"Good-afternoon."
And thus it was to the vague relief of the woman that he left her there, in her small salon, alone.
The first part of the foregoing conversation might have proved very serviceable, at this time, to the Abbé de Bernis. He was not, however, so fortunate as even to chance upon the idea of such a thing as the reinstallation of la Châteauroux. As he drove towards Paris he continued his meditations on the topic which had occupied him all day. They had now taken a surer trend. One doubtful possibility was done away with. He found himself left with two others, less dubious, but, had he the wit to surmise it, possibilities which half the men of the Court were quietly planning, even as he himself, to make their own.
De Bernis dined at the Café de la Régence, a popular and fashionable resort; and thereafter, being now happily independent of the Lazariste and all such houses, betook himself to his rooms in the Rue des Bailleuls, not a great way from the Hôtel de Ville, and near the old Louvre. After adding, here, a few touches to his toilet, he took a chair to the Hôtel de Tours, where M. de Vauvenargues held his brilliant salons.
It was a night when nothing was happening at Versailles. The Queen, satisfied for the time with her success of the previous evening, played cavagnole with Hénault, and prepared for an extra hour in her oratory. His Majesty had claimed de Berryer for the night, and gone off on one of those strange expeditions in which he occasionally indulged. The great palace thus being desolate, all the world bethought itself of Paris, and, in the same instant, of the Hôtel de Tours and its host. The rooms there were crowded by the time de Bernis arrived. Every possible circle, from the Court to the philosophical, was in evidence. In the first room, where Monsieur was obliged to receive till a late hour, the lesser and most professional lights of society mingled in a heated throng. In the second salon, connected with the first by a small, yellow-hung ante-chamber, the gaming-tables were set, around which, talking or at play, were grouped the aristocratic dwellers of Versailles. Among these was Claude, sunk in piquet, and Deborah, conducted by Mme. de Jarnac, and hence claiming place with the bluest-blooded dames of the day; which fact, however, incredible as it seemed, failed to make her happy.
While the crowded and uncomfortable devotees were circling in slow masses through the larger apartments, there had been gradually collecting, in the yellow antechamber, a small group of gentlemen who, as it happened, had more at stake than gold. The tacit subject of their apparently superficial conversation was the decision of the next ruler of Versailles and the consequent determination of their own forthcoming influence in Court circles. Here, foremost of all, with most at stake, was Richelieu—Richelieu in violet satin and silver, with pearls, point de Bruxelles, and snuff-box. Next to him, upon a tabouret, apparently half asleep, indolent, smiling, was de Gêvres, with opposition to Richelieu coursing in fiery determination through every vein. Yonder sat d'Epernon and Penthièvre; while, completing the group, were Holbach, who had left Montesquieu at the point of interaction between body and soul, and François de Bernis, swelling with vanity at being seen in such company. All about this impenetrable band, during their conversation, incomprehensible to him who should catch but a syllable or two of it, wandered men and women of various degrees, curious, envious, anxious, one and all willing to have given half a fortune to have been able to join this party, which represented the dwellers in sacred, nearest places to royalty, to France's King. Possibly these men were unconscious of their greatness. Certainly they were too interested in themselves and their plans to enjoy, for the moment, the apparent adulation of outsiders. It was like a meeting of the Council of Ten held in the middle of St. Mark's Square of an afternoon.
Penthièvre had finished an anecdote of the far-off days of Gabrielle d'Estrées, containing a clever apologue, for which he was mentally applauded by the group.
"A clever woman!" murmured Richelieu, dreamily. "I cannot help thinking that if Sully had taken her part, instead of opposing her—"
"Marie de Médicis would have made less difficulty."
Richelieu stared at de Gêvres, who had interrupted somnolently, and remarked, with some insolence: "You miss the point, I think. Her Majesty is scarcely included in the affair."
"Noailles—Sully. Marie de Médicis—Fate," was the retort.
Richelieu shrugged. "It was too vague, Jacques."
"Let us return to the present. We shall find it less complicated," suggested Holbach, quietly.
The others acquiesced with alacrity. Their problem was too important to trust to forgotten history for solution. At this moment Richelieu, with serious intent, took snuff, raising the cover of his box in so significant a manner that it was impossible that all should not perceive its miniature to have been removed, leaving the tarnished gold alone visible under the pearl-surrounded glass.
"Ah!" murmured d'Epernon, "what has become of the Duchess?"
"I shall present the picture, as a mark of my high esteem," said Richelieu, "to M. d'Agenois."
There was a general smile. Then de Gêvres remarked, slowly: "I will purchase that miniature of you for my own use, du Plessis."
"What! Have you not one of her?" cried de Bernis.
De Gêvres pulled out his own box and handed it to the abbé. In it was an exquisitely painted portrait of Marie Anne de Nesle, done just before she was created Duchesse de Châteauroux.
"What, then, would you do with another?"
"I should present it, in a few weeks' time, to the King."
"Diable! You are not stupid enough to believe that she is to be reinstated?"
"I am sufficiently stupid—to believe exactly that."
Richelieu looked seriously annoyed. For a long time he and de Gêvres had, from policy, been the best of friends and strong allies. They, together, one summer evening, on the terraces of Versailles, had first presented the Marquise de la Tournelle to the King. And since then they had worked constantly on her behalf. De Gêvres, however, having been the more moderate of the two, was now in a position which Richelieu had recklessly forfeited—sure of favor in any case.
Baron d'Holbach, seeing the situation a little uncomfortable, broke the pause by producing his own snuff-box and displaying its cover. "Messieurs," he said, "we are carrying with us to-night the history of France. Behold!"
All leaned forward to look upon the delicately painted features. They were those of Pauline Félicité de Vintimille, the sister and predecessor of Mme. de Châteauroux.
"It is old-fashioned, gentlemen, but I have always liked the face—so young—so gentle—so sad beneath the smile," observed the philosopher.
"I can complete the trio," said Penthièvre, laughing, and producing another round lid. "I was reminiscent to-night, and selected this from my collection."
"Parbleu! it is entertaining," remarked d'Epernon, while the others were silent, thinking a little, perhaps, of days not long past; for the third miniature was of Louise Julie de Nesle, Comtesse de Mailly, Claude's cousin and sister-in-law.
"D'Epernon and de Bernis, let us see yours. Perhaps they will have a new bearing on the subject, and will bring a prophecy."
D'Epernon shook his head. "My top is merely amber, without decoration."
"And you, Monsieur l'Abbé?"
De Bernis flushed. "Mine is—personal, gentlemen. I shall change it."
"Let us see—ah! Mme. de Coigny. Did you take it from Mailly-Nesle?"
"No, M. de Gêvres. Mme. Victorine was so good as to present it," was the slightly haughty reply.
"But you are going to change it, you know. Tell us, what new face is to displace this?"
"I will tell you, M. de Richelieu, when you have confessed what one is to fill your empty space."
"Ah, yes—make your prophecy, du Plessis," drawled de Gêvres.
"Well then, if you will know," Richelieu lowered his tone, "the post is going to continue for a fourth turn in the family de Mailly. Within three months I shall place here the face of—Count Claude's wife."
