Oh, the wonder, for Marie-Celeste, of that tour through the private apartments! As for Albert, it is to be doubted if he quite rose to the occasion. Nothing could be more awe-inspiring or majestic than the picture of the Queen he had formed in his mind; but as they were shown from room to room and failed to encounter her, his interest began to flag a little. There were apartments more grand than these, with which he was already familiar, in the other part of the Castle; and when Ainslee hurried them past two or three rooms with the explanation that some of the royal family were in them, he felt some-the very object of their of them, and he thought Ainslee might at least have told them which one, even though they were not to be permitted to have a sight of her. But with Marie-Celeste it was very different, She stood in worshipful admiration before all the royal belongings, and when permitted to gaze into one or two of the bedrooms where royalty actually put itself to bed, behind beautiful embroidered draperies, her sense of the privilege accorded her fairly made her hold her breath. At last, when Ainslee announced that they had made the tour of all the private apartments, they were ushered into a little boudoir where a maid waited in readiness to assist them in making their toilettes for luncheon. The maid, however, standing stiff and straight, with a towel thrown over her arm and a whisk-broom in hand ready to attack them, looked so very formidable that Marie-Celeste begged Ainslee not to leave them; and Ainslee, herself appreciating the overbearing self-importance of the maid Babette, was good enough to accede to her request. And then followed such a freshening of toilette as was fairly humiliating in its thoroughness. The trying feature of the proceeding lay in the fact that they were in no way taken into the confidence of the party officiating, or told what move was impending. Side by side they were thrust on to a little low seat, and their shoes and pumps being quickly removed, were consigned to the keeping of a condescending boots, who, summoned by the touch of an electric bell, carried them away at arm’s length. Marie-Celeste was never more thankful in her life than that every button was on, and that Albert’s little patent leathers were just as good as new; in fact, that nothing could be urged against those little articles of foot-wear save the grievous offence of dust from the royal garden. Their faces and hands were scrubbed with wholly unnecessary vigor, and in Albert’s case even ears, and then both children were thrust on to the little low seat again, and drawing a stool in front of them, Babette laid an elaborate manicure set open upon her lap, and gave her whole mind to the shaping and polishing of their nails—a process in which Albert took great interest, and which was accomplished, it must be confessed, most dexterously and with great expedition.
“You have beautiful nails, child,” said Babette, the instant she took Marie-Celeste’s extended hands in hers; and this compliment from so high and experienced an authority made Marie-Celeste at once feel repaid for all the dainty care her mother had always insisted upon. At last the little toilettes were completed, even to the reformation of Albert’s curls around an ivory curling stick; and with embroidered dress and well-starched kilt none the worse for the decorous experiences of the morning, they emerged from the little boudoir as “spick and span” as from the depths of the traditional bandbox. Luncheon being served, they found a most imposing butler awaiting them in the hallway, and therefore were obliged, but with evident reluctance, to turn their backs on Ainslee. When they reached the dining-room, Miss Belmore was already seated at the table, ready to receive them; but as places were set for only three, two little hearts were again doomed to disappointment, for two little minds, without any sort of consultation, had separately arrived at the conclusion that all that elaborate preparation could certainly mean nothing less than luncheon with Her Majesty in person. Otherwise it is to be doubted if they would have put up half so civilly with the uncompromising treatment they had received at Babette’s hands. Their disappointment, however, could not long hold out against the odds of their immediate surroundings. The butlers—for there were two of them—could not have seemed more anxious to please or more obsequious to a veritable little prince and princess; the luncheon was delicious, and no one could possibly have been more kind and friendly than Miss Bel-more. Therefore it happened that to their own surprise they became almost at once at their ease, and Albert chattered away in such a cunning, irresistible fashion that the royal dining-room rang with the merriest peals of laughter.
“And—and now,” said Albert, when the luncheon at last was concluded, and having clearly in mind the talk about the little Queen that was to follow, “where sail we find de old lady?”
“We shall find her in the sitting-room, Albert,” said Miss Bel-more, her kind gray eyes dancing with the amusement which she was making such an effort to conceal. So it was quite plain that these little uninvited visitors to Windsor Castle were mistaking Her Majesty for Her Majesty’s mother! She wondered for the moment if she ought not to tell them of their absurd mistake; and yet no—she hardly had the right to do that either; for had not a little conference with Her Majesty resulted in the conclusion that they would not disillusionize their little guests if they could help it? If possible they should leave the Castle as they entered it—the Queen of England still the dream-queen of their imagination, regal and stately always, and perennially arrayed in crown, ermine and jewels, and all the royal insignia of her office. They, at any rate, would not be the ones to acquaint them with the fact that even queens sometimes grow to be grandmothers, taking more comfort in rocking-chairs than thrones, vastly preferring lace caps to crowns, and behaving in general like other dear grandmothers the world over. And, in the mean time, what a pleasure to talk familiarly with these same bright little visitors, who more likely than not would have retired into speechless embarrassment had anyone ventured the announcement that the great Queen of England was none other than the friendly “old lady” with whom they were taking all the liberties of commonplace, every-day acquaintance! And so, happily, no doubt, for their ease of mind, no one felt called upon to make the announcement.
