“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——”