Dame Tillery entered into a severe struggle with her donkey. At this point that respectable animal objected to being forced from the road which led to his own stable, and took the journey to Paris with sullen protest and most unequal speed, sometimes creeping like a snail, sometimes going sideways, and occasionally pushing backward, as if determined to reach home by that process. But the good dame held her own in the contest; and at last drew up at her sister’s door, in high spirits, having brought the vicious animal into complete subjection. As Marguerite hurried toward the entrance, a little figure glided out from the shadows cast by a neighboring building, and seizing hold of her dress, checked her swift progress. It was the dwarf who had given her the letter which Mirabeau sent to the queen. “The letter,” he said, in a whisper; “I have been waiting for it. Count Mirabeau is impatient. Give me the letter.” The dwarf spoke eagerly, and clung to her dress. She saw the steel-like flash of his eyes and drew back, warned by an intuition which checked her first impulse to give up the precious document. “Come, come, be quick. He waits.” “Where is the count?” “In his own house. Come, now, the letter!” Marguerite withdrew the folds of her dress from Zamara’s grasp, and moved forward. “But you will not go without giving up the letter?” pleaded the little wretch. “I shall be blamed. Oh, mademoiselle! give it me!” “Tell Count Mirabeau that it shall reach him by a safe hand,” said the girl, growing more and more resolute. “But how are you to judge? Why choose another when I am here by his order?” pleaded the little traitor, stricken with terror. “Because I was directed to deliver all that was given me into the count’s own hands.” “And you will?” “Yes, I will.” “But to-night? Will you give it to him this very night?” “Yes; this very night.” Here Dame Tillery came on to the doorstep, almost sweeping the dwarf away with her skirts. “Come, come—what are you waiting for? Surely, they have not locked the door so early.” Marguerite, finding herself thus set free, glided into the house, and Dame Tillery followed. The dwarf drew back into the shadows again, grinding his teeth with impotent rage. He dared not return to the woman who had kept him day after day upon the watch for Marguerite’s return. His errand had been a failure, and, cowering with dread, he reflected that his very life was at stake, for Louison Brisot’s threat had chilled his soul with dread of her vengeance. So he slunk away, and, leaning against the wall of a neighboring house, waited in terror for Marguerite to come forth. After awhile the door opened cautiously, and a street lamp cast its momentary light upon Marguerite, who, shrouded in a cloak, and with a hood drawn over her face passed into the street.