And bring the fated Fairy Prince.
—Tennyson.
And in the narrow bed built within the wall in the tiny room, wherein a tallow candle placed on a central table threw only very feeble rays, the girl Rose Marie lay dreaming.
She—Rose Marie—the daughter of Papa Legros—as he was uniformly called in the neighbourhood—she was now a great lady, by the will of God and the decree of the Holy Father himself. She would have a glass coach like the ladies whom she had so often seen driving about in Versailles, and sit in it, dressed in the latest fashion and holding a fan in her hand, which would be encased in a lace mitten.
At this point in her dreams Rose Marie sat up in bed, very straight and dignified, with her little hands folded over the cotton coverlet, and she bent her young head to right and to left, like one saluting a number of passers-by. A nod accompanied by an encouraging smile indicated the greeting to a supposed friend, whilst a condescending nod and a haughty stare suggested the presence of an acquaintance of somewhat low degree.
Thus Rose Marie had seen the ladies behave in their coaches in Versailles. She had seen Maria Mancini bow serenely to her admirers, and the Queen Mother bestow the stony stare on her detractors. She had watched, wondered and admired, but never had she tried to imitate until now—now that her smile would be appreciated by many, her frown be of consequence to others.
Up to now it had not mattered. Though her father was reputed to be wealthy, he was only a tailor, who had to bow and scrape and wallow before the great gentlemen of the Court. Aye! and had more than once been soundly thrashed because of the misfit of a pair of Court breeches.
And Rose Marie had oft sighed for greatness, for the gilded coach and a seat at the opera, for silken dresses, flowers, patches and rouge. She was only a child with an acutely developed sense of sympathy for everything that was dainty and refined, everything that smelt sweetly and was soft and tender to the touch.
Thus she went on dreaming her dream in content, never doubting for a moment that happiness lay closely linked with this sudden accession to grandeur. The fact that her lawful lord and husband had shown a desire to break his marriage vows, and to take unto himself some other wife more equal to him in rank and breeding than the humble tailor's daughter, troubled Rose Marie not at all. With sublime faith in the workings of Providence, she put her husband's reluctance to acknowledge her down to his ignorance of herself.
He had never seen her since the day of the ceremony, eighteen years ago. She was a baby in arms then, whilst now—