husband or daughter entered into her projects or her hatred of the royal
family. The life this perverted woman led bore with equal force upon her
daughter Marguerite, who gladly escaped from the confusion in her own
home, to the sad quiet of Dame Doudel’s apartments. This kind old
benefactress gave her in all tenderness the love and protection which
springs so naturally out of mutual sorrow.

But the time came at last when both Marguerite and her helpless father
were forced to appear among the insurgents.

Months had swept by swiftly, as time goes when nations plunge onward to
rebellion. Paris was once more in open revolt. Her people, with one of
those popular impulses that shake the foundations of a government, had
resolved to besiege the Assembly in its halls and the king in his
palace.

The Court and the Assembly were at Versailles, wrangling together. The
people all this time had been busy hunting down the king. Now they were
marching upon him in one huge mob which left the lanes and streets of
Paris empty, and its vast market places silent as tombs. The rain was
pouring down in torrents, the mud was ankle deep; yet that vast
concourse of people kept steadily on, wheeling cannon through the
mud—throwing out banners to be soaked by the rain, shouting, grumbling,
hurling curses on the king, the queen, and the court.

In the midst of the rioters Madame Gosner was conspicuous, riding a
heavy cart horse and carrying a spear in her hand. Close by her on a
smaller and more gentle animal rode the prisoner of the Bastille, with a
red cap upon his head, which hung limp and dripping over his white
locks.

Whenever this man appeared, shouts long and loud, followed him, at which
his brow would contract gloomily and his eye gleam underneath them. In
the crowd, mounted on horseback like her mother, but with no emblems of
rebellion, came Marguerite, pale, dejected, and forced sorely against
her will into the heart of the mob, as her father had been.

About midway between Paris and Versailles, the crowd halted at a village
where it was thought bread for the hungry crowd might be obtained. In
the confusion which followed this movement, the old prisoner tore off
his red cap, flung it into the mud, and in its place drew the hood of a
friar’s cloak, which some priest had cast over him when the rain came
down most violently—then he turned his horse and pushed his way out of
the crowd unnoticed. In half an hour he left that vast crowd behind him
and made the best of his way to Paris, which was still and deserted like
a city of the dead.

In the suburbs, the old man dismounted and turned his horse loose. He
was weary and very feeble; the mud clung to his feet, and the rain
poured upon him with cruel steadiness; but he moved on, and at last
turned into the ruined court of the Bastille, crossed the draw-bridge,
and went out of sight among the unshapely heap of stones beyond it.

When the army of women went back to Paris, Madame Gosner was among those
who conducted the royal captives to the very entrance of the Tuileries.
Now her triumph seemed almost complete, her enemies were trampled almost
into the dust. Her name was received with shouts wherever she turned.
She forgot the husband who had disappeared in the crowd, and the child
whom she had with despotic force urged into an act of open rebellion.
The madness of ambition was upon her. She had begun now to rival
Theroigne and the coarsest of her sex in a struggle for popularity. So
she went into the thickest of the mob, while Marguerite sought her home
with a heavy heart, hoping with terrible misgivings that she might find
her father there.

The rooms were empty. No human soul was there to meet or comfort her. No
sign of the hunted man met her in the building.

Where could she go? In what place had that helpless man hid himself? Two
nights he had already been absent; had he perished in the street, or
wandered off into some village of the open country?

All at once a thought struck the girl. The Bastille had some weird
fascination which carried that lonely man back to his dungeon, as birds
return to the cages from which they have been set free, feeling the
broad, blue dome of the sky too vast for the trial of their worn and
crippled wings. This thought was scarcely more rapid than the action
that followed it.




                             CHAPTER LXVII.
                      LOUISON BRISOT IN THE RUINS.


Louison Brisot had been foremost among the women who brought the king
and the queen almost prisoners from Versailles to the Tuileries. Flushed
with her triumph, weary with excitement, a few nights after this outrage
she found herself in the street, doubtful whether to make her way to the
Cordelier Club, or find some church in which she might listen to
vespers, and, perhaps, seek other religious help; for this woman, who
was devoid of the first principles of morality, gave herself up at
intervals to superstitions, which she absolutely believed to be
religious. She did not turn toward the club, but walked on at random,
threading one street after another until she reached the Bastille, which
lay under the pale moonlight, heaped in ruins. The moat, half choked up
with fragments of the broken walls, still coiled around the old
foundations, lapping the huge stones, and seeming to writhe under them
like a wounded serpent, with a slimy, green back, on which the calm moon
was shining in fitful glimpses.

It was a scene of wild devastation. Here and there patches of white
plaster gleamed against the blackness of the broken stones like ghosts
crouching in the shadows, and a part of the draw-bridge loomed up, as
yet unbroken, from which huge chains were dangling like fetters from a
gibbet.

Weird and terrible as the scene really was, Louison regarded it with
feelings of wild satisfaction. She had helped to tear down those mighty
walls with her own hands. Her voice had led a phalanx of women on to
that awful attack, when despotism received its first fatal blow. She
felt keen delight in roaming about this ghostly ruin, which was so
fearfully typical of the fate which impended over the nation. In those
disjointed stones she saw the real power which lay in the people, and
the weakness of kings when that power chose to exert itself. If the
people of France were strong enough to wrest this stronghold from the
crown, what could prevent them from tearing away the very foundations of
the throne itself?

Louison asked these questions of herself as she wandered among the black
masses of rock that had once been a prison, so grim and awful, that the
very children had run away terrified by a sight of its walls. A wild
craving for liberty had hitherto filled her being; a blind ambition to
be the leading spirit of any tumult that might spring out of the
starvation and discontent which filled all France with tears and
menaces. But now another and more bitter feeling possessed her; personal
hate mingled itself with the fanaticism which had lifted liberty into
the semblance of a god, at whose feet both religion and common sense
must be hurled. She longed to crush the beautiful queen as she had
helped to cast those stones down from their ponderous hold in the prison
towers. She had no object in coming there but that of feasting her eyes
on the ruin, which was a proof and a pledge of the greater overthrow yet
to come. The time was near when crowns should be trodden under foot, and
thrones hurled from their base as those rocks had been.

In this place the demons of envy and hate entered that woman’s soul, and
she called them patriotism. Among the gaunt shadows that filled the
ruins of the Bastille, there was one spot more dreary than the rest,
hollowed out like an exhausted volcano, and partly choked up with rocks,
black and rugged as consolidated lava. The moonbeams penetrated into
this abyss, and played whitely around its jagged edges. Louison could
hear the trickle of water, as it filtered from the moat, and crept
downward among the stones. This sight more weird and dismal than
anything she had seen, fascinated the woman, and she paused to look upon
it. Above the slow trickle of waters she heard a human voice, utterly at
variance with the place, for its tones were low and sweet as the murmur
of a south wind when the flowers are budding, but plaintive as that same
wind when it sighs among autumn leaves.

What could this sound mean? Had some prisoner been left among the
subterranean dungeons, unable to make himself heard when that multitude
of spoilers swept over the prison?

Louison was fearless; and this thought stirred all the humanity in her
bosom. She sprung from the fragment of rock on which she stood, and
leaped from point to point down into the chasm. She came at last to a
platform, which had once been a corridor far beneath the level of the
moat. This was partly filled with the rubbish of broken doors and rusted
iron, rent from the walls when the mob were raging like wild beasts
through the foundations of the prison, making impossible efforts to
annihilate the space which could only be filled up by the ruin going on
above. More than one black hole in the wall revealed to her where a cell
had been; and her progress was again and again impeded by the links of
some broken chain, coiling like a serpent in her path.

At last she came to an open cell, into which the moonlight penetrated
dimly; for the rubbish directly before it had been cleared away, and
some yards along the corridor were open to the sky. From this cell she
heard murmurs; a soft voice, tremulous with the tender weakness of old
age, was talking there, expostulating, caressing, murmuring fondly, as
aged women caress their children’s children.

Louison held her breath and listened, stricken with wonder and vague
compassion.

“My pet, my little friend! and did you wait for me? Did you know my
voice when I called out? Were you glad when I caught so many flies for
your breakfast? Yes, yes! I found you waiting for me in the corner,
wondering at the light, I dare say; but neither that, or the awful
thunder of falling rocks could drive you from the old place. Did you
hear me at work, day after day? Could you understand that I was in
search of you, and that every stone I lifted took a load from my heart?
They would not listen to me, our wild, fierce friends, and shouted with
laughter when I told them I had a friend that must not be left, if I
went. How could they understand that it was tearing my heart to leave
you? But their kindness frightened me, and by force I was carried up, up
into the sunlight, that struck me blind; into a home that was strange as
a grave; and into a bed that tortured me with its softness. It was not
home—that was with you, my darling. You shall have the sunlight as I do,
and look out with me on the calm, white moon. It will seem strange at
first, as it did to me; but you will not feel more afraid of it than I
was.”

Louison listened to the plaintive fondness of these rambling words, till
they died away in soft cooing murmurs. Then she stooped a little, and
passed into the cell, where, by a few faint gleams of the moon that
trembled downward even to that depth, she saw a man sitting on the
dungeon floor, his black garments trailing around him, and a beard,
white as silver and soft as snow, sweeping down to his waist; his head
was bent, and he was looking at some dark object in his hand.

When this man saw Louison, he laid his right hand over this object,
lifted it to his bosom, sheltering it under his flowing beard, and
turned his bright eyes angrily on the woman.

“Have you come again?” he said, querulously. “I know you. It was you,
and the like of you, that dragged me into the hot sunlight. Have you
come again?”

“Who are you, and how came you here?” demanded the woman, struck with
wonder and something like dread.

“I was a man they called Dr. Gosner once, years and years ago; but they
give me no name since then. Here it was No.—oh, I forget!—out yonder,
where the sun shines, they call me ‘_The Prisoner of the Bastille_.’”

“Ah! Are you that man? But I thought you were cared for, that you had a
comfortable home with your own family. How came you here?”

“This is my home; it is shady and quiet. I have a friend here.”

“What friend? Your wife? Surely she does not come here.”

“I had a wife once, bright as a flower, and they told me I was going to
her; but when I cried out for her, a woman of the people came,—proud,
grand, noisy. It troubled me, it troubled me!”

Here the man pressed both hands to his bosom, and his beard shook
passionately.

“But your wife is still living? I know the whole sad story,” said
Louison.

“My wife! She called herself that. I saw her carrying a flag in her
hand, and wearing a cockade on her bosom. There was fire in her eyes,
and specks of foam on her lips. She looked straight at the sun, and
cried out, with a host of fierce, angry women, ‘Bread or blood! Bread or
blood!’ Then I knew this woman was _not_ my wife.”

“Ah! I know well who it is—you speak of Madame Gosner. There is no voice
at the clubs more powerful than hers. She leads the women and half the
men of Paris with her enthusiasm and her force of will; Theroigne, of
Liege, is not more powerful.”

“My wife was young, sweet, gentle. She desired no power; but only asked
for the pleasure of leading our child.”

“But your wrongs have made her a patriot—a leader among downtrodden
women and great men.”

The old man shook his head sadly.

“The greatest wrong that can be done to any man is to deprive him of a
wife he loves.”

“But you are not deprived of this great woman. She is still your wife.”

“Then let her go back to the vineyards which grew around our home, out
of this turmoil, where human happiness has no root.”

“But that would be to cast away her power, and darken her own glory.”

“Power over the vile passions of madmen; the glory which bathes itself
crimson in blood! What has any man’s wife in common with such things as
these?”

“Then you scoff at a revolution in which women go breast to breast with
brave men?”

“Scoff? No; it is long since I have forgotten how to scoff. We learn
more humility in prison.”

“But who sent you there? The king! Who was it that promised freedom, as
a return for her own vile life, and then gave forth that you were dead?
Marie Antoinette, the Austrian!”

“The king who buried me is dead. God has long since judged him for the
crime!”

“But the woman who ruled that weak, wicked man is still living.”

“Let her live.”

“But your wrongs belong to the people. They speak louder than the clamor
of a thousand tongues against the man and woman who call themselves
merciful, yet kept you a prisoner in this horrid place years and years
after the original oppressor was dead.”

“Hush! Speak lower, you disturb my little friend. It is always so quiet
here.”

Louison shook her head.

“Poor man, his mind is disturbed.”

“No; it is my heart which shrinks from the strife going on up yonder.
They dragged me into it; _she_ did, the woman who calls herself my wife.
She dragged me to her side on the cannon that day, where hordes of
frantic women might whet their rage over my broken life. Had that woman
been on the guillotine, they would have found me by her side; but not
there—not there. France has better uses for her women.”

“Then you denounce the women who are ready to die for liberty; you side
with royal tyrants?” said Louison, fiercely.

“Woman, if you are one of them, go away and leave me in peace.”

“No, old man, I will not leave you. In these times the life and peace of
every man and woman in France belongs to the nation. It is given some to
fight, some to speak, and others to plan—you shall not sit here musing
in silence. There is eloquence in your wrongs, power in your white
hair—glory to crown it when this government is overthrown. You are
needed to inspire the people who have given you freedom. Old man, I
charge you to join those who will have ‘Liberty or death! Liberty or
death!’ These were the words of a great American patriot, who did more
by that one outburst to win the freedom he pined for, than the swords of
fifty common warriors. Your words may be equally powerful.”

The old man shook his head, but made no answer. Louison grew fierce, for
his meek opposition excited her to rage. She moved a little on one side,
and the motion let in a gleam of moonlight, which fell on the old man’s
face. She spoke again with bitterness.

“Old man, you are dreaming.”

“Dreaming? Yes! One learns to dream when light and speech are forgotten;
but this dream brings tears to my eyes—and they come with such pain now!
Would it offend you, madame, if I ask to be alone with my friend?”

“With your friend? What friend? I see no one here.”

“No matter; but I am used to being alone. Would it please you to leave
me? In this place, company seems strange.”

“Yes, old man, I will go, but on one condition. When the patriots want
you, in order to deal out vengeance where it has been so foully earned,
there must be no faltering—your wrongs belong to the nation. You were
dragged forth from this dungeon that the people might learn something of
the tyranny that oppresses them. All the remnant of your life belongs to
them, and they will not be defrauded of it.”

Again the old man shook his head with pathetic mournfulness; but Louison
grew implacable and stamped her foot on the broken stones of the floor.

“Are you thus ungrateful to the patriots who saved you?” she exclaimed,
so fiercely that the prisoner shrunk within himself, and looked up
frightened. His hands trembled so violently that the object they held
fell down upon the folds of his black cloak with a tiny shriek, as if
its gentle life were also disturbed by the presence of that angry woman.

“What is that thing you are caressing?” demanded the woman, as Gosner
laid his hand tenderly over a bright-eyed mouse that was trying to hide
itself in the folds of his cloak.

“Oh! do not hurt it! Do not hurt it!” cried the old man, reading danger
in her fierce glance.

The woman interrupted him with unutterable scorn in her face and voice.

“And it is for a reptile like this you creep away, and refuse to show
your wrongs to the people, when every white hair on your head would
pierce the tyrants of France like a sword? Old man, I despise you!”

As she spoke, Louison gave a vicious snatch at the old prisoner’s
mantle, shook the frightened little creature that sought covert there to
the floor, and dashed it against the wall with her foot.

With a cry of mingled rage and pain the old man leaped to his feet,
seized the woman by the throat, and held her till she grew crimson in
the face. Then he cast her suddenly away, fell upon the floor, and
taking up the wounded animal in his hands, bent over it in pitiful
misery, while tears ran down his cheeks in great, heavy drops. Not a
murmur left his lips; but you might have seen by the faint shiver of his
beard that his mouth was trembling violently.

A thrill of human pity seized upon Louison when she saw this anguish.
Forgetting her own injuries, she bent down and reached forth her hand to
make sure if the old man’s pet were living or dead; but that sharp cry
again drove her back, and she retreated from the ruined dungeon grieved
for the misery she had wrought.

When the old prisoner knew that he was alone, he gathered up the folds
of his mantle, and laid his little favorite down with such tender
handling as a mother gives to her only child when she puts its little
shroud on. He touched its silken sides with his fingers; breathed upon
its eyes and sobbed aloud when all his plaintive efforts failed to lift
those tiny lids, or stir one of those slender limbs.

That which all his wrongs, and an imprisonment of years had failed to
accomplish, the heartless woman who had just left him found the power to
do. The old man stood up in his cell, and lifting his clasped hands to
heaven, called for vengeance on his enemy, and besought God to check the
evil spirit which was filling France with demons in the form of women.
After this outburst, he sat down in a corner of the dungeon, and
shrouding his face, moaned over the little animal which had been his
sole companion, year after year, in that dismal place.




                            CHAPTER LXVIII.
                    MARGUERITE COMFORTS HER FATHER.


While his eyes were shrouded, and his head bowed low in utter dejection,
a young girl darkened the moonlight which streamed into the dungeon, and
settled down by the old man with such delicate stillness, that he was
not conscious of her approach until her hand was laid on his shoulder.

“What is it that troubles you, father?”

Her voice was sympathetic and full of sadness. He heard it and all the
gentle sweetness of his nature flowed back upon his wounded soul. The
very touch of a kind, good woman stilled the wrath which a bad one had
enkindled there.

The old man took both hands from his face, and pointed downward at his
poor, little friend, upon which the moonlight was lying.

“Look there, Therese!”

“Oh! how cruel, how hard I,” cried the girl, taking the little animal in
her hands. “Dead, poor little marmousette—is it dead?”

“Yes, it is dead; a woman killed it,” said the old man, with a thrill of
the old anger in his voice.

“A woman? No, no! What woman?”

“One of those who call themselves women of France. They have hunted me
down like wolves, hoping to make my sorrows the instruments of their
vengeance.”

“Oh! I understand,” said the girl, mournfully. “It was one of those
women who pointed poor Doudel out, as he stood guard upon the tower,
when the Bastille was assaulted. The mob had seized upon me, but I would
not cry out, from fear that he would come down to rescue me, and thus
expose himself; but she saw the agony in his face, and pointed the
carbine upon him. I saw it, and flung up my arms to warn him; but at
that very moment he fell, with a crash, to the pavement. Oh it was
fearful!”

These words left Marguerite’s lips with a cry of despair that found a
weird echo in the ruins. Then she fell into shuddering sobs that died
out at last, and only murmured,

“Never will the face of that woman leave my memory. It was that of a
beautiful fiend.”

“Alas!” said the old man. “How much innocent blood was shed that I and a
few others might be set free.”

“Poor Doudel was not to blame. He put no man in prison; but only did a
guard’s duty. Why did the mob murder him?”

“It was for me that your friend lost his life.”

“Then let us thank our blessed Lady that he did not die in vain,”
answered the gentle girl.

The old man did not answer, his head was bowed down, his hands moved
restlessly. No subject could take him long from a remembrance of the
desolation of his loss.

All at once the young girl uttered a little cry.

“Oh, my father! have some hope.”

The old man started.

“Hope! hope! What for?”

“It is warm! Yes, yes! It moves!”

“What, what? Ah! it would be so cruel to deceive me!”

“Look, look! its pretty eyes are open.”

“Oh, my God! is this true?”

“It is trying to stand up in my palm. Poor little thing, how it
quivers.”

“Let me look—let me touch it!” cried the old man, trembling with
eagerness. “My pet! my life! my little darling!”

The old man’s voice broke into tears. He held out his hands, but they
shook so that the mouse fell back when it attempted to climb them.
Marguerite caressed it against her cheek; then laid it softly into the
outstretched palm of the old prisoner, answering back his smile when he
hid the creature under his beard.

“There, you see our Lady has not altogether forsaken us,” said the girl,
drawing a basket from under her shawl. “I was sure that you would be
here, and I brought something for both you and marmousette to eat. Poor,
little thing—does it tremble yet?”

“Yes; but I think it is not so badly hurt.”

“Dreadfully frightened, I dare say,” answered Marguerite, “and all its
little breath knocked out against the stones. I saw that odious woman
pass, and hid myself in the ruins. I saw her face—that face. It was the
woman who pointed the carbine at Doudel. But we will think of her no
more. You will go home with me now, papa.”

“Not yet—not to her—that woman who calls herself Therese; as if I did
not know. She will drag me again into the clubs and along the streets
that men may gaze on my white hair, and curse their king. I will not go;
they shall not force me to harm him. Therese! Therese! do you understand
that I think the king a good man?”

Marguerite flung her arms around the old prisoner.

“I did not expect to hear you say that, my father, because you have been
so cruelly treated; but I love the king, and the queen, too. Yes, if
they tear me to pieces, I will love her to the end.”

“That is a brave, good girl. I love them; I pity them—but what can we
do? You, a young girl, and I an old man, broken down in body, and
confused in brain. What can we do but give them love and pity?”

“This we can do; it may not be much, because the lives of a young girl
and an old man are of little value where the great of the earth are
swept down and trampled under foot; but we can pray for them, watch for
them, and give up our poor lives, if that will do any good. I will tell
you a secret, my father. There was a time when this mob of coarse women
and cruel men almost made me one of them, because of the awful wrong
that has been done to you; but I had seen the king, and knew better than
they did, how little right we had to condemn him. The queen had taken me
in her arms; wept and pleaded for me. How could I turn against them?
There might have been deception, but not there!—my heart always told me
that.”

“That is well, that is very well, my Therese. Listen now, I also have a
secret; I have spoken with the king.”

“You, my father? It could not have been on that awful day when they
dragged us to Versailles with the mob?”

The old man laughed a gentle, childish laugh.

“No, no; I escaped them. You could not, but I did. Their cries deafened
me. They were not women but demons, so I fled from them; most of all
from _her_.”

“I saw it, father, and strove to follow, but the crowd hemmed me in and
dragged me onward. Women frantic to hurl themselves and their troubles
against the queen, forced me to obey them. Oh, it was fearful! How the
rain fell—how the mud flew—how the women howled!

“In the midst of the storm we reached Versailles. Some of the leaders,
fierce, handsome women, followed my mother into the assembly. The great
mob poured in after them, clamoring for bread, for they were half
famished. They demanded a sight of the baker and his wife.”

“The baker and his wife,” repeated the prisoner, wondering.

“By these names they insulted the king and queen,” said Marguerite, “as
if they could help the barrenness of the earth.

“The Jacobins would have forced an entrance for them; but more moderate
men strove to quiet the mob. Twelve women were selected from the crowd,
deputed to lay their grievances before the king.

“Count Mirabeau insisted that I should go with these women and speak for
them, because of my youth and innocence, he said; because of my father’s
wrongs, the women cried out. My mother commanded me and I went.

“These women, so audacious among the enemies of the king, trembled to
approach him. With his mild, earnest eyes upon them—they were struck
dumb. That was perhaps why a young girl, who had no evil purpose to
conceal, was selected when these people were called upon to test their
courage.

“We went. Out of the bosom of that seething mob, we entered the grand
stillness of the palace. King Louis was ready to receive us. The
deputation of women crowded into the saloon, sullen and dumb; the
presence of that good man appalled them. They pushed me forward,
whispering that I had a sweet voice and persuasive ways. I approached
the king with reverence; my friend had died for him, I, too, could have
died for him then and there. I longed to tell him so; longed to fall
down at his feet and embrace his knees, imploring of him only one
thing—bread for the hungry people in exchange for my father’s
sufferings.

“The king recognized me, and a look of trouble came into his benign
face. He held out his hand, saying in a low voice which was heard only
by myself,

“‘Poor child, it was not the king who withheld your father from you.’

“I forgot all that the women had said to me; one cry arose to my
lips—bread! bread! With that cry I fainted and fell at the king’s feet.
He lifted me up with many kind words, which I heard as if they came back
to me in a dream. Then I whispered, ‘Sire, my father never blamed you,
neither do I. I came to ask bread for these poor, starving people, in
his name!’

“The king listened and understood all I wished to say. When I looked up,
his eyes were full of tears. He kissed me here upon the cheek. No man on
this earth shall ever take that kiss from my face—it was the
consecration of a vow that I made then and there.”

The old prisoner became greatly excited as he listened; his eyes
kindled, his lips began to quiver, and he spoke with energy.

“It was this man! It was the daughter of my old mistress, the Empress of
Austria, they would have assaulted through me. Listen, little one.

“I have seen the daughter of my old mistress, Maria Theresa.”

“The Queen of France, do you mean that?” said Marguerite astonished.

“Yes, the Queen of France. Some one told me that she wore my Egyptian
ring on her finger. That ring holds my soul, my brain—your destiny. To
her it is a curse, to me everything. I went in search of it. You all
thought I was lost. No, no, I was waiting and watching for her to come
forth from her palace.

“A lady did come forth at last. I thought she might bear a message from
me to the queen, and followed her. This lady was proud, thoughtful, and
imperious, and I approached her timidly; still there was a look that
brought back the fair young princess whom I saw once standing side by
side with my imperial mistress,—young, slender, beautiful, with eyes
soft and bright as a pretty child’s. Ah, how well I remember them both!
They tell me the empress is dead; but her daughter, the lovely girl that
came to France, her destiny is yet to be accomplished. Ah me!”

The old man broke off here, and fell to shuddering. A wild, mournful
look came to his face, and it was some minutes before he spoke again.

“I spoke to the lady and she listened kindly. All at; once she lifted
her hand; the scarabee ring was upon it. Then I knew it was the queen,
and uttered a cry that frightened her, and she fled from me. I followed,
pleading for my ring, entreating her to listen. But she only fled from
me all the faster, carrying the curse on and on.

“Then I saw the king. He came to me in the calm of the moonlight, and we
talked together in the stillness of the hushed leaves. He knows all that
I have suffered, and pities the poor man no will of his ever harmed. He
gave me a place to sleep in. He came to me in the morning and deigned to
explain that the governor of this prison deceived him as you were
deceived. He thought truly that I was dead.”

“I knew it, I was sure of it,” cried Marguerite, with enthusiasm; “both
the king and queen were blameless.”

“It was for that I fled hither from the mob,” said the old man. “These
women meant to set me up before the Assembly and call for vengeance in
my name, but I defeated them.”

“It was then that you came back here. Oh father, you little know how we
have mourned and sought for you, day and night.”

“Yes, I found the ruins and slept here the next night.—Slept soundly for
the first time since the mob carried me away. Then I began searching for
my poor little friend. It was in vain that I called for him; in vain
that I stretched forth my hands in the darkness, and listened for some
faint sound of his approach. Oh! that was desolation!

“Still, I dared not quit the ruin. I was afraid that the mob would force
me into their evil work again. I understood then that my presence in the
clubs, my harmless walks in the streets, every word I spoke, was a spear
leveled at the heart of the king—a man who was guiltless as a babe where
I was concerned—a man who loves his people and deserves their love. Here
I hide myself and keep safe from doing harm. It is my own home; here I
can sleep tranquilly; boards are too soft, I want the hard rock.

“More than one morning came, and I had not tasted food. I should not
have cared for that had my pretty friend been with me; but I had called
him so often, searched for him so long, that hope gave out. It was worse
than a prison now, he had left me and the light came into my cell. This
was indeed solitude. Then I thought of you, Therese, and wondered if you
would not come to me.”

“And I am here. It was I that thought of the ruins, I, who have found
you sitting here alone and half-famished,” exclaimed Marguerite. “But I
have brought you plenty of food. There will be enough for the
marmousette as well; poor little fellow! He came back at last to comfort
you.”

“Yes. I awoke in the night and found him nestled in my bosom. Let him
have a crumb first, I can wait.”

The girl opened her basket, and drew forth some bread and a flask of
pure water. The old man crumbled some of the bread into his hand and
tempted the pet-mouse with it; but the poor little thing had been too
severely hurt, and, instead of eating, closed its eyes, and lay down in
the palm out of which the prisoner had made a nest for him.

“To-morrow,” said the girl, answering the startled look of the old man,
“to-morrow I will bring white bread, then it will eat. But you are
hungry, take some of the bread.”

“I cannot, I cannot,” cried the old man. “When he eats I will.”

The mouse seemed to understand these words; its tiny limbs moved, its
little head was uplifted, and when Marguerite held the crumbs toward
him, he crept forward and began to nibble them.

Then, with tears of thankfulness rolling down his cheeks, the old man
fell to eating also.




                             CHAPTER LXIX.
                           QUEENLY STRUGGLES.


Months passed, and each day widened the gulf that yawned between the
people of France and their king. Marie Antoinette began to lose courage.
More than once Monsieur Jacques had been summoned to the royal
work-shop, but he always passed from that to the queen’s cabinet.

One day, after the Court had removed from its forced residence at the
Tuileries to St. Cloud, a horseman came riding along the highway which
led from Paris. A lady stationed at one of the palace windows leaned out
and looked keenly after the man, as if trying to recognize him with
certainty. He rode slowly, his head was turned toward the chateau, and
she saw his face.

There was no mistaking those features after seeing them once. The great
leonine head, with its shock of heavy hair; the seamed cheeks, and
massive chin, could only belong to one man, Count Mirabeau.

The lady drew away from the window, and directly entered the presence of
Marie Antoinette, whose friend and confidential attendant she had been
for some dangerous years.

The queen was walking up and down the room in a state of unusual
agitation. You could see by the light in her fine eyes, and the
compression of her mouth, that she was about to undertake some task
utterly distasteful to her. She turned sharply as her confidant came in.

“Well!”

“He is here, your highness. He has just passed.”

“Alone?”

“On horseback, and quite alone!”

“Look again, and tell me which way he goes.”

The duchess left the room, and Marie Antoinette resumed her impatient
walk up and down the floor. There had been a terrible struggle before
that proud woman and brave queen could prevail upon herself to give that
reprobate count the special and private meeting that he had come to St.
Cloud that day to claim. Now, in the sore strait to which royalty, in
France, was driven, she had come to this sad humiliation, and was about
to meet Count Mirabeau, the renegade from his class, the coarse noble,
the eloquent leader of a riotous people, in private, and utterly alone.

But time wore on, and her confidant did not return. Had she been
mistaken? Had the man passed them, in the coarse mockery so natural to
his character, thus flinging back years of contempt upon her, and
scoffing at the concessions she had been compelled to make.

The proud blood of Maria Theresa burned in her veins as the thought
flashed across her brain. She clenched her hand in an agony of shame,
and stood in the centre of the room, listening with the breathless
eagerness of a girl waiting for her lover. Yet she hated this man with a
thorough revolt of her whole nature. He was utterly disgustful to her
taste as a woman, and she thoroughly despised the means by which he had
obtained the power she dreaded, and was ready to conciliate.

The lady came at last. She had gone to one of the topmost windows of the
palace, and from thence had seen the count ride along the highway toward
a distant grove, where he had evidently left his horse; for directly he
came forth again, and passed into the Park, where he was now loitering,
apparently, but making quiet progress toward the place of rendezvous.

Marie Antoinette drew a deep breath; at least she had escaped a possible
insult from the man she loathed. He had been faithful to his
appointment. She must meet him.

The beautiful woman and the proud queen went hand-in-hand with Marie
Antoinette. It was not enough that she could command homage by her
state; in order to make it perfect, she must win it by those womanly
charms, which few men had ever resisted. In order to bind this man to
her chariot-wheels, she must win him to her side, body and soul. There
must be no appearance of dislike in her manner to him. All the force of
her beauty and genius must be brought against him. He was not to be
convinced by argument, but won in spite of himself.

No woman that ever lived—save, perhaps, Mary of Scotland, who was not
more lovely in her person than this unhappy Queen of France—could better
have performed the task before her. She was still beautiful. What she
had lost of youth came back to her in the dignity and assured grace of
ripe womanhood. The necessities of her life had brought tact and keen
perception with them. But she knew that all these qualities would be
strained to their utmost. The man she had to deal with was brilliant,
keen, unprincipled; but she knew that with such men there is sometimes a
feeling of chivalric devotion where women are concerned, which, once
enlisted, amounts to honor.

These were the thoughts that made Marie Antoinette so earnest and so
restless. She hated the task allotted her, but for that reason was the
more resolved to accomplish it. Her dignity as a queen, and her
supremacy with the sex, demanded it.

“Yes, I must go now,” she said, drawing a shawl of black lace, which her
lady brought, over her head and shoulders. “It will not be prudent to
keep this man waiting. Ah! it is hard when the Queen of France is
brought to this. Wait for me, and watch that no one follows.”

“How beautiful you are!” said the confidant, as she arranged the shawl.
“I never saw a finer flush of roses on your cheeks!”

“It is the shame breaking out from my heart,—shame that my mother’s
child should be so humbled.”

Perhaps it was; but the woman was triumphing in her talent and her
beauty all the time, else why had she put on that exquisite robe, with
its silken shimmer of greenish gold, or arranged the black lace so
exquisitely over the red roses on her bosom? She had made many conquests
in her life; but never that of a human animal, so brilliant in his
coarseness as this Count Mirabeau. Away in the park was a little temple,
or a summer-house, in which members of the royal family, sometimes,
rested themselves after a fatiguing walk. It had been arranged that the
count should await the royal lady in this pretty building. Marie
Antoinette walked away from the palace so quietly that no one of the
household heeded her departure, for it had always been her habit to walk
alone, or with attendants, in the Park of Versailles and St. Cloud, as
the caprice might come upon her. So she sauntered on quietly enough
while the palace was in sight; but the moment it was shut out by the
trees, her step became rapid, her breath came quickly, and she moved
forward in vivid excitement, as if preparing herself for an encounter
with some splendid wild animal.




                              CHAPTER LXX.
                          ENEMIES RECONCILED.


The Queen of France reached the summer-house just as the sun was pouring
a flood of crimson and gold into the violet shadows that lay among the
trees which sheltered the little temple. The windows, where they were
visible through the clustering ivy and flowers, blazed with the arrowy
light that broke against them, and the soft grass that lay around grew
ruddy in the rich glow.

This seemed a good omen to the queen, who stepped lightly over the turf
and entered the temple where Mirabeau was standing, so swiftly that he
had hardly time to turn from the window, where he had been watching for
her, before she stood face to face with him.

Marie Antoinette had never been within speaking distance of this
magnificent demagogue before. She was astonished by the wonderful power
that lay in supreme ugliness. His face had the fascination which some
wild animals possess, and his large eyes dwelt upon her with the
half-sleepy, half-pleading look which these animals have when but half
aroused.

She came forward, radiant from her walk, fresh from the soft breeze that
had swept over her, but with some shyness, real or apparent, such as a
woman of sensitive modesty feels in meeting a stranger. When Mirabeau
saw her face, and the light that shone in those splendid eyes, he sunk
upon one knee, and bent his head, but not so low as to conceal the smile
that transfigured all his face.

“Ah, madame! how long I have pined and prayed for this hour,” he said,
lifting his eyes to her face with an expression that made her breath
come fast, for it changed the whole aspect of that face like a miracle,
and drew her toward him with irresistible fascination. This troubled
her; for hatred of the man had been to her a sure safeguard, and she
began to tremble lest it should pass away. She expected audacity, but
looked down upon a strong, powerful man, who had thrown himself at her
feet with the docility of a Newfoundland dog.

“Arise, Monsieur Count,” she said, smiling upon him; and she was
astonished to find how naturally the smile came to her lips. “If we have
not been friends before, it is rather our misfortune than yours.”

“Ah! if your highness could have thought so! But my enemies prevailed
against me until it is now almost too late.”

“Nothing is too late for a man like Mirabeau,” said the queen again,
motioning that he should arise. “You, who have taught the people of
France to hate their king, can, with the same powers of eloquence,
convince them that he is their best friend.”

Mirabeau arose to his feet, and again that smile flashed upon the woman,
who could not turn her eyes from the marvelous brightness that
transfigured his face.

“Ah! if I had the power your highness awards me, and you would deign to
use it, no slave of the thousands who have knelt at your feet would be
so grateful as Mirabeau.”

The queen seated herself on a divan that curved in with the walls of the
temple. Mirabeau followed, and stood near her; but she swept the folds
of her dress together, and motioned that he should take the place by her
side.

“This is honor, better still, happiness,” he said, accepting the seat.
“How often, fair queen, have I wondered why you kept me from you. Never
in the world had sovereign a more devoted subject.”

Marie Antoinette sighed heavily; she began to comprehend how much power
had been flung away in keeping this man from the court. She could
appreciate now the wonderful influence he possessed with the people.

She answered him graciously, “cannot the past, with its mistakes, be
forgotten? Of all people in the world, a sovereign is most likely to be
deceived with regard to those who surround him. We were led——”

Mirabeau forgot that it was the queen who spoke, and with the same
impetuous roughness which made his popularity with the people, broke in
upon her half-finished sentence.

“You were led to believe me wild, unprincipled, selfish; a man who
belonged to the people only because he was rejected by his own class.
Part of this is true, but more false. Had you deigned to call me to your
aid, madame, a more devoted slave would not have lived.”

Marie Antoinette sat in supreme astonishment. How was she to reach this
man—through his greatness or through his sins?

For the first time in her queenly life this woman doubted herself. In
Mirabeau she saw the two contending elements which already distracted
France—the refinements of the court and the fierce strength of its
antagonists, inordinate self-love and ready self-abasement. She knew at
once that her intellect, clear and acute as it was, could not cope with
his; but in those soft flatteries of look and speech, that undermine and
persuade, she was more than a match for any man or woman of France. Men
who do not like to be convinced are the most easily persuaded.

“They have, indeed misled us,” she answered, leaning gently toward the
man, who turned upon her for the instant with the gleam of a wild beast
in his eyes; but the look softened beneath her glance, and the upright
form bent imperceptibly toward her. “I will not say how many cruel
things have poisoned the ear of my august husband, or wounded my own
self-love.”

Here Mirabeau started to his feet.

“Have they dared to hint that I ever whispered one word against your
highness as a queen, and the loveliest woman in Europe?”

“Perhaps I have heard worse than that.”

“Worse than that? Nay, then, I should have been the brute they call me.
Tell me, your highness, who my traducers are?”

“Forgive me if I withhold all such knowledge. If Count Mirabeau is to be
our friend, he must not exhaust himself in private quarrels.”

“If I am to be your friend, madame? Who ever knew Mirabeau war against a
woman?”

“But when that woman is a queen, the wife of a king, and the daughter of
an empress, the weight of her royalty may overpower every thing else.”

Marie Antoinette said this in a tone of apology, as if she longed to
make some excuse for the thrice regal power that might weigh against her
loveliness.

Mirabeau was struck by this sweet humility; a soft protesting smile
stole over his face. The queen lifted her eyes to his, and held his gaze
in fascination.

“Madame, turn those eyes away. Ah! I was told truly; a man must be brave
to audacity who could refuse anything to that glance. Mirabeau is your
slave already, only tell me how I can best begin my service.”

The heart of Marie Antoinette leaped to her lips, but, no look of the
triumph she felt came to her eyes, they were moist with sweet
thankfulness, nothing more.

“It is not for me to say how you can best serve us. The genius that has
struck us so deeply will know how to reassert itself. In the Assembly,
no voice has been so eloquent against royalty as that of Count
Mirabeau.”

“I know it! I know it! But how am I to unsay that which the people have
accepted as gospel?”

“Tell them that they are mistaken in their belief about the king. Oh,
monsieur! you have no true knowledge of that brave and good man. You
heap the sins of all the previous kings of France upon his head. You
have made him odious with the people, when they have no better friend on
earth. Tell the people this; as you alone can express a noble truth.
Wing it with your eloquence. Enforce it by the profound respect which
you must feel when the heart of Louis the Sixteenth is really known to
you. I say to you, Count Mirabeau, there is not a man in all France who
has the good of his people so close at heart. Has he not forgiven
much—granted more? Do the people who malign him never think of the great
outrages that have been perpetrated against him? Are not the ruins of
the Bastille before their eyes? A kingly fortress so completely
identified with the royalty of France, that it was like tearing out the
jewels of her crown when the people razed it to the ground. Yet no man
has been punished for the traitorous deed. The king forgave what was an
insult to his power and a wrong against himself. Nay, since then, has he
not heaped concession on concession to the people—opened the very
barriers of royalty, that they might rush in; changed his ministers, and
disgraced his best friends at their insolent bidding——”




                             CHAPTER LXXI.
                           MIND SWAYING MIND.


Marie Antoinette stopped suddenly. The passion in her voice, and the
quick flash of her eyes were fast undoing the sweet impression she had
made upon this singular man. She saw this by the changed expression of
his face, and made haste to retrieve herself.

“It is of my husband, I speak,” she said; “and that makes me forget
myself. A kinder sovereign never lived, or one more willing to make all
reasonable concessions. If I am earnest in saying this, it is because
those who wish to serve Louis must understand all his goodness, all that
he is willing to grant and to suffer. Believe me, I do not speak thus,
Monsieur Count, because he is my husband—that would be a weak reason,
when dealing with a statesman of France; but in this I only think of him
as a sovereign and a Frenchman, loving his country and his people with
more than the affection of a father.”

Mirabeau looked upon the animation of that beautiful face with kindling
admiration. He could appreciate the bright intellect which broke through
all her sweetness and most feminine wiles. She was, in fact, a woman
above all others to seize upon his imagination, and touch his wayward
heart.

“I would rather tell the people of France of their queen,” he said.

Tears rushed to Marie Antoinette’s eyes. She clasped her hands in her
lap.

“Ah! they will never, never believe anything good of me; and I loved
them so well—so well!” she said.

“They shall be made to think everything that is good of you, or Mirabeau
will have lost his power to carry the people with him,” cried the count,
with enthusiasm. “Henceforth the man who does not worship Marie
Antoinette is to me an enemy.”

“Oh! I do not ask worship, only a little justice. Why will they distort
every thing I say or do?”

She was weeping in a soft, womanly way, that touched the heart of that
man like the innocent cry of a child.

“Why will the people of France not look upon their queen as a French
woman. I came among them so young, so earnest to make them love me; but
it is always the Austrian! the Austrian! As if it were a sin to be the
daughter of Maria Theresa!”

“Sweet lady! the people do not know you; their leaders do not know you.
Up to this hour I have myself looked upon Marie Antoinette as the enemy
of liberty—a stranger to France and her people.”

“How can I help this? How can I undeceive a people who are determined to
think ill of me?” cried the queen.

“By letting them see their queen as I do; by granting all that can
reasonably be conceded to them.”

“But concession belongs to the king.”

Mirabeau smiled more broadly than was becoming in the presence of his
sovereign; but, during this whole interview, there had been so little of
courtly ceremony, that the queen scarcely heeded it. The very act of her
meeting any man in the solitude of that place, put court etiquette
completely aside.

“The king must be unlike inferior men, if he were not guided in most
things by so fair and sweet a counsellor.”

“That is hard,” answered the queen. “I can no more control the monarch
of France than I can make the people love me.”

“The people shall love you, or hate me!” exclaimed Mirabeau, with
enthusiasm. “Do not speak so sadly; do not despair of a just
appreciation. When Mirabeau says to the people, ‘I have seen this lady
whom you call the Austrian; she is fair, she is wise, her heart yearns
toward the people of France,’ they will believe me.”

“Heaven grant it!” said the queen, clasping her hands more firmly, while
her tears dropped upon them. “Give us back the love of our people, and
there is no honor, no influence that shall not be yours. Ah! I remember
well when I first came to France, so young, so trusting—a child given up
to them wholly by an imperial mother. How they loved me then. When I
entered the theatre, they arose in one body and filled the air with
joyous salutations. If I drove through the streets, they cast flowers in
my path. Oh, what have I done? What have I done that they should change
so terribly, now that I have lived so long among them, and am a mother
to the children of France—the wife of the best king they ever knew? What
_have_ I done?”

Mirabeau reached forth his hand to take hers; in her tears and her
helpless sorrow she was only a woman to him; but he bethought himself
and drew back with a heavy sigh. Had he, indeed, the power he had
boasted of? Could he, with all the force of his wonderful eloquence,
bring back the popularity which had once followed this woman, as if she
had been a goddess? Would not the people question his motives, and ask a
reason for his change of opinion? Dare he arise in his place, and say to
the world that he had just come from an interview with the Queen of
France, and was henceforth her friend and advocate? Would he have the
courage to confess that even his glowing ideas of liberty had yielded to
the tears and reasonings of a beautiful woman? Yes, he dared do even
that—the people would still have faith in their leader; that which he
had taught with such ardor could be softened, moulded into new forms. He
would bring the royalty of France into favor with its subjects by
apparent concessions, which should all seem to spring from the queen.

Marie Antoinette read his thoughts, and her face grew anxious. “Had she
humbled herself for nothing? Was this man’s power already exhausted
against her? Would the people listen when he came out in favor of a
court which his eloquence had done so much to destroy?”

He read her face also, and answered it as if she had spoken.

“That which I have pledged myself to accomplish shall be done, if it
cost Mirabeau his fame, and his own life. Have no fear, madame; these
people are like children, they want strong men to think and act for
them. Who among all their leaders has my strength, or has ever so
thoroughly controlled them? With my pen, with my voice, with every power
of my soul, I will work to bring these people in harmony with the court.
Can you trust in me, lady?”

“I do trust in you, and I thank you for myself and for the king. Nay, in
time the people of France will look upon you as their saviour also. But
what can we offer in return?”

A flush of hot red came into Mirabeau’s face. He remembered thoughts
that had clung to him as he rode along—terms he had intended to make,
and advantages that would relieve the necessities that were ever
following the lavish extravagance of his habits. All these he had
absolutely forgotten; and when the queen, in her gratitude, brought them
back to his memory, all the pride of his manhood recoiled. Why was he
forced to be so grand, and so mean at the same moment? He cast his eyes
on the ground, while the swarthy color surged in and out of his face. At
last he looked up so suddenly that the thick locks were tossed back from
his forehead, like the play of a lion’s mane.

