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.