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.