Something over an hour after d'Argenson's return, Richelieu, in full dress, glittering with jewels and orders, left the palace in his coach, bound for the Rue d'Anjou. He was committing the curiousfaux-pasof being too early. It was barely half past six when he left the Boulevard de la Reine, whence it was less than five minutes to his destination. But Richelieu, under his gayety, his frequent laughs, and his flood of brilliant conversation, so witty that d'Epernon, seeing him in his rooms, fancied that he had been drinking, was desperate. Until a month ago he had not realized how much his life meant to him. He was now forty-eight years old, and, since his fourteenth year, he had never lived out of the atmosphere of the Court. That atmosphere was part of him. It clung about his every gesture and about his speech, punctuated as that still was with the low patois in which he had delighted as a young rake. His garments and his wigs were of set and fashion so inimitable that the Jew to whom he sold them realized a profit equal to their original cost in selling them to members of thehaute bourgeoisiewith Court ambitions. It was Richelieu who had made Louis XV. and his Court what they were. It was Richelieu who was at all times King of the King's house. To the last inch of what soul he had, he was imbued with Court manners, Court love, Court lordliness. And now—now, at the simple word of a woman of yellow hair and twenty-seven years—his name was struck from the Court list! He had been in straits before, but never one wherein he was so apparently helpless. This was incredible, monstrous, impossible—true. Yes, the great Richelieu was falling. Whom to turn to? Berryer? Machault? The King himself? No. Instinct, with one of its incomprehensible turns, was leading him, unresisted, to that house in the Rue d'Anjou where dwelt a little girl from the American colonies, with her husband, the cousin of the woman who thought to ruin him.
Unable to rid himself of this curious notion, Richelieu alighted from his vehicle in the Rue d'Anjou, was admitted by the porter, and proceeded up the stairs to the de Mailly apartment. Claude was not there. Richelieu knew that from his own statement. Madame alone was within. How much depended on the next few moments the Duke could not surmise. Nevertheless, he gently tried the door from the hall, without knocking. It was open. Noiselessly he entered the antechamber, and, crossing it, would have passed into the salon but for a sight which halted him on its threshold, in the shadow of the hangings.
The room before him was half lighted, and contained one person, who stood motionless, her back towards the antechamber, on the other side of the room. It was Deborah, fully dressed for the evening, if Richelieu judged correctly; but in an attitude which threatened to destroy the elegant simplicity of her coiffeur. She was in front of a little cabinet which stood against the wall beside the mantel-piece, her two elbows, in their cloudy lace ruffles, resting upon one of the shelves. Her powdered head lay upon her arms; and now and again her slight frame could be seen to quiver with the depth of a long-drawn sob. What was the matter? What was she doing? What was it that the cupboard contained? Richelieu wondered and waited. Then he was struck with a welcome notion. Here was she in a sorrowful, therefore tender, mood. He alone was near her. Their growing friendship—why not cement it with a delicate passage, delicately arranged? Who so able to manage this successfully as Richelieu? For Richelieu believed that he knew all women.
Silently, then, though without especial effort to make no sound, he began moving towards her by leisurely degrees. She heard nothing, and seemed to feel no presence near her. Indeed, at that moment she was very far away, among the memories which the bottles had conjured up for her—ghosts of many things and people: home, Virginia, Dr. Carroll, Sir Charles, black Sambo, the warm sunlight, the river, and the free, wild woods that were her own.
"Chère Comtesse!"
The words were so delicately murmured that they could not startle her. She only lifted her head like one awaking from sleep and looked slowly about. Seeing Richelieu at her side, and remembering the evening, she suddenly straightened, forced herself back into the present, and began, with an effort: "Pardon, I beg of you, mons—"
"Ah! You to demand pardon of me? Impossible! I am early to-night, dear friend. We have much time. See—you grieve for something—some one. You will confide the grief to me? You will accept my sympathy?"
As Deborah looked for an instant into the large, limpid brown eyes of the man before her, her own fell. Her mood also changed. She was suddenly inclined to be on her guard with this man, whom she knew best as Claude's mentor.
"My grief was for many persons and things. 'Twas for home, my own people, my old friends—there—across the water—" and she pointed whimsically into the cabinet at her former treasures.
Richelieu, with unfeigned curiosity, moved towards the shelf. Picking up one of the bottles, with its neatly written label, he examined it, not very closely, his eyes questioning the girl before him. Deborah, with an absent smile, looked at the crystal phial and its white, oily contents, with the inch of gray sediment at the bottom.
"That is from theSpartium scoparium," she said.
"Really?" muttered Richelieu, considerably puzzled. The turn which the scene was taking, if not as he had planned it, was none the less interesting. "And is this some new cordial or liqueur which you and Claude have discovered together?"
"Heaven forbid!" was the half-laughing, half-serious reply.
"Eh!—You mean—"
"Thirty drops have been fatal. M-medicine and—alkaloids were my tastes, sir, when I had my still-room."
"And these," the Duke pointed to the contents of the shelf—"all these are—medicines—or alkaloids?"
"They are both," she replied, with a hint of troubled hesitation in her tone.
"Tell me of them. I am interested," he asked, quietly.
She shook her head. "There is not time. Besides—"
"Ah! And these!—Now these are, indeed, curious, Mme. de Mailly! What are they?"
In the rear of the shelf he had spied the box of fungi. Drawing it towards him, he took from it one of the shrivelled brown things and examined it on all sides. Deborah watched him in silence, her feeling of uneasiness growing.
"What is it?" he repeated, smiling.
"It is theAmanita muscaria—poison mushrooms, that we use sometimes in Maryland for fly-poison."
"And how do they kill?"
"Monsieur, will you not put them up? I think it is time to go."
"Instantly, madame; but—tell me first how they kill."
He was regarding her in such apparent amusement that, for the moment, she was nettled by the suspicion of mockery. "They are now five months old—what I have there. But two of them would kill a grown man to-day. There is no perceptible effect till from four to nine hours after eating. Then—then, monsieur," she said, dryly, "the agony is not pretty to behold."
"Um—and do they taste?"
"No. They are like leather now. Will you replace them in the cupboard, monsieur?—and we will speak of other things."
Without further protest Richelieu obeyed her, putting the fungi carefully away, replacing thescopariumamong the other bottles, and closing the little door of the cabinet after him. Its key was in the lock. He turned it. And then—then—Deborah was wrapping a cloudy veil about her head; she was turned from him—he suddenly drew the key from the lock and slipped it into his pocket. It was instinct that bade him do it—perhaps. Five minutes later a coach rolled away from the house in the Rue d'Anjou and entered upon the Paris road.
"Who—are to be with us this evening?" asked Deborah, as she settled back in a corner of the roomy vehicle.
"Marshal Coigny, Mme. d'Egmont, Mme. de Chaulnes, and d'Aiguillon will join us at the opera. Afterwards supper will be served us in my salon at Versailles. These long drives—I trust they will not fatigue you. Were it not for the hunt to-morrow, we might have remained overnight in Paris. As it is, however, it will be necessary to return. Will you be at Choisy to-morrow afternoon, when the hunt goes there for its famous refreshment?"
"I was asked to go. Claude—" She stopped suddenly.
"He did not wish it?" asked Richelieu, gently.
"I am going," was the unexpected reply.
In the darkness Richelieu smiled.
