"Ah, true! I had not noticed the clock."
"You are exhausted from having watched all night. Go and rest. I will call you when dinner is served."
A long, slow smile stretched itself over Richelieu's imperturbable features. "I go, then; but it is on condition that madame calls me when dinner is served." With which enigmatically spoken commonplace, he forthwith disappeared.
"It is his habit to make significance of manner count for wit," observed Elise, turning to the window.
For half an hour there was silence, perfect, drowsy. Mme. de Lauraguais' hands fell passively into her lap. The King, under his great canopy, was still. None could tell whether he slept or no. La Châteauroux, her eyes half closed, watched the sunlight play over the roofs of the houses in the town, and listened absently to the noon murmur that rose from its streets. Only Richelieu, in the room beyond, was alert, waiting, as he lay on his extemporized couch. At half-past twelve the King demanded wine. Madame poured it out and carried it to his side. He had not taken it from her hand when the door to the anteroom opened vigorously, and four men appeared on the threshold of his Majesty's bedroom. The glass dropped from the suddenly nerveless fingers of madame, and crashed down upon the wooden floor. Elise, with a low exclamation, rose from her chair, her face colorless. La Châteauroux, leaving the King's side, moved slowly over to her sister, and stood facing the intruders. After the first instant calmness came to her. M. de Chartres had forced theconsigneat last. With him were the King's chaplain, Bishop of Soissons, Fitz-James, Père Perusseau the confessor, and M. de Maurepas, possibly as representative of de Berryer. These four men stood facing the Duchess, who regarded them steadily, death knocking at her heart.
"Why—do you come?" she asked, dully, knowing well enough the reason.
"It is time, I think, madame," returned Maurepas, with something ill-advised in his tone.
"His Majesty is here?" interposed Chartres, sternly.
"Naturally," she replied, with curling lip.
"And M. de Richelieu?"
"I have the honor, Monseigneur."
Richelieu spoke from the doorway of his bedroom, where he stood, quite still, a little stiffer than usual, eyeing de Chartres as though he would have impressed something upon him. Perhaps Monseigneur understood. At any rate, the hesitation became a pause, and the pause grew into a hopeless stillness as the Duchesse de Châteauroux turned slowly about and faced the companion of these last days.
"Du Plessis—you—" she faltered, actually unsuspecting, speaking as if to a companion in trouble.
"Madame," he responded, brokenly.
"Can you—do nothing? Have you no help?" she whispered.
Richelieu bent his head. "Nothing."
Maurepas smiled sarcastically, but no one noticed it. Fitz-James of Soissons advanced into the room, his robes trailing, his manner lofty and severe.
"Mme. Marie, and you—Mme. de Lauraguais—are requested to retire to the apartment which you have occupied since quitting the abbaye. There—later—some one will go to you."
He raised his hand and pointed to the door which led into the antechamber, and so to the corridor. For the shadow of an instant madame hesitated, her eyes passing in a long glance from Richelieu's unreadable face to the great, silent bed. Then, with a slight gesture to her sister, she moved slowly, unsteadily, towards the door which the bishop designated. In silence the five men saw them go. Louis XV., closed in by his curtains, silent, passive, heard all, and guessed the unspoken; surmised Richelieu's loyal treachery, read madame's heart from her steps, realized that his time for repentance approached, deplored the necessity, thought of his dinner, and rather hoped that existence might not be too much prolonged.
While Falconet* was hastily summoned to attend the King, while Monseigneur made humble explanation to his relative, and Richelieu adroitly assisted in carrying out the bishop's ideas for the forthcoming confession, absolution, and unction of his Majesty, the two sisters had gained their apartment. Elise, by this time on the way to hysterics, threw herself desperately on the bed. The sister watched her with pale, silent scorn. Her arms were folded. Her foot tapped nervously on the floor. She said not a word.
* The King's consulting physician.
"Madame," whispered Antoinette, at last, "what shall I do?"
Madame's eyes turned towards her for an instant. "Nothing," she said, shortly.
Elise's woman was busy over her with sal-volatile, tears, entreaties, and a fan. By degrees she grew quieter, forgetting herself sufficiently at last to look at her sister.
"Marie—why do you look so? What are you doing?" she asked.
"I? I am waiting."
"Waiting! For what?"
The Duchess, who had studied well the ways of courts, and who knew each step of an affair like this, did not answer. Her lips straightened into a bitter smile. Mme. de Lauraguais might read it if she would.
Matters were at this juncture when the waiting was ended conventionally. In response to a rap Antoinette, having received the nod of permission from her mistress, opened the door and admitted Marc Antoine Voyer, Comte d'Argenson, a man closely associated with Maurepas, and hence not loved by the favorite. He entered the apartment with perceptible hesitation, and stopped not very far inside to turn to madame. She sat regarding him like a sphinx, immovable, unspeaking. Poor d'Argenson had been in few less happy situations. Here were four pairs of feminine eyes fixed upon him in dread anticipation. How near to explosion from one of them matters had gone, the young man did not know. He perceived by the expression of la Châteauroux that there had been no going to pieces yet. Even while he faced her, fumbling for words, she put out her hand to him, saying:
"Give me your letter, monsieur, or—" the hand dropped—"or was it in words that the order was given?"
"No, madame. Here is the paper."
He took it from under the hat which he carried in the left arm, and gave it to her. It was not long, and the ink upon it was scarcely dry. Yet its seals—those of Orléans and France—precluded any possibility of disobedience of the command it expressed. As her sister read it through, Mme. de Lauraguais sat up on the bed, a growing sense of terror coming over her. Not the smallest expression crossed the face of la Châteauroux. Her mouth was firmly set. She read slowly, as one who forced herself to see written out something of which she was already thoroughly cognizant. When she had finished the last line, madame opened her fingers, and the paper fluttered to the floor.
"That is all, monsieur? Have the goodness to retire."
"Pardon, madame; it is not quite all."
"What further, then? What insult can be added?"
"It is no insult, but an offer of assistance."
"From whom? For what?"
"From the Marshal de Belle-Isle, of his carriage to convey you as far as Nancy, where you may obtain a post-chaise."
"Ah! Coward! So he would patronize me now!"
Madame's nerve was failing her at last. Her face had grown suddenly scarlet, and from her attitude d'Argenson believed that she would gladly have flung herself upon him to end the matter after the fashion of the Court of Miracles. But young d'Argenson was a diplomat, educated in a famous school, and he had a manner of steel that would not melt before the white-hot fire of a woman's wrath. Eye for eye he met the gaze of the Duchess, and, as her quivering muscles grew still under the spell of his calm, he said, quietly:
"Pardon me, madame. I think that you do not quite comprehend your situation. If you but reflect, you will instantly perceive how much of wisdom there would be in making the departure of yourself, of madame your sister, and of your two women as quiet as possible."
Whether it was his air or his eminently unemotional words that impressed the woman before him, d'Argenson never knew. It was enough that, after a long and troubled silence, la Châteauroux finally raised her head and answered, in a tone but little above a whisper:
"I thank you, Monsieur le Comte. If—the Marshal de Belle-Isle will have his coach at the abbaye door at four o'clock, I—we—will take our departure as quietly as possible."