"Ah!"
"Really!"
"The colonial?"
"Perhaps!"
"And now you, abbé?"
"I differ from M. de Richelieu. I should rather suggest—the lady now standing behind M. d'Epernon."
The party glanced discreetly about to behold a pretty woman in pink brocade, who was laughing at some remark from the Abbé Coyer.
"What! The last débutante? Mme. d'Etioles?"
"Bah! Pardon, de Bernis, but she is of the bourgeoisie."
"And is Mme. de Mailly of higher birth?"
There was a moment of unexpected silence. Then Richelieu said, slowly: "I had understood that she was of excellent blood. Six generations, it has been said."
Penthièvre and d'Epernon nodded agreement. Such, certainly, had been the rumor. De Bernis looked a little nonplussed.
"Then Mme. de Mailly is—your choice?" he asked of Richelieu.
"Oh," the Duke shrugged, "that is a little direct, Monsieur l'Abbé. I much admire Mme. de Mailly. His Majesty admires her."
"She is on the supper-list for Choisy," murmured Penthièvre.
"Ah! Where did you hear it?"
"From young d'Argenson. The King was pleased with her appearance at the presentation."
"And it was not by his arrangement, either."
"I wonder," asked d'Holbach, musingly, of the air, "if Claude de Mailly will let her go, without expostulation, to one of the Choisy suppers."
"It is doubtful," replied de Gêvres, yawning.
Richelieu said nothing, but under his languid exterior was a fierce determination that Mme. de Mailly, Claude or no Claude, should go to a Choisy supper, and the first to which she was asked.
"And now, Monsieur l'Abbé, what attributes for the post has your pretty bourgeoise, Mme. d'Etioles?" inquired d'Epernon.
Softly, as he answered, the abbé tapped Victorine's miniature. "One attribute, Monsieur le Duc, which I think that Mme. de Mailly lacks, and without which a woman is—to be frank—useless. Mme. d'Etioles has ambition to win the place."
"You know that? She confesses it?" asked Richelieu, leaning suddenly forward, and betraying more interest than, considering the proximity of de Gêvres, was dignified.
"Confessed it? Not in words. There was but her eye, her animation, her color, the quivering of the nostril—an air hard to describe, easy to read, which you all know, messieurs."
"But yes!"
"And she has the tact to compliment a rival. That is excellent."
"True. But Mme. de Mailly is a far newer type. She is young, ingenue, naïve; would not understand even that compliments were required. And novelty, gentlemen, novelty, is what we all, not less than his Majesty, require."
"That is true. I feel it necessary at this moment. Supper must surely have been announced by this time. I go to seek 'la Poule',"* observed de Gêvres, rising.
* Louis XV.'s nickname for Mme. de Flavacourt.
"Is Mme. de Flavacourt here?" whispered d'Epernon of Penthièvre as, the conference over, the little group broke up.
"Yes. She has just passed into the other room with d'Hénin."
"Gêvres follows her."
"Of course, since he is avowedly for la Châteauroux."
"And Richelieu approaches the little American. Behold, he is going to be her supper companion."
"Now it is only left for the abbé to seek Mme. d'Etioles."
"Dastard! He deserts his colors. See, he is coming with Mme. d'Egmont. Coigny not being here, it seems he lays siege to the second lady of that family."
"Hein? It is very warm here.Au revoir. I am going to seek the Marquis de Mailly-Nesle—you see, I am on two sides so."
Penthièvre disappeared in the throng which had begun to move more rapidly to the supper apartment in the rear. "It now behooves me," murmured d'Epernon to himself, "to take pity on de Bernis' choice. But that will be an effort. No. I will be original. I will go in alone. I will be the only man of all Versailles to-night who has no woman in his brain!"
Notwithstanding de Richelieu's confidence in the rising of the new de Mailly star in the Versailles heavens, and François de Bernis' more reserved and more diffuse plans, it appeared, after all, that de Gêvres' stubborn loyalty to the old favorite was not misplaced. To the vast chagrin of most of the court, and the strong anxiety of a small portion of it, his Majesty, attended by his private suite and Jean Frédéric Phélippeaux de Maurepas, went from Versailles back to the Tuileries on the afternoon of November 23d.
M. de Maurepas had the honor of driving alone with the King. The roads were bad, and the royal coach grievously heavy, so that the poor minister came to be in difficulties for entertaining conversation towards the last stages of the three-hour journey. Louis listened good-naturedly to his various remarks, but at length took occasion to switch the topic round to that one of all others which Maurepas had been trying to avoid.
"'Tis said, Phélippeaux," observed the King, blinking, "that our dear friend the Duchesse de Châteauroux, and you, our other dear friend, are not amicably disposed towards one another. How is this?"
"Sire, believe me—the—little difficulty began through no fault of mine, if through the fault of any one."
"Relate it to me."
Maurepas coughed. The situation was undeniably disagreeable, but an effort must be made. The less hesitation, at all events, the better. "Your Majesty, it had to do with a house, the Hôtel Maurepas, which three years ago was the Hôtel Mazarin, but fell to me at Mme. de Mazarin's death, thus obliging Mme. de la Tournelle to leave it on the demise of her grandmother. We are connected, you know, Sire."
For a moment or two the King remained silent, and his companion sat dreading an outbreak of displeasure. Presently, however, Louis remarked, without much expression: "Since her leaving the Hôtel de Mazarin was the occasion of her appearance at Versailles, one might imagine that madame would strive to modify her anger. Is that all the reason, monsieur?"
"Latterly, Sire, it has been intimated to me that madame thought me her opponent—a—politically. Need I assure your Majesty that my only political interest is yours, and that in so far as Mme. de Châteauroux has been essential to your good pleasure, in so far she has been esteemed by me. Unfortunately, however, it is whispered that madame believes me the instrument of her departure from Metz. This, indeed, is utterly false, I as—"
Louis, who was looking slightly amused, raised his hand: "Enough, Phélippeaux. I am aware of some things. We shall try, during the forthcoming week, to give you the opportunity of proving to madame your entire innocence in that regrettable affair. I wish you to become reconciled to madame, Phélippeaux, for, to be plain, I can do without neither of you."
Maurepas acknowledged this high compliment with some little pleasure; but, as the horses hurried forward, and silence fell between the two, the Marquis found himself at liberty to think some by no means agreeable thoughts. It was quite true that, even in former times, when there was no open rupture between them, love had never been lost between the King's minister and the favorite. Maurepas found his Court path very much smoother when the Duchess was not moving just ahead of him, and, despite his loyalty to the King's wishes, he had small desire that the King's well-beloved should return to Versailles. For that reason this present journey to the Tuileries, its object now becoming perfectly plain, began to assume a decidedly unpleasant appearance. Maurepas was well able to cope with the favorite in his own way; but his way was not that of the King. How, then, was he to gain his point, satisfy himself, and, at the same time, please that difficult pair, Marie Anne de Mailly and Louis de Bourbon, equally well, as he needs must?
During this soliloquy the royal coach passed the barrier and entered the dark streets of the city. After twenty minutes of silent and rapid driving, Louis touched his minister's arm.