"Jephté" proved to be a decided success. The opera-house was crowded, both Queen and Dauphin were present, and most of Versailles were gathered into the badly lighted and wretchedly aired building. Richelieu's party were found to be fairly congenial, and the Duke, who had exerted himself almost beyond his powers, during the drive, to banish from Deborah's thoughts the incident of the cabinet, now allowed d'Aiguillon to hold full sway over the conversation, and himself sat almost entirely silent during that part of the evening. How try to imagine the gradual trending of his thoughts? How surmise their final concentration? It is something that no mortal of inexperience has ever been able to conceive, no anthropologist capable of analyzing—that secret, stealthy working of the brain faculties round and round one point; how they approach it nearer and nearer, retreat a little, hesitate, advance again, till the point has suddenly been reached; the idea and the will are one; determination is born.
The party of six returned, after the opera, to Versailles, in one wide-seated coach. Arrived at the palace and Richelieu's apartment within it, supper was found awaiting them; and the evening progressed with all possible gayety. Later the Maréchal de Coigny escorted Mme. de Mailly home; and, at four o'clock in the morning, long before the December dawn, Deborah Travis slept.
His Grâce de Richelieu was not so happy. Before his salon was cleared of the remains of supper and set to rights again, Grachet, his valet, had put him gently to bed, all pomaded, perfumed, silken-gowned, and capped. But the warming-pan had made the sheets too hot; and the champagne had more than usually heated his head. He turned and tossed and twisted like any mortal, the great Richelieu, for the two heavy hours which constituted his night; and it was during that time that the Determination was born. The idea and the will—the little bronze key and the desire to use it—had met. Crime, or the planning of crime, hovered there in the darkness over the heavy canopy. Satan, cloven-hoofed, laughing, reclined in a chair near his new friend. Richelieu fell gradually into a drowsy state. Strange whispers poured from his lips. Such a night he had not spent before, such would never spend again.
Morning came, finally. The Duke rose, with relief, at a little past six, and dressed by candle-light. Grachet wondered in sleepy silence as he prepared the chocolate at such an unheard-of hour, but came near to the unpardonable false step of an exclamation, when his master, toying idly with an egg, said, suddenly: "Grachet, go and ask Mouthier—his Majesty's chef—to come to me at once if he can. Rouse him, if he is not yet up."
When the man had left the room upon his unprecedented errand, Richelieu flung down his napkin and sprang to his feet. To have seen his face and heard his hoarse breathing would have been to judge him physically in pain. He walked in great strides up and down the apartment, refusing to struggle against his impulses, crushing out the final prompting of a long-weakened Other Nature. Presently he came to a halt before his chamber door, just as Grachet re-entered, bringing with him an imposing personage, somewhat dishevelled as to wig, but attired in a very neat black suit, with waistcoat of cherry silk, and the blue ribbon of his order elaborately arranged thereon.
"M. Mouthier, my lord."
"Good-morning, Mouthier—good-morning—good-morning," observed the Duke, staring hard at the new-comer, and monotonously repeating his words. "You're early," he added, at length.
"Your Grace, in one hour, in company with my staff, I depart for Choisy," responded the great cook, with reproachful respect and something of the manner of a world-famed general announcing the opening move of the campaign to his sovereign.
"Ah—Choisy." Richelieu smiled as he drew out his words.
Grachet stared at his master, and Mouthier instantly resolved to be eccentric of a morning—if possible.
"Mouthier, you are, to-day, going to allow his Majesty to create avol-au-vent royal à la Châteauroux—is it not so?"
"His Majesty has informed your Grace?"
"No. The gods whispered it. But, Mouthier, the gods refused to go further than the name. Therefore I come to you, that I may learn more of a dish which a king will prepare for a duchess. Tell me, oh, prince of thy art, is this dish of kings sweet or sour, thick or thin, cold or hot? I would match my coat to its consistency. What ingredients does it contain? Of what is it compounded?"
"Your Grace—" The cook hesitated painfully, but found his professional instinct stronger than his reverence for rank. "Your Grace—if I might be assured that Marin—had nothing to do with this affair—"
"Marin? Oh! I see! But you cannot deem Marin your rival? Mouthier, between us, Marin is a no one, a second-rate man, unfit even for the taste of M. de Soubise. How thecordon bleuever came to be delivered to him—bah! Mouthier, you would not imagine me as intriguing with—with a Marin, eh?"
"Ah, Monseigneur, Monseigneur, forgive! My suspicions were base, false. Monseigneur, thevol-au-vent royal à la Châteaurouxis apâtê, a round pastry case, filled with a delightful compound of—of chicken, of sweetbreads, of truffles, of cock's-combs, of mushrooms—"
"Ah! You may go, Mouthier. You may go, I say!"
Grachet stole a terrified glance at the Duke. Mouthier, cut short at the very beginning of a recitation delicious to his creative soul, looked with pathetic appeal at the great man, saw him point relentlessly to the antechamber door, with unmistakable command in his face, and so, thoroughly disappointed, and scarcely, in that disappointment, finding time to wonder, began reluctantly backing, and, still murmuring raptly, "seasoned with salt, with black butter, delicate spice, with bay-leaves, and covered with the sauceà—la—," disappeared through the doorway and was visible no more.
"Ah! That is settled, then. Grachet, a cloak and hat."
"M—M—Monsieur?"
"A cloak and hat! Diable! What has got you?"
The valet, stumbling with awkward haste, obeyed him. Richelieu wrapped himself in the cloak, took up the hat, and, before he left the room, tossed his man a louis d'or. "There. I am not mad, Grachet—except in giving you that, perhaps. But be silent about Mouthier. You understand?"
Gold quickens the understanding. Grachet's eyes grew bright again as he murmured quickly: "Mouthier was never here, Monsieur le Duc."
Richelieu laughed. "Very well. Have a good hunting-suit out when I return, and I will ride Graille to the meet."
Then Richelieu left his apartment and strode away through the dim, deserted corridors, carrying along with him a hollow, dreary echo. Descending the grand staircase where yesterday he had waited for d'Argenson's return, he passed the drowsy guards in the vestibule, and entered into the gray, chilly morning. It was very cold. In the night the rain had turned to snow, and the Great Cross Canal lay before him frozen to ice. The esplanade, the star, and the park were covered with soft white, still unbroken, for it was too early as yet for marring footprints. With blood quickening in his veins, and breath smoking in the frosty air, Richelieu hurried into the desolate park, emerging at length on the Avenue de Paris, on the edge of the town of Versailles. The little city was barely awake. The dwelling-streets were still. Nevertheless, two or three men whom Richelieu knew, and who took as much pains as he could have wished to avoid notice, were moving dismally, on foot or in chairs, to their respective rooms. Shutters of shops were being taken down, and a single church clock boomed a quarter to eight when the Duke halted before the house in the Rue d'Anjou.
Richelieu had some difficulty in rousing theconcièrge. When the door was finally opened to him by a man in a red nightcap, he pulled his own hat so far over his face and his cloak so much about his ears as to be unrecognizable, and hastened up-stairs. At the door of the de Mailly apartment he stopped, hesitating. Was any one up within? He was, perhaps, ruining himself by coming so early; yet it was the only thing to be done. From an inner pocket he pulled the little bronze key to the cabinet in the salon so near at hand. The sight gave him courage, and he tapped at the door. There was a pause. His heart beat furiously now. Presently he tapped again. Thereupon, as much to his surprise as to his relief, the door was thrown open by a tired-looking lackey. Richelieu walked swiftly into the antechamber, passed through it, and paused in the salon, where the servant, astonished and mistrustful, came up with him. Here the Duke removed his hat.