D'Argenson breathed deeply with relief. Bowing low, he backed towards the door, pausing only an instant to repeat, musically: "At the abbaye door, madame. That is most wise. At the abbaye door."
While Mme. de Lauraguais lived she remembered the journey from Metz to Paris as the most utterly wretched affair of her life. For the Duchess, she expressed no opinion on the matter one way or the other. On leaving the coach of M. de Belle-Isle at Nancy, where they were to engage their own post-horses and chaise, they found that not only word of the King's illness, but also news of the dismissal of the favorite, had preceded them, and was in every one's mouth. Moreover all France was in a state of the wildest grief and anxiety over thebien-aimé, as he was commonly known. All churches were open, and in them masses, repeated by priests actually weeping with excited sorrow, were continually said. Men and women of every class left their business and pleasure to join in the universal prayers for the recovery of the King; and the Queen and dauphin set out together from Versailles with a company of Jesuits, to hasten to Louis' side. It was when news of his Majesty's danger was carried to the Queen that the eldest son, boy as he was, bethought him nimbly and made that intensely priggish and uncalled-for remark—the one reason that France really had for rejoicing that their Louis did recover:
"Poor people! You have, then, only me!"
It was said that he had a catalogue of similar phrases for various occasions written down for him by Père Griffet, and dutifully learned by heart.
At Epernay the carriages of her Majesty and la Châteauroux passed each other. By that time madame, in terror of the people who had threatened to mob her along the way, was travelling incognito in the humblest possible manner, changing places, when going through towns, with Antoinette. Even as it was, their progress was extremely difficult. Four women journeying alone, with no man but an attendant valet seated on the box, to manage for them, were treated with none too much respect in the France of those days. Ere they reached Paris, however, and before the Queen had arrived at her lord's side, a triumphant courier tore along the road on his way to the metropolis with the word that Louis' danger was over, that he would recover. Mme. de Châteauroux had arrived at Meaux, and was resting there overnight, when the news spread through the town. Mme. de Lauraguais had doubted its effect on her sister. When it was told her, however, the Duchess said, very quietly: "I thank the good God that it is so!" and lapsed again into that silence which she had persistently maintained since leaving the King. Later in the night, however, she despatched to Richelieu one of those strange, bourgeois epistles that have come down to us to be marvelled at as written by a gentlewoman.*
*Lettres Autographes de Mme. Châteauroux,—Library of Rouen: "I can well believe that so long as the King is feeble he will be in a great state of devotion; but, as soon as he is better, I bet I shall trot furiously through his head, and that in the end he will not be able to resist, but will quietly send Bachelier and Lebel to see what is become of me."
Meaux is not a great distance from Paris, but it was almost the 1st of September before the sisters reached their destination. They did not go to the Hôtel de Mailly, for the reason that Henri's wife, never fond of her superb sister-in-law, would very possibly fail to know her now in the time of her adversity. Rather, Mesdames de Lauraguais and Châteauroux retired to a small hôtel in the Rue du Bac, which the favorite had inhabited before. On August 28th they arrived, travel-stained, weary, but mightily relieved in heart at being safe at their journey's end. The little house was desolate enough when they entered it, but, with the combined efforts of the two maids, the valet Fouchelet, and theconcièrge, a supper was contrived, some beds prepared, and a little fresh air, hot as it was, let through the musty rooms.
At one o'clock of the next day Mme. de Lauraguais, much refreshed by her sleep and revived by her chocolate, entered her sister's bedroom. Marie Anne was still in bed, wide-awake, however, and meditating on getting up.
"Good-morning, Anne. Here is the latestNouvelles à la Mainfrom Mme. Doublet's. Jeanne obtained it for me, I don't know where, possibly at Henri's."
"And what does it say? What—of—Louis?"
Elise's expression changed. "Oh—there is little of him."
"Tell me at once. What has been done now? I am, perhaps, no longer Duchess?"
"No, no! You mistake. There is only his 'expression of regret for the flagrancy of my former life, the bad example I have set my people—a promise to amend for the future, God granting me a life to lead with justice and righteousness.'* That is all."
*The Old Régime, Lady Jackson, vol. i., p. 309.
Mme. de Châteauroux's lip curled, but she said nothing. After an instant's pause she struck a little gong at her side, and, at Antoinette's quick appearance, observed, languidly:
"I rise now. My garments at once." As the maid disappeared, she turned again to her sister. "Is that all your news?"
"No. Here is something which you will wish to hear. The Duc d'Agenois, arrived in Paris a month ago, is suffering an attack of fever at his hôtel in the Rue de l'Evêque."
"Ah! François again!" Again the Duchess was silent, and presently a curious smile came to play about her lips. Elise interrupted the reverie.
"I do not understand this, Anne. His exile—"
"Was for two years. It is ended. He served me well before, Elise. It is an omen. Through him I shall rise again. I tell you so."
"Be considerate this time, then. Do not banish him a second time. Tell me, how are you going to occupy yourself to-day? One will perish of ennui here."
"One must expect it. Let us become philosophers. I am going to write presently to du Plessis. If Claudine de Tencin is in the city, we will go to her. She will not refuse to receive me. To-morrow—I think that I will go to François. Yes, I mean it. Do not be shocked. To-day I despatch Fouchelet to Versailles with a billet to Mme. de Boufflers to send me my furniture, my toys, the rest of my wardrobe, the dogs, and—my servants. If we must live here, Elise, we will do so. I am a little tired of camps and of being continually interested in guns and armaments; this will be a rest, a relief, for a time. And after—when the Court returns—"
"Peste! That will be monstrous."
"Yes," responded la Châteauroux, with a vague smile, "that will be hard. We shall see, however. There will be—always—François. Send now to the Hôtel de Mailly and have Henri come to dine with us—off what we have!"
Half an hour later Mme. de Châteauroux sat in the salon of herhôtelcomposing, with some difficulty, the epistle to Mme. de Boufflers, who, as mistress of the palace of the Queen, was obliged to remain at Versailles during the Queen's absence. It was not an easy thing to make acknowledgment of her disgrace to the woman who, next to herself, was the haughtiest at Court. But the letter was written in some way, and Fouchelet directed to depart with it as soon as he had finished serving dinner. Then Mme. de Lauraguais rejoined her sister, and they sat quiet, together, listening to the hum of the city, the city of the world, around them. Presently a bell sounded below. Some one was admitted. The two listened for a moment, and then Elise rose as the salon door opened and Henri de Mailly-Nesle came in.
"Dear Henri! You are so good!"
"Elise! You are well?"
The Marquis embraced the Lauraguais with some affection, and then turned to his youngest sister, who had not risen.
"Madame, you wished me to come, I believe?" he asked, gravely.
"But certainly! It is three months that we have not seen each other. Is it so unusual that I wish to behold you again?" she asked, loftily. It was not often that Henri attempted to reprove her even by a tone, and she would not permit it now.