"Look, Phélippeaux, there is the very house towards which, to-morrow, I take my way."
Whether by accident or by order, they were passing through the little Rue du Bac on their way from the bridge to the palace. Maurepas obediently leaned out of the window and gazed up at the narrow house now inhabited by the most celebrated woman in France. The lower story of the building was dark. The upper one was lighted brilliantly, in front.
"Possibly she is ill," muttered Maurepas, under his breath.
And Maurepas' surmise was right. La Châteauroux was ill. A long and fruitless course of d'Agenois, of repining for her lost position, of battling for herself, single-handed, against the drawn ranks of thedames d'étiquette, with but a momentary glimpse of the King on his way to mass after his return, with the news of the beginning of the winter fêtes, and, finally, more than all, the possibility that she had been effaced from Louis' memory by the appearance of a rival—these things had preyed upon her woman's nature till they threw her into a nervous fever which medicine but increased, and for which there was but one remedy. Sad weeks, indeed, these were. Her brave defiance was broken. Day after day, through the long gray hours, she would lie in her bedroom, silent, impatient, answering sharply if spoken to, otherwise mute, uncomplaining, and melancholy. Young d'Agenois was with her constantly, and now importuned marriage till at times she was near consent. What frayed strand of hope still held her back it were difficult to surmise. How had it been with her had she accepted this young man's eagerly proffered self? Had the tragedy of Versailles been doubled or avoided? Had de Bernis or Richelieu won his wager? Useless to guess. At eleven o'clock on this night of the 23d of November young d'Agenois left his lady's fauteuil, and the light in the top story of the Rue du Bac went out for a little time.
At twelve o'clock on the following day, while madame was meditating another struggle with the clothes that so tortured her fevered body, Fouchelet, down-stairs, was called to the door. At the entrance stood a muffled man, bearing in his hand a note—for the Duchesse de Châteauroux. Fouchelet was well trained. He gave no sign, but his heart grew big, for his own position's sake, when he recognized the sharp features of Bachelier, the King's confidential valet.
"There is no answer?" queried madame's man, peering out.
"Yes," was the reply. And so Bachelier waited in the lower hall.
In ten minutes the lackey returned. Bachelier rose. "Well?" he asked.
"At nine o'clock this evening," was the message. And with it, and a nod of satisfaction, the royal servant left the house.
He left much behind him that may be easily enough imagined. Enough to say that the designated evening hour found the once gloomy littlehôtelin a most unwonted condition. The whole lower floor was lighted softly, with not too many candles, for Mme. de Châteauroux's face bore the ravages of anxiety and illness. The salon, in perfect order, was empty. Not so the little dining-room, a charming place, with elaborate decorations of palest mauve and gold, a crystal chandelier, and a tiny round table in its centre, heaped with a profusion of flowers, and the most delicate collation that Mme. de Flavacourt and the chef together could devise. No wines had been brought up, for they were kept cooler below. But here, upon herchaise-longue, no rouge upon her flaming cheeks to-night, hair elaborately coiffed for the first time in many days, swathed all in laces, covered with a piece of pale, embroidered satin, arms and hands transparent in the light, her whole form more delicate than ever before, reclined Marie Anne de Mailly—waiting.
Minutes passed and the hour drew near. Madame moved nervously, her hands wandering over the shadowy garments. The whole hidden household breathed uneasiness, anticipation. Clocks chimed nine. The hour was past. He was late—no! Mme. de Châteauroux sat up. There had been the faintest knock at the door. Fouchelet hurried through the hall. For an instant the Duchess tightly clenched her hands. Then her face changed utterly in expression. All anxiety and eagerness slipped away from it. It had become calm, cool, indifferent, showing strong marks of physical suffering. The eyes burned with determination, but her mouth wore a peculiar, disdainful smile that few women, in her place, would have dared to use.
Now a black-cloaked figure hurried through the salon, stopping on the threshold of the room where madame lay. Here the protecting hat and coat were rapidly thrown aside, and the new-comer hastened to madame.
"Anne!" cried the King, gazing down at her in delight.
The cheeks of la Châteauroux grew a little redder, her eyes a little more brilliant. "Your Majesty will pardon me that I do not rise?" she said.
"Bachelier told me of your illness. I am sincerely sorry," he returned, examining her closely.
"Will your Majesty be pleased to sit?"
"'Majesty,' Anne? 'Majesty?' What nonsense is this? Have you become a waiting-maid? It is 'Louis' when we are together, you and I."
Madame drew away a little. "You wish that?" she asked, looking at him keenly.
"'Tis what I have come for. Ah, madame—Versailles is empty now! I have been bored—they have bored me to death." He turned away with one of those abrupt transitions from tenderness to fretfulness which were so characteristic of him as a king. He yawned as he drew a small chair up to his Duchess, and seated himself heavily thereon. "I wish you to return to Versailles," he said, with an air of putting an end to the matter.
Mme. de Châteauroux glanced at him and slightly shrugged her shoulders. "That will not be so easily arranged."
"What! You do not wish to return?"
"Why should I? Life there was not at all easy. Many changes would be necessary before I should consent to live again inside its walls."
"What changes? Do you want larger rooms? More servants? A cabriolet added to the berline? Your cook was always very good."
"Ta! Ta! Ta! Rooms!—coaches! It ispeopleI mean, Sire."
"Oh!" Louis' face grew more grave. Madame lay perfectly still, watching him. He was obliged, after a moment or two of painful silence, to ask, sulkily, "What people do you want—dismissed?"
"Your Majesty might easily surmise that."
"I? How am I to surmise your rancors, Anne?"
"My dismissal from Metz—"
"It was against my wishes, I swear to you!" he put in, hastily.
"Then your—repentance for scandal," she murmured, quickly, smiling beneath her lids. As the King flushed she was wise enough to waive the point. "I am aware that you were so—generous as to wish me to remain there," she observed. "But the man whodidcause my departure, my dis—"
"Was Chartres, madame. I am unable to dismiss a prince of the blood from Versailles even for you."
"I did not refer to Monseigneur. It is Maurepas that I want sent off."
"Maurepas! Mordi! Do you fancy he had anything to do with it?"
"He had all to do with it. He hates me, that man. I vow that until he has left Versailles I will not show my face there at any cost."
Louis grew red with irritation. "You are absolutely wrong, Anne. De Maurepas had no more to do with your going than I. I swear it!"
"Then who was the man that instigated Monseigneur to force his way into your apartment?"
The King hesitated. Richelieu was a great favorite with him. Were it possible he would have kept the truth of the matter from madame. If it were not possible—he sighed, mentally—Richelieu must go. He could, at all events, be spared better than Maurepas, who had the invaluable ability of steering the water-logged ship of state very skilfully between the oft-threatening Scylla of debt and Charybdis of over-taxation.
Presently Louis rose and moved over to the table. Here, after looking absently about, he picked up an egg filled with cream (a new and delicate invention). Taking up a knife, he struck off the egg's head. This was a favorite trick of his, and one which he performed with unerring daintiness. "Look, Anne. Had it been Maurepas who forced ourconsigne, this is what we should have done to him." He smilingly held up the end of the shell for her to see, and then, putting it down, began to eat the cream.
