CHAPTER XCI.

THE BAFFLED SPY.

An hour after this, Marguerite sat beside Dame Tillery in the little donkey cart which had brought them from Versailles. She carried a letter in her bosom directed to Count Mirabeau. The girl was very silent and thoughtful, and Dame Tillery managed her donkey in sullen dignity, for long after she was ready to start home Marguerite had kept her waiting.

At last curiosity overcame the good woman, and she began to ask questions.

“Well, Marguerite, did you get a sight of her majesty, or was it a mistake when they told me that she was walking in the Park. It was a great favor if they let you in. Nothing less than a member of the household could have done that for you; but, passing as my heiress, you have privileges. I hope you understand.”

“Oh, yes!” answered Marguerite dreamily. “I understand that you are very kind to me.”

“But about her majesty; did you get a glimpse of her?”

“Yes, I saw her.”

“But not too near. I hope you did not take a liberty like that?”

“No, I think there was nothing wrong in what I did. You are kind to bring me here; and the queen is very beautiful—a grand, noble lady.”

“Beautiful! I should think so. No one but a born traitor would dispute that.”

“But troubled. Oh, how troubled!” resumed the girl, as if speaking to herself.

“And reason enough,” answered Dame Tillery. “Her enemies grow keener every day; as for her friends—— I never boast, Marguerite, you know that, being more modest than most women; but if half her friends had been like me, earnest and capable, this miserable tumult would end. Instead of that, half the court has slunk away from her, and St. Cloud seems more like a prison than a palace.”

“It does, indeed,” sighed Marguerite. “Poor lady! Poor, wronged queen!”

Here Dame Tillery heaved a portentous sigh, and taking the reins in her left hand, drew forth a huge pocket-handkerchief, and wiped her eyes.

“If you feel her wrongs so much, what must they be to me, a member of her own household, and like a mother to her ever since the great empress died.”

Marguerite made no answer to this pathetic appeal. She had fallen into deep thought, and was wondering how it would be possible to get back to Paris, and safely deliver the letter hidden away in her bosom.

The good dame talked incessantly of her own greatness, and the influence which her devotion had secured in the royal household; but, as her companion had heard it all over and over again at least fifty times, it had no more effect on her thoughts than the rush and gurgle of a brook. All at once Marguerite started out of her reverie, and laid her hands upon the reins with which Dame Tillery was guiding her donkey.

“My friend, you must not be angry, but I do so long to be in Paris, if it is only for a night. Every step we take the other way, seems to draw a drop of blood from my heart.”

“What, homesick—and with me!” exclaimed the dame, drawing up her reins in blank astonishment.

“If you would only go with me, your sister Doudel will be so pleased.”

“Oh, yes, I dare say! Now that you have had a look at her highness, you are dying to tell all about it. Well, well! since the court left Versailles, there has not been so much custom at The Swan that its mistress cannot go away for a night, and no great harm done. So, if you have set your heart upon it, my child, we will just take the road to Paris, and give my sister a surprise. Poor soul! she has not had our privileges, and will be delighted to hear that her protegèe has been introduced into the heart of the palace.”

Dame Tillery entered into a severe struggle with her donkey. At this point that respectable animal objected to being forced from the road which led to his own stable, and took the journey to Paris with sullen protest and most unequal speed, sometimes creeping like a snail, sometimes going sideways, and occasionally pushing backward, as if determined to reach home by that process. But the good dame held her own in the contest; and at last drew up at her sister’s door, in high spirits, having brought the vicious animal into complete subjection.

As Marguerite hurried toward the entrance, a little figure glided out from the shadows cast by a neighboring building, and seizing hold of her dress, checked her swift progress. It was the dwarf who had given her the letter which Mirabeau sent to the queen.

“The letter,” he said, in a whisper; “I have been waiting for it. Count Mirabeau is impatient. Give me the letter.”

The dwarf spoke eagerly, and clung to her dress. She saw the steel-like flash of his eyes and drew back, warned by an intuition which checked her first impulse to give up the precious document.

“Come, come, be quick. He waits.”

“Where is the count?”

“In his own house. Come, now, the letter!”

Marguerite withdrew the folds of her dress from Zamara’s grasp, and moved forward.

“But you will not go without giving up the letter?” pleaded the little wretch. “I shall be blamed. Oh, mademoiselle! give it me!”

“Tell Count Mirabeau that it shall reach him by a safe hand,” said the girl, growing more and more resolute.

“But how are you to judge? Why choose another when I am here by his order?” pleaded the little traitor, stricken with terror.

“Because I was directed to deliver all that was given me into the count’s own hands.”

“And you will?”

“Yes, I will.”

“But to-night? Will you give it to him this very night?”

“Yes; this very night.”

Here Dame Tillery came on to the doorstep, almost sweeping the dwarf away with her skirts.

“Come, come—what are you waiting for? Surely, they have not locked the door so early.”

Marguerite, finding herself thus set free, glided into the house, and Dame Tillery followed.

The dwarf drew back into the shadows again, grinding his teeth with impotent rage. He dared not return to the woman who had kept him day after day upon the watch for Marguerite’s return. His errand had been a failure, and, cowering with dread, he reflected that his very life was at stake, for Louison Brisot’s threat had chilled his soul with dread of her vengeance. So he slunk away, and, leaning against the wall of a neighboring house, waited in terror for Marguerite to come forth. After awhile the door opened cautiously, and a street lamp cast its momentary light upon Marguerite, who, shrouded in a cloak, and with a hood drawn over her face passed into the street.

The dwarf followed her in sheer desperation. He had no doubt that she was on her way to Mirabeau’s residence, where the letter she carried would pass out of his reach forever—that the wretched creature knew would be death to him. So, without any definite object, and actuated only by a wild desire to save himself, he followed on, keeping at a safe distance. Marguerite walked rapidly, gliding like a shadow along the street, until she came in sight of Mirabeau’s dwelling; then she paused a moment to gather courage, and pushing back her hood looked around, to be certain no one was in sight.

That moment a young man passing along the street, stopped short in his rapid walk, and cast a sharp glance at the young face momentarily exposed to his view.

“Great heavens!”

This exclamation had hardly left his lips, when the girl entered the building, which he knew to be occupied by Count Mirabeau.

“The villain! Poor, foolish child!”

Muttering this through his clenched teeth, St. Just drew back into the shelter of an arched passage, and watched the house with a wild hope that another minute would bring the girl into the street again. As he stood with his eager eyes fixed on the opposite door, something that seemed like a crouching dog stole up the steps, and pressed itself against the door, which swung partly open, letting a gleam of light into the street. Then he saw what had seemed a prowling animal lift itself to an upright position, till it took the statue of a child, and pass through the hall beyond.