THE QUEEN’S PERIL.
That instant a young girl, pale as death, sprang before the queen, her
white lips apart, her eyes burning with heroism and terror. With both
arms she flung up the folds of her scarlet shawl, thus maddening the
creature afresh in a wild effort to drive her back.
For one moment the vicious animal shook her fierce head, veered, turned
again, and gathered up her limbs for a great leap forward. But as she
made the plunge, and the leveled horns almost touched the girl, a man
sprung upon the beast, seized her by both horns, and with the strength
of a giant, bore her head down, even forcing her back until her fore
hoofs were lifted from the ground.
That instant Marie Antoinette fell upon her knees, and flung her arms
around the brave girl, who had leaped in between her and death, clinging
to her in wild gratitude.
“Who is it? who is it that flings her life down to save mine?”
Marguerite turned her white face to the queen, and answered with a
single sentence,
“Thank God, and the mother of God!”
Still the queen clung to her. Even then, she did not feel entirely safe;
though the animal which had assailed her was lying upon its side,
panting for breath, tethered head and hoof, and bellowing fiercely under
the pain of her sudden bondage, while her conqueror stood with one foot
on her panting side, tightening the thongs that held her down.
“Sister! sister! Are you safe? are you safe?”
It was Elizabeth, the king’s sister, one of the sweetest women that ever
drew breath. In all the terror of her flight, she had come back to learn
of the queen’s welfare.
“Yes; thanks to this brave girl,” said Marie Antoinette. “Had the beast
kept on she would have been trampled down first.”
“How can we thank her, sister?” said Elizabeth, turning her grateful
face on the girl. “What can we do in return for this brave act?”
“It was not brave. I did not think—there was no time. Pray, pray do not
thank me so much! It will make a coward of me; I shall not dare ask
anything—not even _his_ life. Forgive me, forgive me! I did not know
what I was doing.”
“If you are grateful, lady, give her the thing she asks for. Give
liberty and life to her father, who has been years on years in the
torments of the Bastille. That is what she came here to implore at your
hands.”
“Who is it that speaks for her so warmly?” said the queen, still pale
and trembling, but assuming something of her royal dignity.
“A man of the people, your highness, and her friend.”
“But—but surely, you are not the person who conquered that cruel beast?
The face is like——”
She turned and cast a shuddering glance where the brute, that had so
terrified her, lay panting out its rage.
The man laughed a little scornfully.
“Oh! it was nothing; I only held her back till some one flung me a rope
from the window; besides, I had help to bind the brute, a young fellow
who ought to belong to the people, for they love bravery in lord or
workman.”
“I saw him, your highness. It was Richelieu,” whispered Elizabeth.
The conversation was drifting away from the subject which lay so close
to Marguerite’s heart. She looked around, almost in despair. Elizabeth,
with that keen delicacy which seems like intuition, saw this, and
touched the queen’s arm.
“She is anxious—she suffers.”
“But Dame Tillery has no husband in the Bastille, that her daughter
should crave freedom for. I do not understand.”
“Madame, it is a mistake; I am not the daughter of this good woman. In
her kindness she brought me here, without knowing how urgent my business
was.”
“Then tell me whose daughter you are, that I may better understand.”
“My father, your highness, was Dr. Gosner.”
The queen uttered a sudden cry, and retreated a step, as if the name had
inflicted a pang.
“Ah! I have heard the name. It was one which made even my imperial
mother tremble.”
“But that could not have been his fault; he was good, and gentle as any
child, I have heard my mother say,” pleaded Marguerite.
“No, child, it was not his fault—and God forbid that it should be our
misfortune. Dr. Gosner! It is years since I have heard that name. We
thought him dead.”
“In a living tomb; but not dead, your highness.”
“But how came he in the Bastille?”
“That I do not know.”
“How long has he been there?”
“Since the year of the old king’s death.”
“Heavens! and we not know; but it shall be remedied.”
Marguerite clasped her hands, and her eyes filled with tears.
“You will pardon him? You will free him?”
Marie Antoinette smiled; she was now all the queen. With a wave of her
hand she had kept the little crowd of her friends back, while this
dialogue was going on. It was now sunset; a red glow was kindling up the
landscape, and the last slanting beams fell across the group, revealing
each figure clearly, like light thrown across a picture.
“I promise,” said the queen, extending her hand: “your father shall be
set free. It thrills me with horror to think of him in a prison.”
Marguerite sunk upon her knees, and kissed the hand extended so
graciously. Her beautiful face was aglow with gratitude; her lips
quivered with emotions they would never have the power to express.
“Oh! if I could thank your highness.”
“But you cannot, and must not. It is I who should give thanks for a life
saved.”
Again Marie Antoinette held out her hand. This time Marguerite observed
that her lips touched a serpent coiled around a green stone, which
circled one finger. She started; a strange sensation crept over her, and
she seemed fascinated, as if a real serpent were charming all her
faculties.
“There, you have our promise and our gratitude,” said the queen, gently
withdrawing her hand. “To-morrow I will have this case inquired
into—that is, I will suggest it to the king.”
“God bless you!”
This benediction broke from the lips of Monsieur Jacques, who had been
listening eagerly.
The queen turned a look upon the man which made his heart swell.
“Oh! if the people of France could see their queen now,” he exclaimed.
“They would believe no good of her,” answered Marie; and all at once her
eyes filled with tears.
The features of the strong man were troubled. He looked upon that proud,
beautiful woman, with evident compassion.
“Ah, madame!” he said, with a genial outburst of admiration. “If the
people of France could only look through these eyes, you would be
adored.”
The queen gave him an eloquent glance, and turned away.
“To-morrow,” she said, “conduct this girl to the palace. The king will
be glad to thank her and you. Now, ladies and gentlemen, let us back to
the _Petite Trianon_. Dame Tillery, you will take care of these good
people, and accept something better than thanks for the trouble.”
Dame Tillery, who had been lying prostrate in the grass, among the
wrecks of her milking stool and broken pail, for a longer time than I
dare relate, had at last rolled, and plunged, and scrambled to her feet,
deluged with milk, and a little lame from a blow she had received, when
the cow trampled over her. Feeling in a state of dilapidation, she
hesitated to draw near until the queen called her by name. Then she came
rolling forward, took Marguerite by the hand, and making a profound
reverence, led her charge away, followed by Monsieur Jacques.