[Illustration: Cover]
[Frontispiece: "THE PAPER DROPPED TO THE FLOOR" p. 88.]
[Illustration: Title page]
_The House of de Mailly_
A Romance
_By_
_Margaret Horton Potter_
_Illustrated by A. I. Keller_
_New York and London_
_Harper & Brothers Publishers_
_1901_
Copyright, 1901, by HARPER & BROTHERS.
All rights reserved.
TO
MY DEAREST FRIENDS
AND
KINDLIEST CRITICS
MARIE AND FREDERIC GOOKIN
THIS VOLUME IS
AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED
CONTENTS
Book I
CLAUDE
CHAPTER
I. M. De Gêvres Entertains
II. The Toilet
III. The Gallery Of Mirrors
IV. Marly
V. The Chapel
VI. Claude's Farewell
Book II
DEBORAH
I. A Ship Comes In
II. Dr. Carroll's Idea
III. The Plantation
IV. Annapolis
V. Sambo
VI. Claude's Memories
VII. The Pearls
VIII. The Governor's Ball
IX. The Rector, The Count, And Sir Charles
X. Puritan And Courtier
XI. Distant Versailles
Book III
THE POST
I. From Metz
II. The Disgrace
III. November Thirteenth
IV. Claude's Own
V. Two Presentations
VI. Snuff-Boxes
VII. Concerning Monsieur Maurepas
VIII. Deep Waters
IX. The Duke Swims
X. "Vol-au-Vent Royale"
XI. "Thy Glory"
XII. One More de Mailly?
XIII. The Hôtel de Ville
XIV. Victorine Makes End
XV. Deborah
EPILOGUE. A Trail on the Water
ILLUSTRATIONS
"THE PAPER DROPPED TO THE FLOOR" . . . _Frontispiece_
"DE MAILLY HAD THROWN SIX AND SIX"
"'CLAUDE, TAKE THIS AND THROW IT OUT--THERE'"
"HE SUDDENLY STOPPED AND TURNED HIS HEAD TOWARDS HER"
"'I--GIVE YOU ONLY THIS'"
"THE YOUNG MAN ROSE AND BOWED"
"CLAUDE SAT SUDDENLY UP IN BED"
"SURROUNDED BY A GROUP OF PICKANINNIES"
"HORSE AND RIDER HAD FLASHED OUT AT THE GATE"
"'GO ON, MONSIEUR,' MURMURED DEBORAH"
"DEBORAH PERMITTED HIM TO LEAD HER FROM THE BALLROOM"
"'I AM NOT THE DUCHESS OF CHÂTEAUROUX!'"
Book I
CLAUDE
The House of de Mailly
CHAPTER I
M. de Gêvres Entertains
It was the evening of Tuesday, January 12th, in the year 1744. By
six o'clock the gray of afternoon had deepened to the blackness of
night, and a heavy rain began to fall, so that the Sèvres road, a
mile beyond the Paris barrier, was shortly thick with mud. The only
light here visible came from the window of a wretched tavern at the
way-side; and by this mine host, had he been watching, would have had
some difficulty in perceiving the two riders who came to an uncertain
halt by his door.
"It is late, du Plessis, and we have still three miles to go. More
than that, 'tis the worst cabaret in France."
"And you would be no more of a Jean-Jacques than necessary
to-night--eh, Claude?" returned the other good-humoredly.
"I should prefer drowning or to perish of a rheum by the way than be
poisoned by the liquor to be had here," returned the other, flicking
his saddle restlessly with his riding-whip.
"So be it, then. Come, we waste time. _Mordi_! A little gently
there, I beseech! It is raining mud."
A dig of the spur in the thoroughbred's flank, a spattering of drops
from the puddle in which they had stood, a quick apology, and the
landlord had lost his guests, illustrious guests, who paid never a
sou too much for their wine, but could make a drinking-place the
fashion for weeks by five minutes' presence within it.
The two rode for some minutes in silence, though no one of the finest
apperception could have felt any enmity existent between them. The
night lowered. The rain pelted coldly from the starless sky; and
horses and riders alike shrank from the raw, streaming atmosphere.
When the silence was again broken the lights of Paris were visible in
the distance. This time it seemed that du Plessis--the Duc de
Richelieu--addressed his companion's secret thoughts as though he had
been reading them for some time past.
"Believe me, Claude, you are unwise. She is not quite--quite of your
fibre. The elder branch, you will often find, if you study these
things, is less quick in sensibility, though perhaps not lacking in
finesse. The King, dear child, the King--"
"The King is a man. I also am one; he, de Bourbon; I, de Mailly."
Richelieu laughed heartily. "Pretty--pretty, Claude! I must enter
it in the unauthenticated register at Mme. Doublet's to-morrow! Why
do you not lay the matter thus before Mme. de Châteauroux herself?"
"Ah, monsieur, I think you understand her even less than I. I do not
dare address her as my position admits. My cousin cannot be more
proud of our family than am I; and yet--and yet--"
In the darkness Louis Armand François du Plessis de Fronsac de
Richelieu, from strong force of habit, snapped his fingers. "Afraid
of a woman! Truly, we have schooled you well, Claude!"
"You, Monsieur le Duc, you yourself--have you kissed my cousin on the
lips?"
"Oh, I do not infringe on his Majesty's rights."
"_Mon Dieu_! If it were any but you!--"
"Come, my dear Count, you are making an enormous mistake, permit me
to say. The one thing which no man should ever do is to take himself
in great seriousness. You have yet many a lesson to learn about
women. Now hear from me a bit of gravity, which shall prove my
friendship for all of you--madame, yourself, and his Majesty. When
it happens that a man chooses a woman, and the woman accepts that
man, whether it be for love, or--something else,--it is the place of
the world merely to look on. A third personality will not enter
complaisantly into the tête-à-tête. The King heaps upon his Duchess
the favors which only a royal lover can confer. And madame certainly
does not seem loath to accept them. A dozen besides yourself are
sighing after her to-day. Yet remember d'Agenois, my friend.
And--and Mlle. d'Angeville is charming in 'L'Ecole des Femmes.'"
De Richelieu smiled slightly, fumbled for his snuff-box, which was
unobtainable at the moment, and never knew that Claude had angrily
squared his shoulders and was cruelly hurting his horse with bit and
spur. The mention of d'Angeville happily turned the subject, as the
Duke had intended it to do, and by the time the barrier was reached
the vicissitudes of the Count de Mailly and the position of Mme. de
Châteauroux were, to all appearances, forgotten.
Once in the city, with rivers of rain above and below, and filth,
crime, poverty, and utter darkness about them, Claude de Mailly and
his illustrious companion made their way with what rapidity they
could down the Rue de Sèvres, past St. Vincent de Paul and the
Lazariste, through the little Rue Mi-Carême, the Place du Dragon, Rue
Dauphine, and so out upon the quays. After riding for three squares
along the river-bank, with the waters of the Seine foaming below
them, the two finally passed the Pont St. Louis, and, turning down a
short side street, drew up before a doorway wherein lanterns were
lighted, and before which two link-boys and twice as many lackeys
stood waiting. Above, upon a long iron arm, tossed by the
ever-rising wind, swung a great painted sign, a harlequin in cap and
bells, throwing his parti-colored cap above his head. Below, in
uncertain letters, were the words "Café Procope."
As the two gentlemen dismounted, Richelieu called to one of the
servants, who hastened forward to take his bridle. A second assisted
Claude, while another, evidently under orders, turned and called back
to some one inside. Instantly both doors were flung wide open, while
the landlord of this most popular resort himself braved the weather
and came out, candelabrum in hand, to greet his guests.
"Ah, Cressin," deigned the Duke, nodding, as he entered the house,
"are the rest not yet arrived?"
"Indeed, my lord, they have waited for some time above--Monsieur le
Duc de Gêvres, Monsieur le Duc d'Epernon, the Marquis de
Mailly-Nesle, and the Baron d'Holbach."
"Um. 'Twas the hunt kept us. Light the way up."
Claude lagged behind to throw off his wet riding-cloak, brush what
water he could from his hat, and shake out his hair which had
flattened beneath the protecting collar. Richelieu was kept waiting
for some seconds, and the landlord had become ill at ease before the
young _précieuse_ signified his willingness to proceed to the room
above, where his host waited.
Not a bad-looking fellow was Claude de Mailly, albeit what
individuality he possessed had some difficulty in asserting itself
through the immaculate foppishness of his attire. His wig, a very
fine one, was arranged _à la brigadière_, and tied with the
regulation black ribbon. His forehead was broad and smooth, his eyes
of a grayish green, shaded with heavy black lashes and good brows,
which, however, were artificially pencilled. His nose was one
bequeathed of ten generations of noble ancestry; his mouth was
sensitive, his complexion dark. The dress that he wore was not
expensive, though its ruffles were of fine Mechlin, and he carried
both patch and snuff box of ivory and gold. Richelieu, who preceded
him up the narrow stairs, was a more striking figure--taller, broader
of frame, with well-shaped head, great brown eyes that had carried
him through life, a hand like a woman's, with muscles of steel, a
smile that had won him a king's heart, and a charm, a power of
presence which had made time stand still before him, so that his
eight-and-forty years were something less than Claude de Mailly's
twenty-three.
Before the two noblemen and the landlord were half-way up-stairs
there reached them from above the tones of familiar voices engaged in
that species of conversation, half witty, half absurd, which typified
the times.
"_Parbleu_, Baron, you will be calling Richelieu out to-morrow! Your
carp will be ruined."
"In such case, Marquis, I must order your cousin spitted. He will
have been swimming the streets long enough, by the time he arrives,
to have acquired an excellent flavor, of a kind."
"Oh, 'tis more likely that the Count de Mailly's flavor would be
rather cloying. All love is sweet; but his is so really violent,
gentlemen, that--"
"For a month after you would sicken with the mere thought of a
rissole," cried the Duke from the threshold.
"And the epitaph which you would place over my picked bones," said
Claude, from behind Richelieu's shoulder, "would be:
Sa chair, même, étant douce comme miel,
Sa nature était aussi belle.
Il entra dans la vie réelle."
"Bravo! Claude. We will forgive the lost feet. You have purchased
pardon," cried d'Holbach, smiling. He and de Mailly-Nesle, Claude's
cousin and the brother of Mme. de Châteauroux, went forward to greet
the late-comers. D'Holbach, epicurean philosopher, and host of the
small company, gave them a genial welcome. The Marquis grasped his
cousin's hands, and bowed familiarly to the Duke, while the other two
men in the room, d'Epernon and de Gêvres, boon companions, both
intimates of the King, the one an amateur physician, the other an
adept at embroidery, remained languidly seated, deigning a nod and
smile to the last arrivals.
After a few further words of greeting and explanation, the party of
six arranged themselves about the oval table, on which were already
placed the _hors-d'œuvres_ and sweet wines, while Cressin hurried
away towards his kitchens to command the attendance of two waiters
and the first course of the supper. Only part of the evening's
entertainment was being given by the Baron d'Holbach. M. de Gêvres
had arranged an amusement for the night which promised some novelty
even to these utterly _blasé_ gentlemen. He proposed conducting his
friends across the river to his _hôtel_, which, by royal permission,
had, very conveniently for his pocket, been turned into a public
gambling-house. Its redoubtable owner, when not at Versailles, lived
in exquisite style in his château at St. Ouen; and, since there was
always a place for him in the Tuileries, the Hôtel Richelieu, or,
more covertly, the Hôtel de Sauvré, in Paris, he had not yet felt any
poignant discomfort through the loss of his ancestral house. On the
contrary, the unique pleasure of appearing in its familiar rooms
furnished with the rows of tables, frequented by bourgeois and
dwellers in St. Antoine, with the presence of an occasional petty
noble, was really very refreshing to the jaded spirit of this
vaporish child of highest France.
It was a particularly select little company who gathered about the
table in the private salon of the Café Procope on this stormy night.
All of them were of the bluest of blood; all of them spent the
greater part of their time about the person of the King; to all, the
doors of any and every house or salon in Paris were open at any hour;
and not one of them but had had hearts flung at him from the night of
his first appearance in the Gallery of Mirrors to the present moment,
when interest in the _hors-d'œuvres_ was beginning to wane, and
the first course of the supper should have been making its
appearance. D'Epernon had commenced to bore them all with some
remarks upon the recent blood-letting of his Majesty after a rout at
Choisy, when Claude jumped unceremoniously from the table, crossed
the room to a mirror, and took out his patchbox.
"Trust you'll have no women to-night, de Gêvres," he remarked,
breaking in upon d'Epernon. "I am wet through. My wig is in
strings, and the powder has melted away like--like snow in June.
While my boots"--taking out a large star and pasting it below the
corner of his left eye--"my boots will not be fit for my valet, when
we return to-night."
"Claude is standing there, my lords, aching with vanity to have me
relate to you how crazily he has borne himself to-day. _Ciel_!
'Twould be driving me mad with anxiety to learn how soon I should be
registering my presence at the Bastille, had I shown myself so little
of a courtier, so utterly reckless for the sake of madame's
admiration as has he."
Before any one had time to voice his curiosity, Claude turned quickly
from the mirror. "The Bastille, Richelieu! The Bastille! Surely--"
"Why not, my child? I have been there thrice for less; and the last
time, had it not been for my ever-honored Duchess of Modena--umph! I
had been carried out shorter by a head than when I went in!"
The five gentlemen smiled broadly at certain memories still
occasionally recalled on a rainy day at Versailles. But Henri,
Claude's cousin, looked anxious. "What is your last exploit, Claude?
Marie has been inciting you to rashness again?"
Claude laughed. "Madame did not honor me by a single command. I
rode a course, I shot a stag, and I won--this, which was intended for
a king, not me."
Forthwith the young fellow drew from beneath his waistcoat something
which even de Gêvres leaned forward to see. It was a glove, a white
gauntlet, weighted on the back with a crest heavily embroidered in
gold, and set here and there with tiny sapphires of the color lately
known as _œil du Roi_; while upon the smooth leather palm was
painted a very good miniature of his gracious Majesty, Louis XV.
The little group of courtiers glanced from the trophy to the face of
its owner, who was gazing upon them with a smile not wholly
unconscious, but wisely tempered with cynicism. Presently the Baron
reached forward and took the costly article from Claude. Holding it
with a delicate touch in the light of a waxen candle, he smiled as he
observed:
"Madame should not have removed this ere she gave it to you, my dear
Count."
"I would to God she had not!" cried de Mailly-Nesle.
Four pairs of brows went gently up, but Claude's eyes met those of
his cousin with such an expression of affection and melancholy that
for an instant he seemed to be transformed to some other order of man.
The slight pause was broken by the entrance of the first course
proper of the supper. The Count took back his gage and thrust it
again to the conventional resting-place over his heart; and while the
innumerable dishes were being placed upon the table or passed about,
he returned the patch-box to his pocket and seated himself between
his cousin and Richelieu.
"Now that Claude has given you his meagre idea of the crisis through
which he passed to-day," remarked Claude's companion, helping himself
to a fillet of partridge, "permit me to advance to him my own opinion
of the affair, as well as to lay the tale before you all. His coming
fate shall be surmised by you. Now hark: His Majesty and a little
suite rode to Rambouillet yesterday, in the afternoon. The hunters
were to follow this morning; but they say that de Rosset never
permits the King to rise earlier than eight o'clock, so that he is
fain to be near the forest on the day of the chase. I was with him;
but, for some royal reason, Madame la Duchesse, despite some very
eloquent pleading on my part, had refused to go. Possibly Mme. de
Toulouse is of family too scrupulous to receive her."* The Dukes and
d'Holbach smiled. "Claude, however, was of the royal train, for,
mark you, gentlemen, Louis adores the Count at twenty miles distance
from madame his cousin. Well, then, at ten this morning the meet was
called at the edge of the forest. His Majesty was in a frenzy of
eagerness, and looked--did he not look like a little god, my dear
Count? Hein? But for the point. The first deer had not yet been
started by the keepers when a diversion occurred. His Majesty was
talking with the head man. There was a murmur behind us. I turned
about, and saw--"
* The Count of Toulouse was a legitimated son of Louis XIV.
"Monsieur le Comte perishing of loneliness," murmured de Gêvres,
feebly.
"Not at all. On the contrary. It was Monsieur le Comte dismounted,
standing beside the newly arrived coach of Mme. de Châteauroux, with
his head so very far inside the window that it set some of us
thinking--many things. _Parbleu_! I would that you had seen Louis'
face."
"Madame must have risen very early," remarked d'Epernon, helping
himself to a cream.
"Madame is always wonderful. When she stepped from the conveyance to
greet her liege she looked more of a queen than her Majesty ever did.
Small wonder that the King was all devotion. Before he had finished
his first compliment, the heartless Leroy came forward to announce
that stags do not wait. Madame was very gracious, and instantly
mounted the horse prepared for her. She had driven from Versailles
in her crimson habit. When all was ready, the King turned in his
saddle and cried out before us: 'What reward have you to offer,
madame, to him who shall present you with the antlers to-day?' We
all watched her. She smiled charmingly for an instant. Some turned
their eyes then upon the King. I was more subtle. I gazed at
Claude."
"He is certainly very pleasant to look upon," observed d'Holbach,
absently.
"'Twas not his beauty, Baron. I am most tender of his modesty. But,
next time I plead with Mlle. Mercier for life and hope, I shall
imitate the look he wore at that moment."
"Take care, my dear Richelieu. She will marry you if you do."
"On my faith, that would not be bad. 'Tis an excellent way to rid
one's self of a woman. Baron, the carp is marvellous. Madame, of
course, offered the glove that you have seen as gage of triumph. It
is worth eighty livres. Lesage himself did the miniatures. When we
finally set off, Louis' eyes were bright with certainty of success;
for who would dare to engage in rivalry with the King?"
"Come, come, du Plessis, finish the tale. You are straining the
budding nonchalance of de Mailly here to an alarming degree."
Richelieu shrugged. "We started, madame following at a little
distance, though half a dozen ladies rode. After a quarter of an
hour we got sight of the animal, and de Sauvré fired at it, but
missed. By the manner in which his Majesty sat his horse, as we
raced along to gain on the beast, we all knew that our shots must go
astray to-day. Gradually the King drew away from the rest of us, and
we reined the horses a little. That is, all but one of us played
good courtier. The one was Claude."
"Monsieur, you might dare Satan for a lady if you would; but no one
should dare the King."
"Dare the King he did. In five minutes all of us were far enough
behind to watch, while they two--de Mailly and de Bourbon,
gentlemen--were neck and neck among the hounds. Presently the Count
fired, and--missed. I hoped that it was purpose, for he did not
reload. Then the stag ran through a little clearing, so that for
fifty yards it was a perfect mark. Louis fired, of course, but the
game kept on. I saw the King throw back his head with his gesture of
anger. Then de Mailly--oh! how couldst thou, Claude?--drew a pistol
from his holster and fired. That bullet was made for death, I never
saw a prettier shot. It went straight into the deer's neck. Another
five yards. The animal wavered. The King was reloading his weapon.
Claude was like lightning with his hands. Before his Majesty's gun
was ready the pistol sounded again, and the beast fell."
"Good Heaven, Claude! You have done badly!" cried Henri, leaning
over the table.
His words were echoed by the rest.
"But his Majesty permitted you the trophy?" drawled d'Epernon,
unguardedly.
"Permitted, my lord!" exclaimed the young man, haughtily; "the
gauntlet was not his Majesty's to give."
Richelieu laughed. "'Twas a comedy, gentlemen; but a dangerous one.
Louis was suavely furious; madame annoyed and alarmed, but as
indifferent as any coquette should be. Claude was charmingly humble
and amorous. It was I who obtained permission for him and for myself
to retire after luncheon. Certainly, Louis seemed entirely willing
to grant it. So together we returned to Versailles, dressed, and
came on here. And--oh! I had forgot to mention it, but 'twas a
marked fact that when madame presented her left gauntlet to her
cousin, the January skies instantly began to weep. Now, a question:
Was it from sympathy with the King, or dread for the Count de Mailly?"
"Fear for the Count, du Plessis. The King needs small sympathy."
"Possibly thou'rt right, Baron. Who so happy as the King? What does
he lack? He is a King; he has France for his purse; he is as
handsome as the Queen is ugly; and the most stately woman in Europe
inhabits the little apartments. What more could he wish for?"
Claude bit his lip and his eyes sparkled with anger.
"M. de Mailly, you do not eat."
"I have finished, Baron."
"Soho! I did well not to have a second course, then. Now,
gentlemen, the toasts. M. de Mailly-Nesle, I propose your marquise."
"Not his wife, d'Holbach!"
"You mistake, Monsieur le Duc. I speak of Mme. de Coigny."
"Ah! With pleasure! She is a most piquant madcap."
Henri flushed. The lady whom he deeply and sincerely loved was a far
tenderer subject with him than his reckless and heartless companions
dreamed of or could have understood. But he drank the toast without
comment, and was relieved to find that the conversation was straying
from her as well as from his cousin's affair. Claude, perhaps, was
not so well pleased. He was too young a lover, and too much in love,
to rejoice that other women were being brought up for discussion; and
he was too heedless of the delicacy of his position to care to
contemplate its different aspects while the others talked. For, as
to the matter of royal disfavor, it disturbed him not in the least;
rather he looked upon the prospect of it as something which should
redound to his credit in the eyes of her who at present constituted
the single motive of his life. For the next twenty minutes, then, he
sat over his wine, drinking all the toasts, and joining in the
conversation when Mme. de Lauraguais, another sister of Henri's, was
mentioned. But the interest had gone out of his eyes. Richelieu
marked him silently; d'Holbach smiled with kindly humor on perceiving
his preoccupation; and his cousin the Marquis read his mood with
regret. Henri de Mailly-Nesle had long since given up any hope of
control over his sister, the favorite; and, through a life-long
companionship, Claude had been to him closer than a brother. Thus,
whatever interest he felt in the latest developments of the Count's
rash rivalry with the King, was all on behalf of the weaker side,
that of his friend.
The six gentlemen had not been more than twenty minutes over their
wine when de Gêvres finally rose from his chair, and, as host for the
remainder of the night, made suggestion of departure.
"How shall we cross to my _hôtel_? It rains too heavily for riding.
Shall we go by chair?"
"By chair, monsieur! _Pardieu_! I had thought we were citizens
to-night. Let us walk."
"My dear Baron," expostulated d'Epernon, "my surtout would not stand
it, I swear to you!"
"A murrain on your surtout!" retorted Richelieu. "Baron, I accompany
you on foot."
"And I also," added Claude. "I wish to ruin my boots completely. I
have given Rochard too many things of late."
"A bad idea, Count. Pay your servants, and they leave you at once;
it is such a bourgeois thing to do."
"We walk, then?" inquired d'Epernon. "I am sure we must be going to
do so when M. de Gêvres addresses M. de Mailly upon the care of
servants. Monsieur le Marquis--your servant."
Richelieu and the Baron were already at the door. D'Epernon and
Henri followed. There was nothing for it but for the third Duke to
accept the companionship of the Count, and prepare to ruin his
surtout also. As the small party passed out of the door of the café,
Richelieu called over his shoulder:
"Your horse is here, Claude. I had mine sent to my _hôtel_. Surely
you will not attempt to ride back to Versailles to-night. Will you
lodge with me?"
"Thank you; but Henri will house me, I think--will you not, cousin?"
"Certainly, Claude. Madame will scarcely have any one in my wing
to-night, I think; though I confess that I have not been there for a
week."
"A bad idea," muttered Richelieu to the Baron. "I kept my ladies in
better training--when I had them."
It was fifteen minutes' rapid walk from the Procope to the Hôtel de
Gêvres. From the Quai des Tournelles the six proceeded to the Pont
St. Michel, over the river, across the island, and to the new city by
the Pont au Change, at the east end of which, near the Place du Chat,
stood the most recent and most noted gambling-house in Paris. Three
or four lanterns, shining dimly through the dripping night, lighted
the doorways, which were open to the weather. Richelieu, d'Holbach,
d'Epernon, and Henri entered together, with Claude and de Gêvres
close behind. It was Richelieu who accosted the manager of the house
in the _entresol_; for the owner of the place was not desirous of
recognition. M. Basquinet, discerning that the new-comers were of
rank, in spite of the fact that they came on foot, at once offered a
private room.
"The devil, good cit, d'ye take us for a pack of farmers-general? By
my marrow, I've scarcely livres enough to grease the dice-cup, let
alone paying your nobility prices for new wine and bad rum. Private
room--ha! excellent, you tax-collector, excellent, excellent!"
So spake Richelieu, in his favorite _badaud_, with a tone that no
dweller in the Court of Miracles could have bettered for its purpose.
The little party smiled covertly at sight of the landlord's
crestfallen air, and then the other five followed their new plebeian
leader up the broad ancestral staircase, leaving behind the steady
murmur of voices and the chink of coin which had reached their ears
from the chance-machine rooms on either side of the hallway. On the
second floor were the public rooms for played games; on the third,
private apartments for such as chose to make a retreat of the place.
And, in truth, many a well-known quarrel had fomented, and many a
desperate duel already been fought, in those chambers, which of old
had sheltered the royal and noble guests of the family de Gêvres.
The dice-room, the destination of Monsieur le Duc's present
distinguished company, was very large, having once been the grand
salon of the house. It was well filled by this hour, thick with
smoke, heavy-aired with the fumes of mulled wine, and alive with the
clack of the implements of the game and the subdued murmur of
exclamations and utterances. The six gentlemen made their way to a
table in the far corner of the room from which the door was
invisible; and, seating themselves, they called at once for the cups,
English pipes, and English rum.
"By all means, rum," nodded the Baron d'Holbach. "What other
beverage would harmonize with this scene? We are surrounded by those
a step lower than the bourgeoisie. For the time we also are lower
than the bourgeoisie."
"And by to-morrow we shall have still stronger means of
appreciation," retorted d'Epernon, "for our heads will feel as those
of the bourgeoisie never did."
The rum was brought, however, together with dice, and those
long-stemmed clay pipes of which one broke three or four of an
evening, and but rarely drew more than one mouthful of smoke from a
light. Still imitating the manners of those about them, each two
gentlemen played with a single cup, thus doing away with any
possibility of loaded dice. Unlike the common people, however, they
used no money on the table; perhaps for the simplest of reasons--that
they had no money to use. "Poor as a nobleman, rich as a bourgeois,"
was a common enough expression at that day, and as true as such
sayings generally are. How debts of honor were paid at Versailles
none but those concerned ever knew. But paid they always were, and
that within the time agreed upon; and there was no newly invented
extravagance, no fresh and useless method of expenditure for baubles
or jewelled garments, that every courtier did not feel it a duty as
well as pleasure to indulge at once. For the last twenty-five years
there had been, as for the next five there would be, a continually
increasing costliness in the mode of Court life, and a consequent
diminution in Court incomes, until the end--the end of all things for
France's highest and best--should come with merciful, swift fury.
Each member of the party, this evening, played with him in whose
company he had walked from the café: de Gêvres and the Count;
Richelieu and d'Holbach; d'Epernon and Mailly-Nesle. The three games
were in marked contrast to those carried on about them. Not a word
relative to losses or winnings was spoken. The stakes were agreed
upon almost in whispers; the cubes were rattled and thrown--once;
then again from the other side. The differences were noted mentally.
Winner and loser sipped their rum, drew at a pipe, and made a new
stake. Sometimes ten minutes would be spent in watching the noisy
eagerness of men at a neighboring table, for that was the chief
object in their coming to-night.
The great hall was filled with those of an essentially low order.
Coarse faces, coarse manners, coarse garments, and coarse oaths
abounded there, though now and again might be found a velvet coat, a
lace ruffle, and a manner badly aped from the supposed elegancies of
the Court. A strange and motley throng gathered from all Paris
wherever this common vice held men in its grip. Here those from the
criminal quarters, from the Faubourg St. Antoine, from the streets of
petty shopkeepers and tradesmen, from the little bourgeoisie, came to
mingle together, indiscriminately, equalized, rendered careless of
the origin of companions by their common love of the dice. Here were
men of all ages, from the fierce stripling who regarded a franc as a
fortune, to the senile creature, glued to his chair, the cubes
rattling continually in his trembling cup, and the varying luck of
the evening his life and death. All the pettiness and some of the
nobility to be found in mankind were portrayed here, could those who
had come to study have read aright. D'Holbach, the philosopher,
doubtless did so, for men had been his mental food for many years.
Nevertheless he said nothing to Richelieu of what he discovered; but
took snuff when he lost, and puffed at his pipe when he won, and
cogitated alone among those whom he knew so well.
Time drew on apace and the evening was passing. There were few
arrivals now; the rooms were filled, and it was too early for
departure. M. de Gêvres wished, possibly, that the hours would hurry
a little, for he was losing heavily to Claude. Nevertheless he gave
no sign of discomfort, and even interrupted the Count's purposeful
pauses to continue the game. Just as de Mailly shook for a stake of
five hundred livres, two people, gentlemen by dress, entered the
room. Claude threw high. The Duke, with an inward exclamation of
anger, gently received the cup. He shook with perfect nonchalance,
and finally dropped the ivory squares delicately before him.
"Bravo, M. de Gêvres; you have thrown well!"
The Duke started to his feet. His example was speedily followed by
the rest of the party, who, after bowing with great respect, stood
looking in amazement at the new-comer. His companion, who was
bareheaded, remained a little behind, grinning good-naturedly at the
gamesters. Richelieu spoke first:
"Indeed, your Maj--"
"Pardon, du Plessis, the Chevalier Melot."
"Your pardon, Sire. You take us by surprise."
"Has any one suffered from the shock?"
"I, Sire, I think, since your coming has turned my luck," remarked
Claude, with the double meaning in his words perfectly apparent to
every one there.
"Um--yes, I had thought M. de Gêvres must win with eleven. Come,
gentlemen, add two to your party, and forget, for the evening, even
as he will do, the unimpeachable propriety of M. de Berryer."*
* The Chief of Police, and a favorite companion of the King.
De Berryer laughed, and drew two more chairs to the table.
"Do not stand," continued the King. "I am merely Chevalier to-night."
Louis seated himself beside Richelieu, with whom he evinced a desire
to speak privately. D'Holbach, perceiving this, began at once, with
his usual tact, to entertain the rest of the company by an anecdote
concerning d'Alembert and Voltaire. Immediately the King turned to
his favorite courtier.
"De Mailly came straight to Paris with you to-day?"
"We rode to Versailles first, Sire; changed our clothes there, and
came hither immediately."
"And now the truth, Richelieu. I will brook nothing less. He did
not see madame after he left the hunt?"
The Duke opened his eyes. "We left Mme. de Châteauroux with you. We
have not seen her since."
The King drew a deep breath. "She left the hunting-party half an
hour after you, knowing that it was not in my power to follow her. I
feared it was to join--him. I have left everything to make sure of
his whereabouts. The fellow drives me mad."
While Louis spoke a gleam came into the Duke's eyes. He smiled
slightly, and said; with a nod towards de Berryer, and that daring
which was permitted to him alone, "Your Majesty brought a
_lettre-de-cachet_ in some one else's pocket?"
Louis looked slightly nonplussed. He shrugged, however, as he
answered, "No _lettre-de-cachet_ will be used." Then, as the
laughter from the Baron's tale subsided, the King addressed the
party: "We will not stop your game, my friends. In fact--in fact, I
will myself play one of you."
"And which of us is to be so honored, Chevalier?" inquired d'Epernon.
"It is a difficult choice, I confess. However, choice must be.
Monsieur le Comte, will you try three turns with me?"
There was a little round of glances as Claude bowed, murmuring
appreciation of the honor.
"The dice, then!" cried the King. "Richelieu, your cup. We will
play with but one."
"And he who throws twice best shall win?" repeated the Duke.
"Yes."
"What are the stakes?" inquired the Baron, gently.
Claude's heart sank, while his cousin dared not allow his sympathy to
appear. It was frequently ruinous work, this gaming with a King; and
the revenues of the younger branch of the house of de Mailly were not
great.
"The stakes," returned Louis, with a long glance at his opponent,
"shall be, on my side--" he threw back his cloak, unbuttoned a plain
surtout, and from his ruffles unfastened a diamond star of great
value--"this." He placed it upon the table.
There was a little, regular murmur of conventional admiration.
Claude bit his lip thoughtfully. "And mine?" he asked, looking
squarely at the King.
Louis coughed, and waved one hand, with a gesture of deprecation at
the question. "Yours should not be so large. We play to the goddess
of chance. You--um--ha--you won, to-day, a certain gauntlet of white
leather; a simple thing, but it will do. I will play this for that.
You see the odds are favorable to you."
Claude flushed scarlet, and not a man at the table moved. "The
gauntlet was a gage, Sire."
"We play for it," was the reply.
The Count glanced round the circle, noting each face in turn. Baron
d'Holbach was engaged with snuff. The other faces, excepting only de
Berryer's, were blank. But Richelieu's eyes met those of Claude, and
the head of the King's favorite gentleman shook, ever so slightly, at
the rebellion in the Count's face. Then, very slowly, de Mailly
unfastened his coat and drew from its place the glove of Mme. de
Châteauroux. He laid it on the table beside the star.
"We play!" cried his Majesty, smiling as he seized the leathern cup.
He shook well, and dropped the dice vigorously before him.
"Seven!" cried the company. It was four and three.
Claude received the implements from the King's hands, tossed and
threw.
"Eight!" was the return. It was three and five.
The King bit his lip, and hastily played again. The cubes stared up
at him impudently. On one was a three, on the other a one. None
spoke, for Louis frowned.
Claude was very sober but very composed as he tried his second
chance. It seemed that he could not but win. The courtiers hung
quietly on the play. When the cup was lifted from the dice there was
a series of exclamations. Claude himself laughed a little, and the
King drew a long sigh of relief. Two and one had de Mailly thrown.
It was Henri who voiced the general interest. "You are even," he
said, quietly.
The King suddenly rose to his feet. "Not for long!" he exclaimed.
For some seconds he rattled the dice in the box, not attempting to
conceal his palpable nervousness. When the black spots which lay
uppermost were finally counted, a smile broke over the royal lips.
Ten points he had made this time.
De Mailly, who had also risen, looked at them for a second with
compressed lips, but did not hesitate in his throw. Like de Gêvres,
he dropped the squares before him with pointed delicacy. Then he
stepped quietly back, with a throb at his heart, but no change in his
face. Not a courtier spoke.
"We will play again!" cried the King, loudly, for they were, indeed,
no longer even. M. de Mailly had thrown six and six.
[Illustration: "DE MAILLY HAD THROWN SIX AND SIX"
"Pardon, your Majesty," said Claude, in reply to the King's voiced
desire. "I could not play again against France and hope to win,
though by but a single point. Therefore I beg that you will spare my
humiliation, and accept the gauntlet as proof of your gracious
forgiveness of my daring."
At this Richelieu looked open-faced approval upon the Count; and de
Gêvres and d'Epernon, who had been roused from their ordinary state
of ennui by the pretty comedy played before them, glanced at each
other with appreciation of so excellent an act of courtiership.
"Monsieur le Comte, if I accept your generosity, it must only be on
condition that, as gage of my esteem for you, and our mutual
good-will, you wear this star. Permit me to fasten it upon your
coat."
The small ceremony over, and the light of royal favor glittering in
the candle-rays over the Count de Mailly's heart, his Majesty, with
tender touch, took up the coveted gauntlet, put it inside his
embroidered waistcoat, and, placing his hand on de Berryer's
shoulder, bowed a good-night to the party and the Hôtel de Gêvres.
Immediately after the King left, the other participant in the
struggle for a woman's gage also rose. Claude was tired. He had no
mind to be assailed with the volley of epigrams, bons-mots, and
various comments that he knew would soon begin to be discharged from
the brains of his companions. Certainly, he should have considered
the episode a happy one. Already, since that talk of esteem and
good-will from the King, he could feel the change in attitude assumed
towards him by de Gêvres and d'Epernon. But the sight of these
figures wearied him now; and he suddenly longed for a solitude in
which to face his rapidly growing regret that his cousin's glove had
passed out of his possession.
"What, monsieur!" cried de Gêvres, when he rose, "you will not give
me the chance to retrieve myself to-night?"
"Small hope for you with such luck as the Count's," returned
d'Holbach. "When a man wins two points off a king, by how much may
he defeat a duke? Reply, Richelieu. It is geometry."
Richelieu laughed. "I congratulate you, Monsieur le Comte," he said.
De Mailly bowed. Then, turning to the Marquis, he held out his hand.
"Will you come, Henri, or must I beg shelter of Madame la Marquise
alone?"
"I come, Claude. Good-night, and thanks for a most charming evening,
and a comedy worthy of Grandval, messieurs."
"Thank thy sister for that," returned de Gêvres.
Claude made a general salute, and then, without further parley,
accompanied his friend from the room and the house.
"My horse is still at the Procope," observed Claude at the door.
"No, I ordered it sent to my _hôtel_ before we left the café."
"We walk, then?"
"I am afraid so. I did not think to order my coach, and not a chair
will be obtainable on such a night."
"It is as well. The exercise will be a relief."
They started at a good pace up the long, wide thoroughfare that
bordered the river, and walked for some minutes in a silence that was
replete with sympathy. It was some distance from the gambling-house
to the Hôtel de Mailly, Henri's abode, which was situated on the west
bank of the Seine, on the Quai des Théatins, just opposite the
Tuileries, on the Pont Royal. The wind was coming sharply from the
east, bringing with it great, pelting rain-drops that stung the face
like bullets. Henri was glad to shield his head from the cutting
attack by holding his heavy cloak up before it. Ordinarily the walk
at this hour would have been one of no small danger; but to-night
even the dwellers in the criminal quarter were undesirous of plying
their midnight trade by the river-bank. The cousins had passed the
dark cluster of buildings about the old Louvre before either spoke.
