In spite of himself this manner influenced him as no other would have done. He shrugged his shoulders slightly, and returned, with a gallant air: "Madame, I should wish to assist you with your cloak and mask; but if you have anything to ask of me, first—"
She sprang lightly to her feet, went to him, and placed her hands on his shoulders. He felt the force in her merely by her touch. It seemed as though fire from her fingers were trickling down through his flesh to his heart.
"Yes, you are right; I have something to ask, something to tell. You have heard it before, but this last time you must learn it well, and must remember it. François—I love you. In heaven or in hell, wherever I go, I shall love you. I will not forget—and you shall not. This is the last night here. But—out, somewhere—in the infinite—I wait for you. Now, sit here."
She pushed him, gently, inflexibly, over to the chair whence she had risen. Then she passed to the table, where stood the two candles that lighted the room. Her great gray eyes fastened themselves burningly, steadily, upon those of de Bernis. Under the gaze he sat still, fascinated. "Victorine—you are mad," he murmured once, vaguely.
Hearing the words, she smiled at him, but never moved her eyes. At length, when he had become passively expectant, she lifted her hand. "Remain there—do not move—" she whispered. Then her fingers moved over the candle-flames. They flared and went out. There was a sound of rustling garments, a faintly murmured word from the man, a long breath, and then silence, heavy, absolute, in the thick darkness.
It lasted long. All about that room, for miles in the blackness, the great city lay sleeping through the hour before dawn. The lights of the Hôtel de Ville were out. King and valet alike rested. Mme. d'Etioles and Marie Leczinska had forgotten triumph and trouble. Richelieu, devil and monk, lay abed like an honest man. And Deborah de Mailly, under her canopy, dreamed, in the Versailles apartment, of the fresh quiet of her room at Trevor Manor, the golden dawn over the Chesapeake, and the lapping of the river against the banks that were lined with drooping willows and peach-trees.
The first sound that broke the stillness in the room of the Rue Bailleuls was the same as that on which silence had fallen—the long-drawn sigh of a woman. Then de Bernis whispered, imperatively: "Madame—you must go. Morning dawns."
A second after came the gentle reply: "Yes, François. Have no fear. I go."
As the gray dawn came up at last over the eastern horizon, a coach rattled through the city streets upon its way to the Sèvres barrier. Inside, upon the cushions, her reclining figure covered with a heavy velvet robe, her drawn face showing paler than the day in its frame of disordered hair, covered with the black hood, lay Mme. de Coigny. Her eyes wandered aimlessly from one window of the coach to the other. Without thought, without feeling of any kind, she beheld the tall, narrow houses with their wooden galleries and crazy, outer staircases; the shuttered shops, the narrow, lifeless streets. As they neared the barrier they passed the first market carts, laden with butter, milk, eggs, cheese, and meat. There were no green things at this time of year. And yet—it was the first day of March, the first day of spring. The long winter was at an end. Summer would presently be back.
The panelled coach passed out of the city without difficulty, and entered, upon the country road. The pale yellow light along the end of the distant horizon grew brighter. Victorine regarded it dully. The coach jolted and jarred over the frozen ruts in the road. Bare-branched trees swayed in the biting morning wind. The inhabitants of the rude houses and taverns along the way still slept. The sweet, frosty air of very early morning came gratefully to the lips of the woman; but, as she breathed it in, she shivered, and drew her coverings a little closer. Presently they drew near to Versailles, and smoke began to rise lazily from the chimneys of the houses and to drift slowly upward. A few moments more, and the cumbrous vehicle stopped before a house of stone. It was Victorine de Coigny's "home." A footman leaped from the back of the coach to the ground and opened the door for her. With a strong effort she alighted, leaning heavily on the servant's arm.
At her knock theconcierge, just dressed for the day, bowed her into the house, looking sharply the while at her pinched, expressionless face. She did not see him. Before her were the stairs. By the strength of her will she ascended them, and was presently admitted to the apartment on the first floor. To the slight surprise of the waiting valet, she forbade him to call her maid; and then, without further commands, passed into her own room. Here she flung off her hood and pelisse. Then, with quiet, stealthy steps, she crossed the passage into her husband's room.
Marshal Coigny, weary with the long night at Paris, whence he had returned an hour or two since, conscience-free, careless, from long training, of his wife's whereabouts, lay in a sound sleep, dreaming of her, perhaps. He had not heard her return to the house; and he was perfectly unaware of her quiet entrance into his room.
