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.”