At length, however, the Marquis broke silence.
"Claude, you have passed a point in life to-day, I think."
"With the two that I won from the King, Henri?"
"Those and the gauntlet of Marie Anne."
There was a little pause. Then Claude said, in a tone whose weary
monotony indicated a subject so often thought of as to be trite even
in expression:
"Do you--ever regret--that Anne went the way--of the other two? Will
she--do you think, finish as did poor little Pauline? Or--will some
other send her from her place--as--she did--my brother's wife,
Louise?"
As Claude had hesitated over the questions, so was Henri long in
making reply. "I do not allow myself, Claude, to wonder over
might-have-beens. There is a fate upon our family, I think. But of
the three of our women who have gone her way, Marie is the fittest of
them all for her place. Little Pauline--Félicité, we named her--her
death--my God, I do not like to think of it! And poor, weak
Louise--your brother loved her dearly, Claude. And he is dead, and
she--is making her long penance in that great tomb of the Ursulines.
Heigh-ho! Thank the good God, my cousin, that you have neither
sister nor wife in this Court of France. There is not one of them
can withstand the great temptation. Our times were not made for the
women we love."
And for the rest of their walk both men thought upon these same last
words, which, through Claude's head, at least, had begun to ring like
a dark refrain of prophecy, of warning: "Our times were not made for
the women we love."
It was half an hour past midnight when the Marquis pounded the
knocker on the door of his _hôtel_ by the Seine. It was opened with
unusual readiness by the liveried porter, who betrayed some surprise
at sight of those who waited to enter.
"Oh, my lord is not at Versailles!"
"As you see, we are here," returned Henri, adding, "My apartment is
ready?"
"Certainly, Monsieur le Marquis' apartment is ready."
"And one for Monsieur le Comte?"
The servant bowed.
"Light us up, then. Claude, will you have supper?"
"No. Nothing more to-night."
"Very well. Gaillard, is madame visible?"
The porter coughed. "Madame la Marquise was at Mme. de Tencin's till
late. Madame, I think, is not visible."
Mailly-Nesle shrugged his shoulders, and proceeded to the staircase.
As the servant followed with a candelabrum he made a curious, soft
noise in his throat. Forthwith a footman glided swiftly into the
hall from an antechamber, and took the other's place beside the door
as if waiting for some one. Both nobles saw it. Neither spoke.
Five minutes later Claude was alone in his room. Henri had left him
for the night, and he refused the services of a lackey in lieu of his
own valet, who was at Versailles. The servant had lighted his
candles, and a wood-fire burned in the grate. His wet coat had been
carried away to dry. His hat, surtout, and gloves lay upon a
neighboring chair. Amid the lace of his jabot glittered the jewelled
star which, two hours ago, had flashed upon the breast of the King of
France. Claude seated himself, absently, in a chair beside the
cheerily crackling fire, facing a great picture that hung upon the
brocaded wall. It was Boucher's portrait of Marie Anne de
Mailly-Nesle, Marquise de la Tournelle, Duchesse de Châteauroux. She
looked down upon him now in that calmly superb manner which she had
used only this morning; the manner that the Court had raved over,
that women vainly strove to imitate, that had conquered the
indifference of a king. And as Claude de Mailly gazed, his own air,
shamed perhaps by that of the woman, fell from him, as a sheet might
fall from a statue. In one instant he was a different thing. He had
become an individual; a man with a strong mentality of his own. The
courtier's mask of imperturbable cynicism, the conventional domino of
forced interest, the detestable undergarments of necessary toadyism,
all were gone. Not the patch on his face, not the height of his
heels, not the whiteness of his hands nor the breadth of his cuffs
could make him now. Perhaps she whose painted likeness was before
him would no more have cared to know him as he really was than she
would have liked the words that he uttered, dreamily, before her
picture. But it was the true Claude, Claude the man, nevertheless,
who repeated aloud the thought in his heart:
"Our times are not made for the women we love."
CHAPTER II
The Toilet
Dawn, the late dawn of a gray, wintry morning, hung over Versailles.
Within the palace walls those vast corridors, which had lately rung
to sounds of life and laughter, stretched endlessly out in the
ghostly chill of the vague light. Chill and stillness had crept also
under many doors; and they breathed over that stately room in which
Marie Anne de Châteauroux was accustomed to take the few hours of
relief from feverish life granted her by kindly sleep.
Though the favorite's apartment was as dark as drawn curtains could
make it, nevertheless a thin gleam of gray shot relentlessly between
hanging and wall, and, falling athwart the canopied bed, announced
that madame's temporary rest approached its end. Against this
decree, however, madame's attitude would seem to rebel. She lay,
apparently in profound sleep, in the very centre of the great bed,
sheets and cover drawn closely about her, up to her throat. Only one
hand, half hidden in lace, and her head, with its framing mass of
yellow, powder-dulled hair, were visible. In her waking life that
head of the Duchess of Châteauroux was celebrated for its marvellous
poise. And even now, as it lay relaxed upon the pillow, the effect
of its daytime majesty was not quite lost. Viewed thus, devoid of
animation or expression, the pure, classic beauty of the face showed
to better advantage, perhaps, than at another time. Already,
however, ennui, and the constant effort at appearance of pleasure,
had left their marks upon the regular features; and, indeed, much
other than mere beauty might be found in the countenance. If there
were power in the breadth of the forehead, there was too much
determination in the chin; while at each corner of the delicate mouth
a faint line gave a cast of resolution, dogged and relentless, to the
feminine ensemble.
Presently, as the shadows melted more and more, the woman's
silken-lashed eyes fell open, and the first of her waking thoughts
was expressed in a long, melancholy sigh.
The duties of the Duchess as Lady of the Palace of the Queen
necessitated her presence at the grand toilet of her Majesty on
Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. On Tuesday, Thursday, and Sunday,
therefore, except on those weeks when she was in constant attendance
on Louis' consort, the Châteauroux accustomed the Court to a toilet
of her own, which the King's faction religiously frequented, while
the Queen's circle, the religious party, rolled their eyes, clasped
their hands, violently denounced the insolence of it, and fervently
wished that they might go, too. Certainly madame's morning
receptions were eminently successful, and, however much gentle Marie
Leczinska might disapprove of them in secret, she never had the
courage to anger her husband by voicing her sense of indignity.
Thus, six mornings of the week being provided for, on Saturday the
Duchess confessed herself, though no absolution was to be had, and
prayed forgiveness for the other part of her life.
As madame awoke, and the clock upon her mantel-piece struck eight, a
door into the room swung open, and a trimly dressed maid came in.
She pushed back the curtains from the window, looped them up, and
crossed to the bedside.
"'Tis you, Antoinette?" came a voice from beneath the canopy.
"Yes, madame. Shall I bring the water?"
"At once."
As Antoinette once more disappeared, madame sat up and pushed aside
the curtains of her bed.
For the following quarter of an hour, while the first part of the
toilet was being performed, the second and elaborate half of that
daily function was prepared for in the second room of the favorite's
suite--the famous boudoir. A remarkable little room this, with its
silken hangings of Persian blue and green and white; and a remarkable
little man it was who sat informally upon a tabouret, in the midst of
the graceful confusion of chairs, sofas, consoles, and inlaid stands,
while in front of him was the second dressing-table, whereon reposed
the paraphernalia of the coiffeur, and beside him was a small bronze
brazier, where charcoal, for the heating of irons, burned. The
profession of M. Marchon was instantly proclaimed by his elaborate
elegance of wig. He had been, at some time, perruquier to each
French queen of the last three decades, from Mme. de Prie to the
ill-fated sisters of the present Duchess. Just now he was ogling, in
the last Court manner, the second wardrobe-girl, who stood near him,
beside a spindle-legged table, polishing a mirror. And Célestine
ogled the weazened Marchon while she worked and wondered if madame
would miss her last present from d'Argenson, a Chinese mandarin with
a rueful smile, who sat alone in the cabinet of toys, and ceaselessly
waved his head. The courtly companionship between the two servants
had lasted for some time when there came a faint scratch on the
bedroom door. It was Antoinette's friendly signal. The hair-dresser
leaped to his place and bent over the irons, while Célestine forced
her eyes from the bit of porcelain and put away her polishing cloth
as Mme. de Châteauroux entered the room.
The Duchess seated herself before the first table, where Mlle.
Célestine administered certain effective and skilfully applied
touches to the pale face, and when these had rendered her to her mind
for the hour, madame surrendered herself into Marchon's hands, where
she would remain for a good part of the morning.
The preliminary brushing of the yellow locks had not yet been
completed when the first _valet-de-chambre_ threw open the door from
the antechamber and announced carefully:
"The Duc de Gêvres."
De Gêvres, as usual, delayed his entrance a full minute. Then he
came in languidly, snuff-box in his right hand, hat under his arm,
peruke immaculate, and eye-glass dangling at his waist. He bowed.
Madame raised her hand. The Duke advanced, lifted it to his lips,
and left upon its fair surface a faint red trace of his salute.
Madame smiled.
"You have come to me early," she said.
"I arose," remarked the man, pensively, "to find the world in gray.
I arrayed myself to match the sky, and came to seek the sun. When I
leave you I shall don pale blue, for you will drive the clouds from
my day."
Madame smiled again. "Thank you. But the gray is marvellously
becoming. Pray do not attempt a second toilet this morning. One is
singularly depressing."
"Surely, you are not depressed, Madame de Versailles?" he asked,
idly, examining her _negligée_ of India muslin with approval. "Why
depressed? Louis was furious at your unaccountable absence from the
salon last evening, and would play with no one. He stayed in a
corner for two hours, railing at d'Orry and permitting not a soul to
approach. Is it in pity for him, this morning, that you suffer?"
Madame shrugged. "I do not waste time in pity of his Majesty. At
the request of Mme. d'Alincourt, I spent last evening in the
apartments of the Queen."
"Good Heaven! Then, madame, allow me to express my deepest sympathy!
I had no idea that you would play so recklessly with ennui. Why,
your very gossip is a day old!"
"You, then, monsieur, I hail as my deliverer. Will you not act as my
_Nouvelles à la Main_, that I may make no irretrievable blunder
to-day?"
"Madame desires, the King is at her feet. Madame requests, and the
gods obey. Where must one begin?"
"At the beginning."
De Gêvres smiled slowly in retrospection. It was for this precise
opportunity that he had risen an hour early and dared royal
displeasure by being alone with the favorite for thirty minutes. He
rose from the chair he had taken, drew a tabouret to within a yard of
the Duchess's knee, and reseated himself significantly.
"You frighten me, my lord. It must be serious."
De Gêvres shrugged. "Oh, not necessarily. You shall judge." He
glanced meditatively at her feet, tapped his snuff-box, and began to
speak just as Marchon finished the first curl. "Without doubt,
madame, even after the deplorable past evening, you still recollect
the rather _outré_ events of the day before. You cannot yet have
forgotten the last Rambouillet chase, the gage you offered, his
Majesty's unfortunate chagrin, and the intrepid, if rash, ardor of
your young cousin, Count Claude?"
"Thus far my memory carries me, monsieur. Continue."
"Well! The rest is, indeed, curious. In spite of the Count's heroic
gallantry, he appeared, later in the day, to have repented somewhat
of having so eagerly dared the royal displeasure. A company of my
friends were so good as to visit, with me, my _hôtel_--you know its
condition--for play, on this very evening. By great good fortune,
his Majesty, together with a companion, did us the honor himself to
join our party a little later. When the King beheld his successful
rival, the Count, seated with us, he instantly proposed that the two
of them play a round for high stakes. Louis, madame, offered a
diamond star--valued, perhaps, at fifty thousand francs, or more,
against--"
"My glove."
"Even so. You have, perhaps, heard the tale?" queried the Duke,
hastily, with a suspicion of anxiety in his voice.
Mme. de Châteauroux noticed this, but her face continued to be as
impassive as that of her smiling mandarin. "You forget my evening,
monsieur. I know nothing. Continue, I beg of you."
"Monsieur le Marquis de Coigny and the Comte de Maurepas!" announced
the valet.
De Gêvres coughed, but his face expressed none of the disappointment
that he felt.
Mme. de Châteauroux greeted both gentlemen with imperturbable
courtesy, and the three nobles, after her salutes were over,
exchanged greetings. Then the favorite said, at once:
"Pray be seated, messieurs. M. de Gêvres is telling me a most
interesting anecdote. Pardon if I ask him to finish it. Since it in
a way concerns myself, I am so vain as to be curious."
The late-comers bowed and looked at the Duke, who, in that instant,
had mentally sounded the intruders, considered his course, and
decided to risk a continuance of his original plan. Without any
noticeable hesitation, the story went on.
"As I said, his Majesty and the Count de Mailly were to play together
for possession of the glove. The King threw first--four and three.
De Mailly came next with five and two."
"Ah!" murmured de Coigny.
"Again Louis with ten, and the Count turned precisely the same
number. His Majesty was visibly tingling with anxiety. He was about
to throw for the last time, with a prayer to the gods, when the
Count--um--took pity on him."
"He offered the glove?" asked madame, quietly.
De Gêvres bowed. "In a way, Duchess. He offered to--exchange the
stakes."
"Oh!" cried Maurepas, angrily.
"Dastardly!" muttered de Coigny.
Mme. de Châteauroux flushed scarlet with anger beneath her powder.
Little Marchon, trained to high gallantry by long experience in
haunts of the elect, left an iron in too long, and slightly scorched
a lock of hair. His little eyes winked furiously with disapproval of
the Count.
"Monsieur le Marquis de Mailly-Nesle!" came the announcement.
De Gêvres coughed again; and, amid rather a strained silence, Henri
entered the apartment of his sister.
He looked about him for a moment or two with some curiosity, feeling
the awkwardness of his arrival, and considering what it would be wise
to say. Maurepas, the diplomat, recovered himself quickly,
remarking, in a tone which relieved them all: "This brother's
devotion, my dear Marquis, is gratifying to behold. One is really
never so certain of finding you anywhere at a given hour as here, in
your sister's boudoir."
"Mme. de Coigny has, I believe, no mornings _à la toilette_,"
observed Mme. de Coigny's husband.
Maurepas looked sharply at the speaker, while the others smiled, and
the Duchess made every one still easier by laughing lightly.
"Her _sang-froid_ is unapproachable," murmured de Gêvres to Maurepas,
behind his hand.
"You have certainly put it to strong test this morning," was the
reply, rather coldly given.
"L'Abbé de St. Pierre and l'Abbé Devries!"
The two ecclesiastics entered from the antechamber and advanced, side
by side, towards the Duchess. The taller of the two, St. Pierre, was
a very desirable person in salon society, and could turn as neat a
compliment or as fine an epigram in spontaneous verse as any member
in the "rhyming brotherhood." At sight of St. Pierre's companion,
who was a stranger here, the Marquis de Coigny gave a sudden,
imperceptible start, and Henri de Mailly suppressed an exclamation.
"Madame la Duchesse, permit me to present to you my friend and
colleague, l'Abbé Bertrand Devries, of Fontainebleau."
"I am charmed to see you both," deigned her Grace, giving her hand to
St. Pierre, while she narrowly scrutinized the slight figure and
delicate, ascetic face of the other young priest. The mild blue eyes
met hers for a single instant, then dropped uneasily, as their owner
bowed without speaking, and passed over to a small sofa, where, after
a second's hesitation, he sat down. St. Pierre, who seemed to
cherish some anxiety as to his new protégé's conduct, followed and
remained beside him.
"Unused to the boudoir, one would imagine. It is unusual for one of
his order. I am astonished that St. Pierre should have brought him
to make a début before you," observed de Gêvres to la Châteauroux,
who had not yet removed her eyes from the new priest.
"St. Pierre knows my fondness for fresh faces," she replied,
indifferently, picking up a mirror to examine the coiffure, just as
her lackey entered the room with small glasses of negus, which were
passed among the party.
While de Coigny raised a glass to his lips he turned towards Devries.
"You have spent all your time in Fontainebleau, M. Devries?" he
asked, seriously.
"By no means, monsieur," was the answer, given in a light tenor
voice. "Indeed, for the last two weeks I have been working in Paris."
"Working! And what, if my curiosity is not distasteful to you, is
your work?" queried madame, still toying with the mirror.
"By all means," murmured de Gêvres, comfortably, after finishing his
mild refreshment, "let us hear of some work. It soothes one's nerves
inexpressibly."
Devries' blue eyes turned slowly till they rested on the slender
figure of the Duke, clad in his gray satin suit, his white hands half
hidden in lace, toying with a silver snuff-box. The eyes gleamed
oddly, half with amusement, half with something
else--weariness?--disgust?--surely it was not ennui; and yet--in an
avowed courtier, that was what the look would have seemed to express.
"I will, then, soothe your nerves, if you wish it, sir. My work
certainly was very real. For the past two weeks my abode has been in
the Faubourg St. Antoine, but my days were spent in a very different
part of the city. At dawn each morning, in company with my
colleague--not M. de St. Pierre, here--I left behind those houses
whose inmates rejoiced in clothes to cover themselves, in money
enough to purchase a bone for soup daily, and who were even sometimes
able to give away a piece of black bread to a beggar. These
luxurious places we left, I say, and together descended into hell.
It might amuse you still more, monsieur, to behold the alleys, the
courts, the kennels, the holes filled with living filth into the
midst of which we went. There women disfigure or cripple their
children for life in order to give them a means of livelihood, that
they may become successful beggars; there wine is not heard of, but
alcohol is far commoner than bread; there you may buy souls for a
quart of brandy, but must deliver your own into their keeping if you
have not the wherewithal to appease, for a moment, their hatred of
you, who are clean, who are fed, who are warm. Cleanliness down
there is a crime. Ah! how they hate you, those dwellers in the Hell
of Earth! How they hate us, and how they curse God for the lives
they must lead! The name of God is never used except in oaths. And
yet a girl, whose dying child I washed, knew how to bless me one day
there. It seems to me that they might all learn how, if opportunity
were but given them. There has been some bitter weather lately, when
the frozen Seine has been a highway for trades-people. Those
creatures among whom I went make no change from their summer toilets,
gentlemen. Half--all the children--are quite naked. The women have
one garment, and their hair. The men are clad in blouses, with
perhaps a pair of sabots, if they can fight well to obtain them, or
are ready to do murder without a qualm to keep them in their
possession. It is among these people that I worked, Monsieur--de
Gêvres--with my colleague."
"How eminently disgusting!" replied the Duke, calmly, but his remark
was not pleasing to the rest of those present, who had been actually
affected by the description. Henri de Mailly had risen to his feet,
and, after a moment's pause, asked, rather harshly, "Who was your
colleague, monsieur?"
The Marquis de Coigny shot a quick, warning glance at Henri, and
raised his hand. "Monsieur l'Abbé, I am interested in your story.
Would you do me the honor to breakfast with me this morning, and tell
me more of this life?"
The little audience stared, and la Châteauroux lifted her head rather
haughtily. Devries appeared, for some reason, to be very much amused.
"You are too good, Monsieur le Marquis. I have already partaken of
my morning crust. Besides, you, doubtless, are happy enough to be
daily in the company of Mme. de Châteauroux; while I, monsieur, am a
poor priest, not often admitted to the dwellings of the highest." He
rolled his eyes towards the figure of the Duchess, who was becoming
visibly gracious under the effect of this slight compliment.
"You are not, then, a sharer of the opinions of those poor creatures
amongst whom you have worked, and who, as you truthfully suggest,
have some little cause to hate us, who have so much more in life than
they?" queried Maurepas, with the interest of a Minister of the
Interior.
"No, monsieur, assuredly I have no feeling of enmity towards the
nobility of France. I should have no right. You see, I know
very--very lit--" Suddenly Devries caught the eyes of St. Pierre
fixed on him in so curious a glance that he was forced to stop
speaking. His mouth began to twitch at the corners. He shook with
an inward spasm, and finally lay back upon the sofa, emitting peal
after peal of silvery, feminine laughter.
"Victorine!" cried the Duchess, starting from her chair. "Victorine,
you madcap! So you have come back again!"
"Mme. de Coigny insisted," murmured St. Pierre, uncertain of his
position.
The rest of the gentlemen sat perfectly still, staring at the little
Marquise, and trying, out of some sense of propriety or gallantry, to
keep from joining in her infectious laughter. Only Henri de Mailly
sat near a window, his head on his fist, staring gloomily out upon
the barren, stone-paved court.
"My dear madame!" cried Maurepas, when she had grown tearful with
laughter, "your disclosure has done me an excellent turn. It has
saved me five hundred livres. I was about thus to impoverish myself
that you might be permitted to get still closer to heaven by spending
another week in the criminal quarter distributing them."
The Marquise de Coigny grew suddenly serious again. "M. de Maurepas,
let me take you at your word. I beg that you will send the money to
him who was my companion in the work--l'Abbé de Bernis."
"Oh!--François de Bernis?" asked St. Pierre, in quick surprise. "I
have met him at the Vincent de Paul."
"Her Majesty, I believe, receives him at times into her most
religious coterie," put in de Maurepas.
"Well, since you know who he is, I will continue, if you will permit
me. I beg that you will all, at least, believe that what I have said
concerning my occupation in Paris was wholly serious. Indeed,
indeed, I am in the highest sympathy with the work of the Jesuit
fathers among the people; and there are few men in our world whom
I--respect--as I do M. de Bernis."
At these words, so solemnly spoken that they could not but impress
the listeners with their sincerity, the eyebrows of St. Pierre went
up with surprise, though he remained silent. As a matter of fact,
the reputation of the Abbé François Joachim de Pierre de Bernis was
not noted for its sanctity.
"Will you, then, permit me, madame, to double my first offer?" said
de Maurepas, with his mind on the treasury. "I will to-day send you
a note for one thousand livres, which I beg that you will dispense in
charity."
"M. de Maurepas, I wish that you could imagine what your word will
mean to those poor creatures."
"And shall you yourself return to Paris with the money, madame?"
inquired de Gêvres, smiling slightly.
De Coigny moved as though he would speak, but his wife answered
immediately, in his stead: "No, Monsieur le Duc. I have no intention
of taking permanently to a black gown. For two weeks it has occupied
me satisfactorily to attend the poor. Now I shall come back to Court
till I am again fatigued by all of you. After that I must devise a
new amusement. Really--you all know my one eternal vow: I will not
become successor to Mme. du Deffant. Death, if you like,--never such
ennui as hers. M. de Mailly-Nesle, will you give--"
She did not finish. Henri had sprung quickly to his feet, but de
Coigny was before him. "Pardon, Monsieur le Marquis," said he, with
great courtesy, "will you allow me, to-day, instead. To-morrow I
shall once more relinquish all to you."
De Mailly-Nesle could not, in reason, refuse the request, though it
was against the conventions. He merely bowed as husband and wife,
having variously saluted la Châteauroux and the rest of the company,
passed together out of the boudoir.
"Mme. Victorine's eccentricity and her terror of being bored are
excellent things. The husband seems to fall in love with her more
violently than ever after each adventure."
"Ah, Madame la Marquise is too charming to be anything but successful
everywhere. Really, Henri, you and de Bernis--"
Henri, angry at the first word, turned upon the Duke: "Monsieur, I
would inform you that Mme. de Coigny is--"
"Ob yes, yes, yes! Pardon me," de Gêvres rose, "I understand
perfectly that Mme. Victorine is the most virtuous, as she is the
most charming, of women. Madame la Duchesse, I have been with you
seemingly but one moment, and yet an hour has passed. His Majesty
will be receiving the little entries. I bid you _au revoir_."
The Duchess held out her hand. The courtier kissed it, bowed to the
three remaining men, and gracefully left the boudoir. When the door
shut behind him a breath of fresher air crept through the room.
Mailly-Nesle, who had been restlessly pacing round and round among
the tables and chairs, paused. De Maurepas drew a tabouret to
madame's side, and began to talk with her in the intimate and
inimitably dignified manner that was his peculiar talent. St. Pierre
was thoughtfully regarding nothing, when Henri approached and sat
down beside him. Just as they began to speak together, Marchon
stepped back a little from the chair of la Châteauroux.
"Madame," he cried, "the coiffure is finished."
At the same instant the door to the antechamber again flew open.
"The Comte de Mailly!" announced the valet.
There was a second's pause and Claude ran into the room. "My dear
cousin!" he cried, buoyantly, hurrying towards her.
Mme. de Châteauroux rose slowly from her place, stared at the
new-comer for an instant with the insolence which only an insulted
woman can use, then deliberately turned her back and moved across the
room. Maurepas was already on his feet, and now, seizing his
opportunity, he bowed to the woman, indicated Henri and the abbé in
his glance, passed Claude with the barest recognition, and left the
room congratulating himself on his adroit escape before the storm.
Mailly-Nesle and St. Pierre sat perfectly still for an instant out of
astonishment. Then, happily, the abbé came to himself, rose,
repeated the performance of the minister, and hastened from the
unpleasantness. The instant that he was gone Claude broke his
crimsoning silence in a somewhat tremulous voice:
"Name of God, Marie, what have I done?"
Madame was at her dressing-table. Picking up a small mirror, she
retouched her left cheek.
"Marie," said Henri, gently, "it is but fair that you let him know
his fault."
A shiver of anger passed over the frame of la Châteauroux. Then,
suddenly whirling about till she faced Claude, she whispered,
harshly: "My gauntlet, Monsieur le Comte; my white gauntlet! Return
it to me!"
Again Claude flushed, wretchedly, while his cousin spoke: "He has it
not to return, Marie."
She turned then upon her brother. "So you, also, know this insult,
and you counsel me to--let him know his fault! Ah, but your school
of gallantry was fine!"
"This insult!" repeated Claude, stupidly.
"Fool! Do you think I do not know it?"
Count and Marquis alike stood perfectly still, staring at each other.
"Your innocence is awkwardly done," commented madame. "Show me the
price, Monsieur Claude, for which you sold my gage."
"Price!" echoed Henri, angrily. But Claude drew a long breath.
"Ah! Now I begin, I but begin, to understand. Which was it that
came to tell the story, madame? Was it d'Epernon, or Gêvres, or
Richelieu who twisted the account of a forced act into one of
voluntary avarice?"
The favorite shrugged. "Charming words! I make you my compliments
on your heroic air. Will you, then, confront M. de Gêvres before me?"
"Most willingly, madame! Afterwards, by the good God, I'll run him
through."
La Châteauroux bent her head, and there was silence till she lifted
it again to face her young cousin. His eyes answered her penetrating
glance steadily, eagerly, honestly. And thereupon madame began to
turn certain matters over in her mind. She was no novice in Court
intrigue; neither had she any great faith to break with de Gêvres.
It was a long moment; but when it ended, the storm was over.
"How did it happen, Claude?"
"I gave the gauntlet to the King, when, man to man, he was beaten at
dice."
"You received nothing in return?"
Claude was uncomfortable, but he did not hesitate. "Yes," he said,
with lowered eyes. "I have brought it to you. I hate it."
From one of the great pockets in the side of his coat he drew a
small, flat box, which he handed to his cousin. She received it in
silence, opened it, and gazed upon the royal star. The frown had
settled again over her face. Suddenly, with a quick impulse, she
pulled open one of the small windows which looked down upon the Court
of Marbles.
"Claude, take this and throw it out--there," she commanded.
[Illustration: "'CLAUDE--TAKE THIS AND THROW IT OUT--THERE'"]
De Mailly was at her side in two steps. Eagerly he seized the jewels
and flung them, with angry satisfaction, far out upon the stones. La
Châteauroux looked at him quizzically for an instant, then suddenly
held out both hands to him. He did not fall upon his knee, as a
courtier should have done; but threw his arms triumphantly about her
and bent his powdered head over hers.
"Um," muttered Henri, indistinctly, "methinks I would better go and
seek the fallen star."
CHAPTER III
The Gallery of Mirrors
The 16th of January fell on a Saturday, on the evening of which day
the King held his usual weekly assembly in the formal halls of the
palace. These affairs were not loved by Louis, whose tastes ran in
more unostentatious directions; but they were a part of his
inheritance, coming to him with the throne, his hour of getting up in
the morning, and the national debt; so he made no audible murmur, and
ordinarily presented a resplendent appearance and a dignified
sulkiness on these occasions. It was his custom to enter the Hall of
Battles or the Gallery of Mirrors, in company with his consort,
between half-past eight and nine o'clock. Since no courtier was
supposed to make his entrance after the King, the great rooms were
generally thronged at an early hour, and the first dance began at
nine precisely.
At a quarter to seven on this particular Saturday, four candles
burned in the Gallery of Mirrors, and their petty light made of that
usually magnificent place a shadowy, dreary gulf of gloom.
Ordinarily, at this hour, the salon was deserted. To-night, it
appeared, one individual was unhappy enough to find the place
harmonious with his mood. This solitaire, who had twice paced the
length of the hall, finally seated himself on a tabouret with his
back to the wall, and, leaning his head against a mirror, gave
himself up to some decidedly uncomfortable thoughts. It was Claude
de Mailly who was young enough and unwise enough to surrender himself
to his mood in such a place, at such an hour. Only late in life does
the courtier learn how dangerous a thing is melancholy. Claude had
not come to this yet; and for that reason, through one long hour, he
remained in darkness, meditating upon a situation which he could not,
or, more properly, would not, help. For Claude's eyes were well open
to the precarious position into which he had got himself; they were
open even to his more than possible fall. Nor was he ignorant of the
direction in which salvation lay--the instant bending to Louis'
wishes, repudiation of the favorite, and devotion to some other
woman. But, to his honor be it said, Claude de Mailly was deeply
enough in love and loyal enough by nature to scorn the very
contemplation of such action. He could not see very far into the
future. He dared not try to pierce the veil that hid the to-come
from him. He would not think of consequences. Perhaps he was not
capable of imagining them; for, to him, life and Versailles were
synonymous terms, and the world beyond was space.
His vague and varied meditations were broken in upon by the
appearance of eight lackeys, who had come to light the room for the
evening. Claude rose from his place and slipped away by a side-door.
He had nothing to do, nowhere in particular to go. The
Œil-de-Bœuf would be deserted. The Court was dressing. An
hour before, dismal with the loneliness of the gray sky and the
falling snow, he had left his rooms in Versailles. He was dressed
for the evening, but had had nothing to eat since the dinner hour.
An idea came to him presently, and he bent his steps in the direction
of the Staircase of the Ambassadors. At the head of this, on the
second floor, he halted, knocking at a well-known door. It was
opened after a moment by a well-known lackey. Claude thrust a coin
into the man's hand, and passed out of the antechamber, through a
half-lighted salon, and into the Persian boudoir where sat Mme. de
Châteauroux and Victorine de Coigny, comfortably taking tea _à
l'anglaise_ together, and talking as only women, and women of an
unholy but very entertaining Court, can talk. The little Marquise
was dressed for the assembly. The duchess was coiffed, patched, and
rouged, but _en négligé_. She rose nervously at Claude's entrance.
"Claude! Claude! How unceremonious you are!"
"And did you hear what we were saying of you, monsieur?" asked
Victorine, smiling mischievously, as she gave him her hand.
"Fortunately for my vanity, madame, no," he returned, bending over
it; then, at her ripple of laughter, he crossed to his cousin, took
her proffered fingers, but, instead of kissing them, seized them in
both his hands, clasped them close to his breast, and looked
searchingly into her eyes.
"Anne, Anne, I have suffered so!" he murmured. "I wonder--if you
care?"
Mme. de Coigny sprang up. "At least, monsieur, give me time to
retire! Your ardor is so remarkable!"
The Duchess laughed and gently withdrew her hand from Claude's grasp.
She was in excellent spirits. Never had she passed a more uniformly
successful week at Court than the one just ending. If she had
purchased much royal devotion, and much toadyism from hitherto lofty
personages at Claude's expense, why--that was Claude's affair. His
career was not in her keeping; but she could, and did, treat him very
amiably in private for the sake of the fierce jealousy which he was
inspiring in her royal lover. It was one of her cleverest
manœuvres, one that had been tried before, this playing some quite
insignificant little person against Louis of France; for the King was
ardently in love for the first time, and had not yet grown old in the
knowledge of woman's ways.
"Come, Claude," entreated madame, "sit here, and take at least one
dish of this charming beverage. And the patties are by Mouthier
himself. You must taste them; and Mme. de Coigny shall entertain
you, while my dress is put on."
He accepted the invitation readily enough, seated himself at the
little table, and began an attack on Mouthier's patties with such
good-will that Mme. de Coigny held up her hands.
"Ciel, Monsieur le Comte! Do you protest that you are a lover, with
such an appetite? 'Tis more worthy the Court of Miracles!"
Claude put down his tea. "Ah, madame--the Court of Miracles! Do you
know that for the last days I have heard nothing on every side but
conversations about the last experiment of the Marquise de Coigny?
May I ask if it proved a really successful remedy for your deplorable
ennui?"
Mme. de Coigny slightly smiled. "Indeed, monsieur, its efficacy was
but too great. At the time, I was in a dream of pity and
of--happiness. Since my return, my wretchedness is greater than ever
before. Pouf! How can you bear the air of this hideous place? It
stifles! It poisons! It kills!"
"I hear," remarked Mme. de Châteauroux, from her toilet table, "that
Griffet will, in a few days, formally present Monsieur l'Abbé de
Bernis to her Majesty as eligible to the post of third chaplain to
the Dauphin. Now, if it were desirable, it is possible that the King
might"--she touched an eyebrow--"might be prevailed upon to ask him
to supper with the royal family."
Victorine de Coigny moved uneasily, and Claude noted, from beneath
his lids, that a sudden color, which did not quite match the rouge,
had started into her face. "Do not jest, Marie," she murmured, half
to herself.
"Oh, it is quite a possibility, my dear! If you ask it, I will--give
him a salon here on a Tuesday evening. Will that please you? You
will be able, then, to--"
Victorine sprang nervously to her feet. "Good Heaven, Marie! Do you
not know that M. de Bernis considers me a man? How could you dream
that I would wish him to know my sex? I--I beg of you--do not let me
meet him here, or--or--if I should, at least you must disclose
nothing. It would be too mortifying."
Mme. de Châteauroux paused in the manipulation of her gown to look at
her friend. Never before had she beheld Victorine de Coigny in
confusion; never had she seen her betray the smallest sign of emotion
about any thing or person. Claude also regarded her with unfeigned
interest. Presently he turned slowly to his cousin.
"Madame," he said, softly, "why will you not make a pilgrimage with
me into the Court of Miracles?"
"Dear Claude," she answered, smiling dreamily, "when I go there, I
must carry with me only an image of--the King."
And, while Claude colored with displeasure, Victorine turned her head
to hide an irrepressible smile.
By this time the candles in the great gallery were all lighted, and
the mirrors reflected the brilliant colors of a richly costumed and
continually increasing throng that passed and repassed in endless
procession before them. No woman here was untitled; few of the men
had less than five, and many had twenty, generations of unsmirched
aristocracy behind them. Many were there who did not own the clothes
upon their backs; and many others whose debts would have impoverished
a half-dozen of the wealthiest of the bourgeoisie. Yet few ever went
abroad with an empty pocket; and money was generally their last
source of worry. Here passed the Marquis de Sauvré, a member of the
King's intimate circle, a page of the Court, whose estates were
mortgaged, and whose Paris _hôtel_ was almost dismantled of
furniture, in an unpaid-for dress of cherry-and-white satin, with
pearls worth fifty thousand livres on him, arm in arm with M. de la
Poplinière, a farmer-general, worth forty millions, but not attired
with half the extravagance of his companion. In a corner, taking
snuff, and commenting on the degeneracy of the grand manner since the
last reign, were the old Duc de Charost, who had attached himself to
the Queen and the religious party; the Duc de Duras, who lived on the
influence of his wife's implacable etiquette; and M. de
Pont-de-Vesle, a successful diplomatist in a small way, and the most
disagreeably ubiquitous man at Court. Opposite them the Marquis
d'Entragues, a man whose scutcheon had come into existence two
hundred years before, beginning with a bar sinister to the discredit
of a certain King of France, and M. Marchais, at whose _hôtel_ could
be found the best _vin d'Ai_ in the kingdom, and who was a favorite
with Louis on that account, were discussing, with the Comtesse
d'Estrades, the pompous intrigues of Mme. de Grammont. Every one
waited, more or less eagerly, first, for the appearance of the
favorite; secondly, for the arrival of the King.
"It is half-past eight," remarked de Coigny to Charost, whose group
he had just joined. "I am unable to discover madame, my wife. She
must be with Mme. de Châteauroux, who, by-the-way, is late."
"The Duchess is actually more haughty than la Montespan was,"
returned the old Duke. "The Fourteenth Louis showed less indulgence
than his present Majesty."
"Possibly. But where is the favorite of the old Court with the
presence, the magnificence, the carriage of the present Duchess?"
cried Duras, popularly.
"Quite so," murmured Pont-de-Vesle, rubbing his chin.
"Well--yes. She has, perhaps, the manner," admitted Charost,
unwillingly.
"And she is here!" cried de Coigny.
"Ah! What a carriage! What a glance! What a toilet!" cried Duras,
rapturously.
"It is not difficult to perceive that she means, at all events, to
wreck her cousin as she did the little d'Agenois."
"It is de Mailly's own fault, then. He is mad, to betray such
devotion. One would never believe that he had been brought up at
Court."
"You are quite right, M. de Charost. Such honesty and truth as his
are absurdities that we do not often discover here," observed de
Coigny, shrugging his shoulders.
