These two females, as they came out of their humble domicil, formed a strong but by no means unpleasant contrast. Dame Doudel, with her thin features, sharp, black eyes, and prompt action, was the very embodiment of those national traits which have rendered the women of France among the most brilliant and practical in the world. Marguerite, with her sweet, young face shaded by a straw gipsy tied under the chin with a knot of blue ribbon, and the outlines of her slender person scarcely concealed by the thin mantle of white muslin that floated over her dress, seemed pure and innocent as the flowers she carried on her arm. Even in that busy and riotous season, when all France was in a state of agitation, people turned in the street to look at this pretty creature as she stepped daintily along, tapping the pavement with her high-heeled shoes, and looking down with loving fellowship on her flowers, as if each bud were akin to her. When Dame Doudel and her protegée reached the market, a little tumult arose among the women, most of whom recognized Marguerite as the person who had with one word so effectually represented their cause to the king on that memorable day at Versailles. “It is the child our Mirabeau brought to us when he said that the market mast be represented by a girl pretty and innocent; for nothing less can speak well for its devotion to France. From that day we have made her the child of the market. We are all her mothers. When the king made her a promise, it was for us. When he kissed her forehead, it was a seal of good faith to us. The king is good! The king is good! If he breaks faith with us, it is because of the Austrian.” With these words, accompanied with ardent caresses, the women of the market swarmed around the girl as if each one had some proprietorship in her innocence and beauty. They loaded her with fruit; they added to her lovely burden of flowers, and embraced her as if she had been a goddess. Marguerite received the homage with faint blushes, almost crying as she thought how little she had done to deserve so much affection. In vain she strove to convince them that she felt like an impostor. They would not permit even herself to diminish one virtue in their idol; would not believe that anything less than perfection could rest in the being whom Mirabeau had chosen to represent them before the king. At last Marguerite shrunk away from all these demonstrations, and bursting into tears, cried out, “Do not praise me! Do not love me so much! I did nothing! I used no argument; nay, I was worse than a coward, and could only cry out for bread, bread for our famished people. Then a panic seized me, and I fainted at the king’s feet!” “Yes, yes! but he lifted you in his arms; he kissed your forehead while the Austrian was looking on. His heart would always go out to the people if she would let it. What was the need of words. He saw our wants in your face; he heard them in that one word—_bread_!”