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.”