The Duchess, handed by Claude, whose eyes were fastened on her,
followed by Victorine and Henri de Mailly-Nesle, was entering the
salon. The perfumed crowd, half unconsciously, drew back a little on
either side to make a way for her as they did for the King. Her
bearing was certainly royal. The heavy velvet of her robe, with its
glittering silver fern-leaves, swept about her like a coronation
mantle. Her breast glittered with a mass of diamonds, and in her
hair were five stars, fastened together like a coronet. She was
turned slightly towards Claude, and noticed no one till he had
finished what he was saying to her, so that all had time to note the
manner of her entrance and the details of the costume. Then, as
Richelieu pressed towards her, she gently dropped Claude's hand and
turned aside.
He stood still for a moment where she left him, till he saw her quite
surrounded with men and women. Then he moved away, dreading the next
hour, but buoyed up with the thought of a promise she had given
before they left her apartments. There were few people about him
whom he did not know, and he bowed continually from right to left as
he walked aimlessly through the throng. Oddly enough, however, as it
seemed to him, the salutes that were returned were coldly formal. No
one addressed him beyond a chilly "Good-evening," and Mme. de
Grammont passed by with her eyes fixed on some distant goal.
Claude's heart was beginning to throb a little, and he could feel the
color surge over his face. Presently there was a touch upon his arm.
Quickly he turned his head. M. de Berryer was beside him.
"Good-evening, M. de Mailly. Your face is troubled. In the midst of
such a scene the expression is unusual. Am I impertinent to ask if I
can be of service?"
Claude gave the man a quick and searching glance.
"Yes," he said, after a pause, "you can tell me, if you will, your
idea as to why I am in disfavor with--all these. And, also, if you
will, answer this question: is my present position dangerous?"
They had drawn a little to one side of the greatest press while
Claude spoke. De Berryer stopped an instant to think before he
replied; but when he did so it was evidently with perfect honesty.
"My dear Count, you are experiencing these little and very
disagreeable cuts, in my opinion, first, because of your reckless
attentions in spite of his Majesty's open displeasure; secondly,
because of an unpleasant mistake in the story of your game with the
King on Tuesday evening. The first matter you alone can rectify, but
the method is simple. In the second, I will try to assist you. As
to the--possible danger of your position--well, let me advise you
to--do what may be done while it still is possible. Your pardon.
_Au revoir_."
The Chief of Police, bowing courteously, turned aside and was lost in
the crowd before Claude could say anything further. To tell the
truth, the last words had nonplussed de Mailly not a little.
Presently, however, he flung up his head, and, passing his hand over
his forehead, muttered to himself: "You may be right--God knows you
may be right. But no honest man gives up the woman he loves because
his rival is a king. And, from my soul, I believe that in time Marie
must love me in spite of all!" And so the lights grew a little
brighter as Claude passed on again through the Gallery of Mirrors.
It was a quarter to nine, and the company grew slightly bored. In
three-quarters of an hour two hundred people can easily dispose of
ten new scandals, redigest twenty ancient ones, and anticipate as
many as the remaining minutes will permit. But undiluted gossip,
spiced with epigram and heated with wit though it may be, grows
nauseating after a while, if taken in too great quantities; and,
through the great room, to-night, there were enough chronic
dispeptics of this class to make conversation finally begin to lag.
The abstract murmur, to which Claude was moodily listening, changed
in character. Suddenly, as the cries of the ushers at last rang out,
it became as present wine to former tepid milk:
"Mesdames, messieurs, their Majesties! Way for the King! Way for
the Queen!--Will you have the goodness to move just here."
The four royal ushers, with their white staffs, passed down the room,
forming an alley for the passage of the King. No ribbons were used,
as in the days of the fourteenth Louis. The courtiers were better
trained now. They pressed back voluntarily on either side, leaving a
very well-formed lane between the two crowds. A quick silence fell
over the room and the circling throng was still. Each one had sought
the company in which he or she wished to stand. For none knew just
how long it would take his Majesty to reach the other end of the
room, where he would open the first minuet. Claude, by a series of
delicate manœuvres, had reached the side of Mme. de Châteauroux,
and, despite the silence, found opportunity to whisper:
"You will not forget--that you have promised me the first dance?"
And the favorite, looking into her cousin's eyes, felt, even in her
heartless heart, a little throb of pity for the utter abandon of his
infatuation.
"I do not forget, _mon cher_. But thou shouldst have kept away from
me till the progress was over."
Claude shrugged and smiled happily.
"Mesdames, messieurs, their Majesties!"
Two more ushers entered and passed rapidly down the aisle, backward.
Louis and his wife, hand in hand, followed after. The King was, as
usual, magnificently dressed and glittering with jewels. His face,
however, was as unpropitious as possible. He wore his most bored and
fretful look, and he walked straight down the room for a distance of
twenty-five feet, heedless of his wife, without glancing at a soul.
Marie Leczinska, on the contrary, carelessly attired in a costume of
deep brownish-red brocade, pale of face, tired-eyed, yet wearing a
curiously contented look, bowed timidly to three or four of her
_dames du palais_ and some of her abbés, who had the grace to return
the salutes with a show of respect that was born of pity. The
company, however, quickly felt the chilling breath of the master's
ill-humor.
"_Parbleu!_" muttered de Gêvres to Richelieu, as they stood together
at the far end of the gallery, "madame herself is to be ignored
to-night."
But the Duke was mistaken. His Majesty, in his rapid walk, had seen
many more things than one might have imagined. He knew that Claude
was beside the favorite, and he accurately surmised Claude's intent.
Therefore, when he came abreast of the Duchess, who was not in the
front row, he suddenly stopped, turned his head towards her, and
remarked, in a perfectly expressionless tone:
"Mme. de Châteauroux, I have the pleasure of opening the dance with
you to-night."
[Illustration: "HE SUDDENLY STOPPED AND TURNED HIS HEAD TOWARDS HER"]
And before she had time to courtesy her thanks he had passed on again.
"Ah, de Gêvres, take note," murmured Richelieu, cautiously, "'tis two
forms of the same expression that her Majesty and Claude de Mailly
are at this instant wearing."
"You are right, my friend. You should propose something of the sort
as the next subject for the competitive philosophical essay at the
Academy."
"With whom do you dance?"
"The Princesse d'Hénin. And you?"
"I am going to bore myself for appearances. The Duchesse de
Boufflers."
"Oh. You might amuse her, then, with some anecdotes of your past
sanctity."
"She knows them too well. She will merely insist on talking to me of
the frightful improprieties of Mme. de Coigny."
"Oh, by-the-way, as to that, I hear that de Bernis did not even know
her sex."
"I have met him at Mme. Doublet's; and I give him credit for rather
more brain than that."
"Really? In that case I must take the affair into my repertoire. M.
de Mailly-Nesle will be able to weep in Claude's company."
"Such tears appear to run in the family. You've been rather unkind
to Claude of late--and, moreover, it was dangerous to garble the
story. His disfavor with la Châteauroux certainly did not last long."
"No--silly boy! Really, Richelieu, that little invention should have
done him a good turn. If the Duchess had refused to speak to him for
a week, he would have been saved. As it is--um--I am glad that my
position is not his."
"Well, _au revoir_. I go to seek my _dame d'étiquette_."
"_Au revoir_. But oh! Richelieu! Remember, when you relate the
tale, that it is not only from the affections of Mailly-Nesle, but
from those of de Coigny himself, that the abbé is tearing the lady."
"What! Coigny in love with his wife?"
"Madly. Only it is with the most delicate unostentation in the
world. He is perfectly _comme il faut_, and to general eyes devoted
still to Mme. d'Egmont."
"A charming romance. Thank you, and farewell."
Richelieu hurried away, and de Gêvres also moved more rapidly than
was his wont in search of his partner. While the hours of that long
evening passed, the emotions varied with them. As la Châteauroux had
her triumph with, so had her cousin his revenge upon, the King. The
third dance--_menuet des sabres_--Louis performed with his wife.
Under cover of imitating royalty, de Coigny sought Victorine for his
companion. Henri, biting his lips, watched de Gêvres lead madame
forth, and then, totally indifferent to every unengaged woman in the
room, sought out his Marquise, who left M. Trudaine with a little
laugh, and devoted herself prettily to the husband with whom she had,
as she said, merely a casual acquaintance. Meantime the King was
frowning furiously on the presumption of his still dauntless rival.
For Claude, in the face of a dozen competitors, under the very shadow
of a warning glance from de Berryer, which unmistakably spelled
_lettre de cachet_, had, with scarcely so much as a by-your-leave,
triumphantly carried his cousin off from her admirers to the head of
the third twenty, and proceeded to make two wrong steps during the
dance, much to the amusement of la Châteauroux and the disgust of the
King: who, though France were tottering, had never been guilty of
such a misdemeanor.
The grand supper, which began at midnight, was virtually ended at one
o'clock by the departure of the King; although Mme. de Châteauroux,
at Richelieu's side, still stayed at table, and the Court, from
curiosity, remained with her. There was a murmur, whether of
disappointment or surprise, when the de Mailly cousins, Henri and
Claude, with merely the customary salutes, passed together from the
room. Five minutes later the Duchess, refusing escort, departed
unattended, and the lingering Court, heartily sick of its own dull
self, bored, sleepy, with aching eyes and feet, rose from the
horseshoe table, and went its way to a dubious rest.
For an hour every apartment on the upper floors of the palace was
ablaze with light. In the city of Versailles those streets which,
during the great season, were the abodes of the lesser nobility, were
still alive with coaches, chairs, and link-boys; while not a window
in any of the tall, narrow houses but glowed with the mild fire of
candles. In one of these streets, the Avenue de St. Cloud, within
the building called by its owner the Châtelet Persane, in half the
apartment of the third floor, Claude and Henri kept rooms together.
Just below them, more luxurious in fashion and less in content, were
the court apartments of the Marquis and Marquise de Coigny.
Victorine, nearly ready for the night, with a silken _négligé_ thrown
over her elaborate white gown, sat before her dressing-table,
brushing with her own hands the clouds of powder from her dark hair.
This hair, comparatively short, according to the dictates of fashion,
was still her only claim to beauty. Thus at night, when the soft,
natural curls could cluster unreservedly about her pale face and
neck, the little Marquise was far prettier than in the daytime. She
was not beautiful even now. The mirror showed her a delicate, oval
face, pallid and hollow-cheeked; two abnormally large eyes, that were
green and weary-looking to-night; the brows above them lightly
marked, and too straight to harmonize with her great orbs; a nose
delicate, short, and tilted piquantly upward--a feature more worthy
of a coquettish grisette than the daughter of one of the oldest
families in France; and a mouth indefinite, long, pale, sometimes
very full of character, that would have rendered Boucher and the
miniature painters desperate.
Victorine had sent away her maid as soon as she was ready to sit down
quietly. It seemed to her that, sleepy as the girl appeared, she
would be able to read too much from her mistress's face, to see too
far into her mind. Besides this, it was a relief to be alone.
During the strange month which she had just lived, Mme. de Coigny had
fallen suddenly in love with freedom. The suffering which she was
enduring from bondage was the penalty she paid for her reckless
wilfulness. But had it been ennui now, as of old, under which she
chafed, she might have made further effort to dispel it by means of
another of those startling escapades which, since she had amused the
King with one of them, the Court had become reconciled to. This was
not ennui, then. This, she thought vaguely, and with a kind of
rebellion, was the haunting image of a single person, the unchanging
recurrence before her mental eyes of a man's face--the face of
François de Bernis, as she had seen it first a month since at
Fontainebleau.
The brush in her hand had almost ceased to pass over her hair, and
Victorine was staring fixedly into the mirror, without, however,
seeing herself. Presently the door to her boudoir swung gently open.
She started slightly and turned about in her chair. M. de Coigny,
her husband, in his long lounging-robe of green and gold, stood upon
the threshold. She regarded him silently. He hesitated for a
moment, and then asked, deprecatingly:
"Will you perhaps be so gracious as to permit my entrance?"
"Certainly, Monsieur le Marquis, if it is your wish."
"I thank you."
He walked lingeringly into the delicate little place, and seated
himself at some distance from her, upon a small chair. Then the
silence fell again, lasting several seconds. Victorine waited; her
husband was nervously at a loss for words. Finally, seeing that she
did not know how to help him, he began, in a low, impersonal tone:
"Madame, it is now four days since your return from your little
journey to this abode, and--and to my nominal protection. During the
month in which your place of retreat was unknown to me, I confess to
having experienced extreme concern for your welfare. I believe that
I have never spoken to you upon the subject of those short flights to
freedom which, from time to time, you have been accustomed to take,
in order to overcome, as I have understood, your always unfortunate
tendency towards ennui. This one just passed, however, having been
of so much longer duration than usual, I have taken the liberty of
questioning your old servitor, Jérôme, whom you were so wise as to
take with you as attendant. He has informed me that, so far as he
has been able to determine, your conduct as regards any of my sex
whom you chanced to encounter in that month, was eminently reserved
and dignified. Upon this, madame, I venture to congratulate you. I
have come to you to-night, however, with a proposal on which I have
meditated carefully for some weeks. At first it will not improbably
appear to you to be too unconventional and perhaps too uninteresting
to be desirable; but I beg, for my sake as well as yours, that you
will consider it from every point of view.
"I have thought, Victorine, that perhaps one reason for your
carelessness about existence at Court was due to your entire
indifference to any of the cavaliers there at your disposal. I
should have surrendered my supposed rights to M. de Mailly-Nesle had
I ever perceived that you desired him for your comrade. I have been
impelled to the belief that you do not care for him. Therefore it
is, madame, that I approach you to-night with the offer of myself to
you, as devoted to you in heart and feeling, to be your companion as
well as the protector of your name, or, as the Court understands the
word, your lover. With this request I couple the assurance that my
love and esteem for you are now far stronger than two years ago, when
we were united in marriage."
The Marquise listened to this punctilious and delicate offer quite
passively, with courteous attention, and no little amazement. When
he had finished speaking, she sat for a little while contemplating
him silently. He waited with patience while her eyes travelled over
his stalwart figure and pleasant face. Finally, not without
nervousness, she began her reply.
"M. de Coigny, I am now, at the beginning of our third year of
marriage, eighteen years of age. Of course you remember how, for the
first sixteen years of my life, spent in my family's estate in Berry,
I was carefully educated for the position which I now hold. All
necessary accomplishments and the code of etiquette were perfectly
familiar to me before that age; but there were some few
things--essential ones--about Court life of which they did not inform
me. Just after my sixteenth birthday I left the château for the
first time in my life. I was conveyed by my guardian to Issy, where,
fifteen minutes after I had first looked upon you, I found myself
your wife. You will pardon me, I am sure, monsieur, when I say that
my untried emotions were so strongly affected as to be, one might
say, shocked. We returned to Versailles, you remember, where I was
at once presented to their Majesties. In the two days which we had
alone together I had had time to admire you, monsieur. It might have
come to be more than admiration. When, however, upon my first
evening in the palace, it was revealed to me, inadvertently, what
your generally accepted position in regard to Mme. d'Egmont was, I
bitterly regretted not having been taught more truly what I should
have expected at this famous Court; and, at the same time, I
hastened, out of duty, to stifle at once whatever feeling I had come
to have for you in forty-eight hours. So successful was I, monsieur,
that I have never since been troubled by any emotion for any living
thing belonging to this city and palace of Versailles. Such, then,
must be my justification for the refusal of your very thoughtful
offer. I can but thank you for it. I appreciate to the full the
gallantry of your intended sacrifice; but I cannot permit you to make
it. Believe me, monsieur, I must refuse."
The Marquis de Coigny had heard her in silence. Now, at the close of
her unintentionally pitiful recital, he repressed an exclamation, and
sat still, looking at her, for a long moment.
"How brutal I have been, Victorine!" he said, finally. "But I never
realized. I never knew!"
His wife raised her hand. "Oh, monsieur, I beg of you, do not
reproach yourself! I would not dream, indeed I would not, of blaming
you in any way. It was only that I was young to the way of the
world."
He looked at her again, with a love-light struggling to show itself
in his face. "Victorine--can you not forget? Will you not let me
try to make your life happy, now, at last?"
She returned his glance, and smiled, dreamily, as though her thoughts
had flown far. "Monsieur, it is not in your power; for I am happy,
now, at last."
The Marquis de Coigny rose. His face was passive. Only his mouth
was drawn a little straighter than usual. His bow was in perfect
form. "I have the honor to wish you good-night, Victorine."
The Marquise courtesied. "Good-night, Jules," she said, kindly.
He was at the door when he suddenly, moved by strong feeling, turned
about again. She was looking at him. Their eyes met, and the
glances clashed. Silently she courtesied again; and, in silence,
once more, the Marquis bowed and turned away.
CHAPTER IV
Marly
On Monday afternoon, at half-past five o'clock, in a small room in
the Lazariste, which was next to St. Vincent de Paul in the Rue de
Sèvres, sat François de Bernis, Abbé Coyer, and St. Perle, the
Lazariste prior, taking tea. The Abbé François de Bernis wore, over
his non-clerical court-dress, a long, straight black coat, which did
not set off to advantage his dark, handsome face, straight brows,
nose, and mouth, smooth olive complexion, and deep gray eyes. His
wig was short and round. His hat and gauntlets lay on a chair near
at hand. Coyer, a weaker replica of his brother abbé, was in much
the same costume, which denoted an approaching journey; while St.
Perle, stout, round, pale-eyed, bald, and wigless, was in his usual
priestly gown.
The prior had finished his second bowl of tea, and sat absently
meditating on the excellence of its flavor. It was not a thing of
which he partook daily. De Bernis lay back in his chair, the dish in
his hand steaming unheeded, legs crossed, eyes staring into space,
and a smile stretching itself over his countenance.
"Thy thought, François! I would give something for the recipe of
that smile at Mme. de Tencin's. I might tell what tale I liked to
explain it, and they would credit every word."
De Bernis returned to the present, and directed the smile at his two
companions. "It is a tale," said he. "A very charming tale.
However, our coach will have arrived before I have finished it with
proper adroitness."
"The coach shall wait."
"Ah, my dear Coyer, 'tis not the first time that you will have made
your bow to his Majesty and to the favorite. Consider my agitated
eagerness."
"The _sang-froid_ of M. de Bernis is known to be imperturbable,"
ventured the prior.
"And your appearance at Marly will be infinitely more important if
you show yourself indifferent enough to be late."
De Bernis shrugged. "Very well, then. My history will--disappoint
you. It might be so charming a romance. It is, in reality, so
unfinished. However--I will be truthful.
"It began upon a certain morning five weeks past, the week of
Christmas, when, as you know, I was at Fontainebleau. At ten of the
morning I started out, on foot, my destination being the hut of one
of the forest-keepers, my road through the forest's centre. I had
some _écus_ in my pouch, together with some food and some medicine of
herbs, for the woodsman was wedded and was poor. The morning was
frosty. There was some little snow on the ground, and here and there
a wolf-track. I went slowly, composing consolatory speeches, and
meditating--on holy matters. Presently I looked up, with the sense
of some one near, to find myself facing a companion of the vows,
dressed like myself. I stopped, saluted, and bade him good-morning.
He returned my greeting in a pretty tenor voice, unusually high. I
looked again at the man's face. It was peculiar, but
pleasing--small, oval, white, and smooth. He was very young, and his
eyes were remarkably large and blue. He had been fasting, I thought."
Coyer laughed.
"Each day," continued de Bernis, retrospectively, without heeding the
interruption--"each day thereafter, by one chance or another, we met.
I am not quite sure how. M. Devries seemed to be under no particular
order of procedure, and so, at my invitation, he made himself my
companion in charitable rounds. Daily I became more interested in
him by reason of his reticence respecting himself; and, after a time,
I fell completely under the spell of fascination emanating from his
voice and his manner. By the time we set out together for Paris, and
before my first suspicion of his personality came to me, my
inexplicable infatuation had risen to great height. At the inn in
Fontainebleau, on the Paris road, and again at the lodging that he,
oddly enough, chose to take in the Faubourg St. Antoine, there was
always in attendance upon my companion an old and very respectful man
called Jérôme. When we passed the Paris barrier I overheard this
servant, in a whispered communication, address Devries in a word
which sounded strangely like 'madame.'"
Here St. Perle started with surprise, and Coyer took snuff with a
little impatience at the coup anticipated by him from the beginning.
De Bernis went on tranquilly: "At that instant all my vague
conjectures and my unconscious suspicions suddenly leaped together
into a certainty of knowledge. Need I add, my friends, that, as a
man and a poet, I was disgusted with all the lost opportunities, but
still enraptured with the glowing future? But, alas! I soon
discovered that my goddess--M. l'Abbé Devries, as I punctiliously
called her--was as unapproachable as she was irreproachable. This I
came to realize gradually, and by means of repeated failures in small
advances. I was still, fortunately, too careful to betray myself.
It was she who proposed our pilgrimages into that most unsavory of
holes, the Court of Miracles. Naturally I acquiesced, with the
utmost eagerness, to the proposal of continuing in her society for
two weeks more. From here I went for her every morning. I left her
every evening to return hither. By degrees I became madly in love
with her mystery, and so, at length, with herself, for her self's
sake. I would have squandered all my small fortune for a sight of
her without her abbess dress. At every turn I was foiled, either by
her or by her guardian, the incorruptible Jérôme. At last, a week
ago, I became rash through desperation. I frankly approached this M.
Jérôme, offered him one hundred louis d'or for her name, and five
hundred if he would admit me secretly to her presence that evening.
Actually the fool refused me--refused me stolidly, and at length with
so much vigor of purpose that I desisted from the attempt. The next
morning--the next morning--by ten thousand devils!--she was gone! I
know not how, I know not where. I know not if the old man warned her
of danger in my presence, or if she went of her own adorable accord.
In fine, I love the lady abbess of an undreamed-of convent, I love a
mad-cap demoiselle of I know not what château, the siren of an
undiscovered Venusberg, the angel of a heaven too high. Now, Coyer,
you have learned the romance. Show me, if you have pity for the
stricken, the road--to knowledge and to recovery."
At the close of his recital de Bernis' expression did not accord with
his words. His tone was irritated, and the displeasure in it was
caused as much by the failure of Coyer to appear interested as it was
that the relation of his adventure recalled his hopeless defeat at
the hands of a member of the sex over whom de Bernis loved to feel
himself conqueror. Therefore he finished his tea in silence, and
took three hasty and inelegant pinches of snuff.
St. Perle was troubled at the doubtful propriety of the story
related, in which he had been too much interested to refuse to
listen. He now folded his hands resignedly, and meditated a little
lecture to come a day or two hence.
The Abbé Coyer was still indifferent, or apparently so. He stirred
his tea and stifled a yawn before he remarked, casually: "Your road
to knowledge, de Bernis, is also that to Marly, where I trust you
will recover your _sang-froid_ in the presence of your inamorata, who
happens to be Mme. la Marquise de Coigny. You will meet her
to-night. Come, the coach is at the door."
His Majesty, who had been more than usually bored during the past
week, occupied his mind during the Sunday-morning sermon in thinking
over all the grievances of kinghood, the uselessness of affairs of
state, and the possibilities of some amusement on the morrow as
recompense for the prayers of to-day. In the afternoon he sought his
Châteauroux, and, happily finding her Claudeless, asked her aid in
planning a diversion. Madame, with more tact than originality--in
which factor her nature was lacking--proposed a hunt at Sénart in the
morning, a sleighing-party from the forest to Marly in the afternoon,
a supper and salon at that stiff château in the evening. His Majesty
received the idea graciously, since it did away with any possibility
of morning mass; and so, though he remarked later that he preferred
Choisy to Marly, and madame alone to madame's salons, the programme
was carried out as arranged, and the King seemed, in the morning at
least, to be having a very good time, indeed.
Late in the afternoon a long procession of sleighs stopped, one by
one, at the open portals of the great Louis' favorite retreat. Their
occupants were chilly, tired, and hungry. Nevertheless, the Salle
des Cardinaux presented a brilliant appearance when, an hour later,
the company descended, in fresh and costly toilets, from the upper
chambers to the supper-room.
The first course of the evening meal was served at six. It was a
less elaborate affair than had been the custom under the old régime;
but surely no man who had not inherited the appetite of a Louis XIV.
could have complained of a scarcity in the number of dishes set
forth. The company had apparently forgotten its weariness. The room
rang with laughter; the air was alive with conversation, with toasts,
with the relating of anecdotes, with snatches of verse, with
low-voiced compliments; and the candle-light was dimmed by the flash
of diamonds and the sparkle of champagne.
At the head of the first table sat the King--kingship dropped for the
evening. Upon his right hand, more royal than her liege, was the
Châteauroux; on his left, through some whim of his own devising, sat
Mme. de Gontaut, who had once rivalled the Duchess for her position,
and came dangerously near to winning it. Louis was supposed to be
not over-fond of this lady, who possessed that worst of all feminine
attributes, an indiscreet tongue. But to-night he was fanning her
long-smouldering hopes with such a breeze of devotion that the
Duchess, seeing, first of any, the newly rising flame, openly showed
her anger and disgust by turning her back upon the King to talk
inanities with d'Epernon, her neighbor.
By the time that the first course was over madame was exceedingly
uncomfortable. Never, since the beginning of her reign, had she
known the King to treat her so inconsiderately. Once or twice, from
beneath her eyelids, she glanced at her rival. Mme. de Gontaut was
radiant. She was racking her brain, she was tearing her nerves, to
keep Louis entertained for an hour--one little hour--more. She was
not a pretty woman, this Gontaut; but Marie Anne de Mailly perceived,
with a pang, that she could carry off a kind of light _espièglerie_,
which was amusing to the King because of its novelty. The glance of
the Châteauroux shifted to Louis' face. His Majesty was leaning to
the left, his blue eyes brilliant, his lips curved into the most
charming of smiles, his hands, which sparkled with jewels, lying
close beside those of the other woman. La Châteauroux forgot
d'Epernon while she watched the hands. The King drummed lightly on
the table. He was repeating an animated bit of gossip to his
companion. His head was thrown back, and a curious smile lurked in
his face. Presently his eyes, also, fell upon his hand. One of the
rings that he wore was a solitaire ruby of great value, set in a band
of finely chased gold. Still smiling, he slipped the ring from his
finger, and contemplated it for an instant, knowing well how two
women were watching him. He was not usually prodigal of gifts, this
most Christian king. But this time there was a score to be paid off,
a score of jealousy; and revenge is worth more than rubies. Louis
leaned forward, still speaking, gently took Mme. de Gontaut's hand
from the table, and slipped upon its third finger the ring he had
been wearing.
"Oh, Sire!" murmured the woman, her heart throbbing with a wild hope.
Louis, unable to resist the temptation, turned his head towards the
Duchess. She sat so that he could only see her profile, but from it
he knew that her face was flushed. He noted the stiff poise of her
head, the pure immobility of her shoulder, the slight dilation of her
nostril, the mouth firmly closed even while she smiled at a
witticism. Louis was satisfied. His anger with Claude de Mailly was
dispelled. Surely no woman would have the effrontery longer to
encourage a petty cousin while her position wavered in the balance.
Already the King released the hand he held and took a different tone
of conversation with the Gontaut.
But Louis of France did not yet realize what things an offended woman
will be reckless enough to do. Mme. de Châteauroux was furious, and
her fury knew no prudence. She was accustomed to her way, a way
which was not that of submission. Her pride was greater than the
King's own, and woe to the king who affronted it! In the instant
after she had watched Louis' carefully prepared scene, her eyes fell,
by accident, on the figure of Claude, who sat far down the table.
The sight of him showed her her opportunity for satisfaction. While
she ate, while she laughed, and talked, and quaffed champagne and the
new Bordeaux, she planned all in her mind. What matter if she lost
one man his freedom? She, Marie Anne de Mailly-Nesle, would make a
king suffer the consequences of his malice, and would once more make
sure of her own place, her position as Queen of France.
At eight o'clock the King rose from the table. Generally speaking,
the supper had not been particularly enjoyable. Every one was
wearied by the long drive, and a long continuance of gayety over the
food proved impossible. Besides this, the favorite had not set the
tone of conversation, and those who knew her expression were aware
that she was in the worst possible humor. Mme. de Gontaut was
displaying her short triumph so openly that his Majesty frowned and
actually left her side as the company adjourned in informal groups to
the salons next the banquet-room. Mme. de Châteauroux, still
assiduously attended by d'Epernon, sought out Victorine de Coigny,
who stood beside Henri de Mailly-Nesle. The little Marquise very
well knew the reason for this meeting, and she was suddenly seized
with a chill of terror. Looking up at her friend, she found the
Duchess's eyes fixed on her in kindly interest.
"He will be here?" she breathed, just audibly.
The Duchess nodded and smiled. "With Coyer. It was my command," she
answered. And Victorine, impulsively seizing her hand, carried it to
her lips.
Once in the Salon Pastorale, with none of those salutations to
members of the royal family or guests of royal blood which were
invariably expected, at a Versailles' affair, to be made, the King,
contrary to his first purpose, but led irresistibly, made his way to
the side of Mme. de Châteauroux. She and Victorine stood near the
door-way, talking with a small company of Louis' intimates. There
was some slight apprehension in the King's manner of approach, for la
Châteauroux very rarely concealed any displeasure that she might be
feeling towards him. But this time he was received by a pretty
gesture of welcome. Louis kissed her hand, and, as he lifted his
head again, caught sight of some one at the other end of the room who
arrested his attention.
"Since when, Madame," he inquired, "have our assemblies in retreat
been frequented by members of the clergy?"
La Châteauroux was in no way disturbed by the tone. "Have you
forgotten, then, Sire, my request that M. de Bernis be presented by
the Abbé Coyer, who brings him to-night? De Bernis was one of the
protégés of the Cardinal Fleury. I thought that, in such case, his
appearance before you could not be dis--"
"Enough, enough, Anne," interrupted the King at once, with the
strangely gentle manner which the mention of his former preceptor and
minister invariably called forth. "I shall be delighted to know M.
de Bernis."
The King failed to perceive the glances that passed from man to man
about him at the words of the Duchess. Neither was he aware of the
fact that de Bernis' presentation at Court had been delayed for eight
endless years because the flagrant irregularity of his life had so
displeased Fleury that the Cardinal had refused to give this priest
an entrée to the circle of the Queen, whom he respected, or to that
of the King, whom he loved. Mme. de Châteauroux was perfectly aware
of all this; but Fleury had been dead a year, and any qualms that she
might otherwise have felt were lost in the interest of watching the
face of Victorine de Coigny, who had just perceived the approach of
the new-comers.
At Louis' consent to the presentation, Mme. de Châteauroux had at
once sent a message of the eyes across the room to Coyer, who was
waiting for it. After an instant the two priests moved forward,
slowly, side by side, towards the royal group, de Bernis with his
eyes anywhere but upon the face of Victorine. The Duchess, with an
adroit grace, moved a little in front of his Majesty, who was
chatting with Richelieu. Thus she was the first to receive the two.
After a cordial greeting to Coyer she turned, with some curiosity,
upon his companion, to find de Bernis' sharp gray eyes fixed upon her
in an admiring gaze that was but just removed from an affront.
Curiously enough, however, the Duchess failed to resent it. Her
deadened nerves vibrated at the glance with a sensation so long
unfelt that it was a keen pleasure. Certainly the man had a
fascination about him. She smiled slightly, and then Coyer, who had
been awaiting the right moment, presented the Abbé in punctilious
form.
"His Majesty had graciously expressed a desire to meet you," said the
Duchess at once, turning slightly towards the King.
Louis, who was impatient to have done with the ceremony, stepped to
her side.
"Your Majesty," murmured madame, "Monsieur l'Abbé de Bernis has the
extreme honor of being presented to you."
The King extended his hand, which de Bernis, with a low and graceful
salutation, received upon the back of his and lifted to his lips.
"Any man who had the great good-fortune to be beloved by the Cardinal
Fleury, Monsieur l'Abbé, cannot but be at all times welcome at our
Court," remarked the King.
A look of astonishment passed over the abbé's face. He shot a glance
at the Duchess, who appeared perfectly unconscious. Nevertheless he
was too keen a man to allow himself to fall into a mistake so early.
"Your Majesty does me honor," he replied, in the slightest possible
confusion.
"Not at all," returned Louis. "I am honoring the memory of my good
friend Fleury, whose death--France and I--have cause to regret--more
than any other event--of the reign."
With this scarcely audible reminiscence, his Majesty, in one of his
peculiar moods, turned again to Richelieu, thus putting an end to the
audience. Once or twice during the next ten minutes Louis glanced a
little impatiently towards the favorite, with whom he wished to speak
alone; but she and the abbé were engaged in a conversation which
appeared to be absorbing to both. Presently the Duchess advanced a
little and touched the shoulder of the Marquise de Coigny. Victorine
turned with nervous quickness. Her delicate face was flushed and her
hands were cold.
"M. de Bernis, will you allow me to add to your acquaintance the
Marquise de Coigny, who will, I think, become your conductress for
the evening, if you desire to meet others here; or your spirit of
conversation, if you do not. Madame, I intrust the abbé's happiness,
for the evening, to you."
De Bernis bent over Victorine's hand. "Would that my life's
happiness were as secure," he murmured. And a quick light came into
the woman's eyes.
"To which lady will you be presented next?" she inquired, laughingly.
"To none, madame, if you are merciful," was the reply, accompanied by
one of those looks upon which de Bernis came afterwards to depend for
many things. "Dare I ask that you will grant me an hour of your
companionship?"
Mme. de Coigny refrained from saying how many hours of companionship
she would have granted for the asking; but her reply was certainly
gracious enough to content him, and, a moment later, they moved
slowly away from the royal group.
Meantime, by means of Richelieu's ready tact, the knot of courtiers
about the King had been dispelled, and Louis was left alone with la
Châteauroux. His Majesty watched the movements of his favorite
comrade with a quizzical eye; and when the doughty Duke was obliged
to carry off Mme. de Gontaut by making her his own companion, the
King, with huge relish, took snuff.
Mme. de Châteauroux posed beside a heavy portiére of yellow and gold,
with which her own dress of palest blue satin mingled harmoniously.
In the candle-light her face was perfection itself, and her manner
and expression of quiet indifference were intensely pleasing to
Louis, who was tired of the efforts at talking made on his behalf.
He did not now approach her closely, but remarked in a half-whisper,
from where he stood:
"Madame has been very cruel of late. The time, and especially the
place, are unsuited to proper expression of my lasting esteem. Will
madame be so generous as to receive me in her own apartments? The
heat and the people here are highly annoying."
"If your Majesty commands," returned the Duchess, without moving, "I
can, of course, but obey. Otherwise, I would suggest that your
Majesty remain here for at least an hour longer. At that time a
disappearance would be less remarkable."
The King sighed. "As you please--always as you please, Anne. But I
am wretchedly bored with all this."
"Allow me to advise your obtaining the services of Mme. de Gontaut in
dispelling your ennui," returned madame, coolly.
The King laughed. "Ah! you failed to understand my attention, I
think. I made a fool perform for your benefit, that you might
perceive how little any woman besides yourself could possibly please
me."
The Duchesse de Châteauroux shrugged her shoulders.
"_Au revoir_--in an hour."
"_Au revoir_."
With a bow and smile peculiarly his own, Louis moved away in the
direction of the little salon, and madame turned about to find Claude
de Mailly close at her side.
"Dear Claude! Where have you sprung from?" she asked, smilingly.
"I have been hoping all day that you might deign to speak to me. You
have been very cold of late."
She looked down upon him, and the smile died from her lips. "It is
you who have made me so. Surely you must have realized, cousin, that
you have been near to wrecking your own position."
"My position is nothing to me, except when it enables me to be near
to you."
"Then let me tell you, Claude, that were you not indiscreet you might
see far more of me than you do now."
"How--how--what shall I do?"
Madame turned away for an instant, and a resolution came into her
eyes. "It is difficult, my Claude, to talk seriously with you here.
I wish to see you happier. Listen. In three-quarters of an hour go
to my apartments. Antoinette will let you in. There, when I can
escape from this, I will come to you, and we shall have a little
consultation. You shall lay bare your heart to me, if you will; and
I--will turn adviser."
Claude seized her hand. "You will do this? You will let me tell you
all? You will listen to what I shall plead for? My God! It is more
than I could have hoped. Marie, Marie--I shall make you believe me,
I shall make you consent!"
"Chut! Some one will hear you, my child. There, that is enough.
Remain here while I go. Behold, de Gêvres is coming. _Au revoir_,
then."
She parted from him with a smile as easy as that with which she had
begun the conversation. What was one to think of her? A woman
without heart, nerves, senses? No. Only a woman of the Court, a
woman of the world; a woman whose heaven was Versailles, whose god
was called Louis XV., whose hell would be dismissal with ten thousand
livres a year.
Claude stood looking after her as she gave her hand to the lisping
Duke; and then, tingling with excitement, with delight, with hope,
with faith in his words and in her, the boy started upon the way she
had pointed out to him. He went slowly across the room to the spot
where stood Henri and a little group of ladies and gentlemen. He
laid his hand upon the Marquis' arm and drew him a little away from
the rest. Henri looked with curiosity and surprise upon his
comrade's excited face, the brilliant green of his eyes, and the
spasmodic manner in which he breathed.
"What is it, Claude? You look as though you had an inspiration, or
were about to be seized with an illness. You have had too much
champagne."
"Henri, I am about to be the happiest man in ten thousand worlds.
Henri, will you pray for the spirit of eloquence to seize me? For
one half-hour I would be a Bossuet, a Molière, a Racine! Henri, have
you ever heard me talk well? No. I have not--"
"Name of a devil, Claude, what is the matter?"
"Nothing. Nothing. Never mind. Good-night!"
