CHAPTER LXXXIX.

MARGUERITE SEEKS THE QUEEN.

Slowly and sadly Marie Antoinette walked up and down one of the most secluded avenues in the Park at St. Cloud. Not yet forty years of age, in fact, lacking some years of that, she was beginning to look worn and anxious. The brightness of her smile was gone, and in its place came a mournful tremor of the lips, which sometimes betrayed a stern resolution, not always just, and seldom wise, which sometimes locked her sweet mouth as with iron. With all the ability of Maria Theresa, her august mother, she had neither the experience, the cool patience, or indomitable perseverance of that great and most womanly sovereign.

Born to the imperial purple, the empress grew up with a notion which she understood, and anchored her power in the love of her people; but Marie Antoinette, from first to last, was a stranger in France, and for many years almost a stranger to her own husband. Scarcely had this woman begun to find happiness in her domestic life, when the shock of a great moral earthquake, which vibrated from its center in France over the whole world, begun to make the earth tremble under her feet. For this woman there never had been an hour of absolute peace. As a wife, she had for years been subjected to deep and bitter humiliation; and her first maternal joy was dashed with a terrible disappointment. The heir which she gave to France was distorted and imperfect as her own happiness had been. Alas! in everything which fills the measure of a mother’s pride, and a queen’s ambition, she had met such sharp disappointment as wrings the heart of a true woman—and this Marie Antoinette undoubtedly was.

The queen walked alone, as I have said, so weary, and broken-hearted that, for the moment, she longed to lay down her burden and die. The crown, which her husband had inherited, was so full of thorns that her head was wounded by them. In the throes of a great national convulsion, the very friends for whom she had sacrificed so much, had crept from her one after another, like frightened animals from a burning mansion; and in that regal old palace she found herself more lonely than the meanest woman who clamored for bread in the streets of Paris.

The queen thought of these things as she moved along. Being alone, and only human, her eyes filled with bitter tears. She came in sight of the temple, in which Count Mirabeau had sought an interview, which was of momentous importance to her; but it seemed as if even there she had sacrificed her pride for nothing. Either this man had no power to help his struggling king, or he was inert in using it. It seemed to her that no one in France was active but the men and women who most hated their king.

“Madame, your highness!”

The voice that uttered these words was sweet and timid, like that of a child pleading.

“Lady—your highness, I mean!”

Marie Antoinette wiped the tears from her eyes, and walked on a step or two, afraid to turn her head lest some inferior might see her weeping, and report her weakness to those who hated her. But the voice went to her heart, and after a struggle she turned.

A young girl stood before her, blushing, panting for breath, and with her head bowed down as a beautiful devotee might bend before a picture of the Virgin.

“Is there some mistake, or did you wish to speak with me?” said the queen, gently.

“I—I came on purpose. I promised to give that which I carry in my bosom only to the queen.”

“That which you carry in your bosom! Are you a messenger, then? Are you from Paris?”

“Your highness, I came from Paris three days ago. One day I was on the route to Versailles; another I took for rest; and this morning I came here with Dame Tillery.”

A faint smile crept over the queen’s face.

“Dame Tillery is your companion, then—a kinder could not be found; but you have something more than she knows of to say, I trust?”

“Oh, yes! I have a letter!”

“A letter! From whom?”

“Your highness, it is from Count Mirabeau.”

“From Mirabeau! Hush! Speak lower. Even here spies creep in. Surely, the stout old dame whom you speak of knows nothing of this?”

“Your highness, the letter was intrusted to me. I told no one.”

“That was wise—that is truly loyal. Turn down this path and follow me.”

Marie Antoinette turned into the path which led to the summer temple, where she had met Mirabeau, and hurrying up the eminence, entered the building. Marguerite followed her into the little retreat, and, looking around to make sure that no one was watching them the queen closed the door and locked it.

“Now,” she said, in nervous haste, “give me Count Mirabeau’s letter.”

Marguerite took the letter from her bosom, and dropping upon her knees, held it up.

It was a heavy package, containing two or three sheets of closely-written paper. The queen attempted to control herself, but constant anxiety had shaken her nerves, and she sat down on a low couch, which circled half the temple like a Turkish divan. She broke the seal in trembling haste, for she had heard nothing of her new ally for weeks, and, giving way to her old prejudices, had begun to distrust him.

Marguerite leaned against the opposite wall, and watched the queen as she bent over the closely-written sheets. Once or twice she saw that face in all the rare beauty, which humiliation and constant dread had failed to kill. Bright smiles kindled it into youth again, and for a moment, it was exultant; but most of the time anxious frowns swept the white forehead, and the red lips worked in an agony of proud impatience. She read the letter twice. Once, hurriedly snatching the pith from each sentence, and again with grave thoughtfulness. At last she folded the paper, and grasped it between her fingers with nervous violence. It was hard to guess whether it had given her most pain or pleasure. She seemed to have forgotten that Marguerite was looking at her, but murmured whole sentences together, as if arranging them in her memory.

