CHAPTER LXVIII.

MARGUERITE COMFORTS HER FATHER.

While his eyes were shrouded, and his head bowed low in utter dejection, a young girl darkened the moonlight which streamed into the dungeon, and settled down by the old man with such delicate stillness, that he was not conscious of her approach until her hand was laid on his shoulder.

“What is it that troubles you, father?”

Her voice was sympathetic and full of sadness. He heard it and all the gentle sweetness of his nature flowed back upon his wounded soul. The very touch of a kind, good woman stilled the wrath which a bad one had enkindled there.

The old man took both hands from his face, and pointed downward at his poor, little friend, upon which the moonlight was lying.

“Look there, Therese!”

“Oh! how cruel, how hard I,” cried the girl, taking the little animal in her hands. “Dead, poor little marmousette—is it dead?”

“Yes, it is dead; a woman killed it,” said the old man, with a thrill of the old anger in his voice.

“A woman? No, no! What woman?”

“One of those who call themselves women of France. They have hunted me down like wolves, hoping to make my sorrows the instruments of their vengeance.”

“Oh! I understand,” said the girl, mournfully. “It was one of those women who pointed poor Doudel out, as he stood guard upon the tower, when the Bastille was assaulted. The mob had seized upon me, but I would not cry out, from fear that he would come down to rescue me, and thus expose himself; but she saw the agony in his face, and pointed the carbine upon him. I saw it, and flung up my arms to warn him; but at that very moment he fell, with a crash, to the pavement. Oh it was fearful!”

These words left Marguerite’s lips with a cry of despair that found a weird echo in the ruins. Then she fell into shuddering sobs that died out at last, and only murmured,

“Never will the face of that woman leave my memory. It was that of a beautiful fiend.”

“Alas!” said the old man. “How much innocent blood was shed that I and a few others might be set free.”

“Poor Doudel was not to blame. He put no man in prison; but only did a guard’s duty. Why did the mob murder him?”

“It was for me that your friend lost his life.”

“Then let us thank our blessed Lady that he did not die in vain,” answered the gentle girl.

The old man did not answer, his head was bowed down, his hands moved restlessly. No subject could take him long from a remembrance of the desolation of his loss.

All at once the young girl uttered a little cry.

“Oh, my father! have some hope.”

The old man started.

“Hope! hope! What for?”

“It is warm! Yes, yes! It moves!”

“What, what? Ah! it would be so cruel to deceive me!”

“Look, look! its pretty eyes are open.”

“Oh, my God! is this true?”

“It is trying to stand up in my palm. Poor little thing, how it quivers.”

“Let me look—let me touch it!” cried the old man, trembling with eagerness. “My pet! my life! my little darling!”

The old man’s voice broke into tears. He held out his hands, but they shook so that the mouse fell back when it attempted to climb them. Marguerite caressed it against her cheek; then laid it softly into the outstretched palm of the old prisoner, answering back his smile when he hid the creature under his beard.

“There, you see our Lady has not altogether forsaken us,” said the girl, drawing a basket from under her shawl. “I was sure that you would be here, and I brought something for both you and marmousette to eat. Poor, little thing—does it tremble yet?”

“Yes; but I think it is not so badly hurt.”

“Dreadfully frightened, I dare say,” answered Marguerite, “and all its little breath knocked out against the stones. I saw that odious woman pass, and hid myself in the ruins. I saw her face—that face. It was the woman who pointed the carbine at Doudel. But we will think of her no more. You will go home with me now, papa.”

“Not yet—not to her—that woman who calls herself Therese; as if I did not know. She will drag me again into the clubs and along the streets that men may gaze on my white hair, and curse their king. I will not go; they shall not force me to harm him. Therese! Therese! do you understand that I think the king a good man?”

Marguerite flung her arms around the old prisoner.

“I did not expect to hear you say that, my father, because you have been so cruelly treated; but I love the king, and the queen, too. Yes, if they tear me to pieces, I will love her to the end.”

“That is a brave, good girl. I love them; I pity them—but what can we do? You, a young girl, and I an old man, broken down in body, and confused in brain. What can we do but give them love and pity?”

“This we can do; it may not be much, because the lives of a young girl and an old man are of little value where the great of the earth are swept down and trampled under foot; but we can pray for them, watch for them, and give up our poor lives, if that will do any good. I will tell you a secret, my father. There was a time when this mob of coarse women and cruel men almost made me one of them, because of the awful wrong that has been done to you; but I had seen the king, and knew better than they did, how little right we had to condemn him. The queen had taken me in her arms; wept and pleaded for me. How could I turn against them? There might have been deception, but not there!—my heart always told me that.”

“That is well, that is very well, my Therese. Listen now, I also have a secret; I have spoken with the king.”

“You, my father? It could not have been on that awful day when they dragged us to Versailles with the mob?”

The old man laughed a gentle, childish laugh.

“No, no; I escaped them. You could not, but I did. Their cries deafened me. They were not women but demons, so I fled from them; most of all from _her_.”

“I saw it, father, and strove to follow, but the crowd hemmed me in and dragged me onward. Women frantic to hurl themselves and their troubles against the queen, forced me to obey them. Oh, it was fearful! How the rain fell—how the mud flew—how the women howled!

“In the midst of the storm we reached Versailles. Some of the leaders, fierce, handsome women, followed my mother into the assembly. The great mob poured in after them, clamoring for bread, for they were half famished. They demanded a sight of the baker and his wife.”

“The baker and his wife,” repeated the prisoner, wondering.

“By these names they insulted the king and queen,” said Marguerite, “as if they could help the barrenness of the earth.

“The Jacobins would have forced an entrance for them; but more moderate men strove to quiet the mob. Twelve women were selected from the crowd, deputed to lay their grievances before the king.

