CHAPTER LXXXIV.

LOUISON AND MARGUERITE.

Dame Doudel held a letter in her hand. “It is from my sister Tillery,” she said. “Just as usual, she wants you. As if there was no person in the world but herself.”

“I should like to go. Dame Tillery is always kind, always glad when I come,” said Marguerite, flushing with pleasure. All at once a thought chilled this sweet enthusiasm. If she went to Versailles then, perhaps _he_ might come in her absence, and never take the trouble of calling again.

Dame Doudel saw the change in Marguerite’s countenance without comprehending it.

“Do not be troubled, little one,” she said. “You shall go, if it disappoints you so much. My sister has no children of her own, and I would not stand in the way of any good fortune that might come to you for all the world. So brighten up! brighten up! and get your work done. She will not be here to-day or to-morrow—you have plenty of time.”

Still Marguerite’s pretty face was clouded, and her bosom swelled with a sigh, soft and quick as the bland air that shook the snow-white curtains at her window. Two days! Perhaps she might see him in that time. Surely, if he cared about coming again, there would be time enough. “Now fill your basket, Marguerite, and come with me to the market. If you are to have holidays with my sister, we must work hard now.”

Marguerite sighed. Her own share in the business had grown very dull since so many courtiers had been driven from the kingdom. There could be scarcely a market for flowers, when the people of the nation were starving for bread. Still she said nothing, but gathering up the garlands and bouquets that lay heaped on the table, prepared to go out.

These two females, as they came out of their humble domicil, formed a strong but by no means unpleasant contrast. Dame Doudel, with her thin features, sharp, black eyes, and prompt action, was the very embodiment of those national traits which have rendered the women of France among the most brilliant and practical in the world. Marguerite, with her sweet, young face shaded by a straw gipsy tied under the chin with a knot of blue ribbon, and the outlines of her slender person scarcely concealed by the thin mantle of white muslin that floated over her dress, seemed pure and innocent as the flowers she carried on her arm. Even in that busy and riotous season, when all France was in a state of agitation, people turned in the street to look at this pretty creature as she stepped daintily along, tapping the pavement with her high-heeled shoes, and looking down with loving fellowship on her flowers, as if each bud were akin to her.

When Dame Doudel and her protegée reached the market, a little tumult arose among the women, most of whom recognized Marguerite as the person who had with one word so effectually represented their cause to the king on that memorable day at Versailles.

“It is the child our Mirabeau brought to us when he said that the market mast be represented by a girl pretty and innocent; for nothing less can speak well for its devotion to France. From that day we have made her the child of the market. We are all her mothers. When the king made her a promise, it was for us. When he kissed her forehead, it was a seal of good faith to us. The king is good! The king is good! If he breaks faith with us, it is because of the Austrian.”

With these words, accompanied with ardent caresses, the women of the market swarmed around the girl as if each one had some proprietorship in her innocence and beauty. They loaded her with fruit; they added to her lovely burden of flowers, and embraced her as if she had been a goddess.

Marguerite received the homage with faint blushes, almost crying as she thought how little she had done to deserve so much affection. In vain she strove to convince them that she felt like an impostor. They would not permit even herself to diminish one virtue in their idol; would not believe that anything less than perfection could rest in the being whom Mirabeau had chosen to represent them before the king.

At last Marguerite shrunk away from all these demonstrations, and bursting into tears, cried out,

“Do not praise me! Do not love me so much! I did nothing! I used no argument; nay, I was worse than a coward, and could only cry out for bread, bread for our famished people. Then a panic seized me, and I fainted at the king’s feet!”

“Yes, yes! but he lifted you in his arms; he kissed your forehead while the Austrian was looking on. His heart would always go out to the people if she would let it. What was the need of words. He saw our wants in your face; he heard them in that one word—_bread_!”

Marguerite was standing by Dame Doudel’s stall, around which the women of the market had assembled, forgetting their traffic, and filled with enthusiasm. Their praises went to the young girl’s heart. With a love of royalty deep-seated in her nature, she felt her present position among these ardent women as a fraud which she had no right to maintain.

Dame Doudel, while she rejoiced in the scene, watched her protegée closely, fearing that some imprudent word might extinguish the enthusiasm which was exalting her into something scarcely less than a goddess. All at once, Marguerite burst into a passion of tears, and retreating from the crowd of her admirers, caught Dame Doudel by the dress.

“Oh! tell them—tell them that I love the king, the queen, and everything that belongs to them! Tell these good women they are breaking my heart with praises that I do not deserve, never can deserve!”

“Hush, child! Hush, I command you!” cried the dame, breathless with terror. “What is it to them? Who asks you not to love the king—we all love him!”

“What—what does she say? Who is it among us that has made her cry—tell us that!”