“A grand federation in Paris. So they wish us—us to join the people in a carousal over the downfall of the great stronghold of the monarchy. He advises it. This man, who claims to be ours at heart, advises me to urge this new humiliation on the king. Is this friendship, or subtile treason?”

She unfolded the letter again, and read a portion of it with evident repulsion. “This assembly will draw many people from the provinces, whose loyalty will be enkindled to enthusiasm by a sight of the king and his family joining in a celebration, which may yet be made to win him a triumph over his enemies. Do not be surprised when you hear that Mirabeau has gone into this idea with all his heart. There may be danger in it; but leave that to him, and out of these threatening elements shall be moulded a new foundation to the throne of France. Take the advice of one who knows the people; show yourself and your children at the——”

Here the excited woman broke off, and crushed the paper in her hand with passionate vehemence.

“Never! Never!” she cried. “How dare this man advise me so? Are we to grovel on our knees in order to keep the shadow of power they have left to us. Great heaven! has it come to this?”

The haughty woman flung herself forward on the divan, and writhed in her tortured pride, feeling in her soul that she would be compelled to accept the advice her whole nature revolted at. Then she began to sob, and, covering her face with both hands, wept and moaned in piteous distress.

Marguerite stood watching her, filled with gentle compassion. She saw that the poor queen wept like any other woman, and wondered at it. Then her timidity gave way to the flood of pity that swelled her heart, and, drawing close to the divan, she fell upon her knees, and touched her trembling lips to the white hand, which still grasped the paper, as if it were strangling a serpent.

“Oh, lady! sweet, sweet lady, do not cry so! It breaks my heart.”

Marie Antoinette had been too cruelly wounded in her troubles not to feel the genuine sympathy conveyed in these words. She lifted her face, all flushed and bathed with tears, and let it fall on the girl’s shoulder. It was sweet to know that some one, pure and good as an angel, could feel for her. So, in her womanhood, she forgot all sovereignty, and clung to the girl, still weeping.

“Who are you?” she said, at length, looking wistfully at the fair, young face. “Oh, I remember.”

“Only a poor girl, who loves you, and would die for you. Oh, madame! if a drop of my best blood could fall for each of those tears, you should never weep again.”

Marie Antoinette smiled through her tears.

“They try to persuade us that we have no friends among the people,” she said. “Yet aid and comfort comes to me through a young creature like this. But how came Count Mirabeau to trust you?”

“He knew that I was to be trusted.”

“Do you know this man well?”

“No, madame. I scarcely know him at all; but he trusts me. It was Count Mirabeau who chose me from among so many to speak for the women before the king that day at Versailles.”

“Ah! now I comprehend the whole. Poor girl, poor girl! Your father in prison—alas! alas! how much we have permitted you to suffer. How much you have forgiven!”

“We have suffered, your highness, but there was nothing to forgive.”

“The same sweet voice, the same honest face. I will accept both as a good omen. I see now, you came with Dame Tillery and so escaped suspicion. Does the dame know that you are with me?”

The queen asked this question with some anxiety; for her faith in Dame Tillery’s discretion was small indeed.

“No, lady; it was not my secret to tell.”

“Brave girl!”

“The Count wanted a messenger who would be safe and silent. He asked me to come and place that in the hands of our queen. I had nothing else to think of, and thanked our blessed Lady that even in that little I might do some service to my sovereign.”

“A great service, child—a great service; more than you dream of.”

Marguerite’s face brightened.

“I wish it had been less easy,” she said, with gentle humility.

“Nay, but I am glad that your coming was without suspicion or danger.”

“But I should like the danger; then it would seem as if I had done something.”

The queen sighed and answered with a faint wave of her hand; then her thoughts seemed to turn to the letter.

The cloud of trouble swept over her face again, and she fell into thought, not wild and passionate, as at first, but heavy and harassing doubts, doubled the traces of age on her face. At last she arose with a weary air, and prepared to leave the temple. In her deep preoccupation she forgot Marguerite and going through the door, closed it on the girl.

Marguerite, neither spoke nor moved, but stood patiently waiting. She heard the queen pass swiftly around the temple, then all was still again. Was she really left there without directions? What was she to do, how act? Her heart slowly filled with misgiving, she was almost afraid.

“She will come back. In her trouble she forgot.”

With these thoughts the girl seated herself on the divan, folded her hands, and waited, trembling a little as the utter loneliness crept over her. She had been seated thus, perhaps, ten minutes, when quick footsteps came around the temple again, and she had scarcely time to start to her feet, when the door was pushed open, and Marie Antoinette stood on the threshold.

“Ah! you have waited—that was right. Sit down and rest awhile until I come back again; it may be an hour, perhaps two—but wait.”

With these words the queen disappeared as swiftly as she had done before.