He started away, but his cousin darted after him and caught him by
the arm. "See here, my friend, you would better let me accompany you
to your room. You must not make a scene. I cannot imagine how you--"
Before Henri finished Claude broke into a laugh. "Mordi, Henri,
didst think me mad? I am a trifle excited. I am weary from the
hunt--what you will. I am going to retire. Do not disturb me
to-night. See, there is Mlle. d'Argenson regarding me. Let me go at
once. There. Good-night!"
After these words the Marquis paused more contentedly, and saw his
cousin leave the room, going in the direction of the grand staircase.
On his way Claude passed the King, who was with Mme. de Jarnac, and
the Duchess, still with de Gêvres. He left the second salon behind
and entered an antechamber opening upon the central hall. Here,
quite alone, side by side in the shadow of a hanging, were Victorine
de Coigny and François de Bernis. The Abbé was toying with her fan,
and laughingly answering her animated questions and observations. De
Mailly took mental note of her face as he bowed in passing. Never
had he seen it so absolutely free from discontent or that little look
of fretful weariness that neither Henri nor de Coigny himself had
ever been able to dispel. Now Claude had left them behind, and the
staircase was before him. Ascending rapidly, he passed along the
corridor above to the old apartments of de Maintenon. He knocked,
was admitted without delay, and conducted, by Antoinette, into the
inner room.
"Monsieur le Comte will wait here. He is early," she said, as she
slipped away.
In the centre of the room in which he was left stood a round table.
To this Claude drew a chair, seated himself, and then, obeying an
impulse, leaned forward on the mahogany and laid his head upon his
arms. Minutes passed, and he distinguished them neither from seconds
nor from hours. After a time the maid once more went through the
room. There was the murmur of a phrase or two spoken in the
antechamber, a door softly opened, the delicate swish of satin, and
then Claude was upon one knee at the feet of his cousin of
Châteauroux.
She raised him up and smiled slowly into his brilliant eyes. "You
are tired of waiting, and, indeed, I do not wonder. But I have not
been able to effect my disappearance till now. 'Toinette will bring
a _pâtê_ and a glass of wine to us here, which we will take together,
not as cousins, Claude, but--"
"As lovers," he murmured.
She shook her head at him. "As very good friends, my dear."
"Ah, no--Anne, no! Surely you could not think when you had granted
me so much--so much as this--that I would not dare more--would not
risk all, at last--"
"Chut! Stop, Claude! Why, would you finish our colloquy in a word?
We have much time before us. To hurry is ungraceful."
He flushed and laughed at the same time. Happily at that moment
Antoinette and Fouchelet, the valet, entered together, the man
bearing their repast upon a silver tray. While the dishes were being
set out madame moved leisurely over to her toilet-table for a fan,
and Claude sat silent till they were alone again.
"And now, my Claude, you will pledge me in a glass of this wine of
Champagne. See--to thee, and me, and our house, Claude!
Come--drink!"
Was madame suddenly nervous? Claude heard her voice tremble, and
thought that her hand shook as she raised the delicate crystal
goblet, with its tracery of golden grapes and vines, filled to the
brim with that foaming gold which the court of the fifteenth Louis
knew so well.
"To you, Anne! Only to you!"
The glass was at his lips, and he drank the toast with his soul in
his eyes. He was blind; he was deaf. He did not hear that sound in
the neighboring room that had stopped his companion's hand and fixed
her eyes. The door to the boudoir was thrown violently open, and, at
the same instant, there was the crash of glass on the floor.
"Diable!" cried a peculiar voice; and then a silence, thick,
terrifying, fell upon the little room.
Slowly, so slowly that the woman was fascinated with the sight,
Claude carried the glass from his lips back to the table. His eyes
had met those of the King, and both men hung to the glance. The boy
rose, his limbs as steady as his hand had been. And still no one
spoke. Mme. de Châteauroux was not acting now. Claude had not seen
her first terror, but he knew when her hand crept to her mouth,
perceived the trembling of it, heard dimly the sharpness of her
breathing. Finally her voice came to him as if from a great
distance, as she faintly said:
"I had not--expected--your Majesty--so early."
"So early, madame," echoed the royal voice, suavely. "And does Mme.
de Châteauroux now make appointments for her evenings by the hour?"
Claude shut his teeth. "Sire, you insult my cousin!"
Mme. de Châteauroux started unfeignedly, and Louis' face flushed.
His tone, however, was unmoved, as he said, slowly:
"Madame, order this person to leave the room."
La Châteauroux hesitated for the fraction of a second. Then she
turned to de Mailly. "Monsieur," she said, "do you need further--"
But before she could finish Claude took the affair into his own
hands. Moving until he stood between her and the King, and looking
straight into her now impenetrable face, he spoke:
"Anne, when I came here to-night, I think you must have known what it
was to say; and you will let me speak it now. Anne--I love you. I
love you more dearly than anything upon earth. I offer you what I
have to give--marriage, and the devotion of my life. You have been
mistress of France, but I offer you an honester home, one in which
you may obtain absolution. Choose, then, here and now, between us
two. I ask that the King, as a man, will allow that choice--between
marriage with me and freedom to live where we choose, or--the other
life."
In the stillness which followed Louis de Bourbon glanced from the
woman to the speaker and back again. Truly, the boy had courage, but
something lacked in wit. Then the King felt for his snuff-box,
opened it, smiled leisurely, took a pinch in his fingers, and, before
absorbing it, re marked, dryly:
"Choose, madame."
La Châteauroux bent her head. It was not what she had planned, this
situation. She herself it was who was bearing the difficult and the
despicable part in it; for madame was but twenty-seven, and had still
traditions of the family honor clinging to her. The answer came as
though it cut her a little to speak her words, there, with the King's
cynical eyes upon her, and all Claude's young, mad hope in his face:
"Claude--I wish you--good-night. Will your Majesty do me the honor
to take a glass of wine?"
CHAPTER V
The Chapel
Tuesday morning at Marly proved an ordeal for the army of valets and
maids attendant on the ladies and gentlemen who had taken part in the
amusement of the day before. His Majesty, indeed, could not be said
to have set a good example to his companions. He was sulky, he was
depressed by the weather, and he wanted de Berryer. While he was
still in bed he was informed by de Rosset, his first gentleman, that
the Chief of Police could not possibly be brought to Marly from
Versailles under six hours. Louis made no comments, but kicked the
bedclothes aside and began to dress himself with extreme rapidity,
receiving his garments as willingly from the plebeian hands of
Bachelier as from those of de Rosset, whose business it was to
conduct matters properly. Being finally arrayed in a very much
shorter time than usual, the King adjourned to the conventional room
and sat down to the breakfast prepared for him. After gloomily
striking off the tops of his eggs, dipping a bit of bread into each
yolk, and throwing the rest away, till he had demolished seventeen of
these commodities, without eating what one would contain, he ordered
his sleigh prepared, and, at nine o'clock, left Marly behind, and set
off at full trot for Versailles.
Behind him, at his grandfather's stiff old château, Louis left a
pretty disposition of human emotions. Mme. de Châteauroux was very
anxious. The more she brooded over the scene of the night before,
the more she regretted the affair. Certainly it had turned out as
badly as possible. Claude was inevitably ruined. He must by now
have discovered how heartless and how cruel she was; and as to Louis
being more jealous, and therefore more anxious to please her than
before, why, that was a doubtful question. He could be very
ambiguous when he chose.
As a matter of fact, Claude himself was less concerned at his
position than his cousin for him. Claude had much, and, at the same
time, little, to lose at Court. His love was strong, but his
youthful buoyancy of spirit was stronger. He was young,
happy-hearted, untrammelled. There was no one dependent on him for
place. He would have passed the Bastille doors without grief had it
only been promised him that Henri should visit his room there once a
week with the latest stories and gossip, and that the Doublet-Persane
_Nouvelles à la Main_ and a billet from his lady should reach him
every Wednesday and Saturday. This was not more on account of his
frivolity of taste than because of his ability to make for himself a
home and amusements out of the most unpromising material. He was
blessed with two things, that only the gods can give and the gods
only take away--a system of pure optimism and unbounded faith in the
goodness of human nature.
Claude by no means lay awake during the hours that were left between
his retirement and the dawn, on that night at Marly; but his eyes
unclosed in the morning more heavily than was their wont, and it took
him but a second to define the sense of weight at his heart when he
was awake. Sounding the hand-bell for his man, he made a rapid and
silent toilet, and then hastened off to the neighboring apartment of
his cousin the Marquis. Henri was in bed, still in that dream-stage
between sound slumber and preliminary yawns. Claude's repeated and
vigorous knocks at the door succeeded at last in bringing him to a
realizing sense of all that is disagreeable in life.
"Diable! Is it you, Chaumelle? What do you mean by rousing me at
this hour? Is the château on fire? Is the King ill--or Anne in a
temper? Wait--wait--wait! I open!"
The Marquis, shivering with cold, crept out of bed and unlocked his
door.
"Oh! You, Claude! I might have guessed it. One's family is so
inconsiderate. Will you come in? I'm going to bed again to keep
myself warm. For the love of Heaven, get Chaumelle to bring a tripod
of charcoal or to light my grate here!"
Claude obligingly sounded the gong, whereupon the Marquis' man
appeared with admirable promptness.
"Run to my room, Chaumelle, and bring in the chauffier you will find
there. His Majesty's too tender of his forests to provide us with
wood for burning. It's abominably cold."
The valet hurried away, to return in three minutes gingerly carrying
by its handles a tripod filled with glowing charcoal, that gave out a
very satisfactory heat.
"Will monsieur rise now?"
"No," answered Claude. "Set it there. Bring the water in half an
hour from now. He will be ready for you then."
The man bowed and disappeared, while Henri, from the bed, grumbled
discontentedly: "How in the name of a thousand devils dost thou know
at what hour I will rise? Wilt let me sleep again now, or not?"
"Not, Henri," was the reply, as Claude drew a tabouret up to the bed
and spoke in a tone so new that his cousin sat up and looked at him.
"You are in trouble, Claude, and you do not tell me of it."
Claude leaned over the bed, took up the pillows, and fixed them, as a
woman might, at the Marquis' back.
"Sit there so, and pull the coverlet about thy shoulders, and then
listen to my history, and tell me--what the end will be."
Thereupon the younger de Mailly proceeded to recount, very
accurately, with neither exaggeration nor palliation, all that had
occurred on the previous night, together with certain incidents which
had gone before, unthought of, but which now stood out from the
tangle of life with significant relationship to the present
situation. The Marquis listened closely, with increasing anxiety in
his expression; and when Claude ceased to speak there was a silence
between the cousins. It was this silence that forced upon the Count
his first twinge of real dread.
"Well, Henri!" he said at last, with sharp intensity.
"Well, Claude?" returned the other, sadly.
"What dost think of it?"
"I think--do you remember, Claude, the affair of young d'Agenois?"
Claude started. Then he rose, walked measuredly over to the window,
and looked out upon the bleak landscape. His face was invisible as
he said, in a muffled voice: "François d'Agenois, the Italian,
who--who once asked in marriage the hand of the Marquise de la
Tournelle? François, Duc d'Agenois--"
"Has lived since then near Geneva, while Mme. de la Tournelle was
created Duchesse de Châteauroux.... I meant that one, Claude,--yes."
"And you think," said the young fellow, turning about, and squarely
facing his companion--"you think that I shall--be invited to undergo
the same--fate?"
"Ah, Claude, my cousin--my comrade--surely not! Surely the King is
older, his penchant for Marie is now perfectly understood, perfectly
secure; nay--"
"Don't say that," interrupted Claude, suddenly. "Why should he be
secure with her? Ah, Henri, last night she refused my offer of
marriage, it is true; but it may have been to lessen his Majesty's
fury against me. Henri, I swear to you, that with her, for her, as
my wife, I would live in the desert, a wilderness, anything, and be
the happiest man in all the world. She knows this. Henri, she must
care--a little!"
Mailly-Nesle listened with a face more serious than ever, and, when
Claude finally stopped, he shook his head. "Do not put your faith in
her, Claude. I, her brother, warn you. She gave up everything in
life to win the place she obtained. Remember how d'Agenois was her
promised husband when he was exiled with her consent. Remember that
she drove her own sister, Alexandre's wife, out of Versailles, to the
Ursulines, for life. She--no, Claude, she will not help you. She
cannot."
The younger sighed. "Ah, well--I ask too much, perhaps. At any
rate, it may mean nothing more than a month in the Bastille. That
would not be at all difficult. Indeed, I should indulge in a
much-needed rest. You and de Coigny should come to tell me all the
news; I would invite Monsieur le Gouverneur, and, possibly, my
turn-key to dine, and we should all be merry with feasting and
fasting by turns. You see, Henri, my spirit will not be shaken till
the final blow. This room is like a furnace. When, dear Lord
Doleful, are you going to rise?"
"At once, Claude. My friend, your buoyancy is worth rubies. Even
now I am mourning for you more than you for yourself. How are you
able to move hand or foot?"
"Come, you are aping d'Epernon. You make a bad lover. No woman
likes a man with a face so long. Ah! And that reminds me--but what
shall you do when you are dressed?"
"Coffee--if 'tis to be had here--and eggs; the health of Mme. de
Châteauroux; that of Mme. de Coigny; our sleigh; Versailles; you with
me. Now, of what is it that you are reminded?"
"Good. Good. Hurry now, Chaumelle. I famish.... I was reminded
that, last evening, as I left the last antechamber on the great hall,
I beheld your charming Victorine, herself charming--and being
charmed."
"Ah!--Mordi! It is that vile abbé--de Bernis, they call him--who was
her companion in Paris."
"A handsome fellow," observed the Count, from a mirror where he was
adjusting his wig.
The Marquis turned so sharply under Chaumelle's razor that he
narrowly missed having his chin laid open. "You think so?" he cried
out, anxiously.
Claude burst into a shout of laughter. "On my soul, Henri, you are a
prig. Use a little indifference towards her. 'Tis only that can
save you now. Why, positively, you are absurd. How is it that you
arrange the 'gallant' now?"
"A trifle smaller than you have it there, and farther down towards
the left ear. There. That is better."
"Thanks. Ah, Chaumelle, five livres to you if you have Monsieur le
Marquis ready by half-past nine."
Chaumelle more than won his prize, for it was but just half-past when
the cousins, having finished their coffee and eggs, were announced at
the apartments of the Duchess.
Mme. de Châteauroux, pelissed, hooded, and muffed in crimson velvet
and sables, sat pensively at her window, awaiting the arrival of her
sleigh. She rose in unfeigned agitation at the entrance of Claude
and her brother.
"Ah, Monsieur le Comte! How rash you are! You compromise me;
you--you make your own case infinitely worse. Henri, how could you
have permitted him to come?"
"Madame!" cried Claude, beseechingly, but the Marquis interrupted.
"The King, Anne, has left Marly. You--"
"I know. I know. Whom did you see in the hallway as you came here?
Any one?"
"De Gêvres and Richelieu," answered Claude.
Henri, frowning, pinched him.
"Good Heaven!" cried the Duchess; "we are lost, both you and I! Oh,
you are thoughtless, cruel! Go at once, both of you, and let de
Gêvres see you instantly depart for Versailles. I shall not now
leave here until twelve o'clock. Go! Go!"
She fairly pushed them from her into her antechamber, pointing, as
she did so, to the outer door. Claude had turned scarlet, but Henri
was very pale. Both of them bowed in silence; for there seemed no
words suitable for bidding the "fair and haughty," now very tearful
and eager Châteauroux, good-bye. Once outside, the Marquis turned
and looked at Claude.
"De Gêvres was to see us again," he muttered, angrily.
"De Gêvres be--!" was the low reply. "I return to Versailles."
"And I accompany you.... Good Heaven, Claude, don't think that she
meant it all! You see how everlastingly she must work against all
that is generous in her."
"Ah, messieurs! Your morning interview with madame, your sister and
cousin, was short. You are leaving the château?"
"We follow the example of his Majesty, monsieur."
"And I, gentlemen, shall follow your first lead. I hasten to pay my
compliments to the Duchess. I have the honor to wish you an
enjoyable ride."
Richelieu, in a morning toilet of fawn color and lavender, an
embroidery bag upon his arm, a patch-box in one hand, smilingly
passed the cousins and went on his way to the apartments of the
favorite.
Madame was divested of her wraps and resigned to Marly for another
two hours. Richelieu seated himself comfortably in the historic
boudoir, one foot, prone to repentance for many truffles and overmuch
_vin d'Ai_, reposing tenderly on a cushion, his embroidery in his
hands, and a snuff-box near by. The favorite, gracious, but a trifle
on her guard, placed herself opposite to him and waited.
The Duke took several contemplative stitches before he remarked,
gently: "Madame, you look unwell this morning. Now, were I you, I
should not be nervous. As I imagine, you were slightly rash
yesterday--did not manage quite so perfectly as usual. You have, no
doubt, sacrificed the cousin; but you are still secure."
"His Majesty has spoken to you?"
"By no means. But the mad haste with which he departed this morning
portends extreme disease of mind. It is his fear that, after all,
Claude may hold charms which he does not possess."
The Duchess raised her eyes to the ceiling. "Dear uncle," she said,
"Louis is perfect. I adore him!"
"Ah, but you either make him doubt too strongly or you let him know
it too well. You are too impassioned, Anne. I have always told you
that. I assure you I should have been married twenty times, instead
of only twice, had I not been able to have any woman for the asking."
La Châteauroux, perhaps unconsciously, sighed.
"Ah, madame, life is cruel to us all. But now, Anne, come, confide
in me, as your good counsellor, certain particulars which the Court
but guesses. What is the last madness of young de Mailly, and why
did the King, after a _petit lever_ and a vile breakfast, without
admitting a single entry, order his sleigh an hour ago and set off
for Versailles and de Berryer as if pursued by all the furies? All
knowledge is yours, my Anne. Share it with me."
Mme. de Châteauroux rose from her chair and swept two or three times
up and down the little room. Richelieu, examining her at his
leisure, could discover no trace of agitation in her manner.
Suddenly she stopped still and turned towards him.
"I do not deny that Claude is lost," she said, slowly. "But, if he
is, is it not his fault alone? He is not ignorant of the ways of the
Court. Why should he put himself, his career, in my hands? He will
reproach me, without doubt. All will do that. Again I shall be
called, as in the other case, without heart, without generosity,
without love for my family. _Mon Dieu!_--you remember the scandal
when my father left Versailles? Bah! Put me out of my position,
uncle. Imagine me as a mere bourgeoise--of the people. Well, then?
What woman but will become selfish, forgetful of all, for the man she
loves? What are those others, who stand in her way, to her? And I,
Monsieur le Duc, am a woman who loves. I love--I have the courage to
love--the King."
A flicker passed through the eyes of the Duke as he bent over his
embroidery. Was it amusement, or was it revelation? Could it be but
a recollection of certain common Court memories that appertained to
the "love" of Marie Anne de Mailly? Was it a fleeting remembrance of
the brief and stormy careers of the two older sisters of this woman,
both of whom had held her place, the one dying in it, pitifully
enough, the other dismissed by the open command of the Marquise de la
Tournelle, then just coming into power? Was it a vision of the angry
helplessness of the old Marquis de Nesle, driven away to die in
exile, because his pride of family was too great to sanction his
daughters' dishonor? Was it a thought for a brother's hidden shame;
of the merciless flouting of a helpless queen; of the dismissal of
every minister who held at heart the best interests, not of the
mistress, but of France; of the ruin of every courtier who had not
paid his court to her; of the fate of the hapless d'Agenois; the
impending ruin of young de Mailly? Was it, perhaps, a vision of
prophecy concerning others to come, on whom disfavor should
fall--Belleville, d'Argenson, Chartres, Maurepas, the Dauphin of
France--nay, finally, after all, before all, _himself_, the great,
the incomparable Richelieu, estranged from the King and the Court
through the "love" of this woman? After all, the flutter of many
thoughts takes but an instant, and madame had scarcely time for
impatience when her good "uncle" was answering her with
well-calculated lightness.
"You are right, Anne. And how drunk with the happiness of such love
should our most gracious Majesty be! Perhaps he has flown away this
morning that he may reflect in happy solitude on his great
good-fortune."
Unfortunately, however, as Richelieu well knew, this was not
precisely what his most gracious Majesty was engaged in this morning.
Upon his unexpected arrival at Versailles at so early an hour, the
King's first cry was for de Berryer. The attendant of whom he made
demand performed his obeisance, looked nervously about him, and
scurried away on a search. In the meantime Louis ascended to the
deserted council-chamber off the Œil-de-Bœuf, threw off coat,
hat, and gloves, and pounded on the bell for some one to remove his
boots. A valet came, together with the unhappy announcement that M.
de Berryer was in Paris--had been there, indeed, since yesterday
morning--on important business. Louis fell into one of his silent
rages, despatched a document commanding the instant return of the
Chief of Police to his side, growled an order to serve his dinner to
him alone where he was, and sank into his official chair at the great
table in a fit of sulks which lasted him all day. De Berryer's
arrival, at five o'clock in the afternoon, elicited the first gleam
of satisfaction from his dull eyes. He ordered a fresh instalment of
wine and cakes, closed the doors of the room, and motioned the
minister into a chair across the table, where he could stare
conveniently into the small, dark face.
"Well, Sire, you have work for me?" inquired the official, with badly
concealed irritation. De Berryer had been forced to leave certain
matters relative to the farmers-general in a distressingly unfinished
state in Paris, had been harassed all through his ride with details
of the King's anger, and finally arrived at Versailles tired,
nervous, and out of sorts, to be summoned instantly before Louis, who
would probably occupy him till seven with his usual tiresome and
fussy budget of Court intrigue, gossip, and grievances. And at such
times there was certainly one minister of France who cordially hated
his position.
"You have work for me?" repeated de Berryer again.
"Yes, yes, yes. I want a _lettre-de-cachet_ at once, and you to
deliver it," was the reply.
The poor servant groaned inwardly as he drew from his pocket an
ever-ready bunch of these conveniences, prepared for filling out.
"What name, Sire? It is immediate?"
"Yes. No. Wait. I will tell you about it," responded the King,
leaning comfortably back in his chair and munching a _gâteau
purlaine_.
De Berryer passed the back of his hand over his forehead and resigned
himself. Louis began to speak, recounting in a leisurely but not
unentertaining fashion the last developments of the _affaire_ de
Mailly, as it was called at Court. Presently, despite himself, de
Berryer grew interested in the tale. He remembered his last
conversation with Claude at the assembly, perceived that the young
man had not taken his advice, but had gone along upon his own career
of audacious fidelity to a foolish cause. On the whole, de Berryer
rather admired him, and certainly regretted his approaching fall.
Besides this, there was that other amusing phase of the matter--that
of Louis' furious jealousy of this two-penny Count for whom the
favorite doubtless cared not the least in the world, save for the
fresh fires of royal devotion that she could kindle at his hands.
All things considered, de Berryer had spent duller hours than this in
his Majesty's presence.
"And now, my good de Berryer," finished Louis, more comfortably than
ever, "you know all. What shall I do? Shall it be the Bastille for
a couple of years? _Hein?_"
"No--no, your Majesty," returned the King's companion, calmly.
"What!"
"Listen, Sire, I beg of you, to my reasons. In the first place, la
Bastille is no longer what it once was as a place of retirement for
rash members of the younger nobility. It is generally crowded to the
doors. It is by no means strictly kept. The apartments on the east
side fairly reek with a Court atmosphere. All day long there is a
continual stream of visitors for the prisoners, who keep quite as
much in touch with the times as though they dwelt in the
Œil-de-Bœuf. I assure you the reputation of a Court gallant is
not complete till he has lived a month or two in that old fortress.
M. de Mailly's fame would be greatly enhanced during his residence
there, and it would be by no means unusual were Mme. de Châteauroux
herself to visit him."
The King blasphemed below his breath, and the minister smiled
covertly.
"Precisely so, your Majesty. No, it is not bolt, bar, and stone
walls to foment his passion that our young Count needs. On the
contrary, it is space, time, other courts, other women, new
comrades--in fine, a second case of d'Agenois--that will fit the
amorous M. de Mailly. He--"
"Bravo, bravo, de Berryer! Excellent, by my faith! It is enough.
Wait." Louis touched his bell, and a lackey appeared.
"More candles for the table."
Lights were brought and set before the minister, who drew from a
drawer in the table some paper, quills, a sandbox, wax, and the small
seal.
"Write!" commanded the King.
"And the delivery, Sire, shall take place--when?"
"To-morrow morning, in the chapel, after mass."
De Berryer frowned. "Your Majesty is a second Molière," he observed,
politely.
Louis, holding a glass of Burgundy to the light, bowed thanks.
To the delight of the pale puppet-queen, Marie Leczinska, Louis, on
Wednesday morning, came to her apartments in the best of humors, to
conduct her in person to mass in Mansard's famous chapel. It was an
unwritten law in this sanctuary that husbands and wives, not a few of
whom had seen each other for the first time at the altar here, but
had no cause to love it the more on that account, should sit
together. Their Majesties, with Mesdames Henriette and Adelaide, and
Monseigneur, the young, Jesuitical Dauphin, set the example by
appearing _en famille_ in the front space. Behind them sat those of
the Queen's ladies who were unmarried or widowed, together with all
the _demoiselles d'honneur_, presided over by the unbending Duchesse
de Boufflers, who, in spite of herself, could not prevent the glances
that passed between this delightful bevy and the company of gallants
across the aisle. Mme. de Châteauroux, here always sombrely dressed,
excited no comment. Claude de Mailly, alone, out of the whole Court,
chose his place with reference to her; and in this place to-day, as
usual, he sat, his head on his hand, dreamily listening to the
chanting of the choir, and the low intoning, mingling the incense of
his earthly but none the less pure adoration with that which ascended
from the golden censer to a higher heaven.
Mme. de Châteauroux was pale to-day. More than one person had
already noted that fact, and remarked it to a neighbor. If Claude
were whiter about the temples and lips than she, none but Henri,
beside him, knew it. Never once throughout the service did madame
turn to answer the unwavering look that seemed as if it must draw her
cold blue eyes by very force about to answer it. But Louis' smooth,
satin back was within reach of her hand. She could almost stir his
loosely tied locks with her breath. She felt Claude's presence with
rare discomfort. The knowledge of his danger was crying to her
conscience painfully; but she could not speak, and her eyes must keep
their place.
Behind the de Maillys, Marquis and Count, Victorine de Coigny, pale
also, great-eyed, and small, sat beside her tall husband, who, though
he stared steadily at the altar, failed to make a single response,
and no more knew the subject of the address than did his wife, whose
thoughts were wandering in far and fair new places.
Mass, to the relief of every one present save, possibly, Marie
Leczinska and her son, came presently to an end. In a measured press
the many-colored throng passed down the aisle after the sovereigns,
bowing, chatting, shrugging, smiling, retailing the last bit of
gossip as they might do to-day, happy in the knowledge that
twenty-four hours intervened between them and the next chapel. Mme.
de Châteauroux, who, to the end, had resolutely avoided her cousin's
entreaty, was among the last to set forth for less depressing
apartments, surrounded, as usual, by a group of the King's gentlemen.
Behind her, aimless, objectless, speaking to few, addressed by many,
for a high interest centred around him now, went Claude, with Henri
still close beside him. They arrived together at the door, and
Mailly-Nesle, a pace ahead, was whispering a compliment into the ear
of Mme. de Coigny, when a light hand fell upon Claude's shoulder.
The young fellow started under the touch as though thrilled with a
sudden presentiment. The Count de Maurepas was beside him.
"Be so good as to come back with me for an instant, monsieur,"
whispered the minister.
Claude turned and placed himself beside the other. They waited
together till the last stragglers had left the chapel. Dim light,
and silence that was a relief, fell about them. Up at the far end of
the room an acolyte was extinguishing the candles at the altar. Then
de Mailly quietly faced his companion.
'What is it that you want?" he asked.
"This, M. de Mailly. Believe me--I regret--exceedingly--my duty. M.
de Berryer, however, requested--"
Without further ado Claude took from Maurepas' hand the letter that
he held, with its dangling brown seal.
"You choose an odd place for its delivery," he remarked, as he
unfolded the paper.
De Maurepas, to whom his good friend, the Chief of Police, had
intrusted this unpleasant task, slightly bowed. He was watching the
man beside him, the new royal victim, the gentleman who had been his
companion in so many places, at so many times, for years. He saw
Claude read that short, polite, rather suave missive, which gave
small reason for its being, but made the gravity of its threat
perfectly apparent in royal language. Claude read it twice, quite
through, to the last word, the signature. Then his hand fell heavily
to his side, and the paper dropped to the floor. Maurepas stooped to
pick it up, but some one else was quicker than he. Henri de Mailly,
returning in search of his cousin, had stood for a full minute
unnoticed on the threshold. Now, retaining the letter, he turned a
questioning gaze towards the pair. Maurepas failed to meet his eyes;
but Claude smiled.
"I am starting soon upon a journey, Henri," he remarked. "Monsieur
le Comte, may I request that you convey my farewells to his Majesty,
since I have not the honor to bid him _au revoir_ in person? Permit
me to wish you a good-morning."
Claude bowed bravely, but ungracefully enough, and looked towards the
Marquis. His lips were dry, his cheeks suddenly flushed, his eyes
very bright. Henri understood the look, and passed with him out of
the chapel. De Maurepas was left alone to gaze after them. When
they were gone he shifted his position slightly, but made no move to
leave the room. Presently de Berryer appeared from the vestibule and
joined him.
"I saw them go," he said. "How did he take it?"
Maurepas shook his head. "I am not certain, but I think it was hard
for him. I imagine that he was not very sure of what he did. He
asked me to say 'au revoir' to the King. Bah! You might have done
this yourself, de Berryer. I don't like such work."
"And do you think, Monsieur le Comte, that I like it better?" queried
the King's favorite minister, with a weary frown.
CHAPTER VI
Claude's Farewell
On the morning of Thursday, January 21st, when a feeble ray of
sunlight first straggled into the window of Claude's room on the
Avenue de St. Cloud, in the town of Versailles, it fell upon an early
company of four men engaged in an unwonted occupation. Upon the
canopied bed, half dressed, unwigged, powderless, sat Claude,
directing, with some animation, the movements of two men, his own
valet and Henri's, one of whom stood before an oaken wardrobe, while
the other knelt upon the floor beside a travelling coffer of brown
hide, studded with brass nails. At some distance from these three,
by a table, was the Marquis, quite dressed, his head leaning on his
hand, watching operations in silence. Now and then he turned his
eyes to the face of his cousin, while for the rest of the time they
wandered about the disordered room. Henri's face was unusually pale
to-day, and under his eyes lay shadows of sleeplessness. His mouth
was set firmly, and the hand that hung by his side was clenched.
Certainly the room was in a state. All about it, on every chair, on
the bureau, the desk, the tabourets, and upon the floor, lay
clothes--court-suits, riding-suits, hunting-suits, every-day suits,
dressing-gowns, boots, shoes, slippers, long stockings of silk and of
thread, laces, ruffles, fine linen shirts, undergarments, wigs, a
peruke, two swords, hats, cloaks, gauntlets--every article known to
the masculine wardrobe of that day. From the various heaps Claude,
by means of a riding-whip which he held, designated what he wished
packed, Chaumelle would pick it out and carry it to Rochard, who
folded it and placed it, with melancholy care, in the little coffer.
"I must have one court-suit, but I vow I'll take no more. Which
shall it be, Henri--the peach-colored or the white satin? Speak,
man!"
The Marquis, with an effort, raised his head. "Both. You will need
the white one for your wedding."
Claude stared at his cousin for an instant, and his lips twitched
with laughter. Then, with a sudden change of expression, he pulled
from his breast, where it had lain all night, the letter that
Maurepas had delivered to him. He had not read it since leaving the
chapel.
"Owing to certain circumstances which of late have had the misfortune
greatly to displease S.M., the King desires to inform Count Claude
Vincent Armand Victor de Nesle de Mailly that the absence of the
Count from the château and city of Versailles after the noon of
Friday, January 22d, in this year of 1744, will be desirable to S.M.;
and that after the first day of the month of February, Monsieur the
Count, if he has not already crossed the line of the French Kingdom,
would of necessity be placed under the escort of one of his Majesty's
officers. The King wishes Monsieur the Count a delightful journey,
and begs further to add that when monsieur shall desire to present
Madame la Comtesse his wife to their Majesties at Versailles, his
return to his present abode will be most pleasing to
"Louis R."
As Claude for the second time perused this curious letter his face
darkened, and, at the last lines, flushed.
"I heard your '_au revoir_' sent to his Majesty," observed Henri,
"and, after I read the dismissal, I understood it. You will discover
some pretty child in Madrid or Vienna. In six months you will be
back again with her for presentation; and here she will quickly find
some marquis or duke for cavalier, while you return again with your
rashness to the little apartments."
The Marquis spoke these words by no means in raillery, but with such
a tone of solemn prophecy that Claude turned a serious and
questioning gaze upon his cousin. Then he shook his head.
"Do you, indeed, Henri, think so ill of me as that? Should I, by
such a loveless bargain, dishonor myself and the woman who bore my
name? What of the shame to me in bringing such a one, unprotected
even by my affection, to this Court of Versailles, of all places on
earth; to plunge her into the life that she would find here? You
would run me through for a deed like that. Besides, I am going from
here to no Court. I leave by post to-morrow for Flanders--Antwerp,
or some seaport. And after, unless I travel in the Low Countries and
up into Sweden, I have a mind to turn to strange places. Perhaps I
shall sail for America."
"Ah, Claude, it is too far! Where wouldst thou go? To our colony of
Louisiana, or the settlements of the South coast--the flower-land
that is pestered with Spanish and English pirates? Be sane, my
Claude. Remain nearer home. Surely some day you will return to us.
Think, think of the homesickness. Without thee here, Claude, I--I--"
Henri went no further. His voice had broken, and he suddenly hid his
face in his hands and bent over the table.
The Count sprang from the bed, crying roughly to the two servants to
continue their work. Then, standing by the chair of Mailly-Nesle, he
put both hands affectionately on the two bent shoulders.
"Henri, look at me. Thou shalt not take it in this way. I have got
no more than has come to a thousand others. I have loved too well.
And since I may not have that one thing for which I would sell the
soul from my body, 'tis small matter, after all, where I live, or
what my portion is. Some day I shall return hither,
doubtless--when--when--or thou shalt come to me. Things may occur,
perhaps, that shall make all right. Take courage. Thou art a man!
There is no time for this. We must talk together of many things.
There is my money, my rents--"
The Marquis raised his head, and Claude nodded with satisfaction to
see that he was again in control of himself.
"'Tis better, _hein_? Thou knowest, Henri, I get from Touraine and
Languedoc together some fifty thousand livres yearly. I have made
that suffice me here, with what I could win at play. My debts, as
Fortune wills, are paid. Can the King say as much? What has paid
for this life will stay me better abroad, in whatsoever land I may
find myself, than it has done here. How to receive it--"
"That shall be my task, Claude. In May, as you have done, and again
later in the year, I will go to both estates, as I visit my own.
Your stewards will accept me as master, I imagine. They are good
fellows, both."
"Between them they steal, with perfect regularity, seven thousand
yearly."
"So little? They are not good, then, but stupid. Mine, on my single
estate, costs me ten."
"Your lands nearly double mine."
The Marquis shrugged. "Well--and each three months you will write to
me, that I may send the rents where you may be?"
"Yes. I will burden thee with news more often than that. Do you
know, my friend, I have a mind to set out from Flanders or England
for King George's colonies? It has been said that the summer is a
paradise in Virginia, or in Lord Baltimore's province."
"'Tis too far, Claude! Italy or England--well. But America!
_Ciel_! I should be as content with you in the moon."
"It is no more than a month's voyage in fair weather, I have heard."
"Ay, and six in foul."
"Ah, well--we'll not speak of it now. I--"
"And the language! Recollect your love of the English tongue."
"I do not love French to-day. I swear to you that I will perish at
once rather than go to swell the peopling of our Christian Majesty's
damnable colonies!"
"Chut! That is treason. Finish your selection of garments there,
and let us go out to seek a dinner. I perish of hunger."
"I come, I come. You must not die to-day. Is the suit of olive
there, Rochard? Then--"
His next word was interrupted by a tapping at the door.
"Umph! Some gossip to visit you!" growled the Marquis.
Claude drew his dressing-gown about him and motioned his man to the
door. "Open--but not too widely," he said.
Rochard unclosed the door, pushed it open six inches, and peered out.
After a low-voiced colloquy with some one outside, he turned into the
room again, holding out to his master a note addressed in a
handwriting which Claude dreamed of. As he opened and read it, the
boy turned very white. Henri, who was watching him closely, hurried
to his side.
"What is it?"
"Nothing," was the quick reply. "Rochard, it--it is the valet, is it
not?"
"Fouchelet, yes, Monsieur le Comte."
"Tell him that--I will come."
Rochard bowed and went to deliver the message.
"Claude--Anne--Anne has interceded for you? No. She dare not do
that. She is mad enough to see you again?"
"To say good-bye," was the reply, formed with dry lips. Then
suddenly he cried out, sharply: "Henri, I cannot go! I will not
leave her to that man! Either I stay here to die, or she shall come
with me as my wife. Henri, I tell you I cannot leave her!"
It was two o'clock in the afternoon, and the Duchess was alone in her
dressing-room. She was alone, had been alone through the whole
morning, refusing admittance to the usual visitors of the toilette,
in the hope that Claude might come. She had learned, like the rest
of the Court, of the letter delivered in the chapel. But the reason
of it, which was so well known to her, the Court but guessed. Her
desire to speak with her cousin again was unaccountably strong, and
she could not believe that he would make no effort to see her--for
the last time. Nevertheless the hours had passed, and Claude neither
sent her any word of farewell nor came himself. She was anxious, and
she was bored. The King, who had that morning been informed that she
was ill, had gone hunting. Versailles was deserted. Even Victorine
was at Rambouillet. And so madame, more restless with every passing
instant, was at last guilty of the imprudence of sending for the man
whose banishment was caused by his having dared to enter too closely
into her life.