She passed him without a look, and went straight to the cabinet where he kept papers, orders, medals, trophies of the last campaign, his sword, and his duelling pistols. One of these last, silver-mounted weapons, loaded for possible use, Victorine took, weighing it in her hand a second before she began her retreat. She could not leave the room as she had entered it, without a glance at him whose name she had borne for three years. For an instant she paused beside his bed, looking a little wistfully at the face that was half turned from her.
"Jules," she said, so softly that de Coigny, had he been awake, could not have heard her, "Jules, I have been very wicked, very cruel to you. May God put it into your heart that I tell you so—now. Perhaps, somewhere, some time, you will find a good woman who will love you as I did—him. When that time comes, Jules, try to think a little kindly of me—sometimes."
Then, with a faint, tired sigh, she turned from him and went back into her own room.
Three or four minutes later the Marquis de Coigny was roused from his sleep by the sharp crack of a pistol-shot. Opening his eyes dreamily for an instant, he rolled over again, murmuring, "Magnificent—your Majesty!"
Then there came the sounds of a man's sharp cry and a hurrying of feet in the passage, and the Maréchal started up as a lackey rushed into his room.
"Nom de Dieu, Gérome, what—"
"Monsieur—monsieur—madame—madame la Maréchale—"
"What is it? Speak, fool!"
"It was—madame's—shot!"
For three days it was the supreme topic in the Œil-de-Bœuf, and the Maréchal gave another day's interest by himself taking her unconsecrated body back to the château where she had spent sixteen of her nineteen little years, for burial. No one of the Court had caught so much as a glimpse of de Coigny before his departure; but certain valets, news scavengers of Versailles, spent much time with the Marshal's servants, and learned from them that their master's hair was gray beneath his wig, that he was starving himself, and that none save old Gérome could make him speak.
"I always said that he had the bad taste to be in love with her," observed de Gêvres, with a superior shrug.
"Will the abbé be called out, or did the affair lie in another direction?"
Again the Duke shrugged. "Really, my friend, I know nothing. The Maréchal has never honored me with domestic confidences."
This, in substance, together with the complete story of her death, and endless conjectures as to its immediate cause, was all that was anywhere repeated, in Bull's-Eye or salon. Naturally enough, then, people began to grow weary of the subject, and at length little Victorine, with her hopeless tragedy, was laid aside, to become one of that company of ghosts who, as memories, haunted the corridors of the great palace, to be recalled occasionally from oblivion upon a dull and rainy day.
And now another topic, one by no means new, but freshened in interest, was introduced, by hints, to the general room from the King's cabinet, for the entertainment of the scandal-mongers. This was the de Maillys once more. For many weeks, now, his Majesty had purposely suspended the long-awaited choice, and had paid his court with equal gallantry to half a dozen women. After the incident of the "throwing the handkerchief," a topic long since threadbare in the salons, Mme. d'Etioles, bourgeoise though she was, seemed to stand a fair chance for the post. Thereafter, periodically, she had been rumored as being separated from her husband, of living now at Paris, now at Sénart, again at Versailles—perhaps in the palace itself. Nothing definite was known in the Œil or the Queen's circle. D'Argenson looked wise, and Bachelier blinked occasionally, but the matter got no further, and nothing was proclaimed. All this, however, was later, through the last of March and the beginning of April. Some time since, during the first week in March, indeed, the Cabinet du Conseil learned something of royal intentions in another quarter. On a certain Friday some orders were given, a paper made out at Majesty's command by de Berryer, and from Maurepas certain others demanded, the subject of which made even that imperturbable person start with surprise. Such papers were expected to be in readiness by Saturday afternoon.
Upon the momentous Friday young d'Argenson and Phélippeaux de Maurepas encountered each other, by chance, in thevaisselier. These two, who were never to be found talking together in the public rooms, were of necessity so intimate in private that the one could fairly read the other's thoughts by the curve of the lips or the shape of the brow. To-day, both minds being on the same subject, both mouths formed into the same peculiar smile of greeting as the two found themselves alone in this inner room. Maurepas was on his way to the grand gallery. D'Argenson, to his great disgust, was at work enumerating candlesticks (the King being prone to periodic spells of household economy). At one end of the table Maurepas stopped, looking down in some amusement at his comrade's task.
"You would make a woeful housekeeper, Marc. Now I—have been occupied in a more engrossing way."
"Eh? Oh, something apropos of the little de Mailly."