Her manner gave her brother his cue, and, with a mental shrug, he accepted it. His manner was entirely different as, after certain conventional remarks, he asked: "You have not heard, perhaps, of the return of M. d'Agenois after his exile?"
"I learned it this morning," she responded, indifferently.
"He is ill, it seems. The air of Paris still does not agree with him." Henri took a meditative pinch of snuff. "Apropos of d'Agenois, Anne, have you heard from Claude?"
"Claude! No. Surely he is not also returned?"
"Not he. He is in one of the English colonies at a town with some impossible Homeric name."
"Ah! I warned him that he would perish of ennui among those savages."
"On the contrary, he would appear, from a letter which I have received, to be very well amused. From his accounts he has met there some delightful people—a charming girl—by name—peste! I forget the name—"
"It is no matter. Claude among the bourgeois! Who could fancy it? Eh bien, let us dine."
The dinner was not protracted, for none of the three found it very comfortable. At its end Mme. de Châteauroux rose abruptly, snapping a finger for Fouchelet, and turning to her brother with the dismissing command, "Summon our chairs, Henri."
Mailly-Nesle went off obediently to see that the chairs and link-boys were ready, while the sisters adjusted their scarfs and caps. The brother handed them out, gave directions as to their destination, and himself started to return on foot to hishôtel. The ladies were going to Mme. de Tencin, who lived near by, not far from the Orleans Palais Royal. Though they had dined at an unconventionally late hour, it was not yet dark, the sunset just fading into a twilight that played in softening shadows about the old streets, with their high, gabled wooden houses, and the occasional buildings of stone. The streets were quiet, for all Paris was at supper. A few chairs, a chaise or two, and now and then a coach with some familiar coat-of-arms on its panels passed them. Foot-passengers were few. In crossing the Place du Palais Royal, however, Mme. de Châteauroux, looking out of the open window of her chair, encountered the glance of a priest going the opposite way. She bowed, and he uncovered with a respect less marked than usual, walking on without any attempt to speak to her. It was the Abbé de Bernis.
"Victorine is here, then," concluded madame. "I wonder how she will receive me?" And at the question a pang smote the Duchess's heart. Her fall was accomplished; but its consequences she had not yet endured.
Twilight rose rapidly now, and it was dark enough for the torches of the link-boys to be lighted by the time the slow-moving chairs stopped at their destination. The Hôtel de Tencin was not imposing from the outside. It was narrow and high, with a larger building close on either hand. Inside, however, it was furnished like a palace, and, indeed, most of the guests who entered it spent the greater part of their lives in or about the abode of royalty.
Claudine Alexandrine Guérin de Tencin, the foremost figure in the salon life of the day, was a devoted friend to Mme. de Châteauroux. The favorite's grand manner and unapproachable bearing were after her own heart, and, since Marie Anne's accession to the highest post at Court, the leader of the salons had actually curbed her wit on behalf of her friend, and refrained from two excellent epigrams that would have seemed to slur the favorite's beauty and taste. It was but this afternoon that, in her small boudoir, Mme. de Tencin, with Victorine de Coigny and François de Bernis, had carried on a very animated discussion relative to the recent affair at Metz. After tea the abbé returned to the Lazariste, while Victorine, who had no life left after his departure, promised to remain with her friend during the evening.
Paris was empty at this season, and the regular salons were closed. The Duchesse du Maine had carried off all her pet philosophers and literati to Sceaux. That small portion of the Court which had not contrived to follow the army was scattered over France. The very Opera was shut. And thus Mme. de Tencin and Victorine resigned themselves to the most stupid of evenings after their small supper. At something after seven o'clock, however, the first valet appeared on the threshold of the small white-and-gold room, with the announcement:
"The Duchesse de Lauraguais. The Duchesse de Châteauroux."
Mme. de Tencin sprang to her feet. From just outside came the stiff rustle of feminine garments.
"Marie!"
"Claudine!"
The two women flung themselves into each other's arms, touched cheeks, first on one side, then on the other, and finally Mme. de Tencin held the Duchess off at arm's-length, gazed at her through a river of tears, and murmured, in a transport of grief: "My poor Anne!"
"Claudine! Cl—audine!"
Thereupon Mme. de Châteauroux closed her eyes and gracefully fainted away. Elise screamed. Mme. de Tencin, with moans of compassion, supported her beloved friend, and Victorine, shaking with inward laughter, ran away for sal-volatile, a glass of wine, and a fan. When she returned with these necessaries, la Châteauroux, reclining upon a satin sofa, was aristocratically reviving. After a few moments' application of the fan and salts, coupled by the consumption of the cordial, she was sufficiently restored to greet Victorine affectionately, and to recount, with a thousand airs and as many variations, her own story. It was a pathetic recital. Elise wept unrestrainedly, and even Mme. de Coigny became absorbed before the climax was reached.
"And so, actually, it was Maurepas, Anne, who betrayed you?"
"Actually,ma chère. There is no doubt of it. I have vowed his ruin."
"If any one could accomplish that, you are certainly the one to do so. But he is called indispensable to the ministry."
"He is the most implacable enemy in the world. But—I also am implacable, Claudine."
Mme. de Tencin shook her head and reflected mournfully.
"What will you do?" inquired Victorine, with some curiosity.
"I? I have a plan. It turns upon—whom do you think?"
"I never think. Tell us at once. I burn to know."
"François d'Agenois."
"Marie!"
"Again!"
The latter exclamation came from Victorine. The Duchess smiled at her. "Yes, again. The first time he was a complete success. I will make him so this time."
"Poor boy!"
"Yes—he will be banished for life. But there is no one else."
"What a pity that your cousin, Count Claude, is still away."
"Ah, yes. Henri says that he is in America. Imagine it. However, Claude was less useful. I had more feeling for him—my cousin, you understand."
"When do you visit the Duc d'Agenois?"
"Really, I do not know. I had thought of to-night. That would be a romance, would it not? But I am too fatigued. Our journey from Metz was frightful. You cannot conceive it."
"My poor darling! But do let us have some amusement. Victorine is in despair. There are no men in the city."
"I saw M. de Bernis in the Place du Palais," observed Elise.
Victorine colored delicately. "Dear Duchess, he is not a man. He is a priest," she said, lightly.
"And M. de Coigny—he is no longer a man, but a marshal," retorted madame.
This time the little Marquise made no reply. She suddenly turned serious, and a pause crept upon the four.
Mme. de Tencin, after waiting nearly a minute for some one to speak, herself exclaimed: "Come, let us play at piquet. It is the only thing left. Cavagnole is impossible. Mme. de Lauraguais, I leave you to the Maréchale. Victorine, you will be becoming a second Mirepoix soon. Marie, you shall play with me. Come—the tables are here."
La Châteauroux sighed. She intensely disliked cards. "Ah, well—I will play till I have lost ten louis. That—since I have already lost one—is all that I can afford. Then we will go home. François must wait till to-morrow."
"Poor man!"
Mme. de Tencin led the way to the gaming-room, which, to tell the truth, was a principal feature in herhôtel; and here the four ladies seated themselves at two tables. It took Mme. de Châteauroux a little more than an hour to lose her stipulated sum, for stakes among women are not high. That being done, true to her word, she rose.
