“Not at all. Her majesty is in a dilemma.” “That is not unlikely,” muttered the landlady. “It seems to me that all France is in a dilemma.” “She has discovered that none of her ladies know how to make butter.” “To make butter?” “Exactly. Thus you can understand all the choice cows that live so daintily around the Swiss cottages are a sad reproach. Her majesty knows how to set the cream; but when it comes to churning butter, that is beyond her. Not even the Princess Lambella or Madame Campan can aid her in that, clever as they are.” The landlady laughed, holding her side with both hands. “I should think not—I should think not,” she said, at length rocking herself to and fro in jovial enjoyment of this absurd idea. “What have court ladies to do with useful things like that?” “So this is one reason that I am sent here. You are wanted, dame, quite as much as the white hen.” “Me! Wanted for what?” “This is it. Her highness, the queen, desires a perfect dress, and sends for a _modiste_ to superintend her toilet. In the same way she wants golden butter from a herd of the most beautiful cows in the world—butter of her own making, remember; but is compelled to send for the mistress of The Swan, who will now put on her shawl and proceed to one of the Swiss cottages, to which I shall have the honor of conducting her. It is her majesty’s order.” Still the landlady laughed; she was half flattered, half incredulous. The idea that she was summoned to teach the queen was too astonishing for belief. “Monsieur has had his little joke,” she said, doubtfully. “But it is no joke. I come by the queen’s order to demand your attendance.” “Monsieur, if you trifle with me, I shall be angry.” “And with good cause. But I do not trifle.” “And you wish me to go?” “At once.” “But it is a long walk.” “Look through the window, and you will see that her majesty has made provision for this difficulty.” The landlady leaned over Marguerite and saw that a calashe, drawn by a pair of fine horses, stood outside. Her eyes brightened; she nodded her head and began to untie her apron. “Monsieur shall not be made to wait,” she said. “It is not every woman who can say that the queen has sent for her.” Just as the delighted woman went out of one door, Monsieur Jacques came in at the other, stooping forward dejectedly, and turning his eyes away from Marguerite, as if afraid to look her in the face. Marguerite started as he came in, and clasped her hands; but when she saw his face, her fingers fell slowly apart, and she sunk back in her chair moaning unconsciously. “Do not punish me with that look!” exclaimed the unhappy man, drawing close to her in deep humiliation; “I have betrayed you, and left my errand unfulfilled, but it came out of my love of France. In my insane enthusiasm I forgot you, and everything else, when a little moderation would have won all. Can you forgive me?”