"Your astuteness is unsurpassed. Can you guess the next thing—the subject of my labors?"
"I thought that I had guessed it," was the reply.
"Oh, no. Mme. de Mailly is their object."
"I am, then, at a loss."
"I have been occupied, my dear Count, in making the estates of Châteauroux, together with the duchy, fall, by a peculiar line of heredity, from the deceased Duchess to her living cousin-german, Mistress Deborah Travis, otherwise the Comtesse de Mailly."
"Mordi! You have my compassion. My task is as nothing to yours."
"Oh, you are wrong. The matter is nearly arranged. We shall see, my dear Count—we shall see—"
"When?"
"At no later period than to-morrow evening."
"Ah! Then his Majesty is to escape from the levee?"
"Yes, probably. Monseigneur the Dauphin will be asked to take his place after the fourth minuet. And you, Marc—do you know what part in the affair is to fall to you?"
"Alas, yes—I can conjecture it. I had not feared that it would come so soon. The husband—Claude—will be my task."
"I am, indeed, sorry for it. Once before, you remember, he fell to me.Mon Dieu! He took it manfully enough then; but this is worse. Unhappily, he is fond of his wife."
"Monsieur le Ministre—you of the school of Montesquieu—have you ever been able to picture to yourself an honest woman—one who would refuse the—post?"
"Never, Monsieur of the Interior. In heaven there may be such. But then, in heaven, I am told, there are no kings."
With which regretfully sincere bit of pessimism de Maurepas passed on, leaving his friend to mingle thoughts of Claude and Deborah and the King's way with bronze pairs and single silvers.
Saturday evening saw the great Gallery of Mirrors filled with its customary brilliant throng. Claude and his wife were present as a matter of course, and were able to dance the second minuet together, since in that their Majesties were companions. Thereafter they were separated, probably for the remainder of the evening. Deborah was surrounded by many would-be partners, for she had long since been able to choose as she liked from the men of the Court. But the one who might command a dance, he whom she expected to be seen with at least once during the evening, did not, apparently, look at her to-night. The Court perceived this as quickly as she did; and, in consequence, certain gentlemen left her side. Richelieu, who dared not approach her, smiled cynically at their want of foresight, and saw, with a nod of approval, that de Gêvres, d'Epernon, de Sauvré and Penthièvre became more than ever assiduous in their attentions. If Deborah were disappointed, certainly none could have guessed it. Her manner was just as usual—quiet, eminently unaffected, and punctiliously gracious. It was becoming the best manner in the kingdom, de Gêvres observed to his neighbor, d'Epernon, as she entered the King's set with Penthièvre. D'Epernon weakly tapped his snuff-box, but said nothing for a time.
"De Bernis is across the room," he observed, finally.
"Yes, and there will soon be thrushes in the bosquet of the Queen!"
The other smiled and shifted his position. "It is more apropos than you think. Observe—there is de Coigny returned."
"Ah! True! He is accepting snuff from the abbé!"
"We shall not be seconds after all, then. Let us go and speak with Jules."
"I cannot now. I wait here for Mme. de Mailly."
"Au revoir, then."
"Au revoir. The Maréchal looks well in black."
Thus the evening wore on in customary fashion, and, as the hour for supper approached, a little quiver of expectation fell upon the hearts of certain people in the great room, who, so far as an outsider could have determined, were in no way connected with each other. D'Argenson had been missing during the early part of the evening, but made his appearance at eleven o'clock. De Berryer and Maurepas, during the ensuing quarter of an hour, each approached and casually addressed him. De Gêvres did not go near him, but received a nod from across the room that seemed to be satisfactory to both. The King himself, during a promenade, paused for an instant on his way to whisper something that his partner herself could not hear, into the ear of Marc Antoine. The answer was simply, "Yes, Sire," but the King moved on with new gayety after hearing it.
Shortly afterwards supper was announced, and the brilliant company leisurely prepared to get them to table. During the recessional from the salon there were likewise three or four incidents, which, put properly together, formed an intricate little drama. Claude, who had just relinquished his last partner, Mme. de Grammont, to her new escort, was looking, somewhat half-heartedly, for an unattended dame, when, to his great satisfaction, Henri appeared beside him and held him back for a moment or two of conversation, it being some days since they had met. For an instant the cousins eyed each other in silence. Then, as they drew aside from the doorway, Claude observed:
"Henri, you are not well."
