DAME TILLERY DINES WITH THE COUNTESS DU BERRY.
Before the dwarf could urge the conversation further, Dame Tillery came
into the room, followed by a maid-servant, who carried a tray, on which
were some delicate trifles, and a plate of fresh figs, for madame’s
dessert.
The good dame burst into a torrent of exclamations when she found that
the first courses of her dinner were untouched, and became pathetic in
her entreaties that madame would just taste the fresh fruit, and
delicate cakes, which were to have been the crowning glory of her meal.
The countess consented to taste the fruit, but only on condition that
Dame Tillery should, in the meantime, help dispose of the viands which
had been so long neglected.
Dame Tillery was not so elated by her reception at the palace as to lose
any portion of her fine appetite. “It was a shame,” she said, “to allow
this delicious pâte, and that lovely pullet, without mentioning the
delicate salad, to be taken back ignominiously to the kitchen. They
might be a little cold; but, even then, any one must understand that a
cold dinner at the Swan was worth a dozen hot ones at any other public
house in Versailles. She would just cut a slice from the breast of the
pullet; perhaps seeing her eat would give madame an appetite.”
Here Dame Tillery put away her outer garments, set her fan in a corner,
and drawing a chair to the table, buried it under the amplitude of her
skirts, while she squared her elbows and carved the pullet with
professional dexterity, stopping now and then to nibble a dainty bit
from her fork.
“She had known people,” the dame said, “who lost their appetite the
moment a great honor or grief came upon them; but, for her part, she was
well used to such things, and took them quietly. Now there was the
little girl down stairs, who absolutely refused to take a morsel of
dinner, just from the excitement of having spoken with the queen; while
she, who was, in fact, the person who had introduced her to their
majesties, was ready for a hearty meal, and felt even increased appetite
from all the honors that had been showered upon her.”
Du Berry sat quietly peeling the purple coat from a fig while Dame
Tillery was speaking; but her quick mind was at work, and the expression
of her face revealed a new idea.
The sensual nature of this woman had, for many years, prevailed over her
intellect. But one noble feeling had found root in her heart, and
aroused the sympathy of her faculties. _She was grateful._ When we say
this, it is to acknowledge that a noble capacity for goodness still
lived in this woman, as lilies spring up, pure and snow-white, from a
soil prolific with impurities. Thus it was that she had come to
Versailles on an errand which would have been pronounced noble in a
better woman.
But while she seized upon every word calculated to help out her object,
quick animal sympathy awoke her slumberous appetite. She saw with what
hearty relish Dame Tillery devoured the savory chicken, and filled her
mouth with the delicious salad; and the sight was appetizing. “I declare
it makes me wish to eat,” she said, placing the half-peeled fig on its
dish, and holding out her plate for some of the more substantial viands,
which the good dame seemed content to monopolize.
“Ah, that is pleasant!” exclaimed the landlady, heaping some of the
white meat and savory dressing on the plate. “To dine alone is always
desolation to me; but as madame has found her appetite, my place is no
longer here. I only sat down to save the credit of the house, which
would have been in peril had a dinner gone down to the kitchen untasted.
Permit me to open a flask of wine for madame.”
“Yes, certainly,” answered the countess, laying her white hand on the
landlady’s arm, “but only as my guest. I cannot permit a person who has
been honored by a presentation at the chateau to serve me except as a
friend.”
Dame Tillery flushed like a peony, and fluttered like a peacock under
this compliment.
“There,” she said, drawing the cork from a wine-flask with the prong of
a fork. “It is not often this wine sees the daylight; but on a day like
this, and with guests that may be considered as old friends—”
“You know me, then?” exclaimed the countess, turning pale wherever the
rouge on her face would permit of pallor. “You know me?”
“I confess that I knew madame from the first minute.”
An impulse of gratified vanity conquered the caution that Du Berry had
resolved to maintain.
“Then I cannot have changed so much; years have not entirely swept away
the beauty which—which——”
“Oh!” interrupted the dame, so full of vanity herself that she had no
thought for that of another. “It was the little dwarf. He has grown old,
and has wrinkles; but no one can forget the monkey, especially those who
hated him so.”
The painted woman, whose pride had plumed itself for a moment, sunk back
in her chair with a heavy sigh; but continued despondency was not in her
nature. She drank off a glass of the wine Dame Tillery poured out, and
resumed the conversation.
“It is not known that I am here, I trust. Zamara has been in the street
but once, and then he was dressed like a child,” she said, anxiously.
“No, the people have not yet discovered him. If they did, his life would
not be worth the half of that fig.”
“Do they, indeed, hate us so?” questioned the countess, really
frightened. “Poor Zamara! he is the only faithful friend I ever knew. In
killing him they would break my heart; but you will keep our secret?”
Dame Tillery laid a broad hand on her broader bosom.
“From every one but her majesty, the queen,” she said, solemnly; “from
her I can keep nothing, being, as one might say, one of her council.
When I go to her majesty to-morrow morning——”
“To-morrow morning! Will you have access to the queen then?”
“Of course,” answered the dame, “an especial interview. When we came out
of the audience-chamber to-day, that little roly-poly lady, Madame
Campan, followed after us, and bade me return again at the same hour
to-morrow. ‘It was the queen’s order,’ she said. No doubt her majesty
was disturbed by the way in which that man from the city put himself
forward—I assure you his audacity was abominable. One could scarcely get
an opportunity to look at their majesties, much less say a word.”
“And you will see her to-morrow?” murmured the countess, taking up the
fig again, and burying her still white teeth in its pulp.
“To-morrow, and the next day, if I wish. Is there any one who doubts
it?”
“I certainly do not,” answered Du Berry, removing the fig from her
mouth, and stripping away the last fragment of skin with her fingers.
“On the contrary, I was about to ask a favor.”
“A favor! Ah! madame knows my weakness.”
“As you just now hinted, it would not be safe or possible for me to
attempt an entrance into the chateau; but it is of great importance that
I should send a message to—to her majesty.”
“Her majesty! You?”
The countess waved her hand with a dash of her old impatience.
“A message which you can carry, and be sure of a kind reception, with a
rouleau of gold from my hand when it is delivered. Is it understood
between us, my friend?”
Dame Tillery smiled, shook her head, and repeated, “Ah! madame knows my
weakness!”
“Then it is understood,” replied the countess, rising. “Pray see that
Zamara is neither allowed to famish, or to expose his presence here; but
first tell him to bring my travelling-desk, he will find it among the
baggage. Good-day! good-day! I am sorry you are compelled to leave me so
soon; but, of course, the citizens, who have been gathering around the
door, will be impatient to hear about this visit to the chateau. I can
understand that, and you describe it so well.”