“Nothing,” he said, with the proud air of a Roman Senator. “When we have
saved France and her king, the consciousness that Mirabeau has done it
for Marie Antoinette, will sometimes win a smile from her, and that
shall be his reward.”

The queen was greatly moved. She had seen the struggle in his mind, and
partially understood it. The same thoughts had occupied her before
leaving the palace. She had heard of Mirabeau’s extravagance, and of his
proportionate greed. It had seemed to her an easy thing to purchase his
help with gold, which, in the terrible difficulties that had fallen upon
her, she had learned how to use as a sure political agent. But there was
more in the man than she had been led to believe; and the hot flush of
shame that rose to his face, when she spoke of reward, made her shrink
from what might seem an offered insult.

“Those who help the king are the king’s friends always,” she said, with
deep feeling, for this strange man had won his way to her gratitude.
“But those who help us must have the means of helping.”

Again Mirabeau’s face flushed; but it was with pleasure that the queen
had found an excuse for accepting some future bounty which had escaped
him.

“One thing,” he said, with touching earnestness, “one thing there is
which Mirabeau may accept from the Queen of France, and be exalted by
the favor.”

“Name it,” answered Marie Antoinette, gently.

“Favored courtiers are permitted to kiss the queen’s hand when they give
their lives to her service.”

The queen smiled, blushed, and reached forth her hand. Mirabeau took it,
bent his knee to the ground, and pressed his lips upon it.

“Madame,” he said, standing erect, with the hand in his clasp, “madame,
the monarchy is saved.”

“God grant it!” said the queen, with solemn emphasis.

“The monarchy is saved, or Mirabeau’s life will pay the forfeit,” he
repeated, with solemnity.

The queen believed him, for there was no doubting his sincerity in the
matter. Never in her life had this beautiful woman made so great a
conquest, not only over the man himself, but over her own prejudices.
She had come to the summer-house detesting the count; she left it
impressed with his genius, flattered by his homage.

Mirabeau still held her hand. To approach this lovely woman, and win her
into admiration of his genius, had been the ambition of this erratic man
for many a year. It was accomplished now. He knew by the light in those
magnificent eyes how great his conquest was. She was still Queen of
France—even his fierce eloquence had so far failed to bring her down
from that sublime height. He saw in her the only woman he had ever met
whose intellect reached his own, and whose position, at the same time,
taught him to look up. Henceforth it would be his supreme object to keep
her firmly on the throne; to enhance her influence, and guide it for the
benefit of the people. It was a delicate task; but nothing seemed
impossible to the proud, audacious man while that splendid woman stood
with her hand in his.

“Now, farewell,” she said. “I need not tell you to keep this interview a
secret; it would be misunderstood, and might do much harm.”

“It would be my glory that the whole world should know of this
condescension, and of the grateful respect it has inspired; but those
who lead a people must know how to be secret, and when to speak. That
you have done me this honor, madame, shall be the one secret that will
go with me to the grave.”

With these words, the count bent low with a lofty grace that might have
befitted the state-chamber at Versailles, and walked backward to the
door, where he bowed again and disappeared, moving swiftly through the
glowing purple of the twilight.




                             CHAPTER LXXII.
                          SPYING AND WATCHING.


A woman followed Count Mirabeau when he went to St. Cloud—a young woman,
some three or four-and-twenty years of age, but looking older from the
stormy passions that had swept across her youth, and the corroding
jealousy that consumed her now. Louison Brisot had ridden behind him all
the way from Paris, but took good care not to come near enough to that
imposing figure to give him a glimpse of her person, or allow him to
hear the tread of her horse. When he halted in the grove, and tied his
horse to a sapling, she drew behind a clump of beech-trees, and watched
him as he passed through the gate; then she dismounted, fastened her own
horse, and taking a circuit among the undergrowth, came out by the gate,
which she tried cautiously and found unlocked.

By this time Mirabeau had disappeared, and the young woman was at a loss
to guess which way he had taken. At her left, she saw the roof of St.
Cloud rising in irregular glimpses among the embosoming trees. If his
business was with the king or queen, she argued, he would take that
direction. If he came to seek some meaner object, there was not a tree
in the vast Park which might not shelter him and the rival she came to
discover.

Which way should she go? Not toward the palace; Mirabeau, the orator and
friend of the people, would never venture there unless he was, indeed, a
traitor to his party, and led on by some passion which in her arrogance
she considered as treachery to her. More likely he had sought a
building, or covert place in the grounds, where some person connected
with the royal household would meet him. Nothing but political or social
treason could have brought him there.

As the young woman wandered slowly on, meditating in this fashion, a
sound of quick footsteps and the rustle of shrubbery startled her. She
drew back of a huge tree that stood near and watched for the cause. It
was a lady passing swiftly forward, through the purple twilight, her
head enveloped in the shadowy blackness of a lace shawl, her dress half
uplifted by her right hand, half trailing on the grass—a rich dress that
glistened in the light which trembled over it.

The lady turned her head and stood still a moment, listening—a slight
disturbance in the shrubbery near by seemed to have aroused her
apprehension. Louison, concealed behind the tree saw a lovely face and a
splendid figure stooping a little, as if arrested in some unlawful or
dangerous step. It was but a momentary glance, but she recognized the
queen, and the sight threw every passion of her most passionate nature
into revolt.

“Traitor!” came hissing through her shut teeth; “double-dyed traitor!
For that face he will sell us all!”

The queen passed on swiftly, moving through the green foliage and the
purple atmosphere of the Park like a beautiful spirit. After her,
creeping forward like a panther, stole the other woman, her eyes
gleaming, her lips in motion. She came in sight of a little temple built
on high ground, sheltered under drooping elms; from its windows the last
golden light of the day was falling back like a sheaf of broken arrows,
and a soft luminous haze quivered among the branches that swept over it.

There was too much light for the woman to venture forward, even when she
saw the door open, and the person she had followed pass into the temple.
Then through the still blazing windows she saw the shadows of two
persons standing together. As she looked, they sunk away and disappeared
from her eyes; but she was in a position to hear the murmur of
voices.—One, deep, sonorous and impressive, the other, clear, low and
sweet; but no words uttered by these voices reached her. She could only
guess at their meaning, and a vivid imagination lent poison to her
conjectures.

Panting with rage, burning with curiosity, this woman stood in her
covert, afraid to pass the stretch of open sward that lay between her
and the temple. It seemed to her hours on hours before the two persons
in that little building darkened the windows again; but at last two
black shadows rose up in the gathering darkness; for, by this time, all
the purple and gold of the sunset had merged into the light of a silvery
moon, and through the opposite windows came its pale radiance, in which
the man and woman stood between darkness and light. She saw him bend and
sink downward as if kneeling. She saw the lady stoop her beautiful head.
The sight maddened her. She leaped forward with the spring of a tigress
to glare through the window, and see Mirabeau’s lips pressed upon the
hand of Marie Antoinette.

The two persons in the temple separated then, and the watcher saw that
they were about to depart. She had seen enough. He must not find her
there! If Mirabeau could prove secret and deceptive, so could she. If
the fatal charms of the queen had ensnared him, they had set her whole
being in opposition.

As the door of the temple opened, Louison sprang away; and while
Mirabeau lingered to cast one more look on the queen, who had fascinated
him as no other woman on earth could have done, she went swiftly toward
the park gate.

Louison Brisot left the park in a state of fierce exasperation. She was
absolutely afraid of herself. She panted to stop then and there on the
highway, and in the fury of her jealous passion, rebuke that proud
demagogue for his double treason.

The women of France, who first entered upon the revolution, possessed
two powerful qualities, violent passions and a wonderful power of
self-restraint. It was seldom that any of these women plunged into the
awful scenes that have revolted the whole world without being led there
by the hand of some fierce demagogue, who called himself a patriot. Such
men had no use for weak or vacillating women; but mated themselves,
legally or illegally, with creatures of their own calibre, using them as
political instruments, and casting them aside by mere force of will, or
the mockery of a divorce, as the wild beast forsakes his mate in the
jungles of a forest.

Louison Brisot was one of these women; born in the middle classes,
gifted by nature with strong animal beauty, thirsting for knowledge,
full of that keen vitality which demands action, and must have
excitement, she had followed Mirabeau into the very heart of the
revolution. Haughty and imperious to others, she had always been
subservient to him. In her idolatry of the man, and her vanity as a
woman, she believed herself to be his sole confidant, and the supreme
object of his love. She knew that the queen had, over and over again,
refused even to see this man, who was to her a demi-god, and hated her
for thus scorning him. In her heart she rejoiced, perhaps unconsciously,
that royal pride kept the man she loved away from a court, where so many
had been won over to the king, by the beauty and eloquence of his wife.

The two great passions of Louison Brisot’s life were thrown into a wild
tumult by the scene she had just witnessed; still she found power to
control herself. Plunging into the thicket where her horse was tied, she
attempted to unknot his bridle from the sapling; but her hands shook
with passion, and were so long in doing it, that she fairly stamped down
the earth with impatience before she could mount to the saddle, and ride
away toward Paris.

The young woman was but just in time. She heard the tread of Mirabeau’s
horse following close upon her as she dashed by the palace, and on
toward Paris with increasing speed. She must reach home before him. It
was possible that the count would call upon her that night, for he was a
man who paid no respect to time, and cared nothing for the received
usages of society. At her house much of his leisure time had been
formerly spent, and she believed herself the depository of all his
secrets. But he had been deceiving her. This thought wounded the woman
through her hard heart, and leveled her evil pride to the dust. She had
hated the queen before, now that hatred settled into bitter detestation.

These two persons traveled home so near together, that the beat of hoofs
sent back by her horse more than once struck the ear of Mirabeau, as he
approached the rising ground which she was passing. Of this he took no
heed. Though a demagogue and a profligate, this man had pledged his
support in good faith to the queen, and his quick brain was even then
forming plans, by which he hoped to unite her cause with that of France,
and harmonize all contending elements into a constitutional monarchy.
There was enough in all this to tax even his great brain to the utmost,
and he had no time to observe the fall of those hoofs in the distance,
which, perhaps, carried his destiny with them.




                            CHAPTER LXXIII.
                          FATHER AND DAUGHTER.


The old prisoner still haunted his cell in the ruined Bastille, which he
had barricaded with loose stones, and made so difficult of access, that
no one but himself and Marguerite was likely to find it out. His
irregular habits and frequent wanderings had ceased to excite much
interest in his home. It was always understood that Marguerite could
find him when she desired, and Madame Gosner was by far too busy working
out the downfall of her enemies to give much heed to the childish old
man, who could not be made to remember what she had been to him.

Marguerite guarded her father’s secret well. When he was missing from
home, she alone knew where to find him, and a sweet companionship grew
up between the father and child in the ruins of his former prison. The
gentle pity of a truly feminine nature drew her to those gaunt ruins
almost every nightfall, for she knew that among them would be found that
patient and gentle sufferer, who felt more real companionship with the
tiny animal, which had been the sole comfort of his unjust imprisonment,
than the tumultuous life of the streets had afforded him. The desolate
loneliness of those heaped up stones was a safe place for the young
girl, as it proved a secret shelter for the man, and both felt a
mournful pleasure in meeting where they could be entirely alone.

Perhaps some stray gleam of insanity had crept out of those dark years
of solitude into the brain of the old prisoner—but it was of a kind so
dreamy and gentle that a poet would have called it inspiration. He loved
the little animal that had loved him with childlike idolatry, and the
sweet face of that young girl was like that of an angel to him, for she
alone had the power to link his present dreamy state with a heavenly
remembrance of his young life in Germany.

True, he could not even yet recognize her as his own child, because that
pretty creature had banished out of his life, but he loved to hear her
call him father, and gave her the name of Therese, which, from first to
last, was obstinately withheld from his wife.

One night, while the moon was at its full, Marguerite crossed the
shattered draw-bridge of the old Bastille, and found her way down among
the disjointed stones in which the old prisoner’s cell had been. He was
there sitting in a patch of moonlight, that lay like a silver flag
across the entrance, talking softly to his little favorite, who was
creeping up his garments and clinging to his beard, or sheltering itself
under his hand, flitting hither and thither like a wingless bird.

The old man started up wildly, and uttered a faint cry as Marguerite
broke up the silver of the moonlight.

“Don’t be afraid, father, it is only Marguerite,” said the girl, in
gentle haste to reassure the trembling man.

“Oh, yes! I—I thought it was the other,” he said, “some one from the
great city. Would you think it? They follow me—they suspect.”

“Suspect what, my father?”

“That I find shelter somewhere—for I do not sleep in their beds; I
cannot live among such noises. So they follow me, and spy upon me, and
think I go among the enemies of the people. I, who have no life out of
this place; no friend but this little creature and you—and you, my
Therese.”

Marguerite sat down by the old prisoner, and took his hand in hers.

“I, dear father, am better than a friend, your own dear child. Did I not
come to you in the prison when every door was locked? Did I not persuade
poor old Doudel and I bribe the governor with my flowers? Do you
remember how I crept in under the good keeper’s arm when your eyes shone
on me through the darkness, and sat down by your side on the cold floor?
He wanted me to stay outside; but your dear, old face looked down on me
so pitiful, and I would not go. Have you forgotten it, my father?”

“Forgotten it, sweet one! How could I forget? When God sends his angels
to spirits in torment, do they forget? My eyes were used to darkness,
and your face dazzled them, dazzled my soul! Did you know it, I thought
at first that my wife had come. She was so like you, the same golden
hair, the same eyes. I could not speak from the joy that seized upon
me.”

“I remember—I remember! You lifted your hand—how long and white it was.
You laid it on my head, and looked down into my eyes so sadly with such
pitiful love that I began to cry. Then I remembered you stooped down,
your beard swept into my lap, and your face touched mine—you were
gathering up my tears with your lips.”

The old prisoner nodded his head and smiled.

“Yes, yes, I remember—I remember.”

“Doudel got impatient, sat down his lantern, and attempted to lift me
from the floor; but I would not go. You remember that?”

“Yes, yes! You clung to me, and wanted to stay there in the dark. Then I
thought of the angels that visited Peter in prison, and wondered if they
were lovely, like you.”

“Was it like that? But you were hungry, and I had only a crust of bread
and some figs to give you.”

“Yes, yes! Your tears and that look, they were food for the soul.”

“Do you remember how you ate the bread, while I sat on the floor and
peeled the figs for you? while kind old Doudel held the lantern and
looked on?”

The old prisoner nodded his head, and laughed just above his breath.

“It was against the rules, you know, and I had to beg and implore poor
Doudel to let me in, with my basket of flowers. How the tears ran down
your cheeks when I took them out. Wasn’t that a feast?”

The girl looked up as she spoke, and saw that great tears were coursing
each other down the old man’s face, and falling drop by drop upon his
hand, where they trembled and melted away like mist upon marble.

“Now I am making you sad,” she murmured.

The old man turned his face toward her, and a smile broke over it. This
was the second time within an hour that the gentle sadness of his
features had given way. It was like the breaking up of ice under swift
gleams of sunshine.

“Sad!” he repeated, “sad! In all the years lost to me, the sight of your
sweet face was the one joy. God sent it! God sent it, that I should be
kept human!”

“_He_ pitied you. When we went away his eyes were full of tears. I saw
it by the light he carried.”

“I think he did pity me, for he always spoke kindly, and never attempted
to hurt my little friend.”

“He was kind as a child, my father,” said Marguerite, weeping; “how I
loved him. They could not have known how I loved him, or his poor life
might have been spared.”

“Poor child! Poor child!” said the prisoner, smoothing her hair with his
white and withered hand. “If I could only comfort you; but I am old, and
so helpless: we are but children together, you and I; our little
marmousette is almost as strong. See how it sits upon my sleeve, with
its bright eyes watching us. It knows, it knows! Hush! Hush! there is a
footstep.”

Marguerite held her breath and listened, for in that weird place, so
laden with murderous traditions, the least sound brought apprehension
with it. There was, indeed, a noise of footsteps wandering among the
disjointed stones overhead.

“Hush!” whispered the prisoner; and Marguerite could see that his limbs
shook in the moonlight. “It may be that fierce woman. She who says that
I and my sorrows belong to France.”

“No, it is not the step of a woman,” answered Marguerite, under her
breath. “I—I think I know it.”

That moment a jagged fragment of stone came rushing down from the pile
of rocks which encompassed the place where they were sitting, and
crashed down upon the pavement, so close to the old man that a portion
of his coarse garments were torn and buried under it.

The girl thought that he was killed, and her wild shriek rang upward
like the cry of a wounded night-bird. Then she fell upon her knees, and
throwing one arm around the old man, drew her hand over his face,
shuddering with fear that it would be bathed in his blood. He was alive
and struggling to get up, for the strain on his garments had drawn him
prone upon the floor, and for a moment he was stunned. “Is he hurt? Has
it crushed him?” he demanded, turning his eyes upon Marguerite’s face
with a look of painful entreaty. “He was so little, poor thing! they
need not have hurled a mountain of rocks down to kill him.”

“I think not, I hope not,” answered the girl, eager to comfort him. “It
was creeping up to your shoulder just before the rock fell.”

The old man made a desperate effort to free himself, and tore at his
dress with vigor, wrenching it in tatters from under the stone; then he
rose to his hands and knees, and shook that portion of the loose robe or
cloak that fell over his bosom.

“It is not here! It is not here!” he cried out, in anguish.

“Not there; but look, look!”

Marguerite pointed to the rock on which the moonlight fell, and there
the little creature sat, alive and safe, with its bright eyes sparkling
like diamonds.

The old man reached out both his trembling hands, and the mouse crept
into them, shaking like a leaf.

“My poor friend! my dear little one! Will they never let us alone? Hush!
hush!”

The steps which had dislodged the stone were coming downward with quick,
sharp leaps. Marguerite’s cry had evidently made itself heard, and
startled the wanderer, whoever he was.

The old man gathered himself up, and retreated into the darkest corner
of his cell. Marguerite saw his terror. Placing one foot on the fragment
of rock, she leaped over it, and began to climb upward with such swift
excitement, that she absolutely seemed floating to the man, who paused
half-way down, and watched her with astonishment.




                             CHAPTER LXXIV.
                                 LOVE.


“Did the rock strike? Is any one hurt?” called out a man’s voice, which
shook with terror.

“No one is hurt, monsieur; but I was frightened, and called out like a
coward,” answered Marguerite, coming swiftly up to his level.

“But you were in danger?”

“Yes; the wind which the rock brought with it, took away my breath; that
was all.”

They stood together now on the same platform, and the moonbeams fell
upon them with all its spiritualizing brightness. A face more sweetly
grand was never bowed over one more beautiful. “Marguerite! in this
dreary place. In Heaven’s name, what brings you here?”

“My heart, Monsieur St. Just. Nothing else could. Some one that I love
was lost, and I came in search of him.”

“But are you not afraid?”

“No. It is over yonder that I am afraid. Stones do not hurt one; men and
women do. Besides, it is here that I should be grateful—not afraid!”

“Grateful! why?”

“Up yonder, I can see the spot where a crowd of men, with red caps on
their heads, and weapons in their hands, seized upon a poor girl,
and—and——”

“I remember. Great Heavens! it was a terrible danger!”

“It was a terrible murder, when that poor man was shot down only for
being faithful to his king.”

“What, the man on guard at the tower?”

“He fell at my feet. Oh, monsieur! I know that you would have saved him.
It was your hand that struck up one carbine; but even then another more
fatal did the cruel work. God forgive them! God forgive them! he is all
merciful; but, oh! I never can!”

“My sweet Marguerite,” said the young man, reaching forth his hand as if
she had been an infant whom he was ready to lead out of peril, “do not
be unforgiving. True, it was a horrible moment!”

“It made a widow of my best friend,” answered Marguerite, with pathetic
simplicity.

“That is hard,” said the man, “but the time must soon come when France
will be the mother of widows made in her behalf.”

Marguerite shook her head. The voice in which this man spoke was deep
and sweet with sympathy. That she could recognize; but his words partook
of a cause from which she recoiled. They seemed to excuse the murderers
of her friend. She drew her hand from his clasp, shuddering. He saw the
change that came over her features, and smiled.

“Marguerite, you do not trust me.”

“Trust you, oh yes. Were you not my saviour? You tried to spare him too,
but could not.”

“But the thing I did was nothing. Any gentleman would have done as
much.”

“Where crowds meet only to pull down and murder, one does not expect to
find a gentleman,” answered Marguerite, unconscious of the sarcasm that
lay in her innocent words.

The young man seemed tempted to argue the matter but checked himself,
saying,

“You must not give me too much credit. But tell me what are your friends
doing that they permit these lonely night walks?”

“They are full of other thoughts. All except two—an old woman whose
husband you saw murdered, alas! tears kept her from watching me; and my
father, who is more helpless than I am. Oh, Monsieur, I sometimes think
it would have been kinder had you left those hideous men to kill me, and
never opened his dungeon. He was used to the prison.”

“Poor old man, is he too suffering? Where can I see him?”

“He does not wish to be seen. They have forced liberty upon him when it
was too late. He loves nothing but solitude.”

“Perhaps not; but a man so wronged must hate the tyrant who persecuted
him.”

“That king is dead. Besides, the good old man hates no one.”

“Not the king?”

“Least of all, the good king.”

“And you, little one—how is it with you?”

“My best friend died serving the king, so would I.”

The beautiful face of the girl kindled, her eyes flashed like stars as
she said this. Then bethinking herself how dangerous such expressions of
loyalty might prove, she said, half timidly,

“They tell me it is dangerous not to abuse the king; but you ask me for
the truth, and I forget to be prudent. Besides, I think you also love
the king.”

“How can you think that?”

“Because you would not let those ruffians kill me, and tried to knock
down that murderer’s gun, when you must have known that honest guard
belonged to the king.”

“But what if I loved France more?”

“I heard some one say, when I was a little girl, that the king _was_
France.”

The young man broke into a low laugh, which began bitterly and ended in
good-humor. What man, he thought, could burden a creature so innocent
and sweet with political prejudices. It seemed like dragging
nightingales out from the sheltering roses, and hurling them into a
maelstrom.

“Well, Marguerite, I will not quarrel with you for loving the king; and
you must permit me to worship France just a little,” he said, smiling.
“But you have not told me why it is that you come to this dangerous
place alone, and at night? It cannot be, certainly, the old home-feeling
that brings _you_ here?”

Marguerite’s head drooped, and if the light had been sufficient, the
young man might have seen a blush steal over her face.

“It is partly that I have memories, and some one else comes here that I
care for.”

“Some one that you care for, and come to meet?”

The young man spoke sternly, and he drew back from the drooping young
creature a little, as if something had stung him. She lifted her eyes to
his in shrinking astonishment.

“Who is this person?” he asked.

“I—I must not tell. He does not like people to know.”

“_He?_ Did you say he?”

“Yes, I said he; but that was not speaking his name.”

“And you come here nights to meet this man?”

“Yes, but he does not wish any one to be told.”

Marguerite saw that something had offended her companion, and answered
his questions with timid hesitation; but her eyes pleaded with him all
the time.

“You steal away from home, Marguerite, when the streets of Paris are
full of dangers, and come to this lonely spot only to meet a man whose
name you dare not speak? Is this the truth?”

“Yes, but—but I have another reason.”

“Another reason, Marguerite?”

Marguerite’s voice sank almost to a whisper, as she answered,

“The memory I spoke of, Monsieur.”

The young man started, and his eyes flashed.

“You mean this, Marguerite—you have not forgotten that one hour when
your heart beat against mine?”

“How could I forget?”

“Yet you come here to meet another man.”

A little joyous laugh broke from the girl. St. Just could see her eyes
sparkle in the moonlight.

“Why not?” she said, “since the man is my own father.”

“Your father—the prisoner?”

“I can trust you with his secret; perhaps you will even help me to
protect him for there is danger.”

“Especially when heedless wanderers send rocks crashing down upon him,”
said St. Just.

Marguerite shuddered. “I couldn’t help screaming, it frightened me
dreadfully,” she said.

“Not more than it frightened me,” answered the young man, whose
good-nature had entirely returned. “It was a loose stone that gave way
under my boot, and almost carried me down with it—a blessed stone I
shall always think; for it brought you out of the darkness, the only
lovely thing, I do believe, those walls ever gave forth.”

“But for that I should have kept out of sight, and gone home
heavy-hearted.”

“Why heavy-hearted, Marguerite?”

“Because it was impossible to see you where I sat. I never should have
found courage to come into the light, and should have missed a great
happiness, without knowing what it was.”

The young man bent his eyes upon her with a look of tender admiration,
that brought the blushes to her cheek, and weighed down her soft eyes
till she stood before him like a child rebuked.

“Then it was not altogether that other person, whom I was almost jealous
of,” said the young man, after gazing upon that sweet face in silence.

“You saved my life, and tried to save him!” faltered the young creature;
and gratitude is a sweet feeling that haunts one so.

“True, Marguerite—but there is a sweeter feeling yet that haunts me all
the time. I only hope that you know what it is.”

Marguerite gathered the frail drapery with which she had ventured into
the night air, softly around her, but even through that St. Just could
see how her heart rose and fell.

“I—I must be going now,” she said.

“But not alone—I cannot permit that; the streets of Paris are not safe
for you. Come, let me help you over these stones.”

Marguerite had passed over them once that night swiftly and safely as a
young chamois on some mountain peak; but with those eyes upon her she
grew timid, and held out her little hand, touching the stones daintily
with her feet. He took her hand with a firm grasp, and led her over the
rugged masses of stone, which was so broken up in heaps and chasms that
every footstep brought its danger. At a jagged hollow, which the girl
had sprung lightly over an hour before, she paused, and began to
tremble. The youth reassured her with a smile; then threw his arm around
her waist, lifted her over, and sat her down on the other side, bathed
in blushes, which seemed shadows in the moonlight.

At last these two young people reached the broken draw-bridge, crossed
over its shaking timbers, and entered the dark court beyond.

Here St. Just paused close by the stone bench where Marguerite had
rested that day.

“Here on this spot your dear lips told me the sweetest secret man ever
learned,” he said, throwing his arms around the startled girl, and
straining her to his heart. “Repeat it here—repeat it, my beloved. I
love you, oh Heavens, how I do love you! Say—out of your dreams—be sure
that it is out of your dreams—say that you love me.”

Marguerite tried to speak, but the sweet words died on her lips as she
gave them up to his kisses for a single instant. Then her voice came
back, and she said with the innocent frankness of a child,

“How could I help loving you?”




                             CHAPTER LXXV.
                        CRAFT MEETING TREACHERY.


It was three nights after Mirabeau’s visit to St. Cloud, and Louison
Brisot had not yet seen him. She waited with burning impatience, hour
after hour, until a keen desire to reproach him got the better of her
prudence; and she went at once to his residence.

That day Count Mirabeau had absented himself from his seat in the
Assembly. Filled with such dreams of love and ambition as had made his
youth one wild season of political and social riot, he kept himself in
the solitude of his own library, thinking out the programme of action
which was to make him at once the saviour of the monarchy, and the
favorite of the people.

It was a wild, and almost chaotic realm, over which this man hoped to
rule; but he had infinite faith in his own genius, and built great hopes
upon his immense popularity with a people who, in their passions and
their prejudices, were changeable as the wind. To a man like Mirabeau,
bold to audacity, gifted with marvelous eloquence, and made great by a
will strong as iron, to guide this changing element and mould it as his
own ambition might direct, seemed the easiest thing on earth.

All that day the man spent lounging upon the silken cushions of a low
couch, dreaming of the greatness before him, and of the royal lady whose
white hand had touched his lips for one instant in the little
summer-house at St. Cloud. At last he had conquered his way to that
proud, beautiful woman, who still sat upon the tottering throne of
France. In her need she had been compelled to stoop to the fascinations
of his voice, and blush under the ardent devotion of his eyes. In this
he had triumphed over all his compeers—true, it was a triumph, secret as
it was sweet. He who had been tried almost as a felon in the courts;
imprisoned for rude violations of the law; hunted out of society like a
mad dog, was now president of one of the most powerful clubs in France,
a leader in the Assembly, and the secret friend of the beautiful queen,
who had for years kept him from her presence, as a man too vile for the
countenance of a pure wife and highly born lady.

No wonder this man lay supinely on his couch, with his arms folded over
his head, and his eyes wandering dreamily over the Cupids that peeped at
him with laughing eyes from the flowers that clustered and glowed on the
frescoed ceiling overhead.

Mirabeau had reached that age when ambition becomes a power, and love an
intense passion; from that day he turned with loathing from the thing
which he had called love in past time. The exalted rank of Marie
Antoinette, her superb beauty and brilliant intellect had fired his
imagination so completely, that his whole being, for the time, flung off
its coarseness and became chivalric.

The door opened softly as Mirabeau lay with his large eyes wandering
over the flowers, and a pleasant smile on his lips. He cared little what
might happen in the Assembly that day; but would go forth to his Jacobin
club in the evening, and there exert all the powers of his mind to
moderate the ferocious instincts of his compatriots, and lead them to
the moderation of his own views so lately inspired by the queen.

A woman had been waiting with her hand upon the door for a whole minute,
and Mirabeau, in his pleasant preoccupation, knew nothing of it. Louison
Brisot stepped across the room, and came close to the couch on which he
lay, and spoke to him.

Mirabeau started, flung down his arms with an impatient movement, and
rose to a half upright position, dropping one foot to the floor, and
sinking his elbow deep into the cushions on which his head had rested.

“Ah! is it you, Louison?” he said, wearily. “How did you get in? I told
my people to admit no one.”

Louison laughed with some bitterness.

“They do not regard me as ‘any one,’ my good friend; or dream, perhaps,
there will ever come a time when I shall be excluded from Count
Mirabeau’s presence.”

“But there may arise times when I am busy.”

“These times have arisen again and again; but you were always glad to
have me by your side, especially when there was work to accomplish.
Shall I sit down now? Or has my presence, all at once, become
troublesome?”

The girl seated herself, as she spoke, upon the foot of Mirabeau’s
couch, and sat gazing on him with an expression in her great black eyes
that disturbed him. This woman had frightened away all his pleasant
dreams.

“You are never troublesome,” he said; “but in the lives of all hard
working and hard thinking men there is need of rest. This craving was
upon me when you came in.”

“Indeed!”

“I have been giving the day to thought, and sunk down here to rest
awhile before going to the club. Had you delayed coming a little longer,
I should have been gone.”

“Ah! you go to the club, then!” exclaimed Louison, brightening. “There
you will meet Robespierre and Marat, your brother journalists; those two
men who love France, and hate the queen.”

“Ah, ha!” said Mirabeau, sharply; and his massive features contracted
with quick suspicion. “How did you learn so much of Robespierre, and
that animal who calls himself Marat?”

“I know that they are patriots and true Frenchmen,” answered Louison.
“Be careful, Mirabeau, that they do not prove the serpent, that may bite
your heel.”

“What, those reptiles!” exclaimed Mirabeau, with careless contempt. “How
can they hurt a man so much above them? They crawl, I soar!”

The magnificent demagogue made a circle around his head with one large,
white hand, as if he were crowning himself, and repeated, “I soar! I
soar!”

Louison understood that look of triumph, and smiled with bitter irony
when she saw the gesture. “This man,” she said to herself, “seems to
feel the glory of a crown upon his head, since he has kissed the
Austrian hand with those perfidious lips;” still she answered him
calmly, looking downward with half-closed eyes, like a slumbrous
panther.

“But, you and these men have a common object—love of France and hatred
of her oppressors.”

Mirabeau turned his eyes quickly upon that handsome face to read the
hidden thought that lay under these words. He saw a gleam break through
the drooping lashes, and suspected that something was wrong, but could
not understand what. He had no wish to disagree with Louison, for her
talent had been of great use to him, and it was through her that a large
portion of his popularity among the rabble of women, who were the worst
disturbing element of the nation, was maintained.

“We must talk of this matter when there is more time,” he said. “I often
think we are allowing the coarse minds of a few brutal men to carry the
revolution beyond its proper limits. What, for instance, can be more
vicious than these constant attacks on the queen?”

“Ha!”

His words ran through Louison’s heart like an arrow; her eyes opened
wide, and flashed a look upon him that checked the breath on his lips.

“You speak of that Austrian woman,” she said, controlling herself,
“Louis Capet’s wife?”

“I speak of Marie Antoinette, Queen of France, Louison; a woman who has
been cruelly maligned and basely persecuted.”

“By whom?”

Louison spoke calmly, but her lips closed with a firm grip as this
simple question left them, and she held her breath, waiting for his
answer.

“Perhaps we have all done too much of it.”




                             CHAPTER LXXVI.
                     CRIMINATION AND INDIFFERENCE.


Louison Brisot, with all her secretiveness and self-control, felt her
heart burn, and her cheeks grow hot, when Mirabeau insulted her
solicitude with a rude answer. She arose and walked to a window; a
pretty goldfinch, which had been taught to fly out of his cage at will,
fluttered downward and settled upon her shoulder. She seized the tiny
thing, wrung its neck, and flung it down to her feet.

Mirabeau had settled back upon his couch, and his eyes were again
wandering among the frescoed flowers. So the woman appeased her wrath by
taking this little life before the poor thing could utter a breath of
pain; and he only knew that his favorite was dead after she was gone.

While the pretty thing was quivering on the floor, his murderer had sunk
down by Mirabeau’s couch, and took his hand in hers, where it lay
indolently, not once offering to return the grasp with which she clung
to it.

“Mirabeau!”

“Well, Louison!”

“You have ceased to love me?”

“Ceased to love you! Well, what then? To be good patriots we need not be
lovers.”

The woman turned deadly white, and her hands wrenched themselves away
from his.

“You confess it.”

There was a cry of pain in her words. All this time she had been
actuated by a forlorn hope that he would contradict her.

“No! I confess nothing! How should I, not being quite certain myself?”

“Great heavens! you dare say this to me!”

Mirabeau started up fiercely and shook back his hair like a roused lion.

“Dare! Woman, is that word intended for Mirabeau?”

The man was fully aroused now, his light gray eyes flamed, his sensuous
mouth took a haughty curve; he had risen to his elbow, and his massive
neck was laid bare almost to the bosom, where the delicately-crimped
ruffles of his shirt fell open, revealing the blue veins that swelled
over it, inflaming his face to the eyes, which suddenly became
bloodshot.

“The man who offends Louison Brisot dares everything,” answered the
woman, in a low voice.

Mirabeau laughed, for all the evil daring of his nature was getting
uppermost.

“So you threaten me?”

“Cowards threaten!”

“And brave souls act. Well, Louison, you certainly are no coward; and
yet your speech had a threat in it. Tell me why?”

“Ah, Mirabeau! It is only a little thing. During some years—that is,
ever since I was an innocent girl, who never committed a greater sin
than plucking a few clusters where the grapes first ripened into
purple—I have loved you. It was not much, only a human soul flung at the
feet of a man who has not yet trampled it under his heel. But this soul
was all I had—and you took it. For your sake I worked hard, studied,
learned all those arts by which women gain influence in the world;
gloried in my beauty, and in that keen wit which is a weapon of power in
these days, all because they might make me more dear and more useful to
you. In the scale of your glory I flung my life. Is it strange that I
ask something back; that out of the whole of an existence I lavished on
you I ask a ray of light; only that which the moon takes from the sun,
and feel defrauded when it is withheld?”

The smile broadened and grew brighter on Mirabeau’s face as the young
woman made this passionate address. He loved to be adored; and the
intellect of this woman gave piquancy to her homage; without that she
would have been nothing to him, with it she had a hold upon his
interests and his vanity stronger, by far, than any woman had ever
possessed over his affections. No man living had greater talent for
turning the genius of other people to his own account than Mirabeau. Men
and women were alike made available to his popularity. He had no desire
to quarrel with the handsome young female, whose words, taking the form
of passionate pleading, were sufficient to convince him of the power he
still possessed.

Louison saw the self-satisfied smile, and it stung her. She broke forth
with passionate vehemence.

“But love like mine must have full love in return; faith like mine must
meet answering faith. If I have been strong as a woman, I have also been
trusting as a child. Deceive me once, and you open my eyes forever;
cease to be my entire friend, and you make me your bitterest enemy. Keep
no secrets from me; if you attempt it, I will find them out, and then
they are my property. I warn you now, in right or in wrong, make me your
confidant.”

It would have been well for Mirabeau had he then and there taken the
woman at her word; but, like all social traitors, he had no faith in the
sex, and so only turned on his side and gazed on her flushed face in
wonder that any one would believe him weak enough to trust one woman
with the secrets of another.

“Upon my word, Louison, you are a remarkably beautiful person, and have
a power of eloquence I never dreamed of before. They tell me Theroigne
de Mericourt is to appear at the Cordeliers; we must have you at the
Jacobins. She is beautiful—so are you; she is eloquent, but in that I
have just discovered we can more than match her. I have a thing on my
mind which must be brought before the club with great caution—a woman
can do it; for we accept and excuse anything from beautiful lips—and
yours are blooming as roses, Louison.”

A faint sneer curled the lips he praised. Did he think to use her as a
blind instrument in behalf of the lady whose hand she had seen raised to
his lips with such reverence? There was bitter satisfaction in the
thought that she had this man’s secret in her keeping, and by it could
read the very changes of his mind. She had come there to upbraid him,
but the secretiveness of her nature rose uppermost, even in her jealous
wrath; it prompted her to watch him, and if he proved treacherous, to
fight her battle with his own weapons.

“The time has come,” said Mirabeau, “when the women of France must make
their influence felt in the nation. Theroigne will be received like a
goddess by the Cordeliers.”

If the demagogue thought to inspire Louison’s ambition, he only
succeeded in uniting with that passion one more dangerous still.

“It is said that this Maid of Liege has something besides the wrongs of
France to avenge,” she said, dreamily. “Among the minions who swarm
around that Austrian woman, is the man she loved—a noble, who plucked
the soul from her life, and flung it away in haughty disdain. Yes, yes!
it _is_ time that the women of France should test their power. Let
Theroigne lead with the Cordeliers; as for me, in life or death, I stand
by Mirabeau!”

“That is a brave girl; and now let me tell you a secret.”

Louison’s heart leaped in her bosom. Would he tell her all that she had
learned? If so, that interview with Marie Antoinette might have only a
political meaning. She listened breathlessly for his next words. They
came to surprise and disappoint her.

“Before the year is out, my friend, Mirabeau will be president of the
Jacobin club; then Louison Brisot shall test her powers against those of
the amazon of Liege.”

“Yes,” said Louison; “she will test her powers then.”

“The women of the markets are ardent and ignorant; they need leaders of
their own sex. These women in their hearts love the queen.”

“Ha!”

“Did you speak, Louison?”

“No, I did not speak, but listened. You think I might control these
women?”

“You have the power; they would look up to you as they never have to the
queen. She is so far above them that they cannot understand her. But
you——”

“Oh, yes! I can make them understand me. I, too, am of the people,” said
Louison, interrupting him.

“But still, education and great natural talent has lifted you nearer to
her.”

“You think so? Well, perhaps it is true.”

“You are brave.”

“Yes, I am no coward.”

“With a warm, earnest heart.”

Here Louison sunk down to the foot of the couch, and bowing her face to
her knees, began to sob. Mirabeau took her hand.

“Why do you weep, my friend?”

“Because I once had a warm, earnest heart, that is all,” cried the girl,
lifting her head, and sweeping the hair back from her face. “Women who
aspire for love or power should have no hearts.”

“You are wrong, my friend; a warm heart is necessary to true eloquence.
Without that, the magnetism which thrills crowds would be wanting. It is
because you can speak clearly and feel intensely, that I predict for you
a glorious career among the women of France. That which Mirabeau is to
the men, Louison shall be to the women of this nation.”

“And this is all you have to tell me?”

“All. If I have nothing more to confide, it is because my heart is
always open to my friends, most of all to you.”

“Traitor!”

The word was not spoken, but it hissed like a serpent in the woman’s
brain. She dashed the tears from her eyes and stood up.

“I will go now.”

Mirabeau fell indolently back among the cushions of his couch.

“Must you go?” he questioned, dreamily. “Well, well, think of what I
have said.”

“I will.”




                            CHAPTER LXXVII.
                           AMONG THE FLOWERS.


When St. Just and Marguerite left the ruins of the Bastille, a man came
out of a half destroyed building near which they had stood, and followed
them at a distance. His step was heavy, his head drooped, once or twice
he pressed a clenched hand over his heart as if the pain there was
intolerable.

This man was Monsieur Jacques. Every evening when Marguerite sought the
ruins he had followed in sad solicitude, but faithful as a dog. She had
never seen him nor dreamed of his loving vigilance. Indeed, he seldom
sought her now, and seemed to have forgotten the suit he had urged or
the promise she had made.

Sometimes she thought of this with thankfulness, but never guessed the
cause, or dreamed of the suffering which locked that noble heart in
silence.

This evening he saw the lovers pause in the Cour de Gouvernment, and by
the glorified light in their faces knew what was passing between them.
Then the last hope went out of that strong heart.

But Monsieur Jacques knew how to suffer and be strong. He watched that
couple from a distance as, in the sweet silence of contented love, they
slowly approached the humble dwelling, which was the only home the poor
girl could claim in the wide, wide world.

He saw them hesitate a little at the door and pass in. Then he turned
away into the darkness.

The passage was dark which St. Just and Marguerite entered.

“You will not leave me yet!” pleaded the girl, unconscious of wrong as a
child; “no one is home; it will be lonely waiting for them.”

The young man had no heart to leave her, and they went up the dark
stair-case together. Marguerite opened a door under the roof, and led
her guest into a little room with one window, neat as a flower, and
tasteful as only a French girl could make it.

“I was sure they would not be home,” said Marguerite, striking a light,
which fell pleasantly on the muslin curtains at the window, looped up
with knots of rose-colored ribbon, which shaded a plant or two in rich
leafiness. “Dame Doudel will come up here the first thing—till then I
hope you will wait.”

The young man seated himself and looked around the room, which contained
two flag-bottomed chairs, a small table, and in the furthest corner a
little cot-bed, white as a cloud, and fragrant with the breath of many
flowers. Directly at its foot stood a basket crowded full of bouquets
ready for the market, from which a scent of heliotrope, violets, and
jasmines, would have perfumed the atmosphere too heavily but for the
open window, through which a soft current of air was floating.

“You see that all my work was done before I went out,” said the girl,
pointing to the basket.

“Not a hard task, I should think,” said the young man smiling.

“Hard! No one ever gives me anything hard to do. It is only play to make
up these little bunches; and who would think of harming me when I go
about to sell them? Dame Doudel is like a queen in the market, and she
lets all the women think that I am one of them though I cannot be made
to hate the king. I wish you could know how good the dame has been to
me.”

“But she leaves you here alone to wander about in dangerous places. Is
that kind or wise, Marguerite?”

“Oh! but she knows why, and is ready to help me; the dame has a heart as
soft as dew.”

“And have you found it safe?”

“Oh yes; no one speaks to me in the street. I hold my mantle close over
my face, and walk on without looking to the right or the left. Then I
come to the Bastille, but find it all alone. May I ask, monsieur, what
takes you there?”

The man’s eyes sparkled as he answered,

“I go because that mountain of ruins is the first battlefield of liberty
in France. When those old towers fell, the very heart in my bosom was
unchained.”

Marguerite looked at him a little wildly, and her eyes filled with
tears.

“_Mon Dieu!_ Is it that you belong to them?” she said, dropping into the
only chair her visitor did not occupy. “How can it be?”

The young man instantly repented of the ardor in his speech. It seemed
to him like frightening a singing bird with fire-arms, and he reassured
her with a smile.

“Believe me, I shall never be anything that you fear or dislike. Heaven
forbid that I should bring the turmoil of the street into this quiet
place!”

Marguerite drew a deep breath, and wiped the tears from her eyes.

“Forgive me, monsieur,” she said, in gentle penitence; “but since that
day I weep so easily. Sometimes, as I sit here weaving the flowers
together, the tears will drop in among their leaves like rain; but that
is when I am thinking of him.”

“But you must shed no more tears.”

“Not if I can help it; but when I thought of your belonging to those
fierce men, I could not keep the tears back. Forgive me, but I could
not.”

“But I do not belong to those fierce men; if anything they belong to
me,” said St. Just. “Come, come, let us be friends. Some loose flowers
are lying on the table there—while we wait for the dame, let me see you
work.”

“I did not know that one was left! She must have brought them after I
went away,” said the girl, starting up and drawing her chair to the
table. “How stupid; but it will only take a little time.”

While Marguerite was busy assorting her flowers, the young man drew his
chair to the table, and watched her slender fingers as they twined the
stems together; then, as if unconsciously, he took up the blossoms one
by one, and held them for her use. He saw that her little hand trembled
as she took the flowers, and a smile stole over his face as he remarked
the color come and go in hers. Something was evidently on her mind, as
she arranged one bouquet with wonderful care—a tiny thing, in which a
half-open blush-rose was laid softly in a nest of violets. Marguerite
tied this with a delicate bit of ribbon taken from her neck, examined it
critically, with her head on one side, as a bird sometimes coquets with
its food, then laid it away with a sigh, lacking courage for the purpose
that had dawned in her mind.

A noise below—some one coming up stairs.

“It is the dame,” said Marguerite, pausing to listen, “and coming up
here. I knew she would.”

The door was flung open, and a little woman, in a broad-bordered cap,
tied around the head with a black ribbon, stood on the threshold with a
half-uttered sentence on her lips.

“I find you here, little one—so much the better.”

Her words were cut short by the utter astonishment that possessed her on
seeing a strange man in the room.