“Have you been here ever since?” asked Albert, the moment they reached the sitting-room and descried the Queen in the same chair in which they had left her.
“Ever since,” answered Her Majesty.
“And haven’t you had any luncheon?” in a tone of real concern, and going close to her side, so that he leaned against her knee.
“Oh, yes, I have had my luncheon served right here, to save me the trouble of moving; and now I am ready and waiting to have our talk about little Isabel de Valois.”
“Did these belong to her?” asked Marie-Celeste, standing in open-eyed wonder before a mosaic table, which had been cleared to make room for a quaint collection of foreign-looking, childish possessions—a mandolin, a well-worn little missal, a remarkable doll, a necklace or two, numerous little childish trinkets, and thrown over a chair, standing close to the table, a little gown of white silk and exquisite embroidery, yellow and limp with age, but none the less dainty and lovely.
“Yes, all of them,” answered the Queen, keenly enjoying the child’s undisguised pleasure.
Albert, who preferred that everything should be done decently and in order, placed a chair for Marie-Celeste on the other side of the Queen’s little table, and then seated himself on the gilded sofa beside Miss Belmore, in such a comfortable, snuggling-up way that Miss Belmore had to put one arm right round him and give him a sound little kiss by way of punishment, which Albert was courteous enough not to resent, notwithstanding he considered that sort of treatment somewhat humiliating for a boy of four.
“Now tome, please, Marie-Celeste,” he pleaded; “let’s hear about de tings before we look at dem and Marie-Celeste, feeling that they were all waiting for her, reluctantly did as she was bid, and dropped into the chair Albert had placed for her.
“And now,” said Albert modestly, considering himself master of ceremonies, “please have Marie-Celeste tell what she knows first,” for the suspicious little reprobate was keenly anxious to put her boasted knowledge to the test.
“Yes, I should love to hear the story as she has heard it,” answered the Queen. “Will you tell it to us, Marie-Celeste?” And Marie-Celeste, nothing loath, and willing at last to substantiate her claims in the ears of doubting Albert, rested a hand comfortably on either arm of her chair, and commenced, preceding her narration with the request, “You will correct me, won’t you, if you find I do not tell it right?” to which Her Majesty smilingly acceded, first asking Miss Belmore to hand her a little jewelled miniature case from among the other treasures on the table.
“Well, this little queen,” began Marie-Celeste, “was the child of a French king, and she was born in the Louvre, the King’s palace in Paris, and she was born in a very troubled time—such a troubled time, that her father, the King, went crazy; and then the little Isabel spent most of her time in the Hotel de St. Pol, on the Seine, that belonged to one of her father’s ambassadors.”
“I wonder that you remember such a queer name as St. Pol and such a long word as ambassadors,” said Miss Belmore incredulously.
“Oh, I have tried very hard to remember all the names, because you can’t tell the story very clearly without them. Besides, I wrote them all down in my journal one day on the steamer, and because I was coming here to Windsor to-day, I read them over only last night.”
“You haven’t tol’ us de name of de king den,” said Albert.
“The king was Charles the Sixth of France,” explained the Queen, who was not going to have her little story-teller disconcerted if she could help it; but Marie-Celeste confessed with perfect honesty, “I am afraid I had forgotten that name;” and Albert felt ashamed of himself, and confided in a whisper to Miss Belmore “dat he dessed he wouldn’t be so mean aden.”
“Well,” continued Marie-Celeste, pausing thoughtfully a moment to think out the order of the story, “at that time and all the time in those days there was war between France and England, and the French wanted to have peace; and so the ambassador, St. Pol, who had married the sister of King Richard in England, went to Richard and told him if he would sign a truce with France Charles would give him his daughter Isabel for his queen, and with a larger dowry than was ever given to a royal bride.” (Albert was becoming too deeply impressed with the extent of Marie-Celeste’s knowledge to venture the question as to what a dowry might be.) “And King Richard agreed to that; but it must just have been because he thought it would be a wise thing to do, for Isabel was only eight years old, and it would be so many years before she could really reign as a queen at all. But that’s the way with kings and queens; they always have to do the things that’s wise, no matter how they may feel about it, don’t they?” for Marie-Celeste, to whom even the motives of royal conduct were of deepest interest, felt one could hardly ask for a more reliable source of information than the Queen’s own mother.
“It is certainly true,” said Her Majesty a little gravely, “that the rulers of a great country like England have often to set aside their own preferences; but these are better times than those in which the little Isabel lived, and the idea of a king marrying a little girl of eight, no matter for what reason, would hardly be tolerated now, you know.”