“Count Mirabeau insisted that I should go with these women and speak for them, because of my youth and innocence, he said; because of my father’s wrongs, the women cried out. My mother commanded me and I went.

“These women, so audacious among the enemies of the king, trembled to approach him. With his mild, earnest eyes upon them—they were struck dumb. That was perhaps why a young girl, who had no evil purpose to conceal, was selected when these people were called upon to test their courage.

“We went. Out of the bosom of that seething mob, we entered the grand stillness of the palace. King Louis was ready to receive us. The deputation of women crowded into the saloon, sullen and dumb; the presence of that good man appalled them. They pushed me forward, whispering that I had a sweet voice and persuasive ways. I approached the king with reverence; my friend had died for him, I, too, could have died for him then and there. I longed to tell him so; longed to fall down at his feet and embrace his knees, imploring of him only one thing—bread for the hungry people in exchange for my father’s sufferings.

“The king recognized me, and a look of trouble came into his benign face. He held out his hand, saying in a low voice which was heard only by myself,

“‘Poor child, it was not the king who withheld your father from you.’

“I forgot all that the women had said to me; one cry arose to my lips—bread! bread! With that cry I fainted and fell at the king’s feet. He lifted me up with many kind words, which I heard as if they came back to me in a dream. Then I whispered, ‘Sire, my father never blamed you, neither do I. I came to ask bread for these poor, starving people, in his name!’

“The king listened and understood all I wished to say. When I looked up, his eyes were full of tears. He kissed me here upon the cheek. No man on this earth shall ever take that kiss from my face—it was the consecration of a vow that I made then and there.”

The old prisoner became greatly excited as he listened; his eyes kindled, his lips began to quiver, and he spoke with energy.

“It was this man! It was the daughter of my old mistress, the Empress of Austria, they would have assaulted through me. Listen, little one.

“I have seen the daughter of my old mistress, Maria Theresa.”

“The Queen of France, do you mean that?” said Marguerite astonished.

“Yes, the Queen of France. Some one told me that she wore my Egyptian ring on her finger. That ring holds my soul, my brain—your destiny. To her it is a curse, to me everything. I went in search of it. You all thought I was lost. No, no, I was waiting and watching for her to come forth from her palace.

“A lady did come forth at last. I thought she might bear a message from me to the queen, and followed her. This lady was proud, thoughtful, and imperious, and I approached her timidly; still there was a look that brought back the fair young princess whom I saw once standing side by side with my imperial mistress,—young, slender, beautiful, with eyes soft and bright as a pretty child’s. Ah, how well I remember them both! They tell me the empress is dead; but her daughter, the lovely girl that came to France, her destiny is yet to be accomplished. Ah me!”

The old man broke off here, and fell to shuddering. A wild, mournful look came to his face, and it was some minutes before he spoke again.

“I spoke to the lady and she listened kindly. All at; once she lifted her hand; the scarabee ring was upon it. Then I knew it was the queen, and uttered a cry that frightened her, and she fled from me. I followed, pleading for my ring, entreating her to listen. But she only fled from me all the faster, carrying the curse on and on.

“Then I saw the king. He came to me in the calm of the moonlight, and we talked together in the stillness of the hushed leaves. He knows all that I have suffered, and pities the poor man no will of his ever harmed. He gave me a place to sleep in. He came to me in the morning and deigned to explain that the governor of this prison deceived him as you were deceived. He thought truly that I was dead.”

“I knew it, I was sure of it,” cried Marguerite, with enthusiasm; “both the king and queen were blameless.”

“It was for that I fled hither from the mob,” said the old man. “These women meant to set me up before the Assembly and call for vengeance in my name, but I defeated them.”

“It was then that you came back here. Oh father, you little know how we have mourned and sought for you, day and night.”

“Yes, I found the ruins and slept here the next night.—Slept soundly for the first time since the mob carried me away. Then I began searching for my poor little friend. It was in vain that I called for him; in vain that I stretched forth my hands in the darkness, and listened for some faint sound of his approach. Oh! that was desolation!

“Still, I dared not quit the ruin. I was afraid that the mob would force me into their evil work again. I understood then that my presence in the clubs, my harmless walks in the streets, every word I spoke, was a spear leveled at the heart of the king—a man who was guiltless as a babe where I was concerned—a man who loves his people and deserves their love. Here I hide myself and keep safe from doing harm. It is my own home; here I can sleep tranquilly; boards are too soft, I want the hard rock.

“More than one morning came, and I had not tasted food. I should not have cared for that had my pretty friend been with me; but I had called him so often, searched for him so long, that hope gave out. It was worse than a prison now, he had left me and the light came into my cell. This was indeed solitude. Then I thought of you, Therese, and wondered if you would not come to me.”

“And I am here. It was I that thought of the ruins, I, who have found you sitting here alone and half-famished,” exclaimed Marguerite. “But I have brought you plenty of food. There will be enough for the marmousette as well; poor little fellow! He came back at last to comfort you.”

“Yes. I awoke in the night and found him nestled in my bosom. Let him have a crumb first, I can wait.”

The girl opened her basket, and drew forth some bread and a flask of pure water. The old man crumbled some of the bread into his hand and tempted the pet-mouse with it; but the poor little thing had been too severely hurt, and, instead of eating, closed its eyes, and lay down in the palm out of which the prisoner had made a nest for him.

“To-morrow,” said the girl, answering the startled look of the old man, “to-morrow I will bring white bread, then it will eat. But you are hungry, take some of the bread.”

“I cannot, I cannot,” cried the old man. “When he eats I will.”

The mouse seemed to understand these words; its tiny limbs moved, its little head was uplifted, and when Marguerite held the crumbs toward him, he crept forward and began to nibble them.

Then, with tears of thankfulness rolling down his cheeks, the old man fell to eating also.