CHAPTER LXXXVIII.
DAME TILLERY PROCLAIMS HER HEIRESS.
Scarcely had the dwarf been gone an hour, when a loud voice was heard in the passage. The door of her little room swung open, and Dame Tillery, landlady of The Swan, came sailing into the room like a ponderous, full-rigged Dutch vessel making port with all her canvas up.
“Marguerite, my child, I am glad to see you; get up and embrace me, little one. Oh! that is delicious!”
Marguerite started from her seat, scattering all the blossoms from her lap, and embraced the dame with such affection that the word “delicious” was repeated over and over again.
“Have you come for me, my friend, as your letter promised?”
“Come for you? Of course, I have! What else could have brought me to Paris? Are not all my duties at Versailles? There is enough of them, let me tell you, since her majesty has enrolled me among her ladies of honor.”
“Her ladies of honor? I did not know——”
“Yes, yes, I understand. There was no place at the palace exactly; but the queen is a woman, and grateful. I had saved her life—what could she do? The Duchess de Polignac held on to her place though she has gone abroad like a coward. No woman of the people had been given a position at court, which was a great mistake, but true, nevertheless. I said position, little one, and you will observe that my language generally has improved since I became one of her majesty’s ladies, to say nothing of my appearance and manner of dressing.”
“I see that you are splendid!” said Marguerite glancing at the gay dress, which made the stout woman look doubly ponderous.
“Ah! this is nothing, little one. Your own eyes saw me that day when I went to court, after the one great act of my life, when with my own hands I held an infuriated beast by the horns, and flung him to the earth just as it was plunging upon her majesty, and about to gore her with two horns curving so, and sharp as swords. You have heard the story, I dare say?”
Now as Marguerite had been present and heard the thing magnified at least fifty times from Dame Tillery’s own lips, the question seemed a little superfluous. But she answered “Yes, yes, every one who knows you has heard of that.”
“But not of my presentation at court the day after you saw her majesty—that was the crowning glory of my life. You should have seen the queen standing there among her ladies, longing in her heart to embrace me, which she would have done, no doubt, but we were out of doors, in the royal park—a special grace, understand. So I went up to her myself, and would have knelt, which was my duty, only I was a little troubled about getting up again, and so made a curtsy instead. At which all the court smiled approval, and looked at each other in amazement, as if a woman of the people was not expected to be polite.
“Even the queen smiled, feeling my triumph, I dare say, as if I had been an arch duchess, and her own sister. That was a glorious day; something to remember, and to be remembered by my grandchildren. Only there is an impediment—never having had any children of my own is a drawback when one thinks of grandchildren. This depresses me sometimes; but then I think of sister Doudel and you, and feel sure that all will come right. I shall propose to my sister that you take the name of Tillery, and carry me down to future ages. This is what brings me to Paris now. I mean to make you my heiress, Marguerite. You shall inherit The Swan from roof to cellar, my place at court, the dress that I wore—everything. In fact, I mean to make a lady of you.”
“And will you do one thing?”
“My child, I will do everything.”
“Will you take me to St. Cloud?”
“Will I? Of course.”
“Very soon?”
“The moment I get home. Twice each week I send butter for her majesty’s own table from the dairy at _la petite Trianon_, for that was the department the queen gave me when Polignac persisted in remaining first lady of honor. Blind as a bat; had she given me her place, all the women of France would have felt it as a compliment to themselves, and drawn nearer to the court, if it were only for my sake.”
“Do you think so?” inquired Marguerite, innocently, for the order of things had been so deranged in France, and she had heard so much about the power of the people, that Dame Tillery’s grand boast made a profound impression upon her.
“Do I think so? Of course, I do. What is it makes the women down yonder think so much of you? Why, it is because our friend Mirabeau sent you up with that committee of women. How much greater the effect would have been had the queen chosen me for a place near her majesty’s person. Why, child, look at me! I could make three of you any day, and hold my own with the balance. Just observe this for a presence.”
Here Dame Tillery shook out her dress and sailed across the room, exhibiting a person that would, indeed, have outweighed four of the slender girl who looked on.
“You see,” said the self-satisfied dame, returning to her old position, “you see what a chance has been lost. This Duchess de Polignac would keep her place, and their majesties let her selfishness have its way. Then what does she do? When the king and queen get more and more unpopular; when all their friends should have stood by them like rocks, this Polignac emigrates, flies from the palace like a thief; while all France finds me at my post, making the best butter in the world for the royal table, as if nothing had happened. There is the difference, little one, between loyalty and that make-believe thing, which drove Polignac into a foreign land.”
“I know that you are true to the queen,” said Marguerite, greatly impressed, yet somewhat amazed by Dame Tillery’s pretension. “Sometimes I fancy Mother Doudel does not think the less of you for that.”
