THE SWISS COTTAGE.
“What is this? Who is it that is begging and praying to see her majesty?
My young friend here, with the mournful eyes? Why not? If I had a
daughter now, she should follow me into her presence, and look on while
I give her majesty a lesson. Not having the daughter, why not take this
pretty pigeon under my wing? What say you, monsieur? They could only
refuse to let her in, and no great harm done?” cried the landlady,
entering the room in haste.
“I was about to propose as much,” answered the queen’s messenger, upon
whom the landlady had borne down with this burst of eloquence as she
entered the room, equipped for an excursion.
“You will consent,” cried Marguerite, turning from one to the other in
breathless anxiety; “you will let me go?”
“Look in her face now, and say if she is not enough like me to pass for
my own child. Blue eyes, hair with a dash of gold in it—that is before
mine turned to silver; a nice trim waist, such as mine was not so very
long ago—in fact, the girl is patterned after me, and I have a mind to
run some risk for her, especially as it will please my good sister
Doudel, and monsieur seems willing.”
Marguerite clasped her hands and turned her beaming face on Monsieur
Jacques.
“You will not leave me? Wait till I come back. It is best that we appeal
to the queen. Had it been otherwise you would never have forgotten.”
Monsieur Jacques came out of his dejection. The thoughtfulness and hope
in that sweet face inspired him.
“Go,” he said, “I will follow you. When fate closes one door, she opens
another.”
“It is not fate, Monsieur Jacques, but our Lady; I was praying to her
all the time you were out.”
A curt smile died on Monsieur Jacques’ lips. He was beginning to have
very little reverence for “our Lady” or any other being, human or
divine; but the most irreligious man prefers to find devotion in the
woman he loves; so this stout democrat stifled the sneer that had almost
curved his lip, and bent his massive head in homage to the simple piety
in which he did not believe.
“Now,” said the dame, taking Marguerite by the arm in cordial
good-humor, and marching toward the carriage with a stir and bustle,
which would have drawn the attention of passers-by, had the royal livery
been insufficient to produce that effect, “you shall see what power the
mistress of The Swan has at court. There, climb up over the front wheel,
while some one brings me a stool. Thank you, monsieur; it is not that I
am unable to mount the wheel as she does, but my shoe is a little tight.
There, let me rest my hand on your shoulder—it helps famously. Oh! here
we are, comfortable as birds in a nest. Now for a swinging ride through
the town.”
They had a swinging ride, and a handsome man, in royal livery, attending
them on horseback. More than that—a stout, hardy working man tramped
after on foot, resolved to keep his charge in sight, if vigorous walking
would do it. But the queen’s horses were full of fire, and soon left
Monsieur Jacques toiling in the mud far behind, while they dashed toward
the _Petite Trianon_, fairly taking Marguerite’s breath away.
The carriage stopped, the attendant dismounted and opened the door.
Directly the portly person of our hostess of The Swan was safely planted
in front of a rustic gate which led to a _bijou_ of a Swiss cottage,
fanciful as a fairy dwelling in its construction, sheltered by the green
old trees that spread out from the Park, and surrounded by grass that
grew greener and thicker than could be found elsewhere, upon which a
drove of choice white cows were feeding luxuriously.
The landlady turned as she touched the earth, and held out her two stout
arms, as if Marguerite had been an infant who claimed her help. But the
young girl scarcely touched the kindly offered arms. She sprang to the
earth in breathless haste, white to the lips, trembling in every limb.
Her friend gave a nod of encouragement, over her shoulder, and led the
way toward the cottage.
A beautiful woman came to the door, and looked out; a merry laugh was on
her lips; her large eyes were bright as sunshine. A dress of brown
stuff, looped up from a blue underskirt of the same material, gave
piquancy and grace to a figure, which had the rare beauty of perfect
womanhood. A dainty little cap was tied over an abundance of rich brown
hair, in which there seemed to be a slight grey tinge; but, on a closer
view, this tinge was produced by traces of powder, which could not be
entirely brushed from tresses so habitually accustomed to its use.
The lady spoke a few words, still laughing, to some one within the
cottage; then two or three other faces crowded into the background, and
bright eyes glowed out upon the portly figure of Dame Tillery, as she
came up the walk, almost concealing the slight figure of Marguerite, who
came trembling behind her.
The women of France were a brave, outspoken class even when they came in
contact with all the exclusiveness of a court. When the people and the
nobility met, face to face, honest truths were often spoken, which could
not have been palatable to king or courtier. Of this fearless class,
Dame Tillery was a superior specimen. She walked with something like
dignity, toward the cottage; the heavy shawl folded over her ample bosom
neither rose nor fell, with a quickened breath: a bland smile was on her
face. She was pleased to be summoned, but in no way embarrassed.
“My queen!” said the Dame, addressing the lady in the door-way, “you
have sent for me, and I have come.”
Dame Tillery looked at the white hand, which lay in beautiful relief
against the brown dress, as if she longed to kiss it.
Marie Antoinette smiled, and held out her hand, about which the sweet
smell of milk still lingered.
“Ah, dame! we are in sad trouble,” she said, laughing pleasantly. “The
cream is obstinate to-day, or we are sadly ignorant. It is delightful to
see how helpless we all are. Here is Madame Campan breaking her heart.”
“If your highness permit——”
“Nay, dame, there is no highness here, remember. All that is left
behind, at Versailles. It is only a company of dairy-women, more
ignorant of their business than is proper. As a dame of experience we
have sent for you.”
“Yes, your—That is, certainly; I have some experience.”
“And discretion,” rejoined Marie Antoinette, looking anxious for the
moment, and scanning Dame Tillery’s face with a clear, keen glance, with
which the queen sometimes examined those who approached her.
“And discretion, if that means silence,” answered the dame.
Once more the careless light came back to the queen’s face; and throwing
off the thoughtfulness which had made her appear ten years older, she
turned and entered the cottage.
“Madame, your highness, can my companion come in also?”
Marie Antoinette frowned and regretted the step she had taken. She was
evidently annoyed by this constant appeal to her royalty.
“Ah! your daughter. Yes, yes, let her come in. She, too, may be able to
teach us something.”
Marguerite, in a wondering way, knew that she was in the presence of the
queen. She would have spoken, but the words died on her lips, for the
frank, smiling woman who met them so cordially, had been in an instant
transformed into a creature of evident power; her frown was ominous as
her smile was bright; but Marie Antoinette was a creature of wonderful
variability, and almost on the instant took up her _role_ of dairy-maid.