"I had not heard that any one had been beheaded of late. I thought it was out of fashion," observed madame, with apparent interest.
"True enough. I'll send Maurepas to tell you about everything. But, look you, if I have that person—exiled, if I present you with a list of courtiers for you to do as you wish with, if I reinstate you mistress of Versailles, will you in turn grant me two requests?"
"Let me hear them."
"You must see no more of d'Agenois—the creature whom I once exiled. And Phélippeaux and you must be reconciled. I will not have quarrels in my household. Will you agree to these things?"
He looked at her sharply, and she returned the glance with one that he could not read. "The first—d'Agenois—pouf! You may have him. He wearies me inexpressibly," she said, after a pause. "But Maurepas— Besides, I have not yet signified a wish to return to Versailles. A month ago I wrote to Richelieu that I never should."
"Really! To Richelieu! And what was his reply?"
"Nothing. He did not reply."
"A pity. Well then—you refuse to come back?"
"No. That is, I would not refuse, but that—I am not fond of M. de Maurepas."
She had carried her stubborn insolence too far at last. The King frowned, threw away his egg, and marched steadily over to where he had thrown his hat and cloak. "It is as well. I gave you your choice, madame. Maurepas is no Comtesse de Mailly. Neither you nor any woman can drive him from my court."
At the tone of Louis' voice madame's heart had suddenly ceased to beat. She saw her mistake. Was it too late? No. On the threshold of the doorway the King, after a hesitation and struggle with himself, turned. She seized her final opportunity without a pause. Holding out her arms with exaggerated feebleness, she said, slowly:
"Send Phélippeaux to me to-morrow. He shall plead his cause."
And thus her danger must have ended, and Louis' point have been satisfactorily gained; for it was past midnight when France left the Rue du Bac, to proceed by chair to the Tuileries. "Maurepas will be with you at noon; and may the god of friendship preside at the meeting!" were his parting words to the Duchess, who nodded and smiled her approval. Then, while Fouchelet and the second valet cleared the remains of the feast from the little, disordered table, the mistress of Versailles, pale, burning with fever, and exhausted with fatigue, every nerve quivering with excitement at the life reopening to her, dragged herself to her bedroom, where Mme. de Lauraguais and the round-eyed maid awaited her arrival.
On Thursday morning, which was the 25th of November, the King broke fast with Maurepas at his usual hour. Louis was sleepy, and slightly, very slightly, inclined to be sharp of temper. When he informed his companion of the impending visit for that day's noon, Maurepas made no objection in words or manner. Nevertheless, he was intensely displeased. He knew very well his master's ways, and he realized that the tone in which he was bidden to come to a full and cordial understanding with her Grace was not to be disregarded. Therefore, at five minutes to twelve, with official punctuality, M. Jean Frédéric Phélippeaux, Marquis de Maurepas, carefully but not elaborately garbed, arrived in his chair at thehôtelin the Rue du Bac. He was admitted there without delay, and Fouchelet's answer to the suave inquiry for Mme. de Châteauroux was:
"Will Monsieur le Marquis do madame the honor to ascend to madame's bedroom?"
The Marquis, very much put out, did madame that honor.
Mme. de Châteauroux was dressed and lying back in a deep arm-chair. To accentuate her pallor and the fever-flush, she wore anégligéof red, and over her knees was thrown a velvet robe of the same color. In his first glimpse of her the minister noted all of this, and distinguished the affectation from the reality. He perceived his disadvantage, and began at once to calculate how far he might try her strength without inducing tears, before which he was as helpless as any man.
"Monsieur, I am charmed to behold you again."
"And I, madame, am desolated to find you not perfectly well."
There was a little pause. The Marquis anticipated being asked to sit down. Madame seemed to forget this courtesy. So, to his chagrin, Maurepas continued to stand, concealing his awkwardness and his ill-humor as best he might. At least the Duchess took no notice of his discomfort.
"Madame, his Majesty commanded my appearance before you. Doubtless there was a reason, of which, however, I am entirely ignorant. There was a hint on the King's part of a reconciliation necessary between us. I did not understand the use of the word. Have we, then, need for reconciliation?"
He spoke with a smile which annoyed madame, not for the first time. "Monsieur, last evening his Majesty was here to request my return to Versailles, and the resumption of my duties as lady of the palace of the Queen. This, on certain conditions, I am willing to do. You will, however, readily perceive how impossible it would be for me to return while at Versailles dwells the man who brought about my dismissal from Metz, in August. Do you not agree with me?"
"And if I do?" queried Maurepas, warily, doubtful of her point.
"If you do, monsieur! Will you, then, exile yourself on my arrival?"
"Exile myself? Pardon me, I do not understand you."
"I ask you, monsieur, if it was not you who wrote the letter of dismissal from Metz—that one delivered to me by d'Argenson?"
"Ah! I understand now. No, madame, I can freely say that I had nothing to do with your dismissal in any way. I had not dreamed that I was suspected of it."
Madame lay back, knitting her brows. The man before her had unquestionably told the truth. She knew that as much from his indifferent manner as from the lack of protestations in his denial. At first disappointed, the Duchess became, after a moment's reflection, intensely curious.
"Who, then, was it?" she cried, at last.
A smile broadened Maurepas' lips. His eyebrows went up, and his shoulders were lifted a hair's-breadth. "Madame—how should I know?"
"Ah, peste! In the same way that the whole court must know! Truly, I should be a fool to go back to Versailles ignorant of the name of him who had sought to ruin me. Every one would be laughing behind my back. Monsieur le Marquis, you may either answer my question or return to the King the message that I shall, after all, remain here."
"Madame—this is beyond my province. I am quite innocent of evil intent towards you. What others have done is not my concern." Maurepas spoke urgently. He saw himself getting into such difficulties as a diplomatic man dreads most.
Madame was angry. "You have heard what I say. You shall abide by it. Tell me—or go."
Maurepas sought his snuff-box agitatedly, and took a large pinch. On one side stood the anger of the King; on the other the life-enmity of a man who had before climbed gallantly out of deeper difficulties than the one into which the reinstallation of madame would throw him—Louis Armand du Plessis, grand-nephew of the greatest cardinal. And now was he, Maurepas, reduced to trusting to a woman's word? Must he sue for that? Twice he paced the room from door to windows and back again, saw no help during the distance, and finally, disgusted with himself, waived lack of invitation, drew a chair to the Duchess' side, and sat carefully down.
"Mme. de Châteauroux—listen. I am unfortunately placed. I am anxious to do you the favor you ask; and yet, for political reasons, I am unwilling to incur the displeasure of a powerful man by allowing it to be known that it was I who informed you of his lack of devotion to your cause. You perceive this?"
The Duchess looked thoughtful. The words had been crisply spoken, and had betrayed none of Maurepas' real discomfiture. "Certainly," said she.
"Well, then, regretfully but necessarily, I must impose certain conditions under which, only, will I consent to divulge this matter to you."
