DAME TILLERY PROCLAIMS HER HEIRESS.
Scarcely had the dwarf been gone an hour, when a loud voice was heard in
the passage. The door of her little room swung open, and Dame Tillery,
landlady of The Swan, came sailing into the room like a ponderous,
full-rigged Dutch vessel making port with all her canvas up.
“Marguerite, my child, I am glad to see you; get up and embrace me,
little one. Oh! that is delicious!”
Marguerite started from her seat, scattering all the blossoms from her
lap, and embraced the dame with such affection that the word “delicious”
was repeated over and over again.
“Have you come for me, my friend, as your letter promised?”
“Come for you? Of course, I have! What else could have brought me to
Paris? Are not all my duties at Versailles? There is enough of them, let
me tell you, since her majesty has enrolled me among her ladies of
honor.”
“Her ladies of honor? I did not know——”
“Yes, yes, I understand. There was no place at the palace exactly; but
the queen is a woman, and grateful. I had saved her life—what could she
do? The Duchess de Polignac held on to her place though she has gone
abroad like a coward. No woman of the people had been given a position
at court, which was a great mistake, but true, nevertheless. I said
position, little one, and you will observe that my language generally
has improved since I became one of her majesty’s ladies, to say nothing
of my appearance and manner of dressing.”
“I see that you are splendid!” said Marguerite glancing at the gay
dress, which made the stout woman look doubly ponderous.
“Ah! this is nothing, little one. Your own eyes saw me that day when I
went to court, after the one great act of my life, when with my own
hands I held an infuriated beast by the horns, and flung him to the
earth just as it was plunging upon her majesty, and about to gore her
with two horns curving so, and sharp as swords. You have heard the
story, I dare say?”
Now as Marguerite had been present and heard the thing magnified at
least fifty times from Dame Tillery’s own lips, the question seemed a
little superfluous. But she answered “Yes, yes, every one who knows you
has heard of that.”
“But not of my presentation at court the day after you saw her
majesty—that was the crowning glory of my life. You should have seen the
queen standing there among her ladies, longing in her heart to embrace
me, which she would have done, no doubt, but we were out of doors, in
the royal park—a special grace, understand. So I went up to her myself,
and would have knelt, which was my duty, only I was a little troubled
about getting up again, and so made a curtsy instead. At which all the
court smiled approval, and looked at each other in amazement, as if a
woman of the people was not expected to be polite.
“Even the queen smiled, feeling my triumph, I dare say, as if I had been
an arch duchess, and her own sister. That was a glorious day; something
to remember, and to be remembered by my grandchildren. Only there is an
impediment—never having had any children of my own is a drawback when
one thinks of grandchildren. This depresses me sometimes; but then I
think of sister Doudel and you, and feel sure that all will come right.
I shall propose to my sister that you take the name of Tillery, and
carry me down to future ages. This is what brings me to Paris now. I
mean to make you my heiress, Marguerite. You shall inherit The Swan from
roof to cellar, my place at court, the dress that I wore—everything. In
fact, I mean to make a lady of you.”
“And will you do one thing?”
“My child, I will do everything.”
“Will you take me to St. Cloud?”
“Will I? Of course.”
“Very soon?”
“The moment I get home. Twice each week I send butter for her majesty’s
own table from the dairy at _la petite Trianon_, for that was the
department the queen gave me when Polignac persisted in remaining first
lady of honor. Blind as a bat; had she given me her place, all the women
of France would have felt it as a compliment to themselves, and drawn
nearer to the court, if it were only for my sake.”
“Do you think so?” inquired Marguerite, innocently, for the order of
things had been so deranged in France, and she had heard so much about
the power of the people, that Dame Tillery’s grand boast made a profound
impression upon her.
“Do I think so? Of course, I do. What is it makes the women down yonder
think so much of you? Why, it is because our friend Mirabeau sent you up
with that committee of women. How much greater the effect would have
been had the queen chosen me for a place near her majesty’s person. Why,
child, look at me! I could make three of you any day, and hold my own
with the balance. Just observe this for a presence.”
Here Dame Tillery shook out her dress and sailed across the room,
exhibiting a person that would, indeed, have outweighed four of the
slender girl who looked on.
“You see,” said the self-satisfied dame, returning to her old position,
“you see what a chance has been lost. This Duchess de Polignac would
keep her place, and their majesties let her selfishness have its way.
Then what does she do? When the king and queen get more and more
unpopular; when all their friends should have stood by them like rocks,
this Polignac emigrates, flies from the palace like a thief; while all
France finds me at my post, making the best butter in the world for the
royal table, as if nothing had happened. There is the difference, little
one, between loyalty and that make-believe thing, which drove Polignac
into a foreign land.”
“I know that you are true to the queen,” said Marguerite, greatly
impressed, yet somewhat amazed by Dame Tillery’s pretension. “Sometimes
I fancy Mother Doudel does not think the less of you for that.”
