“Look in her face now, and say if she is not enough like me to pass for my own child. Blue eyes, hair with a dash of gold in it—that is before mine turned to silver; a nice trim waist, such as mine was not so very long ago—in fact, the girl is patterned after me, and I have a mind to run some risk for her, especially as it will please my good sister Doudel, and monsieur seems willing.” Marguerite clasped her hands and turned her beaming face on Monsieur Jacques. “You will not leave me? Wait till I come back. It is best that we appeal to the queen. Had it been otherwise you would never have forgotten.” Monsieur Jacques came out of his dejection. The thoughtfulness and hope in that sweet face inspired him. “Go,” he said, “I will follow you. When fate closes one door, she opens another.” “It is not fate, Monsieur Jacques, but our Lady; I was praying to her all the time you were out.” A curt smile died on Monsieur Jacques’ lips. He was beginning to have very little reverence for “our Lady” or any other being, human or divine; but the most irreligious man prefers to find devotion in the woman he loves; so this stout democrat stifled the sneer that had almost curved his lip, and bent his massive head in homage to the simple piety in which he did not believe. “Now,” said the dame, taking Marguerite by the arm in cordial good-humor, and marching toward the carriage with a stir and bustle, which would have drawn the attention of passers-by, had the royal livery been insufficient to produce that effect, “you shall see what power the mistress of The Swan has at court. There, climb up over the front wheel, while some one brings me a stool. Thank you, monsieur; it is not that I am unable to mount the wheel as she does, but my shoe is a little tight. There, let me rest my hand on your shoulder—it helps famously. Oh! here we are, comfortable as birds in a nest. Now for a swinging ride through the town.” They had a swinging ride, and a handsome man, in royal livery, attending them on horseback. More than that—a stout, hardy working man tramped after on foot, resolved to keep his charge in sight, if vigorous walking would do it. But the queen’s horses were full of fire, and soon left Monsieur Jacques toiling in the mud far behind, while they dashed toward the _Petite Trianon_, fairly taking Marguerite’s breath away. The carriage stopped, the attendant dismounted and opened the door. Directly the portly person of our hostess of The Swan was safely planted in front of a rustic gate which led to a _bijou_ of a Swiss cottage, fanciful as a fairy dwelling in its construction, sheltered by the green old trees that spread out from the Park, and surrounded by grass that grew greener and thicker than could be found elsewhere, upon which a drove of choice white cows were feeding luxuriously.