The Marquis gave a slight, cynical smile. "On the contrary, dear Claude, I have now lost my last excuse for worry, care, or melancholy. What more could the gods devise for me?"
"Ah! I know!" returned the other, very gently, as he laid one hand upon Henri's shoulder. "You must think—only—that she is happier now."
Henri quivered suddenly and shook the hand away. "Stop, Claude. I—I—no, not even from you," he ejaculated, harshly.
"Forgive me."
"Good-evening, gentlemen."
Henri faced quickly about as Claude bowed to the man who had approached them. It was d'Argenson.
"You look very serious, Monsieur le Comte. What is the matter? Do the powers of Europe threaten the last treaty, or is one of the King's lapdogs dead?" inquired Claude, with his most catching smile, and anxious to give Henri a moment to change his thought.
D'Argenson's expression did not brighten. Rather, it grew still more gloomy. It seemed difficult for him to answer the laughing question. At this moment, in fact, he would have preferred being in the thick of Dettingen to standing here, where he was about to inflict a merciless blow on a defenceless head. "Monsieur le Comte," he began, looking steadily at Claude, "I wish you to believe me when I say that never before, in all my life, have I so regretted my duty. In speaking to you I am obeying an absolute command. Monsieur—my friend—Claude—I have been this evening to the Rue d'Anjou. I left there—a letter—from the King—which you—"
He stopped. Maurepas had told him that this man would behave well. It was not so. Claude had turned deathly white. Both hands had flown to his head, and he reeled where he stood. Henri sprang forward and caught him about the body.
"Let me alone," muttered Claude, thickly. "I sha'n't fall."
"I will bring some wine," said d'Argenson, gently.
"No. I will have nothing." For a moment the three stood motionless and silent. Then Claude opened his eyes and looked upon the King's minister. "The letter—invites me—to travel?"
D'Argenson bowed.
Claude slowly drew a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his lips with it. "May God damn to hell the King of France! All the armies in his kingdom shall not drive me from it till I've got back my wife!"
"Claude! Claude! Come away!" said Henri, sharply.
"No. Not till I have Deborah to go with me."
"Monsieur—monsieur, that is not possible," whispered d'Argenson, anxiously. "Mme. de Mailly will be granted her choice. She will not be in any way forced. His Majesty will merely offer."
After he had spoken these words d'Argenson was not sure that Claude had heard them. The young man stood for a minute or two staring at him stupidly, with a look of heavy indifference. Then his body began to straighten, he breathed sharply two or three times, and d'Argenson's muscles stiffened as he prepared to avoid an attack. Claude's hand opened and shut convulsively, but he made no move forward. After a long time, when the tension had grown almost past bearing to his cousin and the minister, de Mailly, with a dignity that Louis himself could not have equalled, said, measuredly: "Well, messieurs, I go home to await my wife. If her choice is free, if she is not forced, she will return to me. This is inevitable. Henri, let us go."
The Marquis, with a melancholy glance at d'Argenson's astonished face, grasped his cousin's arm. Before they went away, however, Claude turned once more to the Count.
"Monsieur, if Mme. de Mailly does remain, all the bolts, all the bars and walls of the Bastille will not be enough to save Louis of France from death at my hands. Tell him so."
D'Argenson bowed low, and Claude, stumbling in his walk like a drunken man, left the room on Henri's arm.
In the mean time Deborah had not reached the supper-room. De Gêvres was her escort from the Hall of Mirrors, supposedly to the Salle du Grand Couvert; but, when they stood upon the threshold of the first corridor, he bent over her, saying, in a low voice: "Madame, the public room will be crowded and disagreeable. In the Salle des Pendules there is to be a little supper, to which I am instructed to invite you. Will you do me the honor to accompany me?"
And Deborah, to whom these private parties so frequently arranged for six or eight in some courtier's suite were far preferable to the general feast, accepted the invitation with cordial good-will. Thereupon they turned from the procession and passed through various courts, halls, and antechambers till they reached the Grande Galerie. Down the still, empty length of this, into the long corridor opening out of it at the other end, and finally into the passage of the Salle du Jeu, they walked.
"It must be a small party, or are we the first?" asked Deborah, as they entered the room and paused before a closed door.
De Gêvres did not answer. Instead, he knocked twice upon the panel.
"Enter," came a voice from within.
The Duke pulled open the door, and Deborah passed before him. The door closed again, softly, behind her. She was alone with the King.
"Sire!" she cried, with a little gasp.