"It is necessary to depart, dear Claudine. I am frightfully sleepy. You have given us the most delightful evening possible. Come, Elise, finish your hand. How much have you won? Come, we must really go."
"And I also," rejoined Victorine, rising from her place.
"There is wine in my boudoir. We will drink to you, Marie Anne, and your great success with the d'Agenois."
So they all rustled back to the little salon, adjusted their very light wraps, partook of the liqueur and cakes prepared, and then departed, each to her chair, with many affectionate adieus. Victorine, yawning mentally, went her way to her lonely abode in the Rue Fromentin, while the others returned to the Rue du Bac, where madame was greeted with news that made her furious with mortification. Fouchelet had returned from Versailles with the word from Mme. de Boufflers that Mme. de Châteauroux's wardrobe and dogs should be despatched to her on the following day. As to the furniture and toys in her apartments, and her private chef and footmen, they had belonged to Mme. de Châteauroux not as woman, but as favorite of his Majesty. They were really the insignia of office, and no longer belonged to one who had been publicly dismissed from her post.
The letter in which these things were said was perfectly cold, perfectly polite, and perfectly unreasonable. Its tone, however, was not to be mistaken. It was the first deep wound given to the deposed sub-queen, and its sensation was too fresh to be easily borne. At something after two o'clock in the morning she fell into an unquiet sleep, and then Mme. de Lauraguais, who had attended her, crept away to her own room, too tired to scold her maid.
On the following morning la Châteauroux had, apparently, recovered from her chagrin. She ate an egg with her chocolate, laughed at her sister's clouded face, sent Alexandre to a furniture house with orders to refurnish completely her present abode, advised her sister to make a round of the toy-shops that morning, and at eleven o'clock re-dressed herself preparatory to the forthcoming visit to her old-time lover.
François Emmanuel Frederic, Duc d'Agenois, returned from a long Italian exile to Paris and fever, had left his bed this morning for the second time, and, wrapped in silken dressing-gown and cap, with acouvre-piedto correspond, reclined upon a small couch in his most comfortable salon, indulging in a profound fit of melancholy. His history certainly warranted an occasional turn of despair. Unfortunate enough to have fallen in love with her who was destined to become favorite of France; unwise enough to have kept his passion alight in defiance of the King of this, his adopted country; unforeseeing enough to have offered the woman marriage; by all these things winning a two-years' banishment; he had now been absurd enough, after the exile, to return again to the very den of the lion. More than this, having, even in illness, learned the story of the disgrace of the favorite and her return to Paris, he was now capping the climax of folly by daring to wish—that she would come to him. What benefit he could possibly derive from such a proceeding, the rash youth did not stop to consider. He only lay upon his couch, very weak in body and very flushed of countenance, hoping one moment, utterly despairing, as was sensible, the next. Really, according to Fate's usual laws, the idea of her coming was utterly absurd. And yet she came. About noon d'Agenois heard, with sharpened ears, the great front door open and close. Then there was silence again, while he nervously fingered the tassels of his gown and stared at the ceiling—more hopeless than ever. Presently his valet hurried in, with an anxious expression on his lively face. Passing to his master's side, he whispered a question in the Duke's ear.
"See her!" cried d'Agenois, leaping up. "Nom de Dieu, Jean, fly! Fly, I tell you! Admit her—admit her—admit her—"
Jean ran back across the room, pushed open the door, and stood aside. Mme. de Châteauroux, clothed in clouds of white muslin that floated about her in fold after fold, luminous, filmy, her golden hair unpowdered, curling upon her shoulders, her eyes lustrous, an expression of tender melancholy on her face, appeared on the threshold, framed in the bright sunshine that streamed through the windows.
"Anne!" The man gave a faint cry and began to move towards her, dizzily, both arms outstretched. He had loved her faithfully throughout the two years. Had he not a right to tremble now, at their reunion?
The Duchess smiled slowly into his eyes, and moved towards him in a fashion peculiar to herself, not walking, floating rather.
"Anne, you are not changed—you are not changed at all. You are just as I have thought of you. You are my angel. You came—you did not forget—I have been so ill, have suffered so. Ah, you are adorable!"
With nervous eagerness he drew her to the sofa beside him, and sat looking into her face, delightedly noting every feature, every shining hair tendril, counting the very breaths that passed her lips. Madame, who had known him so well in the old days, who thought of him always as one much younger than herself, ran her fingers through his dark hair, smoothed the forehead that was so hot, and insisted on his lying down again. This being accomplished, she seated herself near him, one of his hands fast holding hers, his eyes smiling up at her.
"You know my story—that I am nothing, now, François?" she asked.
"I know only that you are my angel, Anne. What more could I wish?"
Thus this first visit passed off to the highest satisfaction of madame. D'Agenois had always pleased her, was ever obedient to her way of thinking, was singularly unselfish and unsuspicious, and his blind devotion to her was perhaps the only reason why she did not care for him as she had seemed to care for Louis of France. The young Duke was, moreover, still far from well; and la Châteauroux was enough of a woman to have a taste for humoring a patient who threw himself, utterly regardless of consequences, upon her mercy. The first, then, became the beginning of an infinite series of visits, none of which was short. Madame had not been in Paris a week before she discovered that nothing but the boldest possible course was open to her now. The story of her dismissal from Metz, exaggerated in every way, was discussed from palace to fish-market. She was pointed out in the streets and accosted with insulting remarks. Thehaute bourgeoisieitself sneered at her, and as for thenoblesse, those who in the old days had schemed for weeks to obtain an invitation to her salon, could now have seen the moons of Saturn with the naked eye more easily than they would behold Mme. de Châteauroux in her chair. Mme. de Mailly-Nesle refused to admit either sister to herhôtel. Henri at intervals went to the Rue du Bac out of duty, not pleasure. Mme. de Tencin, while she frequently summoned both sisters to her side when she was alone, was always singularly unable to receive Madame la Duchesse during one of her evenings. Of all the former friends and sycophants, Victorine de Coigny was the single person who allowed herself to be seen in all places, at all hours, with the deposed favorite, without finding her popularity thereby lessened. But the little Maréchale was a peculiar case. It was her role to be unusual, unconventional; and this one thing added to herrisquélist could not harm her. Even had there been danger in it, Victorine would have clung to the other woman, for the sake of their old friendship. But Victorine had a rash nature.
Amid her little turmoil Marie Anne moved with apparent serenity. Certainly her world, what part of it was still in Paris, must at first have suspected the pangs of mortification that they daily caused her. But, so far as outward evidence was concerned, there was none. A woman who had had the wit and the unscrupulous fortitude to attain to the position once occupied by Marie Anne de Mailly-Nesle, possessed enough strength of character to accept the circumstances attendant on her fall with excellent philosophy. She was the talk of all Paris, of Versailles, and of Sceaux. Her attitude was unceasingly watched and commented on; and, after two weeks, a new idea began to dawn in the various salons. It was the startling one that madame had found a new string for her straightened bow. The idea originated when, one evening at the Hôtel du Tours, the discovery was made that five people, on five consecutive days, had seen the chair of Mme. de Châteauroux waiting in the Rue de l'Evêque at the door of the d'Agenoishôtel.
