“Small, your ladyship, quite small, round and red as a pippin, merry and prattling, laughing mouth and tongue loose at both ends.”
“But what kind of people does she come from?”
“’Tis now two years ago or two and a half since she was the wife of a French valet de chambre, who fled the country and deserted her, but she didn’t grieve long for him; she joined her fate with an out-at-elbows harp-player, went to Paris with him, and remained there and at Brussels, until she returned here last Whitsun. In truth, she has a natural good understanding and a pleasing manner, except at times when she is tipsy. This is all the knowledge I have.”
“Daniel!” she said and stopped uncertainly.
“Daniel,” he replied with a subtle smile, “is as faithful to you now and forever as your own right hand.”
“Then will you help me? Can you get me a—a coach and coachman who is to be trusted, the instant I give the word?”
“Indeed and indeed I can. In less than an hour from the moment you give the word the coach shall hold in Herman Plumber’s meadow hard by the old shed. You may depend on me, your ladyship.”
Marie stood still a moment and seemed to consider. “I will see you again,” she said, nodded kindly to Magnille, and left them.
“Is she not the treasure house of all beauties, Magnille?” cried Daniel, gazing rapturously up the walk where she had vanished. “And so peerless in her pride!” he went on triumphantly. “Ah, she would spurn me with her foot, scornfully set her foot on my neck, and softly tread me down in the deepest dust, if she knew how boldly Daniel dares dream of her person—So consuming beautiful and glorious! My heart burned in me with pity to think that she had to confide in me, to bend the majestic palm of her pride—But there’s ecstasy in that sentiment, Magnille, heavenly bliss, Magnilchen!”