Louis, who stood at the end of the room, his back to the fire, smiled at her. "Oh, there are no terms of etiquette to-night. We are only very good friends, you and I, my dear little Countess. Do you see? Now let us sit down together at this little table, where Mouthier has prepared a most delicate repast; and as we eat and quaff together some of the golden wine of Champagne, we will talk. Will you not thus honor me, madame?"
Deborah, who had grown very white during the King's speech, looked anxiously about her.
"We are utterly alone. None can hear us," observed his Majesty again, with the idea of being reassuring. He did his companion unguessed injustice. She had been thrown into a sudden panic of fear.
"Pardon, your Majesty, I—I do not desire to eat. I am not hungry. When M. de Gêvres conducted me here, I did not understand what he meant. If you will grant me permission, I will go."
This speech pleased the King incredibly. Here at last was a woman who would not fall at his feet, whom it were worth his while to win. Her fear was certainly genuine. She was actually moving towards the door. He did not stir from his place, wishing not to alarm her further.
"My dear Mme. de Mailly, how cruel to leave me quite alone! As your sovereign, I might command. As a man, however, I only entreat. Try, for me, one of these rissoles, which I myself assisted in making. Ah! That is better."
Deborah, something reassured by the quiet tone and the apparent liberty which was hers, looked doubtfully over to the little table whose glass and gold shone brightly under the great chandelier. The King was holding a chair for her. Flight now, were there really nothing intended by this gallantry, might be a little awkward to explain next day. After a moment's thought, Deborah went slowly over and sat down at the table. Louis, with a sigh of comfort and relief, placed himself beside her; and, taking her plate, filled it with portions from a number of dishes. The girl looked down at them with a troubled expression. She was thinking of Choisy.
"Madame—pledge me in this," murmured the King, filling her broad-bowled glass with the sparkling wine which she did not very much like. Wetting her lips with it, however, she said, demurely: "To your Majesty."
"Oh—that is a cold toast indeed. See, I will do better." He lifted his glass. "I drink to Deborah de Mailly, lady of the palace of the Queen, and beloved comrade of his Gracious Majesty the Fifteenth Louis of France. Eh, little one, is it not better?"
"Lady of the palace of the Queen," repeated Deborah, slowly, her large eyes fixed upon the King's face.
"Yes, I have said it. Your appointment is here," he replied, tapping the breast of his coat. "Now tell me what else there is in the world that you wish for. Ah—there is something, I know. Estates—money—servants—what will you have, my little one?"
Deborah shivered with cold. She realized the situation now, and the nerves beneath her flesh were quivering. Pulling herself together with a strong mental effort, she sat up, rigid and stiff, before her untouched food. Her mind was quite clear, her path well defined.
"What is it that you want? I read desire in your eyes," repeated the King, thinking to win his suit more easily than he had at first believed.
"No, no. There is nothing. I—thank your Majesty for your kindness. There is nothing that I want. Indeed, indeed, there is nothing."
"Happiest of humankind! To want nothing! Yet there is something that I desire. I, King of France, am not like you. Can you guess, Deborah, what it is that I long for more than I wanted my crown?"
"Another rissole, Sire, I think."
He was put out, and yet there was a little twinkle in her eyes that became her wonderfully, and seemed, too, to give him hope. After an instant he felt that anger was unnecessary, and thus recovered his ardent dignity as best he could. "I beg of you—be serious. Since you will name for me nothing that you wish, I will at least tell you in what you are lacking. When you hear these things—desire will be born. Madame—read this."
From his coat Louis took a broad paper, folded and royally sealed. Deborah, her face troubled and her hands shaking slightly, rose to receive it, and, after a moment of hesitation, at a most impatient nod from the King, broke the seals, and found the inside of the document covered with the neat, legible writing of Maurepas. She glanced quickly over its lines:
"The right to confer titles of honor being one of the most sublime attributes of supreme power, the Kings, our predecessors, have left us divers monuments of the use they have made of it in favor of persons whose virtues and merits they desired to extol and make illustrious. Considering that our very dear and well-beloved cousin, Deborah Travis, wife of the Comte de Mailly, issues from one of the greatest families of a nation closely allied to us, whom we delight to honor; that she is attached as lady of the palace to the Queen, our very dear companion; that she is united by marriage to one of the most ancient and illustrious families in our realm, whose ancestors have, for several centuries, rendered important services to our crown; and that she joins to all these advantages those virtues and qualities of heart and mind which have gained for her a just and universal consideration, we take the highest satisfaction in proclaiming her succession to the title and estate of that esteemed and honored lady, her cousin, Marie Anne de Mailly, and we hereby invest her with the Duchy of Châteauroux, together with all its appurtenances and dependencies, situated in Berry,"*
* This form is taken from the letters-patent used in the case of Marie Anne de Mailly.