"What are the conditions?"
"Ah! They are neither unreasonable nor difficult, madame. As soon as you re-enter Versailles his Majesty will send to you—as he informed me himself—a list of the courtiers' names, which you will have the privilege of revising. Now, madame, if you will give me your word that this man whose identity I am going to reveal shall be dismissed from Versailles simply by means of that list and not with any marked indignity, if you will also assure me that I shall never be mentioned as concerned in the affair in any way, then, madame, I am but too delighted to enlighten you."
There was a pause. La Châteauroux considered. Maurepas, his undiplomatic proposition made, philosophically took snuff. Fortunately, the times when one must place confidence in a woman were rare. They— His incipient meditations were, however, interrupted.
"Monsieur le Marquis—"
"Madame!"
"I agree to your conditions. I give my word."
"You have reflected well?"
"I have reflected. Quick! The man!"
"Richelieu, madame."
"Oh!—Ah!—Why did I not see it before!"
With such speed did madame run the whole gamut of evidence: the last morning at Metz; Richelieu's absence from the rooms; his imperturbability before Chartres; her letters since dismissal scantily answered, and, some of them, not at all; his failure to visit her since the return; and then, last night, Louis' uneasiness at her curiosity. Yes. It was but too plain. Richelieu, King's favorite, her own mentor, had turned traitor at last.
"Ah! The villain! The wretch! The traitor! The imbecile! Never again shall he see me at Versailles! Monsieur, will you pour me a glass of water there?"
Upon the little table at her side stood a high pitcher and a small silver goblet. Maurepas hastened to comply with the request, and, as he handed her the cup, he noted how eagerly she drank, how bright was the flush on her cheek, how transparent the hand that she held to her face; and then the rather grim question came to him whether, after all, Richelieu's banishment would endure very long. But the thought was only transitory. After all, a woman of twenty-seven, strong of body and stronger of spirit, is not carried off at the very summit of her career by an intermittent fever. Thus, when she returned the empty cup to the King's minister, and their glances met for a second, he read in her face resolution and to spare to carry her through much more than such a sickness as her present one.
"Have no fear of me, monsieur. I shall not betray you. Will you accept my gratitude?"
Maurepas bowed courteously. "When shall we at Versailles have the opportunity of welcoming you and Mme. de Lauraguais back again?"
The Duchess looked quickly up with a flicker of amusement in her eyes at his elaborate tone. "I do not know. I am, at present, as you may perceive, scarcely able to be moved so far or to enter upon my week of duties as lady of the Queen, even should I reach Versailles safely. I must wait here till I am stronger. Till that time—M. de Richelieu may relieve the King's ennui. Must you retire so soon?"
Maurepas was evidently upon the point of departure. "My—the affair between us is concluded, is it not? May I take to his Majesty the word of our renewed friendship?"
Mme. de Châteauroux held out her hand, and, while the minister bent over to kiss it, she smiled down on the powdered head with a look in her eyes that he, could he have seen it, would have considered with something like apprehension. "Our friendship is ratified, M. de Maurepas.Au revoir."
"I shall be the first to welcome you at Versailles."
"Thank you. With Maurepas for one's friend, who could dread anything?"
"You flatter me too much.Au revoir."
So, with a final salute, and a grim smile at himself for his undeniable defeat at a woman's hands, Maurepas concluded his task, and, with relief at his heart, crossed the threshold of the dwelling of the favorite of France.
The King and his companion returned to Versailles on Friday, as quietly as they had left it three days before; and it was probable that most of the court was unaware that his Majesty had been invisible for any but usual reasons—exclusive hunting, and intimate suppers, somewhere, with some one. The little circle of royal companions who selected what details of gossip might cross the threshold of the Salle du Conseil or the Petits Cours Intérieurs into the Œil-de-Bœuf were extremely discreet. For days Rumor, always with the name of la Châteauroux as a refrain for her verses, flapped over Paris and Versailles, chanting vigorously. Keepers of journals, d'Argenson and the worthy de Luynes, wrote wildly, contradicting one day all that had been said on the day before, and which, in turn, would be falsified to-morrow. Was Madame la Duchesse really to be reinstated, or, like her sister predecessor, to be kept on there in Paris in sackcloth and regret ever after? This question no one definitely answered. Mme. d'Etioles, now and then in the palace, more often away under the close surveillance of her husband, trembled between anticipation and despair. There was another at court in much the same way. This was Richelieu, who, for the first time since his début, living as he did at the very door of the kingdom's adytum, was still outside the pale of knowledge. Daily he scanned the face of Maurepas, a suavely blank space, which hinted tantalizingly at how much lay behind it. The King's demeanor was no less incomprehensible. He was generally sulky; seemed to have settled down into a routine; attended four war councils and two of finance, to Machault's terror, in one week; ate little; drank much; was seen often in unofficial but very private conference with Maurepas; and now and then treated Richelieu with such open and kindly affection that fainting hope revived in the Duke's heart, and he ceased numbering days.
As a matter of fact, la Châteauroux continued to be ill; for a king's favor will not banish malaria in one day. Mme. de Lauraguais was growing intensely anxious to be safe at Versailles again. The Duchess, curiously enough, was infinitely less impatient. Perhaps she knew too well what Versailles meant to experience unmixed joy at the prospect of the return. Not till physical strength was hers again did she care to go into the inevitable maze of intrigue, enmity, and deceit which one entered by the door to the little apartments. Dr. Quesnay, of Méré, a friend of Mme. d'Etioles, none the less a good physician and a bluffly honest man, attended her in Paris assiduously. Under his care the favorite certainly improved, day by day, till, on the 4th of the last month of the year, four messages flew over the road, two from Paris to Versailles, and two from the palace there to the Rue du Bac. And that night the King did not sleep, but was, nevertheless, late to mass on the morning of the fifth, when a new day and a new era dawned for the Œil-de-Bœuf and for the history of France.
The 5th of December fell on Sunday, and proved a day dull enough for all the court. For once their Majesties dined together in the Salle du Grand Couvert, as Louis XIV. would have had them do. But the King did not appear at his consort's salon in the evening. He merely informed her that it was his pleasure that she should hold a special reception two nights later, on the evening of the 7th, at which he would be present; why, he did not explain. Though it would be the evening before the Feast of the Conception, and therefore a time for extra devotions, Marie Leczinska gratefully acceded to her husband's request, delighted at anything which should bring him into her rooms. In the evening Louis supped in the small apartments with a select company of privileged gentlemen, his pages of the Court, Maurepas, and d'Argenson.
"It is a feast of nine, my friends—the old Roman number. Let us, then, be classic in our drinking and our conversation," observed his Majesty, with unusual loquacity.
"And is it to gods or goddesses that we chant our praises, Sire? Do we look to Olympus or—Cythera?" demanded Maurepas, slyly.
The King did not at once reply. Finally, with a smile peculiar to himself, he glanced at his favorite. "You shall choose the toast, du Plessis. Jove or Venus?"
Richelieu, ignorant of a cause, was at a loss to read the subtlety. "Venus, Sire," he replied, raising a glass to the candle-light before he drank.