"Your Grace! Pardon!" muttered the man. "Monsieur le Comte is risen," he added. "Shall I announce you?"
"By no means! I have simply come to ask Mme. de Mailly if this—which was found in my salon this morning—could have been dropped by her during supper last evening. It is somewhat valuable, I believe. Will you inquire of her maid?"
Richelieu held out to the man a pearl pin containing stones of some rarity, which, as a matter of fact, belonged to himself. The servant looked at it and slightly shook his head, but, catching a peremptory glance from the Duke, he went off, wondering why such a man as Richelieu had not sent a servant on his errand.
The moment that he was left alone, the man who bore the family name of Louis XIII.'s great minister turned sharply towards the little black cabinet by the wall. With a cold hand, his limbs stiffened, all apprehension stifled by his eagerness, he unlocked the door, thrust his hand inside to that little box that lay just where he had placed it on the night before, extracted therefrom four of the small, round, dry mushrooms, placed them in an inner pocket of his coat, closed the door again, relocked it, put the key on the mantel, in the shadow of a porcelain vase, and was sitting down, tapping the floor impatiently with his foot, when the lackey returned—empty-handed.
"The pin does belong to madame, Monsieur le Duc. Her maid tells me that she wore it for the first time last evening, and will thank you much for returning it."
Richelieu came very near to laughing. Only by making a strong effort did he control his expression. "I am delighted that it was found," he murmured; and thereupon he rapidly departed from that small apartment where, it seemed, dwelt more people than M. and Mme. de Mailly.
After all, du Plessis could not have disposed of his pearls to better advantage. He had not been designed by nature for such a part as he was playing now; and the affair could scarcely have been conducted with less prudence. Providence—or Satan—had favored him in a most unexpected way; for who was there now to tell of his early and unwonted visit to the de Mailly household? Certainly not the clever person who had made five or ten thousand livres out of it. On his return walk towards the palace, Monsieur le Duc mused appreciatively on the past incident.
"I wonder if it behooves me quietly to signify to Claude that such a man as his first lackey is wasting a valuable life in his present position? No. On the contrary, I will let Claude discover that for himself. When that man is discharged, I should very much like to employ him.
Twelve miles from Versailles, or fourteen by the Sceaux road, nearly eight from Paris, situated upon the bank of the Seine, shaded with woods and flanked by a tiny hamlet, stood the most famous retreat of Louis XV., the château or palace called Choisy-le-Roi. As Marly, with its rows of cold salons, its stiff corridors and great suites of rooms, was Louis XIV.'s ideal of a private house, so Choisy, with its tiny apartments, cosey fireplaces, little, circular reception-room, and miniaturesalle-à-manger, with ample kitchen and magnificent appurtenances on the first floor in the rear, was the present Bourbon's great delight. Here for ten years, now, ever since the first months of Louise de Mailly's reign, Louis, in increasing fits of ennui or weariness, and, later still, perhaps, during periods of regret, had been accustomed to seek relief from the formality of his existence in parties taking different degrees of freedom, which, more often than not, rose towards their end to a pitch of positive rowdyism. Only a certain set of the Court was ever asked here; and nothing, perhaps, could more plainly illustrate the difference in the characters of Louis XV. and of his grandfather than the contrast between the list for Marly in the old days and that for Choisy half a century later.
The gayety to be attained by this party of the 7th of December, however, promised to be less notable in several respects than was usually the case. First, the whole thing must take place in the afternoon, since the King was to return to her Majesty's salon at Versailles in the evening. Secondly, the gentlemen of the company would have been all day in the saddle, and were certain to be weary and inclined to eat, rather than talk. Thirdly, according to general rumors, his Majesty, and, in consequence, the pages of the Court, would be occupied in the kitchen till refreshments were served, thus leaving the lesser lights alone to entertain the women for an hour or more. After the repast it would be necessary to depart speedily for Versailles, in order to be in time to make a toilet for the Queen's salon.
As a matter of fact, this entire affair had been planned with the greatest care by Louis himself, who, with purpose very different from usual in visiting Choisy to-day, had taken care to leave no loophole for impropriety, which, in its wholesale form, was the most distasteful thing that Mme. de Châteauroux ever had to endure.
At eleven o'clock in the morning Mouthier, with his staff and extra train of servants to assist those regularly installed at the château, arrived, and entered immediately upon his duties. In a box which he himself had borne all the way from Versailles on his knee, reposed twelve cases of fresh pastry, with elaborate scroll-work patterns upon their sides and covers. One of these, smaller by half than the rest, was a work of art such as only Mouthier could have contrived. These were the foundations for the dish of the day; and the special case was to be filled with a composition of the King's own, for the delectation of the—so-called—most beautiful, certainly the most far-famed, lady in France.
At something after two o'clock in the afternoon there arrived at the grand entrance of the château a panelled coach, the first of a little procession of vehicles, each bearing a costly burden of petticoated beings, in great pelisses and hoods, with muffs for their hands that were very much larger than any three of their heads put together—and had as much in them, perhaps. By half past two the circular hallway was a fluttering mass of panniers, silks, brocades, and satins; while the adjoining salons echoed to the hum of light conversation and feminine laughter. Nodames d'étiquettein this gay company! No sheep of Père Griffet's flock here; and only one among them to whom this was the first of Choisy.
The one was Deborah, who, in direct disobedience to Claude's angry commands, after a sharp quarrel with him, had had her own headstrong way and come hither, to see, forsooth, what it would all be like. As yet she had found nothing, certainly, that could drive from her thoughts the unhappy image of her husband, with the love-light gone out of his eyes; and she was waiting with intense eagerness for the arrival of the hunting-party. The rest of the company being in the same state of anticipation, her restlessness called forth only one whisper from Mme. de Gontaut, to the effect that it was shockingly bad taste to watch openly at the windows for the arrival of his Majesty. The companion lady sniffed slightly, but presently rustled over herself to join the group of dames, who were looking out upon the snowy driveway and the black, bare-branched trees before them. Presently there came from this little company a quick murmur of exclamations, which occasioned an instantaneous general movement towards them.
"I hear no horns. Have they shot nothing to-day?" cried one who could not see.
"My dear, it is not the King. It is a coach."
"Ah!"
"Mon Dieu!"
"What is it? Who is it? Who is so late? Are not all here?"
Deborah had watched the arrival of the coach with some indifference. A liveried footman leaped down from behind and opened the door. Thereupon a woman, hooded and cloaked in scarlet velvet, sable-lined, her huge panniers managed with graceful ease, her great fur muff held high in both hands, stepped forth, alone.
"It is the Duchesse de Châteauroux," said Deborah, in a curiously quiet voice, her words being utterly unheeded in the babel rising round her.This, then—wasthiswhy Claude had angrily forbidden her to come? Was he riding here simply to meet this woman—for whose sake he had been exiled from France? Naturally she—his wife—the American colonial—was not wanted at the meeting. And thus Deborah leaned back against the wall, having suddenly become very white.
"Look at the de Mailly!" whispered Mme. de Gontaut to Victorine de Coigny. "His Majesty's arrival will be different now."