Three of these people, moreover, had seen her herself issue from thehôteldoor, had refused recognition to her, and gone their ways. The salon of M. Vauvenargues gasped. What a plan of action! How daring! How truly like the whilom favorite! Was she in love with him, after all? What were the arms of Châteauroux and d'Agenois? Were the quarterings harmonious? By the middle of September the wedding was discussed as a surety, and many a grande dame wondered if she might not throw hauteur to the winds and go. Who would not wish to study the bridal dress? And then—after—question of questions!—what would accrue when his Majesty returned? The salons gasped again, wondered, and waited.
Matters also waited for some time. There occurred one of those aggravatingly hopeless stand-stills when society purfled and shrugged and created tireless smoke at a rate which science could not easily measure. No wedding announcement was made; neither did his Majesty return to Paris. Fribourg had proved to be a city possessed of rather better resources of defence than the Court before its walls had of amusement. After two weeks of cannonading and unsuccessful sorties on the part of the besieged, the Court grew very bored indeed, and most of the ladies followed her Majesty back to France. If the Queen had wished to stay longer at Louis' side, she did not voice the wish, for her husband entertained a different notion. Among the few departing gentlemen was a certain M. Lenormand d'Etioles, a nonentity to history, who very joyfully accompanied his wife away from the occasional sight of his Majesty, to an estate at Meudon, where madame deigned to reside for one month.
The last siege of the campaign was at last triumphantly concluded on the 28th day of October, and three days later came the first rumor of the King's approaching return to Paris. France received the news with hysterical joy. It was odd, considering his ways, how universally adored throughout his youth this King was. To his people he was a warrior hero. And, indeed, his personality, since the first time that he had appeared in public, in a golden robe one yard long, with violet leading-strings about his little shoulders, had been beautiful enough to inspire worship. The portraits of his old age are hideous enough; but that of Vanloo, which the great painter declared he could not do justice to, is the one which should stand out above all others as the true picture of this King of lotus-eaters. Preparations were made to give his Majesty, and what of the army was with him, a magnificent reception. An evening procession was arranged, during which all Paris and her river were literally to roll in fire. The Faubourg St. Antoine turned outen massefor the occasion, and, stranger still, not a noble in the city but contributed certain louis d'or for fireworks, and arranged windows and a party to view the procession.
Mme. de Châteauroux was addressed by no one on the subject of these preparations. The royal coach would pass neither the Rue du Bac nor the Rue de l'Evêque. Mme. de Mailly-Nesle did not dream of asking her sister-in-law to sit at her windows overlooking the Pont Royal, which Louis must cross on his way to the Tuileries. But even had the invitation been given, the Duchess would have refused it. It was not in her plan that the King should find her face among those of the throng; but eagerly she prayed that its absence might be felt.
"François, upon the 13th of November I shall stay all day here with you. Nay, better, you shall come to me, and I will serve you such a little supper as—"
"Anne! Who could touch food in thy presence?"
Madame smiled at him, and they ceased to speak. They could sit silent now for uncounted minutes, madame knowing every thought that flitted through the brain of the young man; d'Agenois fancying, perhaps, that he knew as much of the Duchess. If this were not so, what mattered it? He was supremely happy. He had lost all jealousy, even of royalty, for he willingly believed what she told him with every look: that she loved him, only, at last.
At the time of their short conversation relative to the home-coming of the King, they were in the Hôtel d'Agenois, returned half an hour before from a drive. The Duke lay upon a couch, idly watching his companion, who sat toying with a bit ofdécoupure, her back to the windows, a soft light falling upon her hair and shoulders. It had been a quiet half-hour, and madame was beginning to be tired. She was contemplating a return to her own hôtel, when an interruption occurred. Some one was admitted below. Some one came hurriedly up-stairs, and Mme. de Lauraguais, unannounced, ran into the room.
"My dear Elise! Your breath is quite gone! Is there a fire—a scandal—a death?"
"None of them. Wait!" She sank into a chair to regain her breath, while François sounded a gong, intending to order wine.
"It is only Henri, who sends us an urgent note to come at once to his hôtel. I received it, and came for you. The coach is outside. He sent it."
Madame shrugged. "What startling thing can have happened?" she said, smiling. "Perhaps Laure is dying, and wishes for me. However, I come."
And, after a gentle farewell for the day to d'Agenois, madame went. The Mailly-Nesle coach bore the two ladies at a rapid pace across the Rue St. Honoré, out upon the quay and on to the Pont Royal, on the opposite side of which, just across from the Théatins, was the Hôtel de Mailly. During the drive the sisters scarcely spoke. Mme. de Châteauroux certainly did not seem curious as to the reason for Henri's imperative summons. To tell the truth, she was not thinking of it. She was finishing a dream.
Henri himself met them at his door, smiled at Marie Anne's languid greeting, refused to reply to the eager question of Elise, but conducted them rapidly up-stairs into the grand salon. Here stood the Marquise, Henri's wife, with two people, a man and a woman. As she caught sight of the man's face, Mme. de Châteauroux gave a little cry, and turned suddenly colorless.
"Claude!" she said.
Claude came forward, raising her hand to his lips, and saluting Mme. de Lauraguais, who was staring at him as at one raised from the dead.
Then de Mailly went back, and took the woman by the hand. A slight, straight, girlish figure she had, a fair complexion, and a pair of large grayish eyes, that were presently lifted to the face of la Châteauroux.
"Anne," said Claude, quietly, "let me make known to you my wife."
"Your wife!"
Deborah, with rather a pathetic little smile, courtesied low.
It was thus that Claude brought home his wife. Two months before he had been married to her in Dr. Carroll's chapel by Aimé St. Quentin, with all Annapolis to witness; and next day he left America on theBaltimore, in company with Deborah, and her very modest little travelling coffer. Truly bridal weather was theirs. The skies were fair, seas calmly blue, and continuous light western winds, sent by the very gods themselves, carried them straight to the English coast. All told, they were on the ship but six weeks—six strange, half-terrible weeks to the colonial girl. She was learning to know her husband, and he her. In a way, not always, but by spells, Deborah was happy. She loved the sea, and she grew to be very fond of the ship, clinging to it during the last days of the voyage as she had not clung to her far Maryland home. She had become dimly apprehensive of the life into which she was going, of which Claude had lately told her so much more than he could do during their comradeship in Annapolis. He also made her speak with him much in the French tongue, which she did readily enough at first, in a manner caught from St. Quentin, her first instructor. But when it came to using no English, to hearing none from Claude, her tongue faltered, and she would remain silent for hours at a time rather than appear awkward before him. Claude was very gentle. He made her finally understand, however, how much easier it would be for her to make mistakes now, than to do so in the land to which they were going. He told her the story of Marie Leczinska, who had acquired all her knowledge of the language of her adopted country from a waiting-maid who spoke a Provençal patois, and how the Queen was ridiculed by all the Court till she studied secretly, many hours a day, with her confessor, and was now, when she chose to exert herself, one of the most excellent linguists in France. So Deborah took heart, and tried more bravely, until, by the time they had crossed the English Channel and landed in Calais, none but a close observer could have found a flaw in her ordinary conversation.