“Oh, is that so?” with a look of real surprise, for Marie-Celeste’s idea of royalty had come to her largely through her knowledge of the little Isabel; and her childish mind did not readily lend itself to the thought that royalty, as well as everything else in the world, was subject to change and possible improvement. Indeed, she did not care to realize anything of the sort, choosing, rather, to think of the Windsor of Isabel’s time as much the same as the Windsor of Victoria’s, and she would have been not a little grieved and surprised had any one insisted on pointing out to her in how many, many ways the old differed from the new.
0145
“But the beauty of it was,” she continued, after meditating a moment over the Queen’s answer, “that little Isabel was really a darling, and that the King called her ‘his dear little sister,’ and really loved her; because sometimes kings and queens do not love each other at all.”
“And sometimes they do and Her Majesty spoke so seriously, and with such a depth of earnestness, that Marie-Celeste, and Albert too, for that matter, looked up at her in wondering silence.
“But go on with the story, dear,” the Queen added; “we shall make but slow progress if we allow too many interruptions.”
“Well, it wasn’t a bit strange that the King loved her, for even the King’s men who were sent to bring her to England thought she was perfectly lovely, and indeed she was a most unusual little girl. They say that her father was very foolish, but good, and that her mother was wicked, but clever, and that the little Isabel was like her father for goodness and her mother for cleverness. And they say, too, that she was never twice alike; that sometimes she was grave and sedate as could be, and sometimes she was full of fun and frolic, but always so sweet and good and innocent that she was like a bright little star in those dark times, for there was war between England and France, and they say only the children can be light-hearted in war time.”
“Have you any idea, Marie-Celeste, how this little Isabel looked?” asked the Queen, keeping the little jewelled case close covered in her hand.
“Oh, yes; I think I know exactly. She was fair, but her eyes were black, with dark lashes curling over them, for her grandmother was an Italian, you know; and her head was put on her shoulders in a pretty sort of way, and she had a cunning, sweet look on her face that just made people love her.”
“Would you like to see her picture?” and the Queen, attempting to open the case she held in her hand, both the children were instantly bending over it.
0147
“Se looks jus’ as Marie-Celeste said,” remarked Albert proudly, his sceptical spirit of the morning wholly transformed into one of profound admiration; and Marie-Celeste, asking that she might hold the case in her own hand, and gazing entranced upon the dear little face looking out at her, said joyfully, “Yes, she does look as I said, doesn’t she?” Then she reverently laid the miniature back upon the Queen’s lap, as though counting it quite too precious to be long out of royal keeping. “It seems to me now I can just see,” she said, gazing fondly down at the picture where it lay, “the way she looked that day when the King’s men went to bring her to England. One of them dropped on one knee and said, 'Madame, if God pleases, you shall be our Queen and lady;’ and then she made a little courtesy like this, and answered without a word from anybody, ‘Sir, if it please God and my lord and father, I shall be most happy, for I am told the Queen of England is a very great lady.’”
Nothing could have been prettier than the wholly unconscious way in which Marie-Celeste impersonated the grandeur and dignity of the little Isabel, courtesy and all; so that the Queen said admiringly, “My dear, you are a real little queen yourself, and your kingdom must lie in the hearts of all who know you;” and Albert, anxious at once to acquit himself as most loyal of her subjects, shook his head emphatically and remarked, “Marie-Celeste is a daisy, and she ought to live in a castle jus’ as fine as anybody;” and then, to prove the wealth of his devotion, he threw his two arms around her waist, which was as high as he could reach, in most uncourtly fashion.
“Hush, Albert,” said Marie-Celeste, blushingly pushing him from her, for this demonstration was as embarrassing as unexpected; “please go and sit down by Miss Belmore, for we are not half through, are we?” looking toward the Queen for confirmation of the fact.
“Why, no indeed! Little Isabel isn’t even married yet, Albert;” and Albert climbed back, just as he had intended to do, to his seat beside Miss Belmore, but with the most supercilious smile on his little face, as though he, to whom story-telling was the most delightful thing in the world, did not know whether a story was finished or not. But no matter, he did not mind being misunderstood, even by the Queen’s mother, if Marie-Celeste would only go on; and Marie-Celeste, as eager to talk as her listeners to hear, went on.
“And so it came about that they took the little Isabel to England, and Madame de Coucy, a lady whom Isabel dearly loved, came with her to be her governess; and next to Madame de Coucy, Isabel loved Simonette. Simonette was a poor little slave brought to France from one of the crusades, and I suppose they grew more fond of each other every day, because when they came to England both were so far away from their old home. On the way to England Richard came to meet the little Isabel at Calais, in France, and then she was escorted to London in fine style, and after that all her queen’s fixings were taken off and she was brought here to this very Castle, that was to be her home, and everybody called her Madame La Petite Reine.” Albert would have given a good deal to know what those French words meant, and wished he had not made such a row when his mother had once suggested a French bonne; but he would not betray his ignorance for anything, and Marie-Celeste was allowed to proceed u............