"You belie her. Mme. de Mailly is not in love with the King," returned the little Maréchale, quietly.
The Gontaut did not reply. She had no more time to waste upon Deborah, who had ceased to be observed in the general tumult. The chorus of exclamations fell now to a series of whispers, for la Châteauroux was in the house. How to receive her? After so many months of utter disgrace was she at once, without protest, to step, with all her old, disdainful insolence, into the second seat at Versailles? Certainly it must have been at royal bidding that she came here. The hopeless daring of the otherwise was not conceivable. Nevertheless, this was a shock difficult to recover from. The whispers, which, during the anticipation, had almost ceased, began to run again round the room.
"The Duchess is long enough in removing her wraps."
"She is disconcerted to find herself before the King."
"Nevertheless—soon or late—she must face us."
"Ah, if we but dared—all of us—to refuse recognition!"
"It is impossible. Besides—the King would banish the whole Court."
"Here she is."
At last, amid a perfect stillness, Marie Anne de Mailly-Nesle re-entered that Choisy room which she had seen last nine months before. Then, her exit had been the signal for the cessation of pleasure. Her rule was unthreatened, absolute. Now, as she came in—silence. She passed slowly across the room, glancing now and then, to the right and left, at the frozen groups of women who, a year ago, would have risked the ruin of their costliest garments for the sake of the first word with her. Yet now, still, silence.
The costume of the Duchess was a marvel to see. But her face received most mental comments: it was so thin, the eyes were so large, the cheeks hotly flushed even through the regulation rouge, the patches emphasizing strongly the marble whiteness of the temples and lower part of her face. An ordeal like this, however, might have turned any woman pale. Deborah realized it, as, dully, she watched Claude's cousin. A kind of pity, mingled with anger at the women about her, came over her own unhappiness. These women—what had they to lose by the arrival of madame? Not a husband's love. Only a possible smile from the master of a miserable, helpless Queen. And so they stood here, like statues, torturing a woman, for the pure malice of it. Faugh! These Court ways were not Deborah's. A moment more and two women, out of the twenty, had started suddenly forward to the Châteauroux. The first was Victorine de Coigny; the second was Deborah Travis of Maryland. As she courtesied to the favorite, and felt one of her hands taken into the cold palm of that golden-haired cousin, a sudden fanfaronade of hunting-horns and a cutting of hoofs through the crisp snow to the road broke the stillness. The great Duchess drew a long sigh. Her ordeal was over. In five minutes a stream of gentlemen was pouring into the room after Louis, their King, who moved straight to the side of his lady, raised her hand to his lips, and then said, in a ringing tone:
"We learn of your recovery from illness with the greatest happiness, madame, and it is our pleasure to welcome you again to our Court, where we trust that you will to-morrow resume your former duties, as usual."
Then his Majesty, dropping the Majesty and his voice together, whispered a few words that brought a smile to the curved lips; after which he stepped back to make way for the press of men and women, who were fairly struggling with each other for the opportunity of speaking to their dear Duchess.
Louis, on retiring from madame's side, found himself near Deborah. Her piquant face had always pleased him. He bent over her now with a gallant compliment. The girl, quickening with pleasure, dropped a courtesy, murmuring, a little confusedly, "Your Majes—"
"Not Majesty—never Majesty here—dear madame. I am simple Chevalier, to be addressed only by those who love me. Will you now allow me to continue our conversation?" and Louis smiled slyly.
"Yes, Chevalier," was the demure response. "For it is the duty—the du—" she stopped speaking, suddenly, her eyes fixed on something across the room. Louis, seeing her expression, at once followed the gaze, and himself presently encountered the look of Claude, who, with face set and pale, was staring at them, oblivious of surroundings, time, and place.
The King shrugged. "Peste! It is the husband. He is an annoyance—that man! Well, then—I retire, Madame la Comtesse, to prepare refreshments for our company." Smiling at her astonishment, Louis bowed and left her, making his way to the side of Richelieu, who was talking with Penthièvre.
"Come, gentlemen, I retire to the kitchen. See that d'Epernon, de Coigny, de Gêvres, and Sauvré follow us immediately."
Thereupon the King, obstructed by nothing more serious than the wistful glances of the women, passed over to a small tapestried door, which led out of the salon and through a long passage into the celebrated apartment where Mouthier and a reverend staff awaited him.
"Ah, my good Mouthier! All is ready?Hein? Excellent! What menu is there besides our famouspâtê? My garments, Clement!"
While the chef, with many bows, recited with great unction the enormous quantity of dishes which were to be served as "light refreshment" for the distinguished company, a young valet of the King's household approached with a set of white linen garments which the King, his hunting-coat and waistcoat removed, proceeded to don with great satisfaction. The toilet made, and the white cap set over his wig, he turned to the chef:
"And now, Mouthier, for the great dish. How does it go? What do we need for it?"
"Upon this table, Chevalier, are arranged all the ingredients. They are not, however, prepared as yet." Mouthier waved his hand over the special table which was covered with a variety of utensils and the materials necessary for the composition of thevol-au-vent. Louis went over and began examining them with interest.
"How long does it take in the cooking, Mouthier?"
"In half an hour the dish might be completed. Here is the case of pastry which was prepared beforehand."
"Yes—certainly. Ah, gentlemen! You are in time!"
The last words were addressed to the six men who now entered the kitchen in a body. They were at once furnished with garments duplicating those of the King, which they proceeded to don with much real or forced merriment. For all the pages, it must be confessed, did not share their sovereign's love for this plebeian art. No one noticed when Richelieu made a deft removal of something unseen from the pocket of his hunting-coat to that of his cooking-jacket; for Louis was fussing over the chicken, and the others still jested with each other, or looked, with some distaste, over the large room, with its rough stone walls and chilly floor, and at the great, open fireplace, with its iron hooks and bars for kettles, its spits for roasts, and iron pots swinging on chains or placed in the ashes, from which already fragrant steam was rising. About this great place, which resembled a volcanic crater tipped to one side, clustered a group of Mouthier's assistants, busied over various dishes under preparation.
"Come, my friends, come! To work! We must not keep the ladies too long waiting; and there is also the return to Versailles to-night. I am famished now. Mouthier, once again read to us the rules forvol-au-vent."
Mouthier took a slight pause for breath and mental concentration, and then, with joyful obedience, commenced: "Your Majesty will find before him, in proper quantities, which I have myself unerringly measured, the cooked chicken, the uncut sweetbreads and mushrooms, truffles whole, selected cocks'-combs, essence of chicken jellied, wheat flour of the most delicate variety, fresh butter, cream, an onion, a carrot, salt, pepper, mace, ground spice, and a fine lemon. Now in this small kettle the flour and butter must first be warmed together and stirred to a cream; and when it boils we will add one-half the salt, pepper, and jelly of chicken, together with a suspicion of carrot and onion, which must boil in a tout ensemble for some moments—"
"Yes, yes, yes! I will do it at once!" cried Louis, seizing the kettle.
Mouthier sprang towards him. "Sire, I beg—I plead—one moment! This must not be begun till the sweetbreads are chopping, the mushrooms and truffles cut in cubes, the lemon grated and its juice pressed out."
"Certainly. Let us begin! Mouthier, you shall direct us all as we proceed. De Gêvres, you shall prepare the sweetbreads—"
"And I, Chevalier, will cut mushrooms, while d'Epernon, who is on tiptoe with enthusiasm, does the truffles!" suggested Richelieu, smiling.