“It is nothing. She is a tender-hearted little thing, and weeps with joy. Cannot you see that yourselves? Hush, my darling! let me speak for you. I know these women; they wish no evil to the king. Hush! hush!”

Still Marguerite’s tender conscience was not pacified. She was timid, but by no means a coward. Those women evidently believed her heart and soul one of themselves, while she shrunk from all sympathy with them. How could she make them understand this without wounding her benefactress.

“Let me speak! Oh! let me tell them!” she pleaded, clinging to the frightened dame. “It need harm no one but myself.”

“I cannot. I have already told them you were one of us. Would you prove me a liar, and have me hooted out of the market?”

“No, no! I did not think of that.”

“Then be quiet.”

“I will—I will. Only tell them that I deserve nothing.”

“Very well; but look up. Wipe your eyes, and try to smile.”

Marguerite tried her best to obey. She wiped her eyes with a fold of her muslin mantle, and made a pitiful attempt to brighten her face; but just before her, or rather above her, as she looked up, stood a young woman mounted on one of the stalls, who was regarding her with the keen scrutiny of an enemy. Marguerite gave a faint cry, and clung to Dame Doudel in sudden terror.

“Do not speak—let them all go; but take me away—take me away from that woman!”

The words died on those white lips, leaving them parted till the teeth shone through. The great, blue eyes of the girl widened and glowed with kindling horror. She knew that the woman who stood there, so fiendish in her beauty, was, in fact, a murderer. A sick faintness settled down upon her, and she sunk to a market-stool perfectly insensible.

Then the voice of Louison Brisot broke forth in clear, ringing tones, that fell from her lips hot with the seething anger of a jealous woman.

“My friends—women of France, tell me, if you can, who it is that you are worshiping?” she demanded, looking around upon the crowd which was now increased by a rabble from the streets. “Have you grown weak enough to pay homage to a child like that? What could she do for France? See how she sinks down and withers like a dead lily, at the first sound of my voice. Is it of such material that freedom is moulded? Is she a creature to represent the liberty of a nation? Why the first trumpet blast would frighten the life from her body. What has she done that you gather around her so!”

“She is goodness itself—a child of the people, innocent as an angel. It was she who stood before the king that day at Versailles!” cried a dozen voices. “Why should you come here, Louison Brisot, to assail her? What can one like you know of a blameless child like her?”

“But who is she—I demand that? Who is she?” cried Louison, trembling with rage; for this was the first time her opinions had been questioned among the women of the market.

A broad-chested, keen-eyed woman, seated among the vegetables on her own stall, with both arms bare to the elbow, folded over her bosom, answered this question promptly,

“She is the friend of Mirabeau. He chose her to speak for us before the king. What more do you want, Louison Brisot!”

“The friend of Mirabeau! Let me look on her face!”

Louison Brisot sprang from the stall, where she had been accustomed to harangue the women, and forced a passage to the spot where Marguerite lay insensible, half supported by the arms of Dame Doudel.

“Let me look on her face, I say. Mirabeau has no friends that are not mine.”

The deathly pallor on Marguerite’s face was white and cold as it had been when Doudel fell at her feet on that awful day when the Bastille was taken. Had she seen the young creature blooming, and with smiles upon her lips, it is doubtful if she would have known her again. As it was, a triumphant smile lighted her face when she turned upon the crowd.

“This is an aristocrat, and no friend of Count Mirabeau’s.”

The market women laughed, some with good-natured, mellow laughter, others bitterly, and casting menacing glances at Louison.

“As if we did not know,” said the woman, who had from the first, answered Louison so boldly. “I, myself, went with her before the king. Count Mirabeau put her especially under my care—the lamb! Who will have the face to gainsay me in that? Not you, Louison Brisot, who never saw her.”

“But I have seen her,” almost shrieked Louison; “and as I tell you, she was trying to save one of the king’s guard at the Bastille.”

“And why not?” called out the portly dame who had spoken before. “Who among us was not at the taking of the Bastille? I was, and she went with me.”

Louison’s outstretched arms fell to her side. She was not convinced; but this evidence coming from the market, baffled her. She looked around on the crowd of faces uplifted toward her, some were angry, some drawn with sneers; but most were laughing at her defeat, in careless good-humor. The stout woman who had, in fact, been one of a committee to wait on the king that day at Versailles, swung herself down from the stall on which she sat, and began to arrange her vegetables in high good-humor. Another, as she held up a splendid fish for the inspection of a customer, asked Louison if she thought that fine fellow was an aristocrat, too; and shook her sides with laughter when a sharp glance, but no answer, came in reply. In less than ten minutes the excited throng around Dame Doudel’s stall had dispersed, and the whole market was given up to business, made a little brisker by the time that had been lost.