“Yes, yes, I understand. There was no place at the palace exactly; but the queen is a woman, and grateful. I had saved her life—what could she do? The Duchess de Polignac held on to her place though she has gone abroad like a coward. No woman of the people had been given a position at court, which was a great mistake, but true, nevertheless. I said position, little one, and you will observe that my language generally has improved since I became one of her majesty’s ladies, to say nothing of my appearance and manner of dressing.” “I see that you are splendid!” said Marguerite glancing at the gay dress, which made the stout woman look doubly ponderous. “Ah! this is nothing, little one. Your own eyes saw me that day when I went to court, after the one great act of my life, when with my own hands I held an infuriated beast by the horns, and flung him to the earth just as it was plunging upon her majesty, and about to gore her with two horns curving so, and sharp as swords. You have heard the story, I dare say?” Now as Marguerite had been present and heard the thing magnified at least fifty times from Dame Tillery’s own lips, the question seemed a little superfluous. But she answered “Yes, yes, every one who knows you has heard of that.” “But not of my presentation at court the day after you saw her majesty—that was the crowning glory of my life. You should have seen the queen standing there among her ladies, longing in her heart to embrace me, which she would have done, no doubt, but we were out of doors, in the royal park—a special grace, understand. So I went up to her myself, and would have knelt, which was my duty, only I was a little troubled about getting up again, and so made a curtsy instead. At which all the court smiled approval, and looked at each other in amazement, as if a woman of the people was not expected to be polite. “Even the queen smiled, feeling my triumph, I dare say, as if I had been an arch duchess, and her own sister. That was a glorious day; something to remember, and to be remembered by my grandchildren. Only there is an impediment—never having had any children of my own is a drawback when one thinks of grandchildren. This depresses me sometimes; but then I think of sister Doudel and you, and feel sure that all will come right. I shall propose to my sister that you take the name of Tillery, and carry me down to future ages. This is what brings me to Paris now. I mean to make you my heiress, Marguerite. You shall inherit The Swan from roof to cellar, my place at court, the dress that I wore—everything. In fact, I mean to make a lady of you.” “And will you do one thing?” “My child, I will do everything.” “Will you take me to St. Cloud?” “Will I? Of course.” “Very soon?”