THE BAFFLED SPY.
An hour after this, Marguerite sat beside Dame Tillery in the little
donkey cart which had brought them from Versailles. She carried a letter
in her bosom directed to Count Mirabeau. The girl was very silent and
thoughtful, and Dame Tillery managed her donkey in sullen dignity, for
long after she was ready to start home Marguerite had kept her waiting.
At last curiosity overcame the good woman, and she began to ask
questions.
“Well, Marguerite, did you get a sight of her majesty, or was it a
mistake when they told me that she was walking in the Park. It was a
great favor if they let you in. Nothing less than a member of the
household could have done that for you; but, passing as my heiress, you
have privileges. I hope you understand.”
“Oh, yes!” answered Marguerite dreamily. “I understand that you are very
kind to me.”
“But about her majesty; did you get a glimpse of her?”
“Yes, I saw her.”
“But not too near. I hope you did not take a liberty like that?”
“No, I think there was nothing wrong in what I did. You are kind to
bring me here; and the queen is very beautiful—a grand, noble lady.”
“Beautiful! I should think so. No one but a born traitor would dispute
that.”
“But troubled. Oh, how troubled!” resumed the girl, as if speaking to
herself.
“And reason enough,” answered Dame Tillery. “Her enemies grow keener
every day; as for her friends—— I never boast, Marguerite, you know
that, being more modest than most women; but if half her friends had
been like me, earnest and capable, this miserable tumult would end.
Instead of that, half the court has slunk away from her, and St. Cloud
seems more like a prison than a palace.”
“It does, indeed,” sighed Marguerite. “Poor lady! Poor, wronged queen!”
Here Dame Tillery heaved a portentous sigh, and taking the reins in her
left hand, drew forth a huge pocket-handkerchief, and wiped her eyes.
“If you feel her wrongs so much, what must they be to me, a member of
her own household, and like a mother to her ever since the great empress
died.”
Marguerite made no answer to this pathetic appeal. She had fallen into
deep thought, and was wondering how it would be possible to get back to
Paris, and safely deliver the letter hidden away in her bosom.
The good dame talked incessantly of her own greatness, and the influence
which her devotion had secured in the royal household; but, as her
companion had heard it all over and over again at least fifty times, it
had no more effect on her thoughts than the rush and gurgle of a brook.
All at once Marguerite started out of her reverie, and laid her hands
upon the reins with which Dame Tillery was guiding her donkey.
“My friend, you must not be angry, but I do so long to be in Paris, if
it is only for a night. Every step we take the other way, seems to draw
a drop of blood from my heart.”
“What, homesick—and with me!” exclaimed the dame, drawing up her reins
in blank astonishment.
“If you would only go with me, your sister Doudel will be so pleased.”
“Oh, yes, I dare say! Now that you have had a look at her highness, you
are dying to tell all about it. Well, well! since the court left
Versailles, there has not been so much custom at The Swan that its
mistress cannot go away for a night, and no great harm done. So, if you
have set your heart upon it, my child, we will just take the road to
Paris, and give my sister a surprise. Poor soul! she has not had our
privileges, and will be delighted to hear that her protegèe has been
introduced into the heart of the palace.”
Dame Tillery entered into a severe struggle with her donkey. At this
point that respectable animal objected to being forced from the road
which led to his own stable, and took the journey to Paris with sullen
protest and most unequal speed, sometimes creeping like a snail,
sometimes going sideways, and occasionally pushing backward, as if
determined to reach home by that process. But the good dame held her own
in the contest; and at last drew up at her sister’s door, in high
spirits, having brought the vicious animal into complete subjection.
As Marguerite hurried toward the entrance, a little figure glided out
from the shadows cast by a neighboring building, and seizing hold of her
dress, checked her swift progress. It was the dwarf who had given her
the letter which Mirabeau sent to the queen.
“The letter,” he said, in a whisper; “I have been waiting for it. Count
Mirabeau is impatient. Give me the letter.”
The dwarf spoke eagerly, and clung to her dress. She saw the steel-like
flash of his eyes and drew back, warned by an intuition which checked
her first impulse to give up the precious document.
“Come, come, be quick. He waits.”
“Where is the count?”
“In his own house. Come, now, the letter!”
Marguerite withdrew the folds of her dress from Zamara’s grasp, and
moved forward.
“But you will not go without giving up the letter?” pleaded the little
wretch. “I shall be blamed. Oh, mademoiselle! give it me!”
“Tell Count Mirabeau that it shall reach him by a safe hand,” said the
girl, growing more and more resolute.
“But how are you to judge? Why choose another when I am here by his
order?” pleaded the little traitor, stricken with terror.
“Because I was directed to deliver all that was given me into the
count’s own hands.”
“And you will?”
“Yes, I will.”
“But to-night? Will you give it to him this very night?”
“Yes; this very night.”
Here Dame Tillery came on to the doorstep, almost sweeping the dwarf
away with her skirts.
“Come, come—what are you waiting for? Surely, they have not locked the
door so early.”
Marguerite, finding herself thus set free, glided into the house, and
Dame Tillery followed.
The dwarf drew back into the shadows again, grinding his teeth with
impotent rage. He dared not return to the woman who had kept him day
after day upon the watch for Marguerite’s return. His errand had been a
failure, and, cowering with dread, he reflected that his very life was
at stake, for Louison Brisot’s threat had chilled his soul with dread of
her vengeance. So he slunk away, and, leaning against the wall of a
neighboring house, waited in terror for Marguerite to come forth. After
awhile the door opened cautiously, and a street lamp cast its momentary
light upon Marguerite, who, shrouded in a cloak, and with a hood drawn
over her face passed into the street.
The dwarf followed her in sheer desperation. He had no doubt that she
was on her way to Mirabeau’s residence, where the letter she carried
would pass out of his reach forever—that the wretched creature knew
would be death to him. So, without any definite object, and actuated
only by a wild desire to save himself, he followed on, keeping at a safe
distance. Marguerite walked rapidly, gliding like a shadow along the
street, until she came in sight of Mirabeau’s dwelling; then she paused
a moment to gather courage, and pushing back her hood looked around, to
be certain no one was in sight.
That moment a young man passing along the street, stopped short in his
rapid walk, and cast a sharp glance at the young face momentarily
exposed to his view.
“Great heavens!”
This exclamation had hardly left his lips, when the girl entered the
building, which he knew to be occupied by Count Mirabeau.
“The villain! Poor, foolish child!”
Muttering this through his clenched teeth, St. Just drew back into the
shelter of an arched passage, and watched the house with a wild hope
that another minute would bring the girl into the street again. As he
stood with his eager eyes fixed on the opposite door, something that
seemed like a crouching dog stole up the steps, and pressed itself
against the door, which swung partly open, letting a gleam of light into
the street. Then he saw what had seemed a prowling animal lift itself to
an upright position, till it took the statue of a child, and pass
through the hall beyond.