“Oh, my friend, it is the gentleman who saved me; who tried——”

“Ah, I know,” faltered the little woman, pressing a hand quickly to her
bosom. “He would have saved me from being the poor widow I am.—Ah,
monsieur! I have nothing but gratitude here.”

Dame Doudel sat down on the white bed and began to weep.

St. Just arose to go. The tears of this poor widow pained him. They
brought back that awful scene in the Bastille too vividly. Marguerite
saw the movement. She took the tiny cluster of flowers from the table,
and stood hesitating, with one foot advanced.

A faint smile crept over the young man’s lips, for he lost nothing of
this; and when she came swiftly toward him, he held out his hand for the
flowers.

Marguerite gave him her little bouquet, and turning to Dame Doudel,
said, in modest apology for what she had done,

“It took only a few, and he saved my life.”

Dame Doudel nodded her head, and waved her hand, thus signifying her
approbation, and followed the young man down stairs, while Marguerite
stood gazing after him in wistful silence.




                            CHAPTER LXXVIII.
                           THE MARKET WOMAN.


“Ah, citoyen,” said the widow, pausing on the stair-case, “how shall I
ever thank you for that kind attempt to save him?”

“I deserve no thanks, dame, so give me none. I but hurled half a dozen
ruffians back as they seized upon that poor girl, but was altogether too
late, so far as your husband was concerned. He died at her feet, poor
fellow!”

“Poor fellow! You may well say that, monsieur. A better man never lived;
had he been spared, Marguerite would want no better protector.”

“Why, surely, a creature like that, innocent and lovely as a child, can
have no enemies.”

“I cannot tell that. More than one person saw her face that day; and
heard her cry out that my poor husband was her friend.”

“But in all that tumult who could recognize her?”

“One person did, I know; Marguerite heard a voice call out ‘Strangle
her! Shoot her! Strike her! And you bring that tall guard down from his
post.’ It was a woman’s voice.”

“A woman!” repeated the young man, and his fine lips curved with
disdain. “Say a fiend. I wish we had no such aids in our great cause.”

The vicious power which a few talented and infamous women had begun to
wield in the revolution, had inspired others with a reckless idea of
their own importance; and, spite of her sorrow, Dame Doudel grew angry
that any one should doubt the power of her sex to wrestle with national
wrongs, or step from a market-stall into the duties of statesmanship.

“Monsieur, then, does not think the women of France worthy to work for
him?” she said.

“I think,” said the young man, who seemed rather amused than offended by
the lofty air which the market woman assumed, “I think that when the men
of a great nation cannot redress its wrongs, and protect its women, that
nation is hardly worth saving.”

“Indeed!” answered the dame, sniffing the air like a war-horse, and
breaking at once into the language of the clubs. “Who was it that urged
on the attack, and led the way, when that huge monster, the Bastille was
taken?—the women. Who cheered the state’s general on to tear down the
king from his high horse?—the women. Who surrounded Santerre, and forced
him to lead them to Versailles, to confront the king and his Austrian
wife, but the women of Paris? Who brought the royal family out from
their palace, and forced them through the storm and mud into the city?
The women—the women, I tell you. Ah, monsieur! I have suffered—I am a
widow. They tell me a woman did it. Still women have done brave work for
France.”

“But it was also a woman, as you have just told me, who urged on a pack
of brutal men to assail mademoiselle whom you seem to love.”

“Ah, there! Yes, I am with you there. It was an awful cruelty. Oh! it
was heart-rending! but even that, one must endure for the sake of
liberty; besides, the woman was not one of us. She has had her training
among the aristocrats, and yet dares to come down among us, the real
patriots, and make speeches to us, mounted on our own stalls; for my
part, I want nothing of the sort. Only she always pretends that
Mirabeau, our great Mirabeau, speaks through her, as if he felt above
coming to us himself—not at all, I tell you. _He_ does not scoff at the
help which comes from us. The women of Paris adore Mirabeau. It is a
pity, though, he sends a creature like that to tell us our duty and kill
our husbands.”

“But you have not told me who the woman is whom you seem to both fear
and hate.”

“Fear! Oh! there is not a woman, or, for that matter, a man living, who
could make me fear for myself. Ask Marguerite—ask my sister; perhaps you
know her, Dame Tillery, landlady of the Swan, at Versailles, if Margaret
Doudel was ever terrified by mortal face. But, about this girl, I
confess to you, monsieur, that I sometimes do feel a trembling about my
heart. If any harm come to her, I think it would kill me; and it is true
that the woman prowls about the neighborhood asking questions, like a
mean, vicious cat, creeping up to a bird’s cage.”

“Ha!”

St. Just uttered this sharp exclamation with unconscious force. He was
evidently disturbed.

“Yes,” answered Dame Doudel, “I have noticed one thing,—we dames of the
market have sharp eyes. This woman, to whom I used to sell flowers and
fruit, when she carried her head high, as if she were Du Berry herself,
contenting herself with a salad, when things turned against her—this
woman is neither of the nobility nor the people, flesh nor fish, but may
go with one, and then the other; I, for one, trust no such person. The
women of the market are honest; but this woman is not one of them. She
means to be our leader, but we want nothing of her. She does not love
France half so much as she hates the queen. As if we could not win our
rights without the help of such a creature as that. Oh, citoyen! the
less you patriots harbor with such chaff the better.”

“I will try and profit by what you say, dame, when I know who it is you
warn me against; the more especially as you tell me that she bears some
malice against Marguerite.”

“Malice! I should think she did. And why? This is the reason. When we
were in the midst of that glorious day at Versailles, our pretty
Marguerite was chosen to go with the committee of women, who were sent
to lay our wrongs before the king. This creature, whom I warn you of,
wanted the honor, and appealed to Mirabeau, who had the power to send
her if he would; but the count only laughed, and said that it was
intended to petition the king, not insult him. The person chosen to make
the address must be a child of the people, innocent, frank, honest,
therefore it must be Marguerite Gosner. Then it was that the venom of
this woman’s bad heart broke out. Marguerite was chosen against her,—our
Marguerite, whose modesty and innocence touched the king with the most
tender compassion. He kissed her on the cheek and promised well.
Mirabeau had done this, and Louison Brisot loved Mirabeau. Was not this
a good reason why she should hate our child?”

“Louison Brisot! I shall remember the name, good dame,” said the young
man as he stepped out into the darkness.




                             CHAPTER LXXIX.
                          THE WOMEN OF FRANCE.


Louison Brisot went from the presence of Mirabeau with a tumult of
contending passions at war in her bosom. Ardent, vindictive, and
egotistical, she guarded herself with a power of secretiveness and sharp
cunning so completely, that it was not wonderful a man so reckless as
Mirabeau should have misunderstood the depth and danger of her
antagonism. He had no idea of the powerful self-control which curbed her
fierce passions, and gave double force when she allowed them to break
forth in all their fiery strength. Her coarse nature had mated itself so
vehemently with the eloquent demagogue, that he was sometimes startled
to find himself completely duplicated in the form of a woman—so
completely that he began to dislike himself in her. This feeling often
broke forth mockingly, as he was apt to scoff at himself when the worst
traits of his own character forced themselves on his intelligence.
Mirabeau forgave himself for thus reviling his own rude nature—but the
woman forgave nothing.

Men like Count Mirabeau are often the most fastidious beings alive,
regarding delicate shades of propriety in their friends, and almost
invariably look for objects of affection above their own level. In order
to create a real impression upon this man, it was necessary to enlist
his imagination, and that always lifted itself to the grand and
beautiful, not to say the unattainable. Mirabeau held his immediate
compeers but lightly, as, in his better moments, he often despised
himself.

Louison Brisot was ambitious; and in the riot and turmoil of the
Revolution, now growing formidable, she found scope for all her evil
passions, and all her intellect. In this Revolution she saw but one
leader, Mirabeau. His eloquence inspired her; his stubborn will held all
her own powers in thrall. She saw strong, fierce, brave men yield to his
invincible force of character. If he moved, the people went with him; if
he spoke, they held their breath, and listened as if this man, with the
blue blood of France soiled in his veins by all the baser passions known
to themselves, were, in fact, a being to worship and follow with
clamorous praises. With women like this, love is a score of baser
passions disguised under one name, which they desecrate. Mirabeau knew
this, and took no pains to deceive the woman regarding the amount of
respect that he felt for her. Had he known from the first that she had
witnessed that dangerous interview with the queen, his audacity would
have tempted him to brave her.

Louison felt this, and gave him no opportunity, being one of those
extraordinary women who could wait, though every fierce passion of her
soul were at a white heat. Two words broke from her lips as she left the
house, and those were,

“Double traitor!”

For a day and a night Louison shut herself up in her own apartments, and
strove to organize some plan of operation for herself. Should she make
it known to the clubs that Mirabeau had held a private interview with
the queen, whom they all hated with fiendish detestation, and turn the
force of public indignation on him at once; or should she wait, watch,
and gather up facts that would ensnare him completely, and see the lion
pant and struggle in the net her hands had cast over him.

Louison’s nature, which was at once fierce and crafty, led to the
quieter course. With all her courage, she thought of openly assailing
this powerful man with thrills of terror. She knew him to be
unscrupulous as herself, and far beyond her in influence. Would the
clubs, in fact, believe her if she ventured to stake her unsupported
word against his? As yet that meeting had no results. If Mirabeau had
sold his influence to the queen, money would be forthcoming; and no fear
would prevent the count from lavishing it with dangerous prodigality.
For money he must change his course in the Assembly; let him do this
ever so adroitly, she could connect the change with his unusual
expenditure, and thus sustain a charge it would be dangerous to make on
her own unsupported assertion.

This terrible woman had, at last, gained control over her disturbed
passions, so far as was necessary to the hypocrisy and treason by which
her vengeance might be carried out. She was not the only woman in that
dark epoch, who hurled her own personal wrongs and evil passions into
the general anarchy, and called them patriotism. Patriotism! The amazons
and butchers of France made this grand word so hideous, that liberty
turns from it with distrust, even to this day; like the holy religion of
Christ, it is used to cover a thousand sins—and treason is never so
dangerous as when it cloaks itself under a name that true men hold
sacred.

If ever a time has been on earth, when women could possess all the power
of men, it was during the French Revolution. How did it end? Who among
those females has left a trace in her national history which is not
written in blood, and in acts more atrocious than men would have dared
perpetrate, had not the cheers of blood-thirsty women urged them on.
While there was no law, men and women stood on a level—anarchy made no
distinctions of sex. When women become immodest, men sink to their
lowest level. What a fearful level was that to which the proud old
nation of France was brought when assassination took the mockery of law,
and indiscriminate murder became a national amusement.

A few great and true-hearted women certainly were drawn into this awful
maelstrom; but it was to sicken in the sea of blood that overwhelmed
them, and perish under the heels of an enraged multitude, whose fiendish
acts their own enthusiasm had aided to inspire. Who among all the army
of women that marched to Versailles, on that gloomy day, has an honored
place in the history of France now? Of the hundreds who mingled their
voices with those of Danton, Robespierre, and Marat, at the clubs, is
there one who has not been consigned to the blackest infamy by all
historians? Madame Roland, who gloried in writing her husband’s letters,
and was in character and position lifted far above the infamous rabble
of women who made demons of the men they influenced, died on the
scaffold, bravely as she had lived; but the last words on her lips were
a bewailing cry over the atrocities perpetrated in the name of her ideal
god.—Liberty.

Louison Brisot possessed all the crafty and unscrupulous qualities that
made leaders in those horrible times. Like most of her compeers, who
were not blindly led, she seized upon the evil passions of others to
work out her own desires and crude ambition. With a sharp intellect and
depraved heart, she had flung herself at the feet of Mirabeau, partly in
homage to his undoubted genius, and partly because he was the brightest
power in that Assembly of demagogues. But the count had never even
pretended to give her, in return for her adoration, anything like
respect. Sometimes he deigned to accept her as the instrument of his
ambition, as he always used the talent of others for his own
advancement, whenever it came in his way; but for all she could do for
him he gave no return, save that careless acceptance which exasperated
while it enthralled her.

So long as Mirabeau loved no other woman, Louison contented herself with
an ostentatious exhibition of her fancied power over him. This won her
the notoriety which so many women coveted; but when she knew that the
queen, a woman she hated more than any other in France had cast the
charm of her high position and personal loveliness over this powerful
man; when she saw the tender reverence with which his lips touched that
white hand, the passion of her love blazed into fury. She saw herself
hurled down from the position which had been assumed till it was
recognized as one of power, and laughed to scorn by the person whose
very contempt was more valuable to her than the purest love of a meaner
man.

Louison gave no sign of the agitation that had at first overwhelmed her,
but watched and waited with feline patience for any movement that might
bring the haughty man she both loved and hated, within the grasp of her
vengeance.

There was no social rule by which the agitators of France governed
themselves in those days, and there was no association so debased that
these men dared not glory in it. With them there was nothing to conceal,
because there was no shame; they worshiped excess in a goddess called
Liberty; they crowned her with roses; and while defying all decency,
called on the whole world to witness their orgies and share in them.

In a state of society like this, it is not strange that a woman like
Louison could find access anywhere, or that she had made herself almost
an inmate of Mirabeau’s house, and entered it at any time that suited
her pleasure.

One evening Louison called at Mirabeau’s residence; but it was closed,
and she was told that on the day before Mirabeau had left his lodgings,
and taken a house in the Chaussée d’Anton, which he was fitting up with
great splendor. Louison turned away from the lodgings, which had been
deemed far too sumptuous for a friend of the people, with a heart on
fire again, and the bitterest word she knew of escaped through her
clenched teeth.

“The aristocrat!” she hissed, rather than spoke. “He has done this with
money from that woman—the meeting in the Park was not their first. His
soul is poisoned with her gold. I will look upon this new palace myself,
but not till I have walked off my rage. He must not look upon me while
this fire burns so hotly.”

The woman pressed both hands upon her heart as she turned from the door,
and was herself terrified by the fierce struggle going on there; the
very breath, as it rose panting to her lips, seemed to strangle her.
What better proof of Mirabeau’s utter subjection to the court did she
want than this removal to an aristocratic quarter and luxurious
dwelling? No one knew so well as herself that Mirabeau had no income
from property, nothing but his talent and influence to sell. He still
retained so much of the habits of his lordly birth, that the squalid
penury affected by Robespierre and Marat revolted him. He had never yet
been able to throw off the tastes of a gentleman in his mode of living,
and in this lost all the independence which was so necessary to
statesmanship.

A new thought came into Louison’s head. Mirabeau had taken money from
the court. Might not this be his sole motive for asking or accepting
that interview with Marie Antoinette. Had he ever hesitated to cajole or
deceive a woman in the pursuit of any object? And what reverence would
his audacious nature feel for the queen, merely because she was seated
on a throne which already shook to its foundations?

This idea came with force upon the angry woman, the thought that money,
instead of love, had taken her idol to St. Cloud, swept away half the
jealousy that tortured her. She began to feel a bitter triumph in the
supreme duplicity of which she suspected the count guilty.




                             CHAPTER LXXX.
                         TAKING AN OBSERVATION.


With no hesitation or fear, Louison turned toward the Chaussée d’Anton.
The thoroughfares were full of people, men and women, conversing
together in knots, and fraternizing with the municipal guards, in coarse
and equal companionship. More than once she was hailed by some person in
the crowd, who received a sharp or witty reply in return, which often
sent shouts of laughter after her. Now and than she stopped to speak
with some patriot, whose notoriety gave him a claim to her attention,
but moved on again, laughing and flinging back jokes and jeers as she
went.

As Louison turned a corner, with a feverish laugh still upon her lips, a
man came suddenly around the angle, whom she recognized at once. This
man she knew to be the secret and most bitter enemy of Mirabeau, and at
another time would have avoided him; for his small, lean figure,
fantastically arrayed in a well-worn coat, and buff small-clothes,
brushed thread-bare, was well calculated to inspire contempt and
ridicule from a creature so reckless in her liking as Louison. But she
paused in her swift progress, and spoke to the man now.

“Ah, citizen Robespierre! is it you that I was almost running against?
Have the Cordeliers become so strong that they can spare you from the
club so early?”

The man hesitated, occupied himself a moment with the buttons of his
olive-green coat, and passed his hand over the plaited ruffles that
fluttered in his bosom. Louison had never addressed him so familiarly
before, and he was by nature a timid man—so timid, that he was
disconcerted by the abrupt speech of a woman who had hitherto avoided
him. Before he was ready to reply, Louison relieved his embarrassment by
a new question.

“It is well to look modest, citizen, and keep in the background. Only
great men can afford to retire into the shadow; but I knew what spirit
inspires the club, and the women of Paris are as well informed. Surely
you must be aware of that?”

Robespierre answered her now, for vanity gave him courage.

“I did not think that a friend of Mirabeau would find any merit in a man
who has so little hold on the good will of the people,” he said, in a
low, rasping voice, while a faint sneer stole over his lips, which was
the nearest approach to a smile any one ever saw on his face.

“How modest we are!” exclaimed Louison, showing her white teeth, as she
smiled upon the little man, whom it was the fashion to ridicule even in
the Assembly, where his terrible force of character was, at the time,
but imperfectly known. “A true patriot, citizen, sees merit in every one
who loves his country and hates the king; but what is the homage of a
poor girl like me worth, compared with Theroigne, of Liege? Was it not
you who introduced her to the Cordelier, and called out, that was the
Queen of Sheba?”

“No; that was Laclos. Theroigne is a woman for poets to adore, and she
inspired him.”

“But they tell me that Robespierre is himself a poet, and that great
genius fires his patriotism.”

The sneer so natural to Robespierre’s lip melted into a simper, and the
lids drooped over the greenish gray of his eyes.

“I do not know who has overrated my poor ability,” he said; “but if a
spark of poetry ever inspired me, mademoiselle would enkindle it. Why
does she so entirely confine herself to the Jacobins? Is it because
Mirabeau reigns there as a god?”

“Not so, citizen. A true woman of France claims perfect freedom to think
and worship where she pleases. I have been at the Cordeliers many a
time, and listened to the eloquence of a man whom the nation will yet
learn to know as one of its greatest orators, and most potent leaders.”

Louison bent her stately head, thus enforcing her compliment, and
prepared to move on; but Robespierre followed her.

“Mademoiselle, I speak in the Assembly to-morrow. Will you come?”

“Does Mirabeau speak?”

“Yes, and I oppose him; for that reason you will not come?”

“For that very reason I will come. The man who possesses power enough to
defeat any measure urged by Mirabeau, must be worthy of adoration.”

“Ah! if I could inspire such homage from women, and such power among
men!” said Robespierre, with a sort of bitter sadness. “Count Mirabeau
carries the heart of France with him.”

“But it may not be forever,” said Louison, almost in a whisper. “What
would Mirabeau be if the faith of the people fell from him?”

“You ask this question, mademoiselle?”

“Why not? All men should be watched. The price of liberty is eternal
vigilance. Some American said that; or, is it my own thought? I cannot
tell; but some day the place of Mirabeau will be vacant. Who is ready to
fill it?”

“Mademoiselle, you suggest an impossibility.”

“There is but one man in France. Others may not see it; but to me his
destiny is plain. That man, shrouded in modesty, stands before me.”

“Mademoiselle!”

“That man is Maximilien Robespierre.”

Louison moved swiftly away, as she spoke, and left the man standing
quite alone, so amazed, that he did not move till she was out of sight.
Then he turned from the course he was pursuing, and went to his sordid
lodgings, inspired by new ambition. Louison had divined the one great
weakness in his character, and, while inspiring his vanity, aroused a
more powerful ambition than she dreamed of. Still, she had spoken
something of the truth, and with her quick intellect saw more in this
lean, little man than those who sat with him every day had yet
discovered.

“That is well done!” said Louison, as she walked toward the Chaussée
d’Anton. “This man is becoming a favorite with the people. He is shrewd,
cold-hearted, indomitable. Sooner or later he will stand in the path of
Mirabeau, perhaps undermine the foundations of his popularity; for, much
as Robespierre loves France, he hates the count. Yes, yes; I did well to
flatter the man. My next effort shall be with Marat.”

Louison fairly started with surprise when she reached the residence of
which Mirabeau had just taken possession. It was a grand structure, that
had been abandoned as it stood, by some noble emigrant, who was now safe
upon the borders. The eloquent demagogue had rather seized than hired
the building, with all its luxurious appointments; and, even at that
early day, was entertaining a party of riotous friends in the grand
saloon.

A servant, out of livery, but still richly dressed, opened the door, and
let a flood of light upon Louison where she stood, with calm audacity,
waiting for admission, as if the place had been her own home. The
servant had belonged to the noble family by which the house had been
deserted, and recognised the woman in her real character. When she asked
for Mirabeau, he answered, with something like a sneer in his voice,
that the count was entertaining his friends, and must not be disturbed.

Louison laughed, gave her handsome head a disdainful toss, and, passing
by the astonished servant, entered the hall, which she surveyed with
tranquil curiosity, lifting her face to examine the exquisitely carved
corbel of the ceiling, and giving a general survey of the statues and
antique ornaments which surrounded her. After her curiosity was
satisfied, she took the scarf from her shoulders, and, untying the gipsy
bonnet from her head, hung them both on the arm of a mailed statue that
stood near the door, gave the bright, crisp ringlets on her head a
vigorous shake, and, guided by a riot of voices, walked toward the
saloon, with all the easy confidence of an invited guest.

The picture which this woman intruded upon was something wonderful in
its splendid incongruity. A Venetian chandelier, whose heavy pendants of
flat, half opaque glass swayed to and fro in a sea of radiance, shed a
broad blaze of light upon a table gorgeous with exquisite china,
malachite and crystal vases, running over with flowers, glittering with
gold and silver plate. Crystal goblets, sparkling with wine, amber-hued,
ruby-tinted, and of purplish darkness, swayed to and fro in the hands of
half a dozen loosely-clad women, who were busily wreathing them with
flowers, in imitation of the ancient Greeks, themselves looking like
heathen goddesses, rather than Christian women.

A group of men in full dress, worn awkwardly, except in one or two
cases, leaned upon the table in various attitudes, and watched the women
as they proceeded in their classical work, now and then rifling the
vases, and tossing their blossoms across the table in aid of the growing
garlands.

Everything that the light touched was warm with rich coloring. Masses of
frescoed flowers glowed out from the ceiling. Each panel in the wall was
an exquisite picture. Broad mirrors were sunk deep in frames carved in
masses of delicate golden foliage, broken up by clusters of white
lilies, devised at the royal works at Sevres. These lilies seemed to be
cut from luminous pearls, and shed their own light upon the mirrors; for
the stamens were of perfumed wax, and burned like a star, while a
perfume, like that of the natural flower, stole out from each tiny
flame.

All this splendor Louison took in at a glance, which filled her soul
with fiery indignation. Who were these women whom Mirabeau had invited
to his new home without consulting her? By the immodest splendor of
their dresses they might belong to the court or the theatre. Her lips
curved and her eyes flashed as she regarded them. She stood unobserved,
with one foot advanced on the Gobelin carpet, searching the group with
indignant curiosity. Growing calmer, she recognised some of the men as
among the most talented and dissolute of Mirabeau’s companions. They
were arrayed in court dresses, and disguised by wigs of long, curling
hair, that floated in love-locks over the glowing velvet of their coats;
while the women had combined the loose scantiness affected even then by
the Jacobins, with rich materials hitherto known only to the nobility.
The brilliant crimson of their rouged cheeks, the black patches
scattered on forehead and chin, masses of hair, piled roll upon roll,
and curl upon curl, would have deceived any person not born of the
court, into believing them of noble birth and breeding.




                             CHAPTER LXXXI.
                          THE MIDNIGHT REVEL.


One by one, Louison made these people out, even before she heard their
voices. In the first she saw her great political rival, Theroigne de
Mericourt, of Liege, one of the most influential, audacious, and
beautiful women of the revolution.

Louison recognized this woman with a pang of bitter jealousy. What right
had the Queen of the Cordeliers in the house of Count Mirabeau?

Another woman lifted her face from the goblet she was wreathing, and
demanded more flowers for her garland. Two or three eager hands were
outstretched to a vase, and some one flung her a handful of lilies,
among them was a purple _fleur de lis_. The woman turned pale through
her rouge when she saw the flower; gave a quick, half-frightened glance
at the man who flung it at her, then cast it upon the floor, and
trampled it into the carpet with well simulated indignation.

“I wonder that you dare give me a flower that has become hateful to all
France?” she said, stamping once more on the poor broken blossom. “Nay,
I marvel that it can be found under the roof of so true a patriot as we
all know the count to be. Give me roses, heart’s-ease, anything that
will take this perfume of royalty from the air.”

Louison knew this woman also. She was Madame Du Berry, who, once lifted
from the dregs of the people by the favoritism of a bad king, had gone
back to her original element, taking a certain queenly air even in her
fallen state, which lingered around her as she trod that poor emblem of
royalty under her feet.

“Ah, madame! that is ungrateful in one who owes so much to the
protection of that poor flower.”

“But I owe more to France, and I belong to the people. Do not make me
blush that I ever left them!” cried the hypocrite, busying herself with
the pansies and roses that lay upon the table before her.

Louison watched that face keenly, and read something there which aroused
a vague suspicion of the woman’s sincerity. She caught one brief, quick
glance of the eyes turned upon Mirabeau, and understood at once that
there was some understanding between these two persons. Slowly she drew
back into the shadow of the hall, and watched them, unseen, as the revel
went on.

Mirabeau was sitting at the head of the table, leaning back in his
cushioned seat, with an air of a lord entertaining his vassals. His
dress bore no marks of the foppery which seemed so unnatural in his
guests; being noble, he cared nothing for the appearances of high birth.
Knowing himself powerful, he gloried in a certain individuality that
distinguished him alike from the nobility to which he had belonged, and
the people he had adopted. His massive head wore its own thick, tawny
hair, swept back from his temples and forehead in waving rolls; his coat
of plum-colored velvet, without lace or embroidery, fell away from a
snow-white vest, carelessly buttoned half-way up. Here it revealed the
broad plaited ruffles which shaded his bosom, and fell so carelessly
apart at the throat, that the massive curve of his white neck was
clearly exposed until it swelled into the broad chest. In his powerful
strength and sublime ugliness this man made the grandest figure in that
gorgeous scene. That which the others simulated he felt; and a smile of
pleasant scorn came and went around his mouth, as he sat watching the
awkward assumption of his guests, who, for once, were masquerading as
noblemen.

At first Louison had intended to show herself before these people, and
confront the man who had so suddenly disenthralled himself from her
influence; but the glance which she saw pass so swiftly between him and
Du Berry, changed her mind. She resolved to find some method of
listening to all that passed, and thus make herself mistress of any
secret that might have brought them together.

As she stood within the shelter of a mailed statue, near the grand
stair-case, Louison saw a side-door open, and a little figure steal
softly into the hall, as if afraid of being seen. His face was darker by
far than any shadow could make it, and he moved stealthily across the
floor till a good view of the supper table was obtained; then he
crouched down in the shadow of the stair-case and seemed to disappear.
That moment the door of the saloon was closed.

The mailed statue stood between Louison and this creeping object. She
felt sure that he had not observed her; but a faint light streaming into
the hall through the door he had left ajar, made her position a
difficult one to conceal. She cast wistful glances at this little stream
of light, which came, she was convinced, from some apartment adjoining
the banqueting-saloon. At last, keeping within the shadow of the statue,
she glided toward this opening, and found herself in a small apartment,
lighted only by the faint gleams that came from the hall, and broke
through the side of a panel, which evidently was used as a concealed
door connecting with the saloon. Some antique tapestry fell apart just
before this panel, and under it the woman concealed herself, drawing the
tapestry so close as to obstruct all light from the room. Through the
crevice she commanded a full view of everything that transpired in the
saloon, and could distinctly hear each spoken word. Never had a jealous
woman and a spy better opportunities of observation. Directly in the
line of her vision sat Mirabeau, leaning back in his chair with an
expression of broad, animal enjoyment on his face.

Near him, with the delicate whiteness of her garments clinging around
her superb form, and her bare arm uplifted, stood Theroigne de
Mericourt, waving the goblet she had crowned with flowers over her head,
as she called out,

“To Mirabeau, the god of the people! The man who flung his title
underfoot that the _canaille_ may trample on it. He did not wait for the
people to tear off his coronet.”

A dozen goblets flashed in the air as she spoke, so quickly that the
flowers fell from them bathed in a rain of wine-drops.

“To Mirabeau! Life to him! Destruction to all tyrants!”

The mingled voices of men and women went up simultaneously in this
shout. The crystal light of the goblets rippled around a dozen heads,
while Mirabeau sat still, smiling like a sultan, to whom homage in any
form was an inheritance.

After this riotous toast was given, Theroigne remarked that the host was
drinking pure water instead of wine. Then kissing her goblet, and
bathing her red lips in the perfume of its flowers, she leaned over the
table, and bade them drink to the toast, which should be a crowning one
of the festival.

Mirabeau took the goblet and swung it around his head, as Theroigne
snatched another from the table, and cried out,

“Fill! fill with red wine now! and drain each glass to the dregs, as we
will yet drain the hearts of Louis and his Austrian wife.”

A shout followed, a crash of glasses, and the mellow gurgle of wine, as
it flowed down the thirsty throats of the company.

Theroigne drained her goblet, and drew a deep, long breath; with her
tongue, she lapped the wine from her lips, and muttered in a low voice,
but loud enough for all to hear,

“It has a rare taste of blood!”

Louison from her concealment, saw that two persons in the company lifted
their goblets, but tasted no drop of the wine. Mirabeau touched his lips
to the flowers, but dashed the wine over his shoulder; and while the
rest were drinking, it sunk with a broad, red stain, into the snowy
ground of the carpet.

Du Berry lifted her goblet also, but turned so deadly white that the
rouge upon her face stood out frightfully from its general pallor.
Dropping the glass, she put her hand to her throat, as if a spasm of
pain had seized her, and would have left the table but for a commanding
look from Mirabeau, which warned her of danger.

“They understand each other,” thought Louison; “this is not simply a
carouse. Du Berry and Mirabeau share secrets together; and these idiots,
swaggering in the cast-off garments of some cowardly nobleman, cannot
see it.”

She was mistaken. Theroigne de Mericourt was quick-sighted as herself.
Du Berry had affiliated herself with the revolutionists—but the
extremists always held her in distrust. She was still a beautiful woman,
and a certain prestige lingered in her history, which would have been a
recommendation to the powers that were rising on the waves of the
national revolt, had it not been connected with the old king, whose
memory was hated.

“Turn down your goblets,” said the young amazon, shaking the last drops
from her glass, and tossing the flowers into the face of her _vis-a-vis_
at the table. “I hold the man or woman who has not drained every drop as
an enemy to France.”

Before Du Berry could reach forth her hand, Mirabeau had pushed his
empty goblet toward her, and seized upon hers.

“If I did not drain my glass at once, it was because admiration is
sometimes more powerful than the love of liberty. Having drank to the
death of royalty, let me pour out a libation to the goddess, who knows
so well how to teach Frenchmen their duty.”

Here Mirabeau poured the contents of his glass into a malachite vase
that stood near him, half choked up with flowers.

Theroigne’s dark eyes flashed. She had brought half the leading patriots
of the clubs to her feet; but Mirabeau, up to this time, had kept aloof
from her influence, and she felt her power incomplete without his
subjugation. It was a great step that he had invited her to his house;
but other women were equally honored. Du Berry sat at his right hand—was
there a preference in this?

Du Berry took Mirabeau’s lead and sprang to her feet.

“The women of France are the soul of her revolutions,” she said; “and
Theroigne is their leader. Fill up once more to the first woman of
France.”

“To Mirabeau alone belongs the pleasure of proposing this homage to the
great spirit of the revolution,” answered the host. Amid the confusion
and riot that followed, Du Berry escaped further notice of her
imprudence in refusing to drink to the death of a man and a woman who
had been forbearing and most kind to her when she had deserved so little
consideration at their hands.




                            CHAPTER LXXXII.
                        THROWING OFF DISGUISES.


Then evening wore on, and Mirabeau’s guests came out of the awkwardness
of a sumptuous masquerade, where they had been aping the life they
professed to despise, and their coarse natures revealed themselves amid
flowers, jewels, laces, and silks, with ludicrous incongruity.

Mirabeau enjoyed the scene with keen zest. In his heart he despised the
paltry display which only made his plebeian friends unnatural and
awkward; but the whole scene amused him, and, with his usual
forethought, he had arranged it for his own advantage. In this adroit
way he hoped to mingle such elements together as would render his
projects, regarding the royal family, less open to observation.

Louison understood the whole scene. One by one she began to recognize
the men who figured under those splendid garments; and even in her anger
she smiled as the coarse hand of Marat protruded from the ruffles of
gossamer lace that fell from under his coat-sleeve, in a rude attempt to
wave kisses across the table to Theroigne, who received his advances
with a disdainful laugh, which Du Berry joined, more covertly. She was
no stranger to the splendid objects that surrounded her, and took some
pride in the ultra refinements which she had brought out of her former
grandeur.

Marat, whose vanity was extreme, drew back from the ridicule of these
women with a growl of anger; low born and humbly bred as himself, they
had easily adopted the careless self-possession which he aimed at in
vain. But this man was already making his influence felt in the clubs,
and no one present felt strong enough to ridicule him openly.

Du Berry laughed behind her fan; and Theroigne turned her face away and
made signs of disgust to Mirabeau, who leaned back in his chair and
smiled upon them all.

Marat witnessed all this reflected in a mirror upon the opposite wall,
and he never forgot it.

Louison saw his coarse face darken, and knew that she could depend on
him when her hour of vengeance came.

Marat, as if to assure her of this, started to his feet.

“Come, citizens, we have played at this folly long enough,” he said,
coarsely. “Why should we ape that which we despise, and will yet trample
into the earth? I, for one, am sick of this farce. True patriots only
grow strong in their own elements. Bah! these perfumes suffocate me!”

With these words, the brutal man snatched off his wig and sent all its
powdered curls flying across the room, thus more completely exposing all
the coarseness of his features. Then he threw open the velvet coat, and
attempted to draw it from his shoulders, cursing its tightness, and
making vicious threats against the more slender aristocrat to whom it
had belonged.

Theroigne burst into a peal of laughter as he tugged at the sleeves, and
distorted his shoulders in a fruitless effort to free himself from the
splendid garment; for in his fury he had torn open the laced ruffles on
his bosom, and revealed to the whole company under garments of his own,
coarse, dingy, and scarcely fit for a beggar.

“Let me help you, citizen!” cried the amazon, springing to her chair,
placing one foot on the edge of the table and leaping across it. “Upon
my life, you have hard work not to look like an aristocrat. There, now,
the coat is off, and you have torn all this lovely lace to tatters. So
much the better. Marat is himself again. You cannot chain our lion of
the revolution with ribbons or ropes of flowers.

“See! see!” cried one of the guests, “what mischief one woman can do!
Theroigne, in her zeal to take Marat out of his trappings, has deluged
herself with wine. See how it trickles down her dress!”

Theroigne cast a glance at the table, which was scattered with broken
crystal, that glittered like fragments of ice in a red flood of wine
which her foot had spilled. Then she shook out the folds of her white
dress, which were dabbled red as the table; and, turning to Marat, cried
out recklessly,

“We are friends now and forever! I have only taken your colors, Marat,
in advance!”

“All France shall wear them yet,” Marat muttered, as he spurned away the
coat he had taken off, with his foot.

“So be it!” cried Theroigne. “Like you, I detest anything an aristocrat
has touched. Let us be ourselves.”

The amazon tore a garland of roses from her head, and trampled them down
with the coat Marat had flung off.

“Oh! if it were but the crown of France!” she said, fiercely.

“And the woman who wears it,” growled Marat, who had drank wine enough
to render him more than usually ferocious.

Mirabeau caught the ruffian’s scowling glance, as he muttered these
words under his breath, and guessed their meaning.

“It is, doubtless, a noble sentiment which the citoyen utters; but he
speaks too low. If it promises good to France, let us all join in it.”

“You shall all join in it before I have done,” answered Marat, sullenly;
“but there must be a baptism first. You, Mirabeau, are not prepared as
yet. If some one would draw the blue blood from your veins, our patriots
would trust you, and ask no questions.”

“As it is,” said Mirabeau, laughing, “the people trust me, and with that
I am content.”

“There speaks out the audacious pride of the aristocrat,” was the bold
answer; “half noble, half plebeian—one eternally fighting against the
other. Who can trust either? Not Marat, for one.”

Mirabeau’s face, grand and powerful in its supreme ugliness, darkened
like a thunder-cloud for one instant, then cleared away with a laugh.

“The air of this mansion does not agree with Marat,” he said.

“No!” cried the ruffian; “it stifles me.”

“Come, come!” cried Theroigne, “we must not quarrel with each other. It
is the garments and the place. When Mirabeau gave us permission to
ransack the mansion, and use what pleased us, he did not remember that
the very atmosphere of luxury sickens a true patriot. Come, one and all!
let us be ourselves again. We had a fancy to see how a nobleman, who
grinds his luxuries out of the poor man’s labor, enjoyed his monopoly;
but the whole thing surfeits me.”

As she said this, Theroigne left the saloon, swept across the hall, and
up the grand stair-case, followed by the whole party, except the host
and Madame Du Berry, who had not joined in the harlequin frolic of the
evening, having no curiosity to gratify regarding the usages of the
aristocracy.

When the last of his guests left the room, Mirabeau turned a somewhat
anxious face on Du Berry.

“Did this man terrify you, mademoiselle?” he said.

“A little; he seems to regard me with peculiar spite.”

“It is his nature; besides, he had been drinking too much wine!”

“His very look made me shiver.”

“But you must have more courage. It is with such men that you can have
the influence we need.”

“And this person from Liege?” questioned Du Berry doubtfully.

Mirabeau smiled.

“Now tell me,” said Du Berry, “what this strange scene means?”

“Only this,” answered Mirabeau. “The house that I occupy, not long since
belonged to a member of the court who very wisely emigrated, leaving all
its appointments behind,—even, as you see, a portion of his wardrobe. He
was a favorite with our friend at St. Cloud: and I received an
invitation that my residence here might save it from pillage. I took
possession. It was a dangerous experiment, for these people watch me
with the vigilance of hounds. To-night I gave them a supper, inviting
the most violent of the clubs. They believe, and I permit it, that I
have taken a brigand’s possession of this house, and insisted on
ransacking it from top to bottom. In the wardrobe they found some rich
dresses, which the owner feared to encumber himself with; and at the
instigation of Theroigne, of Liege, got up the scene you have witnessed.
It is wonderful how eagerly our Jacobins seize upon every opportunity to
lift themselves, if it is only for an hour, into an atmosphere of
luxury, while they pretend to despise it.”

“Hark!” said madame, under her breath, “it seemed to me, as if some one
stirred.”

“No; it is only our friends casting off their nobility. Was anything
ever more absurd than the scene they enacted?”

Madame burst into a hearty laugh.

“Oh, _mon Dieu_! I never shall forget Marat in that dress. It was a
hyena in the silver fox-skin. How his eyes peered out from under the
curling wig. It was superb!”

Again madame broke into a mellow laugh, and mimicked the awkward pose of
Marat in his aristocratic dress, with inimitable humor.

Mirabeau laughed till the tears came into his great, bold eyes. Then
madame gave a comic imitation of Theroigne.

“Oh!” she said, between the acts of her little comedy, “it is not often
that a woman, taken from the _canaille_, can glide gracefully into the
manners of the court.”

“That,” said Mirabeau, with a meaning smile, “is only reserved to women
of wonderful talent.”

Madame laid her white hand with a graceful motion on her heart, thus
acknowledging the compliment.

“Oh, count! what a charming courtier was lost when you turned patriot.”

“Madame, is it not possible for a man to be a courtier, and yet love his
country?”

“I begin to fear not. Mirabeau, these people distrust me. That woman——”

Mirabeau interrupted her with a laugh.

“That woman—well, what of her? Can she forgive your arch wit, your
superb beauty?”

“Hush, hush!” said madame, with a touch of mournful regret. “I am no
longer beautiful, and these fearful convulsions have frightened all the
little wit I ever possessed out of my brain; but, through it all, I have
one feeling which nothing can destroy, gratitude to the king, and that
gracious lady who would not countenance insult or spoliation against a
fallen woman. It might have been half counterfeit, I know; but in the
season of my bitter humiliation I was spared. I say to you, Count
Mirabeau, I would rather perish than see harm come to them.”

“We will both perish before that shall happen!” said Mirabeau,
earnestly; “but let us beware of revealing a sentiment in their favor.”

“Guard yourself, my friend. They are coming,” cried madame, catching her
breath.

True enough, a tremendous rush of feet came down the broad stair-case,
and the superbly-dressed company, that had left the table in regal
splendor, came back a rabble of riotous people, carelessly dressed,
reckless in demeanor, and ready to blaspheme, or assert any wild theory
that came into their heads, without regard to the decencies of language,
or the presence of women. Indeed, respect for the sex had long ceased to
be a restraint upon men who had trodden everything pure and beautiful
under the cloven hoofs of an impossible idea.

Louison knew that nothing of interest to herself would be gathered from
the noisy arguments these men fairly hurled at each other over the
fragments of a feast that had satiated them. She was about to withdraw
from her hiding-place, when she became conscious of some object
crouching on the floor. It was so hidden by the tapestry, that she would
have gone away unconscious of a companion in her spying, had not her
foot touched the little creature whom she had seen glide from that very
apartment, and conceal himself in the hall, earlier in the evening.

“Imp, what are you doing here?” she whispered, grasping the shrinking
creature by the arm. “Spying upon your own mistress?”

The dwarf wrenched himself from her grasp, and darted from the room.




                            CHAPTER LXXXIII.
                            THE DOUBLE SPY.


Louison had lured the dwarf to her own lodgings. That moment he was
attempting to force himself from under the powerful hand which she
pressed upon his shoulder.

“Tell me, little wretch, or I will inform your mistress that you spy
upon her!”

“No, no! I pray you.”

“Spy upon her, and for what?”

“Nothing. Oh, madame! it is for nothing. Zamara has all his life had the
habit of listening. He loves to know everything; that is all. He never
betrays.”

“Unless it is for his interest,” said the woman, laughing maliciously,
as her threatening eyes read the little, aged face that had grown dark
and wrinkled, like a withered prune, during the progress of his servile
life. “Of course, in these times, secrets are commodities that sell for
good prices. You have many to sell, and I wish to buy. Is there anything
that Zamara loves better than gold?”

“No, no!” cried the little Indian, and his eyes struck fire. “Nothing
but madame, my mistress.”

“Do you love her better than this head?” exclaimed the woman, burying
her hand in the crisp hair, which was now more than half white, and
shaking the head her words threatened till the creature’s teeth
chattered. “Answer me that, jackanapes.”

The dwarf threw up both his long, thin hands, and held on to his head,
seized with sudden terror.

“My head—my own head? No, no! There is nothing on earth that Zamara
loves better than that. Take your hands away, you hurt me!”

“Well, there, you are free. I don’t mean to hurt you; but understand
this, if you wish to keep this worthless head upon your miserable little
shoulders, you will forget that any mistress exists to you in the world,
except Louison Brisot.”

“And who is Louison Brisot?”

“Look in my face.”

“There, I do,” faltered the dwarf, lifting his heavy eyes to the bold,
handsome face bending down to his level.

“Then do not forget it, for I am your mistress. It is for me that you
must watch, and spy, and listen.”

“But why for you?”

“Because I can have your head cut off if you don’t—cut off and stuck
upon a pike. Have you never seen such things?”

“Yes,” gasped the dwarf, and his dark face turned livid. “I saw them
carried along the road from Versailles. It was terrible.”

“You saw women carrying them?”

“Yes; I saw it.”

The poor dwarf shuddered, and wrenched himself from the hand that seemed
to burn his shoulder.

“Those men were strong, powerful, full of life; but they offended the
women of France. While their huge trunks lay in Versailles, you saw
their heads dancing over that army of women. Look at me. It was I who
lifted this hand, and in the twinkling of an eye those great, shaggy
heads fell.”

“Oh, _mon Dieu_! let me go. Let me go!” cried the poor wretch.

“No; there is no such thing as letting go. You must obey me, or——”

Here the woman drew her finger across her throat with the slightest
possible action, and uttered a short laugh as the dwarf winced in
cowardly fear.

“What is it that you want of me, madame?” he gasped.

“That you report everything to me. A little thing, but it is all I ask
in exchange for your miserable life.”

“But about what?”

“About your mistress; about Count Mirabeau; and, above all, about the
queen.”

“The queen! I—I know nothing about her. How should I?”

“How should you, little craven? Who is it that carries letters from
Mirabeau to the Austrian?”

“It is not Zamara! Upon my life, upon my soul, it is not Zamara!”

“But you know who does take them?”

“No; I am not trusted so far. She doubts me—me, who stood by her when
all her friends fell off, who went with her into exile among the
detestable English, where the skies forever weep rain, and one is
chilled to the soul. All this Zamara did, yet the mistress will not
trust him.”

“But he can find out?”

“Yes; Zamara knows how to do that.”

“Well, listen. Some one takes letters from Count Mirabeau to the queen,
and they pass through the hands of your mistress.”

“No, no; she would not be permitted. She never sees the queen—never!”

“Still, it is through her these letters pass. I know it from words that
fell from the count—careless words, which he fancied I did not heed.
That much I know—you must find out the rest.”

“If I do, what then?”

“Why, that paltry life of yours will be safe. I have the power—I have
the will. No one, great or small, shall touch it.”

“And my mistress?”

“Do not trouble your little head about her. She professes to belong to
the people—she, who came from its dregs. Let her prove herself their
friend, or be proven their enemy. You have nothing to do with that.”