Her note finally despatched by the only man in her household whom she
could trust, she drank a second cup of chocolate and ate a fillet of
venison, of royal shooting, with some appetite. Afterwards, with the
assistance of Antoinette, she made one of her most careful _négligé_
toilets, in which the carelessness was obviously becoming. Her dress
was entirely of white. She wore not a single jewel, wiped off every
trace of rouge, took the ornaments from her hair, and brushed its
powdery locks till the bright gold lay in natural waves about her
neck, and Mme. de Châteauroux had become as beautiful as flattery
itself could have painted her. She was, at this time, nearly seven
and twenty years of age. Her face was still young, but her manner
was old--older than that of the King. She had acquired long ago the
carriage of a King's consort, and that was, indeed, a role which she
had played so much that it had become a natural part of herself. She
had faced difficult situations since her childhood; and never, save
once with her dead father and once with her husband, the old Marquis
de la Tournelle, had she lost control of herself and of the affair in
hand. It had made her too self-confident in appearance--a fact which
she realized, but could not change. She would have liked to-day to
play a younger part with Claude, but she sighed and shook her head as
Antoinette finally tied back the shining hair with a white ribbon,
and the grand manner descended upon her like a pall.
It was now a full half-hour since she had sat in the little room,
waiting, and looking out upon the bleak courtyard below her window.
She had ceased to think, and her appearance was that of a statue in
marble, when Antoinette softly pushed open the door of her room and
allowed a cloaked and hatted figure to pass in. The door closed
again after the entrance, and at the same time there was a little
click from the antechamber beyond, as the faithful maid locked the
door that opened upon the great corridor. In the boudoir of the
favorite two people were alone.
With a slight movement of the shoulders Claude dropped his enveloping
mantle upon a chair behind him, and threw his hat down upon it also.
Then, impulsively, he turned towards his cousin, as though upon the
spot he would have taken her in his arms and told her all that he had
come to say. But there was something in her attitude that stopped
him--something that even forced him back a pace from his advance. As
a matter of fact the Duchess meant to be herself mistress of the
scene, and, having no idea of Claude's ill advised intent, she seated
herself quietly on a chair with her back to the drawn window-curtain,
and, with a gesture peculiar to herself, bade him draw a tabouret to
her knee. He went to her obediently, looking at her with repressed
expectation in his white face. After an instant's hesitation she
said, slowly:
"And so, my poor Claude, it is come to the end."
His reply was quick. "No, Anne. It is not the end yet."
"What! What are you saying? You are exiled, Claude."
"Ah, yes. The King told you that."
"It was not the King told me that. Do you mean that the story of the
letter of banishment is not true?"
Claude was silent.
"Why do you say it is not the end?"
"Because, Anne, I mean that for me it shall be the beginning."
"Of what?"
"Of freedom--of life--of love."
"Love!"
"Yes."
The Duchess was puzzled. She drew slightly away from him. "Then
there is some one--some one of whom I know nothing."
"Yes, Anne, some one of whom you know nothing. Would you hear who it
is? No, remain where you are! That some one whom I love, whom I
have come to to-day, with whom now I am going to plead for life, is
your real self. You have forgotten it in life here, my Anne. You
have forgotten, in the midst of your estate, in the midst of the
Court ways, what you were before all that was part of you. Listen.
We played together, you and I, and Alexandre and Henri, and Louise
and Pauline, in the gardens of the old château, by the river-bank,
and through the forest. We were the youngest, you and I. Alexandre
was our leader, and we obeyed him as our general. I liked you then
better than the other girls, though you always mocked at me for a
baby, while Louise was gentle, and Pauline always in difficulty. And
after--we separated, all of us. You were sent to the Ursulines, I to
Languedoc with a tutor, Alexandre to Paris. It was there in the old
Hôtel de Mailly, at Alexandre's wedding with Louise, that again we
came together. Ah, Anne, Anne, I think you have not forgotten what
followed! The first scandal, Alexandre's death, Louise's life in the
little apartments, how the King grew weary, how little Pauline was
brought from her convent, how she, too, was sacrificed to infamy, and
how she died--how she was murdered, Anne, you--"
"Stop, Claude!"
"Not yet. Pauline was murdered, I say--poisoned, in her sickness.
And then, Anne, then the way was opened for you by Mme. de Mazarin's
death. How should the rest of us have guessed--your father, I,
Henri, already unhappy with Mme. de Mailly-Nesle--how should we have
guessed that you, too, should have followed in the footsteps of your
sisters? _Mon Dieu_, Anne! In your widowhood, after Maurepas took
the Hôtel Mazarin, Henri's house was open to you. Why did you choose
instead to put yourself under the protection, not of the Queen, not
of Louise, but of his Majesty? And then--the end was so swift. You
drove Louise pitilessly away--you ruined d'Agenois with your
coquetries--you infatuated the King with your daring and your
loftiness; your title was bestowed; you reigned; and then comes the
last: my history with you. I know your life, Anne, from its
beginning to to-day. You know what my feeling has always been. And
now, when I am so nearly at the end of hope, you would have me make
no resistance to fate; you would have me acquiesce; you would have me
bid you good-bye with de Gêvres' manner, and depart, quietly. I have
right to more than that."
"All this is well enough if you wish it, little one. Neither do
those long 'recollections' of thine disturb me, save that they are
very stupid, my Claude. But now, how shall you continue? Are there
yet more of them?" Evidently the Duchess was not overpleased with
the interview, so far.
"I have done with the recollections, but I have more to say,"
returned the boy, undaunted by her manner. "I have something to say
which, once before, you have heard, but which you shall listen to
again. It is why I obeyed your note. In other case I should have
left Versailles without seeing you. It is something that I am going
to offer you, something that I have to give that is not elsewhere, I
think, to be found in Versailles. You will seek long, Anne, before
you find it again. It is something that you, and every woman about
you, make light of daily; and yet it is what women--ay, and men--sell
their souls for."
"Love," murmured Madame la Duchesse, absently.
"Yes, it is love--my love, that I have to give. Anne, to you, here,
being as you are; what you are; belonging to none who has the right
to guard you; paid with much gold, it is true, yet with false gold;
puppet-queen, without real honor in any heart, your name a byword in
many countries--"
"Ah! Ah! You insult--"
"_I speak truth_! You know that. To you, I say, who have so little
of love, none of real honor, I offer all. I offer you marriage, a
name unstained, a pure-hearted devotion, a life that shall be pure--
Ah, now, Anne, now, I am making you feel! There. Do not turn from
me. No, no. Listen! I did not mean it. Forget what I have
said--forgive it. Think only of how I have suffered. Think how
utterly I love you; how I am a man desperate. My whole existence, my
heart, my mind, my hopes, are here at your feet. Crush them--you
kill me. You cannot spurn all. To leave you is to enter a living
death. But--but--you must know what love means! It means that my
soul belongs to you; that in you, for you, only, forever, I live.
How, then, can you let me go from you? You will be tearing the heart
from my body. You know that all my life--it has been you. Had I
ever cared for another, it would not have mattered so. Anne--" he
was upon his knee--"Anne--you shall come with me! You shall come
away with me--into the sweetest exile that ever man was blessed with.
Why, look you, I take you from a palace, but I will give you that
which I shall transform to paradise! Oh, my dear--my dear--I can say
no more. Anne, Anne, I die for you!"
Both her hands were in his, clasped so tightly that she was pained.
Much of the force of his passion had entered into her. It could not
but do so, for it was too real. She was trembling; her breath came
unsteadily, and she could not give her answer with his upturned eyes
upon her. Gently, very gently, she pushed him aside, rose from her
chair, and, turning away from him, began to pace the end of the room,
steadying herself as she walked. De Mailly, a little dazed now, the
reaction from his nervous strain already beginning to overcome him,
passed slowly to the opposite side of the dressing-room and stood
there with his back to the door, one cold hand pressed to his damp
forehead. His face was deathly white. His body quivered. Presently
madame stopped, in her walk, before her cabinet of toys, opened one
little drawer, and took something therefrom. Then she went over to
where her cousin was standing, and, with an effort, spoke:
"Thank you," she said, dreamily, "for what you have said to me. May
God, in his goodness, bless you, little cousin. You know that it is
all useless, what you wish. Some day you will be glad that my place
was here--that I knew that I was not fit for you. Remember it. I am
not fit for you. You spoke truth at first. See, I grant you all
that. You must go your way alone. Such as I could not make you
happy. I--give you only this--if you care to take it--for memory.
'Tis all I have. As to my love--who knows what I love--or where?
Adieu."
[Illustration: "'I GIVE YOU ONLY THIS'"]
She held something out to him, something white, and heavy with gold
and little jewels. It was the mate to that gauntlet which he had won
from her and given to the King ten days ago. He took it,
mechanically, and placed it, almost without looking at it, in a
pocket. Then he picked up his cloak and his hat. Slowly he put both
on; and, once more, all accoutred, he turned to look at her. Her
back was towards him. Her head was bent. He could not speak
coherently. He put out his hand and felt for the fastening of the
door. There was a long, inaudible sigh. The door swung open. An
effort, two steps, a slight mist before his eyes--he was gone. In
the antechamber Henri, with haggard face and tears unconcealed,
waited also for a clasp of the hand, to bid him godspeed to his
banishment.
Book II
DEBORAH
CHAPTER I
A Ship Comes In
All night the waters of the Chesapeake and those of the Atlantic
beyond had been tumbling under the force of a fresh east wind that
was bearing an incoming vessel straight up to her harbor and home.
But with the first streak of gray along the far horizon, Night ceased
to flap her dusky wings, and the wind fainted till it was but a
breath. As the wavelets lapped against the ship's side, her captain,
longing for home, shrugged his big shoulders and ordered out more
canvas.
It was a fair dawn. The whole stretch of sky over the bay was
flushed with pink and beamy with gold; while beyond this the clear
greenish turquoise of mid-sky and the west grew so vivid that the
last clinging night-mist melted away, and the day waited only for the
sun. He came at last, a great, fiery wheel, dripping from a watery
bath and pouring his splendor back to the waters again till the river
ran gold, dazzling the eyes of the gulls that veered across its
breast down to the bay and out towards the salty sea. And the sun
woke the forests of birches and poplars and spruce, colored the
dandelions in the grass all over again, drank dew from the
flower-cups, played with the breeze among the peach-blossoms of the
orchard on the bank, and finally entered into the quaint
breakfast-room of a colonial house, Trevor Manor, that stood on the
river Severn, three miles from the city of Annapolis.
Adam, the house-butler, very black and very sleepy, was in this small
apartment, dusting. From the next room Lilith, his wife, hummed, in
a rich contralto, over her sweeping. Otherwise the house was still;
for the sun rises early in May.
The breakfast-room wherein Adam worked, or played at work, is worthy
of description, perhaps; for the colonial country-side knew nothing
just like it. It was the south-west corner room on the lower floor,
opening out of the library, but so easily accessible from the
kitchen, which was fifty feet from the house, that the family
commonly used it for all their meals. The general Southern fashion
of dining in the central hall, from a custom of hospitality, had its
drawbacks. On the north side of the breakfast-room were the library
door, a small buffet covered with the best cheynay, some chased
silver, and a little Venetian glassware, the pride of the family
heart, and, on the other side of the doorway, a badly done family
portrait. In the east wall was a large fireplace, with a mantel
above, on which stood two large porcelain jars and a black bust of
Plato, over which hung a recent print of his Majesty King George. To
the south a large window looked out upon the yard behind; but the
western wall of this little place was no wall at all. Across the top
of it, just below the ceiling, a grudging support to the upper story
was given by a heavy oaken beam. Beneath this all was glass. The
little, opal-like, diamond-shaped panes, were wont to catch the rays
of the afternoon sun, and make the room, from noon to twilight, a
blinding, rainbow cloud of light. A door, too, there was here, all
of glass and bound with lead--a real triumph of craftsman's skill in
those simple days. It had been Madame Trevor's idea, however,--and
where was the workman in Maryland who would not have been stimulated
to inspiration with Madame Trevor to oversee his work? The door
opened upon a terrace which led by a little flight of steps down into
the rose-garden, or, by a diverging path, off to the big round
kitchen, in which last building the morning fires had been lit, and
Chloe, with Phyllis, her scullion, daughter, and probable successor,
was plucking spring chickens for the morning meal.
Adam and Lilith, their first tasks ended, were now setting the table
in the breakfast-room, with table-cloth of unbleached linen, the
ordinary service of burnished pewter, silver knives, and carving-set
of steel, horn-handled. When the six places at the oval table had
been laid, Lilith disappeared through the glass door, to return
presently with a great platter of newly picked strawberries,
green-stemmed, scarlet and fragrant, and still glistening with dew.
These were set in the centre of the table, while on either side stood
an earthenware bowl heaped with sugar, patiently scraped by Adam from
the high, hard loaves that came, wrapped in bright purple
"dye-paper," up from the Spanish Indies.
The sun being by this time nearly two hours high in the heavens, the
breakfast-room was deserted by serving-folk to regain a more tranquil
tone for the reception of its ordinary habitants. Through the open
door came the breath of the May morning, heavy with the sweetness of
the garden just outside. Plato gazed mildly down upon the two or
three lazy flies that hummed over the strawberries, and once a robin
from the woods near by skimmed into the room, brushed past the
decanters on the buffet, halted for a second on a jar near King
George, and made a darting exit through the open southern window.
Finally, into the waiting solitude, came Sir Charles--Sir Charles,
tall, slender, graceful, freshly wigged and powdered, his
lieutenant's uniform of scarlet and white in harmony with the
morning, the _Gentleman's Magazine_ in one of his well-kept hands, an
eye-glass on a silken cord in the other. He seated himself in an
evidently accustomed place at the table, pushed back his chair a
little, comfortably crossed his legs, and began to reperuse an
article on the best methods of preserving fox-brushes, which had
engaged his attention the evening before. He was not a rapid reader,
and he had not half finished the column when he felt, unmistakably,
another presence near him. Thereupon he permitted himself an
unmannerly luxury:
"Good-morning, Debby," he murmured, without looking up.
"Good-morning, Sir Charles," was the reply.
Then, quickly throwing aside his paper, the young man rose, bowed as
he should have done, and stood looking at her who was before him.
[Illustration: "THE YOUNG MAN ROSE AND BOWED"]
Deborah stood in the glass doorway, half in and half out of the room.
Her face was slightly flushed, and her hair, as usual, in a state of
delightful, crinkly disorder. Otherwise her appearance was
immaculate, and, for all Sir Charles could have told, she might have
been in a costume of brocade and lace. It was no more, however, than
a faded blue and white homemade linen over a petticoat of brown
holland, with a small white muslin kerchief crossed upon her breast.
She was bareheaded, and the hair that had been tossed into a thousand
rebellious ringlets was tied back with a blue ribbon. Deborah
Travis, Sir Charles Fairfield's second cousin, and Madame Trevor's
first, was, at this time, seventeen years old, and not yet so pretty
as she gave promise of being--later. Nevertheless, Sir Charles'
poorly concealed devotion in her direction was a matter that was not
discussed in the Trevor family. The tongues of slaves, however, are
seldom bridled among themselves; and neat things upon this
interesting topic were not infrequently spoken round cabin-fires on
cool evenings in the quarters.
"You've quite recovered, I trust, Deborah, from your--your
indisposition of yesterday?"
The girl's cheeks grew pink as she answered, quietly, "Quite, thank
you, Sir Charles."
"'Twas another experiment in the still-room?" he ventured.
"Of course," she responded, reluctantly, and in a tone that finished
the topic.
There was a pause. The Governor's lieutenant was finding himself
again. "Will not you come in, Mistress Debby?" he said, finally.
"Or may I come out and walk in the garden a little with you?"
"Thank you, I shall come in. Breakfast is ready, but the rest are
late."
"And you have been in the still-room all this while?"
"No, I have been in the twelve-acre field, and as far as Hudson's
Swamp."
"Devil take me! What were you doing there?"
"I was hunting for a plant--but I could not get it. I brought home
some young tobacco instead."
"Why--why--Deborah, 'tis always plants with you! Can you find
nothing nearer home to suit your pleasure? Tell me the plant you
sought, and I will hunt for it to the other end o' Maryland, if you
command."
"Thank you, Sir Charles, but in a month I shall pluck it for myself,
at the end of the huckleberry path. 'Tis spotted hemlock. I found
one, young yet, but well-looking, which I shall gather as soon as
'tis big enough."
"Spotted hemlock! Child, 'tis rank poison! I'd a horse die of it
once in--"
He broke off suddenly and turned about as Madam Trevor, with her
younger daughter, Lucy, rustled into the room. The elder lady looked
rather sharply from her nephew to her young cousin as she came in;
but she could read neither face. Sir Charles bowed with great
respect, and Deborah gave her usual demure courtesy for the morning.
Lucy was a slight, pretty little creature, with thin, silky dark
hair, lively blue eyes, and a waist as trim as Deborah's own. She
greeted the two cousins with equal grace, but seemed to prefer
Deborah's company, drawing her a little on one side to show a
spindle-prick upon her finger. Their whispered conversation was
interrupted by the entrance of the master of the house, Madam
Trevor's only son, Vincent. He was a well-built, muscular fellow, a
trifle short for his breadth of shoulder, with the family's blue
eyes, and hair so black that the powder but badly concealed its hue.
He greeted his mother with profound respect, lightly kissed his
little sister's cheek, and nodded to Deborah in a preoccupied
fashion. Then, joining Charles at the buffet, he proceeded to mix
their first potation of the day, two Venice glasses full of Jamaica
rum, sugar, and water. Both gentlemen drank to the health of Madam
Trevor, who acknowledged the usual courtesy with a slight nod, and
then, seating herself at the head of the table, drew towards her the
platter of strawberries.
"We are not to wait for Virginia?" asked Vincent, taking his place.
Madam was about to reply when, from the little passageway beyond the
library, came the crisp rustle of stiff petticoats, and Virginia
Trevor, the belle of Annapolis, tall, fresh of complexion, unrouged,
of slender figure, and delicate patrician features, came smilingly
into the room. The gentlemen hastened to rise, and Sir Charles
lifted back her chair.
"Thank you. Your pardon, madam, for being late. Amanda was very
slow."
"After your wakefulness of last night, I had not imagined that you
would attempt to rise this morning," answered her mother.
Virginia glanced at Lucy, and a half smile passed between them. It
was over before Madam Trevor perceived it.
"Debby was the sick one yesterday," observed Lucy, gently. "But you
seem to be quite recovered to-day," she finished, turning to her
cousin, just as Adam entered from the kitchen, bearing with him a
platter of fried chickens, crisply browned and smoking, while Lilith
followed with hoe-cake and bacon.
"Deborah's illness appears to be a matter of her own choice,"
remarked Madam Trevor, with displeasure in her tone. "She has been
warned of the dangers of her strange and useless experiments. If she
chooses to go her way against all advice, she must accept the
consequences of such folly."
Deborah was silent, and appeared unconcerned at the reproof.
Virginia, however, rather unwisely, spoke in her favor. "Indeed,
Debby's experiments would seem to me most useful, mother. You
yourself say that no one about Annapolis can make such rose and
lavender water, or distil such cordials and strong waters as she.
The still-room, too, is a different place since she was given charge
over it."
"I was not of the opinion, Virginia, that Deborah's illness resulted
either from rose-water or from cordial. And, as to the still-room,
who enters it to know how it may be kept?"
"Madam Trevor, I have never refused entrance to any one of the family
or the slaves who has wished to enter the room you gave me charge
over! Indeed, Lucy--"
"That is enough, Deborah."
Sir Charles Fairfield, though to all appearances he had not been
listening to the short conversation, flushed a little at the manner
in which it was ended, and, raising his voice, he addressed Vincent:
"Will you ride into town with me to-day? I've not waited on his
Excellency for a week. On my life! they give us an easy time out
here! Fancy a full-pay staff-officer at home, in camp, not seeing
his colonel for a week! I must really ride in to-day. Come with me,
Vincent, and see what idea there is of a chase next week."
Vincent poured out another tankard of quince-cider and slowly shook
his head: "'Tis not possible to-day, Charles. They are just
beginning to top the tobacco. I am going over all the farther fields
with Thompson--and there are three new blacks to be graded. If
you'll go to-morrow, I'll ride with you; but not to-day."
"Pa'don, Mas' Trev'!" cried a black boy, in house livery, who came
running in from the front. "Docta' Caw'l and Mist' Cawlve't outside
on the' ho'ses, an' say, can they come in?"
"Mr. Calvert!" cried Lucy.
"Go to meet them and bring them here at once, Vincent," commanded
Madam Trevor, at the same time sounding a hand-bell for Adam and
Lilith.
Vincent and Charles together hurried out of the room, while the
ladies drew more closely together at the table, and two extra places
were laid.
"Bring some fresh chicken and hot bacon and hoe-cake at once, Adam;
and have Chloe fry some oysters and tap a barrel of apple-jack."
The slaves scurried away to the kitchen again as the sound of deep
masculine voices was heard in the library. The guests entered the
breakfast-room side by side, and the four ladies rose to greet them;
Madam Trevor first, with her daughters just behind her, and Deborah,
with suddenly eager eyes, a little to one side.
Dr. Charles Carroll, father of "Mr. Carroll, of Carrollton," foremost
Whig and Catholic in Annapolis, always in disfavor with the Governor
officially, and excellent friends with him of a Saturday night,
forty-five years old, wealthy, bluff, a little gray under his
bag-wig, booted, spurred, fresh of color, and bright of eye, greeted
his old friend and mentor, Madam Trevor, with hearty good-humor.
Beside him was Benedict Calvert, a son of the Lord Proprietary, but
Protestant bred; Whig by preference, slender, handsome, unusually
dignified, and quite unaffected. After the various salutations the
entire party reseated themselves at table, and the guests, hungry
after their early canter, helped themselves without stint to the
freshly cooked food brought in for them. The doctor had placed
himself, as usual, by Deborah, who was all attention now; while Mr.
Calvert, with a sympathetic smile of understanding and
good-comradeship, was by Lucy, with his hostess on the other side.
"And now, madam, young ladies, Sir Charles, and our host," cried the
doctor, in a hearty voice, "we are about to repay your hospitality
with news, excellent news, for every one of you!"
"Ah! Let us hear it, doctor!" cried Vincent, while the others
murmured assent.
"Well, then, for the ladies first! The _Baltimore_ is in port, after
a bad voyage. She sailed from Portsmouth on the 20th of February. I
was on the south piers as she came to anchor. Her cargo--or part of
it--is all for feminine ears to hear. She has with her the last
fashions from home, and the material to reproduce them. There are
paduasoys and lutestrings, and satins and laces, and damasks and
silverware, and cheynay and glass, and ribbons and combs, and
shoe-buckles and silk stockings, and most wonderful garters, I'm
told; and--"
"Nay, now, doctor, 'tis far enough!" cried Sir Charles; and the
gentlemen laughed.
"Well, then, there are those things, and more. And on the morrow, at
ten of the morning, there is to be a public sale on the docks off
Hanover Street, where he who has the wherewithal may buy. And I am
bidden to ask you all to ride in and spend what moneys you can wrest
from Vincent's hands, and, after, to come to my house, where
Mistresses Letitia and Frances will serve you with a fair widower's
dinner. How now--what think you of my first news, damsels?"
"'Tis what none in the world but you could bring, Dr. Carroll,"
replied Madam Trevor, beaming graciously.
"And we may go, mother?" asked Lucy, voicing the anxiety of her more
dignified sister and her silent cousin.
"Yes, we will go--and our compliments and thanks to Mistress Letitia
and Mistress Frances for their asking. Deborah, child, you must have
tabby for a new petticoat; and I shall get you all muslins."
"And I must have a new set of plumes for--"
"Mother, may I not have a flowered paduasoy this year?"
"Come, come, girls! 'Tis our turn now! Surely, doctor, you do not
imagine us interested in sales of silk stockings and satins? What is
the news for us?" asked Vincent, with a slight smile.
Benedict Calvert laughed. "Troth, sir, 'tis not every man that is so
unfeignedly disdainful of silk stockings and satins, whether for his
own attire or for a lady's. Howbeit, there is other news that you
may like to hear. In the assembly yesterday the matter of the
commissioners for Lancaster was finally settled. Word has come from
Virginia that the council will open on the 25th of June. Our men
will probably leave here on the 20th; and--"
"I am elected to go, devil take me!" cried Sir Charles, ruefully.
"No such luck. Do not bemoan thyself, Charlie. Not one of the
Governor's staff, and only one official--Marshe--is of the number,"
returned Benedict, grinning broadly. "'Twas a prudent choice. Not a
Radical on either side."
"Then the doctor's scarce in," observed Vincent.
"That am I not," returned the doctor with eminent good-humor. "But
Mr. Calvert--the worshipful Mr. Calvert--is; and so are Phil Thomas,
and the Reverend Mr. Cradock, and Edmund Jennings, and Colvill,
and--ah, yes! Bob King. There, at least, is one Radical for you.
Well, well! Even such as they should manage, together with their
right honorable compeers from Virginia and Pennsylvania, to buy the
right of our colonial lands from the Six Nations--after a hundred and
fifty years of occupancy willy-nilly!"
"Quite so. And now that's all our news, Madam Trevor. Does it equal
the breakfast?"
"Not quite all, seeking your pardon! But the other matter is for the
ears of Mistress Debby here, whom, if you will permit me, madam, I
will, after breakfast, attend to her sanctum--the still-room."
Deborah did not move. Her eyes dropped, and sharp-eyed Calvert
himself could not have guessed the eagerness hidden under her perfect
mien.
"Deborah has been too much with her drugs of late, Dr. Carroll. I
think it were better if you talked with her on some healthier
subject. I am not over-fond of her ill-considered ways. They are
morbid, much of the time."
"Ah, madam, I am sorry for that! I look forward to the consultations
with little Mistress Deborah as the happiest reminiscences of my
professional days--before I abandoned physic for merchandise. Your
young cousin has remarkable talent about it."
Madam Trevor shrugged her shoulders. "If you put it in that way, Dr.
Carroll, how can I refuse you your pleasure in coming to our
plantation? If 'tis a question of talking with Deborah or not coming
at all, why--Deborah is all at your service."
"By my troth, Madam Antoinette, if that is a pleasantry, it is not
one that I like overmuch. How could you so take my words?"
"Come now, doctor, hurry on! Conduct the damsel to your
physicking-room, and I'll wait here. You forget that our road leads
on to the Kings'."
"To be sure. Well, Debby, let us be off. I must see your
manipulation of the new retort."
Thereupon the doctor and his protégée, leaving the others still at
table, went together out of the glass door, down the path, across the
yard, with its great poplar-trees and the groups of pickaninnies
playing, as usual, about the high well-sweep, to a small building a
trifle northeast of the cabins and half hidden in great lilac bushes
that clustered before its very door. This was Deborah's sanctum, the
still-room; and into it she and her companion retired.
The single room contained three large windows, through one of which
nodded a thick bunch of purple lilacs, heavy with perfume, and still
damp with dew. Along the windowless wall of the room ran a stout
pine table, on which, among various utensils, stood two chemist's
retorts, one the old iron alembic, the other Deborah's greatest
treasure, a glass retort for which Dr. Carroll had sent to Europe.
In one corner stood the charcoal box, a tall, iron brazier containing
some smouldering coals, and a keg for water.
While Deborah built up her charcoal fire and carried the brazier to
the table, Carroll went over to a corner cupboard, opened its door,
and looked in upon the five shelves where, ranged in orderly rows,
stood all the phials and flasks that Deborah had been able to
collect. Only a dozen or so contained more or less muddy-looking
liquids, and on each of these was pasted a paper label covered with
fine writing. One after another the doctor picked them up and
examined them.
"Aha!" he exclaimed, finally, taking the cork from one, and smelling
the cloudy mixture within. "Aha! You have it here! I thought so.
Now, this is precisely the thing that I should advise."
Deborah went over to him. "What! The monkshood? 'Tis a poor
solution. For want of pure alcohol, I had to use rum."
"No matter. Let us manipulate this a bit, Debby, instead of your
tobacco there. For this is necessary. And while we are distilling
some pure _aconitum napellus_, I will tell you a little story, and
weave for you a prettier romance than ever you did find in _The
Chyrurgien's Mate_ or old Galen's _Art of Physick_, that once I found
you with--or even the _Whole Duty of Man_, which I swear you have not
read."
"Yes, I have. But the story, Dr. Carroll! Was't the news you had
for my ears?"
"Even so, mistress. Now--careful with the body. We mustn't spill
this--where's your filter? That's it. A slow evaporation will be
best. Can you fix the other end? Good! You have a deft hand.
"Well, now, the tale runs this wise. You heard me say that I was at
the piers when the _Baltimore_ came in this morning. I'm half-owner
in her, and, besides that, Croft is a very good friend of mine, and
'tis four months since he sailed from here. He--the captain,
Debby--came off from the ship in his boat, looking a bit tired and
haggard, and more glad to get home again than ever I saw him before.
They'd a nasty voyage, been short of water for a week, and, besides
that, he had a tale to tell about one of his passengers. At
Portsmouth only four came on board, one of them a young fellow, a
Frenchman, known to Lord Baltimore, who commended him to the care of
Croft. It appears that the young man is of the nobility and high up
in Court society at his home--Paris, I suppose. But, for some reason
unknown, he packed himself on board the _Baltimore_ and sailed for a
place certainly far enough away from his friends and his people,
whoever they are. Croft says that it can't be an unlawful thing he's
done to make him come away, for the Lord Proprietary himself came
down to the ship with him and tried to persuade him to give up the
idea of coming. I suggested to Croft that, if it were not outlawry,
love were the thing to send a man flying like a fool from
civilization; and Croft vows I hit it. This noble Marquis de
something-or-other, Croft said, mooned about the ship like a soul in
purgatory for the first weeks out, and thereupon he fell sick in good
earnest. It seems he's been in a raving fever now for days past,
sometimes delirious, sometimes in coma. He's talked overmuch, from
what I can hear, about Lewis, the French King, and a lot of madames,
and a Henry--his rival, perhaps--and I don't know what all.--See,
there's the first vapor. Now 'twill be just right.--Well, Croft said
he must see this man safe off his hands and in some place where he
could be cared for, before he'd make report of the voyage. So,
Debby, I sent a black up to the ordinary of Mrs. Miriam Vawse, and
she came down herself to the wharf, just as they got the man
ashore--de Mailly, his name is. By the great Plutarch, Deb, he's the
man for us! Never have I seen a creature in such condition! I think
he must have been well enough looking once. But now!--He's a
skeleton from fever. His face is shrunken and as bright as a
hunting-coat. His hair--'tis long and black--tangled into a mat; and
his clothes, of excellent make they are, hang about him like bags.
He was conscious when he landed, but I didn't hear him speak a single
time as we drove him up the hill and to the ordinary, where Mrs.
Miriam is to care for him.
"Now, Deborah, here's my part of the tale for you. To-morrow, when
you come in town for the sale, after you dine with us at noon, I
shall manage so that you go down to the Vawse house and yourself see
this fellow, judge his symptoms, and administer this very stuff--that
is coming out fine and clear now--to him, in your own way. 'Twill be
the best practice you could have; you could scarce make the man
worse; and 'twould be a grand thing, eh, Deb, to accomplish such a
cure as that?--My faith, you'll be having me return to the profession
in a year more! But hang me if I'd not be found a better
practitioner--with your assistance--than Richards, dispenser of
poisons that he is!"
"And so are we, Dr. Carroll," returned Deborah, soberly, as she
carefully watched the process of evaporation in the retort. "Indeed,
I think that I like better knowing the things that will kill than
those that will cure."
"Bloodthirsty maiden--don't you know 'tis all the same thing?--And
how d'you like my plan?"
"I think, sir, that madam never would permit it. 'Twould be a most
highly improper thing."
"Nonsense--nonsense. If you were my own maid, you should certainly
do it. I'll manage. Trust me--that is, if you care for it. Are you
indifferent?"
Deborah was silent for a long moment. Then she sighed. "I'm not
indifferent. And--and I'd dearly like to see a gentleman from
Court--even though it were only from the French Court."
"_Only_ the French Court! Why, child, 'tis the greatest in the
world--for courtiers and gayety. What more would you have?"
Deborah had no time to make answer, for at that moment one of the
house-slaves came to the open door of the still-room.
"Beg pa'don, Mist' Cawlve't sen't' say the ho'ses a'e ready, an' does
doctah want dinne' at Mist' King's, o' is he goin' eat Miss Deb's
dis--dis--something I done fo'got what."
Carroll laughed. "Troth, Debby, Mistress Lucy must have been less
entertaining than usual this morning. I must go, I suppose.--Can you
finish this alone? You seem to know all the processes."
"Yes, I can finish it in an hour, if madam lets me stay here."
"I'll try to see that she does. Will you bring the _aconitum_
to-morrow, then?"
"Yes." Deborah smiled and courtesied.
The doctor bent over and kissed her hand with affectionate gallantry.
"Good-morning, Hygeia."
"Good-bye, sir."
"Till to-morrow. At the French Court, I believe, they say 'au
revoir,'" he added, mischievously, while the girl smiled. Then
Carroll strode off, with David at his heels, leaving Deborah alone at
her favorite occupation, wondering a little, in an absent-minded way,
over the unusual event that her somewhat eccentric mentor proposed to
bring into her life.
Mr. Benedict Calvert, with the Trevor family clustered about him,
stood, riding-whip in hand, in the portico of the manor, in front of
which, on the driveway which curved out towards the river, were the
two horses, Carroll's and his, held by one of the stable-boys. Mr.
Calvert was laughing and talking blandly with Lucy and Sir Charles;
but madam, with her elder daughter ami Vincent, stood a little to one
side, and annoyance was very plainly readable in the face of the
mistress of the house. The doctor, with a cheery smile, came briskly
round the corner of the east wing. It took but one glance to tell
him who had really called him from the still-room.
"Most puissant Lord Commissioner, behold me here at your command!" he
cried, approaching his companion.
"A--Deborah is not with you?" observed Madam Antoinette rather
uselessly.
"No. Shall I call her? I left her in the preparation of a little
matter which I had requested of her. Pardon me. I did not know that
I was taking her from--" he made as if to go after her, when Vincent
interposed.
"Don't trouble, doctor. She will be only too glad to finish what you
asked. Afterwards there will be time enough for the spinning, or the
weaving, or whatever is necessary."
Carroll thanked the young man with a little glance, and began at once
making his farewells. He perceived that the time for introducing the
project of Deborah's visit on the morrow was eminently unpropitious.
Mr. Calvert made graceful adieux to the ladies, lightly saluted the
master of the house and the Governor's lieutenant, and leaped upon
his animal. A moment more and the two were cantering away, side by
side, still looking back to the portico. When they were at length
hidden by the bend in the road, Madam Trevor turned to the two girls.
"Virginia and Lucy, go you both and overlook your wardrobes and the
linen in the press, and think out what is needed that we may buy at
the sale to-morrow. Deborah may help you when she comes in.
Charles, you ride to town, do you not? And, Vincent, I would have a
moment with you before you go to the fields."
The little party dispersed as it was bid, Vincent following his
mother into the house and to the west passage, where hung her garden
hat, her lace mittens, her basket, and her pruning-knife. Thus
accoutred, she led the way through the breakfast-room and out upon
the terrace that overlooked the fairest spot in Madam Trevor's
world--her garden. Here she paused, her eyes wandering for a moment
over the scene about them, before she turned to her son.
"I wanted to speak to you, Vincent, of the sailing of the
_Baltimore_. Within two or three weeks she will be going out again,
'tis likely."
"True. And what has that to do with us?" inquired the young man in
some perplexity.
His mother sighed. "Vincent, I confess to anxiety. You are aware, I
think, of the reason of Charles Fairfield's colonial appointment?
You know why he sailed with you in the autumn when you came home to
us to take your father's place here? You know why he has made his
home in our house instead of in Annapolis with the other aides?"
"Yes, I know," responded Trevor, shortly.
"Remember, Vincent, it was your father's wish, it is your uncle's, it
is mine, that--we should all be brought a little closer to old
England by Virginia's marriage with her cousin."
"And the sailing of the _Baltimore_?"
"I am going to send off my jewels, my wedding pearls, to have them
remounted in London for Virginia. And when they come home--that
should be in August--when they come home, you and Charles must come
to an understanding about your sister. Remember, Vincent, as the
head of the family, you have a place to fill. There are certain
matters about which you cannot afford to be careless--matters of more
importance than the tobacco crop, or the price of slaves. I wished
to ask you this morning if, when we drive in town for the dock sale
to-morrow, you will see Captain Croft about intrusting the pearls to
his keeping."
"Certainly, madam, if you wish it. Shall I take them to-morrow to
him?"
"No. Not till just before the ship's sailing. They are too valuable
to leave in a captain's cottage. This is what I had to say, Vincent.
Go, now, to your fields, if you wish."
Vincent bent over and kissed her hand. Then he started towards the
house. After half a dozen steps he halted suddenly and looked back,
as though he would have spoken. His mother, however, had descended
the terrace steps and was already bending over her flowers. So,
after a little pause, he turned about again and continued
thoughtfully upon his way.
