ZAMARA BRINGS BAD NEWS FOR HIS MISTRESS.
The woman who had given Dame Tillery so much anxiety, sat in the chamber
she had so resolutely possessed herself of, waiting for the dinner
ordered an hour before. She was wonderfully restive, for oppressive and
exciting memories became peculiarly vivid and harassing in that place.
With the royal chateau clearly in sight, it was impossible to forget the
time when its inmates were almost her slaves; when the daughters of
France, in all their royal pride, had been compelled to receive her with
honors, while all the assembled nobility of the court witnessed her
triumph. Even the haughty and beautiful queen, who reigned there now,
had, as Dauphiness, submitted to her companionship at the royal table,
in the first flush of her bridal honors.
No wonder the woman walked to and fro in the mingled triumph and
arrogance of these thoughts. If they brought some relief to her vanity,
they were also full of bitterness, for never again could such homage and
power return to her. Even now, with the scenes of her former grandeur in
sight, she felt herself to be an intruder in that commonplace house,
where the lowest mechanic in the town had a right to come. She knew well
enough that one glimpse of her through the window might bring a mob
about the house who would be glad to hunt her down. People who formerly
considered it an honor to be soiled by the mud from her carriage-wheels,
would, she felt sure, be among the first to hoot her out of town, and
follow her with all sorts of coarse revilings. Madame Du Berry knew this
well, and felt it keenly, for, depraved and despotic as she had been,
she still possessed some good impulses, and had not yet outlived that
first great want of womanhood, a desire to be loved.
For once in her life, Madame Du Berry was possessed of a noble object.
She had never liked Marie Antoinette in the days of her supreme
popularity; but as years wore on, and troubles gathered about the
throne, this woman’s sympathies grew strong in her behalf. She had
tasted too deeply of the sweets of power not to feel for those who were
struggling that it might not be wrested from them. Perhaps some memory
of the old monarch, who had been more than generous to her, had aroused
a loyal feeling for his grandson. In a wayward creature like her, it is
impossible to give any act an undivided motive; but that day she had
come to Versailles in a spirit of noble self-sacrifice, and was anxious
to give back to the heirs of Louis no inconsiderable portion of the
wealth his prodigal hand had bestowed upon her. In the mockery of her
own royal state, she had become deeply enamored with the prerogative of
kings.
Filled with these generous ideas, anxious to fulfill them, she walked
the floor to and fro, waiting impatiently for the return of her
messenger, who had found his way to the palace. The dinner was brought
in, but she could not force herself to eat. The very atmosphere of the
place excited so many emotions that she could neither conquer nor fling
them off. For the time this woman was both loyal and munificent.
A noise in the street brought her as near the window as she dared to
venture. She looked out and saw two females approaching the hotel. One
was Dame Tillery, who swept her portly figure forward with a pompous
swell of importance calculated to dazzle the citizens who had seen her
sail through the palace gates, where the guards saluted her with all
honor; for up to that point the young Duke de Richelieu had accompanied
the party. The other was Marguerite, modest, quiet, and so preoccupied
with her own great happiness, that she scarcely heeded the crowd that
gathered after them, or cared that Dame Tillery was making herself so
absurdly conspicuous with her gorgeous complications of dress, and by
the solemn spread of her great fan, which she used as a screen or baton,
as she wished to lay down law, or keep the sun from her face.
Du Berry broke into an immoderate fit of laughter as she saw the
landlady coming through the streets of Versailles in all the inflated
glory of a late reception at court. A keen sense of the ridiculous, and
a coarse relish of fun, had been one of the principal charms this woman
had carried with her through life. It was, in fact, this contrast with
the elaborately elegant women of the court, which had formed the chief
element of her power in former years. Neither time nor misfortune had
dulled this broad sense of enjoyment; she had thrown herself into a
chair, and was laughing until the tears rolled down the rouge and tiny
black patches on her face, when Zamara, who had undertaken to convey a
message to the palace, came in and paused at the door, astonished by
this outburst of hilarity.
Madame composed herself a little, and wiped the tears from her laughing
face.
“Did you see her, my Zamara? Did you watch her progress down the street,
wielding that green fan, kissing her hand to the crowd? Oh! it was
delicious! Come here, marmosette, and tell me your news. I have not had
such a laugh in years; in fact, that heavy climate of England would take
the laugh out of Hebe herself. It is an enjoyment, and I feel all the
better for it. Now tell me all about it.”
“I have failed to reach the queen. These people were in the way, so I
brought the letter back.”
“Oh! that is bad! It will compel us to wait another day in this dismal
place—and that I can hardly endure!” exclaimed the countess, losing all
desire to laugh. “How unfortunate!”
“But that is not the worst,” answered the dwarf.
“Well, what can be worse than two long days in this hole; let me have
it, if that is not enough. I have learned how to bear evil tidings, as
you know, rogue—so out with your news.”