"Merely the goddess in abstract?" murmured de Sauvré. "Surely her present living counterpart were better worthy the wine."
"Sire, will you not christen the toast?"
"Is it necessary? There is but one." The King negligently lifted his glass, while only de Coigny of all the tableful breathed normally. "Marie Leczinska, your Queen, gentlemen!"
Each face fell slightly. Glasses were emptied without a word, and the silence continued as the dishes of the first course were passed.
"These birds are very fine, but there is no venison," remarked Louis, helping himself to his favorite fillet of partridge.
"The last hunt was four days ago," observed Penthièvre.
The King looked quickly up. "Quite true. The councils have demanded me. But I am arranging a hunt—a large hunt. What meetings to-morrow, d'Argenson?"
"An important one, Sire, at which M. Machault reads a report of the taxes of the Navarraise clergy during the last quarter—"
"Ah, yes. You and Machault are diligent enough there. But the day after—the 7th? I do not wish to be at council on that day."
"There will be none, Sire," responded the young man, obediently, the interest dying out of his eyes; and Maurepas, with some amusement, watched him begin to crumble his bread.
"That is very well. On Tuesday, gentlemen, we will follow the hounds through Sénart, retire to Choisy in the afternoon, and return to Versailles in time for her Majesty's salon in the evening. At Choisy, gentlemen, I shall myself prepare a dish, an especial one, which Mouthier* has created for me, and in the making of which the greatest delicacy is necessary. It is to be avol-au-vent royal, à la—the last of the name is not important. It will be a triumph of art."
* Louis' favorite chef.
"Shall you prepare it for the company, or—for one person, Sire?" queried de Gêvres.
"There will be more for the party. This one—is—particular."
"For her Majesty, without doubt," murmured d'Epernon, smiling.
Maurepas and the King exchanged glances, and Richelieu, intercepting the look, started suddenly, not recovering his poise till de Gêvres had read into his mind.
"Sire, this one person whom you so honor returns in the party to Versailles—is it not so?" asked de Sauvré, bravely.
"Naturally her Majesty returns to Versailles."
"She holds a salon that evening," muttered de Gêvres to de Coigny, who sat next him.
"Who?—The Queen?" whispered the marshal in his turn.
"I don't know. We are not really speaking of the Queen?"
"D'Argenson, you hold the supper-list for Choisy. I—a—would speak with you about invitations later this evening. You will be in the Salle des Pendules at an early hour."
D'Argenson bowed.
The supper-list? Deborah was upon that. Richelieu breathed deeply. Was he wrong in his fears? And yet, was it possible that this secrecy should be used in the installation of a new favorite? Certainly none at that table except Maurepas was any more enlightened concerning this affair than he was himself. He scanned the faces around him. De Sauvré and Coigny were unconcerned. Veiled curiosity was perceptible in the eyes of d'Epernon and Penthièvre. D'Argenson, like a very young diplomat, appeared reflective, and inclined to conjecture by analysis the real object of his forthcoming interview with the King. And de Gêvres, whose face was invariably set in an expression of bored indifference, had now something in the line of mouth and eyes that gave his countenance a suggestion of alertness and satisfaction. Richelieu concluded his scrutiny with even less hope than he had begun it. However, since the table were eating with good appetite, he made shift to follow, and forget himself as far as might be in a well-seasoned ragout of pigeon.
"Vol-au-ventis certainly a charming dish!" cried Louis, presently, harking back to his favorite pursuit.
"And of what is it made, Sire? Is it—sweet?"
"Ah, Sauvré, that is a secret. You shall learn it on Tuesday. Bring an appetite with you from the hunt. Perhaps you may even assist in its manufacture. I told Mouthier that I would have no cooks meddle with my dish, but that my good friends would assist me in the kitchen."
"We are honored," came the little chorus.
Louis inclined his head.
"Your Majesty has—a—been making candies, of late," observed d'Epernon, with intended malice.
The King coughed. "A few—chocolates. I have been experimenting with a newfondant. It is delightful."
"Who gets them?—the de Mailly?" whispered de Sauvré to Richelieu.
The Duke shook his head helplessly. "I have never seen any there. I do not think that it is she." Again he looked round the circle, and again was Maurepas' the only intelligent face present. Richelieu bit his lip in anger; but, as the second course and much wine now made its appearance, the conversation turned to less ambiguous topics, and the drinking, with all its conviviality, began. Many were the ladies to whom Louis deigned to raise his glass, the Countess de Mailly being among the first of them. And when, an hour later, the nine gentlemen rose from the table, the cares and fears of all of them were lighter. After a bottle of old Tokay, a tender partridge, and a successful epigram, who would not rise above a dread of the intrigues of a fickle, unhappy King, whose best hours were spent with men, and to whom, at such times, women seemed unimportant enough?
On being dismissed from their liege, several of the gentlemen departed towards the salon of the Queen, to join the promenade and see the newly presented ladies. One or two left the palace for appointments in the town. Richelieu, out of spirits, and glad to be alone, went off to the King's bedroom, where, as first gentleman of the chamber, he ousted Bachelier, and himself prepared the room for the grandcouche. Next to this bedroom, towards the front of the palace, its windows opening upon the little Court of Marbles, was the Salle des Pendules. Here, after the supper, according to his Majesty's command, came young d'Argenson, with the list of courtiers eligible for Choisy suppers in his pocket. The King did not keep his youthful minister waiting. After a few smiling words with Maurepas, who was now blessing Fate for that past interview and "reconciliation" in November, Louis hurried from the Salle des Croisades up the corridor, into the Salle du Jeu, and so to that of the clocks.
"Ah! You await me, monsieur. Your promptness is gratifying."
D'Argenson made obeisance.
The King passed across to the window, and stood with his hand on the sill, looking out across the court at the lights in the opposite rooms. "D'Argenson, have you, beside the Choisy list, one of the entire Court and all the families here represented?"
"There is such a list, Sire, but it is in the keeping of M. de Berryer. At your command, I will obtain it from him."
The King hesitated, seemed to reflect for a moment, and then, with his eyes still fixed outside the room, answered: "Yes, that were as well. De Berryer is in Paris, I believe. And, well, Monsieur le Comte—" the King turned and faced him—"I have a mission for you to-morrow."
D'Argenson bowed.
"You will leave for Paris, at an hour as early as you find convenient. Arrived at the city, go at once to the Prefecture, obtain the written list of the Court from de Berryer—I will send you an order to-night—and proceed with that to the Rue du Bac, numéro—."
In the candle-light young d'Argenson started violently.
His Majesty smiled. "Yes. You will find there Mme. de Châteauroux; and to her you will present the list. She will be so gracious as to read it through and to strike from it the names of those who have not the happiness to please her. In the afternoon you will return to me with the revised list, which—um—I shall put into execution on Wednesday, probably. That is all, monsieur. I wish you good-evening."
The Count was about to leave the apartment, when the King himself turned upon his red heel and abruptly left the room. D'Argenson, with a new horizon to his world, moved weakly to the side of the room, and sank upon a tabouret just as the door opposite to him swung open, and Richelieu, his task completed, appeared from the King's bedroom.