Deborah, having finished the perusal of this document, let it float from her fingers to the floor, while she stood perfectly still, staring at the face of the man seated before her. Her expression, first of amazement, then of horror, was changing now to something puzzled and undecided, which the King beheld with relief.
"Madame," he observed, "you should thank me. I make you first lady of the Court. I give you title, wealth, power. I place a Queen below you in my own esteem. I give you ministers to command, no one to obey. I make your antechamber a room more frequented than my own cabinet. I leave it for you, if you wish it, to rule France. And what is it that I ask in return? Nothing! Nothing that your own generosity will not grant without the asking. Think of what you are, and of what you will become. Have you, then, no word in which to thank me?"
He also had risen now, and was looking at her, as she stood, with a mixture of curiosity, admiration, and impatience.
Deborah was still—so still that she might have been taken for a man-made thing. And by the expression of her face Louis knew that he must not speak more now. She was fighting her battle; his forces must win or lose as they stood, augmented no further. Before her had risen the picture of two lives, the one that was opening to her and the one that she had thought to live. As she thought, the real life, for a little, grew dim, distant, unimportant. The other, with its scarce imaginable power, glory, position, became clearer and still more clear till she could see into its inmost depths. Adulation, pleasure, riches, ease, universal sway, a court at her feet, a King to bar malice from her door, an existence of beauty, culture, laughter, light, founded on—what? ending—how? Yes, these questions came, inevitably. To answer the first, she looked slowly over the man before her, as he stood in all the beauty of his young manhood and majesty. Nevertheless, through that beauty his true nature was readable, showing plainly through his eyes, in the expression of his heavy lower lip, in his too weak chin—that sullen, morose, pettish, carnal, warped nature, best fitted for the peasant's hut, destined by Fate, lover of grim comedy, for the greatest palace of earth. This man, who had no place in her soul-life, must build her pedestal, must place her thereon. And the end of all—when end should come—ah! Now Deborah saw again the bed of Marie Anne de Châteauroux, with the Duchess upon it, as she had lain there for the last time. And Marie Anne de Mailly had been Claude's cousin—Claude's—
"Mme. de Châteauroux, will you examine to-night your apartments in the little courts? Will you take possession at—"
"Oh!—O God!—Help me!"
"What are you saying!" uttered the King, sharply.
Then she turned upon him with that which for the moment she had let lie dormant in her heart, now all awake and quivering with life—her love for Claude. It was, perhaps, God, who was helping as she asked.
"I am saying that I refuse to listen any more to your insults. I am saying that I am ashamed—utterly ashamed—that you should so have thought of me that you dare offer them. I amnotDuchess of Châteauroux!" She placed her foot on the fallen paper, and stammered over the French words as she spoke, for she was thinking in English now. "God save me from it! I am no lady of the palace of the Queen—I am not of Versailles, nor of France. I owe allegiance to no French King. I come from a country that is true and sweet and pure, where they hate and despise your French ways, your unholy customs, your laws, your manners, your dishonoring of honest things, your treatment of women. I am honest. I hate myself for having lived among you for months as I have done. I am going away, I will leave here, this place, to-night. If my—my husband will not take me—I shall go back alone, by the way I came, to my country, where the men, if they are awkward, are upright, if the women have not etiquette, they are pure.—Let me go!—Let me go!"
"'I AM NOT THE DUCHESS OF CHATEAUROUX'""'I AM NOT THE DUCHESS OF CHATEAUROUX'"
Louis, in a sudden access of fury, had sprung forward and seized her by the wrists. Deborah's temper was fully roused at last; her blood poured hotly through her veins. Her life had become a little thing in comparison to the laws for which she was speaking, the sense of right which seemed to hold no part in this French order of things. Bracing herself as she might in her high-heeled slippers, she suddenly threw all her weight forward against the man, taking him off his guard, and so forcing him back that he was obliged to loosen his hold of her in order to regain equilibrium. The instant that she was free Deborah turned and fled to the door. She flung herself bodily against it. It was locked from the outside.