"Very well—very well! Marshal, you shall slice the carrot. You may imagine that it is an English army. Sauvré—weep over the onion!—ah! That progresses now!"
While he flung these rapid phrases about him, the King, with a by no means unskilful hand, had thrown the flour and butter into his kettle, and hurried to the fire, while an attendant made ready a bed of red embers in a corner, where the hottest flames might be avoided. Here, over the first part of his preparation, squatted the grandson of the Sun King, spoon in hand, stirring vigorously, puffing with heat, and mightily enjoying himself. No casual observer, looking into the room at this moment, could have distinguished born cook from Marquis, scullion from Duke, chef from King. M. de Gêvres, his delicate brow damp with the sweat of toil, sat gloomily upon a wooden stool, a flat board on his knees, a villanous knife in his hands, hacking vindictively at the helpless sweetbreads. De Coigny, with a light touch, sliced carrots and carried on a laughing conversation with M. de Sauvré, who, with nose tilted in the air, demolished a very large onion with a very bad grace; while d'Epernon, near by, his usualblasémanner gone, worked laboriously at the truffles, proving so slow at the business that Penthièvre, after watching him for a moment or two, obtained an implement from Mouthier, and went to his assistance. De Richelieu was more exclusive. He, with board, bowl, knife, and four dark mushrooms, had crossed the room and seated himself in a distant corner. Who was to note any change in the appearance of four of his fungi? Who suspicious enough and discourteous enough to question such a man about the contents of his earthen bowl when the King, after much measuring, stirring, boiling, and adding, finally called in excited tones for the mushrooms, truffles, and cocks'-combs, announcing to the anxious de Gêvres that for five minutes still he must work at the sweetbreads?
The three Dukes, each with his tribute, approached the fireplace, where Louis knelt over the savory mixture, which had by now been transferred to a larger kettle.
"The truffles, d'Epernon—slowly—with care—Voilà! 'Tis done."
Louis stirred vigorously, and d'Epernon, with a sigh of relief, returned to the table, his task completed.
"The cocks'-combs, Penthièvre—so! That is well. That goes charmingly. And now, du Plessis—the mushrooms. They are finely cut?"
"I trust so, Chevalier."
The King glanced into the dish, but the flames which danced before his eyes made it impossible to notice the slight trembling of Richelieu's hands. Slowly the contents of his bowl streamed into the rich mixture.
"That is all now. Your linen will burn," observed Louis, as the Duke remained standing before him.
Richelieu started. "Pardon, Sire," he said, absently, as he moved off towards the table.
"And now the sweetbreads and the chicken!" cried his Majesty.
"Thevol-au-ventis nearly completed. When shall we announce refreshment?" asked Mouthier, as he bent over and sniffed his invention.
"In fifteen minutes. It is really delightful, Mouthier. Du Plessis, my coat!"
As the Duke helped his sovereign again into the green hunting-coat, he took occasion to whisper, with well-concealed anxiety: "Will your Majesty grant me a favor for the afternoon?"
"What's that?"
"Permit me to sit at table at some distance from—Mme. de Châteauroux."
The King shot a swift look into his gentleman's eyes, and it seemed as though he would speak. Richelieu knew from the glance that the fatal list had already been seen, though not executed, by the master of Versailles. "Sit where you choose. It will be as usual—hors d'étiquette," he said, at length, with indifference. And then, when the others came up, after recoating themselves, his Majesty led the way back to the salons.
The re-entrance of the royal group apparently made no stir in the drawing-room. No one rose; but a new, more open note crept into the conversation, and there ensued a short, interested silence as the King, speaking on the way to various ladies and gentlemen, made his way slowly to the side of the Châteauroux, seated himself by her, and told her companion, d'Egmont, by a very readable look, to depart—which the Count did. Five minutes later the repast, which could be called neither dinner nor supper, was announced.
In a slow, rustling stream the gayly dressed dames, and the gentlemen in their disordered hunting-suits, poured into the delightful little supper-room, with its panels by Watteau and Lancret, its great crystal chandeliers in which candles already burned, and with its two long tables covered with flowers, silver, glass, and decanters of glowing wine. Places were chosen indiscriminately, for no order of rank was observed. Madame and the King seated themselves on the left side of the first table. Richelieu was at the far end, with Mme. d'Egmont. Deborah and M. d'Aiguillon sat across from the King, not a great distance down from him; and Claude, with a persistent Marquise, managed to face his wife. At the other table Mme. de Coigny was in an awkward situation, with Henri de Mailly-Nesle upon her right hand, and her husband, the Marshal, on the other side. Messieurs d'Epernon and Penthièvre also, to their disgust, had been obliged to retreat to the second table; but de Gêvres, always lazily fortunate, was at the right hand of la Châteauroux, as the King sat at her left.
His Majesty inaugurated the meal and an era with a toast to "Our dear friend, Marie Anne de Châteauroux, and her happy recovery from recent illness."
Every glass was promptly raised and the toast drunk after a murmur of concurrence. Madame smiled slightly, in her peculiar way. She was wondering with what heart certain gentlemen near her would have drunk could they have foreseen the morrow. Her eyes travelled to Richelieu's place. No doubt he still deemed her ignorant of the Metz treachery. He should discover, later, his mistake.
At the conclusion of the toast the room was invaded by six footmen, bearing, on silver platters, the first dish of the afternoon—the long-awaitedvol-au-vent. Just inside the door, however, they halted in two lines. There followed a pause, an instant of delay, and then Mouthier himself entered from the kitchen, bearing in his hands a round, golden plate, on which, delicately smoking, was the King's pâtê.
As it was placed before Mme. de Châteauroux a murmur of polite interest rose from every side.
"This is for me—alone?" inquired the Duchess, smiling languorously at her liege.
"For you alone. I made it myself, Anne. Like it, then, for my sake!"
His words were audible to many around them, and from all sides came little murmurs of applause and praise for such devotion. The favorite's heart throbbed. Her misery was at an end. The old days had at last returned. The waiting had not been in vain. As a footman from the right presented one of Mouthier'spâtêsto Louis, her Grace slid the pastry cover of her own dish off, and, with a spoon of the same metal as her platter, dipped the hot and creamy filling into her plate. It was not such food as, in her debilitated condition, she should have had. This she was well aware of, and determined that no morsel of any of the other complicated entrêes served hereafter should pass her lips. This one thing it was her place to eat. As, for the first time, she raised the fork to her lips, she was conscious of the fire of many eyes. It was wonderful, indeed, that the gaze of Louis de Richelieu did not burn her through all the others, so steadily fixed, so dilating with dire prophecy was it. However, it was the big gray glance of Deborah de Mailly that she caught, as the fork was lowered to the plate again. Deborah was watching, with fascinated curiosity, this woman whom she saw for the second time—this woman for whom Claude had been exiled.
Madame turned to the King. "It is a marvel—the most truly delicious thing that I have ever tasted," she said. And her remark was not utterly untrue. The dish was good.
"Mouthier shall have fifty louis from the treasury to-morrow," observed France. "He invented it."
"I shall eat nothing else this afternoon," she added. And the King was quite satisfied with his success.