"Hola, Marc! What is the matter? You need rouge," he said, wearily.
"I should prefer a glass of Berkley's English gin," responded the Count, without animation.
"What is it? You have seen his Majesty?"
"Yes."
"Well—your news?"
D'Argenson looked about him nervously. Then, rising, he moved over and spoke in Richelieu's ear. "The new dish—vol-au-vent—is to beà laChâteauroux. To-morrow she revises the Court list."
"Mon Dieu!" Richelieu whispered the exclamation, and raised one of his slender hands to his forehead. "What to do? You—you also are in dread, Marc?"
D'Argenson shrugged, with a pitiful attempt at indifference. "I carried her the message of dismissal from Metz."
"Ah!" Richelieu hesitated for a second. Then he said, softly: "When will the revisal of the list be carried into effect at Court? Do you know?"
"On Wednesday."
"There is, then, a day—of grace."
"One. The King hunts. We shall all be at Choisy. Madame joins us there, you know, and returns with us—for the salon of the Queen."
"Naturally."
"What shall you do? Resign your post now?"
Richelieu was silent, and his face looked drawn. This sensation of helplessness was very new to him. He seemed to hesitate. Then, after a few moments he said, slowly: "No, I shall wait. One thing—will you do me a favor?"
"What is that? There are few enough in my power now."
"To-morrow evening, when you return from Paris, show me the list."
"Monsieur, I cannot seek you. If we should meet—by chance—"
Richelieu bowed. "Certainly. It is all I ask. If we should meet by chance."
"In that case, I will do so. At any rate, I will—tell you."
"My thanks are yours."
Both bowed. Thereupon d'Argenson would have turned away, but Richelieu suddenly held out his right hand. "It is no ordinary affair," he said.
The young Count frankly accepted the offer. Their hands clasped firmly for an instant, and the moment of brotherhood did both good.
"Do you go, now, to the salon of her Majesty?"
"I had thought not, to-night; but I have changed my mind."
"I will come with you."
"And to-morrow morning," added the Duke, as they left the room together—"to-morrow morning, after mass, I shall go to the Œil-de-B[ce]uf and remain there till you return in the evening."
"Why do that? You will gain nothing there."
"I shall gain atmosphere. It reeks of the Court, as a chandler reeks of tallow. I shall like—to take it away with me."
D'Argenson smiled faintly; and then in silence they passed into the Queen's antechamber.
Marie Leczinska's salon was not so brilliant as the one of two weeks before. It was, however, sufficiently filled to put one in proper mood, without danger of ruining hoops; which, after all, was a slight relief. Both Claude and Deborah were here to-night, never together, but also never very far apart. Mme. de Mailly had become one of the most-sought-after persons in the Court, and her husband, while he conformed always to the conventions by not approaching her in public, was, nevertheless, aware of every person who spoke to her of an evening, heard every compliment paid her by men, and a good many of the enviously malicious speeches that were beginning to be made about her by the women. To-night Richelieu, on entering the salon, made his way at once to Deborah's side. She had been speaking with the Marquis de Tessé, while the Prince de Soubise hovered near, thinking up a suitable gallantry with which to pounce upon her. Richelieu adroitly forestalled him, however, and reached her first, well pleased at being able to do so. The Duke was moving at random, for he had found no plan of possible salvation yet. There only lay in his mind a dim notion that, if safety should be his at the eleventh hour, it would come to him through this same Deborah. The idea was surely instinctive, for it had small reason in it. What could a little colonial, what could any woman—the poor, pale Queen herself—do against Claude's cousin, the reinstated favorite, the great Duchesse de Châteauroux, and that gently spoken, inflexible, indomitable "Je le veux" which Louis of France had used? True, Deborah had become a de Mailly, had been much noticed by the King, and was talked of in peculiar whispers by all the Court. Nevertheless, what so precarious as her position? What favors might she ask? None. And yet, here was falling Richelieu hurrying to no Maurepas, no Machault, or Berryer, or any powered man, but to the side of her who had been born, eighteen years before, in a wide-roofed Virginia farm-house.
"Madame, do you go to the Opéra to-morrow night?" he asked, idly.
"I do not know, Monsieur le Duc. What is it to be?"
"'Jephté,' I have heard—Montclair, you know. Pélissier and Thévénard are to sing, and the ballet in that piece is delightful. Sallé and Nicolet will lead it."
"Oh, I should like to go! I have seen Mlle. Sallé—last week. And Mme. Pélissier also. She has such a voice!"
"Will you, then, you and monsieur, do me the honor to occupy my box? We will have Mme. de Coigny and the abbé—"
"Oh no! Please—" Deborah began, impulsively, but, realizing what she was doing, stopped short in embarrassment.
"Pardon me, I did not know that you and the little Victorine were—uncongenial. Whom shall I ask?"
"Any one—any one, of course. Mme. de Coigny, by all means, monsieur."
Richelieu looked at her curiously, and might have spoken his thought had not Claude at that moment moved somewhat closer to them, and the Duke, therefore, turned to him. "I am just praying Madame la Comtesse to arrange a party for me for the Opéra to-morrow evening. Will you not join us?"
"Thank you, I am engaged to St. Severin for a supper and the Français. Madame, if she has no other engagement, will be delighted to accept your kindness, I do not doubt," returned Claude, pleasantly.
Deborah turned a half-wistful glance towards her husband, but was met with a gentle smile of refusal that suddenly changed her manner.
"Monsieur le Duc, I shall be but too happy to accompany you, if you will arrange the party. I do not think that I know—quite how."
Richelieu bowed his thanks, and looked long into her honest gray eyes. "I will call for you in my coach at seven, madame, if you will permit. I bid you—au revoir." With a bow such as he would have given to a superior in rank, he moved away, making room for M. de Soubise, who had settled upon his compliment, and was itching to have it out before it should lose flavor with silent rehearsal.
Richelieu did not remain much longer in the room. Towards the end of the promenade his Majesty, his dog Charlotte under one arm, unexpectedly made his appearance, negligent in manner, intent, as it seemed, on speaking with Deborah. Richelieu saw the King with a new feeling. It was the first time that he had ever thought of Louis as holding interests foreign to his own. Hitherto they had been allies in every council, in every amusement. Now, at last, in desire and intention, they were separated, and it was a woman who stood between them. Richelieu shook himself. His thoughts were becoming bitter. Cutting short an exchange of graces with Mme. de Mirepoix, he left the rooms, and, informing the grand chamberlain that he would be unable to assist at the royalcouchethat evening, sought his own apartment, and was put to bed by his valet, not to sleep, but to plan, to twist, to turn, and still, with a new, unconquerable dread, to anticipate the morrow.
Morning came late. Richelieu, in fact, rose with the dawn, for the King was always roused at eight, and it was the duty of the first gentleman, since he had been absent on the previous evening, to bring water in which his Majesty should wash, and to put the royal dressing-gown about the royal shoulders. Louis was in a quizzical mood, and tried, rather unkindly, to play with the feelings of his favorite courtier. Richelieu'ssang-froidwas imperturbable, however. He was now bound in honor to his own code to exhibit no trace of the feeling which, last night, he had almost been guilty of betraying, through nervous uncertainty.