CHAPTER II
Dr. Carroll's Idea
Deborah's bedroom was extremely small. It was merely one corner of
the west wing, partitioned off from the spinning-room and the great
hand-loom; and there was barely room in it for her bed,
dressing-table, chest-of-drawers, washstand, and two chairs. Besides
these necessities, there were two windows and a strip of carpet, to
be regarded as luxuries. Deborah herself, however, curtained the bed
and windows after her own fashion, in white India muslin, put a
ruffled cover over the dressing-table, displayed what ornaments she
possessed prettily about the room, and so regarded it with
satisfaction ever after. Her two windows both looked out over the
back of the plantation, the flower-garden being directly below, the
woods to one side, the tobacco barns at a distance. The room
underneath Deborah's, which occupied the whole of the west wing on
the ground floor, had been given to Sir Charles; and in the passage
that connected this with the main house were the stairs.
When Deborah woke from her dreamless sleep on the morning after the
doctor's visit, the first active thought in her brain was of the dock
sale for that day. It was rather later than her usual hour of
waking, and she hurriedly began her toilet. Presently, however, as
she was loosening her hair, her eyes fell upon the bottle of
_aconitum napellus_ which she had brought to her room after its
preparation on the day before; and at sight of it her hands dropped
to her sides, and she stood still for a moment in contemplation.
Then a little shiver ran over her, and she performed something very
like a shrug. "I don't like sick people," she muttered to herself,
turning to sit down before her mirrored table.
If Deborah's words were quite honest, then certainly this morning she
was looking forward to the dock sale with unusual pleasure. She had
never before manifested any strong interest in these things. In
fact, she had been known to say that they were tiresome. Men did not
much frequent them; no young lady was allowed money to spend for
herself; and the good housewives were always more interested in
table-linens and utensils than ribbons or jewelry. Nevertheless,
here, this morning, was Mistress Debby, plying her hair with more
interest than she had had for it since the last assembly; and when it
was all ringletted and quite smooth, she saw fit to use upon it a
white ribbon that had never before been worn. Also, when Lucy cried
at the door that she was to wear her blue lutestring petticoat and
white muslin overdress, those garments lay ready upon a chair, though
once or twice before, on like occasions, there had been some spirited
conversation between Deborah and Madam Trevor before the young lady
was willing to give up the perverse idea that her every-day holland
was quite good enough for such an affair. When she was ready, and
the lace mittens taken from their drawer, Deborah carefully placed
her phial of distilled liquid in the neck of her dress, pushing it
out of sight among the ruffles of her kerchief.
At nine o'clock the family coach, with four ladies inside it, left
the house. Sir Charles, in scarlet and white, and Vincent, in bottle
green, accompanied the vehicle on horseback. Vincent was reconciled
to leaving his fields by the prospect of meeting some of the
burgesses in the city and learning the details of yesterday's
election of commissioners; while the lieutenant never needed strong
urging to give a day to the mild amusements of the colonial town,
with its coffee-house, its feeble imitators of English beauship, its
jockey club, and what few pretty women were to be visited in the
daytime. The clock on St. Anne's was booming the half-hour as the
coach crossed the bridge over the inlet at the foot of Prince George
Street; and here, in the last house of the town, a quaint wooden
cottage in the midst of a well-shaded yard, dwelt Captain Croft of
the _Baltimore_. At its gate Vincent, with a little nod to his
mother, stopped.
"I've an errand here," he called to Fairfield. "Will be at Carroll's
by twelve. Do you dine with us?"
The aide shook his head. "Thanks, no. I'll go to the coffee-house
with Curtis and Belmont, if I do not dine at the Governor's. Are you
coming to the assembly later?"
"Yes. Till this afternoon, then," and Vincent dismounted at the
gate, while the coach, with its single cavalier, all unconscious of
the significance of Vincent Trevor's errand, went on again. At the
new Bladen Street Sir Charles turned off towards the Governor's
"palace," while the vehicle kept on towards the water-side.
Hanover Street was thronged with coaches and conveyances of all
kinds, bringing in people from the country, while the ladies, and a
few gentlemen of the city, picked their way on foot to the wharf.
Every one was known to the Trevors, and madam and Virginia had their
heads out of the windows continually, bowing and speaking to those
whom they passed; while Lucy was now on one side, now on the other,
peeping out with a covertly expectant air; and Deborah watched her,
knowing very well what she sought, and knowing also that it would not
be found.
Virginia saw her sister's restlessness with displeasure. She said
nothing till they left the coach, but when at last they had alighted
at the crowded dock, Miss Trevor took occasion to whisper into Lucy's
ear:
"Lucy, had John Whitney seen you looking for him this morning, he
would, I think, scarce have been overpleased with the manner of it."
And Deborah's eyes chancing to fall on the younger girl's face, saw
her cheeks grow scarlet and her eyes fall with quick mortification.
The sight which met the eyes of the new-comers at the wharves was one
curious enough for a person of to-day. The broad wooden pier, at
which were fastened a dozen or so of pinnaces and small boats
belonging to folk who had come from far up the river or down the bay,
had been converted for the time into a mart. All up and down, in
regular lines, it was dotted with little platforms of wood, which
were covered with articles taken from the ship and arranged here for
sale, on the day and night before, by salesmen hired for the purpose
from the various town shops.
The goods were the selection of London men who had made life studies
of the colonial trade, and who knew, moreover, the various tastes of
the various localities, north, south, tide-water, and inland.
Certainly there was variety to be had here. Down one side of the
dock were set forth on their platforms every possible household
contrivance, with a good deal of furniture, and enough kitchen
utensils, china and glass, to have set up a dozen ordinaries. Along
the centre of the pier were materials, ready-fashioned garments, fine
damasks that could not be made at home, and fancy articles of dress
and the toilet. About these there hovered, throughout the day, a
fair sprinkling of gentlemen, pricing scarlet and gold-laced coats,
silk stockings, ruffles, and perfumed pomades with great interest.
The third row of booths held agricultural implements, tools, coarse
materials, such as felt and leather, together with a few books and
papers.
When Madam Trevor, with the three girls, arrived at the pier, all
aristocratic damedom seemed to be about the silks and damasks. Now,
while carrying on a lively conversation with Mistresses King, Paca,
Cradock, and Chase, Madam Trevor busily priced tabby silk petticoats
and India muslins, of which she selected very pretty pieces for her
daughters and Deborah. Mrs. Chase was casting longing glances at a
satin bodice that Mistress Harwood held in her hands. But, as the
two ladies did not speak, owing to the upper story of the Harwood
house, there seemed to be but small hope of attaining to possession
thereof.
"What monstrous pretty cloaks!" cried Mrs. King, turning over a pile
of short capes of crimson, blue, and white.
"'Tis too near summer now to purchase cloth," rejoined Mrs. Cradock,
pursing her lips regretfully as she held one up.
"They are but two guineas, madam; of the latest cut; will continue in
England just so for the space of five years--will wear longer than
that," observed the salesman casually, with alluring indifference.
"I declare I'll take this blue one! It is of the most excellent
texture, and 'tis always cool on the river in the evening."
"Virginia, will you have a white one?" asked her mother.
"No, thank you, madam. I have cloaks and to spare. With your
permission, I will go look at the fans farther up. My last was
broken at the Masons' rout."
"You may look at them, and I will join you presently. This crimson
cape will suit Deborah. Would you like this, Debby?" She turned
about to find only Lucy at her side.
"Where is she?" asked Madam Trevor of her daughter.
"On the other side of the pier, I think. Shall I call her?"
"At once. What can she be doing there?"
Lucy turned about and started to wend her way among the groups to the
other side of the dock, where Deborah stood over a little collection
of chemists' implements. Beside her, a sacred book in his hand, was
a young man, at sight of whom Lucy hesitated, her face crimson, her
heart beating unsteadily. She stopped almost still for a moment to
watch them. Deborah was lovingly handling a siphon, while the young
Puritan minister talked to her. Presently he caught sight of Lucy,
who was constrained to move towards him again when she perceived the
quick light that came into his face and the bow that he made.
Deborah turned, and her mouth twitched a little as she perceived her
cousin's fluttering nervousness. "Master Whitney was speaking of
you, Lucy," she said.
"I did myself the honor to inquire after the health of you and
Mistress Virginia," said the young divine, embarrassment and pleasure
adding a load of stiffness to his manner.
"Oh, thank you!--As you see--we are very well.--Debby," she added,
reluctantly, "mother wants you at once to see if you would like a
crimson cloak.--I am so sorry--I mean--"
"I would prefer this siphon a thousand times to a crimson cloak,"
murmured Deborah, more to herself than to her cousin.
Lucy heard her, however. "I'll ask, if you like, Debby, and then,
perhaps, we may return and purchase it."
"I was just about to leave the wharf, having found the book I sought.
May I accompany you to Madam Trevor and pay my compliments to her?"
Lucy beamed with delight, while Deborah consented with an
absent-minded nod, and the three returned to the side of Madam
Trevor, who greeted the Reverend Mr. Whitney with surprise and only
the necessary politeness. Indeed this young Puritan was a sore
subject in the Trevor family, whose youngest daughter had lost her
faith, and, presumably, her heart, to the exponent of a rigid creed,
inimical to every form of that Popery which was, just now, the only
religion in disfavor with the erstwhile Catholic Province of Maryland.
The crimson cloak was purchased, the siphon was not; Master Whitney
took a reluctant leave of little Mistress Trevor; and her mother,
accompanied by Mrs. Paca, started to rejoin Virginia over the fans.
"Surely, Antoinette, you'll scarce return home before dinner to-day.
Will you not drive up from here and take pot-luck--just a cold
joint--with us?"
"Thank you for us all, vastly, Barbara, but we are bespoken by Dr.
Carroll. You're most kind."
"I am sorry. I declare I had thought to see the doctor here to-day,
but he's not been near the dock."
"Ay, and he rarely misses a sale. Doubtless, he has gone to the
assembly."
Indeed, in one of the two places Dr. Carroll, according to unvarying
habit, should have been. He happened, however, to be sitting in his
own study, where, as one might say, he had waylaid himself. And he
was by now sunk in a reverie so profound as to be totally oblivious
of any of the proceedings of the outside world. His two maiden
sisters bustled about the house preparing for their guests. His son
Charles, a lad of seventeen, was in his own room being tutored in
French and the classics by the priest who lived in the family. Thus
the doctor had his study, which was his particular world, to himself;
and the two people who formed the subject of his meditations were
linked together by his thought for the first time. Fate and Fortune
can work most curiously, and Destiny toss far indeed, when Claude de
Mailly, of Versailles, and Deborah Travis, Virginia born, should have
set out towards each other from birth, groping till they met, and for
some little time after, too. Charles Carroll, being the instrument,
not the confidant, of Fate, was now sitting among his books,
perplexed and wondering at himself. That morning, for the second
time within twenty-four hours, he had traversed the two blocks that
separated his house from the ordinary of Miriam Vawse, to which
Claude, at the doctor's instance, had been carried from the ship
which had been so nearly the scene of his death. And very
differently the young fellow looked to-day. He had been bathed; his
hair was combed and clipped; his stubbly beard shaven off, his soiled
clothes removed, and a clean, coarse linen shift substituted for the
under-garments of foreign make and curious fastening which had much
puzzled the excellent Mistress Vawse. And in this new guise all the
innate refinement and gentleness of the de Mailly nature had once
more come to the surface, and Dr. Carroll had no difficulty in
determining that his new-found protégé was of even finer breeding
than he had guessed on the previous day.
Claude's small travelling coffer had been brought up from the ship,
and was placed near his bed, in the clean, sunny little colonial room
under the eaves of the house. It must be confessed that Mistress
Vawse had been through the trunk pretty thoroughly, after unlocking
it with the awkward key which she had found in the Frenchman's
clothes. But, with a delirious foreigner, whose disease requires
quiet as much as good nursing, beside you, and a long day empty of
incident to be gone through in silence, what woman could have
resisted the temptation to examine so fascinating a boxful of clothes
as this? And in justice let it be added, that Miriam Vawse would
quite as soon have thought of assaulting the Governor in the street
as of purloining the very smallest lace ruffle contained in this
treasure-box; for her forbears and her honesty had come together from
Kent in the year of grace 1660, along with certain choice recipes for
cordials and strong waters, and the ancestral talent for nursing
which Dr. Carroll in the old days had been wont to find so useful.
Meantime the genial doctor had completely wasted his morning in
pondering over the almost impossible situation that he wished to
bring about; and finally, as the Trevor coach drew up to the door, he
left his study, resignedly determined to give his hopes to Chance for
fulfilment.
The four ladies alighted from their vehicle, leaving behind them, to
the care of the black footboy, a large number of bundles brought from
the sale. Their host handed Madam Trevor sedately up the walk and
into the house, where now Mistress Lettice Carroll, his sister, and
Frances Appleby, his sister-in-law, both in starched and flowered
paragon, with powdered locks atop of demure, quaint little heads,
stood in the doorway to welcome the guests. When the ladies had
removed their head-gear and scarfs up-stairs they returned to the
drawing-room where, it being near the hour for dinner, young Charles
Carroll and Father St. Quentin awaited them with the doctor. Madam
Trevor, Virginia, and Deborah greeted the priest with reverent
friendship, for every Sunday they attended the mass which he
performed in the Carroll chapel, where the few families of the old
faith in Annapolis were accustomed to congregate; and, besides this,
he had been kind enough to give some instruction to the Trevor girls
and Deborah in the art of conversing in the French language. But
Lucy hung uneasily back in the presence of Père Aimé, till he himself
went forward and gave her a few gentle and impersonal words of
greeting. Madam Trevor, beside Mistress Lettice, cast an annoyed
glance at her daughter, but nothing was said on the subject. When
Deborah, however, left St. Quentin's side, the doctor placed himself
in her way and managed to ask, in a lowered voice, as she passed him:
"You brought the monkshood with you?"
And the girl nodded, gravely, "Yes." The next instant she was seized
upon by young Charles, who regarded her less as a piece of femininity
than some pretty thing, excellent to talk to, and a very good walker,
produced by a beneficent nature for his especial benefit. They had
wandered over to the window together, speaking of a forthcoming sail
up the river, when Deborah's attention was caught by the voice of St.
Quentin, who was addressing the doctor on an interesting topic.
"If it would not displease you, sir," St. Quentin had begun, "I
should like to give Charles an hour's holiday this afternoon."
"And wherefore this leniency, good father?" queried Carroll, smiling
good-humoredly.
"For a kind of charity, I imagine. This morning, as I walked the
length of the street before breakfast, Mrs. Vawse came suddenly
running out of her ordinary to ask if I would not go in with her at
once, or at some hour of the day. She has lodged in her house, it
seems, a foreigner--French--who arrived yesterday on the _Baltimore_,
half dead with fever, and who was carried up from the wharves to be
taken care of by her. It appears that he raves continually in
French, and I fancy that the curiosity of good Mrs. Vawse is growing
strong within her, or else she would know how best to serve him, for
she would have me come and translate for her some of his wild words,
knowing that I have what she terms an unholy learning in that most
ungodly tongue. As 'twas then too near the breakfast hour to obey
her wishes, I promised to come later in the day."
"And so, thy curiosity being roused by the dame's, thou canst not
wait thy visit till after vespers, eh?" And the doctor laughed.
"Seeing that it is a case of distress on the part of one of my
countrymen, I would go at the first opportunity, on whatever
pretence," returned the father, calmly.
"Well, then, you shall be off directly we finish dinner," answered
Carroll, devoutly imploring Providence to come to his aid. "And--"
"And if that is done, I would have Deborah go with him," said
Providence at once, speaking through Madam Trevor, "with a message to
Miriam Vawse. 'Tis concerning the cherry brandy, Deborah. The last
of hers was so excellent that I would have her make for us a keg this
year. Tell her to take three trees of our fruit for it, and one tree
for herself, which, together with two bushels of potatoes in the
autumn, will pay for the making. You might learn her way of
fermenting, while you are on the point. Then you may come back
alone, if the father is not ready."
Come back! Yes, there must be a coming back. Dr. Carroll, however,
was rubbing his satin knee in an ecstasy of good-humor; and Deborah
herself, who, after a respectful bow to Madam Trevor, had shot one
swift glance at the doctor, felt, as she returned to her conversation
with young Charles, a curious quiver of the heart which she
afterwards decided to have been one of the most delightful sensations
ever known. A moment later Mrs. Appleby, who had left the room
several moments before, entered with a little courtesy to announce
dinner.
Once seated at the round, well-loaded table, conversation, by general
assent, turned again to the Frenchman who had arrived on the
_Baltimore_.
"As a matter of fact," confessed the doctor, willing to tell what he
knew of the matter now, "it was I who sent him up to Mistress Vawse.
I went down yesterday directly the ship was in, and, Croft having
told me of the fellow, I got to see him. Faith, he was in a most
execrable way! And besides, from what I could guess from his manner,
and what Croft told me, he was a gentleman of rank. 'Twould have
been pitiable enough to have had him die there on the docks; so I
packed him, with my compliments, his box, and my black, up to Miriam,
who had him in excellent shape when I went there this morning."
"Charles, really, you are monstrous disagreeable," ventured Mrs.
Lettice, gently. "Why did you not bring the poor man here? I vow
Miriam Vawse can never manage alone, and--"
"Nay, Lettice, he is too young for thee. Ten years ago 'twould have
been a pretty enough romance, but--"
"Perhaps," struck in Madam Trevor, in time to prevent tears of
mortification on the part of the little old maid, "perhaps I had
better go, instead of Deborah. I might see the man, and find out--"
"Nay, now, Antoinette!" interrupted the doctor, in a great fright,
while Deborah herself stirred a little anxiously, "you'll spoil all
my purpose if you do that. Let Debby go on the cherry errand if she
will, but you shall not see this Munseer till he's well and fit to
receive you. Then, if he prove what I think him, I'll make him a
dinner-party here, and he shall sit next to Virginia and opposite
you, and you may study him at will."
"La! 'Twill be as bad for him as the time I had at the last assembly
ball, when at supper I sat by old Master Randal, who cannot hear
thunder, while on the other side was Carleton Jennings, who had next
him Lora Colvill, that's to marry him in the autumn."
"And where was Sir Charles Fairfield?" queried little Mrs. Appleby,
with unfortunate would-be slyness.
Madam Trevor's face changed suddenly, and Deborah colored.
"Sir Charles? Oh--with Debby, I believe," was Virginia's kindly,
indifferent reply.
Thereupon St. Quentin, who had not been brought up in a cloister,
looked approval at Miss Trevor, and adroitly changed the subject.
The meal coming to an end at length, the father immediately addressed
Deborah on the subject of their visit:
"Miss Travis, my curiosity still burns. Will you take pity upon it
and accompany me as soon as you can down to the ordinary?"
"I will come at once, if Madam Trevor permits," was the reply.
"Yes, get your hat and scarf, Deborah. In half an hour the coach
will be here to drive us home. If the doctor will excuse your
presence, you need not come back. We will stop for you on the way.
You can wait in the sitting-room if Mistress Vawse is much occupied;
for you would not, of course, go up-stairs."
Madam Trevor made the last remark in a tone that required no answer.
Deborah merely courtesied and ran away for her hat; and, while the
five ladies returned to the parlor, Dr. Carroll laid his hand on the
priest's arm and said a few words to him in a low tone. St. Quentin
raised his brows slightly, but gave no further sign of surprise.
Then, as young Charles came loitering up, his father took possession
of him, fearing that he might propose to accompany Deborah to the
tavern. Five minutes later the priest and the young girl were on
their way, Deborah with the warm phial, filled with her extract,
pressing close over her steady heart.
St. Quentin spoke but once. "Dr. Carroll tells me that at his
request you are to see this Frenchman," he observed, looking down at
her; but he saw no sign of interest in her face as she answered,
briefly:
"Yes."
As the two approached the quaint little building, with the small,
swinging sign of "ordinary" over the door, its mistress, looking out
of the window of the sick-room, witnessed the approach of her
visitors. She ran quickly down-stairs to meet them, leaving her
patient for the moment alone.
Claude was lying perfectly still on his clean colonial bed, conscious
of nothing about him, vaguely feeling the change of air, perhaps, and
the improvement of his surroundings over those of the dismal ship's
cabin. But he was burning with fever, and, though the tossing of the
vessel had got him into the habit of being still, he yet talked
incessantly in his own language, while his wide-open eyes, roving
aimlessly as they did, noted everything about him, and changed it
into some familiar object of his rooms "at home." He saw Mistress
Vawse leave the window, and cried after her anxiously:
"N'oubliez pas, chère Marquise, que vous m'avez promis le deuxième
menuet!"
Then, through the stillness, came the murmur of voices from below.
For an instant he listened intently. "Henri--tu es tard. Quelle
heure est-il? Hein? Mesquin! Est-ce que votre Victorine est enfin
moins cruelle?" Footsteps sounded on the stairs, but the sick man
turned away his head impatiently. "Ne faites pas un tel bruit. Ma
foi! J'ai une tête! Apportez-moi de l'eau, Chaumelle.--Ventre bleu!"
Claude sat suddenly up in bed with a new vision before his eyes.
Very distinctly he beheld, entering the room, far in advance of his
Marquise, and a step or two before some abbé, a floating picture of
blue and white, with delicate ruffles, a matchless throat, grave
bluish eyes, and hair neither dark nor light falling in confusion
about two slender shoulders. More and more intently he sat and
gazed, while his scattered senses strove at last to adjust
themselves, and his breath came rapidly through his parted lips.
Deborah, St. Quentin, and Miriam Vawse had stopped still, just as
they entered the room. Deborah's eyes fell upon the rapt look of de
Mailly, and were held spellbound. She scarcely saw what he was like,
what were the color of the eyes she looked into, nor was she
conscious of any part in the scene till Aimé St. Quentin quietly laid
a hand upon her arm. She quivered and turned her head, till she
beheld the priest's face. Then, suddenly realizing where she was,
she passed her hand over her forehead and stepped slowly back, while
the father, with an unreadable expression, advanced to the bedside,
and Mistress Vawse, unable to comprehend just why she had stopped so
long at the door, came into the room.
[Illustration: "CLAUDE SUDDENLY SAT UP IN BED"]
"You've some medicine, Miss Debby, the doctor told me," she said,
going to the girl's side.
At the same moment Claude dropped back upon his pillows, muttering,
with dry lips: "Du vin, Armand--pour l'amour de Dieu--du vin!"
Deborah looked up quickly, catching and understanding the words.
"Have you something for him to drink?" she asked, before St. Quentin
could speak.
"Ay. There's fresh water and a tankard here," responded Mistress
Vawse, hurrying over to a small stand in one corner, where stood a
pewter pitcher and mug.
"Then let me have the cup for a moment," said the girl, in a low
voice, taking from her breast the little bottle of brownish liquid.
Into the water which Dame Miriam brought, Deborah, with a steady
hand, poured five drops of the _aconitum napellus_. "Now, make him
take it--all," she said, recorking the phial.
St. Quentin took the cup and pressed it to the lips of de Mailly, who
was still groaning with thirst. He drained the draught eagerly and
lay back on his pillows murmuring thanks and closing his eyes for the
first time since early morning. The priest, attracted by his manner
and his face, lifted a chair to the bedside and sat down. Deborah,
after looking at him once again, drew a long breath, and moved over
to the window, when Miriam touched her arm.
"Leave the medicine here and come with me, Miss Debby, till I show
you some of his things."
"What things? Wait. You must know about this, first. Never give
him more than four drops in half a cup of water--and that not too
often--twice a day, I think."
"Why? Is't dangerous?"
"Ten drops will kill an animal."
"Mercy on us! I'll be careful, then. But come, now, to the best
room. There I've laid some of his things that were all rumpled with
bad packing. My faith! Such satins and laces you never did see, and
linen--as fine as your India muslin--and shoe-buckles!" With which
information good Miriam led the way on tiptoe from the room, Deborah,
half reluctantly, half eagerly, following her.
Across a narrow passage-way on the other side of the house was the
"best bedroom" of the little old inn. Here, upon the high bed,
carefully covered from the sun and any stray atom of dust with a
clean linen sheet, lay half of Claude's wardrobe. As Mistress Vawse
threw the cover aside Deborah uttered a little exclamation. Before
her were the two court-suits of pink and white satin, with their
delicate silver and silken embroidery, their elaborate waistcoats,
point-lace ruffles, and silk stockings. Beside them lay orderly
little piles of red-heeled slippers with paste buckles, linen shirts,
a jewelled scabbard, two or three pins of diamonds, of which neither
woman guessed the value, some rings, a white, three-cornered hat, two
wigs, and an ivory snuff-box, in whose cover was the miniature of a
woman, surrounded with pearls.
"How beautiful!" murmured Deborah, laying one finger gently on the
embroidered pocket of the pink coat. "How beautiful! I have never
seen aught like them."
"Nor I. Not on the Governor himself."
There was a silence as the two colonial women stood over the
courtier's wardrobe, in this little bedroom of the far new world.
Then again Deborah said, more to herself than to her companion:
"And the ladies--do they, too, have such things as these?"
"Oh, Miss Debby! Have you forgot Madam Trevor's wedding satin, with
the veil and train? And the brocade she wore to the Governor's ball?"
But the girl shook her head impatiently. "Madam has nothing in the
cedar chest so wonderful as this," she answered, lifting up a ruffle
of Venice lace, as delicate as frost upon a window-pane. She looked
at it lovingly for a long moment, and was about to replace it, when
her eye fell on something which had lain beneath. It was a white kid
glove, its back embroidered in tarnished gold and set with little
blue stones, while in the centre of the arabesques was a crest, also
in gold, unstudded. The girl turned it over, mechanically. Yes,
there was something on the palm--the painting of a man's face and
shoulders, a handsome face, if distorted a little by the brush; the
face of a man comparatively young, something dull of expression, with
a pair of great, sapphire blue eyes, and curling locks of bright gold
tied loosely back, but unpowdered.
Deborah raised her eyes till they met those of Mistress Vawse.
"This--does not belong to him? Is not, I mean, a man's--gauntlet?"
"No, Miss Debby. When I took off his old suit yesterday, I found
that glove pinned to his shirt on the left side, over--"
"His heart."
Mistress Vawse nodded. The glove dropped from Deborah's hand, and
Father St. Quentin suddenly appeared at the door.
"The coach is coming, Deborah. Have you told Mistress Vawse of the
cherries yet?"
"Oh no! I will as we go down."
"And how's the Frenchman, sir?"
The father smiled. "Luck is against my practice of French for the
day, I fear. I must come to-morrow. It may be Mistress Deborah's
medicine. He is sleeping like a child."
CHAPTER III
The Plantation
It was nearly four weeks since the _Baltimore_ had set sail on her
return voyage to England. The June days were flying. Peach-blossoms
had long since fallen; cherries were daily reddening; and the turkeys
had been turned into the tobacco fields for their annual feast off
the insect life so destroying to young plants. In nine days more the
commissioners from Annapolis were to make their departure for
Lancaster in Pennsylvania, for the purpose of settling the
long-delayed matter of purchasing charter rights from the Indians.
It was, moreover, a Monday afternoon, and very warm, when Virginia
Trevor came languidly up from the rose-garden towards the wide and
shady portico of the house. In her hand she held two magnificent red
roses, which she now and then raised to her face, they being in
perfect contrast to her white gown and petticoat of palest yellow.
The portico was furnished in the fashion of a room, for in summer the
family were inclined to spend more time there than in the house.
Upon it now, in one of the comfortable chairs that surrounded a
wicker table, sat the solitary occupant of the portico--Sir Charles.
He had been here for an hour or so, ever since dinner was over, half
awake, bored, wishing for amusement, but without energy to go in
search of it. On Virginia's approach he rose, bowed, and went to the
edge of the porch to hand her up.
"Thank you," she said, smiling a little. "It was a condescension.
You look very sleepy."
"And you are, as ever, pleased to make sport of me," he responded,
good-humoredly. "Have you no pity for a man weary of himself, his
very sportiveness, and most mightily tired of the silence of the
trees, the shadows, the sun, and the river yonder?"
"Troth, you are in a bad way," responded the young lady, seating
herself at the table and taking therefrom a reticule which held some
silken knitting-work.
There was a pause before Fairfield observed, idly, "My aunt's roses
must be highly successful this year."
"Yes. These are very perfect."
"And are you going to be so selfish as to keep the two of them, when
not even one is needed to complete your beau--"
"No, no. Stop!"
Sir Charles looked at her in surprise.
"Take both the flowers if you like"--she tossed them over to
him--"but forbear any remarks on my appearance. I--I am not in the
mood."
He fastened the roses upon his waistcoat, helped himself to a pinch
of snuff, dusted his coat with a large handkerchief, and leaned
towards her. "How have I offended, O Virginia the fair?" he asked,
half lazily, half curiously.
The young lady shrugged her shoulders. "In no way at all. This is a
Monday. Have you never noticed that I am always vaporish on Mondays?"
"No, I had not noticed. Oh! as I remember it! Tell me, what did you
think yesterday of M. de Mailly? Is't the first time you have seen
him?"
"Yes. And I think him a gentleman, and that his English accent is
good. He looked rather pale. For the rest--why should I think of
him at all, since his eyes are only for Deborah?"
"Deborah!" echoed the man, too quickly. He recovered himself,
however. "Ah, well--he has seen her before. You and Lucy were
strange to him."
"He has seen her before?" repeated Virginia, surprised.
"Several times. Didn't you know? Carroll told me 'twas her
doses--medicines--that probably saved his life."
"Ah! So that is what has made her so eager over Miriam Vawse."
Virginia gazed thoughtfully out among the trees towards the river, of
which a flashing glimpse was now and then to be caught through the
feathery foliage.
"I thought you knew, cousin, or I would not have spoken. There was
no wrong in the matter. Only Deborah is peculiar. She--"
"Oh, have no fear! I will not speak of the matter. But--I am not
too fond of Deborah Travis; therefore I say nothing of her affairs.
It might be better for her if I did."
"I think not," he answered, coolly. "Hark! There is some one coming
up the road. Do you hear the beat of the hoofs?"
"Yes."
At that moment Jim, the groom from the stables, came running to the
portico, and stood there expectantly facing the road, down which the
sound of horses' hoofs was becoming plainly audible.
"Who is it, Jim?" asked Sir Charles.
"Mas' Thompson shout f'um road, minute ago, dat Mistah Rockwell
ridin' up."
"Oh--Mr. Rockwell!" Virginia rose with a cold expression settling
over her face, and Sir Charles shrugged indifferently as the visitor
came in sight and presently halted his mare at the portico.
He was a florid, rotund, sandy-haired fellow, the rector of St.
Anne's of Annapolis; conceited, a large eater, and a fair
story-teller, but without brain enough to make himself obnoxiously
disagreeable. He came up the two steps, wiping his face with an
enormous handkerchief. His dress had been somewhat disturbed by the
long gallop, and his bag-wig was awry. Before bowing to Virginia he
stopped to adjust these matters, and then, having returned the
slightly distant salute of the lieutenant, he observed, in a thin,
non-clerical voice:
"Mistress Virginia, if it is not inconvenient, I am bent upon seeing
your brother and Madam Trevor this afternoon."
"Vincent is in the fields, Mr. Rockwell. I will have him sent for."
"Pray do not do so, my dear young lady. I would not for the world
put you to such trouble. No doubt he will be in later. I will see
madam, your mother, first. If you could tell me where I may find
her--"
"Will you step into the parlor, please? If Sir Charles will excuse
me, I will call my mother at once."
The lieutenant bowed politely, and the two passed into the house,
leaving Fairfield to sit down again with another shrug at the
interruption that left him once more to his boredom. Presently, to
his mild surprise, he perceived young Charles Carroll hurrying
through the shrubbery in the distance, across the road.
"Carroll! Oh, Carroll!" shouted Fairfield; but, if the boy heard
him, he made no reply, merely quickening his pace a little till he
was out of sight.
As a matter of fact, young Charles did not want to hear. It was for
Deborah that he had come to the plantation, and he was going to seek
her in the spot where she was most likely to be found. Having
happily escaped the continued notice of Sir Charles, he reached the
back of the Trevor house, and there came upon the object of his
search, seated, Turk-fashion, by the still-room door, surrounded by a
group of black, wide-eyed pickaninnies, to whom she had been telling
ghost-stories in their own dialect. It was one of her favorite forms
of amusement when she was a little lonely; and the small mental
effort required in concocting the endless tales was more than
compensated for by the unwavering devotion to her of every black imp
on the place. It was no great acquisition, perhaps, to one's
acquaintance, but it was one of Mistress Travis' pleasures, and one
not yet forbidden by Madam Trevor.
[Illustration: "SURROUNDED BY A GROUP OF PICKANINNIES"]
Young Carroll was close upon her before he was perceived; and when
she beheld his expression, she burst into so sudden a peal of
laughter that her audience jumped in terror, imagining it to be the
latest demoniacal accomplishment of the ghost. At sight of Master
Carroll, however, they realized that their afternoon was over, and
all but one ran off to the quarters. This small fellow, Sambo by
name, aged five, elegantly clad in a brown holland shirt that was
many shades lighter than his skin, clung to Miss Debby's arm,
pleading for more; for he was court favorite, and might do as he
chose.
"I'm so glad you've come, Charles," she said, holding out a hand,
which he clasped and shook as he might a man's.
"I have the pinnace. Can you come sailing now?"
"Oh yes! I've finished my spinning"--she made a little grimace--"and
the knitting, and have crushed two bushels of rose-leaves for
distilling, and have told three ghost-stories--and now I may sail, I
think."
"Must I ask madam?" he queried, dubiously.
She laughed. "No. There now, Sambo, run away. No, I can go without
asking her."
Very gently Deborah put away the child who still clung to her skirts,
and started off, beside her companion, towards the river. Virginia
and Sir Charles, from the portico, saw them pass the shrubbery.
Fairfield repressed an exclamation. He would have given much to have
been in the boy's place; and Virginia, catching a glimpse of his
face, knew it, but was silent.
"I've got that Frencher--de Mailly--in the boat," observed Charles,
as if offering a bit of off-hand information. "I like him, and he
asked to come. What's the matter?"
Deborah had stopped short in her walk. "_He_ there!" she cried,
looking anxiously at her rumpled dress, knowing that her hair was all
awry, and beginning to pull down the sleeves that were rolled to her
shoulders. "Oh, you might have told me! How could you have let me
come looking so?"
"You didn't mind me, though," returned Charles, not over-pleasantly.
"Come, let the sleeves stay up, and don't bother with your hair.
You're a thousand times prettier so, if that's what you want."
Deborah looked up at the boy with a little, mischievous smile. "I
know that I'm better so. That's why I let it stay--for you," she
said; and Charles, near enough to manhood to make the inference, had
a momentary impulse to fall then and there at her feet. He did not
guess, however, why the added color had come into Deborah's cheeks,
or that there was a quick tremor at her heart as they approached the
boat.
The wharf belonging to the Trevor place was hidden from the house by
the foliage of the peach-orchard on the river-bank. Claude de
Mailly, waiting in the little pinnace, beheld the two figures
approaching him among the trees, and made his way along the bowsprit
that he might help the young girl into the boat. He bowed gravely as
she came along the pier, regarding her dishevelment of attire in
surprise as well as admiration. It was but yesterday noon that he
had seen her in very different state, and had thought her charming
then. But now--! She accepted his proffered hand, and stepped
carefully past the boom and down into the pinnace, though Charles had
never seen her do such a thing before. Usually she leaped past him
and was at the tiller before he could cast the painter off.
"Better let me take the steering to-day, Deborah," observed Charles,
as they swung away from the dock.
"Oh--does mademoiselle herself steer at times?" asked Claude, with
the quaintly twisted s's and r's that Deborah loved to hear.
"Sometimes," she replied.
"River or bay, Deb?" inquired Carroll, bluffly.
"The river; and let us beat up along the other shore. 'Tis prettier."
"All right. Mind the sail now."
Deborah obediently ducked her head, but Claude, not understanding the
observation, and being turned from the canvas, sat still as the heavy
boom swung over. Charles shouted, and Deborah seized his arm,
pulling him down just in time. When they were under way again, de
Mailly sat straight and looked curiously at the sail.
"Ma foi comme j'étais bête!" he observed, smiling at the girl, who
returned his glance. The incident had broken the little stiffness of
her manner, a fact which the Frenchman perceived with relief. "You
saved my unfortunate head another blow, Mistress Travis. I thank you
for it."
"I am glad that I saw you," she answered. "Charles and I have both
been knocked over with it. One does not always see."
"Faith, I should think not! I had Deborah senseless for a quarter of
an hour here once--"
"Nonsense, Charles. It was not five minutes."
"Humph! It seemed half a day to me. There, are we near enough the
bank now?"
"Yes. Let her out, and run free with the wind."
With this command, and a sigh of content, Deborah sank down at
Carroll's feet, laid her head upon the seat, and said no more.
Charles could feel a bit of her calico ruffle over his foot, and her
shoulder close to his arm, and was perfectly happy in watching the
sail and feeling the tiller quiver in his grasp. The stranger
reclined on a cushion in the bottom of the boat, facing the stern,
his eyes resting half the time upon Deborah, and half the time upon
the silver wake of the little boat.
A more perfect afternoon the gods never contrived. The sun was by
this time well on its descent, the west was a glare of glory, and the
whole river caught its reflection and poured an endless golden ripple
along the shores, upon whose deep velvet turf the yellow shadows were
lengthening. From the bay, eastward, came a stiff salt breeze that
stirred the lazy June air till it had revealed every flower-breath in
the land, and was as rich as only June air can be. Farther up, the
river narrowed and twined between its banks till Charles was obliged
to tack in order to catch the wind. For the most part the shores
were wooded and still; but every now and then came an opening through
which one caught the glimpse of a red brick house with white windows
and pillared portico gleaming through a mist of birch or willow
branches. Occasionally a gull, just in from the ocean, would dart,
arrow-like, into the water, churning it white with his dive, to
reappear presently, holding a captive fish, scales flashing in the
light, fast in his beak.