She was true to her word, steadfastly refusing to try the numberless dishes that followed the first. Richelieu, talking rapidly and brilliantly with Madame d'Egmont, watched the golden spoon return to the plate again and again, till that which he had helped the King to make was gone, and his die and hers were finally cast, though the cups would remain over them still for a little while.
The meal only endured for the space of an hour. Louis had become visibly impatient and restless. His dish once made, served, and praised, he was satisfied with his day, and would have been glad to start at once upon the return to Versailles. Since this could not be, he made the tedium as brief as possible. Certainly the affair was anything but lively. Deborah wondered more and more why Claude had forbidden her coming here. Her first suspicion that it was his plan to meet his cousin had been gradually dispelled. Perceiving the King's intentions, he had had nothing at all to do with her. The matter was puzzling. To be sure, much champagne andvin d'Aiwere being consumed by every one. The conversation flowed easily on the edge of questionable topics, and the broadness of her neighbor's compliments annoyed her. But Deborah had seen all this, and more, in many other places. In fact, it was the common tone of Court society. The bugaboo of Choisy and its wild carousings was rapidly being driven from her belief.
At a little past five o'clock the King gave the signal for the breaking up of the party, and, after a few moments of lingering in the halls over wraps and hoods, coaches began to drive away from the royal retreat into the dark direction of Versailles. The first vehicle to depart was that of the Duchesse de Châteauroux; and in it, beside her, sat the King. Louis was very happy. Marie Anne de Mailly was more to him, infinitely more, than either of her sisters had been. Her type of character, her quiet hauteur, her indifference to many things usually prized, the few demands that she made upon him, her long periods of silence, the hours when he knew her to be suffering as much from ennui as he was himself—all of her moods, in fine, were sympathetic to him; and for this he had made her what she was. Both of them were intensely cold-blooded. He knew that he lacked in feeling. He divined her to be like himself. And this fact, which might have repelled many men, pleased him, as he realized that it put him beyond all danger of rivalry, so long as she was sure of an undivided sway over him.
It was a curious drive from Choisy to Versailles. They traversed almost the whole distance in silence. The road was dark, save for what faint light the carriage lamps and the postilion's lantern cast ahead, and the horses plunged rapidly over the frozen road, dragging the heavy coach in and out of deep ruts, and over many stones embedded in the snow. Occasionally Louis spoke in a low voice, and madame made effort to answer him; but the effort was apparent. She felt strongly disinclined towards conversation, though her brain worked feverishly enough. When finally, about seven o'clock, the town of Versailles was gained, and there were but ten minutes left of the drive, Louis broached a necessary subject.
"Your old apartments are ready for you, Anne; and I have also had prepared for you two extra rooms in the little interior courts. In the absence of Elise, our good Hen will be your companion. Your servants are already installed; and I have commanded d'Argenson to meet you at the chapel entrance. We shall not arrive publicly."
Madame tried to speak, but was obliged to make two or three efforts before the muscles of her throat responded. "D'Argenson—goes to-morrow?" she said, finally, with a dull intonation.
"For your sake—yes. He is hard to spare. I was going to make him Minister of Foreign Affairs."
Madame saw no necessity for replying to this; but presently she observed, "So her Majesty is not yet informed of my return?"
"She is unaware that her salon to-night is held in your honor. The Court also is ignorant of that. I have planned it so that your appearance may be that of a meteor in the heavens—the rising of an unlooked-for star, a new planet."
"You treat her—your wife—very badly, France."
"Mordi! She is only a machine for prayers. She does not think."
Silence fell on this remark, for the coach was rolling up the approach to the palace. Passing the Court of Ministers, where was the grand entrance, it entered another long, narrow court, a kind of cleft between the main building and the north wing, halting before a little private door leading into the hallway between the vestibule supérieure and the chapel itself. This door was open, and by the light of the lantern hanging from an iron projection above it might have been seen a man in household livery, watching. As the King alighted from the coach the servant called softly, "Monsieur!"
Out of the darkness beyond came a man, who appeared in time to behold la Châteauroux step from the vehicle.
"D'Argenson—conduct madame to her suite."
"Madame—I have the honor," muttered young Marc Antoine, faintly.
With a small, cruel smile, visible in the lantern-light, Marie Anne de Mailly extended her hand. D'Argenson, inwardly quivering, lifted it to his lips.
Something more than an hour later Claude and Deborah, in chairs, arrived at the grand entrance of the palace, and went in together. They were a little late for the Queen's salon, which fact was due to Claude's fastidiousness. Both he and his wife had made fresh and elaborate toilets, and, as Deborah was very much more rapid in her operations than her lord, she had had nearly half an hour to wait for him at their apartment. Debby Travis never was noted for great patience, save in still-room processes; and though she made no comments, when Claude finally signified his readiness to proceed, it was just as well that a lady's panniers took up all the room in one chair, so that custom obliged him to be carried in another.
They went up the Staircase of the Ambassadors together, in perfect (apparent) amicability, ascended the left side of the second flight, stopping to speak to two or three more belated couples, hurried through the marble room at the top, and so passed into the Queen's antechamber, in which stood half a dozen gentlemen. From the salon beyond came a subdued murmur of conversation; and Deborah, as soon as a servant had taken her cloak, passed into it. Claude, however, was detained by M. de Pont-de-Vesle, who seized him by the coat-lapel.
"My dear Count—what is the world here for? Why is his Majesty in the next room there? Why do we wait? What is the news?"
"You speak like a catechism, monsieur. How should I know the news?"
"Humph! You are—a de Mailly."
"Confessed! What does it betoken?" asked Claude, smiling.
"These rumors—that la Châteauroux is on her way back to Versailles—are they true?"
"Am I my cousin's keeper?"
"You were."
"But am not."
"Then do you know nothing?" persisted the old fellow, disappointedly.
"Nothing, monsieur."
"Ah, peste! I am still in every one's boat. I, also, know nothing. What is one to do?"
"Here is du Plessis. Ask him."
Richelieu was just entering from the salon. As the light from the candles in the antechamber fell upon his face Claude saw the expression, and wondered a little. It was like that of a harassed animal who has been goaded too far. Going up to de Mailly, he seized him by the arm, and, adroitly avoiding the importunities of the other man, pulled him roughly to one side.
"Claude, where is the Duchess? She is late. The King is becoming irritated at the delay. The Court knows nothing, and waits to learn. There are all sorts of rumors. Have you seen her?"
"Mordi! You hurt my arm! What in the world is the matter? How should I have seen her? Do you think—here she is."
The Duchesse de Châteauroux was at the threshold of the antechamber; stood there, quite still, for a moment, perhaps that those within the room might see her. She was worth looking at, attired as she was in royal purple velvet, her neck and waist girt with diamonds, her cheeks much rouged, but her temples as white as her powdered hair. Her sister, Mme. de Flavacourt, a foil in white, followed at train's-length.
"Ah, Claude!" observed Marie Anne, in a voice hoarser than usual, "I have come to life again, you see!" She smiled, extending her hand. Claude took it, wondering at its burning heat. There was no opportunity for replying to her; for, the instant that she began to move forward, the few who were in the small room pressed towards her, eager for a first word.
"You have returned—returned to us forever?" croaked Pont-de-Vesle, as Richelieu slipped quietly away behind him.
"Yes, yes. I am making my re-entrance before her Majesty now. Al—allow me—to pass!"