“Ah! but she has been kind to me—only that sometimes she suspects.”

“Not so kind as I will be, if you prove sharp and faithful.”

The dwarf bent low and kissed the hem of that woman’s garment, in token
of submission, as he had often kissed the almost regal robes of the
countess, his mistress.

“I shall remember that madame has the power to kill,” he said, abjectly.

“A safe way of insuring honesty,” laughed the woman. “I am not afraid
that you will venture to trifle with your own life.”

The dwarf took his cap from the floor, where it had fallen in the first
tremor of his fear, and cast a furtive look over his shoulder, longing
to escape from that dreadful presence; but Louison seemed to find
pleasure in tormenting him.

“_Mon Dieu!_ how pale you look through all that blackness!” she said.
“There is wine. What you have to do requires more courage. Drink,
drink!”

The dwarf seized upon the goblet which Louison filled, and drank off
wine enough to have intoxicated a strong man before he relinquished his
hold on the glass.

“That is good wine,” he said, drawing a deep breath, and kindling into
something like courage. “One does not fear so much with that in his
veins. Now will madame, or mademoiselle, I do not know which she is,
inform me exactly what she wishes of Zamara?”

“Sit down here,” said Louison, placing herself on a couch, and tossing
one of its cushions to her feet, on which the Indian crouched like a
dog. “I will tell you just what you are to do—and make sure you do it.”

“Zamara listens,” murmured the dwarf, feeling a warm glow of wine
burning through the duskiness of his cheek.

Thus, with his great, black eyes half closed, and his features relaxing
into something like repose, he sat inertly, while Louison went into the
detail of her plans, in which he was to act the part of a traitor and a
spy upon the only real friend he had ever known.

Persuasion or bribery might have failed to turn that pampered creature
into the foul ingrate he became. But Zamara had seen awful deeds during
the riots of Paris, that the very thought of danger from that quarter
made a craven of him. His own poor life was the only real possession
that he had on earth; when that was threatened, all I that was good and
honest in his nature gave way. He arose from the cushion the abject
slave of the woman whom he regarded with crouching fear and deadly hate.

“You will know where to find me, for this is my home.”

Zamara looked around the room with contempt in his heart. The flimsy
curtains, knotted back with tufts of faded pink ribbon; those poor
plants in the window, pining for want of a little water; the table,
littered over with Jacobin pamphlets and rebellious journals; the
pictures on the walls, those mirrors in tarnished gilding, the faded
silk of the couch, dead flowers in the vases, all bespoke the reckless
desire of their owner to ape the luxury she pretended to despise. Zamara
saw this, and his miserable little heart filled with contempt of the
woman he feared. He had lived too long in the regal splendor of the
little Trianon not to sneer in his soul at the vulgar mockery of
elegance affected by this woman of the people.

“You will know where to find me,” said Louison, again, looking around
her room with great satisfaction. “It is not likely that you can forget,
having once been here.”

“No; I shall never forget,” answered the dwarf, with a gleam in his eye,
and something almost like a sneer in his voice, “never!”

Louison had been terribly wounded in her vanity by the position in which
she discovered Theroigne de Mericourt and Du Berry. Those two women,
both almost as worthless as herself, had become her bane since the night
she had seen Mirabeau smiling on them as guests of a table to which she
was not invited. She had heard of the elegance which Du Berry still kept
up, and knew that Theroigne was following her example, with the fearless
audacity of a bold, beautiful woman, ready to risk her power rather than
sacrifice one iota of the personal luxury which she considered as her
right.

“These women would thrust me aside,” she reasoned, with vindictive hate.
“They have already taken my place in the clubs, and now crowd me away
from Mirabeau’s table. If they can ape queens with safety, so can I. But
let them take care, I have one almost in my grasp. She thinks to play
double, and win on both sides. We shall see! We shall see!”

These thoughts swept through her mind as the dwarf stood by, longing to
go, but afraid to move. She had noticed the incipient sneer on his face,
and it wounded her self-love.

“This is not a palace,” she said, sharply. “I know that; but who can
tell what may happen. I am far more likely to—but no matter. There is no
knowing what ship comes in first when the ocean rages. Remember this,
either Count Mirabeau, or your mistress must not meet or communicate,
without all the particulars coming to me at once. Your life depends on
that. Now go, I think you understand me.”

“Yes, I comprehend,” answered the dwarf, crushing his cap nervously with
both hands as he edged toward the door.

“And you will not forget, I make sure of that,” said Louison, waving her
hand as a signal that he might go.

Zamara took the hint and glided through the door.




                            CHAPTER LXXXIV.
                        LOUISON AND MARGUERITE.


Dame Doudel held a letter in her hand. “It is from my sister Tillery,”
she said. “Just as usual, she wants you. As if there was no person in
the world but herself.”

“I should like to go. Dame Tillery is always kind, always glad when I
come,” said Marguerite, flushing with pleasure. All at once a thought
chilled this sweet enthusiasm. If she went to Versailles then, perhaps
_he_ might come in her absence, and never take the trouble of calling
again.

Dame Doudel saw the change in Marguerite’s countenance without
comprehending it.

“Do not be troubled, little one,” she said. “You shall go, if it
disappoints you so much. My sister has no children of her own, and I
would not stand in the way of any good fortune that might come to you
for all the world. So brighten up! brighten up! and get your work done.
She will not be here to-day or to-morrow—you have plenty of time.”

Still Marguerite’s pretty face was clouded, and her bosom swelled with a
sigh, soft and quick as the bland air that shook the snow-white curtains
at her window. Two days! Perhaps she might see him in that time. Surely,
if he cared about coming again, there would be time enough. “Now fill
your basket, Marguerite, and come with me to the market. If you are to
have holidays with my sister, we must work hard now.”

Marguerite sighed. Her own share in the business had grown very dull
since so many courtiers had been driven from the kingdom. There could be
scarcely a market for flowers, when the people of the nation were
starving for bread. Still she said nothing, but gathering up the
garlands and bouquets that lay heaped on the table, prepared to go out.

These two females, as they came out of their humble domicil, formed a
strong but by no means unpleasant contrast. Dame Doudel, with her thin
features, sharp, black eyes, and prompt action, was the very embodiment
of those national traits which have rendered the women of France among
the most brilliant and practical in the world. Marguerite, with her
sweet, young face shaded by a straw gipsy tied under the chin with a
knot of blue ribbon, and the outlines of her slender person scarcely
concealed by the thin mantle of white muslin that floated over her
dress, seemed pure and innocent as the flowers she carried on her arm.
Even in that busy and riotous season, when all France was in a state of
agitation, people turned in the street to look at this pretty creature
as she stepped daintily along, tapping the pavement with her high-heeled
shoes, and looking down with loving fellowship on her flowers, as if
each bud were akin to her.

When Dame Doudel and her protegée reached the market, a little tumult
arose among the women, most of whom recognized Marguerite as the person
who had with one word so effectually represented their cause to the king
on that memorable day at Versailles.

“It is the child our Mirabeau brought to us when he said that the market
mast be represented by a girl pretty and innocent; for nothing less can
speak well for its devotion to France. From that day we have made her
the child of the market. We are all her mothers. When the king made her
a promise, it was for us. When he kissed her forehead, it was a seal of
good faith to us. The king is good! The king is good! If he breaks faith
with us, it is because of the Austrian.”

With these words, accompanied with ardent caresses, the women of the
market swarmed around the girl as if each one had some proprietorship in
her innocence and beauty. They loaded her with fruit; they added to her
lovely burden of flowers, and embraced her as if she had been a goddess.

Marguerite received the homage with faint blushes, almost crying as she
thought how little she had done to deserve so much affection. In vain
she strove to convince them that she felt like an impostor. They would
not permit even herself to diminish one virtue in their idol; would not
believe that anything less than perfection could rest in the being whom
Mirabeau had chosen to represent them before the king.

At last Marguerite shrunk away from all these demonstrations, and
bursting into tears, cried out,

“Do not praise me! Do not love me so much! I did nothing! I used no
argument; nay, I was worse than a coward, and could only cry out for
bread, bread for our famished people. Then a panic seized me, and I
fainted at the king’s feet!”

“Yes, yes! but he lifted you in his arms; he kissed your forehead while
the Austrian was looking on. His heart would always go out to the people
if she would let it. What was the need of words. He saw our wants in
your face; he heard them in that one word—_bread_!”

Marguerite was standing by Dame Doudel’s stall, around which the women
of the market had assembled, forgetting their traffic, and filled with
enthusiasm. Their praises went to the young girl’s heart. With a love of
royalty deep-seated in her nature, she felt her present position among
these ardent women as a fraud which she had no right to maintain.

Dame Doudel, while she rejoiced in the scene, watched her protegée
closely, fearing that some imprudent word might extinguish the
enthusiasm which was exalting her into something scarcely less than a
goddess. All at once, Marguerite burst into a passion of tears, and
retreating from the crowd of her admirers, caught Dame Doudel by the
dress.

“Oh! tell them—tell them that I love the king, the queen, and everything
that belongs to them! Tell these good women they are breaking my heart
with praises that I do not deserve, never can deserve!”

“Hush, child! Hush, I command you!” cried the dame, breathless with
terror. “What is it to them? Who asks you not to love the king—we all
love him!”

“What—what does she say? Who is it among us that has made her cry—tell
us that!”

“It is nothing. She is a tender-hearted little thing, and weeps with
joy. Cannot you see that yourselves? Hush, my darling! let me speak for
you. I know these women; they wish no evil to the king. Hush! hush!”

Still Marguerite’s tender conscience was not pacified. She was timid,
but by no means a coward. Those women evidently believed her heart and
soul one of themselves, while she shrunk from all sympathy with them.
How could she make them understand this without wounding her
benefactress.

“Let me speak! Oh! let me tell them!” she pleaded, clinging to the
frightened dame. “It need harm no one but myself.”

“I cannot. I have already told them you were one of us. Would you prove
me a liar, and have me hooted out of the market?”

“No, no! I did not think of that.”

“Then be quiet.”

“I will—I will. Only tell them that I deserve nothing.”

“Very well; but look up. Wipe your eyes, and try to smile.”

Marguerite tried her best to obey. She wiped her eyes with a fold of her
muslin mantle, and made a pitiful attempt to brighten her face; but just
before her, or rather above her, as she looked up, stood a young woman
mounted on one of the stalls, who was regarding her with the keen
scrutiny of an enemy. Marguerite gave a faint cry, and clung to Dame
Doudel in sudden terror.

“Do not speak—let them all go; but take me away—take me away from that
woman!”

The words died on those white lips, leaving them parted till the teeth
shone through. The great, blue eyes of the girl widened and glowed with
kindling horror. She knew that the woman who stood there, so fiendish in
her beauty, was, in fact, a murderer. A sick faintness settled down upon
her, and she sunk to a market-stool perfectly insensible.

Then the voice of Louison Brisot broke forth in clear, ringing tones,
that fell from her lips hot with the seething anger of a jealous woman.

“My friends—women of France, tell me, if you can, who it is that you are
worshiping?” she demanded, looking around upon the crowd which was now
increased by a rabble from the streets. “Have you grown weak enough to
pay homage to a child like that? What could she do for France? See how
she sinks down and withers like a dead lily, at the first sound of my
voice. Is it of such material that freedom is moulded? Is she a creature
to represent the liberty of a nation? Why the first trumpet blast would
frighten the life from her body. What has she done that you gather
around her so!”

“She is goodness itself—a child of the people, innocent as an angel. It
was she who stood before the king that day at Versailles!” cried a dozen
voices. “Why should you come here, Louison Brisot, to assail her? What
can one like you know of a blameless child like her?”

“But who is she—I demand that? Who is she?” cried Louison, trembling
with rage; for this was the first time her opinions had been questioned
among the women of the market.

A broad-chested, keen-eyed woman, seated among the vegetables on her own
stall, with both arms bare to the elbow, folded over her bosom, answered
this question promptly,

“She is the friend of Mirabeau. He chose her to speak for us before the
king. What more do you want, Louison Brisot!”

“The friend of Mirabeau! Let me look on her face!”

Louison Brisot sprang from the stall, where she had been accustomed to
harangue the women, and forced a passage to the spot where Marguerite
lay insensible, half supported by the arms of Dame Doudel.

“Let me look on her face, I say. Mirabeau has no friends that are not
mine.”

The deathly pallor on Marguerite’s face was white and cold as it had
been when Doudel fell at her feet on that awful day when the Bastille
was taken. Had she seen the young creature blooming, and with smiles
upon her lips, it is doubtful if she would have known her again. As it
was, a triumphant smile lighted her face when she turned upon the crowd.

“This is an aristocrat, and no friend of Count Mirabeau’s.”

The market women laughed, some with good-natured, mellow laughter,
others bitterly, and casting menacing glances at Louison.

“As if we did not know,” said the woman, who had from the first,
answered Louison so boldly. “I, myself, went with her before the king.
Count Mirabeau put her especially under my care—the lamb! Who will have
the face to gainsay me in that? Not you, Louison Brisot, who never saw
her.”

“But I have seen her,” almost shrieked Louison; “and as I tell you, she
was trying to save one of the king’s guard at the Bastille.”

“And why not?” called out the portly dame who had spoken before. “Who
among us was not at the taking of the Bastille? I was, and she went with
me.”

Louison’s outstretched arms fell to her side. She was not convinced; but
this evidence coming from the market, baffled her. She looked around on
the crowd of faces uplifted toward her, some were angry, some drawn with
sneers; but most were laughing at her defeat, in careless good-humor.
The stout woman who had, in fact, been one of a committee to wait on the
king that day at Versailles, swung herself down from the stall on which
she sat, and began to arrange her vegetables in high good-humor.
Another, as she held up a splendid fish for the inspection of a
customer, asked Louison if she thought that fine fellow was an
aristocrat, too; and shook her sides with laughter when a sharp glance,
but no answer, came in reply. In less than ten minutes the excited
throng around Dame Doudel’s stall had dispersed, and the whole market
was given up to business, made a little brisker by the time that had
been lost.




                             CHAPTER LXXXV.
                         MIRABEAU BUYS FLOWERS.


The crowd settled back, chaffering for fish, sorting out vegetables, and
running up accounts, while the business of the day went on, and Louison
Brisot made an ignominious retreat, for the first time, from the people
she had almost ruled by her eloquence and fierce beauty; for those
market women had become almost men in their tastes, and looked upon
youth and beauty with the admiration of another sex.

A few of Dame Doudel’s nearest neighbors hovered around the fainting
girl; but Louison had disappeared from the market before Marguerite came
to herself.

The moment she opened her eyes, these warm-hearted women began to
encourage and console her. What had she to fear? Why did she faint? Was
it because of Louison Brisot? That was foolish—no one minded Louison
now. Since it was known that Mirabeau had put her aside, when a proper
person was wanted to lay their troubles before the king, she had been of
little account. The market women were wives and mothers, honest women,
who wanted to earn bread for their children in an honest way; and
Mirabeau knew best how they should be represented. If he had wanted
Louison Brisot, or Theroigne, to lead them, would he not have said so?
But he did nothing of the kind.

“Take this young girl,” he said; “you go to entreat the king, not to
insult him. Liberty is grand, it is pure; when she pleads, it should be
through innocent lips.” That was what our Mirabeau said—and he was
right. “You have spoken for us, little one, and we will let no one wrong
you, much less Louison.”

“You are kind, I feel your goodness here,” said the poor girl, pressing
a hand to her heart, which was still heavy with pain. “I only wish it
possible to deserve the trust you place in me.”

Marguerite spoke wearily, and her mournful eyes filled with tears. The
shock that face had given her brought back that awful scene at the
Bastille. The girl had a vivid imagination, and for a time the market,
with all its gleaming fish, tinted vegetables, and crimson meat-stalls,
vanished from her sight—she stood under the shadows of the Bastille, its
grim towers shook to the foundation as a vast horde of human beings
raged around them, men and women, soldiers and citizens, all crying out
for some human life. A human life—whose was it? What was that which came
crashing down from the tallest of those towers? The horror of the
reality was scarcely more dreadful than the memory that woman’s face
brought back upon her with a suddenness that struck the very life from
her heart.

“Let me go,” she said, appealing piteously to Dame Doudel; “I have stood
here too long. They are all kind; but the air stifles me.”

Marguerite took up her basket of flowers and left the market, followed
by kindly words and pleasant looks from the women through whom she
passed. With a slow, weary step she wandered away into the street, not
once offering her flowers, but walking on dreamily, unmindful where she
went, or whom she met. Indeed, she was so utterly heedless of everything
around, that a woman was following her all the time, keeping a little
way off, and she quite unconscious that the enemy she most dreaded was
on her track, bitter and vindictive as a she wolf.

“Will you sell me some flowers?”

Marguerite started, looked up, and saw the strong, ugly face of Count
Mirabeau bending over her.

“Some flowers—some flowers!” repeated the girl. “Yes—yes. If—if you want
them.”

“Of course, I want them. Let me select, but with your help, though.
Shall it be roses, or myrtle?”

“Myrtle, I think,” said the girl, too sad for a choice of the brighter
flowers.

“But roses, too, and some of those sweet-smelling things.”

“Here is a bunch in which they are all tied up. Will you take this,
monsieur count?”

“You know me again, sweet Marguerite?” said the count, taking the
flowers and fastening them among the ruffles in his bosom. “Know me well
enough to blush like your own roses; while I have seen that lovely face
too often for my peace of mind.”

“Do the flowers please you?” said Marguerite, dropping her eyes under
the bold stare Mirabeau fixed upon her.

“Please me? Of course they do. Here is a likeness of the king, if you
can forgive the head for the sake of the gold.”

“A Louis d’or,” said Marguerite, hesitating—“a Louis d’or?”

She held the coin a moment, and gave it back again, with a gentle shake
of the head.

“What, my little Jacobin, do you hate the king like that? My
foster-brother told me a far different story.”

“Hate the king? Oh, no! I love the king, and am no Jacobin, though I do
sell flowers, and in some sort belong to the market.”

“Love the king, and refuse to take his likeness, even when stamped on
gold, that is beyond belief.”

“It is not that; but you offer me too much. The flowers you have are
worth only a few sous. I will take that, but no more.”

“But if I insist upon it?”

“Dame Doudel would not permit me to accept gifts even from monsieur.”

“Dame Doudel! Oh! she sits in the market—I know her well. But what has
she to say in this matter? When Mirabeau sees a pretty girl, and she
pleases him with her merchandise, or her face, all the old women in
France shall not limit his generosity. Take the gold, child—take the
gold.”

Still Marguerite shook her head.

“I cannot take it, monsieur count. Dame Doudel is only a good, kind
woman, who loves me; but she would never let me receive alms and call it
selling.”

Mirabeau was looking earnestly at the girl’s changing face as she spoke.

“You were the girl I sent to the king that day, and a more lovely little
embassadress never was chosen.”

Marguerite blushed, but a bright smile flashed over her face.

“I was honored. It frightened me; but I was so grateful that you
permitted me to go.”

“There was another person grateful, I doubt not, and that person was the
queen, who dreaded something much worse, I will be sworn! I heard all
about it, and have never repented the choice we made, though there was
some fierce anger among the grand army of women at the time. You stood
in the way of more than one whose brazen ambition would have confronted
angels with satisfaction.”

“Yes, I know,” answered the girl, lifting her earnest eyes to the count,
and speaking with gentle confidence. “There was one in the market, this
morning, who reviled me before all the women, as if I had been to blame
in something.”

“Indeed! And who was it?”

“They called her Louison.”

“Louison Brisot?”

“Yes, that was the other name—a tall, handsome woman, with eyes like
fire.”

“Oh, yes! I recognize the description. So she dared to assail you. My
favor has driven the creature mad, or she would not have found the
courage to attack any one Mirabeau has exalted by his notice. This shall
not happen again, I will answer for that.”

“Oh! I am not afraid. It is only the sight of her face that can hurt
me.”

“Her face? Why it is bold enough, but one of the handsomest in Paris.”

“Oh, it is terrible!” cried the girl, shuddering. “If I could only
forget it.”

“Why, what can distress you so in Louison’s face? Surely, it has done
you no harm.”

“I saw her kill a man with her own hands, only because he was faithful
to the king.”

The poor girl trembled as she spoke; her sweet, young face grew cold and
white; and the eyes that she lifted to Mirabeau were full of the anguish
she could not speak.

“Louison Brisot has much to answer for, and she shall some day give a
strict account,” said Mirabeau, sternly; “but let her pass now—I have
something else to talk of. This man, was he your friend, and did he love
the king?”

“Better than his own life, or he would have joined the insurgents and
been saved,” answered the girl, promptly.

“And you? Remember, child, it is an unpopular, if not a dangerous thing,
to speak well of Louis, or his wife.”

“I know it—Mother Doudel has warned me; but I sometimes think it is
cowardice not to say the truth. My father suffered wrong from the old
king, but loves Louis and his queen well enough to die for them. In that
I am like my father.”

“You are a brave girl!” exclaimed Mirabeau, reaching forth his hand,
which took hers in a firm clasp. “I did not expect this. So you would
serve the king. Well, well, it may be that the chance will be given you.
If it should, what then? Would all this bright courage fail?”

“You ask this because I fainted that day at Versailles. I was so
young—so very, very young, and all that crowd of women terrified me.”

“But are you so much older now?”

“Yes; years on years. It is a long, weary time since then—every day a
year.”

“But can you be silent?”

“If silence will serve the king, I can be dumb.”

The pallor had left her face now, and it was kindled up with a generous
glow that spoke well for the courageous soul within.

“But if Dame Doudel should not approve?”

“In this I would not ask her; that which my father approves I will abide
by. His first lesson was duty to my God; his next, duty to my
sovereign—loyalty with him is sacred as religion.”

“Strange girl,” muttered the count, who gave that forced respect for
conscience and religion, which simple truth wrings even from infidels.
“Strange, brave girl!”

Perhaps the man was contrasting his own mixed, and, to a certain extent,
ignoble motives, with her pure heroism; for his eyes sunk abashed from
the earnest purpose kindling in hers, and he began to pick the flowers
to pieces which had just been fastened in his bosom.

“Don’t!” she said, with tender pathos in her voice. “Don’t! you will
hurt them!”

“Hurt them!” repeated the count; “hurt them! Would to heaven I had never
done worse things than that. But tell me where you live, in the old
place?”

Marguerite gave Dame Doudel’s address.

“I shall not come myself, perhaps, but you will hear from me. Remember,
my name should not be mentioned. No one must be informed that we have
met. If you wish to serve the king, it must be cautiously. Some friends
of his have need of a trusty messenger, who can pass in and out of the
palace unsuspected; you would not hesitate?”

“No.”

“But neither your mother nor Dame Doudel must know.”

“I will not tell them.”

“It may prove dangerous in the end.”

“I am not afraid of any danger that comes only to myself; but that which
I do must not harm Dame Doudel or my mother.”

“Of course. It is for their safety that they should know nothing.”

“Then, if danger comes, it will only reach me.”

“Be cautious, and there is no danger.”

“It is hardly worth while to be cautious for myself, so few people would
miss me if I were to die before night; there is my father—and one
other.”

“And who is this one?”

“I had better not tell—he might not like it.”

“_He!_ Well, I must not ask. But perhaps Jacques could tell me.”

“Monsieur Jacques, no, no. He seldom comes near us now.”

Marguerite did not see the smile that passed over that mouth, or the
laughter that sparkled in the eyes that Mirabeau bent upon her. Her mind
had gone back tenderly to the prisoner of the Bastille, and she wondered
in her heart what he would do if any harm should take her away from him.

“Oh, yes!” she murmured; “there is good reason that I should be
careful.”

“The best reason in the world,” answered Mirabeau; “for, without
caution, you can do nothing for our friends at St. Cloud—with it, a
great deal.”

“Then you also are friendly to the king?”

Mirabeau looked into the girl’s face with a strange, puzzled expression
in his own. The simple truth that he read there was enough. One element
of this man’s power lay in his almost intuitive knowledge of character,
and in the prompt selfishness with which he seized upon the talent and
labors of other men, adapting them to his own genius so completely that
even to himself he seemed to make them entirely his own. The firm
resolution which lay in her heart was made known to the man. As a
gentle, truthful girl, he would not have trusted her, but he saw more
than that, and spoke out frankly.

“Yes, my girl, I _am_ friendly to the king. I am so friendly to this
great nation, too, that the one grand aim of my life shall be to bring
the people and the court into harmony.”

“Oh! if you could! If you only could!” cried the girl. “It is the work
of an angel you undertake.”

“That is why Mirabeau seeks an angel to help him,” he said, bending his
head toward the flower girl, as if she had been a duchess.

“Do not mock me, monsieur. I am only a poor girl, with so few to care
for in the world, that I can afford to take a little danger on myself.
When you want me, I shall not stand back.”

“I am sure of that, and say, good morning! knowing that I have one true
friend more.”

As Mirabeau said this, he lifted his hat with a courteous bend of the
head, and swept down the street, forgetting to pay the sous which
Marguerite had named as a fair price for her flowers. In this one act
the nature of that little, great and most wonderful man, betrayed
itself. He was ready to toss away gold for a tuft of flowers, but forgot
entirely the trifling sum which was their just value. Prodigality has
always a germ of meanness lying at the core. All this time Louison
Brisot had been watching them.




                            CHAPTER LXXXVI.
                           ANOTHER CUSTOMER.


“Will you sell me a flower?”

Marguerite started, with a thrill of surprise. “Was it Count Mirabeau
come back with the money he had forgotten? Or was it—”

The girl lifted her eyes to the face of her questioner. It was the man
who had twice told her of his love in the ruins of the Bastille—who had
helped her wreathe those pretty garlands in her attic-room, which, since
that day, had been the brightest corner in Paradise to her.

“Will I sell flowers to you?” she faltered, blushing brightly as her own
roses. “Yes! No! Pray help yourself! Dame Doudel would be angry if I
took money.”

“And I should hardly know how to give it—so we will arrange that with
the good dame. Only you must make up my little bouquet with your own
hands.”

Marguerite slid the handle of the basket back on her arm, and went to
work robbing different bouquets of their choicest flowers.

“Dear me! how my hands shake, the basket is so heavy,” she said.

“Let me hold the basket.”

“What, you? Well, there, hold it, I will not be long; but my hands have
got such a trick of trembling.”

With an amused smile St. Just watched those fluttering hands as the girl
plucked the most fragrant flowers from her store, robbing her prettiest
merchandise for his sake.

“The dew is all off them,” she said, regretfully. “If I had only known
this morning; but the jasmines are all gone; and I had some lovely white
roses, pink at the heart, as if a red rose had left its shadow there;
but I put the last into Monsieur Mirabeau’s bouquet.”

“Who? What name was that?”

“Monsieur la Count Mirabeau!”

“And you know _him_?”

“Know him? Oh, yes! It was the count who would have me go before the
king and queen.”

“And you gave him flowers to-day?”

“Gave? Well, I suppose so, for he forgot to pay my poor little sous.”

The young man laughed.

“Yes, yes; there is no doubt of its being Mirabeau. He usually does
forget to pay!”

“But he meant to. Only I would not take the Louis d’or he offered, for
that was worth more than I had in my basket.”

“So he offered you a Louis d’or; the last he had, I dare say. Oh, yes!
it was sure to be Mirabeau; there was no necessity of telling his name.
So he ran away with your flowers, thinking his pretty speeches payment
enough. Oh! you blush. May I ask——But no, that would not be quite fair.”

Marguerite stood before him, downcast and blushing with the unfinished
bouquet in her hands.

“You seem to know citoyen Mirabeau better than I thought of,” said the
young man, so coldly that the girl looked up with a guilty and startled
expression in her eyes.

“But I know him so little,” faltered the poor girl, thinking guiltily of
the conversation she had just held.

Still the young man fixed his eyes on Marguerite’s face, where it was
not difficult to read the restless secret which disturbed her. He saw
those frank blue eyes sink under his scrutiny. In order to hide her
embarrassment, she searched with both hands among the flowers.

“Oh! here is one left. See! it blushes clear through the heart.”

“Yes, I see it blushes,” said the young man, coldly.

Marguerite twisted a bit of grass around the little tuft of blossoms she
had arranged, and held it up timidly.

“Does it please you?” she said, with a glance of lovelight breaking
through all her timidity.

No one on earth could have resisted that look. Before he was aware of
it, this young man had the blossoms in his hand, and was smiling down
upon the sweet face, turned with such childlike appeal to his.

“I think you are good and honest,” he said, speaking his thoughts aloud.

“_You_ should not doubt me,” answered the girl, drawing herself up with
the grace and dignity of a queen.

“I never do—I never will,” he answered, fixing his deep earnest eyes
upon her.

She smiled, and took her basket from his hands.

“Now I must be going. Good-day.”

The young man was hiding her little bouquet in the snowy frill on his
bosom, taking from there a tuft of dead blossoms, which had been
concealed next his heart.

“See, I have not parted with this,” he said, blushing almost as rosily
as the girl had done. “Even now I do not like to throw it away.”

“Oh! do not throw it down—that is, people might trample on it, you
know.”

Marguerite, unconscious of the action, held out her basket, and the
young man laid his tuft of dead flowers among its blossoming contents.
She looked into his face with a sweet, grateful smile, and buried the
treasure he had given her deep down in her basket, for those poor dead
blossoms had spent their breath on _his_ bosom, and were more dear to
her than a whole wilderness of breathing roses.

They parted then. The young man moved away in one direction, sighing
dreamily as the fragrance of those flowers stole up from his bosom, and
the girl wandered off into elysium, feeling as if every step she planted
on the pavement sunk into the mosses of fairy-land, and wondering in her
happiness why all the faces she saw looked so haggard and careworn.
Could they not comprehend that _he_ had cared enough for her flowers to
let them perish on his heart?

Louison saw Mirabeau when he paused to speak with Marguerite, and
watched him with a glitter of hate in her eyes, as he placed the little
bouquet in his bosom. There was something in his air and manner that
enraged her more than an insult would have done. She could understand
the homage which even a bad man unconsciously pays to entire innocence,
and felt with bitterness that it could never, on this earth, be hers. In
every way this young creature had thwarted and disappointed her. When
she struggled, with fierce ambition, for a place on the committee of
women, sent before the king that memorable day at Versailles, this girl
had been selected in her place by Mirabeau himself. This was her first
accusation against him. But he had neither feared her anger or cared to
appease her reproaches; on the contrary, treated both with careless
laughter and annihilating contempt.

While the count tolerated, in any degree, Louison’s ambition or
caprices, she put up with this, and smothered the resentment smouldering
in her bad heart, for she knew well enough that all the power she had,
and more that was adroitly, simulated, sprang entirely from the favor of
this man, whose popularity with the people was unparalleled. But of
late, even this frail hold had begun to slacken. While swerving warily
round from intense radicalism to a limited monarchy, he had made few
confidants, and among them Louison found herself completely ignored. But
what he refrained from telling her, she had in many underhanded ways
discovered for herself, and was weaving all her threads of information
together, in hopes of meshing this lion in her own net.

This girl _was_ in the Bastille, and _not_ of the people. Some one among
the men who fell that day was near to her, I can swear! Did I not see
her wring her hands and cry out when that guard fell, headlong, from the
tower? I wish it were possible to get at the man’s name, then I might
trace her; but old Doudel would lie her through anything, and swear that
she was her own child, if one attempted to find her out. There is no use
in quarreling with these market women, they cling together like bees of
one hive. Why this morning they almost hooted me from the market—me,
whom they would flock around, open-mouthed, when I came to them as a
messenger from Mirabeau. When I denounced that girl, they protected her.
Why? That scene in the street answers one.

Louison went home with bitter jealousy in her heart that swept aside her
wonderful patience. Mirabeau had avoided her pointedly of late. She
would endure this no longer. Women of every grade and class were
preferred to her, from the queen, whom it was rank treason to know, down
to the fallen Du Berry; every one, any one, could claim consideration
from Mirabeau rather than herself. Yes, yes, but she was not quite
ready. Some tangible proof of Mirabeau’s treason to his party must be
obtained before she might dare accuse him, even to his enemies.

For days and nights Louison kept herself in-doors, brooding over these
thoughts, afraid to trust herself at her usual haunts, lest she should
again betray her cause, as she had done in the market-place. At last
this restraint became irksome. Louison was a person who craved
excitement of some kind so keenly that it was necessary to her life.




                            CHAPTER LXXXVII.
                           THE SEALED LETTER.


One day just as Louison was about to break loose from her self-imposed
solitude, Zamara, the dwarf, crept into her lodgings, and placed a
letter in her hand. She knew the handwriting, and questioned the dwarf
sharply.

“I was told to watch for a flower girl who goes to Dame Doudel’s stall
every morning for her flowers,” the little wretch said in reply to her
eager questions.

“So, so! He is writing to her! He finds something in that milk-and-water
face to admire. I thought his choice was something more than a wish to
satisfy these clamorous fish women who call themselves wives and
mothers, as if there lay some great merit in being one or the other.
Bah! how I hate their pretensions! But when it comes to that strength is
every thing in these days, and the market women are strong.”

Thus the woman reflected as she held the unopened letter in her hand.
Zamara stood apart, regarding her earnestly. He had brought the letter
from craven fear of the woman who had threatened him, and was anxious to
propitiate her further, if the occasion presented itself.

“Is madam in doubt how to open it safely? Zamara can tell her; he
learned that art at the Grand Trianon, years ago. It gave him many
secrets worth knowing.”

Louison started out of her angry thought, and tossed the letter toward
him.

“Open it, then, and see that those impish hands leave no mark. It may be
that the girl will get her letter.”

Zamara went to the window, turned his back on Louison, and in a minute
came forward with the letter open in his hand. It contained an
inclosure, carefully sealed, and addressed, to “Her Royal Highness, the
Queen.”

Again Louison recognized Mirabeau’s handwriting, and the hot blood
rushed in torrents to her face.

“It is the dagger that shall pierce his traitor heart,” cried the woman,
fiercely. “Open this! Open this, carefully! The wax that bears his arms,
the aristocrat, must not be broken. Ha, ha! I have him now!”

Louison reached forth her hand as she spoke, clutching and unclutching
her fingers like a bird of prey, eager for his food.

“There it is, without a scratch of the seal, or a break in the paper,”
said the dwarf, fawning upon her. “Nothing is easier than to fasten it
again.”

Louison did not hear him; she was searching the contents of that letter
too keenly for any thought beyond it. Four closely-written pages were
devoured by her eyes, which flashed and burned beneath the lashes that
drooped over them as she read. Once, twice, three times she went over
each line, reading more carefully at the last. Then she began a fourth
perusal, but paused in the midst, holding the paper firmly, and biting
her lips till they burned blood-red under her white teeth.

“What can I do,” she muttered, “to make the evidence complete? That
Austrian woman must have the letter, and answer it.”

“That can be done,” said Zamara, softly, for he entered into the evil
spirit of the woman with the keen zest of a rogue who had been long out
of practice.

“But how?”

“Let the pretty demoiselle carry a letter, not that, but something so
like it that no one will ever guess it is not the same.”

“But who can make anything like it?”

“I can, madame—give me pen, and paper like that. Why, lady, before now,
Zamara has affixed the king’s name to a _lettre-de-cachet_ when his
mistress had an enemy that she did not care to trouble old Louis about.
She always kept plenty of blanks in her escritoir, and Zamara has a
swift, steady hand. Will you trust him with the letter?”

“Not to take from the house—I will not let it go out of my sight.”

“Of course not; Zamara never expected that. Madame may sit by while he
does his work.”

“If you can—— Well, well, begin.”

Louison laid pens and paper before the dwarf, and drawing her chair to
the table where he placed himself, watched his dusky little hand as he
spread the original letter before him and proceeded to duplicate it,
smiling to himself as he watched her astonishment with sidelong glances
now and then, while helping himself to ink.

“You see, my lady, the countess could trust no one but Zamara. Even at
the height of her fortune she needed some person who had the learning
and knowledge which she lacked terribly; for ignorance, you know,
madame, comes with low birth.”

Zamara stopped suddenly, for a hot red flashed over Louison’s face; and
the dwarf remembered that her origin was quite as low as that of Madame
Du Berry; but he recovered himself instantly.

“It is not often that a woman who rises has the genius to lift her mind
with her good fortune. When that happens, it is always because she keeps
with the people, disdaining to fritter her greatness away among
aristocrats, who laugh at her always when they dare. This was the case
with my lady, the countess, who depended only on her beauty and the old
king’s favor.”

“And now,” said Louison, with a sneer, “both the old king and her
beauty, if she ever had any, which I do not believe, are dead and gone.”

“Dead and gone,” repeated Zamara, shaking his head. “It is only genius
that lives.”

The little wretch made a low bow, with one hand upon his heart as he
spoke, and Louison fairly blushed with pleasure, for such flattery was
both new and delightful to her, even from that miserable dwarf.

“Now go on with this work,” she said, smiling broadly in return for his
grimaces. “I am impatient to see it done.”

Zamara took up the pen again and applied himself to his task with
avidity. It was a long time since his natural talent for evil had been
called into action, and he enjoyed this new indulgence with wonderful
zest.

Louison watched his little withered hand as it crept, like a mouse,
across the paper, and congratulated herself warmly on the good fortune
that had cast this strange creature in her way. At last the letter was
finished, and Zamara laid it side by side with the original. Louison
examined it with an exclamation of pleasure. It seemed to her impossible
that Mirabeau himself could detect the forgery.

“But the seal,” she said. “How are we to obtain that?”

Zamara smiled, his craft was equal to everything; and he had only waited
for Louison to discover this difficulty that he might be prompt to meet
it.

“Wait a moment,” he said; “it is easily done.”

The dwarf seized his hat and disappeared. Directly he came back with a
roll of wax and some white plaster of Paris in a paper, out of which he
mixed a paste, and impressed the seal upon it, thus forming a mould from
which duplicates might be taken. No artist ever handled his clay with
more dexterity than this little traitor accomplished his work. In half
an hour two missives bearing Mirabeau’s writing and seal, so nearly
alike that nothing but an expert could have distinguished them, lay side
by side on Louison Brisot’s table. True, the seal which Zamara had
duplicated was somewhat blurred, while the other had a clear impression;
but no one acquainted with Mirabeau’s habits would have wondered at
this; in fact, a neatly arranged letter was scarcely to be expected of
him. He had been especially dainty about this as Marie Antoinette was
the only woman in France whom he was doubtful of pleasing.

“Now,” said Louison, delighted by all her fellow conspirator had done,
“we keep back this letter, written by Mirabeau’s own hand, while the
other goes to the queen by his agent. The Austrian will suspect
nothing—who could? She will answer him. That answer once in my hands,
and I hold that audacious traitor, and all his party, in my power. This
service you have rendered me: I shall not forget it.”

“Madame may be sure of Zamara’s good faith.”

“I _am_ sure,” answered the woman, with haughty self-reliance; “but our
first object is this letter. How are we to make it certain that the
queen’s answer will reach us first?”

“Trust me; this girl is told that I am faithful and true to the queen.
She will go first to the stout landlady at Versailles, who has charge of
her majesty’s dairy at _la petite Trianon_. I learned this much about
her movements, and know that the woman can at any time gain access to
the lady in waiting, and through her to the queen. Thus Mirabeau’s
messenger will penetrate to her majesty unsuspected; and is deemed the
safest bearer of a correspondence, fearfully dangerous both to Mirabeau
and the queen.”

“This will ensure the delivery of his letter to the queen; but how will
the answer reach me?”

“Zamara will bring it to you if he lives.”

“I think you will,” Louison said. “At any rate, I have no better means
of securing it. Now go at once, and good speed.”

Zamara left the house carrying the forged letter in his bosom. He went
directly to the domicil of Dame Doudel, and found Marguerite keeping
house, busy among her flowers. Without a word he gave her the package.
She turned very white at the first glance, and cast a frightened look at
Zamara, astonished and repulsed by his strange appearance.

“Who are you?” she asked, holding the package in her hand. “Who are you,
and what is this?”

“I am Count Mirabeau’s messenger, and know where the package is going.
He trusts me as he trusts you. We are all friends of the same
illustrious person.”

Marguerite turned whiter than before. The dwarf seemed like an evil
spirit forced into perilous association with herself. She answered
nothing, but hid the package away among the folds of her dress, after
reading the portion intended for herself.

“When will you be ready to start?” inquired the dwarf.

The girl hesitated; some intuition keener than any process of the mind,
possessed her. She shrunk from this strange creature as if some reptile
had crept in among her flowers.

“That depends——Tell the Count that I will redeem my promise.”

A crafty smile crossed the dark face of the dwarf. He saw that the girl
was not disposed to confide in him.

“I asked,” he said quietly, “because the count will trust no one but
myself to come here for the reply. He is not willing to seek it
himself.”

“No, no! He must not do that.”

“And it is impossible that mademoiselle should go to the Chaussée d’
Antin.”

“Impossible! Oh, yes, quite impossible!”

“So you understand the count was wise in making so insignificant a
person as I am his messenger.”

Marguerite answered only with a troubled smile.

Zamara was puzzled how to continue a conversation that was so entirely
on one side. By listening industriously when Mirabeau was with his
mistress, he had learned the arrangements made between them, by which a
safe correspondence might be kept up with the court; but he could obtain
no information from this gentle girl; all his craft was lost upon her
innocence. He lingered awhile in the room; but Marguerite had taken up
her flowers, and was too deep in her fragrant work for any thought of
him, save that his presence was annoying her. So he took himself off a
good deal discomfited, while the poor girl sat trembling among her
flowers, full of apprehensions because this strange creature had
possession of her secret.




                           CHAPTER LXXXVIII.
                  DAME TILLERY PROCLAIMS HER HEIRESS.


Scarcely had the dwarf been gone an hour, when a loud voice was heard in
the passage. The door of her little room swung open, and Dame Tillery,
landlady of The Swan, came sailing into the room like a ponderous,
full-rigged Dutch vessel making port with all her canvas up.

“Marguerite, my child, I am glad to see you; get up and embrace me,
little one. Oh! that is delicious!”

Marguerite started from her seat, scattering all the blossoms from her
lap, and embraced the dame with such affection that the word “delicious”
was repeated over and over again.

“Have you come for me, my friend, as your letter promised?”

“Come for you? Of course, I have! What else could have brought me to
Paris? Are not all my duties at Versailles? There is enough of them, let
me tell you, since her majesty has enrolled me among her ladies of
honor.”

“Her ladies of honor? I did not know——”

“Yes, yes, I understand. There was no place at the palace exactly; but
the queen is a woman, and grateful. I had saved her life—what could she
do? The Duchess de Polignac held on to her place though she has gone
abroad like a coward. No woman of the people had been given a position
at court, which was a great mistake, but true, nevertheless. I said
position, little one, and you will observe that my language generally
has improved since I became one of her majesty’s ladies, to say nothing
of my appearance and manner of dressing.”

“I see that you are splendid!” said Marguerite glancing at the gay
dress, which made the stout woman look doubly ponderous.

“Ah! this is nothing, little one. Your own eyes saw me that day when I
went to court, after the one great act of my life, when with my own
hands I held an infuriated beast by the horns, and flung him to the
earth just as it was plunging upon her majesty, and about to gore her
with two horns curving so, and sharp as swords. You have heard the
story, I dare say?”

Now as Marguerite had been present and heard the thing magnified at
least fifty times from Dame Tillery’s own lips, the question seemed a
little superfluous. But she answered “Yes, yes, every one who knows you
has heard of that.”

“But not of my presentation at court the day after you saw her
majesty—that was the crowning glory of my life. You should have seen the
queen standing there among her ladies, longing in her heart to embrace
me, which she would have done, no doubt, but we were out of doors, in
the royal park—a special grace, understand. So I went up to her myself,
and would have knelt, which was my duty, only I was a little troubled
about getting up again, and so made a curtsy instead. At which all the
court smiled approval, and looked at each other in amazement, as if a
woman of the people was not expected to be polite.

“Even the queen smiled, feeling my triumph, I dare say, as if I had been
an arch duchess, and her own sister. That was a glorious day; something
to remember, and to be remembered by my grandchildren. Only there is an
impediment—never having had any children of my own is a drawback when
one thinks of grandchildren. This depresses me sometimes; but then I
think of sister Doudel and you, and feel sure that all will come right.
I shall propose to my sister that you take the name of Tillery, and
carry me down to future ages. This is what brings me to Paris now. I
mean to make you my heiress, Marguerite. You shall inherit The Swan from
roof to cellar, my place at court, the dress that I wore—everything. In
fact, I mean to make a lady of you.”

“And will you do one thing?”

“My child, I will do everything.”

“Will you take me to St. Cloud?”

“Will I? Of course.”

“Very soon?”

“The moment I get home. Twice each week I send butter for her majesty’s
own table from the dairy at _la petite Trianon_, for that was the
department the queen gave me when Polignac persisted in remaining first
lady of honor. Blind as a bat; had she given me her place, all the women
of France would have felt it as a compliment to themselves, and drawn
nearer to the court, if it were only for my sake.”

“Do you think so?” inquired Marguerite, innocently, for the order of
things had been so deranged in France, and she had heard so much about
the power of the people, that Dame Tillery’s grand boast made a profound
impression upon her.

“Do I think so? Of course, I do. What is it makes the women down yonder
think so much of you? Why, it is because our friend Mirabeau sent you up
with that committee of women. How much greater the effect would have
been had the queen chosen me for a place near her majesty’s person. Why,
child, look at me! I could make three of you any day, and hold my own
with the balance. Just observe this for a presence.”

