Marguerite was distressed by all this. She arose and laid her fair hand caressingly on the dame’s shoulder. “You mistake,” she said. “I do wish your company. You were kind—very kind to me. I shall never forget it. My good friend here meant nothing that could wound you. Perhaps he is a little too thoughtful of me over others; but you will forgive that—you who are so kind.” Dame Tillery wiped her face, hushed the sobs that were heaving her broad bosom, and opening her arms, gathered Marguerite into a warm embrace. “I knew—I knew she could not look so much like my niece and be an ingrate,” she said. “It was all a mistake. Monsieur meant no harm. It is only my sensitive nature, that is my chief fault. I strive to conquer it, but cannot. Kiss me, child, and we will think no more about it. You understand, all is forgiven, forgotten? It must not wound her majesty by anything that seems like discord—we who saved her life only yesterday.” Marguerite obeyed this request, and kissed the plump lips of the dame, casting a pleading look at Monsieur Jacques, who was by no means satisfied with the conclusion of this little scene, but would rather have died than dispute that lovely girl in anything. “Now it is all over, except that crying always makes my poor eyes as red as a ferret’s; but a little fresh wind will change all that,” murmured the dame, drawing forth a huge green fan, with which she deliberately commenced cooling her face, the motive power being one fat hand laid in her lap, which moved the enormous fabric with a slow, continuous motion, that kept all her ribbons in a flutter, and soon reduced the redness of her face into a glow of self-complacency. CHAPTER XXVIII. UNWELCOME GUESTS. One thing was certain, Dame Tillery never remained many minutes together without finding something to say. Just now her mind was occupied by two important subjects: This visit to the palace, which she had assumed the right to make, and the arrival of a guest at The Swan, who had brought her no little tribulation. “Would you believe it, monsieur,” she said, addressing Jacques in the most confidential manner, “just as I am getting on such excellent terms with her majesty, comes an annoyance—something that threatens to bring disaster, if not disgrace, upon our house. Last night a carriage drove up directly from Paris, and a lady got out so quietly that I didn’t know she was there until the carriage drove off, and she came in with a little mite of an attendant, that woke me up to what I was risking the minute I set eyes on him. The woman asked me for a private room. I was just going to say that we hadn’t an empty chamber in The Swan, when she walked up stairs, followed by her attendant, and, pushing a door open, took possession, as if it had been her house instead of mine.