“Perhaps not. I think, at heart, my sister is loyal. Only she does not
know the queen as I do. How should she, not being a member of the
household? But you and I, little one, understand each other, we have
stood side by side at court. Now tell me what it is you wish to see her
majesty about.”
Marguerite blushed and looked a little startled. She had promised to
keep her mission a profound secret—and with this pure girl all pledges
were sacred.
“I love the queen.”
“That is enough!” exclaimed the dame, waving her fat hand; “that is
enough. I ask no more. I shall say this pretty girl is my adopted
daughter, and will, sometime, be heiress of The Swan—she was with me,
your majesty will remember, on that glorious day when I saved your
majesty’s life. Receive her well for my sake. It will be done.”
“But I shall ask for nothing. The only favor I want is an opportunity to
serve the king, and die for him, if that will do him good.”
“But it wont. Running away and dying isn’t likely to help either the
king or queen. It wants brains, brains for that.”
Here Dame Tillery tapped her forehead with one finger, and nodded
significantly.
“All you want is a guide, and one is always at hand.”
Marguerite drew a deep breath, and uttered a silent thanksgiving that
her way to the queen promised to be made so smooth.
Having thus given vent to the self-importance that consumed her, Dame
Tillery took off her outer garments, and, seating herself in the cosiest
chair the little room contained, watched the young girl.
Then Dame Doudel came in from the market, light, sharp, and active as a
bird. She saw the landlady of The Swan leaning back in her chair, flew
towards her, and in an instant was buried in her bosom.
“Sister, my dear, dear sister!”
At first the good landlady forgot her dignity, and gave her sister a
hearty embrace; but remembering herself, she put the little woman gently
away.
“Dame Doudel, I love you dearly; but you are a Jacobin.”
“Sister Tillery, you are a royalist.”
“Yes, heart, soul, and body; but one of the people, too.”
“Carrying water on both shoulders is dangerous in these days,” answered
Dame Doudel, sharply.
“It is just that which will yet unite the people with their king. These
cries of fraternity, equality, liberty, are an insult to us of the
court.”
“But the court itself must adopt them before the people will be
satisfied, I can tell you that.”
“Dame Tillery—Dame Doudel, why are you talking so sharply? This has
never happened before. It makes my heart sore to hear you. Forgive me, I
cannot help speaking.”
Both women turned from the heat of their dispute and looked kindly on
that girl, who sat like a troubled angel amid her flowers, regarding
them with tears in her eyes.
“Why should dissension have crept in here?” she said, gently. “We all
love each other.”
“True!” said Doudel, reaching forth her hand.
“True!” answered Tillery, forgetting her dignity, in an honest burst of
affection, in which the smaller woman was gathered up in a cordial
embrace. “We both love the people!”
“And the royal family. Our blessed Lady give them wisdom!” said Doudel,
yielding a little on her part. “Heaven forbid that their enemies should
increase!”
Marguerite arose, wiped her eyes, and kissing them both with angelic
fervor, went away, leaving the sisters together. They were not so far
apart, after all. The very last persons who gave up their love for the
king were the _Dames de la Halle_, to whom Doudel belonged.
“Think what it would be if this child should prove a bond of union
between the people and the court,” said Doudel, after the two had
conversed together half an hour. “The dames have great faith in her
since she came home with the king’s kiss upon her forehead. She has the
wish to serve her country. Keep her in it, for you can. Shall I tell you
a name—the name of a person who has seen her more than once in this very
room. Bend your head.”
Dame Tillery bent her head, and Doudel whispered a name in her ear.
“A stern Jacobin,” said the landlady, shaking her head in disapproval.
“Altogether given up to those false doctrines which threaten to drag
down the throne of France. But does he know who she is?”
“Yes; she told him herself. Sister, I have an idea that he loves our
little girl.”
“Then it is high time that I take her away. She must have nothing in
common with these agitators.”
“Not even if it were Count Mirabeau?”
“Count Mirabeau!”
“He came into the assembly one day, with a flower she gave him from her
basket in his bosom.”
“And flung it away afterwards, as he would put her aside in a week.
Sister, I know Mirabeau. When the States-General assembled at
Versailles, he staid at The Swan. I liked him then, but afterwards, when
I took my place at court—not that I wish to boast, sister—it came to me
that her majesty, the queen, hated this man, and would not endure him in
her sight. So, if you hope for any preferment for our child, keep aloof
from Mirabeau.”
“The poor child wants no preferment. We can take care of her, Madame
Gosner and myself. She is given up to France, I look to the girl. I have
not set in the market so many years for nothing; and you have no
children.”
“That is true—that is true! But this Mirabeau is a dangerous man. The
girl is safer with me just now.”
“But you will let her come back again?”
“Will I? Of course, sister. Exaltation, you will find, has not hardened
my heart. But just now you must not stand in the way of her
advancement.”
With these sisterly feelings and amiable words the two women decided
that Marguerite should go to Versailles for a time; thus unconsciously
aiding in the important mission with which she was charged.