Here Dame Tillery shook out her dress and sailed across the room,
exhibiting a person that would, indeed, have outweighed four of the
slender girl who looked on.

“You see,” said the self-satisfied dame, returning to her old position,
“you see what a chance has been lost. This Duchess de Polignac would
keep her place, and their majesties let her selfishness have its way.
Then what does she do? When the king and queen get more and more
unpopular; when all their friends should have stood by them like rocks,
this Polignac emigrates, flies from the palace like a thief; while all
France finds me at my post, making the best butter in the world for the
royal table, as if nothing had happened. There is the difference, little
one, between loyalty and that make-believe thing, which drove Polignac
into a foreign land.”

“I know that you are true to the queen,” said Marguerite, greatly
impressed, yet somewhat amazed by Dame Tillery’s pretension. “Sometimes
I fancy Mother Doudel does not think the less of you for that.”

“Perhaps not. I think, at heart, my sister is loyal. Only she does not
know the queen as I do. How should she, not being a member of the
household? But you and I, little one, understand each other, we have
stood side by side at court. Now tell me what it is you wish to see her
majesty about.”

Marguerite blushed and looked a little startled. She had promised to
keep her mission a profound secret—and with this pure girl all pledges
were sacred.

“I love the queen.”

“That is enough!” exclaimed the dame, waving her fat hand; “that is
enough. I ask no more. I shall say this pretty girl is my adopted
daughter, and will, sometime, be heiress of The Swan—she was with me,
your majesty will remember, on that glorious day when I saved your
majesty’s life. Receive her well for my sake. It will be done.”

“But I shall ask for nothing. The only favor I want is an opportunity to
serve the king, and die for him, if that will do him good.”

“But it wont. Running away and dying isn’t likely to help either the
king or queen. It wants brains, brains for that.”

Here Dame Tillery tapped her forehead with one finger, and nodded
significantly.

“All you want is a guide, and one is always at hand.”

Marguerite drew a deep breath, and uttered a silent thanksgiving that
her way to the queen promised to be made so smooth.

Having thus given vent to the self-importance that consumed her, Dame
Tillery took off her outer garments, and, seating herself in the cosiest
chair the little room contained, watched the young girl.

Then Dame Doudel came in from the market, light, sharp, and active as a
bird. She saw the landlady of The Swan leaning back in her chair, flew
towards her, and in an instant was buried in her bosom.

“Sister, my dear, dear sister!”

At first the good landlady forgot her dignity, and gave her sister a
hearty embrace; but remembering herself, she put the little woman gently
away.

“Dame Doudel, I love you dearly; but you are a Jacobin.”

“Sister Tillery, you are a royalist.”

“Yes, heart, soul, and body; but one of the people, too.”

“Carrying water on both shoulders is dangerous in these days,” answered
Dame Doudel, sharply.

“It is just that which will yet unite the people with their king. These
cries of fraternity, equality, liberty, are an insult to us of the
court.”

“But the court itself must adopt them before the people will be
satisfied, I can tell you that.”

“Dame Tillery—Dame Doudel, why are you talking so sharply? This has
never happened before. It makes my heart sore to hear you. Forgive me, I
cannot help speaking.”

Both women turned from the heat of their dispute and looked kindly on
that girl, who sat like a troubled angel amid her flowers, regarding
them with tears in her eyes.

“Why should dissension have crept in here?” she said, gently. “We all
love each other.”

“True!” said Doudel, reaching forth her hand.

“True!” answered Tillery, forgetting her dignity, in an honest burst of
affection, in which the smaller woman was gathered up in a cordial
embrace. “We both love the people!”

“And the royal family. Our blessed Lady give them wisdom!” said Doudel,
yielding a little on her part. “Heaven forbid that their enemies should
increase!”

Marguerite arose, wiped her eyes, and kissing them both with angelic
fervor, went away, leaving the sisters together. They were not so far
apart, after all. The very last persons who gave up their love for the
king were the _Dames de la Halle_, to whom Doudel belonged.

“Think what it would be if this child should prove a bond of union
between the people and the court,” said Doudel, after the two had
conversed together half an hour. “The dames have great faith in her
since she came home with the king’s kiss upon her forehead. She has the
wish to serve her country. Keep her in it, for you can. Shall I tell you
a name—the name of a person who has seen her more than once in this very
room. Bend your head.”

Dame Tillery bent her head, and Doudel whispered a name in her ear.

“A stern Jacobin,” said the landlady, shaking her head in disapproval.
“Altogether given up to those false doctrines which threaten to drag
down the throne of France. But does he know who she is?”

“Yes; she told him herself. Sister, I have an idea that he loves our
little girl.”

“Then it is high time that I take her away. She must have nothing in
common with these agitators.”

“Not even if it were Count Mirabeau?”

“Count Mirabeau!”

“He came into the assembly one day, with a flower she gave him from her
basket in his bosom.”

“And flung it away afterwards, as he would put her aside in a week.
Sister, I know Mirabeau. When the States-General assembled at
Versailles, he staid at The Swan. I liked him then, but afterwards, when
I took my place at court—not that I wish to boast, sister—it came to me
that her majesty, the queen, hated this man, and would not endure him in
her sight. So, if you hope for any preferment for our child, keep aloof
from Mirabeau.”

“The poor child wants no preferment. We can take care of her, Madame
Gosner and myself. She is given up to France, I look to the girl. I have
not set in the market so many years for nothing; and you have no
children.”

“That is true—that is true! But this Mirabeau is a dangerous man. The
girl is safer with me just now.”

“But you will let her come back again?”

“Will I? Of course, sister. Exaltation, you will find, has not hardened
my heart. But just now you must not stand in the way of her
advancement.”

With these sisterly feelings and amiable words the two women decided
that Marguerite should go to Versailles for a time; thus unconsciously
aiding in the important mission with which she was charged.




                            CHAPTER LXXXIX.
                      MARGUERITE SEEKS THE QUEEN.


Slowly and sadly Marie Antoinette walked up and down one of the most
secluded avenues in the Park at St. Cloud. Not yet forty years of age,
in fact, lacking some years of that, she was beginning to look worn and
anxious. The brightness of her smile was gone, and in its place came a
mournful tremor of the lips, which sometimes betrayed a stern
resolution, not always just, and seldom wise, which sometimes locked her
sweet mouth as with iron. With all the ability of Maria Theresa, her
august mother, she had neither the experience, the cool patience, or
indomitable perseverance of that great and most womanly sovereign.

Born to the imperial purple, the empress grew up with a notion which she
understood, and anchored her power in the love of her people; but Marie
Antoinette, from first to last, was a stranger in France, and for many
years almost a stranger to her own husband. Scarcely had this woman
begun to find happiness in her domestic life, when the shock of a great
moral earthquake, which vibrated from its center in France over the
whole world, begun to make the earth tremble under her feet. For this
woman there never had been an hour of absolute peace. As a wife, she had
for years been subjected to deep and bitter humiliation; and her first
maternal joy was dashed with a terrible disappointment. The heir which
she gave to France was distorted and imperfect as her own happiness had
been. Alas! in everything which fills the measure of a mother’s pride,
and a queen’s ambition, she had met such sharp disappointment as wrings
the heart of a true woman—and this Marie Antoinette undoubtedly was.

The queen walked alone, as I have said, so weary, and broken-hearted
that, for the moment, she longed to lay down her burden and die. The
crown, which her husband had inherited, was so full of thorns that her
head was wounded by them. In the throes of a great national convulsion,
the very friends for whom she had sacrificed so much, had crept from her
one after another, like frightened animals from a burning mansion; and
in that regal old palace she found herself more lonely than the meanest
woman who clamored for bread in the streets of Paris.

The queen thought of these things as she moved along. Being alone, and
only human, her eyes filled with bitter tears. She came in sight of the
temple, in which Count Mirabeau had sought an interview, which was of
momentous importance to her; but it seemed as if even there she had
sacrificed her pride for nothing. Either this man had no power to help
his struggling king, or he was inert in using it. It seemed to her that
no one in France was active but the men and women who most hated their
king.

“Madame, your highness!”

The voice that uttered these words was sweet and timid, like that of a
child pleading.

“Lady—your highness, I mean!”

Marie Antoinette wiped the tears from her eyes, and walked on a step or
two, afraid to turn her head lest some inferior might see her weeping,
and report her weakness to those who hated her. But the voice went to
her heart, and after a struggle she turned.

A young girl stood before her, blushing, panting for breath, and with
her head bowed down as a beautiful devotee might bend before a picture
of the Virgin.

“Is there some mistake, or did you wish to speak with me?” said the
queen, gently.

“I—I came on purpose. I promised to give that which I carry in my bosom
only to the queen.”

“That which you carry in your bosom! Are you a messenger, then? Are you
from Paris?”

“Your highness, I came from Paris three days ago. One day I was on the
route to Versailles; another I took for rest; and this morning I came
here with Dame Tillery.”

A faint smile crept over the queen’s face.

“Dame Tillery is your companion, then—a kinder could not be found; but
you have something more than she knows of to say, I trust?”

“Oh, yes! I have a letter!”

“A letter! From whom?”

“Your highness, it is from Count Mirabeau.”

“From Mirabeau! Hush! Speak lower. Even here spies creep in. Surely, the
stout old dame whom you speak of knows nothing of this?”

“Your highness, the letter was intrusted to me. I told no one.”

“That was wise—that is truly loyal. Turn down this path and follow me.”

Marie Antoinette turned into the path which led to the summer temple,
where she had met Mirabeau, and hurrying up the eminence, entered the
building. Marguerite followed her into the little retreat, and, looking
around to make sure that no one was watching them the queen closed the
door and locked it.

“Now,” she said, in nervous haste, “give me Count Mirabeau’s letter.”

Marguerite took the letter from her bosom, and dropping upon her knees,
held it up.

It was a heavy package, containing two or three sheets of
closely-written paper. The queen attempted to control herself, but
constant anxiety had shaken her nerves, and she sat down on a low couch,
which circled half the temple like a Turkish divan. She broke the seal
in trembling haste, for she had heard nothing of her new ally for weeks,
and, giving way to her old prejudices, had begun to distrust him.

Marguerite leaned against the opposite wall, and watched the queen as
she bent over the closely-written sheets. Once or twice she saw that
face in all the rare beauty, which humiliation and constant dread had
failed to kill. Bright smiles kindled it into youth again, and for a
moment, it was exultant; but most of the time anxious frowns swept the
white forehead, and the red lips worked in an agony of proud impatience.
She read the letter twice. Once, hurriedly snatching the pith from each
sentence, and again with grave thoughtfulness. At last she folded the
paper, and grasped it between her fingers with nervous violence. It was
hard to guess whether it had given her most pain or pleasure. She seemed
to have forgotten that Marguerite was looking at her, but murmured whole
sentences together, as if arranging them in her memory.

“A grand federation in Paris. So they wish us—us to join the people in a
carousal over the downfall of the great stronghold of the monarchy. He
advises it. This man, who claims to be ours at heart, advises me to urge
this new humiliation on the king. Is this friendship, or subtile
treason?”

She unfolded the letter again, and read a portion of it with evident
repulsion. “This assembly will draw many people from the provinces,
whose loyalty will be enkindled to enthusiasm by a sight of the king and
his family joining in a celebration, which may yet be made to win him a
triumph over his enemies. Do not be surprised when you hear that
Mirabeau has gone into this idea with all his heart. There may be danger
in it; but leave that to him, and out of these threatening elements
shall be moulded a new foundation to the throne of France. Take the
advice of one who knows the people; show yourself and your children at
the——”

Here the excited woman broke off, and crushed the paper in her hand with
passionate vehemence.

“Never! Never!” she cried. “How dare this man advise me so? Are we to
grovel on our knees in order to keep the shadow of power they have left
to us. Great heaven! has it come to this?”

The haughty woman flung herself forward on the divan, and writhed in her
tortured pride, feeling in her soul that she would be compelled to
accept the advice her whole nature revolted at. Then she began to sob,
and, covering her face with both hands, wept and moaned in piteous
distress.

Marguerite stood watching her, filled with gentle compassion. She saw
that the poor queen wept like any other woman, and wondered at it. Then
her timidity gave way to the flood of pity that swelled her heart, and,
drawing close to the divan, she fell upon her knees, and touched her
trembling lips to the white hand, which still grasped the paper, as if
it were strangling a serpent.

“Oh, lady! sweet, sweet lady, do not cry so! It breaks my heart.”

Marie Antoinette had been too cruelly wounded in her troubles not to
feel the genuine sympathy conveyed in these words. She lifted her face,
all flushed and bathed with tears, and let it fall on the girl’s
shoulder. It was sweet to know that some one, pure and good as an angel,
could feel for her. So, in her womanhood, she forgot all sovereignty,
and clung to the girl, still weeping.

“Who are you?” she said, at length, looking wistfully at the fair, young
face. “Oh, I remember.”

“Only a poor girl, who loves you, and would die for you. Oh, madame! if
a drop of my best blood could fall for each of those tears, you should
never weep again.”

Marie Antoinette smiled through her tears.

“They try to persuade us that we have no friends among the people,” she
said. “Yet aid and comfort comes to me through a young creature like
this. But how came Count Mirabeau to trust you?”

“He knew that I was to be trusted.”

“Do you know this man well?”

“No, madame. I scarcely know him at all; but he trusts me. It was Count
Mirabeau who chose me from among so many to speak for the women before
the king that day at Versailles.”

“Ah! now I comprehend the whole. Poor girl, poor girl! Your father in
prison—alas! alas! how much we have permitted you to suffer. How much
you have forgiven!”

“We have suffered, your highness, but there was nothing to forgive.”

“The same sweet voice, the same honest face. I will accept both as a
good omen. I see now, you came with Dame Tillery and so escaped
suspicion. Does the dame know that you are with me?”

The queen asked this question with some anxiety; for her faith in Dame
Tillery’s discretion was small indeed.

“No, lady; it was not my secret to tell.”

“Brave girl!”

“The Count wanted a messenger who would be safe and silent. He asked me
to come and place that in the hands of our queen. I had nothing else to
think of, and thanked our blessed Lady that even in that little I might
do some service to my sovereign.”

“A great service, child—a great service; more than you dream of.”

Marguerite’s face brightened.

“I wish it had been less easy,” she said, with gentle humility.

“Nay, but I am glad that your coming was without suspicion or danger.”

“But I should like the danger; then it would seem as if I had done
something.”

The queen sighed and answered with a faint wave of her hand; then her
thoughts seemed to turn to the letter.

The cloud of trouble swept over her face again, and she fell into
thought, not wild and passionate, as at first, but heavy and harassing
doubts, doubled the traces of age on her face. At last she arose with a
weary air, and prepared to leave the temple. In her deep preoccupation
she forgot Marguerite and going through the door, closed it on the girl.

Marguerite, neither spoke nor moved, but stood patiently waiting. She
heard the queen pass swiftly around the temple, then all was still
again. Was she really left there without directions? What was she to do,
how act? Her heart slowly filled with misgiving, she was almost afraid.

“She will come back. In her trouble she forgot.”

With these thoughts the girl seated herself on the divan, folded her
hands, and waited, trembling a little as the utter loneliness crept over
her. She had been seated thus, perhaps, ten minutes, when quick
footsteps came around the temple again, and she had scarcely time to
start to her feet, when the door was pushed open, and Marie Antoinette
stood on the threshold.

“Ah! you have waited—that was right. Sit down and rest awhile until I
come back again; it may be an hour, perhaps two—but wait.”

With these words the queen disappeared as swiftly as she had done
before.




                              CHAPTER XC.
                     A BITTER HUMILIATION ACCEPTED.


Marie Antoinette walked rapidly toward the chateau, revolving the
subject of Mirabeau’s letter in her mind. The advice he gave was bitter
as wormwood to her; and had she stood first in power, it would have been
trampled under her feet. But now she felt that all its gall would be
forced upon her. In his fear of bloodshed, Louis was sometimes almost
pusillanimous. His kind heart was filled with infinite pity and love of
the people, who were hunting him down like bloodhounds, and with his own
hands he sometimes tore away those barriers of dignity which should have
been his defence, and trusted to the magnanimity of a people who could
not comprehend the word.

Would he submit to the humiliation prepared for him? In her heart of
hearts the queen knew that he would; not that he was a coward—no braver
man ever lived; but because he really wished to act rightly, and was
willing to make great sacrifices in atonement for the wrongs his
ancestors had heaped upon a people who had at last been driven frantic
by oppression. She remembered, with a pang of shame, that in a contest
with the people Louis had always been forced to yield, and that yielding
only increased the audacity of their demands. This thought wounded Marie
Antoinette like a poisoned sword. The blood burned hotly in her cheeks.
Oh! if she only had the power to act out the imperial thoughts within
her! The monarchy of France might fall, but it would be with her husband
and herself at the head of a struggling army, and amid the clash of
unsheathed swords, as her mother had fought when she took her child in
her arms and appealed to her Hungarian subjects on the heights of
Presburg. But she was only a woman, and must eat her heart out with vain
wishes. Her mother wore an imperial diadem, while her head ached under a
crown which only gave the power of suffering.

On entering the chateau, she went directly to the cabinet of the
king—this was his work-shop, where he filed iron and made locks with the
assiduity of a blacksmith’s apprentice, for in every palace he
inhabited, a room of this kind was fitted up as a refuge from the perils
and tumults that tore his kingdom like the first heave of an earthquake.
Louis was at the forge, with one hand on the bellows, in the other he
held a spike of iron in a blast of burning coals, where it was reaching
a white heat. The queen laid her hand on his arm. Her face was pale, and
her lips trembled. Was this work for a monarch whose power was
threatened? How calm and serene he seemed toiling there at his useless
locks. If they were only swords, now!

“Louis, leave this heat and smoke awhile—a message has come from Paris.”

The king heaved a deep sigh, dropped his hand from the bellows, and left
the red-hot spike to cool in the embers in which it was buried. Then he
shook the black dust from his hands, and drenched them in a silver bowl
that stood ready, from which they came out delicately white, and heavy
with jewels.

“Come, I will attend you now,” he said, with the voice and look of a
martyr. “Ah, me! if there were no Paris, and no statesmen to annoy me, I
might, perhaps, finish one lock in peace.”

“Sit down here,” said the queen, finding a chair for herself, and
motioning that he should take a seat beside her. “This is the most
private place we can find in a palace haunted with spies.”

Louis declined the seat, and leaned against his work-bench in a weary
attitude.

“Nay, read it to me; I can understand it best so.”

The queen began to read in a low, trembling voice, for the subject was
hateful to her. Once she broke down altogether, and flung the letter
from her in bitter passion.

“I cannot read it,” she said. “My lips refuse to frame the hideous thing
these people demand of us.”

Louis took up the paper, folded it neatly, and laid it on his
work-bench.

“Tell me, for I see you have read the letter. Evil tidings can be told
in a few words,” he said, tenderly. “Is this some new outrage from the
Assembly or the people direct?”

“From both. Louis, they band together in offering us nothing but insult.
This letter is from Mirabeau.”

“Then he, too, forsakes us.”

“No. He professes to be firm in our cause, and I think he is; but his
advice is terrible.”

“In a word, tell me what it is?”

“It is settled that a grand festival will be held in Paris, celebrating
the taking of the Bastille.”

“Ha!”

“Deputies are to come from every district in the kingdom. This hideous
blow, which made the throne totter under us, is to be made the subject
of a grand jubilation.”

A red flush shot over the usually calm features of the king; a little of
that indomitable pride which gave the title of Grand to his
great-grandfather kindled in his bosom.

“These people dare to thus openly insult their king, after all he has
yielded to them!” he exclaimed.

The queen looked up; her eyes kindled. This sudden outburst of energy
gave her hope.

“That is not all; they will demand more.”

“More? Is there no end to their insolent exactions?”

“There never will be an end, so long as you yield, sire.”

“You are right; I have already yielded too much.”

Marie Antoinette shook her head, and sighed heavily.

“In yielding that which is just, sire, you have opened the way to
fearful exactions.”

The king looked down; his troubled eyes sought the floor.

“Tell me,” he said at length, “what do my people clamor for now—more
than you have spoken? I see there is something beyond that.”

The queen arose, pale and trembling with indignation.

“There is to be a carousal—a great national orgie—in Paris, at which all
the traditions that have made France the foremost government in Europe,
are to be trampled under the heels of the _canaille_, and you, sire, you
are selected as high-priest of the occasion. You will be invited to
preside at a celebration which is to bury all the traditions of a long
line of kings under its ashes. This is the news which Count Mirabeau
sends.”

The hot blood of outraged royalty rose, and burned over the king’s face.

“They will not dare ask this thing of me. It is impossible!”

“It is already decided. The clubs have united upon it. The demagogues of
the Assembly snatch at the idea as a means of increasing their
popularity with the people. Mirabeau assures us that he is compelled to
go with the current, but hopes to guide and direct while he seems to
yield. In less than two days a deputation will be here to demand your
sanction to the hideous insult, and your presence while it is
perpetrated.”

“But I will not go.”

The queen’s eyes flashed like diamonds.

“Great heavens! if we only had a loyal army this moment on the frontier,
these traitors might be taken at their sacrilegious work, and crushed
like bees in a hive!”

Louis, who had for a moment stood upright and kingly, settled down to
his original attitude, the color left his face, and he answered
despondingly,

“That would be to spill the blood of Frenchmen. Anything but that!
Anything rather than that!”

“Where a people rise in revolt against a lawful government, there must
be bloodshed, sire, or submission.”

Louis took up Mirabeau’s letter, and began to read it. Marie Antoinette
watched him eagerly, the proud blood burning over her face, and a look
of defiance in her eyes. She dreaded the persuasion, the eloquent
reasoning which divested this gathering of the people of half its
repulsive features.

The king read slowly, and with thoughtful deliberation. In her passion
the queen had hurled all the odious features of this popular design
before him at once; but Mirabeau softened them almost into an intended
concession and compliment to the court. It might be made, he urged, a
means of great popularity throughout the country, while opposition would
be sure to deepen the general discontent. The extremists, he urged, were
already terrified lest the appearance of the royal family at a festival
dedicated to liberty, should undo the slanders so industriously
circulated against it. They only hoped that, by a refusal to preside at
the people’s festival, Louis would embitter the populace more thoroughly
against him.

Mirabeau wrote eloquently and in good faith. Every word made its
impression on the king. Marie Antoinette saw it, and tears of bitter
humiliation rushed to her eyes.

“You take his advice, sire?” she said, almost with a cry of despair.

Louis looked at her a moment, and laid down the paper. It was not in his
character to decide so promptly as that.

“It requires thought.”

“Requires thought for the King of France to resent an insult?”

Louis shook his head, and a low moan broke from his lips.

“Alas! this trouble is great, and I am but one man!” he said, with
pathetic gentleness. “After all, the power of a king lies in the love
and faith of his people.”

Marie Antoinette knew then that the crowning humiliation, against which
her soul had risen so hotly, would, in the end, be consummated. Without
a word she turned away and left the room, pale as a ghost, and bowing
her proud head downward. After a little she remembered that her manner
had been abrupt and lacking in respect; touched to the heart, she turned
back and softly opened the work-room door. The king had fallen forward
upon his bench, and with his face buried in both hands, lay writhing in
silent anguish.

“Ah!” she thought, mournfully, “he has the power to endure, but not the
will to act.” So, with sweet forbearance, she smothered the clamorous
pride in her own bosom, and stealing up to the work-bench, wound her arm
around her husband’s neck.

“Louis!”

The king looked up, and turned his heavy eyes upon the tearful face bent
so lovingly to his.

“Ah!” he said, gently. “An evil fate made me king when France was
falling into convulsions. You should have been the leader, my beloved.”

“Not so,” was the kindly answer. “What have I done but make the people
hate me? I, who would have given my life for their love.”

“For that we must both be ready to make great sacrifices. Oh! if I could
only lay my heart bare before this concourse of Frenchmen, and let them
see how honestly it is theirs, the thing with which they threaten us
would be a blessing.”

The king spoke earnestly, and his eyes filled with tears.

“Shall I write this to Count Mirabeau?” said the queen, touched by this
gentle despondency, and forgetting her first wrath in the intense
sympathy which she felt for her husband.

“I think he is faithful!” said Louis, wistfully! “Let us at least
consider his advice.”

Then the queen knew that she must submit, and without another word of
protest, she went forth to accept the thing she loathed.




                              CHAPTER XCI.
                            THE BAFFLED SPY.


An hour after this, Marguerite sat beside Dame Tillery in the little
donkey cart which had brought them from Versailles. She carried a letter
in her bosom directed to Count Mirabeau. The girl was very silent and
thoughtful, and Dame Tillery managed her donkey in sullen dignity, for
long after she was ready to start home Marguerite had kept her waiting.

At last curiosity overcame the good woman, and she began to ask
questions.

“Well, Marguerite, did you get a sight of her majesty, or was it a
mistake when they told me that she was walking in the Park. It was a
great favor if they let you in. Nothing less than a member of the
household could have done that for you; but, passing as my heiress, you
have privileges. I hope you understand.”

“Oh, yes!” answered Marguerite dreamily. “I understand that you are very
kind to me.”

“But about her majesty; did you get a glimpse of her?”

“Yes, I saw her.”

“But not too near. I hope you did not take a liberty like that?”

“No, I think there was nothing wrong in what I did. You are kind to
bring me here; and the queen is very beautiful—a grand, noble lady.”

“Beautiful! I should think so. No one but a born traitor would dispute
that.”

“But troubled. Oh, how troubled!” resumed the girl, as if speaking to
herself.

“And reason enough,” answered Dame Tillery. “Her enemies grow keener
every day; as for her friends—— I never boast, Marguerite, you know
that, being more modest than most women; but if half her friends had
been like me, earnest and capable, this miserable tumult would end.
Instead of that, half the court has slunk away from her, and St. Cloud
seems more like a prison than a palace.”

“It does, indeed,” sighed Marguerite. “Poor lady! Poor, wronged queen!”

Here Dame Tillery heaved a portentous sigh, and taking the reins in her
left hand, drew forth a huge pocket-handkerchief, and wiped her eyes.

“If you feel her wrongs so much, what must they be to me, a member of
her own household, and like a mother to her ever since the great empress
died.”

Marguerite made no answer to this pathetic appeal. She had fallen into
deep thought, and was wondering how it would be possible to get back to
Paris, and safely deliver the letter hidden away in her bosom.

The good dame talked incessantly of her own greatness, and the influence
which her devotion had secured in the royal household; but, as her
companion had heard it all over and over again at least fifty times, it
had no more effect on her thoughts than the rush and gurgle of a brook.
All at once Marguerite started out of her reverie, and laid her hands
upon the reins with which Dame Tillery was guiding her donkey.

“My friend, you must not be angry, but I do so long to be in Paris, if
it is only for a night. Every step we take the other way, seems to draw
a drop of blood from my heart.”

“What, homesick—and with me!” exclaimed the dame, drawing up her reins
in blank astonishment.

“If you would only go with me, your sister Doudel will be so pleased.”

“Oh, yes, I dare say! Now that you have had a look at her highness, you
are dying to tell all about it. Well, well! since the court left
Versailles, there has not been so much custom at The Swan that its
mistress cannot go away for a night, and no great harm done. So, if you
have set your heart upon it, my child, we will just take the road to
Paris, and give my sister a surprise. Poor soul! she has not had our
privileges, and will be delighted to hear that her protegèe has been
introduced into the heart of the palace.”

Dame Tillery entered into a severe struggle with her donkey. At this
point that respectable animal objected to being forced from the road
which led to his own stable, and took the journey to Paris with sullen
protest and most unequal speed, sometimes creeping like a snail,
sometimes going sideways, and occasionally pushing backward, as if
determined to reach home by that process. But the good dame held her own
in the contest; and at last drew up at her sister’s door, in high
spirits, having brought the vicious animal into complete subjection.

As Marguerite hurried toward the entrance, a little figure glided out
from the shadows cast by a neighboring building, and seizing hold of her
dress, checked her swift progress. It was the dwarf who had given her
the letter which Mirabeau sent to the queen.

“The letter,” he said, in a whisper; “I have been waiting for it. Count
Mirabeau is impatient. Give me the letter.”

The dwarf spoke eagerly, and clung to her dress. She saw the steel-like
flash of his eyes and drew back, warned by an intuition which checked
her first impulse to give up the precious document.

“Come, come, be quick. He waits.”

“Where is the count?”

“In his own house. Come, now, the letter!”

Marguerite withdrew the folds of her dress from Zamara’s grasp, and
moved forward.

“But you will not go without giving up the letter?” pleaded the little
wretch. “I shall be blamed. Oh, mademoiselle! give it me!”

“Tell Count Mirabeau that it shall reach him by a safe hand,” said the
girl, growing more and more resolute.

“But how are you to judge? Why choose another when I am here by his
order?” pleaded the little traitor, stricken with terror.

“Because I was directed to deliver all that was given me into the
count’s own hands.”

“And you will?”

“Yes, I will.”

“But to-night? Will you give it to him this very night?”

“Yes; this very night.”

Here Dame Tillery came on to the doorstep, almost sweeping the dwarf
away with her skirts.

“Come, come—what are you waiting for? Surely, they have not locked the
door so early.”

Marguerite, finding herself thus set free, glided into the house, and
Dame Tillery followed.

The dwarf drew back into the shadows again, grinding his teeth with
impotent rage. He dared not return to the woman who had kept him day
after day upon the watch for Marguerite’s return. His errand had been a
failure, and, cowering with dread, he reflected that his very life was
at stake, for Louison Brisot’s threat had chilled his soul with dread of
her vengeance. So he slunk away, and, leaning against the wall of a
neighboring house, waited in terror for Marguerite to come forth. After
awhile the door opened cautiously, and a street lamp cast its momentary
light upon Marguerite, who, shrouded in a cloak, and with a hood drawn
over her face passed into the street.

The dwarf followed her in sheer desperation. He had no doubt that she
was on her way to Mirabeau’s residence, where the letter she carried
would pass out of his reach forever—that the wretched creature knew
would be death to him. So, without any definite object, and actuated
only by a wild desire to save himself, he followed on, keeping at a safe
distance. Marguerite walked rapidly, gliding like a shadow along the
street, until she came in sight of Mirabeau’s dwelling; then she paused
a moment to gather courage, and pushing back her hood looked around, to
be certain no one was in sight.

That moment a young man passing along the street, stopped short in his
rapid walk, and cast a sharp glance at the young face momentarily
exposed to his view.

“Great heavens!”

This exclamation had hardly left his lips, when the girl entered the
building, which he knew to be occupied by Count Mirabeau.

“The villain! Poor, foolish child!”

Muttering this through his clenched teeth, St. Just drew back into the
shelter of an arched passage, and watched the house with a wild hope
that another minute would bring the girl into the street again. As he
stood with his eager eyes fixed on the opposite door, something that
seemed like a crouching dog stole up the steps, and pressed itself
against the door, which swung partly open, letting a gleam of light into
the street. Then he saw what had seemed a prowling animal lift itself to
an upright position, till it took the statue of a child, and pass
through the hall beyond.




                             CHAPTER XCII.
                            THE VIPER TURNS.


“At last! at last!” exclaimed Louison Brisot, springing forward like a
panther, and seizing the dwarf, Zamara, by the shoulder as he came
through the door of her apartment. “I began to think you had been
playing me false.”

“Because I was late? That is hard. I can watch, not hasten the movements
of others,” answered the dwarf, snappishly.

“What, getting savage? That looks well. You have got the letter—I
understand that. Success always makes cowards audacious.”

“Yes, I have got the letter; but only by creeping, like a thief, into
Mirabeau’s house. Now, what am I to get for it?”

“Get for it? Why, your life, craven—your own precious life!”

“But I want more. The life of a dog—a slave, is not worth having, unless
there is enjoyment in it.”

“Enjoyment!” cried the girl, laughing boisterously. “Why, what can a
little withered thing like you want of enjoyment?”

“What can you want of it?” questioned the dwarf, fiercely. “I am human.”

“Scarcely!” answered the woman, with brutal sincerity; “but you shall
have your enjoyment. I have been so much from home that my cat is
getting ferocious. You shall tame him for me; he killed my dog in a hard
fight. You may have better luck.”

A fiendish scowl convulsed the dwarf’s face.

“I do for madame what no one else can, and for that she taunts me. I
will not bear it.”

“Indeed!” drawled the girl, delighting in the creature’s futile rage.
“How will the marmousette help himself?”

“Easily!”

“But how? The creature makes me laugh.”

“I will not give you the queen’s letter to Mirabeau.”

“You have got it, then?”

“Yes.”

“How? From the girl?”

“No. She would not part with it; but delivered it to the count with her
own hands.”

“Delivered it to the count! But you have it?”

“Yes. I followed her into the house, hid in the room you know of, and
stole it from under his very hands while he leaned back with shut eyes
to ponder over it. You see there is an advantage in being small. I went
in and out like a shadow.”

“And the letter! Give it up. I am burning with impatience. The letter!
Where is it?”

“Why should I give the letter to you for the privilege of taming your
fiend of a cat?”

“The letter, insolent—the letter, or I will have you hung at the first
lantern.”

Zamara turned his back upon the excited woman, and was leaving the room.

“What is this? Where are you going?”

“To give Mirabeau his property, with a full account of all you have done
to get him in your power. He has money to reward, and power to protect
those who serve him.”

“You would betray me, then, poor, miserable traitor?”

“If I were not a traitor how could I be of use here?” answered the
dwarf. “Traitor, if you will; but no one has yet called Zamara a fool;
and I do not intend to give reason for it. I know the value both of love
and hate. You ask the greatest luxury on earth at an unfair price. I
refuse to sell it while better customers can be found.”

Louison Brisot was struck dumb by the creature’s audacity. In her
arrogant self-conceit she had fancied that terror made him her slave;
but he turned upon her at the critical moment, when she had proofs of
Mirabeau’s complicity with the queen almost in her grasp. She had
taunted him a minute too early.

“You shall not leave the room. I will have the letter,” she cried,
darting before him, and placing her back against the door. “Give me that
letter, man, or I will find it for myself.”

The dwarf almost smiled in the face of that beautiful fiend. He drew
back and cast a sidelong glance toward the window, which was not very
far from the ground. Louison saw his intent, and prepared to spring upon
him. Still half-smiling, he thrust one hand into the bosom of his dress,
and she cried out,

“That is right. What folly to think of playing the traitor with me!”

But, instead of the package she expected, Zamara drew a poniard from his
bosom, and, with the sheath of embossed gold in one hand, and the sharp,
slender blade quivering in the other, stood ready to receive her.

Louison burst into a mocking laugh. Even with that weapon the puny
creature could be no more than a child in her grasp. She sprang forward,
determined to wrest both the poniard and letter from him.

Zamara stepped sideways prepared for her, his black eyes gleamed living
fire, his mouth was set like a vise; the poniard shook and flashed in
his hand.

“Have a care,” he said, in a low, sharp voice. “The point is poisoned
with carroval; if it touches you, that black heart will never beat
again.”

Louison had heard of that fearful poison, which only the savages of
Darien know how to prepare. One drop of which, penetrating the flesh,
strikes death through the heart in a single moment—half an inch deep the
point of that glittering blade was dulled by this resinous poison. The
girl drew back horror-stricken, her lips bloodless, her cheeks white as
snow.

“Fiend!” she muttered, trembling in all her limbs.

The dwarf laughed. “You see there are things more powerful than brute
strength,” he said; “this one drop of resin makes the dwarf a giant. Now
we can talk on equal terms. You want the letter in my bosom, and I am
not unwilling that you should have it.”

“Then why not give it to me at once?”

“Because you are insolent—because you have treated me like a dog.”

“It was but a jest,” said Louison, almost humbly.

“Such jests do not suit me.”

“Well, well, they shall not be repeated.”

“Then I cannot work like a cur because I am told. My mistress was always
munificent.”

“Doubtless,” answered Louison, impatiently. “But I have no King of
France to scatter gold at my feet; besides, in these times, safety is
better than gold.”

“But how is one sure that you can give safety? Let it be known that she
is working in opposition to the great Mirabeau, and Louison Brisot will
be more likely to want protection than the dwarf she dares to insult.”

Louison seemed struck by this speech; for a moment her eyes fell, but
directly her courage came back.

“You cannot understand,” she said. “There is no man in the Assembly has
so many bitter enemies as Mirabeau. One grave charge fastened upon him
is enough to hurl him from power and blast his popularity.”

“But who will you find more powerful? The next leader may not care to
bend his will to that of a woman more than Count Mirabeau.”

“You are sharp, Zamara, and wiser than I thought. Listen now. I do not
wish to injure this man, but to—no matter what I wish.”

“It is power through him, or revenge that you cannot get it. I
understand,” said the dwarf, while a look of slow cunning stole over his
swarthy face.

Louison regarded him with astonishment. She had fallen into the mistake
of measuring the creature’s intellect by his size, and thus thrown off
her guard, had given him an insight into her character and motives,
which might prove dangerous.

“Zamara,” she said, with abrupt frankness, “I do not wish to use that
letter against Mirabeau, but to secure him more firmly. Will you give it
to me now, and for that purpose?”

“No,” answered the dwarf, with a cunning smile. “I will keep it for the
same purpose.”

“Wretch!”

“Stand aside, I wish to go. You have sneered at and insulted me so often
that this blade quivers in my hand—a touch of its point and you are
dead.”

Louison stepped aside, for the gleam of a serpent was in the little
creature’s eyes, and she knew that he had a serpent’s longing to strike
her down.

When Zamara was gone, Louison sat down utterly confounded. Her
instrument, her slave, the creature whom she had depended on for help,
had openly defied her. What would he do? Show the letter to Mirabeau’s
enemies, and thus make it useless to her? Or would he go to the count
himself and tell him all that she had done?




                             CHAPTER XCIII.
                          THE QUEEN’S LETTER.


It was getting late, but Louison cared nothing for that, the exactions
of society had long since been thrown away in her wild life. She hastily
arranged her dress and went into the street. She had intended to seek
Mirabeau that evening, ready for a contest, with two letters,—that which
Mirabeau had written to the queen, and the answer which she had failed
to obtain. As it was, she went forth half armed, but feeling
sufficiently secure. After all, it was of less importance what the queen
had written to Mirabeau, than what this revolutionary leader had written
to the queen. Like a good general mustering his forces after a partial
defeat, this woman arranged her thoughts as she threaded the streets of
Paris. When she had reached the Chaussée d’Anton, her courage returned
with that supreme audacity which no misfortune or rebuff could conquer.

A subject of bitter anger met Louison at the very door of Count
Mirabeau’s dwelling. The porter denied her that free admission which she
had always commanded. She was requested to wait in the hall till Count
Mirabeau’s pleasure could be learned. “He did not receive now as
formerly, and no one was admitted, unannounced, to his presence.”

Louison was white with sudden wrath; as she turned upon the man specks
of angry foam shot to her lips.

“Is this a rule for all?”

“Yes; all but very intimate friends, of whom I have a list.”

“See if the name of Louison Brisot is on that list.”

The haughty confidence in her tone rather startled the man, who drew a
memorandum-book from his pocket, and turned over the leaves in nervous
haste.

Louison possessed neither fear nor delicacy. While the man was glancing
over some names written in his book, she drew close and read them for
herself. She saw two names that kindled her wrath to a white heat—Madame
Du Berry, and lower down Marguerite.

“No, madame—or, I beg pardon, mademoiselle, the name is not here,” said
the man, closing his book.

“That is because there should not be a servant in this house so ignorant
as to ask my name. I will find Count Mirabeau myself.”

Louison waited for no protest, but made her way at once into the
library, where Mirabeau was writing. He lifted his eyes as the woman
presented herself, and looked at her from head to foot with a stern,
questioning glance, still holding the pen in his hand. She gave him back
a look of reckless defiance. Then Mirabeau laid down his pen, and
touched a silver bell that stood upon the table.

The porter had followed Louison, anxious to exculpate himself, and was
instantly at the door.

“I gave orders that no one should be admitted. How is it that they have
not been obeyed?” said the count.

“Pardon, monsieur. I am distressed to say it, but the lady was informed,
and still she came in.”

“Very well. You may go!”

Mirabeau took up his pen as he spoke, and went on writing as if Louison
had not been in the room. The insulting coolness of the act drove
Louison beside herself. She went to the table, and bent her white face
close to the calm, massive features of this strange man.

“Are you afraid of me that your man has such orders?” she whispered, for
her voice was locked with intense anger.

Mirabeau looked up and smiled as he uttered the single word,

“Afraid!”

“Yes, afraid!” she said, with biting scorn.

“No, only tired,” answered the man, leaning back in his chair, with a
slight yawn, which drove the woman mad.

“Tired! Tired of what?”

“Of you, I think.”

His insolent calmness struck the woman dumb. She could neither speak nor
move. Her consternation amused Mirabeau, to whom a woman’s anger was
generally a subject of ridicule or philosophical speculation. Just now
he rather enjoyed the rage of his visitor; it was picturesque, sweeping
thus over the stormy beauty of her face.

“Count Mirabeau, this is an insult!”

Mirabeau smiled.

“An insult for which you shall pay dearly.”

This fierce threat brought a faint color over the man’s face. She saw it
and exulted. At least, she had the power to stir the blood in his veins.
A little more, and she would make a tiger of him. Oh! for words bitter
enough! They would not come. If she could have coined bullets into
insults, they would been too weak for the need of her seething anger.

Mirabeau took up his pen and began to write. A half-completed letter lay
before him, and he went on with it calmly. All at once he felt her white
face droop toward his shoulder, and her breath bathed his cheek. She was
reading the letter over which his hand moved. With his fist dashed down
on the paper, and his frowning face uplifted, he thundered out,

“Begone, woman! Begone, I say!”

In his anger, Count Mirabeau was terrible. Sometimes he concealed it
beneath smiles, and sharp, witty jeers, holding himself under firm
control, as he had done during this unwelcome interview; but Louison
had, in fact, worn out his patience—and he was not a person to bear
threats tamely from man or woman. Now the coarse nature broke out, and
once more he bade his tormentor begone, as if she had been some
repulsive animal in his path.

As often happens, one powerful passion silenced another. Mirabeau’s rude
strength subdued the woman’s wrath till it came within the level of
words. In bitter, stinging taunts, that man, with all his eloquence, was
no match for the girl, who, for the moment, hated him.

“Where shall I go, to that temple in the park of St. Cloud, where a vile
traitor meets a——”

Mirabeau started up, his face crimson, his large hand clenched. It was
Louison’s turn to laugh—and her voice rang out in one long, mocking
taunt.

“You look surprised. Those eyes start from your head. You order me to
begone, but forget to tell me where. If that temple does not please you,
perhaps Madame Du Berry——”

The girl broke off appalled. She had brought the tiger in Mirabeau’s
nature uppermost, and even her courage shrunk a little under it. The man
turned upon her like a wild beast, but even in that supreme moment
restrained himself. Her words surprised him. He could not fathom the
extent of her knowledge, and was too proud for questions; but doubt and
keen anxiety broke through the storm on his face. How much did that evil
creature know?

“So you dared to level me with the crowd of silly women whose hearts you
have trampled on,” said Louison, encouraged by his fierce agitation.
“You thought a few curt words, and unmanly insults, would send me
whining among their ranks. With your lips on the hand of a queen, you
could afford to scoff at a woman of the people. But I will give you
proofs of your mistake. The people shall know of this treason before the
night is an hour older.”

With a mighty power of self-control Mirabeau sat down at his table, took
up the pen, and went on writing. He would not let the woman see that she
had shaken his nerves by a single thrill of apprehension.

“You do not believe me. Well, what if I tell you exactly how much gold
has been drawn from the royal treasury to gild the treason of Count
Mirabeau?”

The pen in Mirabeau’s hand gave a sudden leap upon the paper, then
glided on evenly as before.

“What if I tell you what fair girl it was who brought a letter from St.
Cloud this very evening?”

“Even then,” said Mirabeau, at last, pausing a moment in his work, “what
would the word of Louison Brisot be against that of Mirabeau? Foolish
woman! you are wasting time! Go, carry your bundle of falsehoods where
you will, they only weary me, and I am busy.”

“I will,” answered the woman. “Henceforth there is war between us two.”

Again Mirabeau smiled; though startled, and full of keen apprehension,
he would not let the woman see how terribly her words had disturbed him.
Still they were but words, and an accusation, without evidence, could
easily be borne down, especially as it would seem to spring from the
jealousy of an angry woman, whose vindictive character was well known at
the clubs.

Louison stood a minute pale and silent, waiting for him to speak; but
the proud man would have perished rather than show, by word or look, the
wound she had given him. His calmness hurt her worse than his anger had
done. He did not believe her; before the hour was over she would
convince him.

“The clubs are still in session, before they close your treason will be
known there.”

“And you will have done your worst. Come and tell me how the news is
received. It will be interesting. I shall wait for you,” said Mirabeau,
without lifting his head.

“Yes, I will come, if it is only to be the first who shall tell you that
your power in France is at an end. Count Mirabeau, you stand from this
night exposed to the world as a demagogue and a traitor!”

“Be sure and come. You shall have no trouble in reaching me this time.”

Louison left the room and the house. When the door closed upon her,
Mirabeau flung down his pen, and resting his head upon his two hands,
gave way to the terrible shock her words had brought upon him. She was
right; let France once know that he had been in treaty with the court,
and his great power would melt away like a snow-wreath. All that he
possessed on earth was his influence with the people. In the clubs and
the Assembly he had almost as many enemies as friends. The extremes both
hated him and feared him. They would seize upon anything which promised
to injure him.