Those who saw her suddenly gasp thought it, perhaps, excess of emotion. She made her way through the group in a quick, uncertain, almost tottering way. She gained the threshold of the salon, seeing once more, with failing eyes, that room, as she had dreamed of it so many times. All were before her—Court, Queen, King. Yes. Louis' eyes met hers, and held them for an instant. She must begin the advance now. But—but—this pain—this new, hideous, torturing pain—this burning of her throat—this frightful thirst! She had been uncomfortable for an hour past. This was unendurable. Walking—standing—were impossible. Her clothes pressed her as though they were of iron. The Court stood staring at her hesitation.
One or two men started forward a little as if to go to her. Suddenly from her lips broke a harsh, guttural cry, followed by a fainter one—"Au secours!" They saw her try one step. Then, as the sweat of agony broke out, cold and dripping, over her whole body, she sank, in a reckless heap, down upon the polished floor.
Deborah lay in bed—thinking. It was two hours now since she and Claude, with the rest of the frightened Court, had received a sharp command from the ushers to depart instantly to their various apartments, in the palace or out of it. That the ushers' voices were the echo of the King's was beyond doubt; and that fact was reason sufficient for the prompt obedience given to the bidding.
Thus Deborah, like every other witness of the evening's sensation, had retired, to lie wide awake, and go, over and over again, through the little chain of incidents which had passed before her eyes. Her meditations were more involuntary, less purposive, than most, however. The sight of a human being in great suffering had roused in her that keen instinct which had lain nearly dormant now for so many months. After the fall, she had been one of the first to reach the side of Claude's cousin. She recalled the press of fluttering women and excited men. The King himself had been obliged to force his way to her. The Queen, supported on either side by Mesdames de Boufflers and de Luynes, remained in her chair, making frightened, unanswered inquiries as to the Duchess' state. And through it all madame had lain prostrate, writhing and shuddering, in her long velvet robes. It was finally Mirepoix, with d'Argenson, white-lipped, Maurepas, very stern and still, and Marshal Coigny, who, at a sign from their sovereign, lifted the woman from the floor and carried her away from the eager, gaping throng to her own rooms. The King, having despatched two messengers, one for Falconet, the other for Quesnay, and having left the whispered command with the ushers, himself departed after la Châteauroux, taking with him his usual companion in all things, Richelieu. Hereupon followed the dispersal of the Court, and here, later, was where the recollections and meditations of the common courtiers ended, and only a fresh beginning could be made and gone through, for future gossip and reference. It was different with Deborah. Her heated brain had reflected the whole kaleidoscopic picture in a flash, as a single impression, again, and once again. But it was not upon small incidents, the acts or words of others, that her later imagination halted. Instead, she was reviewing, moan by moan, shudder by shudder, wild look and desperate closing of the eyes, the strange illness that had so suddenly seized the woman Claude had loved. That guttural cry, as if the throat had contracted suddenly—the fever-flush, visible to a keen gaze beneath the rouge—the growing dulness of the eyes that contradicted the theory of natural fever—the incessant, useless retching—the paroxysms that had wrung a groan of pity from Louis himself—all these, incomprehensible to those about her, Deborah had noted. And she found two things, two little points, which seemed to convey, as out of some past, a shred of memory, a suggestion that she had been witness of another such struggle—somewhere—at some time. The first fact was that la Châteauroux, as the pain, after a second's cessation, reattacked her with new fury, suddenly threw up her arms and clutched, with stiffening fingers, at the air. Secondly, just after this, a bright sweat broke out upon her forehead, and, as a great drop rolled down her face, Deborah saw the body quiver as if with cold.
Such things—where had she seen them before? Who was it that had passed through her life undergoing such experience? No shadow of grief clung about the memory. No. There had been no death, then. Who had been with her? Carroll! Sambo! Theamanita muscariapitted against theatropa belladonna! It had all come back now. She had seen the symptoms of poisoning by the deadly fungus again, here, in this France. She, even here, possessed the means of saving life again, perhaps; if—if—if there was only time!
Simultaneously with that last thought Deborah leaped out of bed, and, holding up her long white gown, ran swiftly through her quiet boudoir and into the salon, which was, as usual, faintly lighted with a night-lantern. Seizing this from the table where it stood, she opened its door, snuffed the candle within to greater brilliancy, and carried it over to the mantel-piece, where she set it down. An instant more and the cabinet was open before her. Inside, in their even rows, stood her bottles of liquids, and near them—near them—the box ofamanita muscaria. Deborah's eyes fell instantly upon this object. Strangely enough, the thought had not heretofore struck her thatshepossessed some of these things. The blood around her heart suddenly grew cold. Who was it that had seen them not three days ago? Who was it that had stood beside her here, had taken that box down from its place, and asked her about its contents? How much had she told him about them? Had—could he— No! Suspicion was carrying her too far. The thing was preposterous—impossible. Nevertheless, with a hand that shook, and fingers numb with cold, she took down the white box. In it there had been—ten—of the—things. Now—she must look. Could she? Her eyes, that should have sought the box, were raised for a moment. She saw that the room was lighter. Behind her another candle burned. She faced about. Then, seeing some one in the doorway, Deborah's over-wrought nerves gave way, she shuddered convulsively, dropped the box and its contents to the floor, put both hands pitifully out towards the figure, and swayed where she stood. Claude sprang forward, and caught her just in time. For a moment or two she leaned heavily upon him. Placing his light upon the mantel near the lantern, and taking her in both arms, he carried her over to a small sofa near the dark window. There, smoothing the tangled, half-powdered curls back from her face and neck, and taking both the cold hands in his to chafe warmth back to them again, he asked, gently:
"What is it, Deborah? What is the matter? What were you doing here?"
The figure in his arms trembled and stiffened. Deborah sat up, and then rose to her feet. Drawing one hand away from his, she put it over her eyes. "Claude," she said, in a-low voice, "pick up for me those—those things on the floor and put them into the box. Hunt well—don't let any of them escape you. Then—tell me—how many—there—are."
Claude wondered, looked at her intently for a moment, and finally obeyed her without a word. He picked up the small black objects that lay about the box, searching the floor carefully to get them all, and counting them as he replaced them, with a kind of interest.
"Look well," she repeated. "As you believe—in God—do not miss a single one!"
"They are all here."
"How many?"
"Six."
Silence followed that word; and Claude, watching his wife, could not see that a muscle in her body moved. Nevertheless, he dared not break the stillness. When she spoke at last, it was in a normal tone.
"Claude, we must go to the palace at once."
"Child! You are mad! What do you mean?"
"Claude, you must trust me. I know the sickness of your cousin. I can—perhaps—save her life. Come with me now, at once."
"No."
"Claude! For the sake of mercy, you must come!"
Claude de Mailly sent towards his wife a glance that cut her like a knife. "What do you know?" he asked.
"Everything."
"Tell me."
"No; I cannot do that. You must wait. Mme. de Châteauroux has been poisoned. I know how—by whom—but not why. By making me wait, you are killing her. Claude, you love her. I will save her life for you. Do you hear? I will save the woman you love! Come!"
Claude looked about him feverishly. "I love her!" he muttered. Then aloud he asked: "Who was it—that tried—to kill her?"
"Claude! Claude! Be still! Come with me!"
Claude de Mailly strode over to his wife's side and grasped one of her wrists so tightly that she bit her lips with pain.
"Answer me. Who was it? What do you know?"