Claude de Mailly noted it all--all this natural beauty and perfumed
silence that his life had lacked. It was entering into his nature at
every pore of the flesh, and was to him as milk to a man dying of
hunger and thirst. Only one unsatisfied desire was in his heart.
And yet, was it easy to mourn, even for that, when, just before him,
graceful, unconscious, careless, pure of brow, clear of eye, and with
that mad hair clustering all about her neck, lay another woman, whose
glance, every now and then encountering his own, would droop so
swiftly that he could see the whiteness of her eyelids and the long,
curling lashes that touched her delicately flushed cheeks? A new
feeling was welling up in the courtier's heart--something that had
never come before. He let it stay, nor tried to understand the
reason for its being. But he knew that he was moved by the sight of
Deborah, and instinctively he divined that his emotion was being
echoed in her.
Deborah was cold, with a cold which the summer sun had no power to
warm. But she had not found that chill in the salt, eastern wind.
She knew and understood but half that was taking place this
afternoon. She had waited for its like, without knowing what it
might be, for a long time. Sir Charles had brought her something
that emanated merely from himself; but here, at once, in the first
glance ever given her by this other, while he had raved in fever, was
all that she had dreamed of, and infinitely more. Had it been some
weight that was crushing out her heart, she could only have opened
wide her arms and fiercely welcomed it. It was not all de Mailly
either, she thought, vaguely, as she felt Charles move the tiller.
It was the whole day, the place, the sunlight, the river, even the
imperturbable Carroll, who was silent for the sake of the air, and
the water beneath the keel of his boat. The Severn was still swollen
from heavy spring rains, and the shallows of later summer were
covered now. Young Carroll presently ran the pinnace so close to the
high north bank that a willow, growing in the water, sent out one
pale, feathery arm that brushed Claude's head in passing. Deborah
watched a long leaf draw over his neck, just below the ear. Taking
the bough as it reached her, she pressed it half unconsciously to her
forehead, looking up to find de Mailly smiling into her eyes. But
when they emerged from the shadows he was looking beyond her, down
the river, though the smile lingered still about his lips. Charles
Carroll did not notice the incident. He was thinking of his pretty
feat in steersmanship.
"Well, Deb," he said at last, "if I'm to get home for supper, we'll
have to come about."
Deborah sighed, and acquiesced.
"Mind your head, then, sir," cried the boy, laughing.
And as de Mailly bent carefully over, he answered blithely: "Faith,
sir, had you kept me out half an hour longer, I should so have lost
my head that the boom could not have menaced it."
"Ay, the river's pretty."
"The most beautiful spot in the world--and seen with the most
charming companions," returned the Count, bowing towards Deborah, but
moving up to the high side as they came into the wind.
Deborah knew instantly that their afternoon was over, and she was
chagrined that she had allowed him to be weary of her. Pushing
Charles from the tiller, she suddenly took his place.
"There, now you shall rest, or unfasten the sheet and manage that
while I wake myself up!" she said. And young Charles obediently
moved up beside Claude and took unto himself the management of the
sail, while Deborah, sitting straight to the freshening wind, shook
herself out mentally, and fastened her thoughts upon the tiller.
Now, indeed, as she brought the boat so close into the wind that the
water swirled gently over the low side, de Mailly turned towards her
again. He was willing to be upset if she liked; but he did not care
to have an accident occur because he had made her absent-minded.
Deborah, however, was not thinking of him at all. Her skilful hand
was making the little vessel fly, and there would be no false moves
on her part. When they came about upon the second tack the sail
flapped for but one-quarter of a second. As it filled with a puff,
the little yacht fairly leaped ahead.
"Jack me, Deb, if that wasn't the prettiest turn I ever saw!" cried
young Charles, as he manipulated the sheet.
"'Twas half you, Charlie. I must have let her go had you not brought
her up just at the right instant."
"And did Mistress Deborah learn the management of a boat under you,
sir?" asked Claude.
"Mine and my father's."
Claude settled back and tried to bring his mind to other subjects;
but for the moment Deborah had completely fascinated him. He could
do nothing better than compare her to all those other women to whom
she was indeed incomparable, to try to fathom the many expressions he
had seen in her eyes, and seek to determine which was the normal one.
And so they left behind the upper windings of the river and neared at
last the wharf of the Trevor place. The sun hung low over the
tree-tops as Deborah stepped from the boat and held out her hand to
Charles.
"Indeed, I am beholden to you. We have never had so beautiful a
sail."
"I trust, Mistress Travis, that it will not be the last in which I
shall be permitted to join you?" put in Claude, hastily, as she
courtesied to him, and would have been off.
"I trust not; but the pinnace is not mine. It is with Charles and
Dr. Carroll that you must plead."
So, with that small politeness, Deborah turned towards the shore,
wondering a little why she should have finished so perfect an
afternoon in annoyance with herself and those who had been her
companions. She passed slowly up through the orchard and across the
road at the top of the bank. The plantation grounds seemed utterly
deserted. The family must be at supper. Through the trees she
caught a glimpse of the empty portico. Hurrying a little, she went
close to the doorway of a small, vine-covered arbor which was but
rarely used. Nevertheless, to-night, as she passed it, there came
the sound of muffled sobs from within. Deborah halted, hesitated for
an instant, and then entered the little place. Inside it was dusky,
but she perceived at once the glimmer of something white in a corner.
"Who is it?" asked the girl, sharply.
The figure stirred, and perhaps made some attempt to reply; but the
only result was another hoarse sob.
"Lucy! Lucy! what is it?" cried her cousin, running to her quickly.
"Nay, now, pray don't cry so! Is't only Mr. Calvert's going with the
commissioners, so that you mayn't have him to take you to Master
Whitney's church? Listen! Virginia told me she'd go herself with
you there."
"Oh, Debby dear, no, it's not that at all now," came more quietly.
"What, then? Try and tell me about it, Lucy. See, you are all
crumpled up. Come out of this horrid place, and tell me about it.
Come, now--come."
It was seldom that Lucy Trevor would have refused such persuasion,
for she was a gentle little thing, and loved to be led. Now,
however, she resisted all Deborah's kindly efforts to help her to
rise, and only crouched closer in her corner, shaking with grief.
Finally Deborah knelt and took the little dishevelled figure in her
arms. Lucy had clung to her for a second, when a new voice
interrupted them.
"Lucy--are you here?"
Virginia stood in the doorway. Lucy made no answer, but Deborah
said: "Lucy's here, Virginia. What has happened?"
The elder daughter of the Trevors came forward and stood looking down
at the two figures on the ground. "The Reverend George Rockwell has
asked for Lucy's hand. She should be most proud. Come, Lucy, supper
is standing, and the wedding's not till to-morrow. Why do you bear
yourself like a child? Good God, Lucy, do you fancy a woman ever
gets the man she loves?"
CHAPTER IV
Annapolis
The commissioners left Annapolis for Lancaster on the 18th day of
June, which was three days earlier than had been originally planned.
After their departure Governor Bladen sighed with relief, packed up
his black satins and official orders, and hied him to his
country-place to recuperate for the fall sessions. By the 1st of
July Annapolis was deserted. All of the old families had gone to
their summer houses up the river or down the bay, and it was remarked
that Dr. Carroll, who chose to stay in town, and Rockwell, whom he
sincerely hated, must bear each other company through the summer.
But Dr. Charles was not yet reduced to the companionship of a
Church-of-England clergyman. He had taken an immense fancy to Claude
de Mailly, of whom he saw as much as Claude would let him. Indeed,
he had given the Frenchman more than one invitation to leave the
tavern of Miriam Vawse to make a permanent abode in his own house,
and could not quite understand why he had been refused. But Claude
was well satisfied where he was; and had there the indispensable
feeling of independence. Few guests ever came to the little tavern
after the close of the spring assembly; and, when an occasional
traveller did stop overnight, monsieur ate in his room, went to the
coffee-house, or remained to make acquaintance of the stranger, as he
chose.
On sailing for the English colonies it had been Claude's idea to
travel through them, when he arrived, as rapidly as possible,
courting what adventure and danger he could, and to keep his thoughts
enough occupied to crush, as best he might, his hopeless
homesickness. But, after living in Annapolis for a week, he found
that it might be a very endurable thing to exist in Annapolis for a
year. The air was different, in this new land. New thoughts and new
occupations had come, after his illness, and he ended at last by
making a very pleasant salute to the Fate which had cast his lines in
these places, determining to take the goods which the gods and Miriam
Vawse provided (at moderate cost), and remain in the little city till
discontent again knocked upon his door. Certainly, he was not
lonely. Through Dr. Carroll and Vincent Trevor he had made
acquaintance with every gentleman, young or old, in the town. They
received him extremely well, though, it must be confessed, some of
them balked at his title. "Bah! Every Frencher's a count!" he heard
Mr. Chase cry out one morning at the market, and thereafter he
requested to be presented simply as M. de Mailly to what men he
chanced to meet. Through the influence of Sir Charles he had been
given the freedom of the coffee-house, which was really the
gentlemen's club; and he was asked to the last assembly of the
season, which had taken place just before the departure of the
commissioners, and which he did not attend.
Upon an afternoon of the first week of July, Charles Fairfield,
wofully bored with the weather and the lack of something to do, rode
into town at an early hour with intent to amuse himself at any cost,
and a pruriency towards a stiff sangaree as the beginning of matters.
The second want drove him down Church Street to the coffee-house. On
arriving at the jockey-club-room he found its only occupant to be
George Rockwell. The Queen's clergyman greeted him with great
urbanity. How well would Rockwell have loved his brethren had all of
them been knights, and the eldest sons of wealthy families! The
sangaree was quickly forthcoming. He drank with Sir Charles, and Sir
Charles drank with him, and they drank together, till the weather was
of less importance and spirit acted upon spirit with delightful
effect. Then it was that the divine opened a more intimate
conversation.
"Charles--my dear Sir Charles--were you aware--ah--of the fact that
it is my hope and my intention--my intention, sir--to have the honor,
at some day not far distant, of becoming, when two events shall have
taken place, your--ah--brother-in-law, as it were?"
"What the--oh yes! Ha! ha! ha! Oh yes! You're after Lucy. To be
sure, I recollect. Lucy! Well, George, I wish you well--you know
that. But she won't have you."
"Won't have me?--Um. Madam Trevor has all but promised her."
"The more fool Madam Trevor.--Oh, I beg pardon. No offence, sir.
But, as I hear, the affections of the lady in question are already
engaged."
"Engaged?" The rector looked startled for an instant. Then he
recovered himself. "You have reference, I presume, to that Puritan
psalm-singer, John Whitney. Oh, I'll engage to cure the pretty child
of him! She is coy with me now; excuses herself when I call, has
vapors when her mother insists; refuses to permit me to salute her
hand. But I have no fear, Sir Charles. Consider my position. I
shall get her, have no fear."
"Still, I have observed that she attends your rival's church,"
remarked Sir Charles, maliciously.
The rector emptied a glass. "If you'd but help me there," he said.
"I help you! Damme, what can I do, George?"
"Since Benedict Calvert left the city 'tis Mistress Virginia, your
future wife, who takes her sister to the Puritan meetings. Now,
Fairfield, if you--if you would be so monstrous obliging as to speak
a word to your young lady in--ah--my favor, I'd be forever beholden
to you."
Sir Charles laughed unpleasantly. "Lord, Master Rockwell, d' ye
think I'm married yet? What possible right have I to address my
cousin on any subject but--the one I most avoid with her?"
"The one you most avoid? And what, pray, is that?"
"The tender matter of love, George. Love and Virginia
are--well--strangers in my heart."
"Good Heavens! Are you not, then, to wed the lady?"
"Damme, my good fellow, I don't know! I would to Heaven I did
know--the state of another person's affections."
"Another! Oho! Aha! Another--truly this is gallantry! In my ear,
I beg, whisper the name."
"The name? There's only one woman's name in the world," cried Sir
Charles, dramatically, a little overbalanced with the sangaree.
"Deborah! Deborah! Deborah! 'Tis she, the fairest petticoat in the
colony. D'ye hear?"
"I've heard that she was dangerous," responded Rockwell, chuckling
with interest. "But is it true, is it possible, Charlie, that you
are bewitched enough by this young--hum--Pomona--by this young
Pomona, to be indifferent to the more glittering charms of Miss
Trevor?"
Sir Charles sat him down in a chair and sighed. It was a true
love-sigh, such as there could be no mistaking in those days. "I
love her to distraction," was his inadequate observation.
"Now I wonder," reflected the rector, aloud, "I wonder if, in such
case, distraction and marriage are terms synonymous?" He lifted his
head, scratched his large neck delicately with his finger-nail, and
regarded the young man from that height with humorous serenity.
"Devil take me--how can I, George? They expect me to take the
other--Virginia. And there's the dower--and my aunt's favor--and my
own dependence--and, egad, I don't know!"
"Then you won't marry her, eh?"
Fairfield grew a little red. "I must. She's a kind of cousin, too,
you know."
"Oh, tut! A difficult matter. Hum!--Ha!--When--a--you are prepared
to assist me in getting Mistress Lucy, my services, or, rather, one
of them, is at yours."
"The marriage? Oh--St. Quentin 'ud do that. He--"
"Not St. Quentin's service, or--one that he would not perform."
"Eh? What are you getting to, Rockwell?"
The divine advanced with large solemnity to where the young man sat,
bent over him, and said, in a broad whisper: "Now look you,
Fairfield, there's a certain ceremony of which the law takes no
count, certain words being left out.--A lady would accept it--" He
stepped back a pace. "When you desire such a service, terms might be
got at between us. Once in England with your bride, the marriage
growing cold--" he waved his hand, shook his head, and so finished
the proposition.
Sir Charles gave him a long look. The color had left his face. He
rose slowly, turned his back for a moment, and took a pinch of snuff.
As he faced the other again he remarked, without much expression:
"What a cool-headed beast you are, Rockwell."
"Sir!"
"Yes. But don't fight me to-day. That service--" he stopped,
unwilling to go on.
"You may want it yet," finished the rector, insinuatingly.
But Fairfield did not commit himself. Before he had a chance to
reply a servant of the house opened the door.
"Beg pardon, sirs, but young Mr. Carroll and Mr.--the Frencher, are
below, and, not being regulars--"
"Yes, yes, show them up at once," cried the lieutenant, with relief
in his tone.
The servant disappeared, and George Rockwell turned upon his heel.
He was not a little irritated at the result of the foregoing
conversation, and he remained silent till quick steps sounded on the
stairs outside, the door reopened vigorously, and young Charles, with
de Mailly at his shoulder, gayly entered the room, bringing with them
a new atmosphere.
"Good-day, Fairfield! Good-day, Mr. Rockwell!--Faith, you both look
wofully! Is the sangaree ill made?"
The boy was in a gale of spirits, and ran about the room tasting of
the liquor, looking down out of the window, and laughing at the three
others. Claude saluted the gentlemen more quietly, observing to Sir
Charles:
"I perceive that we have interrupted you. I crave pardon. I sent
the man to see if you were disengaged."
"You are mistaken, monsieur. I assure you, in my turn, that your
arrival could not have been more agreeable.--Confound it, Charles,
have you a megrim or a frenzy? Where have you been, sir?"
"To a cock-fight in the Prince George Street pit. You should have
been with us. Captain Jordan's bird against Jack Marshe's. Jack's
died. The secretary will be in a rage. I won three pounds, though."
"You see, it was the first I had witnessed," explained de Mailly.
"Devil take me, why didn't you hunt me out, Charles? I've been
eternally bored for a week.--You lost to him, de Mailly?"
Claude nodded. "As he said, a small bet--seventy-five francs."
Fairfield looked at him curiously. Three pounds did not seem to him
small for a cockpit wager; but he would not have voiced this idea to
the foreigner for double the amount. He turned again to young
Charles.
"Odds my life, Charlie, you've been drinking. What's it mean?
Where's your tutor?"
Carroll laughed joyously. "Shooting plover in the west marsh with
father. I've a holiday, and M. de Mailly is making it with me."
Rockwell frowned rather ill-humoredly, as though a preachment lay
upon his tongue, and Sir Charles was about to speak again, when from
below came the trampling of horses' hoofs and a little chorus of
voices, while Carroll cried from the window: "Vincent Trevor, William
Paca, and Carleton Jennings! They've stopped here."
"Ah--they'll be up presently. Rockwell, will you risk another
tankard? They'll have apple-brandy and Madeira. Vincent scorns rum."
The rector shrugged, vouchsafing no active consent, and after a
moment or two the three young gentlemen clattered into the room.
There was a chorus of greeting, and Trevor introduced young Paca to
Claude, who had not seen him before. Jennings flung himself into a
chair, flicking the dust from his coat-sleeves with a riding-crop.
Paca sat upon the long table; and Vincent, after drawing off his
gloves and flinging them, with his hat and whip, upon a chair, went
to the door and called lustily for a decanter of Madeira with glasses.
"I ordered a sangaree when we were down," observed Jennings to Paca.
"Trevor's thirst is aristocratic, but too small."
"And we'll all drink with you both," put in Fairfield, with sociable
impudence, while Rockwell smiled approval.
"And now for the affair in hand," pursued Jennings, when the party
were seated. "We've a race in prospect, Fairfield, that will take
four months' pay to back."
"Eh! What's that? I back the winning side, of course."
Trevor laughed. "Nay, then, Charlie, will you desert me?"
"Egad, Vin, you're never going to take to racing! You've no stables."
"Castor needs none."
"Castor! Oh! By my life, Vincent, he might do. Vastly fine points,
gentlemen. Rough-bred; but where you'd find a better--"
"He's pledged already, then," observed Jennings to Paca, smiling.
"Why, who will you run against, sir?" asked Rockwell, interested,
despite his ill-humor; for, of all things, he loved the turf.
"Paca's filly, Doris. She's young for my two-year-old; but Will is
to enter her for the fall cup, and wants to give her practice."
"Pretty beast, Doris. I stake on her, I think. Are the dates fixed?"
"No, deuce take it! there's the bother. Trevor has no jockey.
Castor will carry weight, and there's not a rider in town over four
and a half stone. Five would ride him; no less--eh, Vincent?"
queried Paca, and Trevor nodded.
There was a short pause, in the midst of which a servant with the
wine and sangaree appeared. The room drank with Trevor, and two or
three afterwards turned to the pewter mugs which held the planter's
favorite beverage. Claude had been listening intently to the talk
concerning the race, and, his ear being well accustomed to the
colonial accent, he had gathered the gist of all that was said.
"My man, Tom Cree, might know of some fellow who would do for you,
Vincent. I think you could trust him if you cared to look about in
that way," suggested Paca, after some hesitation.
Vincent bowed. "Certainly I'd trust your man, Will. But I've some
objections to that course. I've no intention of starting stables. I
run Castor merely to try your Doris and test my own animal. I don't
want to be known as deeply interested in the turf. Get a
professional rider fastened to you even by one race, and--poof! You
all know what it means."
The group nodded. Vincent Trevor was a man highly respected by all
of them. He was quiet, silent, of excellent judgment, a little given
to over-Toryism, no prig, but holding fast to strong principles. His
friends knew his manner of life, and never expected him to step
beyond its bounds. In the present case they all perceived his
position, and his silence was rather dubious, till Claude de Mailly
most unexpectedly broke it.
"This race--it would not be in public?"
"Oh no. Certainly not," responded Sir Charles.
"It would be--on a track, or through the country, _à l'anglais_?"
"Oh, track, of course--not a steeple-chase--eh, Trevor?" queried
Jennings, and Vincent nodded, looking to de Mailly for more.
"And the leagues--miles, I mean--how many?"
"Track's a mile and a quarter. Shall it be twice round?"
"Castor will hold twice, but would you try Doris so?"
"Tut, tut, Vincent! Doris isn't china. She'll not break so vastly
easy. Egad, we'll make it three rounds, if you like!"
Vincent smiled. "I did not mean to offend you, Will," he said.
Paca began an apology at once, when Claude interrupted: "If you would
permit me, Mr. Trevor, I will ride your horse for you."
The five men and Charles Carroll sat perfectly still and stared. De
Mailly, beholding their amazement, and not understanding it, burst
into an infectious laugh, at which Sir Charles immediately caught.
"A fine joke, damme, an excellent joke!" he cried.
Claude stopped his laughter at once. "Indeed, gentlemen, it was not
a jest. I was quite in earnest, I beg you to believe," he declared.
"Pray, sir, then why did you laugh? I see nothing to laugh at in so
serious a matter," remarked Rockwell, with an air of injured dignity.
"'Twas my fault, parson," retorted Fairfield, still smiling; for his
humor, though English, was still not yet of the colonial type.
"Then you really make a serious offer to ride Castor in the race?"
demanded young Carroll, curiously.
"I offer. It is for Mr. Trevor to refuse me, if he wishes."
"'Tis not that, monsieur, but you see--it is vastly strange form for
a gentleman to ride a track against a jockey. To be plain, M. de
Mailly, since you are a stranger to our customs--none of us would do
such a thing."
Claude smiled and shrugged. "Thank you, sir, I was aware of the
English custom in this case. But I am here to amuse myself. I make
you an offer, sir. Examine my weight and my build, and try my riding
before you refuse it."
He stood up for the small group to judge his weight, and this they
proceeded to do with calm assurance and unsparing observation.
"Not much over five stone, I stake my oath!" remarked Jennings,
measuring the slender figure with his eye.
"A shade over. Might train a little," commented Paca.
"Not much strength," whispered Fairfield, dubiously, to Vincent.
"I shall not be pulling the horse in after the first half-minute,"
observed Claude, quietly.
"Ahum--can you ride?" grunted Rockwell, when there came a pause.
De Mailly flushed. "There is a story that when M. de Voltaire was in
London he was asked by a lady if he had ever tried writing verses
when he was in love, as was the custom among English gentlemen."
"Well--what then?" retorted the reverend, irritably.
Claude turned and stared at him with such a mixture of scorn and
laughter in his eyes that Trevor hastily broke in:
"Of course M. de Mailly rides, and, no doubt, excellently. But
perhaps it might not be amiss if he would come out to the plantation
in the morning to try my horse. And if you'll all be there to-morrow
by--eleven o'clock, we'll examine Castor and give him a mount in my
paddock to--"
"To see whether my riding is fit for such a speed," added the
proposed jockey, with a mixture of wounded vanity and sarcastic
pride. He was beginning to regret rather bitterly his impulsive and
wholly generous offer. In time he might become accustomed to English
manners. Just now they hurt him more than he would have confessed.
His whole early life had been one which had fostered his natural
buoyant impulsiveness of spirit, and had made him young beyond his
years. It had been called his "pose." But that pose, which was more
than half nature, was a singularly unfortunate thing for a man thrown
upon the world, in a strange country, among new manners, through
which he must find his way. And just now, while the Englishmen
concluded various arrangements for their plan, he was struggling with
his temper, and only won the battle when Trevor and Rockwell finally
rose to depart. Vincent was returning to the plantation, and the
clergyman, with Lucy in his mind, purposed accompanying him.
"Coming, Charles?" asked his cousin.
Fairfield hesitated. The plantation held out no special inducement
to him. His blood had been heated, and he was eager for some
excitement after a long period of inertia. "I think not, Vincent,
since you have company. If Jennings, here, cannot put me up for the
night, I'll go up to Mrs. Miriam's, or to Reynolds'."
"I'll ride with you, Trevor. I can cross the river at King's Ferry.
My people will expect me to-night. Our town house is shut."
"Very well. I leave you, then, Charles. You'll ride out in the
morning with M. de Mailly and Carleton."
"Ay, and me, too," called young Carroll after him. "I'll see Castor
rode with the rest of you, and, egad, I'll go to the race as well!"
"We shall be delighted, Charles," replied Vincent, as he left the
room.
"Until to-morrow, then. Good-day, sir," said Paca, bowing with
courtly politeness to Claude, who liked him thenceforth.
The four who remained in the jockey-club-room sat silent together for
some moments after they had been left alone. Then Claude, looking at
young Charles, rose.
"Come, Mr. Carroll, since we are making your holiday together, let us
go and finish it with a supper at my inn. You will forgive me,
messieurs"--he turned to Sir Charles and Jennings--"you will forgive
me that I do not propose a party of four. After the excitement of
the cock-fight this afternoon, and my ride for to-morrow, we will
make our evening quiet. You might be perhaps--how do you
say--_ennuyé_--by it. Where shall we join you to-morrow?" He smiled
gently as he beheld the lieutenant regarding him with knitted brows.
Indeed, to Fairfield it seemed that the Frenchman had read his mind,
and was bound to thwart his hopes of arranging a gentleman's night in
Jennings' company.
"Come, come, monsieur, be more lenient. Dine with us at the 'Blue
Balls' and join us in a game of _écarté_ later."
"Eh, yes!" cried young Charles, eagerly. "'Twould be vastly more
fun!" He pulled de Mailly's sleeve.
"No, no, Charles, not you! It--your father--damme, you ain't out of
school yet, you know," stammered Jennings, voicing Fairfield's
thought.
Carroll flushed hot with anger, and Claude bit his lip before he
answered, quietly: "It is impossible that I should dine with you
to-night, gentlemen, though I thank you for your kindness. Mr.
Carroll is my guest."
Young Charles looked at him with sulky admiration. He was furious
with Jennings, mortally ashamed of his youth, but still appreciative
of de Mailly's tact. Fairfield, seeing nothing for it but to accept
his disappointment gracefully, rose, seized Jennings by the arm,
waved an _au revoir_ to de Mailly, and with a, "Be at the 'Blue
Balls' with your beasts at ten in the morning, and we'll ride out
together," drew his willing companion away to their favorite
night-haunt.
De Mailly looked after them as they passed through the door, and then
stood still for an instant, considering. When he turned again to
young Charles, the boy's face wore a new expression.
"I'm very sorry, monsieur, if I've spoiled your night. I should have
gone home without you."
Claude started forward impulsively, and drew the boy's arm through
his own. "_En avant!_" he cried, gayly. "Why, Charles, I'd rather
you a thousand times over than any other blood in Annapolis. 'Tis a
good race, yours. Your father is as gallant a gentleman as I have
met, and you are his son. Come then, Charles, we'll drink to you
both, to-night, in the oldest Madeira that Mistress Vawse will sell."
At a quarter to eleven o'clock on the following morning a party of
three drew rein at the portico of the Trevor house. Young Carroll's
holiday was over, and, despite his words to Vincent, he was again
under St. Quentin's pleasant sway. Fairfield and Jennings bore
visible traces of their manner of spending the previous night; but
Claude's eyes were as bright as a bird's, his hand was steady on the
bridle, and his nerves had been toned for the coming trial by a sound
night's sleep. A group consisting of Vincent, the four ladies of his
household, Will Paca, and George Rockwell, who, to Lucy's dismay, had
stopped overnight with his host, greeted the new-comers merrily from
the portico. When they had dismounted, and a black had taken their
horses, the whole party proceeded leisurely to the rear of the house,
past the small barn, the quarters, and the tobacco-houses, to the
long, narrow stables, where the many horses for work and pleasure
were kept. In front of these stables was a four-acre paddock, fenced
off from the general grounds, and only to be entered through a wide
gate to the south. Two hundred yards behind this paddock the
tobacco-fields began, and the first of them was bounded by a broad
ditch full of water, to be used for irrigation in dry seasons.
As the group passed the slave-quarters, Thompson, the overseer, came
towards them with the key to the stables. And while Trevor, Paca,
and Claude went with him round to the stalls, the rest entered the
field itself to wait. The ladies, all of them more or less curious
to watch this test of de Mailly's horsemanship, stood still in the
open gateway, nervous lest the horse should come too near. In the
interval of waiting Rockwell was devoting himself to Lucy, who
received his attentions with a coldness all but rude; young Jennings
talked with Virginia and her mother, who stood a little to one side;
and Fairfield seized the opportunity of conversing in a low tone with
Deborah, who, dressed in yellow and blue, was as pretty as the
morning itself. She stood leaning close against the fence, all ears
for Sir Charles, but not turning her eyes from the closed door of the
stable, responding now and then, half absently, to the very personal
remarks of her cavalier. She did not perceive a sudden, slow rustle
at her side, along the very ruffle of her dress; but suddenly the
lieutenant darted forward.
"Good God, Deborah!--Move--"
"What is it?" she cried, startled at his tone.
He was peering along the grass in front of them. "I'd stake my
oath--'twas a water-moccasin," he muttered, half to himself.
The girl lifted her petticoats with both hands and shrank close to
him. "A water-moccasin! Surely not here--" She stared nervously at
the turf, but saw nothing. The snake, if there had been one, was
gone.
"Nay--'tisn't there. Don't be frightened. It was a fancy," he
rejoined, suspicious of his own eyes.
Deborah might have said more or retreated to Madam Trevor, but for
the fact that, at this moment, the stable doors slid open and Castor,
with de Mailly on his back, trotted into the field. Will Paca and
Vincent followed him on foot and made their way over to the party in
the gateway.
Castor, first-born of twin foals, and the one who had all the
strength and beauty alike of the two, was an enormous jet-black
animal, seventeen hands high, with a long, swinging step and three
paces got from no blooded ancestors, but merely through one of those
accidents sometimes permitted by the gods. He was an animal fiery
enough of temper, and particular about his riders. Vincent Trevor,
indeed, had been dubious about the Frenchman's ability even to mount
him; but as Claude swung into the saddle and took the reins from the
shining black neck, all doubts were forgotten. Castor turned his
head, glanced at the man who sat him so easily, and neighed with
satisfaction. As they trotted together into the paddock Claude rode
in the French fashion, as though he were part of the horse, never
rising in the saddle.
"Egad, he knows how!" observed Rockwell to Madam Trevor, as Castor
came round the field towards them.
"I vow I've seen nothing so pretty," assented that lady,
good-humoredly. "Eh, Lucy?"
"I much prefer the English fashion," retorted Lucy, irritably.
"How d' ye like him, Vincent?" asked his cousin, as the horse broke
into a canter.
"Very well."
"The fellow knows his business, I think," observed Will Paca, dryly.
"His business!--You don't think--" Trevor raised his brows.
Paca shrugged.
"I protest, Will!" cried Charles Fairfield, warmly. "The man is a
gentleman. I stake my oath on it. I've played with him, and I know."
"Oh--I ask pardon. I did not know your acquaintance was intimate,"
rejoined the other at once, with a proper manner, and Fairfield was
satisfied. At the same time he felt a light touch on his arm, and,
turning, he found Deborah looking at him with a light in her eyes.
"I'm so glad you said it," she whispered. "He is a gentleman."
But, while Fairfield carried her hand to his lips, he felt, in some
way, that her speech had not brought him unmitigated pleasure.
Meantime Claude, who had lost all consciousness of an audience in his
joy at being again upon the back of a fine animal, was increasing the
pace of his steed. The long, light steps multiplied in number, the
black hoofs flew faster yet, till the on-lookers marvelled at the
ease of the tremendous speed, and Will Paca shook his head as he
thought of his Doris and her rider.
"I'll give you three lengths start on the track, Will," cried Trevor,
as de Mailly flew by for the fourth time, never moving a
hair's-breadth in the saddle.
"Egad, he'll need it!" put in Sir Charles.
Deborah, her cheeks slightly flushed, moved to one side where she
could watch without interruption. She saw Claude pass the stable and
reach the far corner of the paddock. There something happened. A
thing which looked, at the distance, like a black thread, shot
suddenly up from the ground and struck at Castor's leg as he passed.
The horse gave a quick, terrified plunge, which made de Mailly reel
in the saddle, and then the animal, maddened with fear, started
forward like a whirlwind. He had reared completely about and was
running frantically towards the open gateway. At the beginning there
had been a slight scream from Lucy, and now the men, their faces very
pale, pulled the women quickly away from the opening. Deborah moved
of her own accord, her eyes fixed fast on the horse, for she had seen
what started its flight. In an instant horse and rider had flashed,
comet-like, out at the gate, and, as they passed, Deborah knew that
de Mailly had looked at her, and she had seen something very like a
smile cross his set lips. Beyond the gate the horse veered again and
made towards the south, in the direction of the tobacco-fields.
[Illustration: "HORSE AND RIDER HAD FLASHED OUT AT THE GATE"]
Claude saw, with relief, that he had an apparently unobstructed space
before him. It was all that he could do now to keep himself on the
horse, who no longer went at an even gait, but varied his gallop with
leaps and plunges caused by pain. He was utterly beyond all control.
Claude lay over on his back, both hands twisted in the long mane, his
eyes half closed, breathing with some difficulty, but quite sure of
himself so long as his way was clear. Suddenly, however, as he
caught a glimpse of the fields beyond, his heart rose into his
throat, and then sank again with a sensation which made him dizzy. A
hundred yards ahead was a twenty-foot ditch of water, which no living
horse could clear. If Castor saw it, and had still sense of his own,
he might turn off. If not, the horse was lost, and Claude himself
must take desperate chances. Many things flashed through his mind in
the ensuing seconds. Most vividly of all the figure of Deborah, as
he had seen her a moment before, stood out before him. Then for one
more instant his mind was a white blank. They were ten yards from
the stream now, and the horse was moving straight on. Mechanically,
Claude took his left foot from the stirrup and swung it over Castor's
back. For one frightful instant he lay full along the animal. Then,
not very much aware of what he was doing, he had let himself over the
side, felt solid ground whirl under his feet, and knew that all was
well with him. A moment later he vaguely heard the heavy splash and
the human-like scream that told of the good animal's death. Not very
long after that he was looking into Vincent's face, and, as a brandy
flask was held out to him, he murmured, with as much feeling as he
was capable of just then:
"Monsieur, I shall never be able to express to you my regret. I have
not an idea how it occurred. Believe me--"
But Vincent was actually laughing as he replied: "My dear sir, when a
poisonous snake sends its fangs into your horse's leg, its rider need
offer no excuse for being run away with. And, 'pon my soul, for the
sake of learning how to ride as you have done, I'd sacrifice every
beast that ever was stalled on this place.--Eh, Charlie?"
And from behind came Fairfield's voice, crying heartily, "Egad, when
I am released from the colonies, I'll go and live in a French
training-school till I do learn!"
It was an hour later, and the excitement was over, when the Reverend
George Rockwell ventured to address Will Paca on the same subject:
"To tell the truth, my dear sir, I confess that I believe there must
have been some truth in your suggestion in the field that our--French
friend knew more than a gentleman does of horses."
Paca turned slowly about and looked at him. There was no answer made
in words; but at times looks are expressive of inexpressible things.
CHAPTER V
Sambo
According to the laws of colonial hospitality, Claude stayed all day
and overnight at the Trevor house. To tell the truth, he was
scarcely fit for removal, for the reaction from his nervous strain
sent him, early in the afternoon, to the chamber prepared for him,
from which he emerged at ten o'clock next morning with many apologies
for tardiness on his tongue. He saw no one, however, to whom to
deliver them. The house was deserted. Finding his way, after a
search through the empty hall and parlor, into the sunny
breakfast-room, he discovered there a single place set at the table,
and Adam lounging in the doorway. The slave straightened and saluted
him upon his entrance.
"Sit down, sah--sit down. I'll bring yo' breakfast right away."
Upon this, he darted from the house and disappeared down the path
towards the kitchen, to return in two or three minutes with a large
tray upon which stood a variety of smoking dishes. This he set
before the guest, who proceeded to discuss them with a light
appetite. While he ate he pondered, uneasily, on how he was expected
to take his departure. In this matter Adam came presently to his
assistance.
"Pa'don, Mas' de Mailly, but Mas' Vincent wait this mo'n till nine t'
see you, den he ride out to the fields an' tell me t' say t' he be
back fo' dinne' at noon; ask yo' health den."
"So I'm to stay till this afternoon?" asked Claude, in some surprise.
"Yes, sah," responded the slave, and his prompt tone settled the
matter.
Claude, who had quite finished his meal, rose and strolled idly to
the door which looked out upon the garden. At the far end of this,
among her roses, was Madam Trevor. De Mailly did not recognize her
at the distance, but he turned suddenly to the slave who was clearing
the table.
"Can you tell me, Adam, where Mistress Travis will be at this hour?"
"Miss Deb? Oh, she's mos' like at de still-room." He went over to
the door. "See li'l house dere cross the ya'd? She's mos' like
dere."
"Thank you." Claude nodded to the man and went out of the house,
around the terrace, and so through the yard towards the small
building whose surrounding lilac-bushes were all in seed. Here on
the step, alone and disconsolate, sat Sambo, Deborah's favorite
little darky.
Sambo was very forlorn this morning. A strong appreciation of the
woe of this wretched life had come to his spirit under the guise of
an empty stomach. All of three hours ago Thompson, the overseer,
discovered him in the climacteric moment of a glorious charge on the
chickens in the runs. An entire flock of fat, white pullets were in
full flight before this single son of Ethiopia, whose triumphant
war-cry had unfortunately reached the quarters. Thereupon Thompson,
who had no soul for the sublime, seized the conqueror by the tail of
his tow-linen toga and dragged him from the field to his parental
cabin, where, in the presence of Chloe, his mother, a most telling
rebuke was administered. The mother's heart hardened towards the
small sinner, and he had been driven outside in the very face of
bacon spluttering over the fire and beans baking fragrantly in the
embers. After an unhappy wandering, he at last sought the homely
protection of Deborah and the still-room. Deborah, too, had left
him, with the promise, however, of getting him something to eat when
she returned. So here, in melancholy resignation, sat Sambo, as
Claude approached.
"Can you tell me where Mistress Deborah is?" repeated de Mailly.
"She'm gone to Huckleberry Swamp," vouchsafed the stoic.
