THE LANDLADY AND THE WHITE HENS.
All that morning a young girl sat in the parlor of a little public house
in the town of Versailles, waiting with such impatience as can only be
felt by anxious youth, for the appearance of Monsieur Jacques.
“Have no fear,” he had said, in going out with a box of tools in his
hand. “I shall see the king, and so plead with him that you will read my
good news on my face at the first sight. Perhaps I shall have managed to
get an interview for yourself; so keep a brave heart, and watch for me
at the little window yonder.”
She had watched, poor child, until the minutes seemed turning into
hours, until her eyes grew dim, and her heart faint; for one moment hope
grew strong in her bosom; the next a pang of dread would seize upon her,
and she longed to flee away and hide herself from the disappointment
which seemed sure of coming.
As she sat looking wearily through the window, the landlady came into
the room once or twice, and, standing close by her, looked through the
upper panes into the street, as if in expectation of some one.
Marguerite lifted her eyes to this woman’s face anxious for sympathy,
for it was a sister of Dame Doudel who kept the house. But the good
woman was that moment filled with anxiety on her own account.
“Ah! here he comes a third time, and all for nothing!” exclaimed the
woman, excitedly. “As if little hens, with wings and bosoms like snow,
could be picked up in a minute. I dare say the queen thinks such things
are hatched full-grown. Good morning, monsieur. Good morning once again!
No better news!”
“What, nothing yet, and her majesty so impatient?”
“Ah! you know it sometimes happens that nature will have her own way in
spite of the queen.”
“Then nature is full of rank treason,” answered the man, who stepped
across the threshold, and threw himself into a seat where he could stare
at Marguerite more conveniently. “Your daughter, dame, I suppose, and a
demoiselle worth looking at. Where have you kept her till now?”
“We were talking about hens, monsieur, not about daughters; but you are
mistaken, I have no child—though this pretty creature does remind me of
a niece who is in her grave. Do not blush, child, for she was good as
well as beautiful.”
“And this one is beautiful, let her be good or not,” muttered the man,
who wore a royal livery, and seemed to assume great authority thereat.
Marguerite turned her face away, and looked out of the window more
earnestly than ever; for she heard the remark, and those bold, searching
eyes annoyed her.
“Well, monsieur, step this way,” said the woman.
“No, I will wait here,” answered the man, crossing his feet on the
floor, and stretching himself into an easy position.
“But it is no use to wait; the thing you want cannot be found in the
whole town. I have sent to the market in Paris, and among the farmers in
the country. Perhaps one will come in, but it may not be for a week.”
The man changed his position a little and laughed.
“Oh! I prefer to wait awhile,” he answered.
“Then mademoiselle will, perhaps, walk upstairs?” said the woman. “Other
windows than this overlook the street.”
Marguerite arose, blushing deeply, and cast a grateful look on the
landlady who was so kindly attempting to shield her from this man’s
impertinent admiration.
“Pardon, I would not incommode any one for the world, so will take
myself off at once. But you have not yet divined my whole business. I
was ordered to summon the good dame herself to the little palace.”
“What, me? No, no! There is some mistake.”
“Not at all. Her majesty is in a dilemma.”
“That is not unlikely,” muttered the landlady. “It seems to me that all
France is in a dilemma.”
“She has discovered that none of her ladies know how to make butter.”
“To make butter?”
“Exactly. Thus you can understand all the choice cows that live so
daintily around the Swiss cottages are a sad reproach. Her majesty knows
how to set the cream; but when it comes to churning butter, that is
beyond her. Not even the Princess Lambella or Madame Campan can aid her
in that, clever as they are.”
The landlady laughed, holding her side with both hands.
“I should think not—I should think not,” she said, at length rocking
herself to and fro in jovial enjoyment of this absurd idea. “What have
court ladies to do with useful things like that?”
“So this is one reason that I am sent here. You are wanted, dame, quite
as much as the white hen.”
“Me! Wanted for what?”
“This is it. Her highness, the queen, desires a perfect dress, and sends
for a _modiste_ to superintend her toilet. In the same way she wants
golden butter from a herd of the most beautiful cows in the world—butter
of her own making, remember; but is compelled to send for the mistress
of The Swan, who will now put on her shawl and proceed to one of the
Swiss cottages, to which I shall have the honor of conducting her. It is
her majesty’s order.”
Still the landlady laughed; she was half flattered, half incredulous.
The idea that she was summoned to teach the queen was too astonishing
for belief.
“Monsieur has had his little joke,” she said, doubtfully.
“But it is no joke. I come by the queen’s order to demand your
attendance.”
“Monsieur, if you trifle with me, I shall be angry.”
“And with good cause. But I do not trifle.”
“And you wish me to go?”
“At once.”
“But it is a long walk.”
“Look through the window, and you will see that her majesty has made
provision for this difficulty.”
The landlady leaned over Marguerite and saw that a calashe, drawn by a
pair of fine horses, stood outside. Her eyes brightened; she nodded her
head and began to untie her apron.
“Monsieur shall not be made to wait,” she said. “It is not every woman
who can say that the queen has sent for her.”
Just as the delighted woman went out of one door, Monsieur Jacques came
in at the other, stooping forward dejectedly, and turning his eyes away
from Marguerite, as if afraid to look her in the face.
Marguerite started as he came in, and clasped her hands; but when she
saw his face, her fingers fell slowly apart, and she sunk back in her
chair moaning unconsciously.
“Do not punish me with that look!” exclaimed the unhappy man, drawing
close to her in deep humiliation; “I have betrayed you, and left my
errand unfulfilled, but it came out of my love of France. In my insane
enthusiasm I forgot you, and everything else, when a little moderation
would have won all. Can you forgive me?”
Marguerite lifted her great blue eyes to his face, and he felt their
mournful reproach tremble through his heart.
“And you did not see him?” she said.
“Yes, I saw him, and forgot you—everything else but France and its
sufferings.”
“Ah, me! and I had hoped so much.”
“It is I—your best friend—who have betrayed you.”
“But is the opportunity entirely lost? We may never again be so near the
king. He is in the palace; oh! if I could obtain entrance! Tell me, sir,
is it possible?”
Marguerite addressed the queen’s messenger, who sat with his legs
crossed, regarding her with smiling interest.
“Is what impossible, mademoiselle?”
“That I can gain one minute’s speech with the king?”
“Utterly impossible, I should say!”
Marguerite dropped into her chair with a look of broken-hearted
disappointment, which cut Monsieur Jacques to the soul.
“It is I that have done it,” he said desperately. “I who would rather
have perished.”
“Are you her father?” inquired the queen’s messenger, with interest.
“Her father? No!”
“Her friend, then?”
“No, I am her worst enemy. Ask her.”
“Indeed he is not,” cried Marguerite. “We expected him to accomplish
impossible things, and he could not—for this he condemns himself.”
“Is it that you so much desire an interview with the king?”
“No,” answered Monsieur Jacques. “It is I who have thrown an interview
away—wasted it in complaints and invectives, when I should have been
pleading for mercy.”
“That is a misfortune!” said the messenger, striding up and down the
door, “a great misfortune, but not, perhaps without its remedy.”
Marguerite turned her eyes upon him. He met the look of wild entreaty,
and paused in his walk.
“To get an interview with the king is beyond my managing; but her
majesty keeps no state just now. I could almost venture to——”.
Marguerite started up, her sweet face on fire with sudden hope.
“Take me to the queen—take me to the queen, and I will bless you
forever,” she pleaded.