Claude de Mailly himself passed a very contented six weeks on the Atlantic. A day or two after his marriage the realization of that marriage, its haste, its rashness, its short-sightedness, the fact that his wife had not one drop of blue blood in her veins, came over him in such a wave that he was half drowned. What was it that he had done? Who was he carrying back with him to the most fastidious, the most critical Court in Christendom? A bourgeois! A Provençal! A child! And Claude, with angry, anxious injustice, for three days avoided his wife, and barely saw her except at meals. The thing that reattracted his attention to her was the fact that, during this time, Deborah never made the slightest attempt to force her presence upon him. If she were unhappy, he did not know it. He never saw her weep; he heard no word of complaint. And this unusual thing piqued his interest. On the fourth morning he found her sitting alone in the stern of the vessel, gazing back at the western horizon with far-off eyes. Seating himself beside her, he leaned over and took one of her hands in his. She turned towards him instantly, looked at him for a moment, and then drew it quietly away.
"You needn't do that," she said.
And then it was that Claude knew how glad he was to do it—to have the right to do it. And thereupon he threw care to the winds and became her slave. He, too, regretted the end of the voyage, when it came. Nevertheless, he had, in the past, suffered severely from homesickness, and Paris, Versailles, Henri, Elise, and, more than all of them together, his other cousin, were constantly in his mind. He dreamed and talked of them when he slept, and, if Deborah had been proficient enough in French to make out the half-coherent sentences that passed her husband's lips at night, she would probably have learned still more about her approaching life in this way.
Unquestionably, Deborah dreaded the new life. She had reason to; not alone because of the natural shyness attendant on a country girl's first appearance at a great Court. She knew that Claude's whole existence was bound up there. She believed that he cared rather more than he actually did about this life that she had never lived. In consequence, upon the drive of several days from Calais to Paris, Deborah grew more and more silent, more and more definitely apprehensive, with each new stage. On the evening of November 8th they arrived at Issy, and there spent the night. Next morning Claude rose with the sun, some time before Deborah even awoke. He went outside of their post-house and walked delightedly through the familiar streets, listening to his own language spoken with his own accent on every hand, discovering well-known shops and buildings, and returning in the highest spirits to Deborah at nine o'clock. They had their chocolate and rolls together, Deborah eating little and silently, Claude jesting and laughing continually till she was roused out of her apathy by his thoughtlessness towards her. It was not, however, till they were rolling along the Paris road that she spoke—in English:
"Well, Claude, you have brought your Madame the Countess home to the King. He'll be satisfied, I hope."
Apparently both the allusion and the bitterness were lost upon him. He only answered with a bright smile: "I am satisfied, my Deborah. What the King thinks is not my concern. Oh, I had not told you, had I?—that the King is not here. He is coming home with the army next Saturday, the 13th, from Strasbourg. You know he has been fighting all summer. They are going to give him a triumph on his return. There will be a procession through the street, and the King will ride in it. You will see him then, Deborah. Shall you like it all?"
"I—don't know. I never saw a king," responded the girl, interested in spite of herself in the anticipation of these hitherto scarcely dreamed-of glories.
At half-past eleven o'clock their chaise passed the barrier, and they rolled down the narrow street towards the river, in Paris at last. Claude himself was quiet now. He was a little anxious; he could not be sure just what he should find "at home." Moreover, the familiar streets and sounds no longer raised his spirits. Instead, they came so near to bringing tears to his eyes, that he was relieved when Deborah asked:
"Where are we going? To another inn?"
"I am not sure. I have directed the man to the Hôtel de Mailly. But, if no one is there, we must go to an inn. Look, Deborah, there is the Seine, there is the Pont Royal, and there, just ahead, is Henri's house, where we are going. Are you glad—little one?"
* * * * * * *
It was half-past ten o'clock that night before Claude and his wife were again alone together. They had left the salon thus early through weariness, leaving the rest of the family party to disband as it would. Neither the Count nor Deborah spoke till the suite of apartments assigned them on the second floor had been gained and the door to their antechamber closed. Deborah was going on to what she supposed must be their bedroom, when Claude caught her hand.
"Surely you are going to say good-night?" he asked, smiling.
"Good-night! Why—I don't understand," she said, quickly.
Of a sudden the smile left Claude's face. He had not thought of this before. "There, Debby, is your room—on this side is mine. A maid whom Mme. de Mailly-Nesle has kindly lent you is waiting for you. Henri's valet is there—where I sleep. We do not occupy the same room. It—it is not the custom. Therefore sit here with me for a few moments, and tell me—how you like them all—my family?"
Deborah stared at him in bewilderment during the explanation; but, true to her nature, she accepted it without comment, permitting herself to be drawn down upon the little sofa where he sat, and passively leaving her hands in his.
"Tell me now—do you like them?"
Deborah hesitated. "What mistakes did I make?" she asked, finally.
"Not one, my Deborah, save that you were not insolent enough."
She smiled faintly. "I like Monsieur le Marquis."
"And he you! Yes, you must love him for my sake. He is more than my brother. And his wife?"
"Isshe his wife, Claude? Why does he always call her madame? Why did you call me madame? And she treated him so—so formally."
"Parbleu!you are right; they do not know each other very well, else she could hardly help loving him; and she would not be so bourgeois as that! Do you like her? She was kinder to you, Debby, than I have ever seen her to any woman. Answer me—dost like her?"
"Yes—I liked her. She never looked at me when she spoke, and she scarcely spoke to any one else."
"True. She does not approve them. But Elise—Mme. de Lauraguais—"
"Yes, she is very pleasant, and a little pretty, too."
"And now—now—you met Mme. de Châteauroux. What do you think of her?" Claude asked the question firmly, after a struggle with himself.
Deborah turned crimson, and started to rise from her place, but de Mailly gently held her back. He would have his answer; and it was given him. After all, he had married a woman, and one whose feelings, though often unexpressed, were none the less acute. She voiced them now. "Claude—I hate her! She is not pretty. Her face is hideous! She was rude to me, to her sister, to the Marquise, to every one but you. And you sat beside her almost the whole afternoon. Ah! I cannot bear her! Mme. de Mailly told me why she was in Paris, how she had been made to leave the King. Claude, are you not ashamed that she is of your blood?"
Deborah was on her feet now, and flung her words straight at her husband. He sat silent, quite still, rather pale, through the outburst. After it he did not answer her question, but only murmured to himself, "Why do women so seldom like her?" Then, looking up at his wife, he said, kindly:
"Deborah, you know that I have always been fond of my cousin. I—have been very proud of her. So have we all. Was it unnatural that she should wish to talk with me after we had been separated for so long?"
Deborah jerked her head impatiently. "I do not like her," she reiterated, with dogged displeasure.
Claude rose, with a faint sigh. "Your French was wonderfully good. I was very pleased, dear. To-morrow—you shall have some costumes ordered. Naturally, yours are a little ancient in mode. Good-night."