"Good Heaven!" muttered the girl, in English.
"What is it you say, dear madame?" inquired the King, smiling in amused triumph as she turned to him, still grasping the handle of the door.
"You are unfair! This is unlawful! I am not to blame!" she said, her voice quivering.
"Madame—my dear Deborah—who could be unfair with you?" He came towards her, looking not too well pleased that she shrank back as far as possible at his approach. When she was close against the immovable door, and he just before her, he stopped, looked at her for a long moment with a peculiar, half-patronizing smile, then suddenly fell upon his knee at her feet, and captured one of her unwilling hands.
"Deborah—my Deborah—quel drôle de nom!—let us now forget locked doors, let us forget Majesties and riches and favors, and let us think only that here am I, Louis, thus before you, declaring my love. Let us make as though we were two peasants. I swear to you that to me you are all in all. Without you I cannot live. All the days of my life I will work for you, will cherish you. Now tell me if you will not accept such love?"
Deborah looked into the uplifted face of the King. Certainly it was marvellously handsome—beautiful enough to have turned the heads of many women. Perhaps, after all, there was excuse for those poor creatures, the three sisters, who had yielded to him. Perhaps, after all, pity was their only just measure. But she—Deborah Travis—had known handsome faces before. Indeed, she had come near to life-long unhappiness through that which she had known best. Suddenly, as in a picture, she beheld there, beside the King, the head of Charles Fairfield. Yes, Louis was the finer-featured of the two. Nevertheless, all temptation was gone.
"Monsieur le Roi," she said, clearly, and with a kind of cynicism even through her nervousness, "you are too late. I have been courted before, and I've plighted my troth and given my heart into some one's keeping. You are too late."
"Diable! Dix milles diables!" cried his Majesty, scrambling awkwardly to his feet and backing away from her. "Do you know who I am?—what I can do, madame? Do you know that, with one word, I can exile you? Bah! Who—who—is the man you prefer to me?"
"My husband," was the demure reply.
"Oh! It is an insult! Already your husband has his commands. He leaves Versailles to-night, forever. Do not be afraid."
"Leaves to-night!" A dark flush spread over Deborah's face. "Leaves to-night!Mon Dieu! When—where—how? Oh, I will go now! You shall let me go to him, do you hear? At once! Why, I shall be left here alone! I—I—shall be like Mme. de Coigny. Your Majesty—" suddenly she grew calm, and her voice gently sweet—"Your Majesty, let me go."
"As you have seen, the door is locked."
"Open it, then, or—there is another!" she pointed across the room to the door in the opposite wall which led into the royal suite.
The King moved about quickly, placing himself in front of it. The act was sufficient. It showed Deborah that she had neither pity nor mercy to hope for, nothing but her own determination on which to depend. And, as the knowledge of helplessness became more certain, so did her will become stronger, her brain more alert. She looked about the room. Was there a weapon of defence or of attack anywhere within reach? On the supper-table were knives and forks of gold—dull, useless things. On one side of the room was a great clock; on the mantel stood another. There were also stiff chairs, tabourets, an escritoire, and the table—these were all. What to do? She must get home, get to Claude, as rapidly as possible. Would he be there? Would he have trusted and waited for her? If not—what? She would not think of that now. She must first escape through that unlocked door guarded by the King. How to do it? Strategy, perhaps.
"Well, madame, have you decided?" inquired the King, coolly.
Deborah gave a slight, pretty smile. "I have only decided that I should like to finish Mouthier's comfits. We have not even touched the cream," she said, coquettishly.
Louis laughed. "Ah! That is well, that! Let us sit down."
Pardonable vanity, considering his experiences heretofore, had thrown him easily off his guard. So the two seated themselves again at the little table, Deborah, for an added bit of flattery, as he thought, taking the chair which he had used before, and which was nearest the door of escape. The King helped her bountifully to the smooth cream, which she began upon with apparent avidity.
"Louis," she said, suddenly, looking at him with a significant smile and eyes half closed, "pick up for me the paper that I dropped upon the floor. I—have not finished reading it."
The King was enchanted. She was surrendering at last. If she chose to make it easier for her vanity by treating him like a servant—why, he was willing. He rose at once and went back to the spot where Maurepas' document had fallen and been spurned by Deborah's heel. He stooped to pick it up. There was a crisp rustle of stiff, silk petticoats. He looked up just in time to behold his prize fling open the north door and hurry through it into the room beyond. This was the King's bedroom, and in it, at this hour, were only Bachelier, Levet, and two under-footmen. These four, in open-mouthed amazement, beheld the flying figure of a lady burst in from the Salle des Pendules, run across the royal room, and escape into the council-chamber, just as the King, purple with anger, shouted from the doorway: "Beasts! Fools! Idiots! Could you not hold her?"
