Again Marie Antoinette held out her hand. This time Marguerite observed that her lips touched a serpent coiled around a green stone, which circled one finger. She started; a strange sensation crept over her, and she seemed fascinated, as if a real serpent were charming all her faculties. “There, you have our promise and our gratitude,” said the queen, gently withdrawing her hand. “To-morrow I will have this case inquired into—that is, I will suggest it to the king.” “God bless you!” This benediction broke from the lips of Monsieur Jacques, who had been listening eagerly. The queen turned a look upon the man which made his heart swell. “Oh! if the people of France could see their queen now,” he exclaimed. “They would believe no good of her,” answered Marie; and all at once her eyes filled with tears. The features of the strong man were troubled. He looked upon that proud, beautiful woman, with evident compassion. “Ah, madame!” he said, with a genial outburst of admiration. “If the people of France could only look through these eyes, you would be adored.” The queen gave him an eloquent glance, and turned away. “To-morrow,” she said, “conduct this girl to the palace. The king will be glad to thank her and you. Now, ladies and gentlemen, let us back to the _Petite Trianon_. Dame Tillery, you will take care of these good people, and accept something better than thanks for the trouble.” Dame Tillery, who had been lying prostrate in the grass, among the wrecks of her milking stool and broken pail, for a longer time than I dare relate, had at last rolled, and plunged, and scrambled to her feet, deluged with milk, and a little lame from a blow she had received, when the cow trampled over her. Feeling in a state of dilapidation, she hesitated to draw near until the queen called her by name. Then she came rolling forward, took Marguerite by the hand, and making a profound reverence, led her charge away, followed by Monsieur Jacques. CHAPTER XXIII. COUNT MIRABEAU AND HIS FATHER. An old man sat in the saloon of a hotel in Paris, awaiting an interview which had been delayed beyond the appointed time, a fact that seemed to give him no little annoyance. He rang the bell upon his table with violence the third time; and when the servant came, in obedience to his summons, asked if any one had called—a question the same man had already answered three times that morning. The man answered with profound respect, that no one monsieur expected to see had as yet presented himself. While the man was speaking, a loud, ringing step was heard on the oaken stair-case, and Count Mirabeau strode up to the door, which was obsequiously held open for his reception. The old noble arose, and a faint color came into his face, while the young man approached and held out his hand. “Welcome to Paris, my lord count. I had not dared to hope for this pleasure.”