“And you? Remember, child, it is an unpopular, if not a dangerous thing, to speak well of Louis, or his wife.” “I know it—Mother Doudel has warned me; but I sometimes think it is cowardice not to say the truth. My father suffered wrong from the old king, but loves Louis and his queen well enough to die for them. In that I am like my father.” “You are a brave girl!” exclaimed Mirabeau, reaching forth his hand, which took hers in a firm clasp. “I did not expect this. So you would serve the king. Well, well, it may be that the chance will be given you. If it should, what then? Would all this bright courage fail?” “You ask this because I fainted that day at Versailles. I was so young—so very, very young, and all that crowd of women terrified me.” “But are you so much older now?” “Yes; years on years. It is a long, weary time since then—every day a year.” “But can you be silent?” “If silence will serve the king, I can be dumb.” The pallor had left her face now, and it was kindled up with a generous glow that spoke well for the courageous soul within. “But if Dame Doudel should not approve?” “In this I would not ask her; that which my father approves I will abide by. His first lesson was duty to my God; his next, duty to my sovereign—loyalty with him is sacred as religion.” “Strange girl,” muttered the count, who gave that forced respect for conscience and religion, which simple truth wrings even from infidels. “Strange, brave girl!” Perhaps the man was contrasting his own mixed, and, to a certain extent, ignoble motives, with her pure heroism; for his eyes sunk abashed from the earnest purpose kindling in hers, and he began to pick the flowers to pieces which had just been fastened in his bosom. “Don’t!” she said, with tender pathos in her voice. “Don’t! you will hurt them!” “Hurt them!” repeated the count; “hurt them! Would to heaven I had never done worse things than that. But tell me where you live, in the old place?” Marguerite gave Dame Doudel’s address. “I shall not come myself, perhaps, but you will hear from me. Remember, my name should not be mentioned. No one must be informed that we have met. If you wish to serve the king, it must be cautiously. Some friends of his have need of a trusty messenger, who can pass in and out of the palace unsuspected; you would not hesitate?” “No.” “But neither your mother nor Dame Doudel must know.” “I will not tell them.” “It may prove dangerous in the end.” “I am not afraid of any danger that comes only to myself; but that which I do must not harm Dame Doudel or my mother.” “Of course. It is for their safety that they should know nothing.” “Then, if danger comes, it will only reach me.” “Be cautious, and there is no danger.” “It is hardly worth while to be cautious for myself, so few people would miss me if I were to die before night; there is my father—and one other.” “And who is this one?” “I had better not tell—he might not like it.”