Deborah cast at him a look which had in it a kind of despair, but which held neither fear nor dread. "You will be her murderer if you delay longer. Claude, the coma will come. We shall be helpless then. Let me go—I am going to the palace!"
Claude released her and stepped back. Something in the expression of her clear eyes had brought him boundless relief. There was no guilt in her face, none in her manner.
"Dress yourself. I will go!" he said, sharply; and then, after seeing her fly away towards her room, he retreated to his own, to don heavy cloak, hat, and rapier, for he had not yet undressed for the night. When, after some moments, he returned to the salon, his wife, in her heavy pélisse and hood, with muff under her arm, was standing in front of the still open cabinet, looking at the bottles within. At last, from among them, she took one that was half filled with clear liquid. Fixing its cork in tightly, she slipped the flask into her muff, and turned to Claude.
"I am ready now. How long you were!" she said.
They passed together out of their rooms, through the dark passage, and down the stairs. It was scarcely yet midnight. The front doors of the house were still unlocked, and theconcièrgewas just reflecting on bed.
"How shall we go?" whispered Deborah, as they stepped into the frozen night.
"It may be possible to find a coach. Otherwise, we must walk."
They had gone but twenty yards up the street when, luckily enough, an empty vehicle, which had just left a party of roystering nobles at a gambling-house, came rattling towards them. Claude called out to the driver, who stopped on hearing his voice.
"A louis d'or if you get us to the palace in ten minutes," cried young de Mailly.
The coachman opened his eyes. "We shall do it in seven, Monseigneur," he said, eagerly.
Claude opened the door and Deborah sprang in before him. There was a snap of the whip, a plunge of the horses, and for something like the time designated they fairly flew through the darkness, from the Rue Royale to the Avenue de Sceaux, and down St. Miche to the Boulevard de la Reine. When they finally crossed the second Avenue St. Antoine, Claude drew a deep breath.
"We are nearly there," he said.
In another moment they had drawn up before the grand entrance on the Court of Ministers.
If Claude had been wise, he would have entered the palace by the chapel, and so avoided the guards. But this adventure was not of his planning. Deborah's desires he could only conjecture, for she had not spoken during the drive. Therefore, tossing the coachman his golden coin, he helped his wife from the coach, and with her entered the great vestibule, which was filled with Suisses and extra King's guards. These saluted respectfully enough as the couple entered the doorway; but, when Claude proceeded towards the staircase, a musqueteer barred his way.
"Your order, monsieur?" he said, respectfully.
"My order? I have none!"
"It is not permitted to pass without, to-night. His Majesty's commands, monsieur," said the man.
Claude turned to his wife. "You hear?" he said.
For answer, Deborah herself turned towards the soldier. "We may wait here—in the vestibule?" she asked.
"Certainly, madame," answered the guard, at once moving out of the way.
Claude and Deborah turned reluctantly and walked towards the other side of the great vestibule. As they went Claude accosted another member of the royal guard. "My good man, I am a cousin of Mme. de Châteauroux. We come on a matter of the greatest importance. Will you not permit us to ascend?"
The man stared at them keenly, with a kind of smile. "Mme. de Châteauroux is not in the palace," said he.
Deborah looked aghast. "Not in the palace!" she murmured.
"Sh! It is the usual method. It means nothing. She is here. Listen, Deborah; I am going to ask Michot, yonder, whom I know very well, if you may retire to the littlechambre-à-manteauxto wait. From there we can get into a passage which will take us to the little staircase. Remain here for a moment."
Deborah watched him go towards a Suisse, who addressed him by title as he approached. She perceived that he thrust something into the man's hand, and, when he returned to her side, it was with relief in his face. "That was better," he whispered. "Come now—here."
He drew her hurriedly into a narrow room off the vestibule, and from there, three minutes later, through a small, panelled door that led into the south wing of the palace. Here they were safely beyond the provinces of guards; and, after passing through a long series of dimly lighted rooms, they came presently upon a small staircase just off what is now theCour de la Surintendance. Up one flight of these, through two deserted rooms and a short hallway at the end of the King's state apartments, and they halted before a tapestried door.
"This is her antechamber," said Claude.
Deborah put out her hand and pushed it open. They entered. The room was brightly lighted, but empty.
"The boudoir," muttered de Mailly. He hurried across the room to another door, Deborah close at his heels. It was he who opened this. As they crossed the threshold of the Persian-hung room they faced two people, a man and a woman—Antoinette Crescot and his Grâce de Richelieu.
"Madame!"
Claude had never heard so strange an intonation from his friend's lips. He saw his wife start nervously and stand perfectly still, while the King's gentleman took two or three steps backward towards the door which led into the bedroom. Silence followed the exclamation. Antoinette, the maid, astonished at this appearance of the young man whom she had once known so well, together with a companion, a woman, whom she had never seen, dared not, by reason of her place, voice curiosity. She whom Richelieu had addressed simply as madame remained as if petrified, her large grayish eyes burning into Richelieu's, her face colorless, her expression inscrutable. And the Duke's eyes shifted—a thing that no one had ever seen before—shifted from Deborah's feet to her face, from her to Claude, and then stared away at nothing, while his white hands were clenched, and his graceful body stiffened. Finally, after uncomfortable minutes, Claude lifted his hand and pointed.
"Marie Anne is there?" he asked.
Richelieu drew back yet more closely against the door. "No one—is permitted to enter," he said, in a low, dogged voice.
His tone seemed to break the spell under which Deborah had been standing. "I will enter!" she said, moving swiftly towards him.
Du Plessis did not stir.
"Let me pass," she whispered.
"By what right, madame? Have you his Majesty's order?"
"Let me pass!" she repeated, lower than before.
"Why?"
For answer she looked straight into his eyes; but he, though every muscle in his body quivered, steadily held his own. Then she said, rapidly: "I can save her life if only—there is time."
Thereupon, a little more stubbornly, a little more relentlessly, he shrank against the door.
Deborah drew a sharp breath, and suddenly seized both his large white wrists with her own hands. For an instant, by reason of the suddenness of her move, it seemed as though he must yield. With an effort he regained his equilibrium; and then all the strength which desperation might have put into her could not have moved him one inch.
"Deborah, what are you doing?" came Claude's clear, sharp voice.
"Claude—help me!—I must pass that door. I must—Iwillpass that door! Help me!"
Claude gazed at his wife as though she had gone demented; and Antoinette, also astounded, stepped forward. "Pardon, madame, but his Majesty is in that room, together with the doctors, Mme. de Flavacourt, and Père Ségand. Monsieur le Duc had orders to allow none to pass to-night."
This explanation had apparently no effect upon Mme. de Mailly. For a bare instant she turned to look at the girl, and then shook her head impatiently. "I tell you I can save the life of Mme. de Châteauroux. I am the only person who can do so, for only I—"
Suddenly she stopped. The door opened from the inside. Richelieu straightened himself and stepped forward, as out of the bedroom came a man, tall and stoutish, in square wig and loose black suit which made him appear old. This was Quesnay. Closing the door behind him, he stood looking in some astonishment at the new-comers. Presently recognizing Claude, however, he bowed slightly. Claude returned the salute; and no one stirred as the doctor crossed the room and flung himself upon a chair with the manner of one who has made up his mind on an important point. It was Richelieu, who, after a doubtful glance at Deborah, asked, gently: "She is—worse?"