“Perhaps not. I think, at heart, my sister is loyal. Only she does not know the queen as I do. How should she, not being a member of the household? But you and I, little one, understand each other, we have stood side by side at court. Now tell me what it is you wish to see her majesty about.”
Marguerite blushed and looked a little startled. She had promised to keep her mission a profound secret—and with this pure girl all pledges were sacred.
“I love the queen.”
“That is enough!” exclaimed the dame, waving her fat hand; “that is enough. I ask no more. I shall say this pretty girl is my adopted daughter, and will, sometime, be heiress of The Swan—she was with me, your majesty will remember, on that glorious day when I saved your majesty’s life. Receive her well for my sake. It will be done.”
“But I shall ask for nothing. The only favor I want is an opportunity to serve the king, and die for him, if that will do him good.”
“But it wont. Running away and dying isn’t likely to help either the king or queen. It wants brains, brains for that.”
Here Dame Tillery tapped her forehead with one finger, and nodded significantly.
“All you want is a guide, and one is always at hand.”
Marguerite drew a deep breath, and uttered a silent thanksgiving that her way to the queen promised to be made so smooth.
Having thus given vent to the self-importance that consumed her, Dame Tillery took off her outer garments, and, seating herself in the cosiest chair the little room contained, watched the young girl.
Then Dame Doudel came in from the market, light, sharp, and active as a bird. She saw the landlady of The Swan leaning back in her chair, flew towards her, and in an instant was buried in her bosom.
“Sister, my dear, dear sister!”
At first the good landlady forgot her dignity, and gave her sister a hearty embrace; but remembering herself, she put the little woman gently away.
“Dame Doudel, I love you dearly; but you are a Jacobin.”
“Sister Tillery, you are a royalist.”
“Yes, heart, soul, and body; but one of the people, too.”
“Carrying water on both shoulders is dangerous in these days,” answered Dame Doudel, sharply.
“It is just that which will yet unite the people with their king. These cries of fraternity, equality, liberty, are an insult to us of the court.”
“But the court itself must adopt them before the people will be satisfied, I can tell you that.”
“Dame Tillery—Dame Doudel, why are you talking so sharply? This has never happened before. It makes my heart sore to hear you. Forgive me, I cannot help speaking.”
Both women turned from the heat of their dispute and looked kindly on that girl, who sat like a troubled angel amid her flowers, regarding them with tears in her eyes.
“Why should dissension have crept in here?” she said, gently. “We all love each other.”
“True!” said Doudel, reaching forth her hand.
“True!” answered Tillery, forgetting her dignity, in an honest burst of affection, in which the smaller woman was gathered up in a cordial embrace. “We both love the people!”
“And the royal family. Our blessed Lady give them wisdom!” said Doudel, yielding a little on her part. “Heaven forbid that their enemies should increase!”
Marguerite arose, wiped her eyes, and kissing them both with angelic fervor, went away, leaving the sisters together. They were not so far apart, after all. The very last persons who gave up their love for the king were the _Dames de la Halle_, to whom Doudel belonged.
“Think what it would be if this child should prove a bond of union between the people and the court,” said Doudel, after the two had conversed together half an hour. “The dames have great faith in her since she came home with the king’s kiss upon her forehead. She has the wish to serve her country. Keep her in it, for you can. Shall I tell you a name—the name of a person who has seen her more than once in this very room. Bend your head.”
Dame Tillery bent her head, and Doudel whispered a name in her ear.
“A stern Jacobin,” said the landlady, shaking her head in disapproval. “Altogether given up to those false doctrines which threaten to drag down the throne of France. But does he know who she is?”
“Yes; she told him herself. Sister, I have an idea that he loves our little girl.”
“Then it is high time that I take her away. She must have nothing in common with these agitators.”
“Not even if it were Count Mirabeau?”
“Count Mirabeau!”
“He came into the assembly one day, with a flower she gave him from her basket in his bosom.”
“And flung it away afterwards, as he would put her aside in a week. Sister, I know Mirabeau. When the States-General assembled at Versailles, he staid at The Swan. I liked him then, but afterwards, when I took my place at court—not that I wish to boast, sister—it came to me that her majesty, the queen, hated this man, and would not endure him in her sight. So, if you hope for any preferment for our child, keep aloof from Mirabeau.”
“The poor child wants no preferment. We can take care of her, Madame Gosner and myself. She is given up to France, I look to the girl. I have not set in the market so many years for nothing; and you have no children.”
“That is true—that is true! But this Mirabeau is a dangerous man. The girl is safer with me just now.”
“But you will let her come back again?”
“Will I? Of course, sister. Exaltation, you will find, has not hardened my heart. But just now you must not stand in the way of her advancement.”
With these sisterly feelings and amiable words the two women decided that Marguerite should go to Versailles for a time; thus unconsciously aiding in the important mission with which she was charged.