Would Louison go to them with her charge? It was more than likely. Her
keen wit and vindictive thirst for vengeance would find the shortest way
of reaching him. But she had no evidence; his letter reached the queen,
and her answer was safe in his own possession. What, then, but
unsupported suspicion, had the woman to offer his enemies. Such evidence
he could afford to scorn. After all, why should he care for the threats
of a woman like Louison Brisot—a creature who would never have been
heard of but for the notice he had given her.

Mirabeau remained a full hour thinking over all that threatened him.
Then he remembered the queen’s letter and, rendered cautious by anxiety,
resolved to burn it after another careful perusal. A deer of lapis
lazuli, with hoofs and antlers of burnt gold, crouched upon a small
block of agate at his elbow. Under this dainty toy he had placed the
queen’s letter after reading it. Mirabeau reached forth his hand, lifted
the deer, and found nothing underneath. He gazed in consternation at the
empty space, then searched among the papers on his table with a hand
that began to shake violently. Had that evil creature stolen the letter?

No, that was impossible; she stood on the other side while looking over
his shoulder, in that position the deer was beyond the reach of her arm.
But the letter was gone, and he had not, for a moment, left the room
after it was placed in his hands by that fair girl. Where could it be?
Why had it left his hand for a single moment? Mirabeau ground his teeth,
and cursed his own carelessness as he tossed the papers to and fro on
his writing-table; but it was of no avail—the queen’s letter was gone.




                             CHAPTER XCIV.
                   LOUISON BRISOT VISITS ROBESPIERRE.


A little man sat alone in his lodgings where he led an existence of
austere economy, such as many of the most noisy patriots only affected.
This man was sincere in his simple mode of life, and honestly rigid in
the self-denial, which had become a habit within him. The only gleam of
vanity that broke around him lay in the showy color and cut of his
clothes, which were unlike those of any other man in his class of life.
With this exception, Robespierre cared nothing for his surroundings. He
was proud of a very insignificant person, and ambitious for power, but
had not thought of gain as a means of working out his ambition. Indeed,
Robespierre, like many of his compatriots, was proud of his poverty, and
used it as a stepping-stone to the influence he craved.

“A woman wishes to see citoyen Robespierre.”

These words from a slatternly servant aroused the man from a pamphlet
which he was reading, and he started up surprised, and a little nervous,
for it was getting late in the evening, and in order to read in comfort,
he had thrown off the only coat he possessed, and unwound the voluminous
cravat from his throat, both of which articles lay across the back of
his chair.

“A woman—a lady? Who is it?”

“Don’t know.”

“Well, what is she—young or old, beautiful or ugly?”

“Beautiful, I dare say the citoyen will think.”

“Well, well, keep her waiting till I get my coat on.”

Robespierre ran to a little mirror hanging on the wall, and folded the
soft, white cravat around his neck, caressed the ruffles of plaited
linen that had begun to hang limp, and a little soiled upon his bosom,
into something like their original crispness. Then he thrust his arms
into a coat originally of bright olive-green, from which the nap had
been considerably worn by constant brushing. Scarcely had he settled his
slight figure in these garments when the door of his room opened, and
Louison Brisot made her appearance. She had evidently been walking fast,
for a warm, bright color glowed in her cheeks, and her bosom heaved and
fell with her quick breathing.

Robespierre had seen this young person before, and received her with a
feeling of disappointment. Notwithstanding the honied flatteries she had
bestowed on him that night in the street, he distrusted her. Louison was
known as the devoted friend of Mirabeau, and Robespierre regarded her
with something of the dislike which he felt toward that powerful man,
whose greatness had so overshadowed him both in the Assembly and with
the people.

“I am fortunate in finding you alone, citoyen,” said the girl, who
scarcely heeded the confusion into which she had thrown the little man,
whose character and ability had not yet found full recognition in
France. “We are not known to each other much, but shall be better
acquainted, I hope, after my errand is explained. Have I your permission
to sit?”

Robespierre came forward and placed one of the two chairs his room
contained, for the accommodation of his visitor. Then he stood up,
leaning one hand on the table, and waited in grave silence for her to
speak. She did this suddenly.

“You know Mirabeau well, but do not like him,” she affirmed rather than
questioned.

“Yes, the count has made himself well known in the Assembly.”

“Where he overshadows more able members than he ever can be, and
tyrannizes over the true patriots of France by the force of his own
brutal character.”

“Mirabeau is a powerful man,” answered Robespierre thoughtfully. “This
day he stands with his foot upon the neck of France, and the people
sustain him.”

“Because they think him a true patriot.”

“Yes, he has attained a marvelous hold on the people.”

“But if those who worship him now could be made to see him false as he
is—a traitor to their cause, a parasite of the court, a double-sided
villain—what then? Would they cling to him still?”

“Cling to him? No! The people are great; the people are just!”

“One question more. Who is there among the patriots who could take his
place?”

For the first time, a slow, dull crimson came into Robespierre’s face,
and his eyes shone with inward fire. The ambition that consumed him
flashed out with an irrepressible illumination of the face that a moment
before had seemed so parched and void of all expression.

Louison answered the look as if he had spoken.

“You are right, citizen. The man is Maximillian Robespierre. I, of all
the women of France, have known it. While others reviled him, I have
seen the elements of greatness rising and growing in this man. While
Mirabeau trifles with his power, plays with his popularity, and loses
his triumphs, this man hoards his strength and bends his energies to one
great purpose—the liberty of the people.”

Robespierre gazed on the woman in amazement. He believed himself to be
all that she described, felt the indomitable spirit, which she
understood so well, burning in his soul, and replied to her as if she
had been talking to another person.

“You are right. The man who is to lift France out of her chains must
have but one duty, one idea—to that humanity itself must bow; for her
sake life should be as nothing. The purposes of other men must bend to
his will. Count Mirabeau is not that man. His soul wanders away from its
wavering object back to his grosser self. He wastes his life in projects
that have no issue. He loves himself rather than France. The
aristocratic blood in his veins is forever leading him back to our
enemies. He coquets with a great nation as if it were a woman.”

“Yet the people love him, and follow him blindly—most of all, the women;
and of these, with blind persistence, the women of the market, who wield
a wonderful power over the starving multitude who come to them for food.

“I know. I have seen their devotion. This man does not arise in his
place without a crowd to cheer him on. His speeches are broken up with
acclamations, and carried to the world on a thousand lips, warm with his
praises. Yet, I declare to you, this man stands between these very
people and their liberty—he blocks the way more earnest men are eager to
tread. But why have I spoken thus, and to a woman known as his warmest
admirer?”

“Not so, citoyen. While Mirabeau was honest, I adored him. Now——”

“Now? What have you discovered? Why are you here? Not because I am known
as his friend? That is impossible. I look upon him as a stumbling block
in the way of all true patriots.”

“And I look upon him as a traitor!”

“Ah! I know men say that; but the proof? Where is the proof? No one has
been able to find it; and every futile charge only makes him the
stronger.”

“What if he were known to visit the queen privately?”

“To visit the queen? No, no! He is not rash enough for that.”

“But if he had?”

“That would be a strong lever in skillful hands; but the proof must be
clear, and the witnesses trustworthy.”

“What if he had taken money from the court?”

“Money! Why, that would kill him with the people.”

“Where does the money come from with which he keeps up princely state in
the Chaussée d’Anton? Has any one put that question home to him?”

“As for that, it is understood that Mirabeau is reconciled with his
father, a wealthy man in the provinces.”

Louison broke into a laugh.

“So that is the way he accounts for it; and the people are fools enough
to believe him. Credulous idiots, have they no eyes?”

“But suspicions are not proofs.”

“Is this a _proof_?” cried the girl, losing all patience with these
lawyer-like questions. “Is that Mirabeau’s handwriting? Will his
besotted worshippers stand firm against a paper like that?”

Louison cast down Mirabeau’s letter to the queen as she spoke.
Robespierre took it up and read it carefully. He was a cool, wary man,
slow of conviction, impossible to move when his opinion was once formed;
but the woman who watched him saw that hard, dull face light up with
almost ferocious satisfaction, and his gray eyes were absolutely black
with excitement as he turned them upon her.

“This letter; how came it in your possession, citoyenne?”

“I bribed Mirabeau’s messenger to give it up.”

“It is genuine! It is genuine! Louison Brisot, you have done wonderful
service to those who love France. I will lay this letter before the
Assembly.”

Louison turned white. This prompt action, which would sweep all power of
retreat from her, took away her breath. As yet she had made no terms for
herself.

“When Mirabeau is dethroned, and another sits in his place, then what of
Louison Brisot?” she said.

“She will have the gratitude of all France,” answered Robespierre,
looking up from the letter, which he was perusing a second time. “What
more can a true patriot want?”

“That which Mirabeau has, and you seek for—power!”

“Power?”

“The man who controls all others must share his power openly, or in
secret, with Louison Brisot.”

A faint, hard smile crept over Robespierre’s face; it disturbed the
woman who gazed so fixedly upon him. Had she done well to exchange the
insolent forbearance of Mirabeau for this iron man?

“At last we can lay his black heart bare before the people he has duped.
Nothing can save him. The man who arraigns him is immortal.”

Robespierre was speaking to himself. Louison listened. She saw that he
had no thought of her—that keen, selfish ambition possessed him
entirely. She drew toward him softly as he pored over the paper, reached
over his shoulder and took the letter from his hand.

He started and uttered a faint snarl, like some wild animal when its
food is torn away.

“Why have you taken it?” he said, “I was getting his treason by heart.”

“But I have scarcely read it myself. Besides, there are others who love
France.”

“No, no! Let this rest between you and me. Robespierre must strike the
blow himself.”

The sight of this man’s eagerness to crush his rival made Louison doubly
anxious to keep the power she possessed under her own control. What, if
in ruining Mirabeau, she only acted as the instrument of a harder man’s
ambition. After all, had she not been too hasty in allowing the jealous
feelings of a woman to hurry her so completely into a combination with
Mirabeau’s enemies? Had she been wise to threaten this man, to whom
defiance, in any form, was like flashes of scarlet to an enraged animal?

She looked at Robespierre in that olive-green coat, with its high
rolling collar, under which his spare, angular figure seemed to shrink
away into insignificance, and a smile of derision almost curled her
saucy lips. She remarked with an inward jeer, the striped vest, in which
lines of warm buff predominated, whose broad lapels, opening wide upon
the bosom, gave place to a profusion of twisted muslin and clustering
ruffles, from which that contracted face, lean, dry, and hard, rose in
grotesque contrast.

Louison almost laughed at herself for the thought of lifting this man
into the seat of Mirabeau, whose brutal strength and dashing elegance
came back upon her mind with the sudden force of contrast. She
remembered how grandly the broad ruffles rolled back from his massive
throat; how imperial was the poise of that haughty head, with its shock
of tawny hair, and wonderful mobility of countenance. Even the supreme
insolence of his bearing had its charm for this woman, who was ready to
adore the man whose ruin she was planning, while she solemnly believed
that it was hate which led her on. She turned away from the
contemplation of Robespierre’s meagre figure, wondering at herself that
she had even so far put a creature like Mirabeau into his power.

After all, Louison Brisot was a woman, and capricious even in the wild
patriotism and burning jealousy, which led so many of the women of
France into acts that seemed to unsex them. She began to scorn herself
for the idea of casting a grand, leonine creature like Mirabeau into the
power of a man, whose appearance was so utterly insignificant.

No, Louison would not do it. Mirabeau should have another chance. It was
like chaining a lion that foxes might torture him. No,—no! That letter
once given up, and where was she? Simply an informer, to be used for
that eager little man, who could not even smile frankly.

Louison put the letter in her bosom, while Robespierre was gazing on it
with eager longing.

“But you are not going? You will not take it away?” he exclaimed,
sharply.

“It belongs to me—I shall not harm it. When all is ready you know where
to find it.”

“But, citoyenne, that paper belongs to the people.”

“And I am one of the people,” answered Louison, laughing.

“Leave it—leave it with me.”

“Yes, when I like you better than myself.”

Robespierre measured the woman with a keen, hungry glance. He was not
altogether a brave man, but crafty and cruel enough to have killed her
with his own hands, if that would have given him possession of the
paper; but Louison, a handsome, bright woman, was, in fact, powerful
enough to have defended herself against two such men as Robespierre. He
glanced at her tall, subtle person, her strong, white arms, and burning
eyes, that seemed to read the craven purpose that was creeping through
his brain and felt how useless any struggle would be against her. So he
slunk back into the chair, from which he had half-started, with a
feeling of abject defeat.

“But you will keep it safe? It will be forthcoming when the patriots of
the Assembly call for it?”

“You have seen it—and who doubts the word of Robespierre?”

“But I must have the proof—too many unfounded or unproved charges have
been made against this man. They only make him more defiant and more
powerful.”

“But the letter will be in my keeping—you can find it at any time.”

“Then you will not leave it?”

“No!”

“But promise me that you will not part with it to another.”

“Well, I promise. Good-night, citoyen.”

Robespierre followed the woman with his keen eyes, longing to spring
upon her and wrest the document from her bosom. His thin hand clutched
and opened itself on the table with an impatient desire to be at work.

At the door of Robespierre’s lodgings Louison met two men, whom she knew
and recognized. For one moment she paused. If her design was carried
out, these were the very persons whose aid she wanted; but she only
hesitated a moment, then passed on, saying,

“Good-evening, citoyen Marat. Good-evening, St. Just.”

Marat answered her with a careless jest. St. Just simply bent his head,
but neither smiled on her, or at the wit of his companion. Louison stood
a moment in the passage, and watched these two men as they mounted a
flight of stairs leading to Robespierre’s room.

“Shall I go back,” she thought, “and settle the whole thing with these
men at once? No, not yet. By to-morrow I may have the other letter, or
it may be—it may be——”

Louison hurried into the street with this half-uttered sentence on her
lip, and walked rapidly toward the Chaussée d’Anton. When she came
opposite Mirabeau’s house her face lighted up. She had said to herself,
“If I find it dark, then it shall be Robespierre; if not, Mirabeau shall
have another chance. I will not give him up to these hounds without
that.” Womanhood was strong within her that evening. She panted to
conquer this great man, but not destroy him. When she thought of that, a
feeling of terrible desolation fell upon her. She shuddered to think how
near the scaffold was to a political offence.

The porter made no objection to her entrance this time, but waved his
hand toward the library, as if she had been expected.




                              CHAPTER XCV.
                       THE FRAUD OF FASCINATION.


“Ah! you have thought better of it—I knew that it would be so,” said
Mirabeau, receiving the woman he had parted with in such bitter anger,
with a broad, frank smile. “Why will you degrade yourself with miserable
threats, my beautiful friend?”

“Threats! Only threats! Nay, it was something more. I am not to be
defied with impunity.”

“Defied! No. With me it was confidence, not defiance.”

“Confidence! How?”

“How? Not even yourself, Louison, can make me believe you capable of a
mean action.”

“A mean action! But you had concealments with me.”

“Only for a time. In a few days you would have known everything.”

“You made a confidant of that woman, Du Berry, who is worse than an
aristocrat, and only claims to be one of us when all else reject her.”

“On the contrary—I made her my tool.”

“You invited that insolent woman, Theroigne de Mericourt, to your table,
while I was almost driven from your door.”

Mirabeau laughed till the ruffles on his broad bosom shook again.

“Ah! you heard of that! Why, the whole troop of rioters forced
themselves upon me—these two women with the rest. Robespierre, Marat,
and some others, members of the Assembly, all came in a little mob
together. I could but entertain them. Such men resent neglect.”

“But Madame Du Berry! I was here—I overheard your conversation with that
woman.”

“Then you only learned one fact, that I considered her a useful
instrument, by which a great end might be attained. She still has
friends at court. I wished to draw myself into communication there.”

“Yes, I know,” answered Louison, with a bitter laugh. “You wished to
visit a little temple in the grounds at St. Cloud.”

Mirabeau winced, but the smile never left his lips as she went on.

“You desired, above all things, to kneel at the feet and kiss the hand
of the queen. For a citizen of France, sworn to make her people free, it
was a glorious ambition.”

“Go on,” said the count, leaning back in his chair—“go on. What more
have you learned?”

“What more? Why, that the kneeling was done—the kiss given. I saw your
perjured lips on the Austrian’s hand with my own eyes. The whole base
treason was made plain to me then, as it is now, when I have your letter
at command.”

Mirabeau’s eyes flashed. She had the letter still in her possession. His
greatest anxiety was laid at rest.

“Then,” he said, with a pleasant, mellow laugh, “you have been playing
the spy upon me all this time. Quite unnecessary, my friend. When my
plans were matured you would have had them all. These others were my
instruments; you had a grander and higher role to play.”

“Yes, I understand, that of a cast-off garment when the fashions change,
or an orange when the juice is exhausted,” answered the woman, tartly,
but wavering a little in her bitter unbelief.

“Mon Dieu! how thoroughly you play the jealous dame, Louison. I had
hoped better things of you; but it is folly, I suppose, to expect broad
confidence and a clear understanding of great aims in any woman.”

Louison flushed angrily. It had been her pride to mate her own bold
spirit with that of Mirabeau.

“Wise men or women do not act blindly when nations are at stake,” she
said, in a tone that was becoming more and more apologetic. “Deceive me
in ever so little, and you deceive me in everything.”

“But I have not deceived you, my beautiful tigress!”

“You have met the queen?”

“Granted.”

“Taken money from the queen?”

“That is false—a wicked slander that would blister honest lips,” cried
the count, sitting upright, and flashing a storm of fierce wrath upon
her.

Louison looked around the magnificent room, and bent her splendid eyes
upon him in silent unbelief. He understood the expression of her face,
and answered it.

“All this costs me nothing. It is the property of a refugee, and I
seized upon it as a servant of the people.”

“To ape the manners of an aristocrat,” answered Louison, with a faint
sneer.

“To win the power which shall hurl down aristocrats to a level with the
people, or lift Mirabeau and those he loves above that of any monarch.
Tell me, Louison, how will France be served best, by destroying all
fixed laws, or by placing a man who has a genius for government in
control of a weak and yielding king? The time may come, girl, when Marie
Antoinette will find the woman who aids Mirabeau in carrying out the
broad designs which fill his mind, lifted above herself in power, while
she has only the name of queen, another——”

“But that woman?”

“Need I name her?” cried the count, taking Louison’s hand in his, and
lifting his face to hers with an expression that made her heart swell.

“Still, Mirabeau, it is useless to say that of late you have ceased to
regard me.”

“Because I have had momentous plans in my mind; because it seemed to me
needful that the world should think with you, that there is neither love
nor confidence between us. It is important that I should have one firm
and trusting friend among my enemies. I had designed you for the
position, Louison. What human being is there who can so readily win
admiration and confidence? In their clubs, and in their private
committees, I wish you to be the soul. It was this desire that made me
seem less cordial than of old. I was willing my foes should think that
we had quarreled. In order that you might get your part well it was
necessary that you should feel it a reality. When the idea was once
established, I should have taught you how false it was by deeper
devotion, more perfect confidence. But you felt these preliminaries too
keenly and became dangerous.”

“Because I loved you. Oh, Mirabeau! it was from my great love which you
seemed to outrage.”

Louison threw herself upon her knees, and reached up her arms to
Mirabeau with a great longing for some return of tenderness, which she
had thought lost to her forever. This gesture disturbed the letter which
she had thrust deep down in her bosom, and the edge came up through the
loose folds of her dress. Mirabeau saw it, and his eyes flashed fire.
She caught their light, and grew gentle and yielding as a child under
it. Surely the man loved her, or his face would never have brightened
like that! How childish and wayward she had been! It was magnanimous in
Mirabeau to forgive her so readily; but then his nature was so grand—no
wonder the people adored him. Surely, if he could control the monarch of
France, all must be well with the masses.

“How could I distrust you so?” she murmured, resting her head against
him. “Look on me, beloved, and say that I am forgiven.”

He did look upon her with an expression that had made many a heart beat
faster to their peril.

“But you have not told me all?” he said, gently. “There was another
letter. How did you reach it?”

“Another letter? The queen’s answer. I waited for it, hoped for it; but
the little wretch would not give it up.”

“What wretch? Nay, nay! do not turn your head from me, Louison.
Confidence, to be perfect, must be mutual. Tell me what more you have
been doing.”

Louison told him how she had put Zamara on the track of his enterprise,
and confessed, with burning shame, the defeat that wary dwarf had
brought upon her.

“So he has the document!” said Mirabeau, carelessly. “No matter; we will
soon get it from him. I will force him to give it into your possession
before you leave the house, late as it is. Henceforth there shall be no
half confidence between us.”

Louison smiled, and her eyes shone triumphantly—some generous impulses
always exist in a woman who loves. Mirabeau’s forbearance brought all
that was good in that hard nature to the surface. She remembered, with a
pang of remorse, that the most dangerous action that had sprung out of
her jealousy was still untold—her interview with Robespierre. While
Mirabeau wrote a few brief lines and folded them, she thought of this,
and hesitated how to tell him that which would not fail to stir his
anger. The count was occupied with other things, and left her, for a
time, unnoticed at his feet, while he touched a bell on the table, and
gave some orders to a servant.

Louison started when she heard them.

“Take this to Madame Du Berry, she will send her attendant, the dwarf,
back with you. See that the imp speaks to no one. If he attempts to
evade you, bring him in your arms; but do not quite strangle him.”




                              CHAPTER XCV.
                   ZAMARA IS MASTER OF THE SITUATION.


THE man went out somewhat astonished, but resolute to obey the orders he
had received. Then Mirabeau leaned back in his chair and drew a deep
breath. He was a perfect dissembler, or that keen woman would have
detected something in his face that she did not like.

“Mirabeau,” she said, almost humbly, “I have not told you all. When I
went out from here to-night, my heart was full of rage and fire—I hated
you.”

“Foolish girl; weak, weak woman! How little you understand the man who
loves you. Well, go on. What further mischief has been done?”

“Mirabeau, I took that letter to Robespierre.”

The count started up and almost hurled her to the floor.

“To Robespierre! Fiend! fool! woman!”

He spoke the last word with concentrated scorn, as if it were the
hardest and most offensive he could apply to her.

“I took it to Robespierre because of his enmity to you. At that moment,
you know, I hated you, and longed for revenge.”

“And you gave him the letter? It is no longer in your possession?”

“He read it, and wanted to keep it, but I would not let him.”

“Ah! Well, what did he say to it?”

“That he would denounce you in the Assembly to-morrow.”

“Then he was to be my accuser, and you were to be ready with the
evidence. Was that the understanding?”

How quietly he spoke, scarcely above a whisper, yet there was something
in the sound that thrilled her like the hiss of a snake.

“This you cannot forgive,” she said. “Still I warned you.”

“Forgive? Oh, yes! We must not be hard on each other, Louison.”

He spoke quietly, but with an unnatural tone in his voice. Still, if she
had seen his face, the look of a fiend was there.

“The mischief can be arrested. Late as it is, I will go to him.”

Louison started up, and was preparing to go out; but the intellect of
this singular man was more rapid than her movement. Quick as lightning
he had discovered in her act a means of confounding his enemies.

“Let it alone,” he said, with animation. “Is it likely that he will dare
assail me?”

“I am sure of it,” answered Louison, hesitating to sit down.

“Your promise to give up the evidence was positive?”

“Yes,” faltered the woman, shrinking from his eager glances.

“There, let the whole thing rest. Here comes my man with the dwarf.”

The messenger came, bearing Zamara, like a child in his arms. The little
wretch was ashen white as far as his dusky skin would permit, and his
eyes gleamed like those of a viper when they fell on Louison.

“Let the creature down,” said Mirabeau; “and come again when I call
you.”

The man placed Zamara on his feet, and disappeared. Before any one could
speak, the dwarf came close to Mirabeau with one hand in his bosom.

“Guard yourself! Guard yourself! He carries a poisoned dagger there,”
cried Louison.

Zamara gave her a quick glance—all his color had come back. In an
instant his sharp wit mastered the situation. The hand was withdrawn
from his bosom; it held a paper, which he placed before Mirabeau with
low reverence, as if he had been a slave, and the count an Eastern
satrap.

“The woman who leans upon your chair tempted me to take this. When I
found that she intended to make a bad use of it, I refused to give it
up, being resolved to bring it back again. In the morning Count Mirabeau
would have found it under this pretty deer with the golden hoofs. There
was no need of sending a tall man after Zamara; he knows what is right,
and is not afraid when it is to be done.”

Mirabeau took the letter, glanced over it, then leaned forward and held
it in the flame of an antique lamp that burned before him. As the blaze
flashed up from his hand, it revealed the lines of that lowering face
with a vividness that made the dwarf tremble; but as the light faded,
this expression softened into carelessness, and brushing the black
flakes from his sleeves, he said, addressing Zamara,

“You can go now. I shall not kill you for this; but try it a second
time, and there will be one sharp, little dwarf less in France. Go!”

Zamara needed no second bidding, but left the room, muttering, “She
loves that man—she is jealous—his death would kill her. Good!”

After Zamara was gone, Mirabeau drew Louison toward him.

“The little viper would have cheated us both,” he said, “but for once we
have drawn his fangs. Now for the other letter. When that is in ashes,
we shall know how to meet this more venomous creature, Robespierre, and
his mates. So they had Mirabeau in a trap, had they! The letter,
Louison—the letter! We will send it after the one that is gone!”

“But it is not here,” answered Louison. “I went home first, and left it
there.”

Mirabeau started. Had she, indeed, left that letter with his enemies. He
looked keenly in her face, searching it for the truth. As his eyes
wandered downward, a corner of the folded paper he had seen before was
visible above the short, full waist of her dress. A crafty smile crept
over Mirabeau’s lips as he drew her downward and pressed them to hers.
He was tempted to secure the paper then, but his inordinate vanity
prevented it. Dangerous as she was, he would trust her, and thus test
his own powers of persuasion.

“Ah, you do love me!” murmured the woman, and tears rose to her eyes.

“How weak, how foolish to doubt it, my friend, my queen!”

This word brought back Louison’s distrust.

“Ah, the queen!” she said; “but for her I might not have doubted you.
You gave her what Louison never knew, reverence, homage.”

“Because there was no other way of winning her to my purpose. Cannot you
understand that we gain and rule people by their master passions? Now
there is not in all France a woman so proud of her power, and so
conscious of her loveliness, as Marie Antoinette. Would you have had me
wound while I wished to win her?”

“Win her, Mirabeau?”

“Yes, to those purposes which shall make your friend the ruler of
France, and yet give liberty to the people. In order to accomplish this
we must not pull down the throne entirely. France loves her traditions,
and in some form or another will keep them. The nation is now like a
noble ship reeling and plunging through the blackness of a storm. There
is but one man living who could guide the helm—that man is Mirabeau.”

“And but one woman who has the wit and courage to stand by his side, let
the storm rage as it will,” said Louison, kindling with enthusiasm. “Ah,
yes! this is far better than being a queen!”

Mirabeau took her hand and kissed it, as if she had, indeed, been a
sovereign, thus mocking her vanity in his heart.

“We understand each other thoroughly now,” he said. “There will be no
more doubt between us.”

“Never again!”

“And now we must say good-night, my friend. See how late it is.”

Louison lingered, not that she was afraid of going into the street
alone; but the exquisite delusions of the moment were upon her, and she
longed to continue them.

“The day has been an exciting one, and, spite of your dear presence, I
am weary,” said the count, reaching forth his hand to take leave.

Louison lifted the hand to her lips and covered it with kisses.

“Ah!” she said, “this is coming from purgatory into heaven.”

“But even angels must part sometimes, my friend.”

“Yes, yes! Good-night. Ah, Mirabeau! how pleasant it is to be your
slave!”

“Slave! No, no! My mate—my friend!”

“Call it by any name you will; but the jealous love which would have
destroyed you an hour ago, now crouches at your feet in full submission.
Good-night!”

Mirabeau walked to the door and held it open, an act of courtesy seldom
vouchsafed to her before. So, with smiles on her lips, she went out into
the darkness.

The moment she was gone, Count Mirabeau went back to his room, wild with
the excitement he had suppressed with so much effort. Approaching the
table, he struck his clenched fist upon it with a blow that sounded
through the room, and fell into his chair, wiping great drops of
perspiration from his forehead.

Great heavens! the gulf that yawned before me! I can hardly make sure
that it is bridged over yet. Another outburst of her furious jealousy
between this and to-morrow, is absolute ruin. Fool, fool that I was to
feel safe in my contempt of this dangerous woman. Surely few people
should know better than myself that there is no fury like a woman
scorned; but the fiend within is always tempting me to turn my doves
into vipers. Heavens! when I think of the danger, it chills me; but she
is tamed now. Mirabeau’s spell is upon her. I was tempted to take the
letter from her bosom, but better not, better not. She knows too much.
One token of distrust, and she would hasten to deserve it. She will not
speak—she will not. When Mirabeau seals a woman’s mouth with kisses it
is mute, save to obey him. Yes, she is safe—but how the whole thing
shakes me! I did not think there was a woman living who could strike
Mirabeau with a panic like this. The coward drops lie cold on my
forehead even when I know the danger is passed. Oh, yes! it was better
that I seemed to trust her—now I can.




                             CHAPTER XCVII.
                         BAFFLED AND DEFEATED.


“The treason of Mirabeau! The treason of Mirabeau!”

Robespierre had made his first attack in a bitter article hawked that
morning through the streets of Paris; and the cry rose loud and long,
like the howl of wild beasts scenting blood afar off.

“The treason of Mirabeau! The treason of Mirabeau!”

Robespierre heard it while walking toward the Assembly, and his black
heart beat with triumph under that olive-green coat.

Marat heard it as he lay in his bath, writing a still more furious
attack on the popular idol, and a spasm of delight shook all his
restless limbs till the water stirred around them.

At last they had him in a firm grip; this proud demagogue, this popular
idol, who loomed over them like a god, was in their power. They had
proofs of his treason—proofs written by his own hand; the proof of an
eye witness, who had seen him at the very feet of the queen. All this
the articles in the journal only hinted at; but when Mirabeau took his
seat in the Assembly that day, the storm would burst upon him. Hitherto
he had defied them, and trampled down accusations of which there was no
evidence that the people would accept. But now, yes now——

No wonder Marat laughed till the water shook and rippled around him as
if a serpent were uncoiling in them, then plunged into the bitterness of
his article again, storming on the foe that in his mind was already
down. Nay, he could not write, the brutal joy within him was too great.
Rather would he arise, dress himself, and witness the downfall of the
rival he hated and feared.

Mirabeau heard the cry, paused in his haughty progress, and bought a
journal, which he read quietly passing along the street, and those who
observed him, saw a keen smile shoot over his lips. Surely, whatever the
charge was, that man would fight it to the bitter end, and with such
weapons as his opponents could never wield. The people still believed in
Mirabeau, and cheered him as he moved toward the Assembly, even with
those virulent cries of “traitor” on the air. The power of that man was
something marvelous.

The Assembly was turbulent that day as the streets had been. Mirabeau’s
enemies were triumphant, his friends doubtful and anxious. Never had his
accusers seemed so assured of success. Even his composure could not
abate their joy. That calm seemed to them like depression.

At the very door of the Assembly, the cry of Mirabeau’s treason came up.
The galleries were full of women who were more tumultuous and eager than
the men. Some had brought their work, others carried parcels, in which
were bread or fruit, for it was believed that the sitting would be long
and violent. Mirabeau would not die easy; they had hedged him in like a
lion in the toils, and like a lion he was sure to defend himself. So the
women of France flocked to the Assembly, and crowded all its vacant
spaces, as the matrons of old Rome went to see gladiators and wild
beasts tear each other. In this mob, which called itself a deliberative
body, there was neither decorum, nor an attempt at order. Where all the
evil passions are let loose tumult and anarchy must follow.

Mirabeau’s enemies were all in their places. Clubs known to oppose him
had emptied themselves into the galleries. On the floor his foes
gathered in groups consulting together. There the beautiful face of St.
Just was contrasted with the austere features of Desmoulins and the
hateful coarseness of Danton. Everywhere Mirabeau saw preparations for
an attack that was to crush him; but this only shot fire to his eyes,
and curled his lips with haughty disdain. Not that he felt himself quite
safe, but he was sustained by the natural self-confidence of a spirit
that had never quailed before man. At all times Mirabeau was
self-sufficient, more so than ever when danger threatened him. There he
sat in the midst of his enemies, like a lion waiting for the gladiators
to appear, calm from inordinate self-poise.

Of all his enemies, Mirabeau’s defiant eyes sought out Robespierre the
most frequently. There was something amounting almost to a smirk on the
countenance of this little man, which would have been a smile in
another; but the dry, parchment-like countenance of Robespierre admitted
only of sneers and smirks—a broad, honest smile was impossible to it.

Robespierre, at this time, had scarcely developed the dreadful character
for cruelty and fanatical malice which blisters every page of history on
which his name is written. His movements had been sinister, and up to
this time, were more suggestive of atrocities than active in their
perpetration. While Mirabeau was in power, the reptile spirit of this
man had not ventured to crest itself, but slowly and with crafty
windings was creeping stealthily to the horrible power with which the
madness of an insane people at last invested him. Hitherto he had kept
in the background, and instigated others to attack the man whose
popularity stood between him and the position he thirsted for; but now
that disgrace and defeat were certain, he came forward on the great
man’s track like a hyena prowling along the path of a kingly beast.

Robespierre was ready to lead the onslaught. Mirabeau saw it in the
glitter of those evil eyes, and knowing how relentless and unprincipled
the man was, felt a thrill of doubt rush over him. Nothing but certainty
could have impelled that coward nature to creep into the light. Had
Louison failed him? Could she have broken through the thrall of his
persuasions and gone over to the enemy? The night before he felt a sort
of pride in trusting everything to the power of his own personal
influence over a woman that nothing else could tame or terrify; but now,
when he stood face to face with an awful danger, for the first time in
his life Mirabeau distrusted himself. What but a dead certainty could
give that assured air to Robespierre? Why had he trusted to those powers
of persuasion which never yet had failed him with the sex, but might
prove ineffectual, for the first time, when his honor and very life
depended on them? The night before his hand was almost on that very
paper; a movement of the fingers, and he might have drawn it from
Louison’s bosom, and, had he so chosen, defied her afterward. But
intolerable self-conceit had prevented this act of safety. How he cursed
the vanity which had filled his mind with all these harrowing doubts.
“Whom the gods destroy they first make mad,” he muttered to himself. “I
was, indeed, mad when I permitted her to leave me with _that_ in her
bosom.”

The galleries were already overrun with women—for that cry in the street
had sent crowds to the Assembly. Now they began to fill the floor, and
force themselves among the members with a feeling of equality which no
one had the courage to resist or rebuke.

All at once Louison Brisot appeared making a passage through the throng,
arrayed with a glow and flash of rich colors, and looking proudly
beautiful. Her eyes roved around the Assembly, and settled on
Robespierre, who was looking at her with the changeful glitter of a
serpent in his eyes. Louison met this look with an almost imperceptible
bend of the head. Mirabeau saw it, and the bold heart quailed within
him.

At last Louison’s eyes fell upon his face, which was turned anxiously
upon her. She gave him no signal. She did not even smile, but turned her
back, and began talking airily with one of his bitterest enemies. Now
and then he caught her glance turned on him from under her long
eyelashes, as if she enjoyed his anxiety. Then he cursed the woman in
his heart, but more bitterly cursed his own folly for leaving the means
of his destruction in her power.

The business of the Assembly went on—dull routine business, which no one
cared about, and was inexpressibly irksome to Mirabeau, whose bold
spirit was always restive under delay, even when action might injure
himself. Through all these details he could now and then hear the voice
and bold, ringing laugh of Louison, bandying jests with his enemies. The
sound made him desperate, but, for the first time he felt some respect
for the woman who had so adroitly outwitted him—inordinate self-love
would not permit him to despise her after this display of her ability.

At last a voice was heard asking leave for a privileged question; and
Robespierre stood up, speaking in low, hesitating accents, but growing
stronger as a dead silence fell upon the Assembly after his first words.

Mirabeau turned in his seat, and listened, smiling, while each point of
the charges made against him came in terse, bitter words from the man he
had, for a long time, despised and ridiculed. How sharply and with what
telling simplicity they fell upon his ear.

Count Mirabeau, a member of that Assembly, was charged with betraying
the people’s trust, inasmuch as he had entered into a secret league with
the court to throw the nation back into the power of the nobles. While
he professed to seek the liberty of the people, he had all the time been
working against their dearest wishes. He was in constant intercourse
with the king, and more especially with the Austrian woman, who was
known as Queen of France. It would be made clear before the people, that
Count Mirabeau had held repeated interviews with the king, and no longer
ago than in June, had met the queen privately, in her summer-house at
St. Cloud, where he entered into a compact to place the nation in her
power. More than this, Mirabeau had, from first to last, been a
pensioner of the court, and was in the habit of receiving vast sums of
money from the queen, which he expended in such aristocratic and riotous
living as no true patriot would indulge in while the people were
starving around him.

When Robespierre had done reading the carefully prepared charges,
Mirabeau leaned back in his chair and said loud enough to be heard by
all around him,

“Is that all? I thought they would have proven that I was plotting to
blow up the Assembly, and undermine all France with a pound of
gunpowder. The little viper yonder has not half done his work.”

There was more of audacity than courage in this speech, and desperate
anxiety gave a false ring to his voice as he uttered it. Then, with a
slow, arrogant movement, Mirabeau arose to his feet, and asked for the
proofs of these charges, which had been so often hinted or spoken that
they had lost all claim to originality, and were hardly worth answering,
even when brought seriously before that august body. Of course citizen
Robespierre did not expect him to answer accusations so loosely made,
when unsupported by proof. Even that must be from persons, and of a
character beyond question, if he deigned to notice it, even by a verbal
contradiction.

“The proof!” exclaimed Robespierre, in his sharp, disagreeable voice.
“Stand forth, citoyenne Brisot, and let the people know how grossly they
have been deceived. Answer: Did you not, in June last, see this man,
Count Mirabeau, in company with Marie Antoinette, in a temple hidden
away in the romantic grounds of St. Cloud? Did you not hear them make a
solemn compact together, which was to chain France once more to the
throne. Citoyenne Brisot, show to the people and their representatives
that letter addressed to the queen, in the handwriting, and bearing the
signature of Count Mirabeau, which is now in your possession. Citoyens,
there is no time for such forms of investigation as usually follow
charges like these; extraordinary circumstances call for extraordinary
measures. I move that these proofs are laid before you now—and that
citoyenne Brisot have permission to speak.”

Mirabeau arose, smiling, and begged that it might be so.

Then, amid some confusion, Louison was called. She came out from the
group of women who had crowded around her, somewhat excited, and with a
light laugh upon her lips.

“What is it,” she said, demurely casting down her eyes, “that citoyen
Robespierre desires of me?”

“The letter, Louison—the letter!”

The Assembly was hushed; no sound arose but a rustle in the galleries,
as people in the crowd leaned eagerly over each other.

Mirabeau turned white in his chair. Even his fierce bravery could not
hold its own against the awful anxiety of the moment. His enemies saw
this, and murmurs of irrepressible triumph began to arise.

“The letter, citoyen Robespierre?” said Louison, lifting her eyebrows
with a look of innocent astonishment, “there must be some mistake—I have
no letter.”

Robespierre fell into his seat, and sat staring at the girl in wild
astonishment. Mirabeau leaned back in his chair, drew a deep breath, and
laughed. A roar of applause swept down from the galleries. This was
answered back by the women on the floor, and carried into the street,
where it ran like wild-fire among the people who could find no room
inside.

Louison cast one brilliant glance at Mirabeau, allowed a glow of
triumphant mischief to flash over her face, and, quick as lightning,
veiled her eyes again. Robespierre saw the glance, and a hiss of rage
came through his shut teeth. Louison caught his venomous eyes, and
shuddered.




                            CHAPTER XCVIII.
                A THANKLESS LOVER AND HOSTS OF ENEMIES.


Once more Mirabeau was triumphant. The malice of his enemies had lifted
him still higher in the estimation of the people who gloried more than
ever in their idol. Louison shared in the popular favor. The fair maid
of Liege had never been an object of more admiring attention. She
gloried in the act which proved her devotion to Mirabeau, but had made
her bitter enemies, whom she believed herself strong enough to scorn.
She managed to draw near Mirabeau, who greeted her with a glowing smile.

“Have I done well?” she asked, turning her head.

“More than well,” he answered. “Count on something better than
gratitude.”

“There is but one thing better in the world,” she returned, in a low
voice; “give me that and I am content.”

Before Mirabeau could answer, Marat stood at Louison’s elbow.

“Citoyenne,” he said, with loud coarseness, “you have at least had
courage; but it needs a charmed life to play with vipers. Is yours thus
protected?”

Louison laughed in the man’s face. Was not Mirabeau more powerful than
ever. Had not she made him so?

“I understand,” said Marat, nodding his rough head; “but one life does
not hold all France. Mad love has made you blind. Citoyenne, for one
false man you have cut down an army of friends. Wait, and see.”

Louison turned upon this uncouth man, who seemed to have come fresh from
a stable, with disdain in her eyes. Just then renewed shouts went up for
Mirabeau.

“Hear that, citoyen, and tell me if there is one among you the people
love so. When there is, let that man threaten me. Bah! How mean and
small you are beside him!”

Marat turned his coarse, evil face upon her. There was something more
than a threat in that look; but Louison was too haughty in her triumph
even to regard it. She saw Mirabeau walking toward his seat, firm,
erect, and carrying himself like a monarch. Her eyes followed him
eagerly, and her heart swelled as his enemies shrunk away into their
places, beaten down by the storm of popular rejoicing that they had
failed in bringing anything but baseless charges against the supreme
idol of the hour. These men hated Mirabeau with bitter jealousy and
unconquerable distrust; but this feeling was nothing to the burning rage
and venomous repulsion with which Louison had inspired them. She had
dared to lead them into a grave error, cover them with the ridicule of
defeat, and scoff at their indignation. But a day of reckoning was sure
to come.

Louison cared nothing for this. Her idol was triumphant. By the act of
that day she had chained him to her and placed him more firmly than ever
in the hearts of the people. In his triumph hers was complete.

That night Mirabeau sought Louison at her lodgings. The peril he had
escaped brought a feeling of gratitude even into his selfish heart. In
her jealous rage she had thrust him into danger; but a gentle word of
affection had brought him out of it triumphantly, honored with double
strength, and a victor over the most relentless enemies that ever
pursued a man to ruin.

Louison came to meet him, radiant, with both hands extended, and wild
triumph in her eyes.

“Now tell me—could the queen have done so much for you?”

“The queen? Nay; she would rather see Mirabeau dead, save that he may be
useful. Why speak of her, Louison? I came only to talk of yourself—you
have made many enemies to-day.”

“Enemies? Yes, I know it. What then—are you not stronger than ever? And
I—have I not Mirabeau?”

The count reached out his hand and wrung hers.

“Who will defend you with his last breath.”

“And love me till then?”

A soft, pleading light came into her eyes; for the moment this brave,
bad woman was humble and tender as a child.

Mirabeau gave an impatient movement of the head. This talk of love from
her lips was like a proffer of dead flowers. Anything else he would give
her—but not that. Even in his supreme danger, the night before, a
semblance of the passion had been irksome—now it seemed impossible.

“Ask Mirabeau how he will act, and he can tell you; but feeling is
another thing, my friend.”

Louison’s eyes filled with questioning disappointment. Was he failing
her so soon?

“There, there! I meant nothing that should drive all that light from
your face. No woman has ever stood by me as you have done. Mirabeau may
be faithless to his loves—people say that he is. But who ever charged
him with desertion of a friend, much less one who has served him as you
have done?”

Louison heard him, and her great eyes filled with tearful reproach.

“Ah, Mirabeau! you never loved me!”

“On my soul I did, but that was when——”

Now her eyes were raised to his with wistful questioning, which made him
break off in the cruel thing he was saying.

“When?”

“When I looked upon you only as a woman.”

“Only as a woman! When I have done so much for France—so much for you.
This is hard, it is ungrateful.”

“Yes, I think it is; but not the less true. Men have strong sympathies,
firm friendships, sometimes high reverence, for each other, but no love;
that we give to women.”

Louison’s lip curved an instant, but a quiver of pain took all the scorn
from it.

“And that you can never give to me? What have I done?”

“Too much, my friend. The pride of manhood revolts at a false position.
Had you craved care, Mirabeau would have protected you.”

“Ah! I understand. You aspire to protect the queen. She is ready to be
cared for, and, perhaps, loved.”

“I hardly think she would amuse herself with an execution.”

“And you blame me for rejoicing when an enemy of France falls. You call
upon us women for help, and then despise us that we listen.”

“No, no! Only I do not usually betake myself to the scaffold when I have
love to bestow. Cannot you see a difference?”

“These are dainty distinctions, which a woman of the people is not
expected to know. One cannot be a patriot and helpless,” answered
Louison, whose hot temper was beginning to kindle fiercely under the
keen disappointment that man had brought upon her. “As for me, I give
love for love, and hate for hate.”

“Ah! but you and I will have nothing to do with either, for both are
dangerous. I did not come here to talk of such bitter and frail things;
but to announce danger.”

“A new one—to you or to me?”

“For myself, I have so many enemies, that half a dozen, more or less, is
of little consequence—that would not have moved me in the least.”

“Then it is for me?”

“This was a grand but dangerous day for you, Louison—for it made my
enemies yours, and they are counted by hundreds.”

“This morning I did not fear them, having you; but now I stand alone.”

“Not while Mirabeau lives. This is what I came to say—let us have done
with all meaner things. We are fellow patriots, given to one
purpose—comrades in a glorious cause. A great future lies before
France—you will stand by me while I work it out?”