The King dressed, he completed his prayers, despatched the early entries, and, when he was finally installed with his chocolate and eggs in the council-hall, where the matter of the Navarraise taxes was later to be taken up, Richelieu himself partook of a light breakfast, and then made a dignified progress towards the room of rooms—the Œil-de-Bœuf—where, possibly, his fate might, by accident, be already known. On his way through the halls of the gods and the grand gallery, he met not a few with the same destination in mind. Certainly none could have told, from his measured morning greetings, his offers or acceptance of snuff, his lightly witty words, what a tumult of anxiety raged within him. By this time d'Argenson must be entering Paris. Did any besides himself know that errand on which he went? More, did any surmise its result? How long had he still to remain in this, his home? Hours? Years? Was his dread, after all, reasonable? Had any one divulged to her his part in the Metz affair? True, it was Court property; but—ah! he had been very rash in the Alsatian city. Never should he forget the morning when he had cried out, before all the salon there, the news that Louis had grown worse in the last hours. Here, even now, like a ghost conjured up by memory, was young Monseigneur de Chartres, coming out from the Bull's-eye. Du Plessis, as he saluted, quivered. Then, with a gallant recuperation, he smiled to himself, and passed on into that little room of fate.
Considering that the hour was before morning mass, the Œil-de-Bœuf was unusually thronged. Both men and women were there, and the place hummed with conversation. For the first moment or two Richelieu held off from the company, judging, by means of his trained ear and his long experience, the nature of the gossip from the key of the conglomerate sound. It varied to-day, now high with laughter, now more ominous, again medium with uncertainty. The omen was good. It boded no definite evils of knowledge—yet. Thereupon the Duke permitted himself to be accosted by M. de Pont-de-Vesle, of the King's formal household, an old man, tall and lean, wearing his wigà laCatogan, and with a miniature of Ninon de l'Enclos in his snuff-box.
"Good-morning, Monsieur the Grand-Nephew! Whom does the King receive to-day during the little hours?" With the question he proffered snuff.
"Thank you. Ah! You use civet. The King does not receive to-day. He is in council. Machault reads the report," returned Richelieu, very civilly, considering the fact that Pont-de-Vesle had addressed him in the form which, of all others, he most disliked.
"Ah! When his Majesty has not hunted for a week we are all forlorn. When he takes to council—Ciel!—it is like the beginning of a reign of Maintenon. How do you perfume your snuff?"
"Oh, it is something aromatic, composed for me by Castaigne, of Paris. Sandalwood, cinnamon, attar—I forget the rest. Do me the honor to try it."
With ceremonious solemnity Pont-de-Vesle accepted a pinch, just as young d'Aiguillon came smilingly up to them. "Good-morning, Monsieur le Duc! Do you bring news, or come for it?"
"I come for it, my dear Count," returned Richelieu. "What do they talk of in the Œil to-day?"
"One subject only."
"So bad as that? Who has committed it? I am all ignorance!"
"You mistake. There is no fresh scandal. It is—"
"Women," put in Pont-de-Vesle, sourly.
"Oh! What women?"
"That is more difficult. There are many rumors. It is said in Paris that—Mme. de Châteauroux is to come back."
The Duke raised his eyebrows. "Paris! That is a curious news-mart. What says Versailles?"
"Oh!—" Young d'Aiguillon stopped, assuming a mysterious expression.
"We say," interrupted the other, quickly, "that there are other candidates who would please better."
"For instance?"
"Well, for one, the little American, Mme. de Mailly. But, parbleu! the post must not remain forever in one family! I think that this girl should never have been taken up. What is her blood? Her husband swears to five generations; but—the husband!—Pouf!"
"But the Queen was delighted with her, and—the King will be," cried the young Count, pleasantly.
"Who is your candidate, monsieur?" demanded Richelieu of Pont-de-Vesle.
"Mine? Oh—that is a delicate question. Nevertheless, I think 'tis time we had a woman of station. Now, Mme. de Grammont—"
"Heavens!"
"Anétiquette? You are mad, monsieur!"
"Not at all. I protest—"
"Is she, then, so willing to accept the post?"
Pont-de-Vesle stiffened. "Oh, as to that—I cannot say. She is spoken of—not to."
"Ah, well," decided d'Aiguillon, sagely, "after all, it will be the ladies, not we, who will settle matters for themselves."
"As for me, I should like to find a woman who would refuse the post."
And with this Richelieu, who could see no advantage in continuing the conversation, saluted his companions of the moment and passed on to others, whose talk, however, did not much vary from the foregoing style. By the time that the hour for mass arrived, and the Court wended a leisurely way towards Mansard's chapel, the favorite Duke was comforted in mind and heart. He hoped; though why, and on what grounds, he could not have told. The Œil-de-Bœuf was densely ignorant of the King's real project. He, Richelieu, knew it only too well. La Châteauroux was to come back. Paris knew. How, then, had he any right, or any reason, to hope? And, with this logic, the shadow of despair came over him again, and through it, as through a veil, he heard the melancholy intoning of priests' voices and the monotonous chanting of the choir.
Dinner passed, it were difficult to say how, and the afternoon began. There was attendance on his Majesty, who alternately played with three dogs and sulked because there was nothing further to do; a few moments at English tea with the circle of Mme. de Boufflers; an enforced interchange of polite hostilities with de Gêvres, in the Salle d'Apollo; and then, some little time after dusk began to fall, Richelieu made his way down to the landing of the Staircase of the Ambassadors, out of sight of the Suisses and the King's guards, in the great vestibule below. He was intensely nervous. With each beat of his heart a new shock thrilled unpleasantly over him. D'Argenson must be returning soon now, and must come in this way. Minutes only remained before he should know the end. The lights in the great candelabra at the stair-top illumined the vast, lifeless ascent but dimly. Dreamily Richelieu thought of the pageants that he had seen upon this stair; wondered, indeed, if he should see such again. Before great dread, time itself flies. It seemed no half-hour, but a few seconds only, to the waiting man before a darkly cloaked figure entered into the vestibule, passed the Suisses in silence, and came, with wearily dragging steps, up the stairs. Half-way up, the candle-light gleamed for an instant into his pallid face. Richelieu's heart quivered downward as he stepped out from his sheltering pillar and stood before young d'Argenson.
"Well, then—you return."
D'Argenson shot a look into the other's face. "For a day," he replied, without much expression, his lip curling slightly.
"Then she—"
"Struck me off at once."
Richelieu drew a heavy breath. "And I?" he asked, softly.
"And you—also."
It had come, then. The two men stood still on the stairs, facing each other for an unnoted time. Then Richelieu smiled. "You are wet with the rain, Marc. When you leave the King, come to my rooms. There you will find Grachet and some hot rum. I must make my toilet now. I have a party to-night—for the Opéra."
D'Argenson stared. "Mon Dieu!" he muttered to himself, "we diplomats have not such training!"