The dame felt all this glory with wonderful exhilaration. She bowed graciously, right and left, as she moved on; gave one or two near acquaintances the tips of her plump fingers in passing, and swept through the palace gates like an empress. CHAPTER XLIV. DAME TILLERY OBTAINS AN AUDIENCE IN THE PARK There had been no audience arranged for Dame Tillery that day. The queen wished to see her, that some proper reward might be given for the danger she had run, and, perhaps, promised herself some little amusement from the eccentric vanity of the good woman, whose superb airs had excited the merriment of all her ladies. But the day happened to be very lovely, and Marie Antoinette forgot her gratitude so far that she went into the Park with one or two of her favorites, ready for any amusement that might present itself, and in a humor to enjoy the bright, fresh air of those green glades with peculiar relish. She was unusually happy that day—kind acts bring a glow of contentment with them. She was pleased with the great blessing her interposition had secured for that young girl; she was grateful that an outstanding wrong of such terrible duration had been redressed. No harassing intelligence had reached her from the city, and she went forth from her palace cheerfully, like a child let out from school before the stated hour. “After all, my Campan, this is a beautiful world,” she said, lifting the folds of her dress enough to reveal her dainty high-heeled shoes, as she descended the broad flight of steps that led to the grand fountain. “It is full of music and lovely colors. How greenly the trees overarch that arcade; how bright the grass is. Oh! if these people in Paris would only let us alone for a little while we might be very happy here. The king asks so little; and I—tell me, my Campan, am I very unreasonable? Do I require so much more than other women?” Madame Campan lifted her soft eyes to the handsome face bent upon her, and Marie Antoinette saw that they were misty with tears, such as sprang readily from her affectionate heart. “Ah, my mistress! if the people only knew how little would satisfy you, how earnestly you seek their welfare, rather than your own, all the discontent we hear of might pass away as yonder mist arises from the lawn, and turns to silver in the sunshine.” “How I wish it might,” answered the queen, fervently. “Sometimes I think it is my presence in France that has occasioned all this broad-spread discontent. Yet the people seemed to love me once. You remember how they would go into a tumult of delight if I but waved a bouquet to them from my box at the theatre; how they would crowd around my carriage only for a sight of my face. Tell me, Campan, was it because I was younger then and more beautiful, or is it that they have really learned to hate me?” Campan shook her head, and heaved a deep sigh while her affectionate glance rested on that queenly face.