Louison was pale and drooping, all the womanliness in her nature was
wounded unto death. He left nothing before her now but a man’s ambition.
Well, that was better than nothing.

“Nay, I will not stand by and watch your struggles, but help you as I
did yesterday,” she answered, proudly.

“That was bravely done; but such occasions do not repeat themselves
often. The strongest woman that ever lived is but a weak man when she
unsexes herself.”

Louison turned upon him with a burst of her own fierce rage.

“You leave me nothing,” she said.

“Yes, liberty!”

“But equality is the great war cry here. Is that to be denied because I
am a woman?”

“Yes,” answered Mirabeau, thoughtfully. “There is no equality between
men and women—nature forbids it. They are better and worse than each
other. The woman who seeks it loses all the delicacy of her own nature,
but never attains a man’s strength. No, Louison, there is no equality.”




                             CHAPTER XCIX.
                       FETE IN THE CHAMP DE MARS.


On the fourteenth of July, 1790, the city of Paris resolved to
commemorate the taking of the Bastille, and all France was invited to
rejoice with those who had laid this mighty fortress in ruins.

From a surface of two hundred thousand square miles came thousands on
thousands of dusty and tired travelers, moving toward the capital,
singly and in delegations, shouting hymns to liberty under the burning
rays of a July sun.

These men came from the foot of the Alps, crowned with eternal snows;
from the deep valleys of the Pyrenees, and the rugged regions of
Cevinnes and Auvergne; from the low dreary lands washed by the waters of
the Atlantic, and from the iron-bound coast of Bretagne. They came from
the valley of the Rhone, where ancient Rome has left its imperishable
monuments, and the vine-clad hills of Garonne; from the broad bosom of
the Loire, and the banks of the Seine; from the forests of Ardennes;
from the plains of Picardy and Artois; from every corner in France the
people came forth rejoicing to join the grand jubilee at Paris.

The people of the city were making noble preparations for their
patriotic guests. The grand ovation was to be given in the Champ de
Mars, a large, open space lying between the military school and the
Seine. The ground was turned into an amphitheatre by removing the earth
from the center, and piling it around the circumference, forming it into
seats of turf, tier above tier, until a space was secured larger by many
times than the arenas old Rome ever gave to her gladiators.

Twelve thousand men worked day and night in this arena, but the
impatience of the people was greater than their efforts. So the
Parisians fell to work themselves. Men and women, rich and poor, priests
and soldiers, came in sections, with banners and music, spades and
barrows, to work while the day lasted. When the signal was given, they
returned home singing and dancing by the light of their torches.

Before the day appointed the great amphitheatre was complete. In front
of the military school was stretched a noble awning of purple cloth,
ornamented with golden _fleur de lis_, and under this glittered the
royal throne, with seats for the president of the Assembly and the
deputies. In the center of the amphitheatre the people had built an
altar ascended by broad steps, from which a great cross rose toward
heaven with solemn significance.

At six o’clock on the fourteenth two grand spectacles were witnessed in
Paris. The morning was cloudy, and the rain came down in torrents, but
this had no power to check the enthusiasm of the people. They filled the
streets by thousands on thousands, and the sun, had it shone that day,
would have poured its light on more than three hundred thousand citizens
seated patiently in the Champ de Mars, waiting for the ceremonies which
were to commemorate their first great step toward the freedom they never
learned how to use or keep. In the vast space on which they looked,
fifty thousand soldiers were gathered, while three hundred priests, in
white surplices and broad, tri-colored sashes, slowly surrounded the
altar.

Beyond all this arose a second and more noble amphitheatre, of which the
Champ de Mars was the center, Montmartre, St. Cloud, Mudon, and Sevres,
swept in grand panorama around the basin in which Paris stands. Nearer
yet, the quay of Chailet and the heights of Passy were crowded with
eager spectators.

But at the sight of the Bastille a still more exciting scene presented
itself. There, federates from eighty-three districts of France, each
with the banner of its department, had assembled, prepared to march
forth and meet their brethren of Paris, who waited for them at the Champ
de Mars. Deputations from troops of the line, and sailors from the royal
navy, were ready with drums, trumpets, and banners, to escort them
through the city, in all the pomp of a grand military display.

Lafayette, mounted on a superb war steed and surrounded by a brilliant
staff, took the lead, and the deputations defiled out from the Place de
Bastille, amid the roar of cannon and the clash of military music which
thrilled all Paris with expectation. From the ruined stronghold these
guests of the nation poured into the streets and met a wild, riotous
welcome as they passed. Black clouds gathered over them like the smoke
of a hostile army, the rain came down in torrents, and the streets were
ankle deep in mud; but all this was overborne by the unconquerable
enthusiasm of a people who would read no evil omen in a lowering sky,
and scarcely felt the torrents of rain that beat upon their heads as
they crowded the pavement, the windows, and the house tops, to cheer
their guests as they moved through the city.

At the Place Louis Quinze, the Assembly joined the procession which
swept on with this vast stream of riotous human life, and merged itself,
as great rivers seek the ocean, in the crowds already assembled at the
Camp de Mars. Here thousands on thousands greeted them with a roar of
welcome to which the boom of the cannon was but a hoarse accompaniment.

The king of France, with the queen, the dauphin, and such members of the
court as still remained in Paris, entered the tent erected for them, and
seated themselves under the purple canopy. They were greeted with a roar
of artillery and wild shouts of welcome which must have, indeed, seemed
a cruel mockery to a monarch who had been forced there to witness his
own humiliation.

It was pitiful to see that forced smile on the proud lip of the queen,
more pitiful even than the grave, sad face of her royal husband, who
looked around at this vast concourse of people, guided, as he keenly
felt, by his enemies, with a thrill of unutterable anguish. There was no
sympathy with the scene among the courtiers, who regarded with grave
anxiety, or scarcely suppressed scorn, the insane joy of a people whom
they had been taught to despise, and were beginning to fear. The scene
filled them with mingled apprehension and contempt.

Then three hundred priests in snow-white surplices and broad tri-colored
sashes gathered close around the altar.

All was still now, for the Bishop of Autun was performing mass, and the
people of France had not yet learned to scoff at all religion; so the
voices of prayer, and the smoke of censors, rose up from the midst of
that vast multitude in holy union, and for a little time, half a million
of tumultuous revelers bowed before the cross of Christ, which arose
sublimely in their midst.

When the mass was ended, the bishop lifted the oriflame of France on
high, and blessed it with a solemnity that awoke a throb of hope in the
heart of the queen; after this he blessed the banners of eighty-three
departments, and laid them down amid a glorious burst of music from
twelve hundred musicians, who ended the solemn service with the Te Deum.

Now the military crowded up to the altar; both land and sea forces
flooding the sacred structure with superb coloring and rich flashes of
gold. Lafayette led the staff of the Paris militia, and upon the crowded
altar swore, in behalf of the troops and the federations, to be faithful
to the nation, the laws, and the king. The murmur of this sacred oath
ran from lip to lip till it had been echoed and re-echoed by the great
multitude.

Then King Louis arose, pale and firm, with the dignity of a monarch, and
the feelings of a martyr. Standing in front of his throne, he swore to
maintain the constitution and laws which had already been accepted. As
he finished, the queen came to his side, with the dauphin, a fair,
smiling boy, in her arms. With a gleam of maternal pride she presented
him to the people, and said with touching pathos, appealing to them
through her motherhood,

“See, my son, he joins with myself in the oath his father has taken.”

These words were drowned by a burst of enthusiasm, loyal at least for
the moment; and almost for the last time in her life, Marie Antoinette
heard voices from every part of France shouting, “_Vive le Roi! Vive la
reine! Vive le dauphin!_” Her heart throbbed, her beautiful eyes filled
with tears, her face brightened into youth again. She turned her look
upon the king and smiled—the dear old music of popular praise had never
touched her so keenly as now. She had taken Mirabeau’s advice, and in
good faith made an effort to assimilate with the people, who once loved
her so well. She wore no jewels, her dress was simple and matronly, but,
with that beautiful boy in her arms, she looked more royal than ever.

Then commenced a scene of indescribable hilarity. The crowd broke up,
marching and dancing to wild bursts of music. Men and women defiled
before the royal balcony, tossing words of endearment to the queen with
airs of intense patronage. They called that beautiful woman by a hundred
coarse and caressing names, and hurled advice to her with the gestures
of women feeding poultry. Fishwomen from the market crowded to the
throne, and called her mother, while they insisted upon shaking hands
with the little Dauphin.




                               CHAPTER C.
                      THE QUEEN GIVES UP HER RING.


Marie Antoinette bore this tumultuous scene with the spirit of a martyr;
nay, her own waning hopes had been exhilarated even by this rude homage,
and she was willing to deceive herself into a belief that the people of
France might yet be won to do her justice. So she smiled on the gay
throng that danced and shouted before her, took the child in her lap,
and told him to kiss his little hand to the people who loved him so, and
laughed outright at some of the quaint compliments paid to her beauty.

While she was thus occupied, a group of young girls came into the broken
procession, carrying garlands in their hands, and loose flowers in their
aprons. They were led by a fair and gentle young creature whom the queen
regarded with a glance of pleasant recognition. This girl stepped out
from her companions, approached the throne, and laid her flowers at the
feet of the queen, to whom her great blue eyes were lifted with a look
of touching affection.

Marie Antoinette gathered up the flowers and held them in her lap with
seeming carelessness, but her fingers had searched out the letter they
concealed, and while apparently admiring the blossoms, she read,


“Have I performed my promise? Is the monarchy saved?

                                                              MIRABEAU.”


For answer the queen gathered up some of the flowers, and fastened them
in the lace that shaded her bosom. A flash of light came into the young
girl’s face. She arose, and her sweet lips joined in the song of her
sister flower-girls, who broke into a regular dance, flinging up their
long garlands as they waited for her.

“Long live the king! Long live the queen!”

With this shout ringing sweetly from their fresh lips, the flower-girls
whirled away, waving their garlands, and tossing back loose blossoms to
the steps of the throne.

There was no etiquette in these proceedings; all was wild, and brilliant
confusion. The anarchy which followed was already foreshadowed in the
shouts, dances, and songs, that turned what should have been an august
assembly, into a revel.

After the flower-girls came the federates, full of enthusiasm, and after
them the legislative assembly, in which Mirabeau walked with a step more
haughty than any king of France ever assumed. His bold eyes fell upon
the flushed face of the queen with a look of proud triumph, and the
wonderful smile that made his strong face more than beautiful, swept it
as he saw the flowers on her bosom. These flowers had a language of
thanks that he read at a glance, and felt more keenly than words, for
there was a touch of romance in them that fired his imagination.

The deputations and the assembly passed on; then came a change in the
music, a hush, as if something of unusual interest were approaching.
This dead silence was broken by low murmurs, more thrilling than shouts,
while the thousands that still remained in the Champ de Mars surged
around the altar and crowded toward the throne.

It was only seven men, bowed, thin, white-haired, and broken, who came
slowly forward from a seat they had occupied, and with faltering steps,
were about to pass before the throne.

The color fled from Marie Antoinette’s face when she saw this pitiful
band of men, some old without years to make them so, all with a look of
broken-hearted apathy in their eyes, ready to pass before the throne
like ghosts calling for judgment. The king turned white, and a spasm of
pain shot athwart his face. The nobles, who stood behind the throne,
shrunk back, casting glances of sudden apprehension on each other. They
need not have dreaded those poor broken men, for grief and privation had
made them weak as little children. If any expression appeared upon their
wan faces, it was that of vague, wondering gratitude toward the king,
who saw them free, and made no protest.

The court of France was gathered, like ghosts, about the throne, upon
which a shrinking king and queen sat, while the live shadows of an
ancient despotism crept toward them with downcast faces, and steps that
faltered in their walking.

Then a look of infinite pity came into the king’s face, and clasping his
hands, like one who inwardly asks forgiveness of God for sins not
altogether his own, he bowed his head upon his breast, and waited for
these ghostly reproaches to pass on. But the queen sat upright, clasping
her child firmly, as if to shield him from the indignant murmurs of the
people, which came fearfully to her ear.

The seven prisoners—for these were all the Bastille contained when it
was torn down—paused an instant before the throne, and one of them
called out, in a broken voice,

“Thanks, sire, that you have made us free!”

The king lifted his head, and these wronged men saw that his eyes were
full of tears. The people who stood nearest saw it, and the vindictive
spirit which had forced this trying scene on their monarch, gave way to
bursts of generous sympathy.

“Down with the Bastille! Long live the king!” burst from a thousand lips
that had been bitter with curses a moment before.

“Down with the Bastille! Long live the king!” rolled back among the
thousands already defiling toward Paris; and that which the extremists
had intended as an insult, was rolled into the most glorious events of
the day.

“Thank God that you are free!” said Louis, in a low voice, that scarcely
reached any one but the queen. She spoke louder, and with generous
enthusiasm.

“There are none among all these thousands who grieve for your
sufferings, or desire their redress more than the king and his wife,”
she said.

A quivering shout broke from those feeble old men; some of them tried to
smile, others began to cry, and one came forward, tottering feebly in
his walk, and with his thin hand outstretched,

“Give it me! If you have pity, give it me! For your own sake, for mine;
for the sake of those who come after us, give me the ring upon your
finger!”

His eyes shone as he spoke; the white beard upon his bosom quivered with
the eager intensity of his words.

The queen hastily took a ring from the starlike jewels that flashed on
her hand, and leaning forward, held it toward the old man.

“Ah! if a ring could atone!” she said, with the brightness of great
sympathy in her eyes, “there is enough for you all!”

“Not that!” said the old man, impatiently shaking his head. “Give me
that other—the golden serpent—the green beetle that has slept in the
tombs of Egypt thousands on thousands of years! Give me that!”

“What, this?” said the queen, looking with a thrill of awe on the tiny,
golden serpent strangling a beetle, which was coiled around one of her
fingers, looking old and weird among her other shining jewels. “It came
to me in a strange way, and I have worn it long. Will no other do? This
is of less worth than any.”

“Give me that!” persisted the old man. “I want no other! Take it from
your finger, lady; the hand is cursed around which that serpent coils!”

How eager he was; how his faded eyes shone and sparkled. He clutched one
thin hand in the silver of his beard, and twisted it in an agony of
impatience.

“Grief has touched his mind,” thought the queen, drawing the ring from
her finger. “After all, why should I care for this more than another,
only because I found it on my toilet years ago, and could never learn
how it came there?”

Still she hesitated and held the ring irresolute. There seemed to be a
fascination about the antique gem that troubled every one who touched
it. The prisoner’s hands began to quiver, and his eyes grew keen as a
serpent’s. Inch by inch he crept nearer to the throne, with the look of
a man who meant to seize upon his prize if it were not readily given up.

“Give it to me! Give it to me! Your mother would not have withheld it a
moment!”

“My mother! You speak——”

“Of Maria Theresa—the empress! The great and good empress—my august
sovereign!”

The queen reached forth her hand and gave him the ring.

He grasped it; he pressed it to his bosom and lifted it to his lips in a
wild passion of delight. It seemed to fire both heart and brain with new
life—to lift a weight from his shoulders, and give vigor to his limbs.
He fell upon his knees before the queen, and pressed the hem of her robe
to his lips, murmuring thanks and blessings in her native language.

“It may be averted! This was a soul, a life to me, but the most venomous
serpent on your hand. It has filled your life with hate and tumult. Be
at rest now, the evil has departed from your house, from you and from
yours.”

The old man arose and stood upright, as if he had been aroused from a
long, dim dream. The unutterable sadness had gone out from his face; he
turned toward his astonished companions smiling.

“The old man is mad,” said Marie Antoinette, leaning toward the king.
“Why should he care for that ring more than another?”

Louis smiled. How could he answer? This scene had made but little
impression on him; and those around only knew that the queen had given a
ring from her own hand to the oldest and most picturesque of the seven
prisoners; but this was enough for a new excitement, and a shout of
“Long live the queen!” broke through the noise of their revelry.




                              CHAPTER CI.
                  ZAMARA IS TEMPTED TO EARN MORE GOLD.


One person in that vast crowd had marked the scene well, and crept close
enough to hear much that was said when Marie Antoinette gave her
scarabee ring to the old prisoner. This was the Indian dwarf Zamara. He
had come to the Champ de Mars in attendance on his mistress who sent him
into that portion of the crowd that he might bring her intelligence of
all that passed near the royal family. He went back to her now with a
gleam in his eyes that she had learned to understand.

“What is it, marmouset? I see that something has happened,” she said,
stooping toward him, as he pulled at the folds of her dress to enforce
attention.

“That ring.”

“What ring?”

“That which you took from the German doctor before he was sent to the
Bastille, and which I laid on the toilet of the queen, that she might
wear it and curse herself forever.”

“Hush! Hush! You speak too loud!” exclaimed the countess, turning pale
with affright.

“The German doctor is one of the seven prisoners.”

“Great heavens, no!”

“I saw him myself, and knew him. One does not forget such eyes.”

“Are you sure, Zamara?”

“Am I ever mistaken? The man has changed, but I knew him at once.”

“But the ring—you said something about the ring?”

“The ring you sent to the queen. Ah! I remember well, madame gave me one
hundred Louis d’ors for that; but she would not take my word, she waited
to see it on the hand of her majesty—that wounded Zamara to the heart.”

“I would give that sum over again to know it had left the queen’s hand,”
said Du Berry.

“Then it is mine, for I saw her take it from her finger and give it to
the prisoner.”

Zamara spoke eagerly, and his black eyes shone with sudden greed. The
one strong passion of his life gleamed up fiercely; deprived of much
else that men crave, the thirst of gain had grown to fearful strength in
him.

The countess shook her head. She had no great trust in the word of her
little slave.

“Ah! the greedy little monster,” she said, with a contemptuous laugh;
“he expects me to believe him, and pay him, too, as if Louis d’ors were
as plenty with me now as he found them when we lived at the Trianon.”

“But I saw the ring in his hand.”

“Perhaps! But I did not.”

“But you believe me?”

“Believe you! Ah, marmouset! you and I know each other too well.”

The countess touched her slave upon the head with her fan, and laughed
provokingly, for she still loved to torment the little creature, it
brought back a flavor of her old life.

The Indian ground his teeth and looked down, that she might not see the
gladiator-fire in his eyes. She laughed and gave him a smart rap over
the ear with her fan.

“Take that, for daring to grind your teeth at me!”

The dwarf gave her one glance, sharp and venomous, that would have
terrified a stranger; but madame only laughed the louder, and gave him
another blow across the forehead, leaving a mark of dusky scarlet there,
which girdled it like a ribbon.

Then, in his impotent rage, the little creature stamped his foot upon
the ground, and stooping suddenly, tore her silken robe with his teeth,
at which she laughed again, beating him off with vigorous blows, as if
he had been an unruly dog. It was not till she saw great tears in his
black eyes that she ceased to torment him. Then she held out her hand,
still laughing.

But the dwarf drew back in sullen wrath.

“Come, come! I will have no sulking!” cried the woman, half angry
herself, for she had no dignity of character to lift her above the
creature she so loved to torment. “Tell me more about the ring. If what
you say is true, I shall not mind giving you a handful of gold.”

“But how can I prove it? You will not believe me.”

“Ah, yes! there is a difficulty! Cannot you persuade the old man to lend
it to you for any hour. I should know the ring in an instant.”

A gleam of light shot into Zamara’s eyes.

“You would like to have it again?” he said, quickly.

“Heaven forbid! Why, marmouset, it was because the ring was said to
carry ruin with it to any but the hand of its owner that I had it placed
in the way of the queen. She was Dauphiness then, you know, and I had
not learned how forgiving and generous she could be. That act has given
me many an hour of pain since; and I would gladly give twice the gold
you crave to be certain that she is well rid of it.”

“And you will yet pay as much?”

“Yes; but I must see the ring with my own eyes.”

The dwarf began to rub his small hands slowly together.

“One hundred Louis d’ors. You said a hundred?”

“Why, what a greedy wretch it is. One would think he eats gold.”

“One cannot eat without gold,” answered the dwarf, with a grim attempt
at wit, which came awkwardly through his old anger. “Besides, what would
Zamara be without gold if he lost his mistress?”

Du Berry grew red in the face; to her the very mention of death was
worse than an insult.

“But your mistress is well. She is not old, but strong, and bright, and
young as ever,” she said, sharply. “She will outlive you, minion, a
hundred years. Hoard gold, if it makes you happy, little wretch, but
never tell me again, that it is because you expect to be alone. I could
brain you with my fan for the idea.”

Zamara laughed; the thoughts of so much gold had restored his
good-humor.

“Wait till I have brought you the ring, mistress; but tell me first what
it is which makes this twisted gold of so much importance?”

“Why ask me? Have you no memory? You heard this Dr. Gosner say that it
was endowed with strange mystic powers, bringing happiness and
prosperity to all and any of his blood, but continued misfortune to the
stranger that ventured to wear it. From his account it must be a
talisman of wonderful power. But you remember it all, for it was not
often that any conversation passed at the Trianon which you did not
manage to hear.”

“I remember what this Dr. Gosner said, and I had the ring in my hand,”
answered the dwarf; “but there is time enough to find out what it
means.”

“One thing is certain,” said Du Berry, thoughtfully; “the poor queen has
had little but misfortune since it touched her finger. I wish we had let
it alone.”

The woman arose from the turf seat she had occupied and prepared to move
after the crowd which had by this time swarmed into the streets, leaving
the great altar, with its incense, and the throne, with its rich
draperies, desolate and empty.

As the countess and her strange attendant passed out of the Champ de
Mars, they came suddenly upon the prisoner of the Bastille, who turned
his eyes upon them at first with listless indifference, but directly a
quick fire of intelligence shot into them, and he moved forward,
evidently intending to address the woman who had so ruthlessly torn the
very heart of his life out. But, with the vigilance of fear, Madame Du
Berry darted behind a group of revelers passing that moment, and thus
evaded the person she most dreaded on earth.




                              CHAPTER CII.
                           A LOVERS’ QUARREL.


Still many persons lingered, singly and in groups, around the vast
amphitheatre, from which the green turf was half trodden away. Among
them were two old women and the young girl, who had lavished all her
flowers at the feet of the queen. The girl was sitting quietly in her
seat, looking depressed and rather sad; something, or, perhaps, some
person whom she expected to see, had evidently disappointed her, and she
was still reluctant to go, probably from the fact that some little hope
still lay unquenched in her innocent bosom.

The two women, Dame Tillery, of Versailles, and Dame Doudel, were
discussing some point with great earnestness.

“If you must go, why, of course, I will walk with you as far as the
donkey cart—it were unsisterly to let you set forth alone. But
Marguerite is tired, you can see that by her face, poor thing! Let her
rest here till I come back.”

Dame Tillery, whose generous proportions had spread and bloomed into
more pompous splendor since the reader first made her acquaintance,
consented to this arrangement, and taking that fair young face between
both her hands, kissed it with unctuous tenderness.

“Be a good child, my dear, and never forget what has been done for you.
Thousands of people saw her majesty smile upon you from her throne this
day, and put the flowers you gave into her own bosom; but they did not
know that it was because the person understood to be your friend, once
had the honor of saving her majesty from a terrible death, and has since
been honored by a place in the royal household. No doubt, child, when
her majesty took your flowers, she remembered the golden butter these
hands have prepared for her table. But I am talking here when every hour
is precious, if I expect to reach home before nightfall. Come, sister
Doudel, I would gladly wait longer, but some of these deputations will
be making their way through Versailles; and since the court came to
Paris, The Swan has lost so much of its custom that one must look
sharply lest strangers pass its door. Do not be afraid, little one, my
sister will soon return.”

Dame Doudel had been waiting some minutes for this harangue to be
completed, and the moment her pompous sister paused for breath, she
moved away, leaving Marguerite quite alone.

The moment this young girl felt herself safe from observation, she gave
way to the sad disappointment that had been slowly settling around her
during the last half-hour. One sweet hope had haunted her ever since she
left home that day. She might see that being who had become all the
world to her. For weeks on weeks he seemed to have disappeared out of
her life. She had haunted the ruins of the Bastille, persuading herself,
poor child, that it was only to comfort that old man who still clung to
his ruined cell there, but all the time of her sweet ministrations, she
had listened for that footstep among the stones, and listened in vain.
Then she would go home sadly, with tears in her eyes, creep up to her
little room, and think herself grieving over the forlorn condition of
that good man to whom liberty had been given when it was only a burden.

If Marguerite went out in the morning with her sweet merchandise of
flowers, for an hour or so, her step would be elastic, and her eyes
bright with hope. When a stranger spoke to her quickly, she would start
and catch her breath, thinking for an instant that it was his voice, for
in that unexpected way he had often addressed her. But when the hours
wore on, a gentle sadness crept over her childlike features, and she
would turn homeward with a weight upon her heart, wondering if any one
on this earth was ever so unhappy before.

Marguerite had seen Mirabeau once or twice, and trusted him entirely,
because he was a friend of the royal family which it was a part of her
religion to reverence, and he was the foster-brother of Monsieur
Jacques. Besides, his age compared to her youth, seemed that of an old
man, and he had never shocked her by any attempt to lessen the distance
between them.

At this time Mirabeau was occupied both in his imagination and his
ambition by the influence he had gained, with so much trouble, over the
queen. His indomitable vanity had writhed under her haughty disregard of
himself and his power so long, that to win a conquest over her dislike,
inspired all his hopes, and rekindled his waning genius. To him
Marguerite was only a pretty messenger, whose sweetness and beauty
seemed a fitting link between himself and the only woman who had ever
presumed to scorn him.

Marguerite delivered Mirabeau’s note to the queen, and after that broke
away from her companions, for she had no heart for those graceful dances
and gay songs. In all that bright assembly he had not appeared. Was he
angry? Had he forgotten her? Would they never, never meet again?

As she asked herself these questions her head drooped, her hands clasped
themselves in her lap, and tears dropped slowly from her eyes. She did
not restrain them; her protectors were gone, and there was no one else
who cared to regard her; at least the freedom of grief was hers.

“Marguerite!”

The young creature started with a faint shriek—that voice came so
suddenly upon her. Then her face sparkled with smiles, and lifting her
eyes she said, with girlish emotion,

“Oh, monsieur! how you frightened me!”

That man had seen the girl before him leave the house of Count Mirabeau,
the most profligate man in Paris, alone, and after nightfall. He knew
that some mysterious link drew those two people together, yet, looking
in that face so fair, dimpling with smiles, bright with sudden joy, how
could he think ill of her. The suspicions that had haunted him for
weeks, now seemed like poisonous reptiles which it was a relief to
trample under foot.

“Marguerite, are you glad to see your friend again?”

A grave, sweet sadness chased the smiles from that sensitive mouth.
Those eyes, in all their innocent blue, were turned upon him
reproachfully.

“Ah, monsieur! why have you never asked before?”

“I have been very, very busy.”

“It is not I so much,” answered the girl, with an innocent attempt to
screen the secret throbbing, like a pulse, in her heart, “but my father,
who loves you so. Night after night you have left him alone—and it is so
desolate there; besides, you never come to the house now, and mamma is
away so much.”

The young man smiled; like a bird which betrays the nest it would
protect by its fluttering, Marguerite revealed the fact that she still
kept true to the old haunt, and waited for him there, perhaps,
unconscious that she was doing so.

“I will not leave him so long again—you must beg him to pardon me. But
first, Marguerite, can you forgive me yourself?”

Marguerite shook her head, and her lips began to quiver.

“It was very, very wrong to leave the poor man so many weeks; the
thought of it makes me sad.”

“But you went to see him every day,” said the young man, thirsting to
hear the fact from her own lips;—“sometimes he was with you at home.”

“Yes; but then I am only a girl, you know—he is old and feeble. To lead
him is the work of a strong, brave man. Ah! he missed you, monsieur! You
and I are the only persons who have his secret. We must be very, very
good to him.”

The young man sat down on the turf seat close by the girl, and looking
earnestly in her face, asked a question he almost scorned himself for
framing.

“Marguerite, will you answer me one thing?”

“Anything—that is, almost anything.”

“What took you to the house of Count Mirabeau on the thirteenth of last
month?”

Marguerite looked at him surprised; then a slow, earnest expression came
over her face, and she answered calmly,

“That is one of the things I must tell no one.”

“You confess to having secrets, then.”

“Yes, I confess it; just one or two, which I am to keep sacred.”

“Not from Count Mirabeau?”

“There is no need—he knows it himself.”

“Marguerite.”

The girl started. That voice had never spoken her name so sharply
before.

“Monsieur, are you angry with me?”

“Will you tell me what this secret is?”

“Why do you ask?”

“Why, girl, because I love you myself wildly, like a fool and madman.”

“Love me, me—love me yet; can this be true? Then why did you keep away
so long?”

“I love you, child, and have, since the day we first met. Even then,
Marguerite, I hoped that you might return my love with a feeling beyond
gratitude, which I had not earned, by a simple act of humanity.”

“I—I told you that it was love more than gratitude; but you doubted me
after I had said that.”

“How could I help doubting? With my own eyes, I saw you enter that man’s
dwelling.”

“Yes, I went in. I saw him.”

“And you will not tell me why you went?”

Marguerite shook her head with a faint smile.

“That would be impossible.”

“Why impossible? You can have no interests in common with that
unprincipled man?”

“Unprincipled!”

“A man stained with every social crime.”

Marguerite’s eyes opened wide. A look of profound astonishment swept
over her features.

“I did not know this—how should I? The people adore this man.”

“The people? What do they care for those qualities which make a good
man?”

“But the people are great. The people are France, and France is
everything.”

“You have learned his language.”

“No; I learned it from you. That is why it sounds so sweet to me.”

“Marguerite, tell me what this secret is. You thrill me with delight,
and kindle suspicion at the same moment. Trust me.”

“Indeed—indeed, I can trust no one.”

Marguerite shrunk back from him, and held out both hands, with the palms
outward, as if to protect herself from severe questioning.

He seized her hands and held them firmly.

“One thing—one word. Has Count Mirabeau ever spoken of love to you?”

“To me. No! No, a thousand times no!”

“But you visit him?”

“Yes.”

“With the consent of dame Doudel? of your mother perhaps?”

“They know nothing of it.”

“And this is all you will tell me?”

“Yes, it is all. Monsieur, a moment ago you said, ‘Trust me.’ I now say,
trust _me_.”

“I will—I do!” exclaimed the young man, pressing her hands to his lips;
“only say to me one word that my heart is thirsting to hear again, that
one word, ‘I love you! I love you—and no one else!’”

“Marguerite laid her hands together, and holding them toward him, said,
with that seriousness which springs from exquisite truth,

“I love you, and no one else!”

This scene had been passing in that grand amphitheatre, amid the dying
music and the tread of departing feet. Still it was a solitude, for no
one, so far as they could see, was near the seats they occupied, and the
whole world was a blank to them.




                             CHAPTER CIII.
                        PERFECT RECONCILIATION.


St. Just and Marguerite were so completely absorbed in each other, that
they did not observe a group of gayly-dressed women, with bright ribbons
streaming from their garments, who came laughing and dancing into the
arena, chasing each other up the steps of the abandoned altar, and
whirling off into the open space, while snatches of patriotic songs
broke from their lips, now in chorus, and again full of riotous discord.

Scenes like this had been too frequent that day for any especial
interest to be granted them, and the lovers scarcely heeded this one in
the ecstasy of their renewed happiness. Marguerite, unmindful that she
was seen, held out her hands in childlike earnestness, the young man
seized them, and covered them with kisses.

One of the dancers separated from the rest, and leaping from one turf
seat to another, came softly down behind the lovers, laughing quietly,
and with a finger to her lips, as a sign that her companions should keep
up their revel, and leave her to the mischief in hand.

The young man, feeling her shadow upon him, looked up suddenly. A frown
crept over his face, and he motioned the woman away with his hand. But
Louison Brisot was not a person who could be intimidated by a look or an
imperious gesture. She gave a leap, and sat down at the feet of
Marguerite, laughing.

Marguerite recognized her face, and uttering a cry of dread, clung to
the young man, trembling violently.

There was a touch of malice in Louison’s laugh now, for she hated the
poor girl, whom her voice alone had the power to terrify.

“Ho! ho! citoyen St. Just. Are you here with this white-faced cheat?
What if I tell of this at the Jacobins to-night?”

“Tell it where and how you please,” answered the young man, starting up,
and half lifting the frightened girl from the turf. “I answer to no man
or woman for the way in which I spend my time.”

“Do you know how she spends her time, and where? Ask Count Mirabeau.
Watch his door in the Chausee d’Antin, and see who creeps in and out
like a cat.”

Marguerite cast a wild, piteous look at St. Just. She knew this woman,
and her terror was complete.

“Ask her if she, born of the people, is not an aristocrat at heart; a
traitoress, a——”

“Hush!” commanded St. Just; and his beautiful face became fierce and
stormy with indignation. “With those foul lips dare you revile the
angels? Come away, Marguerite, the atmosphere is poisoned around us.”

Louison Brisot started up pale and fierce with the sting of his words.
She cast a withering glance, first upon St. Just, then upon the
trembling young creature by his side. The laugh was gone from her face,
bitter envy made her look fierce and old. She turned from them in
silence, more threatening than her most boisterous words, and stepping
cautiously from seat to seat, left them.

St. Just turned to the young girl, who saw her enemy disappear with
strained eyes and aching heart.

“Marguerite! Marguerite!” he cried, gently disturbed, “how is this?
Surely, you are not afraid of that brazen amazon?”

“Afraid? No, no, it is not that,” faltered the girl. “It is her words
that still tremble in my heart.”

“Her words! What harm can they do you or me? They were only insolent
bravado.”

“She called you by a name. She seemed to threaten you with harm?”

“Yes. What then?”

“Ah, monsieur! you are a member of the Assembly, and she boasts of her
power there.”

“Yes, the youngest man in that august body, but not young enough to be
afraid of this woman.”

“She is the friend of Robespierre?”

“Robespierre is an honest man, frugal, moral, a true patriot.”

“And of Marat?”

“That brutal man is useful to France, and will not become my enemy.”

“Let me go home,” pleaded the girl; “my heart aches, I am faint.”

“Marguerite, my poor child, do not look so miserably pale. Has that
accursed woman driven the smile from your face forever?”

“Forever! Oh, my God! this is hard! You are the queen’s enemy if these
men are your friends!”

“Marguerite, you drive me wild. What does this mean? I have said with my
whole heart that I love you.”

“Notwithstanding the secret in my heart?”

“Foolish child, you have no secret. I guess it all now. You love the
queen?”

“With all my life—all my soul!”

“And the king?”

“The king also; but you, monsieur, are the enemy of both.”

“This is not all your secret. Count Mirabeau has sold himself to the
court.”

Marguerite was silent.

“He has held communication with the queen, and a little girl that I know
of was his messenger.”

“Who has dared to say this?”

“I will tell you. Dame Doudel is my friend.”

“Ah, yes!”

“Dame Tillery is her sister. Think you she could visit St. Cloud and not
tell all the particulars?”

Marguerite almost smiled.

“Besides, this woman Brisot was a spy upon you, and brought her news to
Robespierre, who told it to his friends. She denied it all afterward,
but that did not change our belief.”

Marguerite looked bewildered. St. Just smiled.

“Now where is the secret? Have I not known it and kept silence even when
I suspected more?”

“But you are still a Jacobin—still an enemy to the royal family.”

“What is the meaning of all you have seen here to-day? Have not the
people and their king taken an oath of amity before God and the nation?
Even now you can hear the thunder of the cannon scattering this good
news to the four winds of heaven.”

Marguerite’s face brightened.

“Ah! it is so; in my terror I forget that. The people and the king are
one. I have not committed the sin of loving her enemy.”

Her little hand crept into his, the soft lovelight came into her eyes
again.




                              CHAPTER CIV.
                         A THEFT AND AN INSULT.


That night there was a wild, riotous ball at the site of the Bastille.
The Cour de Government had been cleared and garnished by a thousand busy
hands. Temporary draw-bridges, arched with lighted garlands, were thrown
over the half-drained ditch, dimly reflected in its sluggish waters.
Around the court nine pyramids of light represented the nine awful
towers, which had frowned on Paris more than four hundred years. These
pyramids shed their radiance on a circle of tri-colored tents, each
surmounted by a streaming banner, all chained together by great garlands
of flowers, gorgeous flags, and lights that kindled them like stars. On
each side the draw-bridge two noble pyramids rose forty feet from the
ground, from which thousands of colored lamps ran downward in rivers of
light, quivering, glowing, flinging more than the radiance of noonday on
the gorgeous arena, and kindling up the broken ruins beyond, till their
shadows grew darker than midnight. Between these noble pillars rose an
arch, on which eighty-three flags of the departments of France fluttered
to the night wind, and from the centre fell a mat of flowers, on which
was written in characters of glowing fire, “Here we dance!”

The tents were full; groups stood on the draw-bridges, looking upon the
brilliant scene, with the ruins of the old prison lying blackly behind
them. The arena was thronged with merry dancers; men and women of all
grades and every possible costume mingled in that strange scene. From a
great central tent came bursts of music, wild, riotous, and
revolutionary as the people who danced to it. Rude, half-clothed men,
crowned with laurel and oak-leaves, reeled through the dancers; women,
whose very presence there was odious, crowned each other with laurel,
and wheeled in bacchanalian groups around the blazing pillars of fire.

Late at night, when the revel was at its highest, an old man came
through that radiant arch of flowers and flame, and stood for a moment
dazzled by the scene that eddied around him. The crowd outside had
seized him in its current, and breaking at the entrance, left him
stranded there, with the light pouring down upon his broad forehead and
silvery beard with the force of an August sun.

Some women, who were chanting the Marseillaise in the nearest tent,
flocked out at the sight of this august head, shouting, “The prisoner!
The prisoner of the Bastille!” surrounded him in triple rows, and hedged
him in with a chain of wreathing arms.

“Bring us flowers! Bring us wine, laurel, and oak-leaves! Let us crown
the martyr of the Bastille, and pour a libation to liberty. Liberty and
fraternity!”

They forced this old man into the center of the arena, arresting the
dancers with their shouts, and crowding them back with remorseless
enthusiasm. Some leaped up and tore flowers from the swinging festoons;
others snatched laurel from the bacchanalian crowns of their companions.
Almost instantaneously a garland was fastened on the old man’s head, and
a goblet of wine was held to his lips, while the crowd whirled, a human
maelstrom, around him, shouting, singing, and tossing their arms upward
in a tempest of insane delight.

The prisoner stood a moment bewildered. He put aside the wine-cup, which
one of the women held to his lips, but so unsteadily that it reddened
his beard, and taking the laurel wreath from his head, flung it from
him.

“Let me go,” he said, with gentle impatience; “I do not like this.”

They would have kept him by force, but some among the crowd saw that he
was feeble and grew deadly pale; so they forced a passage for him out of
that ring of unsexed women, and allowed the old man to make his own way
through the crowd, across one of the draw-bridges, and into the black
ruins beyond.

After the first impulse no one cared to follow the old man, and,
thinking himself quite unobserved, he crept down into the darkness of
his cell, and called in a soft, broken voice for his little companion,
to which he began whispering something in rapturous haste, as if he
really thought the tiny creature could understand him.

Notwithstanding the old man thought himself alone, there was something
hidden there among the shadows, far more crafty and keen of wit than the
poor little mouse, faithful as it had been.

Close down by the cell, hidden behind a fragment of rock, crouched
Zamara, the dwarf. Hour after hour he had followed the old man with the
vigilance of a hound and the cunning of a fox. At last he had tracked
him to his lair, and heard the low, pathetic words with which he told
his happiness to the little companion, whose sympathy always seemed
ready for him.

“Ah, my little friend! I have such news to tell you; that is right,
creep close into my bosom. It is a warm heart, you will sleep against
to-night. Did I tell you, little one, a great work has been done since
morning? Feel the ring on my finger; do not be afraid, it will not hurt
you. To you and me it is a blessing always. Years and years ago it was
taken from me and put on the hand of a beautiful, good woman, born to
great misfortunes without deserving them. But for this, they could not
have kept me here till the old towers were torn down over our heads; but
for this her bitter enemies would never have prevailed. But I have it
once more, and am strong again—young and strong. See, my hand trembles
no longer. You can sit firmly upon it and look into my face. Is it not
that of a powerful man? Tell me if the blood does not mount into my
cheek? I think so—I think so, for it feels like wine about my heart.
To-morrow, sweetheart, we will set about the great work. It is for us to
save the daughter of my dear old mistress, how I cannot yet see; but my
strength lies here: with this on my finger, I feel it in me to heave
mountains from their base. What, restless, sweetheart? Do you hear some
one? Be quiet, none of those rude people will come here—with all their
floods of light they cannot find us out. What, again? It may be that our
Marguerite is coming—but then how could she get through the revel out
yonder? Hush now: do not attempt to get away. Surely, you are not afraid
of _her_? We must find all this out to-morrow. Now that God has given us
back a great power, no one shall be unhappy. We will make sure of that!”

The old man paused here and seemed to listen; then he spoke again, but
with soft sleepiness, as if the great fatigue of the day were settling
gently down upon his faculties.

“It was nothing. She could not have come to-night, the crowd is so
great. That is well; creep into my bosom—happiness makes me sleepy.”

There was a faint, hushing whisper after this, followed by the regular
breathing of a man in his first sleep.

Full half an hour Zamara sat in the shadows, waiting for a certainty
that the slumber of that old man was profound. Then he arose to his
hands and knees, paused, listened, and crept forward stealthily, like a
fox upon its prey.

The old man was lying upon his back, with one hand folded over his
bosom, the other lay supinely upon the stone floor, just where a gleam
of moonlight cut across it, revealing the golden serpent coiled around
one finger. Zamara touched the ring. It circled the delicate finger
loosely—age and suffering had shrunken that hand almost to a shadow. The
fingers were bent downward: another touch and the ring slipped to the
floor, with a faint click that took away the dwarf’s breath; for an
instant, it disturbed the sleeper, who moved a little, leaving the ring
entirely exposed.

Softly as a cat stretches out its claw, Zamara’s fingers crept toward
his prize and fastened upon it. Then he groveled backward out of the
cell, drew a sharp breath, leaped to his feet, and fled across the
ruins.

A woman sat in one of the tents drinking wine from a horn cup, which one
of the _sans culottes_ had just filled for her from a cask which stood
on one end in front of the tent. A hole had been torn in the top,
through which he thrust the cup, and drew it forth dripping. Three times
he had filled the cup, yet the woman was thirsty, and held it out for
more, with a rollicking laugh, which the dwarf recognized and hated. But
the tent was near the entrance and he was obliged to pass her. In his
confusion he ran against Mirabeau, whose policy it was to show himself
at such popular gatherings, where he usually made great capital by his
familiarity with the lower classes. He was talking to a group of
workmen, who gathered around him, with some earnestness, though his face
bore an expression of intense fatigue, when Zamara was hustled violently
against him by the crowd.

Impatient and suffering from the absolute pain of a disease, which was
making rapid inroads on him, he seized the dwarf with one hand, lifted
him up, pitched him into the crowd, and, turning his back, went on with
what he had been saying.

It happened that the dwarf fell just within the tent where Louison
Brisot sat, and his sudden advent shook the cup in her hand, spilling
the wine upon her; the rest she dashed over him with a rude laugh. The
dwarf struggled to his feet, livid with rage. A word, bitter with coarse
insult, broke from him, and clenching his tiny fist, he shook it
viciously.

“He has not had enough,” cried Louison, addressing the _sans culottes_.
“Do you know who he is, citoyen? Well, you have heard of Madame Du Berry
and her _famillier_? This is her imp.”

The man thus appealed to seized Zamara, without a word dashed his foot
against the head of the wine-cask, and plunged the dwarf in, roaring
with laughter as the red liquid surged over the edges, and crimsoned his
own legs and feet.

A storm of coarse merriment followed this act. The cask was not large
enough to drown the poor wretch, but he was drawn out frenzied with
rage, and dripping from head to foot with the wine some in the crowd
coveted.

Louison went up to him, laughing till she could hardly speak.

“Go back to your mistress,” she said, “and tell her if she lets her imp
loose again among the patriots of France, he will be found the next
morning hung up at some lantern, like a spider caught in its own web.”

Zamara only answered by a look that checked her laughter on the instant.

“The venomous snake,” she muttered, “and I have trodden on him.”

Yes, she had trodden on him, and so had the proud man whose ambition it
was to rule France.




                              CHAPTER CV.
                        THE SECRET OF THE RING.


Zamara left the site of the Bastille, burning with rage. Every step he
took deepened his bitter humiliation. Keenly sensitive about his
diminutive form, he felt the cruel sarcasm this woman had put upon him
with double force. To half-drown him in a cask, scarcely large enough to
hold a child, was a stinging insult, for which he would, some day, have
vengeance—vengeance on her, and on the man who had found out his fraud,
and made it of no avail. But he still held the ring, and the thought of
the gold it would purchase was some consolation.

Zamara went to his own room when he reached the residence of his
mistress. His wine-stained garments were soon changed, and he sat down
to examine the mysterious prize that had wrought such fatal
consequences, at least to one life. It was an Egyptian scarabee,
curiously carved, and of a dull green, around which a tiny serpent
coiled itself, fold upon fold, shooting its head clear through the
beetle, where it had been perforated for the string, upon which these
antique gems were often gathered in a necklace for the monarch whose
tomb they enriched. This serpent, Zamara truly guessed, had been
attached to the scarabee after it was drawn from the tomb, after a sleep
of some thousands of years. The head of the serpent was large in
proportion to the body, and flattened, like that of an adder before it
springs.

