Marguerite lifted her great blue eyes to his face, and he felt their mournful reproach tremble through his heart. “And you did not see him?” she said. “Yes, I saw him, and forgot you—everything else but France and its sufferings.” “Ah, me! and I had hoped so much.” “It is I—your best friend—who have betrayed you.” “But is the opportunity entirely lost? We may never again be so near the king. He is in the palace; oh! if I could obtain entrance! Tell me, sir, is it possible?” Marguerite addressed the queen’s messenger, who sat with his legs crossed, regarding her with smiling interest. “Is what impossible, mademoiselle?” “That I can gain one minute’s speech with the king?” “Utterly impossible, I should say!” Marguerite dropped into her chair with a look of broken-hearted disappointment, which cut Monsieur Jacques to the soul. “It is I that have done it,” he said desperately. “I who would rather have perished.” “Are you her father?” inquired the queen’s messenger, with interest. “Her father? No!” “Her friend, then?” “No, I am her worst enemy. Ask her.” “Indeed he is not,” cried Marguerite. “We expected him to accomplish impossible things, and he could not—for this he condemns himself.” “Is it that you so much desire an interview with the king?” “No,” answered Monsieur Jacques. “It is I who have thrown an interview away—wasted it in complaints and invectives, when I should have been pleading for mercy.” “That is a misfortune!” said the messenger, striding up and down the door, “a great misfortune, but not, perhaps without its remedy.” Marguerite turned her eyes upon him. He met the look of wild entreaty, and paused in his walk. “To get an interview with the king is beyond my managing; but her majesty keeps no state just now. I could almost venture to——”. Marguerite started up, her sweet face on fire with sudden hope. “Take me to the queen—take me to the queen, and I will bless you forever,” she pleaded. CHAPTER XIX. THE SWISS COTTAGE. “What is this? Who is it that is begging and praying to see her majesty? My young friend here, with the mournful eyes? Why not? If I had a daughter now, she should follow me into her presence, and look on while I give her majesty a lesson. Not having the daughter, why not take this pretty pigeon under my wing? What say you, monsieur? They could only refuse to let her in, and no great harm done?” cried the landlady, entering the room in haste. “I was about to propose as much,” answered the queen’s messenger, upon whom the landlady had borne down with this burst of eloquence as she entered the room, equipped for an excursion. “You will consent,” cried Marguerite, turning from one to the other in breathless anxiety; “you will let me go?”