“That was the thought of a person endowed with most gentle breeding,” said the dame, wheeling from the door full of hospitable thoughts. “Come with me to my own room, where you will find something better than the people down yonder would know how to relish. You shall taste of Burgundy from the best bin in my cellar, the more readily because I wish to send a flask to your mistress. It was this that took me to her door but now.” Zamara stood by bowing and smiling, while the dame filled a goblet with wine from a bottle that seemed to have rested years in her cellar, and, though compelled to hold it between both hands, he drained it to the bottom. “Now,” said the dame, giving him a salver to carry, on which she had placed a second bottle and glasses. “Follow me to madame’s room; she must not be neglected when the lowest scullion in the kitchen rejoices.” There was no difficulty of access now. The page had disappeared. His clothes lay huddled in Zamara’s closet, and Madame Du Berry was in bed, resting in a recumbent position on her pillows in a demi-toilet, but with her hair less elaborately arranged than usual. She received Dame Tillery with a smile, congratulated her warmly when she heard the good news, tossed off a goblet of the sparkling Burgundy, and declared that the exaltation of her friend had made her well—so well that she would start for Paris within the hour, leaving Zamara behind to arrange the baggage, and follow her when she should send for him. Dame Tillery expostulated a little; but finding her guest positive, allowed her to depart, but not till the bottle of Burgundy had been drained in honor of her new dignity. What Du Berry refused to drink, the jovial dame insisted on dividing with Zamara, whose eyes twinkled with infinite mischief when she sat down with the bottle on her knee, and proposed that he should drain glass for glass with her. So confused became the happy landlady of The Swan before the hour was gone, that she arose in the morning with a vague idea that the page had left rather abruptly, but of the period when Madame Du Berry took her departure, she had no recollection at all. CHAPTER LI. EFFORTS AT ATONEMENT. Madame Gosner was absent from her apartments. The terrible disappointment which had fallen upon her preyed so heavily upon her mind that anything like repose was impossible. For the time she was at war with life itself. The doubt that her husband was still living haunted her like a cry of destiny. She said little, and scarcely tasted food. The never-ending pain of her existence renewed itself, and threatened destruction to both reason and life. Marguerite felt the change and was so wounded by it that her young life was doubly embittered. She did not share in her mother’s doubts of the king and queen; but honestly believed that her father had perished in prison, as thousands had died in that terrible place.