Bachelier started up. "Shall I follow, your Majesty?"
"No,imbecile! Should the King's valet be seen chasing a woman through the corridors of Versailles at midnight? Ah! It is abominable!"
Thereupon his gracious Majesty threw himself into an arm-chair with an expression on his royal countenance which plainly told his valet that it would be many days ere an unnecessary word again passed the master's lips.
Once more, as a year ago, Henri de Mailly-Nesle sat in Claude's bedroom, on the eve of that young man's departure from Versailles. But the situation was different enough this time. Now it was Henri who, with a strong effort, sat trying to calm the feverish excitement and anxiety of the other. Upon the floor an open coffer stood ready; but nothing had yet been put into it. Claude would not admit a servant to the room. He was pacing rapidly up and down, up and down the apartment, talking sometimes wildly to Henri, sometimes silent, sometimesfx muttering incoherently to himself. His dress was disordered, his wig awry; one slipper and his sword had been tossed together into a corner. He was for the time bereft of reason. It was now half an hour since the return from the palace. D'Argenson's letter had been found awaiting them, but Claude had not read it. What need was there to do so?
"Henri, two hundred thousand is too much for the estate. The château is impossible—you are giving me money. I'll not have it—"
"Chut, child! Do you think—"
"Ah! She has not come—she does not come—she does not come! I shall go mad. I shall shoot myself if she does not return!Mon Dieu!—Mon Dieu!"
"Claude, be calm. There is time. She could not yet have got away. Be calm. She will come, of course."
Henri spoke soothingly, but, as the minutes passed, and still Deborah delayed, his heart sank. What to do with his cousin? Claude would, in a little time, be actually unbalanced, he feared.
"Henri, the château might be repaired. I should like to live in it again. I should like to be buried there. Ah, if she is not here in ten minutes, I shall use my pistol. Then I will be buried there, in the vault, beside Alexandre. Poor Alexandre! You remember—he never knew her. He knew what it meant to lose his—Deborah!—Deborah!—Deborah!Mon Dieu, Henri, I have been brutal to her. She will not come back. The time is come—the time is come—I will put an end to myself!"
Claude made a quick dash for the table, on which, amid a pile of varied articles, were his duelling pistols. He picked one of them up. Henri sprang from his place and seized his cousin round the shoulders.
"Idiot!—Put it down!—Stop!"
Claude was struggling to free himself from the grasp. The strength of a madman seemed to be in his arms. Henri felt his hold weakening. He was being repulsed.
"Armand!" shouted the Marquis hoarsely. "Armand! A moi! Au secours! Monsieur le Comte—"
"Mordi!you shall not!" growled Claude, furiously. "I tell you she is not coming! I will kill myself! Let me—let me go!"
With a mighty wrench Claude pulled himself free, overbalancing his cousin, who fell heavily to the floor. Claude had the pistol in his hand. The valet had not appeared. For just the shade of an instant de Mailly hesitated.
"Claude!" came a tremulous, quivering voice from the doorway.
The weapon clattered to the floor. Claude held out both arms, and Deborah, dazed, weary, utterly happy, went into them and was clasped close to his heart.
"Claude—we must go away," she whispered, her lips close to his ear.
"We will go,"
"Where—where—Claude?"
"I have no longer a country, my wife. But I know that which is there for us over the sea—that wherein I found you first."
Deborah gave a little sob of relief; and, as her lips met those of her husband, Henri de Mailly, who had kept him for her, sharply turned away.
And thus at last we come down to the sea—black, murmurous waste—rolling vastly under the evening sky, and against the far golden horizon. In this swift approaching night all that has been, all the base dishonesty, the foulness, the little-visible much-felt, shall be washed away, for it is the world that was. When the dripping sun flashes up again out of the east, 'twill be to send a shower of golden beams down the wind that is bearing a white-winged bark westward over the blue expanse. What two souls this vessel bears, whence—from what darkness of the Old—whither—to what brightness of the New—need scarce be told. The trial of their faith and love is over. Obedient to the victory call, out of the depths that have so long surrounded them, the future, star-crowned, rises up at last.
THE END