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.