The truth was, Dame Tillery was almost as shrewd as she was loquacious. She dearly loved talking, especially about herself; but she also knew the danger there was in handling the name of the queen with too great familiarity; still she managed to win considerable glory out of her confreres by weaving her narrative up into a half romance, in which the queen was shadowed out as a high court lady, whom she had rescued from the most imminent peril by rolling in the grass, throwing her milking stool in the right direction, and performing other great feats of valor. Sometimes the dame would appeal to Marguerite to confirm her story, which grew and grew till the young girl became weary of hearing it, and shrunk from giving the confirmation so often demanded. When this happened, the dame would laugh, and repeat herself again with liberal additions. Thus the time was spent between young Richelieu’s visit and the return of Jacques. Among the persons who came and went so unceremoniously to her room, Marguerite noticed a little creature scarcely larger than a child, but with the lines and expression of a man past thirty-five in his dark and shrunken face. Threads of gray were in the coarse, black hair, which fell a good deal over his forehead, and that sharp, fox-like look of the eyes no child ever possessed. It could only have been learned by experience in the world. This little personage never spoke, and seemed scarcely to listen; but occasionally Marguerite caught a glance of those keen eyes, and wondered who he was, and why he regarded her so furtively all the while Dame Tillery was talking. At last Jacques came, breathless with haste and bespattered with mud, for he had traveled at a furious rate, and almost despaired of reaching Versailles in time for the promised interview. The little personage we have spoken of was lingering near the door when Jacques passed through, and placed himself in a position to listen so quietly that no one observed him. “I am ready!” exclaimed Monsieur Jacques, wiping the beaded perspiration from his face. “The horse I rode fell lame; for the roads are heavy and I pressed him hard.” Marguerite sprang up all in a glow of expectation when she saw Jacques. She had waited so long, and watched so earnestly, that it seemed like a release from prison when his kind face beamed upon her. “You have been to Paris?” she said. “You have seen my mother? She knows that I am safe?” “Yes, I have seen your mother. She knows that you are safe. I left her upon her knees, thanking the blessed Virgin for the great hope I brought her.” “But you should not have been so certain—my heart fails me when I think of going to the palace. While she is beaming with hope, I may bring nothing but disappointment.”