THE JOY OF A GREAT SURPRISE.
Monsieur Jacques, who had stood near the door, watchful, but inactive,
came forward, and, kneeling on one knee, lifted the fainting girl in his
arms. She was deathly white, and the stillness of the grave seemed to
have fallen upon her.
“Joy has killed her,” said the queen, pressing her hand upon the pale
forehead. “We were so abrupt. The poor child had lost all hope, and we
brought it back too suddenly.”
“Is that the pardon?” exclaimed Monsieur Jacques, forgetting the rank of
those he questioned.
“It is the order for her father’s release from the Bastille,” answered
the queen. “Where no crime has been committed it is impossible to grant
a pardon.”
“Ah! she will live to hear that!” cried Monsieur Jacques, gazing
steadily down into the pale face. “Look up, look up, and bless with a
glance of your beautiful eyes the—the—”
Monsieur Jacques broke off in confusion; words were upon his lips which
he would not have dared to utter for the whole world. He looked around,
and made a motion to unclasp his arms from around that inanimate girl;
but that instant her eyelids began to quiver, and her lips parted with a
struggling breath.
“Look up; do not be afraid to smile. It is a pardon—it is all you want,”
whispered the strange man.
A smile dawned softly over those pale lips, tinting them like a rose.
“Are you sure—are you quite sure?” she murmured, fixing her eyes on the
rude face bent above her.
“Indeed, he is quite sure,” answered the queen, with tears in her eyes;
“The order but now dropped from your hand. It is the king’s gift.”
Now the color came back to Marguerite’s face quick and warm. She
withdrew herself from Monsieur Jacques’ arms, and stood up trembling
with joy, as a rose quivers when the first gush of morning sunshine
bursts upon it.
“Oh, this is joy!” she said, lifting her eyes to the queen, “this is
joy! I never knew what it was before in all my life. Let me go—let me
go, that I may tell her! She is waiting; she sits with her hands
clasped, holding her breath till I come. Oh, lady, forgive me! joy has
made me wild. I forget that it is the queen to whom I speak, or that
this is the king, at whose feet I should throw myself. I only know this,
the happiest mortal that ever drew breath is prostrate before you,
overwhelmed with gratitude for which she has no words.”
Marguerite was on her knees, her face uplifted, beaming with smiles and
glistening with tears. The queen bent down and kissed her. Good-hearted
little Madame Campan sobbed aloud, at which the mistress of ceremonies
drew herself up and frowned darkly. In all her experience it had not
been considered etiquette for a Queen of France to shed tears in her
audience-chamber. No wonder the pillars of state were tottering under
such innovations.
After the first ecstacy of her gratitude had subsided, Marguerite arose
and retreated toward the door, drawing close to Monsieur Jacques. Dame
Tillery followed, and seeing her flushed face, opened the green expanse
of her fan, and shed its cool air upon her, whispering,
“Hush! hush, my child! do not weep any more—remember, I am here to
protect you. See, her majesty smiles; that is because she knows that
Dame Tillery is caring for you. Why, there goes monsieur up to the
king—what confidence, what audacity. I, who have so much greater right,
hesitated and lost the opportunity, being modest.”
True enough, Monsieur Jacques had respectfully approached the king, but
not before he was informed by the young duke that her majesty desired
it. Up to this time Louis had not looked directly at the man. His
attention had been completely taken up by that beautiful girl and he
gave little heed to anything else. But as Jacques came slowly toward him
he remembered the features, and a slight frown contracted his brows.
“What, our strange locksmith!” he muttered. “Can this man have been of
service to the queen?”
“Sire,” said Marie Antoinette, “this is the person who conquered that
wild animal. The heroic girl would have died for me, but his strength
saved us both.”
Louis hesitated, cleared his throat, and, after a moment, addressed the
man as if he had never seen him before.
“You have rendered the queen a great service,” he said, “and for that we
are glad to thank you, not in words alone. A king has always the power
to be grateful, and here he has the wish. Name the thing you most want
without hesitation.”
“Sire, I wish to speak with the King and Queen of France alone.”
Again Louis frowned; he had not forgotten that interview in his
work-shop, and the bold words spoken there.
“It is an unusual request,” he said, glancing uneasily at the queen;
“and one which her majesty must decide upon, after she has been fairly
warned of the free speech which may await her compliance.”
“Ah, Louis! I can deny nothing to this man—he has saved my life.”
“I know,” answered the king; “but that does not give him a right to
lecture his monarch.”
“He will never attempt that,” answered Marie Antoinette, smiling. “Let
us go to your private cabinet, sire; this good man has some favor to
ask, and is modest. Why not see him alone?”