"Good-night."
He kissed her upon the forehead, and would have turned away, but that suddenly she flung her arms about his neck passionately, and, raising her lips to his ear, whispered: "Claude—Claude—I am a stranger here. You are all I have of—the old life. Be—be kind to me."
It was almost the first emotion that he had ever seen her display, and his heart was warm as he took her tenderly into his arms again, whispering such words as only lovers know. Five minutes later Deborah crept away to her room happier than she had been before upon the soil of France; and not even the somewhat terrifying stiffness of madame's maid, nor the loneliness of this strange room, had power to banish the memory of her husband's good-night.
The four succeeding days passed both rapidly and slowly. From late morning till late night Deborah's hours were filled. She and Claude were to remain at the Hôtel de Mailly till the return of the King, after which they would take an apartment in Versailles. For the purpose of selecting one, they went together to the little city on Thursday. In the Rue Anjou, near the pièce des Suisses, they discovered a very pretty abode in the second floor of a house—rooms once occupied by the Chevalier de Rohan, of duelistic fame, furnished and hung in perfect taste, with precisely the number of rooms desired. Then Deborah went to see the monstrous, silent palace and park; after which she and Claude dined together at a café in the open air, quiteà la bourgeois, somewhat to the unspoken apprehension of Claude, who was not pleased with the unconventional affair, which, however, unduly delighted his wife. They returned to Paris in the early evening by coach, well satisfied with the day. To Deborah's consternation, Claude next engaged a maid for her, a woman whom she was supposed to command at will, who was to dress and undress her, arrange her coiffure in the absence of the regular hair-dresser, care for her wardrobe, and conduct madame's affairs of the heart with discretion. To the little Countess's great delight, however, her first person in this line left her service after three days, for the reason that Mme. de Mailly seemed too devoted to monsieur the husband, and, in consequence, there were no chances for fees of secrecy such as she was accustomed to count upon as among her perquisites of office. By the time of their removal to Versailles, another attendant had been found who pleased her mistress better. Julie was lively, young, rather pretty, and not long from the provinces. If her modes for hair and panniers were not so Parisian as those of her predecessor, at least she and young Mme. de Mailly took a fancy to each other from the first, and Deborah was more than content. Meantime Claude had happily discovered and re-engaged his former valet, and thus, with the addition of a chef and scullion and two lackeys, their littleménagewould be complete. Before all these matters were arranged, however, the Marquise de Mailly-Nesle, who had taken an unaccountable fancy to Claude's wife, accompanied Deborah to a milliner, to whom was intrusted the task of preparing a wardrobe for the Countess. Deborah watched the selections with delight and a secret consternation. Could Claude afford such things, and such an infinite variety of them? Finally, unable to hold her peace about the matter, she drew the Marquise one side, and stammered out the question of prices with pretty embarrassment.
"Mon Dieu! child, why should I ask prices? If the bill is reasonable, be assured that Claude will pay. If it is too large—pouf!—he will refuse to look at it! That is all. Do not be alarmed."
Deborah, surprised and disturbed, felt that she must stop proceedings at once, for the Maryland school of economy had been strict. But a shimmering blue satin, with cloth of silver for petticoat, and ruffles of Venice point, was now under consideration. Blue was her own color. She had never worn satin in her life—and dearly she loved its enticing swish. Why, unless Claude forbade, should she refuse it? And Claude did not forbid. When she confessed her doubts during their anteroom conference that evening, he laughed at her, cried that she should live in blue satin if she chose, and asked what she was to wear on the morrow at the royal procession.
"Oh—it is something that madame got at once—white silk brocaded with pink flowers, and a petticoat with lace. And I am to have a lace cap with pink ribbons."
"Charming—and good-night. Sleep late to-morrow, in preparation."
Upon this Saturday, the 13th of November, Paris did not wake up until afternoon. By two o'clock, however, St. Antoine had left its domicile and was dispersing itself in unkempt groups along those streets which, as it had been posted, his Majesty would ride through in his triumphant home-coming, on his way to the Tuileries. Marie Leczinska and the Dauphin spent the morning in prayer, and were off together, after a hurried dinner, to join their lord at the southeastern barrier. On the previous day Louis had been at Meaux, but left that town in the afternoon, and spent the night at no great distance from Paris. To tell the truth, he was not too well pleased at the information that his metropolis was desirous of giving him a heroic welcome. Certainly his title ofbien-aiméwas anything but his own choice. Nothing bored him so thoroughly as affection taken in the abstract. All through his early life he seemed to be unfortunate in having about him people to whom he was totally indifferent, yet who persisted in blindly worshipping him. In the case of his wife, it had not always been so. As a boy he had been devoted to her. But for the Dauphin, with his Jesuitical manners and phrases for all occasions, his father had never pretended to care. The daughters were more amusing. This afternoon Louis would have been very well pleased to see them when her Majesty's coach came up with the royal staff, in the midst of which Louis sat on horseback. The Queen, after alighting, stood looking at her husband with wistful yearning; but young France, dropping on one knee in a dry spot in the road, cried out, with very good expression:
"Sire, regard me as the representative of that nation which, with tears of devotion and thanksgiving, greets its Father, its Hero, and its King!"
There was a little pause. Then Louis remarked, casually, "You will catch cold without your hat, child," after which he turned to one of his marshals with some remark upon the day.
How the Dauphin arose from his knee is not recorded.
Like all much-prepared-for cavalcades, this one was slow in starting. His Majesty objected to the length of the route planned. He was anxious to be at home again; and he was tired of people. Had somebody sent for his turning-lathe? He would do a bit of work when he reached the Tuileries. Why could not Richelieu take his place as representative, and let him get quietly through the city in a public coach? It was nearly dark now. Only after an endless series of expostulations was he at last persuaded to conform to the wishes of his people, and show himself in all the real beauty of his manhood.
Paris had waited very patiently through the bleak November afternoon, shivering and laughing in anticipation of its pleasure. Now the windows of every house along the way were gleaming with candles and dotted with heads. On either side of the street torches began to be lighted among the standing throngs. Presently, as the heavy twilight fell lower, officers of the police began, here and there, to illumine the long chains of lanterns that were strung along the walls of houses, and, at short intervals, across the streets; for Paris would admit no night yet. Every now and then, down among the standing throngs, dashed the coach of some nobleman on the way to his own view-point. The drivers of these vehicles took no heed of the people in their paths. They were allowed to scramble away as best they might, or left to be crushed beneath the horses' hoofs if they chose. No one murmured, for the affair was quite usual.
By half-past five o'clock a goodly company was assembled in the salons of Mme. de Mailly-Nesle; ladies who, in their eagerness to behold the return of their King, were very willing to forget the fact that they had ever failed to recognize the Marquise, for reasons connected with a relative Duchess. Upon their arrival at their hostess'hôtelthey found awaiting them a new sensation in the person of Claude, and a two-weeks' subject of gossip and discussion in Claude's foreign wife.