The dwarf examined the mechanism of this ring. He began to comprehend
that it might be made terrible without magic. He searched the scarabee
cautiously with his finger, and at the extremity found a tiny spring,
scarcely larger than a grain of mustard-seed. In breathless trepidation
he touched this spring, when the head of the serpent curved downward,
the jaws opened, and through them shot a ruby tongue, slender and sharp
as the finest needles. One dart of this subtile tongue, and the head
writhed itself back into place.

The fire that shot over the dusky face of the dwarf was lurid. He
understood the meaning of this delicate mechanism, and the sweetness of
certain revenge was already in his bad heart. He went to a little
cabinet, and took from a secret compartment a tiny earthenware jar,
which contained a morsel of some apparently resinous substance. This he
examined carefully, gloating over it with eager satisfaction. Opening a
small knife, he was about to take some on its point, but a selfish
after-thought seized upon him.

“Not yet,” he said; “there must be no danger to _her_, for she alone
stands between me and such brutes as nearly murdered me to-night. Ho,
the ring shall first win me gold, and then, oh! such sweet revenge. That
fierce count has twice laid his great, strong hands upon Zamara—thrice
heaped insult on him. Bulk makes him brave; but wit is stronger than
weight, and revenge sharper than either.”

With these words, Zamara locked up the scarabee with the little jar, and
crept into bed, muttering to himself, and lay in thoughtful wakefulness
until the day dawned. Then he arose, and once more examined the beetle,
to make sure that no secret of its mechanism had escaped him.

As early as it was possible to see his mistress, the dwarf went to her
room, a richly frescoed boudoir, crowded with the gorgeous, but
tarnished furniture that had been saved out of her royal degradation.
She lay upon a stiff backed, gilded couch, in a loose, morning robe of
soiled brocade, and turned her head indolently as the dwarf came in.

“Mistress, I have brought you the ring. You will believe now that Zamara
speaks the truth.”

Du Berry started up, fully aroused.

“Let me look at it. No, no, no! I will not touch it. That strange man
said it was fatal to every one but himself. The poor queen has found it
so. Give it back to the old man. He shall not be despoiled a second
time.”

The Countess Du Berry spoke hastily, and with shuddering emphasis. She
had a nervous terror of the ring, which was, indeed, a proof of her own
great crime.

“Take it back! Take it back! I have no wish for it!”

“But, madame would not believe me when I said the queen had given it up.
She promised gold if I would let her have a sight of it. Has madame
forgotten?”

“No, no! I never forget! But take the thing away! There is the
money—count it for yourself. My heart is lighter, now that I am sure
that thing can no longer harm the queen. Take your money there.”

Madame flung her purse, heavy with clinking gold, at the dwarf’s feet,
and turning upon her couch, hid her face among its silken cushions,
almost as much afraid as if a real serpent had been threatening her;
for, with all her reckless audacity, the woman was a miserable coward at
heart; and in this case superstition made her abject.

Zamara went out from her presence, weighing the purse of gold in his
palm, and gloating over it.

“Ah, ha!” he muttered. “The ring frightens her. It is enough that this
poor, harmless beetle has slept so long in a tomb; to her it is
saturated with death, but I know how to make it harmless as a dove, or
venomous as an asp. It shall be one to my friends, the other to my foes.
After that the old prisoner may get it if he can.”

Again the dwarf opened his cabinet and took the earthen jar from its
hiding-place. This time he opened the jaws of that serpent ring, and
filled them with the soft, resinous paste, which he took from the jar
with the sharp point of a penknife. Having thus charged the serpent with
venom, he laid it carefully away in one of the most secret drawers of
his cabinet.

“We must wait,” he said, muttering to himself, as was his habit. “They
will not let me approach near enough until last night is forgotten. My
looks frightened her, I could see that. It needs time and infinite
craft—but that is nothing. ‘Revenge is a dish that can be eaten cold.’
It is locked up there, and I can wait.”




                              CHAPTER CVI.
                       THE OLD MAN FALLS ASLEEP.


That morning the prisoner of the Bastille awoke and felt for the ring,
which was like a promise of immortality to him. It was gone. He started
up in wild amaze, refusing to believe the evidence of his own senses. He
shook his garments, removed them one by one, examining every fold. He
threaded the thick silver of his beard with both trembling hands, and
interrogated the keen-eyed mouse, which stood looking at him with almost
human intelligence from a corner of the cell, where it had fled on being
ejected from the bosom of its old friend.

It was gone. When the old man was sure of this he went wild in his
passionate despair, and rushed out among the bleak ruins, calling on God
to take vengeance on the wretch who had despoiled him.

His cries brought no echo of sympathy from any human voice: for even
then the ruins of the Bastille were like the heaped up lava of a burnt
district. Across the moat a few workmen were busy striking the tents,
and taking down the blackened lamps which had been stars of flame the
night before; but they only paused long enough to laugh at the old man’s
wild gestures, and went off to another part of the grounds.

Then the poor prisoner, half demented by his loss, began the most
patient search that ever absorbed a human life. Day after day, hour
after hour, he wandered over those ruins, peering behind the stones,
fathoming crevices, searching the clefts of each broken wall, and
questioning every person he met, if anything strange had been seen, but
in all cases, refusing with meek cunning, to disclose the thing he
searched for.

Thus for weeks and months the old man spent half his time in the ruins
searching, searching, searching for the ring, which never came back to
him. And so he grew weaker and weaker as hope died out in him; sometimes
sitting whole days in the solitude of his cell, but always with his eyes
roving over the floor and walls, as if he still expected them to give up
his treasure.

When her father did not come as usual to the house, which seldom
happened now, Marguerite always sought him in his cell, with a basket on
her arm, and fed him with bread soaked in wine, or gave him delicate
meats cooked by her own hand; for she saw that the old prisoner did not
care for anything, and shrunk more and more into his hiding-place, as if
he longed to evade everything but herself and his little dungeon
companion.

One day, when she came upon her gentle mission, the old man looked
earnestly in her face a long time, then he shook his head with a sad,
wavering movement, and dropped his eyes.

“Change, change—everywhere change,” he murmured. “The same face, yet not
the same. What is it that fills her with such holy light. Tell me little
one, what it means?”

“It means,” answered Marguerite, with the rich quietness of supreme
content, “that I am beloved—that I love.”

“Beloved? Love? Ah! I heard of such things once. Then, I think, some one
loved me; but that was a long, long time ago.”

“But you are still loved,” said Marguerite, laying her hand on his.

“I should be, if I could find _that_!” answered the old man; “but it is
too late, I am feeble, and cannot search further—very, very feeble!”

“Take more of the wine,” pleaded Marguerite. “If you would only go home
with me.”

“No, no; this is my home. I need no other.”

Marguerite pressed the shadowy hand clasped in hers.

“But some day, when I have a home of my own, you will bring little
marmousette and live with me.”

“A home of your own?” questioned the old man. “When will you have that?”

“When France is quiet again. It is a sweet, sweet secret, which you
shall know when you care to listen, father.”

“Ah, if I could find _that_, you should be very happy, Therese.”

“But I am happy, wonderfully happy, father. You understand when a girl
is loved, the wealth of the whole world is hers.”

The old man shook his head; he was very weak and even this sweet talk
wearied him. Marguerite saw it and her heart thrilled with apprehension.

“Oh come with me, father,” she pleaded. “I cannot bear to see you
sleeping on these damp stones while I have a bed. Come, and you shall
know once more what love is.”

“Not now. I like the stones; a bed makes me ache in all my limbs.
Besides, my little friend likes no place as well as this.”

“Poor little marmousette, it must be a small place which cannot make
room for him,” said Marguerite. “I will make him a nest among my
flowers. And you, my father, oh what can I do that will make you happy?”

“_That_ would make me happy, if you could only find it.”

“Alas, I cannot. Where could I search?”

“It is here. It will be found by some poor stranger, and work more
mischief; but I cannot help it; day and night I have searched among
these stones.”

“You have worn yourself out, my father.”

“Yes, I think so,” answered the old man, faintly.

“I cannot leave you here alone.”

“Alone! He is here; he never leaves me.”

“But you will come with me?”

“Oh, yes! when I am stronger.”

The old man’s face drooped on his breast after this, and he seemed to
sleep.

Marguerite arose to go.

“Adieu,” she said. “You are weary, and I keep you from rest.”

“From rest? No one can do that,” said the old man, gently. “Adieu!”

Marguerite bowed her head; her father lifted his hands and blessed her
as she bent before him.

There was something mournful and pathetic in his gestures, which filled
her heart with sad forebodings.

The night was dark and cloudy. It was dangerous to be out so late; yet
Marguerite lingered near the cell reluctant to leave the old man alone.
Twice she went back and listened. All was silent, and, at last she moved
homeward through the ruins.

As Marguerite reached the draw-bridge, the shadow of a man fell across
it. Her heart leaped.

“Is it you St. Just? Is it you? Ah, I never needed you so much.”

“No Marguerite, it is only Jacques. Do not be hurt because it is not
that other. He is not always near to watch you as I am.”

Jacques spoke with humility. In all his bitter trouble he had never once
swerved from the most perfect kindness to the girl who scarcely thought
that he suffered.

“I thought that you did not care to watch me now, monsieur Jacques,” she
said. “You never come to see us.”

There was pain, subdued with infinite patience, in Jacques’ eyes as he
answered this light reproach. Did the girl know how much it had cost him
to keep away from her? Had she absolutely forgotten her
promise—forgotten that he loved her?

“Marguerite,” he said, with mournful firmness, “you remember a promise
made that day before the Bastille was taken?”

Marguerite uttered a faint cry and recoiled backwards as if the man had
aimed a blow at her.

“No, no! I have not forgotten; but I thought—oh, Monsieur Jacques,
forgive me!”

The girl held out her hands to him now, and the anguish of a new
enlightenment thrilled her voice.

Jacques took her hands in his and clasped them firmly. With the struggle
of a giant he held down the bitter agony in his heart.

“Such words are not for you, Marguerite. Instead of forgiveness, I give
you blessings. I am ready to serve you—die for you. But forgiveness we
must not talk of that. There is nothing to forgive between you and me.”

“Is a broken promise nothing—for mine is broken. I hardly made a
struggle to keep it; yet you gave liberty to my poor father. Is selfish
forgetfulness nothing? Am I worthy that you forgive me without asking?”
cried Marguerite, stung with keen self-reproach.

“Hush, Marguerite, hush! I cannot listen when you revile yourself. It
was not for this I spoke; but I feared you might remember that promise
and be troubled by it. Now you will understand that it is forgotten,
utterly forgotten.”

A heavy sigh broke from the strong man as these words left his lips, and
his limbs shook as if the soul had been wrenched from his body.

“Ah, Monsieur Jacques, can such things be forgotten?”

Jacques knew that she was thinking of St. Just, and wondering in her
heart if _he_ ever could forget. The idea was but one pang more, still
it wounded him to the soul.

Marguerite took consolation from her own absorbing love. “If he cared
for me in that way,” she thought, “to forget would be impossible. It is
because I was so helpless and so miserable. One gets over pity, but
love, oh, never—never. That would be death with no Heaven afterward.”

With that man standing before her, so brave, so noble in his
self-abnegation, the girl could reason thus, and turn her thoughts on
the being of her own worship.

Perhaps Jacques felt something of this, for his voice shook when he
addressed her again.

“I would still have cared for your safety, and followed you in silence,
Marguerite. But the streets are full of dangerous people to-night, and
you staid so late I feared that you might need help.”

These words turned Marguerite’s thoughts back to her father.

“Monsieur Jacques, oh! my friend, I do, I do. My poor father is ill. I
can keep his secret no longer. Come with me—together we may persuade him
to leave this place.”

Marguerite turned to lead the way back to her father’s cell. Jacques
followed her in silence. The clouds broke and poured watery gleams of
moonlight into that prison cell, as these two persons approached it. By
this fitful radiance they saw the old man sleeping tranquilly on the
stone floor—so tranquilly that their own hearts stopped beating.

Monsieur Jacques bent over him.

“Does he sleep,” said Marguerite, in a low voice, for her heart was
chilled within her. “Does he sleep?”

“So sweetly that the angels of Heaven alone can wake him,” was the
solemn reply.




                             CHAPTER CVII.
                   THE SCARABEE DOES ITS DEADLY WORK.


Months went by, for a little time the wheels of the Revolution revolved
with a slow but steady force. The influence of Mirabeau had made itself
felt; his powerful genius held the populace in check. Chosen president
of the Assembly, he had inspired that body with some of his own
conservative ideas. The queen began to trust him fully. The king saw in
him a safe counsellor. For a time the fearful storm that afterward swept
France like a simoon, seemed to have passed away. The nation took time
to breathe. Mirabeau had triumphed over all his enemies but one, that
one found him at the zenith of his power.

On the twenty-seventh of March, 1791, Mirabeau spoke three times in the
Assembly. Never had he been more impressive, never had his genius
exhibited itself with greater effect. With words of living eloquence on
his lips he stepped down from the tribune, passed between double ranks
of admiring friends and defeated enemies, and was seen by the people of
France no more.

The next day it was known at the clubs, and heralded in the streets,
that the great statesman of France was ill.

All Paris sympathized with the sufferings of this strong and most gifted
man. His house in the Chaussée d’Antin was besieged by people, who
blocked up the street that no carriage might disturb the rest of their
idol. The Jacobin club sent its President at the head of a deputation,
to express the profound sympathy of that body. Robespierre, who allowed
himself to drift with the current, was found in the sick-room. The king
sent every day to inquire after Mirabeau’s health.

The great man was ill, but fully conscious of all the homage that
surrounded him. He yet believed himself invincible, and gloried in all
these evidences of popularity. He was accused of giving stage effect to
his sick bed. It may be that he did, for no man knew better how to
appeal to the senses of an audience—and he did not believe himself to be
dying.

One day, when the street was choked up with anxious inquirers, a swarthy
dwarf was seen among the crowd, striving to escape observation, but
making constant progress toward the door of Mirabeau’s dwelling. He
reached it at last, and finding a servant on the threshold patiently
answering the anxious questions put to him regarding the state of his
master, waited quietly till the man should recognize him.

“Is it possible to see Mirabeau?”

“What, you?”

“Is he ill—very ill? I come from one who wishes to know the truth.”

“I know; your mistress is his friend. There can be no harm in saying to
her that he is ill, but not so hopeless as his worshippers think. Their
terrors but increase his popularity. She will understand.”

The dwarf did understand that his enemy was in no immediate danger, and
probably would recover. This only made him the more resolute to gain
access to the great man.

“I have a message,” he said; “not from the lady you think of; but from
one so high that I dare not speak her name.”

“A message? But so many messages come, that I cannot even listen to
them. Such adulation would drive a man mad, though he were in sound
health. I can take no message.”

Zamara motioned to the man to stoop, and whispered,

“Not if it were from her majesty, the queen?”

The man looked cautiously around. There was danger in the queen’s name,
which he could appreciate.

“Step in, step in! I will speak to you when the crowd grows less. Sit
down and wait. From the Tuileries—did you say that? Speak low, there is
danger in it.”

The dwarf nodded his head, put a finger to his lip, and sat down in the
entrance-hall, close by the bronze statue, which he remembered so well.
The man had seen Zamara frequently at the house before, and had no
hesitation in speaking freely to him.

“The truth is,” he said, confidentially, “our count has overworked
himself. Spoke five times in one day. Think of it! And this is a good
time to learn how warmly the people regard him. Do not expect him to get
well all at once—he is not fool enough for that; but, after a little,
his enemies will find him thundering at them from his place again. We do
not intend to die just yet; his friends comprehend it all. As for the
rest, why, of course, for them he _is_ dying.”

“Then he is well enough to be told that I have a message for him
directly from the queen—I have brought such things before.”

“I will take the message.”

“No, I must give it into his own hands. Such were my orders. Ask if he
will admit a messenger from her majesty—that is all I desire.”

“I will go; but listen how they are swarming against the door again. Was
ever a man so beloved?”

Zamara saw the servant depart with a quiet countenance; but the moment
he was gone, an evil expression broke into his eyes, and a smile crept
across his lips.

“So he would make fresh popularity for himself out of this. Well, he
shall. This illness, which is half feigned, shall make him immortal.”

The servant came back, and motioned Zamara to follow him. They mounted a
broad stair-case, up which heavy balustrades of carved oak wound to the
roof, and, opening a door at the first landing, led the way through an
ante-room, in which several persons were waiting, into a state-chamber,
hung with crimson silk, with a thick Persian carpet on the center of a
polished oak floor. On this carpet a great, high-posted bedstead stood,
curtained with red, like the windows, on which Mirabeau lay, as it were,
bathed in the twilight of a warm sunset.

A pile of snow-white pillows was under the sick man’s head, lifting him
to a half-sitting posture. The linen that covered his bosom fell apart
at the neck, leaving his throat free, and lending a picturesque effect
to his chest and shoulders.

Some loose papers lay upon the counterpane near his hand, as if he had
been reading, and just laid them down.

“What, is it manikin?” said the sick man, with a good-natured smile. “I
thought wise people had done trusting you long ago. What is it—about the
person who sent you? There must be some mistake, I think. Come close to
the bed, and speak low.”

The dwarf came up smiling, and with a strange glimmer in his eyes.

“The queen, through the young person you know of, sent for me this
morning, gave me this ring from her own finger, bade me bring it to you,
and say that, for her sake, she insisted that you would wear it, and for
the sake of France you must hasten to be well.”

“Are these her very words?” demanded Mirabeau.

“Her very words,” answered the dwarf, enjoying malicious pleasure in the
sick man’s excitement.

“And nothing more?”

“She said you would recognize the ring!”

“Give it me! Give it me!”

That dusky hand trembled a little as it reached forth the ring. Mirabeau
took it eagerly and examined the design.

“Yes; my lips touched it once. I recognize it,” he said, with the
exaltation of a man whose brain is already surcharged.

“The design was emblematical, she said,” answered Zamara. “A serpent,
strong and wise, enfolding this emblem of royalty, the green beetle, was
buried with some monarch thousands of years ago.”

Mirabeau laid the ring on the bed and closed his eyes. The excitement
had been too much for him.

Zamara drew back and waited. Until that ring was upon Mirabeau’s hand
his errand was but half done.

After an interval of some minutes, Mirabeau turned a little on his
pillows and opened his eyes.

“Ah, I remember!” he said. “You brought me a ring, and were telling me
something about it. I am a little weary now, but in time her words will
all come back, like old wine, and give me strength. Tell her this, and
say that I only crave life that it may be devoted to her and hers. Ha! I
have been wandering—this is no message to send. You have but to give her
highness my thanks—understand that, Mirabeau’s thanks, and nothing
more.”

“Her majesty bade me bring her word that I had seen the ring on your
finger, Count Mirabeau. Shall I say that you were too weak and had no
strength to put it on?”

“What, I so far gone that I cannot thrust a ring on my finger. Where is
the serpent? Oh, here!”

Even the little finger of that large, white hand, was too large for the
ring, and it was forced over the joint with violence. The keen eyes of
the dwarf were upon it. He saw the head crest itself, a single flash of
the ruby tongue, and then the ring was twisted to its place: but just
above the joint was a scarcely perceptible speck of blue.

“It is small and pains me a little,” said Mirabeau; “take it off!
To-morrow, I will try it on the other hand. Take it off, I say!”

The dwarf took the hand in his, grasped the beetle by its sides, and
drew away the ring with a slow, cautious movement. His hand did not
tremble, but the locked firmness of his features betrayed the force he
put upon his nerves.

“Lay it in that casket on the console,” said Mirabeau faintly, “and call
my doctor from the next room.”

As he spoke, the sick man’s head fell back upon the pillow, his arms
settled down, all feeling fled from his limbs, and his breathing became
heavy and quick, as if the heart were struggling in mortal agony.

A cry of real terror broke from the dwarf. Half a dozen persons, who
waited in the ante-room, rushed into the chamber, but it was only to see
a dead man lying under those crimson shadows.

The woorara leaves no signs, Zamara knew that, and remained quiet, while
the physician stood horror-stricken over all that remained of his
patient. When the tumult subsided a little, he stole out with the ring
grasped cautiously in his hand.

“How did you find Mirabeau?” questioned a woman standing by the door, in
a low voice, as Zamara went out. “The man told me you had been admitted.
Is he better? Will he live?”

The woman’s face was pale and locked; her voice shook with fear as she
asked these questions. A flash of dusky red shot athwart the Indian’s
face, her anguish was sweet to his ear. He opened his hand and displayed
the ring.

“He sent you this, and bade you wear it for his sake. Mirabeau is dead!”

That wretched woman snatched at the ring, thrust it on her finger, and
covered it with passionate kisses.

“Woe to France! Woe to France!” she cried out in wild anguish, “Mirabeau
is dead! Mirabeau is dead!”

He waited to see her fall; but the poison had exhausted itself on one
life, or she had failed to touch the spring.

“Fool that I was,” he muttered, gliding out of the crowd, while the sad
cry rose from lip to lip,

“Mirabeau is dead!”




                             CHAPTER CVIII.
                     THE STORMING OF THE TUILERIES.


When Mirabeau died, constitutional monarchy in France lost its strongest
support. Slowly, but with steady persistence, Robespierre assumed the
place which he could only fill with the iron pertinacity of a fixed
purpose. From the hour that his voice became potent in the National
Assembly, commenced the fearful rush with which the nation hurled itself
into anarchy, assassination, atheism, and such other fearful crimes as
history shrinks from recording. Then legislation itself became anarchy,
constitutions were made, rent to atoms, and made over again in solemn
mockery. Everything grand, beautiful or good, was trampled under the
feet of the multitude. Men who had ever worshipped God blasphemed him
now. Women who had been devout, forgot even to respect themselves. As
anarchy prevailed, morality, justice and religion disappeared. France
was reeling like a drunken creature toward an abyss of blood from which
an eternity of goodness can never lift her, unstained.

Struggle as she will, explain and apologise as she has, the power of an
awful truth is upon her. Time itself will only deepen the ensanguined
pages she has given to universal history. Terrified by the danger that
surrounded him, the king and his family attempted to flee from the
country he had ruled. But the red hand of the people was laid upon him,
and he was dragged back to Paris worse than a prisoner. For a time he
was insulted, watched and forced to become the very tool of his own
enemies. After a martyrdom of humiliation, he was besieged in his palace
by a band of marauders still more ferocious than the _Sans Culottes_
with whom they fraternized in hideous brotherhood. Privately sanctioned
and organized by men who called themselves the government, this fearful
riot, intended to drive the king into the arms of his worst foes, was
commenced and carried out by a combination of the brigands of Paris with
the Marsellaise, a herd of ferocious butchers, which had swarmed up from
the lowest dregs of the country wherever a moral monster could be found.
Surrounded by this army of fiends who broke into his presence,
threatening death wherever they went, the king, to save his helpless
family and faithful household from massacre, resolved to seek protection
from the Assembly which was in session.

Surrounded by a few friends, girded in by hosts of foes, this
unfortunate monarch took his first deliberate step to the scaffold.
Followed by his wife, his sister, and his children, he passed from the
palace into the grounds that partly surrounded it, hoping to make his
way unmolested through the crowd. But the gates had been broken, and
even here the mob swarmed around him with cruel taunts and brutal
threats.

The fallen monarch walked through the withered leaves that rustled
mournfully in his path, submitting to these scoffs and insults of the
furious crowd with a look of infinite sorrow.

Marie Antoinette followed him in dread silence, leading the unconscious
Dauphin by the hand, her face pale as death, her eyes burning with the
hot tears she would not permit to fall. Now and then, her figure shrank
from its queenly bearing as the crowd rained curses and hurled brutal
insults on her in the presence of her child. But she uttered neither
protest or appeal, when those ruthless hands snatched the watch from her
bosom and tore her garments to get at the purse she was supposed to
carry.

The innocent child, comprehending little of the horrors that surrounded
him, amused himself by kicking the dead leaves about, laughing archly if
they fluttered over the band of brigands, and looking up at his mother
as if he had done something in her defence.

Among the crowd were many women, keener in their spite and far more
ferocious than their fellow butchers, as unsexed women are sure to be,
in a scene like that. Among them were several on horseback, recognized
Amazons of the crowd, Theroigne de Mericourt, Louison Brisot, and,
deeper in the throng, Madame Gosner. These women wore red caps on their
heads, tri-colored scarfs across their bosoms, while the gleam of
unsheathed swords pointed the commands they gave to the crowd. One
forced the horse she rode through the mob, pointing her sword at the
queen.

“Take the child from her, he belongs to the nation! Hurl him this way,
my horse’s hoofs are impatient.”

The queen had not complained, but a shriek of agony broke from the
mother, and snatching the boy to her bosom, she made a wild appeal for
help.

“No, no, take me! trample _me_ down, but do not touch her or the child.”

It was the voice of a young girl, who sprang out of the crowd and threw
herself before the queen, where she stood like a virgin priestess
defending the altar at which she prayed.

“Ha, ha!” shouted the woman on horseback, “it is her protegée. I have
seen her at St. Cloud, at the little Trianon. It is she who carries
letters back and forth, between Dame Capet and the traitors. She dares
to stand between the people of France and their vengeance. Fling the boy
to me, and toss her to the Marsellaise.”

Marguerite Gosner stretched out her arms in wild appeal; her face was
inspired, her blue eyes turned black and bright as stars.

“Will no one help me? Is all manhood left among the people of France!”

A man pressed his way through the crowd; a strong man, full of
indomitable courage.

Marguerite flung up her clasped hands in an ecstasy of thanksgiving. It
was monsieur Jacques.

This brave man snatched the Dauphin from his mother and held him up
before the crowd, crying out in a voice that rang out trumpet-toned,

“Frenchmen do not war with children!”

A shout followed this brave act, and the cry ran from lip to lip.

“It is the foster-brother of Mirabeau. Let him have his way.”

Monsieur Jacques did have his way. Firm as a rock he walked before the
queen, protecting her with his person and bearing the child in his arms.
Marie Antoinette recognised in this man the person who had once saved
her life, and would have imprudently thanked him. He saw the expression
in her face, and with rude kindness bade her be silent. So the mournful
procession passed on, and the king disappeared into the blackness of an
awful future. While Monsieur Jacques was thus bravely occupied, Louison
Brisot stooped down from her horse and pointing her sword at Marguerite,
gave this order to a group of her followers.

“Seize her! Take her before the committee—you understand—I will be
there; cautiously, cautiously! Neither this man, nor St. Just must know
of it.”

She was obeyed. A few minutes after, two stout men had seized upon
Marguerite, and were dragging her through the tumult, the smoke, and the
horrible massacre which followed the king’s transit from his palace into
the very citadel of his enemies.




                              CHAPTER CIX.
                              THE PRISONS.


Subjects exist from which the pen shrinks away shuddering. Of such is
the Reign of Terror, now fully inaugurated. The royal family were close
prisoners in the Temple. The few friends that remained faithful to the
last, had been massacred or were fugitives.

On the second of September, 1792, the Ablaye and Des Carmes were forced
open by a mob, secretly instigated by the government, and the crowning
massacre of those horrible times was perpetrated without check or
hindrance. One of these prisons had been a cloistered convent, with a
church on one side, surrounded with grassy courts and blooming gardens.

At open noonday, when an unclouded sun looked down upon the horrors of
the deed, this beautiful spot was turned into a slaughter-house, where
priests were slain at their own altars, in the courts, in the gardens,
and kneeling in their cells. All day long the carnage went on, all day
long the shrieks and prayers of those struggling victim rent the air and
set the howling mob gathered outside the convent mad with desire to join
in the fearful work.

From time to time the gates were thrown open, and carts drawn by noble
horses, taken from the royal stables, carried out load after load of
dead bodies, leaving a track of blood as they slowly moved along.
Hideous men and women, with children in rags, crowded around the gates
and followed the death carts howling the Marsellaise.

Night came and this fearful work of death was but half accomplished. The
prisoners who had concealed themselves in the thickets of the court or
gardens, were driven into the chapel and murdered on the very altars.
This was the prison of the priests.

In the Ablaye, to the horrors of a general massacre was added the
hideous farce of a court of justice. Here twelve assassins constituted
themselves judges. Before these men, the wretched prisoners were
brought, questioned, insulted and cast forth to the howling cruelty of
the mob.

Among these was a young girl, a stranger to every one utterly alone. The
president of these mock judges asked her name.

She answered in a low voice:

“Marguerite Gosner.”

“Ha, that is the name of our old prisoner of the Bastille!” cried one of
the judges.

“He was my father,” said the girl.

The judges answered her with a laugh of derision.

“It is the name of citoyenne Gosner, the bravest patriot among our
women.”

Marguerite cast down her eyes and clasped her trembling hands; her voice
was scarcely audible as she said,

“She is my mother!”

“Her mother!” quoth an assassin, who stood near leaning on his dripping
sword. “It is a trick to save her worthless life. I saw her fling
herself at the feet of Capet’s wife; Louison Brisot was her accuser.”

“To the prison of La Force!”

This was a mocking sentence of death. The door opened. The poor girl was
led through, and stood white and dumb with horror among a gang of
executioners.

For one moment the fiends were held in check by her youth, her beauty,
and the utter stillness of her despair. Then they rushed upon her; but a
man, pale, firm and bloodless as yet, pushed through their ranks and
seized her by the arm.

“She is mine!” he said. “You have had all the rest; am I to be deprived
of everything?”

The assassins gave way, crying out,

“Yes, yes! he has waited till now. Let him have this pet lamb. Our
sabres are too heavy for such dainty work. Here comes another. Fall in!
fall in!”

“What is this?” cried a woman’s voice in fierce wrath. “Who is it that
dares to let my enemies free?”

“Nay, nay, citoyenne Brisot, we have but given her up to death; nothing
can save her.”

“I tell you,” answered the demon, “that man is her lover; he but came
here to save her.”

Two or three ruffians broke from the rest and pursued Monsieur Jacques,
who was moving swiftly through the crowd, carrying Marguerite in his
arms. They followed him close; they came up with him. The crowd was
densely packed; spears were thrust out at random; the assassins were in
haste to get back to their awful work, and made awkward thrusts; a spear
struck Jacques in the side. It was aimed at the girl, who uttered a
piercing shriek. A young man broke his passage through the crowd and
dashed the leveled weapons back.

“Bloodhounds, have you no better work than this?”

The ruffians looked at each other amazed.

“It is St. Just! It is St. Just! What has he to do with our vengeance?”
they muttered.

“But St. Just is the friend of the people; we must not anger him;
besides, there is plenty of work for us yonder.”

The men turned their spears and went away.

St. Just scarcely heeded them; he was bending over Monsieur Jacques, who
had fallen upon the pavement. Marguerite knelt by him, pale with the
horror she had passed through, trembling with sympathy for the wounded
man.

Wounded! He was dying. He made a faint motion with his hand that the
girl should bend down to him. She read the yearning wish in his eyes and
pressed her lips to his.

That mournful kiss took the last breath from the great heart which had
ceased to beat, loving her to the last.

St. Just lifted Marguerite from the pavement and gave orders that the
body of that brave man should be carried to his home.

The crowd had recognised his face, and were ready to obey him.

Through all the horrors of that night, St. Just bore the girl in safety.
She was sensible, though silent from exhaustion that seemed like death
itself; but with that came a sweet sense of rest and protection. In her
prison she had been utterly alone—utterly helpless. A mission of
importance had taken St. Just into the interior. Her arrest had been
secret; her incarceration was only known to those who had planned it.
Even her mother had searched for her in vain. St. Just had reached Paris
scarcely an hour before, and rushed to the prison, hoping to check the
carnage there.

The cry that broke from Marguerite when that spear struck Jacques,
brought him to her rescue. She was in his arms; he could feel the
quivering beat of her heart against his own; her arms clung to him with
faint spasms of strength, whenever a death cart rumbled by or a fiercer
shout than usual rent the air. Still she was alive, and he had saved
her.




                              CHAPTER CX.
                            BOUGHT BY BLOOD.


Like a wild beast, France had tasted blood and clamored loudly for more.
Her keepers, Robespierre, Danton, Marat and the rest, black-hearted and
red-handed as they were, found even their brutal ingenuity taxed by the
monsters whose growing appetite for murder they were compelled to feed.

A new excitement was prepared for them. The mockery of a trial, at which
the galleries presided; a tumultuous mob, hounding on its friends and
intimidating those who wished to be just—the trial of a good king by the
most depraved of his subjects.

This infamous parody of justice—twenty-four hours for a last farewell of
his family, for prayer, and a sacrament—grudgingly permitted, and the
whole world was horrified by an execution at which humanity recoils with
shudders of condemnation.

But even this terrible crime failed to appease the thirst for murder
which raged among the masses. Their leaders, urged on by the ignorance
of fanaticism, began to wage war on themselves. Every member of the
Assembly suspected of moderation or mercy was swept into prison, and the
people applauded. They were ready for anything but a return to honest
labor and thrifty habits. They revelled in the farce of being every man
his own monarch.

France had become ready for perfect anarchy; and plunged like a wild
beast, maddened with the blood of its own kind, into the Reign of
Terror, of which Robespierre, Danton, and Marat, were the high priests.

But the hand of a young girl sent Marat to his black account, and the
supremacy of chaos was left with Robespierre and Danton. At the summit
of his awful power, Robespierre was seized with a coward’s fear. By what
ultra crime could he appease the besotted cravings of his followers, and
keep them from turning on himself. Danton had lost all his cruel
invention. Denunciations and commonplace massacres had ceased to excite
enthusiasm; the horrors of the guillotine, which thrilled the community
at first, had degenerated into a popular amusement, at which the women
held high carnival, and gossiped, joked, brought their knitting and
worked, that no time might be lost while the axe was sharpening.

If there was a moment’s silence, when some ghastly head fell into the
basket, it was instantly atoned for by imprecations, or coarse laughter.
The executioner had no longer power to keep their attention. He did not
give keen variety enough; to them murder had lost its awful fascination.
The nobility had perished, or fled, and plebeian executions had become
grossly common. Robespierre, whose genius was sombre and cruel, sought
to appease them with another royal head; this might sharpen the palled
appetite of the crowd. The sight of a beautiful woman on the scaffold—a
queen, and the daughter of an empress, awoke something of the old
blood-thirsty enthusiasm. Robespierre saw the effect, and offered
another noble princess to the populace, the angelic Elizabeth. These two
martyred women went to the scaffold in a cart, with cords girding their
white wrists, each with her beautiful hair shorn close by the hangman’s
scissors.

In this awful spectacle Robespierre had exhausted all inventions of
cruelty, but the people demanded something more atrocious still; nothing
could satisfy their insatiable thirst. Their clamor found Robespierre
helpless. He had talked wildly of liberty till there was nothing more to
be said. His ingenuity had exhausted itself in giving new horrors to
death: and all he could offer was a repetition of the old crimes, which
had ceased even to interest the crowd. Always frugal and austere in his
habits, this man was the slave of no small vices, and looked with scorn
upon those who yielded to them. In his weird patriotism he was sincere,
but the people began to look upon his austerity as a rebuke. Weary of
murder they turned to blasphemy, and there the genius of Robespierre and
Danton gave way.

Now sweeping across the lurid path of Robespierre comes the Herbertists,
so fearfully depraved, that the Jacobins shrunk away from them, appalled
by the mingled blasphemy and jest with which they excited the people to
sacrilegious excesses.

These men laid their ensanguined hands upon the very altar of God,
upheaving it from their midst, and gave a zest to crime by adding
sacrilege to murder. Under their sway the cross fell from the summits of
the churches, crucifixes and chalices were melted into coin. Relics,
hitherto held sacred, were trampled under foot in contempt, burnt,
destroyed, and despised. Church bells no longer called the people to
worship, but fed the musketry of the soldiers, and the cannon turned
against the enemies of France. Holy crosses were taken down from the
cemeteries, and statues of sleep, in the form of voluptuous women,
rested in their place. Elegance, and even decency, were banished.
Guillotines became an object of fashion and of jest; children played
with them as toys, women wore them in their ears and on their bosoms.
Atheism, coarseness, and immorality, were liberty and equality.

This reign of reason was even more revolting than the reign of terror.
It turned religion and death itself into a burlesque.

At this time Louison Brisot, who had fled from Paris while her arch
enemy Robespierre remained supreme, came back with renewed audacity and
joined the Herbertists. She was young, fiercely beautiful, and in her
soul embodied all the enormities of the Revolution. Now the great
ambition of her life was accomplished, Theroigne de Mericourt was put
aside, and she was chosen as the goddess of Liberty.

The church of Notre Dame had been diverted of its sacred character, and
was now known as the Temple of Reason, in which the people held a grand
carnival, presided over by Louison Brisot, the most wicked of all the
shameless women of Paris.

On its high altar she was enthroned, clad in the scant robes of ancient
Greece, with a red cap on her head and a tri-colored bright scarf around
her waist, she sat on the holy altar of Christ and received the
blasphemous homage of thrice ten thousand idolators.

After this, the chair on which she sat was lifted by four men and
carried to the Assembly, surrounded by a band of white-robed dancing
girls, crowned with flowers. Here, seated by the president, this evil
woman received the homage of a goddess. Bishops, vicars, and cures, laid
crosses and rings at her feet, and, with the red cap on their heads,
joined in a hymn chanted to the honor of the new divinity.

During this ceremony a few stood aloof, filled with abhorrence and
contempt. Among these were Robespierre, and the youthful St. Just, men
whose very faults lifted them infinitely above any participation in a
scene so degrading. They could be cruel; but with one, at least, it was
under the honest conviction, that by cruelty alone the country could be
saved. To these men, relentless in their patriotism, but pure in their
lives, sacrilege and blasphemy had no charm.




                              CHAPTER CXI.
                         THE GODDESS OF REASON.


Robespierre and his friends had looked on the worship of reason with
unflinching contempt, but in these blasphemies lay a power that crushed
out the influence they had wielded. True, it had driven such women as
Madame Gosner, whose ideas of liberty were unselfish and austere, back
into privacy, but only concentrated greater influence on the few.

When the hour of conflict came, and it was not of slow progress, the
worshippers of reason triumphed.

Louison Brisot, the embodiment of a sacrilegious idea, found herself
more powerful than Robespierre. Herbert was her slave. She had but to
lift her hand to set the guillotine at work—a glance of her eye was
enough to select the victim. Among the first was Madame Du Berry, whose
cries of distress reached the exultant goddess as the tumbrel bore that
wretched woman to the place of execution. The poor creature had
concealed herself; but one day Zamara was seen whispering to the Goddess
of Reason in the gallery of the Assembly. The next day came those cries
of distress from the street, where a woman was going to execution, among
the laughter and jeers of the people.

In vain Robespierre and his party stemmed the tide of atheism, which the
nation received with avidity. In vain he had brought the queen to the
scaffold; the gloom of his destiny was complete—not even a royal
execution could interest the people now. In vain he got up a
counter-festival, dedicated to the Supreme Being. The grounds of the
Tuileries were crowded to hear his oration, the symphony and the ode;
but none of these things were new to the people of France, and they
turned with greater zest to the orgies, the songs, and dancing
bacchantes, which gave eclat and novelty to the Festival of Reason.

At last came a fearful struggle where the two parties fought like
gladiators, hand to hand, each for its life. Robespierre fell. That
night he was put under arrest, the next day the man so feared, so hated,
lay wounded and helpless in the power of his enemies, almost dead, and
yet condemned to die.

With him were twenty-two others identified with his cruel policy, and
who had partaken of his power, all arraigned before the tribunal, and
certain of their doom.

Among these was a man scarcely yet beyond his first youth whom even his
enemies looked upon almost with compassion; for the strange, sad beauty
of his face, the calm dignity of his manner, impressed even those
murderous men with a wish to save him. They knew that intense love of
country, a sublime thirst for liberty as it can never exist on earth,
had possessed this man, till he deemed no act too cruel, or sacrifice
too great for the freedom of his fellow men. But they knew also that the
death St. Just had been so ready to indict he was prepared to endure.
Those features, perfect as the inspirations of Grecian sculpture,
scarcely changed from their grave, almost feminine expression, when
sentence of death was passed upon him. His large, gray eyes gazed calmly
out from the shadow of their long lashes, and around the perfect mouth
came an expression of firm endurance; but with all this, it seemed
impossible to believe that a man of such gentle presence would die with
more courage than Danton or Robespierre.

When asked if he had anything to say, a faint smile quivered around the
young man’s mouth, and he answered,

“Nothing! Why should I protest against an inevitable fate, or check the
swift vengeance of my enemies. You are about to give me that for which I
have striven so long in vain—Liberty!”

With these words St. Just retired among those already condemned, and
waited for his doom. But all at once his firmness was sorely shaken; for
a fair, young maiden entered the tribunal, pale as death, and searching
the faces around her with looks of wild, pathetic entreaty. The
condemned prisoners stood in a group in one corner of the room. She saw
St. Just among them, and made her way toward him; but the young man put
out both hands to warn her away, and turned his face aside, that no one
might see the anguish that convulsed it.

Marguerite was struck dumb by this mute denial.

“What is this? Who is the woman who dares to intrude on our
deliberations,” cried the president, rising fiercely from his seat.

Marguerite opened her white lips to speak. But a voice she had never
disobeyed reached her in a firm, low undertone,

“Keep silence! I am condemned!”

She was silent, and stood there in the midst of the tribunal, white and
cold as a statue.

All at once there was a commotion in the gallery, where a female, in a
light, Grecian dress, with the blood-red cap of liberty on her head,
started up, and leaning over, that all the tribunal might see her,
called out,

“Behold the friend of St. Just, the servant of Widow Capet. I charge her
with it. She is a Royalist, an enemy to the nation!”

The speaker was Louison Brisot, the Goddess of Reason, who now exhibited
herself every day at the tribunal.

“If you ask proof, it is here. Patriot Zamara has already given one base
aristocrat to this tribunal. It was he who pointed out the hiding-place
of Du Berry. Now, his evidence will confound another. Let her go among
the condemned. You have no woman in the batch to-day, which is an insult
to the sex. Let her die with the rest.”

Marguerite’s wild, white face was uplifted to the woman, while she
hurled these cruel words at the tribunal. All at once she comprehended
that St. Just was condemned to die, that her terrible enemy was
demanding that she should go with him to the scaffold. A bright
illumination swept over her face, the power of speech came back to her
lips. She took a step or two forward, drawing nearer the tribunal.

“It is true,” she said. “I did serve the Queen. I loved her. She trusted
me, and I was faithful. It needs no witnesses—I confess it.”

“She confesses! She confesses! Put her with the condemned!”

Marguerite walked firmly across the room, and placed herself by the side
of St. Just, who turned his eyes upon her in mournful reproach, but did
not speak. Perhaps there was some gleam of comfort in the idea that she
would go with him into eternity.

Condemnation and death followed each other closely in those days. Less
than twenty-four hours after the Jacobins were sent from the
revolutionary tribunal, they were crowded into carts, surrounded by a
triple guard, and dragged through multitudes that lined the streets from
the Conciergerie to the Place de la Revolution. In this crowded tumbrel
Robespierre was the most conspicuous and the most hated. Shouts and
curses were hurled upon him by men, women, and even little children.
Under this storm of detestation for one man the others passed on almost
unnoticed.

In that crowded cart was a gentle girl, seated next to St. Just. She
leaned upon him for the support which his shackled hands had no power to
give, and, with her soft eyes lifted to his, encouraged him with faint,
wan smiles, inexpressibly pathetic.

“We shall be together, my beloved. It is only a minute, and you will
claim me,” she whispered, as the roar of the multitude passed over them
unheeded.

He strained at the cords that bound him with a wild desire to clasp her
to his heart, and fight for her young life.

“Be patient,” she said, grieved by the smothered fire in his eyes. “Is
it for me you rebel? Ah! if you only knew how much worse life would be
without you, this little minute of pain would be nothing.”

“Oh, my God! I was prepared for everything but this, my poor lamb! That
I should, myself, bring you to the slaughter!”

“But for that I should have been a coward. Ah! the cart stops! Let me go
first. I can bear anything but the—the widowhood of a moment.”

“Yes, my beloved, you shall go first. I will follow you, and find an
angel waiting.”

“Hark! What is that?” she whispered, shuddering.

“Do not look up; lean closer to me.”

His words were drowned by a fierce howl of mingled delight and
execration, that went thundering from the Place de la Revolution down
the streets of Paris. The head of Robespierre had fallen.

A fair young creature, robed in white, came next upon the scaffold, and
disappeared amid the dead silence of the multitude. Those who looked
upon St. Just, after she was lifted from the cart, saw that his head
drooped low upon his breast, and that a shiver of terrible anguish shook
his frame: then a sublime courage took possession of him, he mounted the
scaffold with a firm step, bent his head unresistingly, that the
executioner might cut away the dark waves of hair that fell down his
neck, and laid himself under that awful machine of death calmly, as if a
bed of roses awaited him, rather than the hideous saw-dust still wet
with Marguerite’s blood.

When the head of St. Just was exhibited, in all the marble beauty of its
perfect features, no shout of triumph arose from the mob, for he was
among the rare number of men, who, calling themselves patriots, still
retained the respect of his countrymen.


                                THE END.

------------------------------------------------------------------------




                          TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES


   Page            Changed from                   Changed to

        28 You   this Austrian, how      You saw  this Austrian, how
           haughtily she turned away     haughtily she turned away

 unchanged protegée                      protegée

       570 the populace in cheek. Chosen the populace in check. Chosen
           president of the Assembly     president of the Assembly

 ● Typos fixed; non-standard spelling and dialect retained.
 ● Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.



*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 76772 ***