Deborah, arrayed in her brocade, her rebellious hair fastened stiffly in place with a thousand pins, the enormous hoops of her overdress annoying her as much as possible, patches and powder upon her face and hair, with the customary rouge on her cheeks, stood beside Victorine de Coigny, the only new-comer with whom she did not feel ill at ease. Mesdames de Mirepoix, Rohan, and Châtelet stared at her unceasingly, found her dress in good style, and her face, on the whole, not bad. L'Abbé de Bernis, who, to Henri's fruitless rage, had accompanied Victorine hither, looked upon Deborah approvingly. As to Claude, he did not approach his wife, but he watched her, quietly, from wherever he chanced to be, involuntarily admiring her presence, but undeniably dreading possiblefaux pas. Of these there had been as yet no signs. Deborah certainly was frightened, but she did not show it. Obeying her husband's last behest, she kept her head well up and her eyes on a level with those of the person to whom she talked. Mme. de Coigny, lively, good-natured, bored, but never supercilious, conversed with the little Countess for some moments upon her journey, upon Paris, and upon the return of the King. Deborah bravely answered her questions, and, less uncertain of her French than she had been a week ago, even hazarded a few remarks of her own with which the little Maréchale seemed pleased. Theirtête-à-tête, however, was checked in its early stages by the beginning of a general conversation opened by one of thedames d'étiquette, Mme. de Rohan, who cried to her hostess, from across the room:
"Truly, Mme. de Nesle, you have here all the world but two people."
"And who are those?" responded the Marquise, graciously, while the salon grew suddenly quiet.
"Those?—why, the Duc d'Agenois and your cousin, Mme. de Châteauroux. Where, if one may ask, are they?"
There was a vaguely indefinite murmur of interest from every part of the room. Then from la Mirepoix came another remark, one such as only she was capable of making: "M. de Mailly—oh, I mean the Count—you were formerly always cognizant of the whereabouts of the dear Duchess. Can you not inform us of them now?"
The company lifted its brow and a dozen glances were cast at Deborah—this new little creature from the Americas. "She does not comprehend the allusion," was the general thought, when they saw her attitude of large-eyed, inattentive innocence. Only Claude, as he came forward a little, snuff-box in hand, turned white.
"Ah, Madame la Maréchale, you speak of by-gone days. I know the engagements of Mme. de Châteauroux? Impossible! Am I my cousin's keeper?"
"Perhaps," murmured the Marquise de Châtelet, sweetly, "she is to form part of his Majesty's escort."
Silence followed this remark. Mme. de Rohan glared with displeasure at her companion, and the Marquise flushed a little beneath her rouge. It was too much, for once. Mme. de Mailly-Nesle, with commendable haste, turned to her near neighbor and reinstated thetête-à-têtes.
"Ah!" murmured Mme. de Coigny to Deborah, "thesedames d'étiquetteare insufferable. They should be stricken with a plague!"
Deborah smiled very faintly, and could make no reply. One of her hands was tightly clenched. Otherwise she appeared unconcerned enough.
At this moment M. de Bernis, having decided the new Countess to be rather presentable at a distance, drew nearer, with intent to converse with her. The abbé was, to-day, in his clerical dress, and thus Deborah acknowledged Mme. de Coigny's introduction with great gravity. When Victorine presently turned aside to Coyer, de Bernis began his conversation:
"Come to the window, here, madame, and look at the crowd upon the quay. In your country I dare swear you have no suchcanaille."
"Poor things! How dirty and ragged they look in all the light," murmured Deborah, in English.
"You should one day drive through the Faubourg where they live; it would interest you," returned the abbé, in the same tongue.
Deborah looked at him with a quick smile. "English sounds very dear to me. Thank you vastly for speaking it."
"One would learn Sanscrit to gain a word of praise from your lips, madame," was the abbé's unnecessary reply, whispered, not spoken.
The young girl was embarrassed. How could a priest say such things? Turning her head uneasily, she found Mme. de Coigny close to her, and beheld a new expression on that childlike, fretful face. It was as well that, at this moment, the distant shouting of the throng proclaimed the advance of the royal procession. Under cover of the general hastening to the lantern-hung windows, Victorine took occasion to murmur in de Bernis' ear:
"Why are you always cruel, François? Why will you continually torture me so? This child, now! Have pity on her."
De Bernis shrugged impatiently. "You are silly, Victorine. It is not my fault that you are jealous every time I speak to a woman."
They were silent for a moment. Then Mme. de Coigny, as she stared into the torchlit street below, sighed. "Those faces—the rags—the dirt—François, do they not remind you of our first days together in the Court of Miracles?"
For reply the abbé silently kissed her hand.
All of Mme. de Mailly-Nesle's guests were by this time arranged in the windows along the front of thehôtel. Claude, escaping from the women who would have questioned his heart away, sought Deborah's side. She received him with a friendly little smile that relieved him of many fears. A silence of expectation had fallen now over the room, for the distant sounds of shouting and cheering were increasing in clearness.
To his intense relief, Louis' long ride was nearly over; and, almost at its end, when there should remain only a bridge to be crossed to the Tuileries, he was hoping for something that should repay him for all his sacrifice of time and comfort. Since the day of the dismissal from Metz the name of la Châteauroux had never crossed the King's lips. But silence is not indicative of forgetfulness. On the contrary, with every passing day Louis felt his life more intolerably lonely, in the absence of her for whom he really cared more than any one else. Now, as he drew near to the Hôtel de Mailly, which he knew well, expectation and hope increased his speed, and he passed the Théatins at a lively trot.
"See, Deborah, here is the royal regiment. Those, there, at the head, just coming under the lights, are the marshals—ay, that is Coigny!"
"Madame, your husband," murmured de Bernis in Victorine's ear.
"—And there are the Court pages in uniform, look—on the white horses—Richelieu, d'Epernon, de Gêvres, de Mouhy, Trudaine—Heavens, how familiar they all are! And here is the Queen's coach.Voila! She looked out just then, at the shouts. The Dauphin is with her—they would not let the child ride. He's all of fifteen now—is he not, de Bernis? Andnow, Deborah—there, alone—in front of the corps—with the torches around him—that is the King."
Deborah Travis bent her head forward towards the window till the light from the lantern that hung above her shone full in her face. In the street, directly below, she beheld a great sorrel charger caparisoned in white and silver, bearing a rider also in white, with laced coat, cloth breeches, shining black riding-boots, white hatà la Garde Française, and across his breast a wide blue ribbon, fastened with three orders. The eyes of Claude's wife flashed over the figure and to the face, which was markedly distinct in the light of the torches.
"Is that theKing?" she whispered to herself, unconscious of speaking.
At the instant that Louis passed beneath the string of lamps across the way, Deborah's eyes fell upon his bright blue ones. As though she possessed magnetic power, the King responded to the look. It was not the face that he had hoped to find here, but it was one—as fair. The royal hat came off, the royal figure bent to the saddle-bow. And then he was gone. Deborah's cheeks were redder than her rouge. Every woman in the room had turned to look at her, but some eyes, perhaps, stopped at sight of Claude. His face was deathly, and upon it was plainly written new, quickening dread; while both of his white hands were tightly clenched over his polished nails.