"Um--" Claude reflected. Huckleberry Swamp sounded definite, but he
was unfamiliar with the country. "Where is that?" he inquired,
meekly.
Sambo swept a black thumb over one shoulder, back of his head. "Dat
way."
Again Claude hesitated, finally venturing the request: "Could you,
perhaps, show me a little of the way?"
"You'm goin' fin' Miss Deb?"
Claude bowed.
"I'll come."
The small figure rose suddenly, descended from his dais, and put one
small black fist trustfully into de Mailly's. Claude looked down
into the childish face, with its round pate covered with black,
woolly, hair, and a gentle light came into his eyes. He was fond of
children.
The swamp appeared to be some distance away. The child's steps were
short, and Claude would not hurry him. At last, however, they came
upon a narrow, grassy lane, bordered on either side by a tangle of
vines and bushes, at the end of which was the so-called swamp--a
marsh nearly dry at this season, save for a pool in its very centre.
Upon the edge of this they paused. Before them was a waste wherefrom
sprang a few saplings, some young willows, a tangle of flaming
tiger-lilies, and a host of those plants which grow in damp places.
Claude saw no sign of a human being, but Sambo presently sprang
forward.
"Deh she is!" he cried, running into the brush. Claude followed
rapidly, coming at last in sight of her whom he sought.
Deborah knelt upon the damp ground, bending over a plant which she
was minutely examining. Claude had seen it and its flower often
enough, he thought. The stem was perhaps three feet high, with long,
narrow, spotted leaves, and clusters of small purplish flowers.
These were what Deborah was studying, and on her flushed face was an
expression which Claude had not beheld before. Startled by Sambo's
appearance, she looked up.
"Oh, good-morning!" she said, rising, and extending her hand.
"One finds you in curious places," he observed, bending over it.
"It is my work. Has Dr. Carroll come this morning?"
"He had not when I left the house."
"He will, though, I think. Are we to go back now?"
"Not until you are quite ready, mademoiselle."
"I'm ready. I must take this with me." From a little bag hanging at
her side she drew a small pruning-knife and two pieces of cotton
cloth. Having cut the stem of the plant before her, she wrapped
about it one square of the cloth and took it up in her left hand.
"Permit me to carry it for you."
"Hold it, then, where the cloth is."
"Why? Surely it is not unsafe to touch?" He looked at her curiously.
"I don't know. Some things are. This is a spotted-hemlock. I
fancied it a water plant, but 'tis another variety. I will test it
to-day, if the doctor doesn't come. Oh! Here is something more to
take home." Down in the soil at their feet grew two large fungi,
which bore a slight resemblance to table mushrooms, but were far more
beautiful than they. The umbrella-shaped cups were of a brilliant
scarlet color, fading inwards, in gracefully curving lines, to a pale
centre. A faint acrid odor emanated from them as Deborah knelt and
cut them deftly at the ground's edge. Taking them up in her cloth,
she held them a little away from her face.
"What's dose, Miss Deb?" inquired Sambo, eying them admiringly.
"A sort of mushroom, Sambo. Oh, a most excellent dinner dish they'd
make!" she added, laughing.
And hungry Sambo heard her. Were these pretty things good to eat?
He had seen not a few of them in the grass about the roads and
fields. Here was a breakfast ready for him. He considered a little,
the idea of cooking not entering his head. Neither Deborah nor de
Mailly knew when he ceased to follow them, it merely occurring to
them by the time they reached home that Sambo had not been with them
for some time. Claude, who had found the way long in coming, deemed
it only too short on the return. And Deborah, demurely realizing
that she was perfectly happy, continued to talk to him in that
tranquil manner which, from its apparent indifference and
self-possession, seemed such an anomaly, considering her youth.
"May I ask the use of this?" asked de Mailly, curiously, holding out
the spray of spotted-hemlock.
"I don't know its use. 'Tis what I am going to try to find out if
the doctor does not come this morning. I am ignorant if it is as
poisonous as water-hemlock. I will try to learn."
Claude bit his lip. "And if the doctor does come?"
"It will be most interesting. We are to try the effect of two
alkaloids in one system, and I must note the different symptoms, the
combined result, and the complications which ensue from the
interaction."
"You give these--poisons--to some beast. Is it not so?"
Deborah hesitated for a little, finally replying, quietly, "A cat."
"And he will no doubt die?"
"No--perhaps not. That is our hope, monsieur. If we could discover
one thing which might counterbalance the effect of another, can you
not see that it might some time serve to save men's lives? It is
unbecoming in me to speak of it, but did you not know that the liquid
given you as medicine for your fever I distilled from the plant
called monkshood? And did not that medicine help to restore you to
health? And yet, sir, it was a virulent poison, ten drops of which
would kill an animal."
De Mailly looked at the girl in surprise. She was certainly unlike
any woman that he had ever met. "Forgive me," he said, earnestly.
"I did not understand you. I do admire and respect this work of
yours. My gratitude--how shall I express it? There is, indeed,
little that one can say to the preserver of his life--"
"Please, don't!" she cried, impulsively, and then stopped. He was
regarding her so earnestly, and his look said so much more than his
tongue had ever done, that she found no words at her command. So
they fell into silence as once more they approached the house.
Dr. Carroll, returning on the day before from his shooting, and,
wearied by the dulness of Annapolis in mid-summer, kept his promise
and came out to see Deborah. He found her, ignorant of his arrival,
preparing her retort for the distillation of the water-hemlock, while
Claude, willingly pressed into service, had gone to the kitchen to
obtain a lighted coal for the tripod of charcoal. An addition to the
equipment of the room had recently been made. Beside the cupboard in
the corner stood a good-sized cage, its top and bottom made of pine
boards held together by narrow wooden slats nailed upon all four
sides. Within this prison of the condemned sat a half-grown
tortoise-shell tabby, presented yesterday to the establishment by
Sambo. As Deborah took up her hemlock and with careful hands began
to strip away its leaves and blossoms, she glanced now and then at
her prisoner with an expression half of pity and half of speculative
interest. The animal looked very comfortable on its bed of grass,
its toilet just completed, with slow eyes blinking at the light;
never a suspicion in its head of a possible swift death at the hands
of the slender girl at the table yonder. The stillness was
interrupted by the entrance of the doctor.
"Good-morning to you, Mistress Debby! At work, eh? Oho!
Water-hemlock!"
"No. This is _Maculatum_. See the leaves--spotted. Is this as
poisonous as the other, do you think?"
The doctor chuckled. "Thou'rt a born botanist, Debby. This
poisonous? 'Tis historic. Socrates died by it. 'Tis as well
obtained by crushing in alcohol, though. Did you bring the root?
Now that was carelessness. The root is most virulent--delightfully
virulent. You should be sent back to get it, only that I am not here
to distil this morning.--Ah, Monsieur Claude! Good-day! Are you
turned neophyte?"
Claude, with a shovelful of embers, had halted in the doorway. At
Carroll's question he smiled and came forward. "I should be glad if
I might stay and look on. I am wofully ignorant in these matters."
Deborah took the shovel from his hands, emptying its contents
carefully into the tripod. "Thank you. Be seated, if you care to
watch us."
"By all means, sit yonder, de Mailly, and look on. Miss Travis is
preparing some _Conium maculatum_ for distillation, though she will
get a poor result from the mere leaves and flowers. And behold in
me, monsieur, the conscienceless wretch about to destroy life in that
hapless pussy, for the mere gratification of criminal
instinct.--What's this, Deborah?"
The doctor's change of tone was so sudden and so marked that the girl
turned quickly about to behold him standing over the fungi which she
had placed at the far end of the table.
"That? Madam uses it sometimes for fly-poison. I purposed inquiring
of you if the alkaloid could be extracted."
Carroll shook his head gravely. "It doesn't need extraction. The
whole thing is replete with poison. 'Tis _amanita muscaria_, the
deadliest of all fungi. Have you seen the symptoms?"
Deborah shook her head.
"Then you shall. I mind me I had a case of them many years ago--a
family ate them at supper. All four died.* There was no help that I
or any one else had to give. Such agony I have never seen. The
effect is not apparent for from four to nine hours after eating,
though internal dissemination of the poison must begin at once.
After the case I mentioned, I experimented a good deal with them.
Time does not seem to affect their power. After four months' keeping
I knew one of them to cause death to a dog in ten hours. Would you
care to try this to-day on your cat there, Deborah, in conjunction
with one of the liquids?"
* This case is taken from a medical journal of 1877.
Deborah did not reply at once, and Claude hoped that she would
decline the proposition. Her answer was a question: "Will you stay,
doctor, till the fungus acts? I couldn't distinguish the different
symptoms alone."
The doctor reflected. "'Tis eleven now. By four the thing should be
under way. I'll get home by six. Yes, I'll stay."
"Then let us give it at once."
"Very well. What will you combine with it?"
Deborah went to the cupboard and surveyed her array of phials.
Finally, selecting one filled with a clear, white liquid, with less
sediment at the bottom than most of her mixtures contained, she
brought it over to Dr. Carroll.
"What is it?" he asked.
"It is from nightshade. I made it a week ago."
"Atropine. Symptoms? Can you give them?"
Claude looked at her closely as she made reply:
"I gave forty drops to a cat. It seemed to be quiet for about
three-quarters of an hour. Then it tried to mew, but that was hard
for it. The muscles of its throat were strained. After a little it
began to bite at things in the cage. Its eyes were large, and the
pupils full, as if it were in the dark. It drank all I would give
it, but could not swallow easily. Then there came spasms. Finally
it fell asleep, and died three hours after the dose."
The doctor nodded with satisfaction, but Deborah, glancing at de
Mailly from beneath her lids, saw him look at her in strong
displeasure. Instantly she flushed and her head straightened
defiantly back.
"Monsieur, I do not think that you will enjoy our experiments here
this morning. Will you be so obliging as to join my cousins,
Virginia and Lucy, in some pleasanter occupation?"
There was a note of piqued command in the tone which Claude, who knew
women well, would have disobeyed in any other case. Now, however, he
made no reply, but rose in grave silence, bowed to her, and left the
room.
"On my life, that was not a gallant thing," observed Carroll,
placidly, when their sensitive guest had crossed the yard.
Deborah made no answer. She was more deeply hurt than she would have
believed possible, and she did not choose that her voice should
betray her. Crossing again to the cupboard, she took from its lowest
shelf a deep-bowled horn spoon, with which she knelt before the cat's
cage. In the mean time the doctor had been occupied in cutting the
fungus into small cubes. These, together with the atropine, he took
over to his pupil, who was now on the floor with the cat in her lap.
She took the _amanita_ quietly from her companion's hands, placed one
piece in the creature's mouth, and manipulated its throat till it
swallowed convulsively.
"How much should it have?" she inquired, grimly.
"About six pieces to a spoonful of this," returned her mentor,
holding up the atropine.
Unflinchingly Deborah finished her task, and then, hastily replacing
the prisoner in its cage, she fastened the little door. Carroll, who
had looked on without comment, helped her to rise from the floor, and
silently noted the fact that her hands were very cold.
"Come now to the house and rest," he said, with quiet persuasion.
She looked a little surprised. "Surely not. I will stay here and
watch. Besides, there is the hemlock;" she nodded towards the little
heap of flowers and leaves by the retort. "I will distil that. The
fire is ready."
"No, Debby. You're tired. Hark you, the poisons will certainly not
show for half an hour, if they do then. It is probable that the
_muscaria_ will retard the action of the atropine for a much longer
time. Then you must have your full wits about you, for 'twill be the
most interesting thing we've done. Come now, as your physician, I
insist."
But though Charles Carroll's will was strong, that of Deborah Travis
was stronger. He tried persuasion, command, and entreaty, finally
becoming angry, and so losing the battle; for, having called her a
stubborn hussy, there was nothing for it but to march off alone to
the house. The girl saw him go with a sore heart, and then, doggedly
determined, returned to her work, the pleasure of it gone for the
first time in her life. When, after a while, Sambo strolled
thoughtfully in from the fields, she greeted him with positive
delight.
The little boy seated himself, Turk-fashion, beside the tripod, to
watch the water just beginning to bubble in the body of the retort.
It was an occupation which he dearly loved, and in the observation of
which he was a privileged mortal, for Deborah allowed but few in her
work-room. During the process of distillation she was regarded by
Sambo as some one who had risen for the time to supernatural heights.
She was quite a different person from the Miss Deb whom he knew
ordinarily out-of-doors. On every occasion, however, he had been
wont to talk unceasingly either to her or to himself when in her
company. To-day she wondered at his silence. His interest in the
action of the retort was as great as ever, but every effort to draw
him into conversation failed. So, after a time, Deborah, her closest
attention demanded by the approaching end of the distillation, when
the purest alkaloid would come from her plant, ceased also to speak,
and, indeed, almost forgot his presence. The liquid had been
filtered, bottled, and set aside for its second vaporizing, when she
suddenly recollected that in the morning she had promised to get
something for the little negro to eat. It was sufficient cause for
his silence.
"Oh, Sambo! Indeed I'm sorry! How hungry you must be! Come, I'll
make Chloe give you some of our dinner to-day."
Sambo's big eyes opened wide and he slowly shook his head. "Had
somf'n, Miss Debby. D' wan' no mo'."
With his words came the sound of the dinner-horn from the quarters.
He turned. "Goin' home," he said, wearily, trudging out of the room;
while the girl, wondering who had fed him, proceeded to restore order
in her immaculate little domain. When she had finished the doctor
reappeared.
"Madam Trevor despatched me," he explained. "Dinner is ready.
You're tired, Debby. Come in."
"Yes, sir, at once, when this sleeve is down." She pulled at the
short elbow-sleeve which she had pushed to the shoulder to be rid of
its ruffles.
"How's the cat?" asked Carroll, walking over to its cage.
The creature lay upon the bed of grass blinking nonchalantly, after a
luncheon of milk.
"Perfectly well, eh? Note, Deborah, that the action of the atropine
is already retarded half an hour beyond its time. Most interesting,
on my word!"
"When do you think it will begin?"
"That is difficult to say. By two or three o'clock at the outside.
Then death will probably be rapid. Ready now? Madam is a little
impatient, but she'll not show it before de Mailly. There--the horn
sounds at last."
Dinner was gone through with tediously, and at three o'clock the
entire family, with the guests, sat upon the portico, drowsy with
heat and the effort of talking. The doctor, perceiving Deborah's
growing impatience, was about to dare Madam Trevor's high displeasure
by carrying her off to the still-room to watch their cat, when
suddenly around the corner of the east wing dashed a negro,
hysterical with fear.
"Blessed Ma'y be praised! Docto' Ca'l, come quick! Sambo's dyin'!
Gib him somf'n fo' he go off, fo' Christ's sake!"
Before the last words were spoken the doctor had jumped from the
porch, and the rest of the party rose anxiously.
"Sambo? Sambo dying, Joe? Surely not! I'll come at once."
"Which cabin, man? Show us the way," commanded Carroll,
energetically.
Madam Trevor had run into the house to get an apron for her gown, and
Deborah, seizing the opportunity, flew across the portico, leaped
down on the east side, and caught up with the doctor.
"I shall come, too," she said. And Carroll's silence gave consent.
The cabin in which Sambo and his parents lived was on the
northeastern corner of the quarters, and, as the doctor, with his
conductor and Deborah, approached it, a group of negro women about
its door hailed them with expressions of relief and praise. Not
heeding the pious ejaculations, the three passed into the tiny hut,
where, upon the mattress in a corner, covered with tattered blankets,
lay Sambo. Beside him, her apron over her head, sat the mother,
Chloe, rocking to and fro in absolute terror.
Carroll knelt at once beside the mattress and glanced sharply into
the child's face. Sambo was lying deathly still, breathing heavily,
his eyes wide open, his black skin dripping with sweat. The doctor
felt the child's pulse, opened his mouth, and gave a sharp
exclamation as he perceived the tongue to be heavily coated with a
thick, grayish matter.
"Sit here, Deborah, and hold his hands. He'll not be quiet long."
Deborah took her place at the child's head and clasped the little
burning hands in her own, while Carroll, in a low voice, began to
question Chloe. Sambo noticed Deborah, and smiled faintly as she
leaned over him. In a moment more a swift spasm of agony passed over
the small features, and he uttered a guttural cry of pain. Carroll
ran to his side, while the colored woman, wringing her hands, sank
helplessly on the floor. The paroxysm was violent. The child's body
twisted and writhed. He rolled over and over upon the bed, moaning
like an animal, or shrieking in a delirium of torture. Deborah, very
pale, and Carroll, silent and stern, held him so as to prevent as
much exhaustion of strength as was possible. When he began to grow
more quiet, Madam Trevor came in, looking angrily at her cousin, who,
however, scarcely saw her.
"It is possible that you do not need me, doctor," she said, in her
most offended tone.
Carroll paid small attention to her manner. "If you will send out
some old linen, pepper, mustard, and salt from the house, it will be
all that we can use. To be frank," he added, in a low tone, "there
is little hope now."
Madam Trevor looked aghast, and her manner softened instantly.
"Little hope! What do you mean? What shall we do?"
"What I ask, if you please. Linen, salt, mustard, and pepper.
Chloe, you must heat some water in the kettle there." And Carroll
turned about again as Madam Trevor, without another word, hurried out
of the cabin on her errand.
The girl, meantime, bent over Sambo, questioning him.
"What was it, Sambo? Have you eaten anything? What have you done?"
she asked, caressingly.
Sambo, panting from weakness, answered, just audibly: "Done eat nuf
'n 't all but mushrooms you picked 's mo'n wiv Mas' Frenchman. You
say dey good fo' dinne'."
"My God!"
"What is it?" asked the doctor, quickly, seeing her face grow gray.
"He has eaten the _muscaria_," she whispered, tremulously.
"I know it."
"And it was my fault--my fault! Good Heavens! What shall I do?"
With a quick sob she caught the child, who suddenly sprang to her in
a new spasm of pain. The muscles of his body grew rigid with
contraction beneath her grasp. Sambo clutched and opened his hands
wildly in the air. New sweat poured out upon his cold flesh, his
eyes started from their sockets, and Chloe, catching sight of him,
screamed with despair. At this moment Madam Trevor, bearing those
things which the doctor had commanded, re-entered the cabin. While
Carroll worked over Sambo's body, Deborah suddenly left her place,
turned blindly about and ran out of the cabin through the
terror-stricken group at the door, and across the sunny yard to the
still-room. Without an instant's hesitation she flung herself
against the closed door and turned its handle with her shaking
fingers. Presently she found herself standing dizzily before the
cage of the poisoned animal. Twice she opened and shut her eyes to
make sure that her vision was not deranged. No. There was the cat
making its afternoon toilet with foppish precision, stopping
occasionally to regard her solemnly with its bright green eyes.
Deborah was not long there. When she was sure her hope had been
realized, she turned to the cupboard, snatched a bottle from its
shelf, and ran at full speed out of the room and back towards the
cabin. Upon the bed Sambo's body lay now outstretched, quiet save
for an occasional little quiver of the muscles, and over it Madam
Trevor, with grave tenderness, and Dr. Carroll, with hopeless skill,
worked. Some hot gin had been forced down the child's throat, and
across him were spread linen cloths soaked in water so near to
boiling that they had scalded Chloe's hands; yet Sambo paid no
attention either to them or to the mixture with which they were
rubbing his limbs. When Deborah returned, Carroll left off chafing
the little black arms and went to her where she stood by the door.
"What to do, Debby?" he whispered, helplessly.
"There's no hope?" she asked.
Carroll shook his head. "He is passing into the coma now. That is
the end."
"You will let me try something?" she asked, quickly.
"Anything in the world. Nothing can harm him now."
"Where is a cup?"
"What have you?" he cried.
Madam Trevor started and looked around. Deborah put a tremulous
finger to her lips, and shook her head. The doctor instantly
understood, and let her go to the shelf in a corner, where, her back
being to the others, she poured half the contents of her bottle into
a tin cup. With this, slowly and resolutely, she approached the bed.
Chloe stepped suddenly in her way:
"What yo' got?" she asked, in no friendly tone.
"Medicine for Sambo," was the steady reply.
"Of your own making, Deborah?" came Madam Trevor's sharp voice.
"Yes, yes. You are wasting precious time. Chloe--let me pass."
"No, Miss Deb'. You ain' goin' give Sambo nuf'n from still-house."
"Dr. Carroll!" There was a desperate appeal in her tone, and the man
came instantly to her aid.
"Listen, Chloe! Unless your child in some way gets the help that I
cannot give, he must die. He is poisoned, as I supposed, fatally.
Miss Deborah believes that she can save his life. You cannot let him
die without the attempt."
The colored woman paid no attention to the words, and still
menacingly barred the way. A new idea was taking possession of her:
that Deborah had poisoned the boy. Carroll, who was watching her
narrowly, saw the sudden squaring of her shoulders, darted quickly in
front of her and seized her about the body just as she had been about
to fling herself upon the girl. Deborah, keyed to the highest pitch,
watched her opportunity, slipped like a cat around to the bedside,
raised Sambo's head upon her arm, and, to Madam Trevor's terror,
pressed her fingers on the child's throat, and forced him to swallow
the contents of the cup. At once he was seized with a violent
coughing fit. Deborah lifted him upright at once, pressed her hands
upon his temples and the back of his neck, and kept him from that
retching which would have been fatal to her experiment.
Meantime Carroll had forced Chloe, screaming and struggling, from the
cabin, and, after calling Thompson to keep order in the group
outside, he closed and barred the door. Madam Trevor then rose from
her place.
"Charles Carroll, you are permitting my ward to murder this child. I
cannot remain here as witness to such a deed. When you will accept
the assistance that I have to give, and will order this girl away,
you may send word to the house."
And, with these words, Antoinette Trevor rose in strong anger, shook
out her flounces, unfastened the door for herself, and, without more
ado, left the cabin and the dying child alone to the care of the
doctor and his mad protégée.
Carroll witnessed the departure without a word, and it was with an
expression rather of relief than chagrin that he turned to Deborah.
"What did you give him?" he asked, quietly.
"Atropine. Four times more than enough to kill him."*
* Atropine is to-day considered the best antidote for cases of
poisoning by the _amanita muscaria_ or the _amanita phalloides_. At
the period of the story (1744) its efficacy was unknown.
"The cat--"
"Lives."
"Good God, Deborah! We must save him now!"
Deborah set her teeth. "We--I will save him," she said, with slow
precision. "Or else--they will bury me with him."
Madam Trevor, upon her return to the house, said not a word of the
scene in the cabin. It was a relief to her to find that de Mailly
had tactfully departed and that the family was alone. Lucy and
Virginia beset her with questions, for the child was a pet with them
all. It was something of a shock, then, when their mother turned
upon them, saying sharply: "Sambo will die," and forthwith retired to
her own room. The girls looked at each other for a long moment in
amazement, and then Lucy cried quickly:
"Let us go to see him at once."
Virginia would have assented, but her brother shook his head.
"Deborah and the doctor both are there. If you are needed, you will
be sent for. Otherwise I forbid you to go."
And so the Trevor family lived dismally through the afternoon,
waiting for the supper-hour, when the watchers would appear. But
Adam blew the horn in vain. No word came from the cabin, and Madam
Trevor, burning with curiosity and anxiety, flatly refused to send
any one to ask news of the child.
The sun set, and dusk deepened to evening. Candles were lighted in
the sitting-room, but Vincent alone made any pretence of reading.
The three women moved about restlessly, the girls not daring, and
their mother unwilling to speak on the subject which occupied all
their thoughts. The silence had become unbearable, and Vincent at
last started to put away his book, with a resolve to go to the
quarters, when the door flew open and Dr. Carroll strode into the
room, carrying Deborah's body in his arms. He laid her down upon the
brocaded sofa, while the girls rushed to her side.
"She fainted as we came across the yard," explained the doctor,
wearily.
"The child is dead, then?"
"Sambo will live. The girl saved his life. She is a genius, madam;
and--for God's sake, get me a glass of wine!"
CHAPTER VI
Claude's Memories
Deborah recovered from her afternoon over Sambo's sick-bed far less
rapidly than the small negro did from the effects of his remarkable
breakfast. In fact, three days after that upon which he had
substituted the fly agaric for hoe-cake, he was running about the
plantation as usual, only with a new and useful working knowledge
concerning vermilion-colored fungi. With beautiful impartiality he
sought the still-room on the afternoon of the first day that he left
the cabin. He found its door locked, and presently discovered that
Miss Deb was to be seen nowhere about the grounds. On making
peremptory inquiries, he was informed, much to his disgust, that his
play-fellow was ill in bed, without _amanita_ for cause, and that he
might not dream of such a thing as seeing her. Thereupon, retiring
to the still-house door-step, young Sambo lifted up his voice and
wept, though he got no consolation from the process.
Strictly speaking, Deborah was not in bed. She was too restless to
remain long in any one place, but she felt no desire to leave the
house. What care she needed, and a little more, was lavished on her
by Madam Trevor, her cousins, and the slaves. Nevertheless, she was
very wretched. She could not understand her continual weariness and
her impatience with the familiar scenes of everyday life. She
suffered inexpressibly with the mid-day heat, and shivered with cold
through the mild nights. "Nerves" were to her unnecessary and
incomprehensible things, and her disgust with herself was none the
less exasperating because it was unreasonable. Dr. Carroll, however,
was wiser than she. A week after Sambo's affair he heard of her
condition and went out to her at once. His prescription pleased the
whole family, with the exception, perhaps, of Sir Charles. He
proposed taking her back with him to Annapolis, to spend ten days
under his own hospitable roof, with his two sisters to take care of
her, and young Charles for company. Permission for the visit was
granted on the asking, and, upon the next afternoon, Deborah set out
in the family coach, with the doctor on horseback as outrider. The
only regret that she felt on leaving was, oddly enough, the parting
from Sir Charles. His attentions to her during the past week had
been remarkably delicate. Madam Trevor herself could hardly have
objected to them. Through long hours he had sat near her while she
lay upon a sofa, generally with Lucy or Virginia, or both, beside
her, recounting little stories of his own or his comrades'
adventures; describing London and London life; stopping when he saw
that his voice tired her; fanning her, perhaps, in silence; arranging
the tray that held her meals on the stand beside her; and only once
in a long, long time looking into her wandering eyes with an
expression that would set her to thinking of grave and far-off
things. Thus she left the plantation, feeling a new and not
unpleasant regret at losing the companionship which had almost made
her illness worth the having.
Dr. Carroll's sisters, Mistress Lettice and little Frances Appleby,
awaited their guest with solicitation. The coach that held her
arrived at their door just at tea-time, and Deborah was smiling with
pleasure when the doctor lifted her out and carried her bodily up the
walk and into the house, with St. Quentin on one side, his son on the
other, and the little old maids smiling together in the doorway. The
young lady then refused absolutely to retire, but sat up to tea,
partook of some of Miriam Vawse's raspberry conserve, and afterwards
lay upon the sofa in the parlor with an unexpressed hope in her heart
that Claude might come.
Claude was to have come. Mistress Lettice, when she learned from her
brother that their guest would arrive that afternoon, had sent down a
polite request by young Charles that monsieur would honor them with
his presence in the evening. As politely de Mailly returned thanks
for the invitation, gave no definite reply, but intended to go. Upon
that afternoon, however, the _Sea-Gull_ arrived, after a fair voyage,
from Portsmouth; and in her came a long letter and a consignment of
rents from Mailly-Nesle to his cousin. Many things were happening in
France. In March, war with England and Maria Theresa had been
declared, and the French armies prepared for a campaign. In May came
the astounding intelligence that, through the influence of la
Châteauroux, who loved the heroic, Louis would command his forces in
person. A week later it was understood that the favorite was to
follow in the royal train, together with the King's staff, his aides,
his chefs, his valet, and the impedimenta. The letter was dated May
28th. As he read it, Claude's heart burned; and with the evening, in
the bitterness of his memories of the old life, and in the wretched
conjectures that he made as to what was the French news now, he
forgot Deborah. Where was she, Marie Anne, his cousin? What battles
had been fought over the water? Was the fifteenth Louis still
reigning over France? Had not some chance shot struck him, and with
him the third daughter of the de Maillys, down in all their clanging
glory? Did la Châteauroux never now think of the cousin exiled for
her, at her instance? Henri did not say. And Miriam Vawse of the
Annapolis inn wondered that night what news her lodger had received,
that he should sit, stoop-shouldered, over the empty fireplace, and
forget that, only two blocks away, in Dr. Carroll's house, Debby
Travis was vainly waiting for him to come to her.
Claude did remember her next morning, when the sunlight gave matters
a different aspect, and the letter had been shut away in his trunk.
So it was with only half his mind on French battle-fields and a
vaguely dreamed-of Dettingen, that he ate his colonial breakfast; and
afterwards, as he left the ordinary and bent his steps leisurely
northward towards Dr. Carroll's house, his homesickness fled quite
away.
The Carrolls' breakfast had ended some time ago (Claude's Versailles
habits of late rising were not yet broken); and Deborah, already
bettered by the change of scene and atmosphere, had come down to the
morning meal. She was now in the doctor's study, leaning back in his
great chair, while young Charles stood moodily facing the window,
sulky because she was not yet well enough to bear a morning on the
bay, so obtaining for him a vacation on plea of hospitality.
"Now I know why you won't mind about me any more. Here's your de
Mailly coming up the walk. Faith, I'll not bear it! You've grown
into a fine lady, Debby, and are no fun nowadays. I'd as soon have
Lucy running with me."
"And you, Charles, are ungentlemanly. If you were anything but a
child, I wouldn't speak to you this sennight."
"I'm as old as you, lacking a month."
"Little one would think it, then."
"Pardon, if I intrude. I come to inquire after Mistress Travis'
health."
Claude stood smiling upon the threshold, for he had overheard the
last words of the quarrel. Deborah, her white face flushing a
little, held out her hand. As he bent over it she said, in a much
gentler tone than that which she had been using: "I am really well,
only I have nerves. Charles, however, is using me very ill. He says
that nerves are nonsense. Do you think so?"
"In my country, mademoiselle, they are considered serious. A lady
who has them retires to her bed and expects all her friends to come
and amuse her till she is better. Charles, you are heartless."
Deborah looked a little shocked at his first statement and his
matter-of-fact tone when making it; but she said nothing. Presently
Father St. Quentin appeared at the door. After stopping to extend a
hearty greeting to de Mailly, he flung a Latin imperative at poor
Charles, who obeyed it with the poorest possible grace, leaving the
room alone to Deborah and the Count. Claude seated himself near her,
and looked at her for a few seconds in silence, noting a difference
in her general expression. She was too languid to be embarrassed by
the pause, but, not caring to return the scrutiny, slightly turned
her head and looked toward the windows.
"I owe Miss Travis an apology, do I not?"
She glanced towards him now in some surprise. "An apology? For
what?"
"Nay, then I will not make it. I will only tell you that, as the
preserver of a child's life, I must reverence your talent, on which,
I confess, I had looked with ill-timed disapproval."
Deborah gazed at him thoughtfully. "I recollect now. You were
displeased to think that I would poison a cat. I assure you it was
the cat saved Sambo's life. Neither of them died."
"So Dr. Carroll told me. I have heard all that you did on that
afternoon; and I, like the doctor, have not words to express my
admiration."
"You are very kind. Please--do not let us talk of that. I came here
to forget. Come--would you entertain me, monsieur?"
"In whatever way lies in my power."
"Why, then, it is done. It would give me infinite entertainment,
monsieur, to hear the life of the ladies of the French Court, where
you lived. The doctor has told me what a great Court it is. How do
the ladies dress, what do they eat, do they go every night to the
assembly? Faith, that would be tiresome enough, I think!"
De Mailly laughed a little at her comment, but did not immediately
comply with the request. Memory had once more come home to him
again, but this time with a curious addition. Of a sudden he found
that he could definitely imagine Deborah Travis as having a place in
that French Court that she spoke of. It was a curious notion, and he
regarded her for some time contemplatively, before he began to speak.
"If you were in Versailles, Mademoiselle Deborah, you would doubtless
be madame."
"What! Are there no unmarried ladies there?"
"Yes--a few. Those who cannot find a husband. But we are supposing
that you would not be there unless some grand seigneur had married
you and carried you away."
Deborah laughed merrily, and Claude, with some satisfaction,
perceived that she had entered into his own spirit. "Continue!
continue!" she cried. "I am already perishing with interest."
"You would dwell in an apartment in--we will say the Rue des
Rossignols--that is the name of a street. Let us see. You sleep in
a charming room hung in white brocade. Your dressing-room will be in
pink satin, with the chairs in tapestry which monsieur would have
embroidered for you--"
"Monsieur--a man--embroider!"
"Oh yes. The King himself commanded de Gêvres to teach him stitches
a year ago. He began four _sièges_ at once, I remember, and de Mouhy
made an excellent _bon-mot_ about it. No matter. Your tapestries in
apple-green, your tables in mahogany, and your sets in ivory--or
gold? Which?"
"Ivory, I think. Pink satin and ivory would be--oh, most beautiful!"
she replied, cocking her head a little on one side.
He nodded, appreciative of her taste. "The salon--blue and gold; the
dining-room in green; and, for monsieur's room, we will let it go.
At nine in the morning you have your chocolate in bed. Half an hour
later you rise, and your toilette _à la mode_ begins."
"Oh, what is a toilette _à la mode_?"
The Count shrugged his shoulders. "You, in a delightful _négligé_,
receive in the pink satin boudoir, while your hair is powdered.
Yours would never need to be curled, mademoiselle. _Eh bien_!
During the toilette you would have cakes and cordial, or more
chocolate. At one o'clock you meet monsieur the husband, and dine
with him either alone or at the palace. For the afternoon there are
a thousand things. You attend a levée, the hunt, a salon, a tea _à
l'anglaise_; you drive, promenade in the Orangerie or a Paris
boulevard; you visit shops; you attend a sale; you receive at home;
or, perhaps, if the night is to be fatiguing, you sleep. You never
spin, you do not knit, nor do you--distil poisons and save lives,
Mistress Deborah. At seven you sup--hardly this time with monsieur,
who has his own engagements. Later you attend the Opéra or the
Italiens, indulge in a little supper with a party later, and return
to Versailles shortly after midnight. If you are in his Majesty's
immediate circle you go to Choisy, perhaps. But--that,
mademoiselle--I trust--you will never do. Now do you think the life
pleasant?"
"I'm sure I cannot tell," was the demure response; but the girl's
face belied her words. It was aglow with pleasure. "And what is it
that you would do, monsieur? How--how could you have borne it to
leave such a life? Did you really tire of it? Was--"
He rose sharply to his feet, and she broke off at once, astonished
and half frightened at the change in his face. "There are many
thorns among the roses, mademoiselle. Life is not happier there than
here. And some day--some day, perhaps--I will tell you the other
side of it; why"--he almost whispered now, for his throat was
dry--"why I left it all."
"Oh, forgive me! I had not meant to pain you."
He looked down into the face that had lost all its glow of pleasure,
took her slight hand, kissed it quietly, and left her alone to think
over all that had been said, to wonder over the uncertain promise of
more, and to hope that he would neither forget nor repent.
The little conversation had taken her mind away from herself and set
it in a new and far-off channel. When Dr. Carroll came back from his
walk to the wharves, he found his little guest with color in her face
and animation in her air. She told him of de Mailly's visit, and
Carroll, judging its effect, resolved that the tonic should be
administered often while his patient remained with him. The result
was that, in the following days, Claude de Mailly and Deborah were
thrown constantly together. And during their lively conversations,
or, perhaps, even more so in their desultory ones, there grew up
between them an intimacy more of good-fellowship than anything else,
the spirit of which deceived both Claude and the doctor, though how
much prophecy Deborah might have made concerning it, would be more
difficult to say.
One afternoon, a Friday, and two days before Deborah was to return to
the plantation, while the doctor was at his counting-house near the
wharves, and the two little sisters sat together spinning in the
sitting-room, their guest, panting with the heat inside the house,
and wishing also to escape young Charles, who would presently be
relieved from his _Horace_, sought out her largest hat and crept out
of doors, passing down the street in the direction of the Vawse inn.
She had not seen de Mailly for nearly twenty-four hours, and, as a
consequence, her day was empty. She had small hopes of encountering
him now, but was too restless to remain any longer in the room with
the two old maids and their whirring wheels. She passed the quaintly
gabled tavern, whose door, contrary to custom, was closed. Evidently
Miriam was out. There was no sign of life about the windows. Claude
himself was probably not there. Deborah walked on, disappointedly,
as far as the court-house, and, still not wishing to admit to herself
that she had come out simply with the hope of encountering de Mailly,
turned down Green Street and followed it to the water's edge. The
Stewart quay was deserted, and she halted there to look over the
smooth, warm stretch of water. It was very still. The idle swash of
the ripples against the pier was the only sound that reached her
ears. The atmosphere was hazy with heat. It seemed as though it was
the very weight and thickness of the air which gradually formed a
solid arch of purple storm-clouds above the river to the west.
Presently the sun was obscured. Still Deborah stood, heedlessly
watching the bay, and breathing slowly in the stifling heat.
Suddenly some one appeared beside her.
"Mademoiselle--mademoiselle--you will surely be wet."
Deborah turned her head towards him with a smile of pleasure which
she would have repressed if she could. "Did you fall from the
clouds, sir?"
"No. I have myself been wandering by the water this afternoon; and
for the past quarter of an hour I have been watching the gathering
storm--and you. Come, mademoiselle, we must seek shelter--and
quickly."
"Let us try to reach Miriam's. We can run."
He took her arm as she spoke, and they started together down Hanover
Street to Charles, which ran straight up for five blocks to
Gloucester Street and the Vawse tavern. As they passed the Reynolds
ordinary a deafening clap of thunder broke over them. Deborah
shivered, and de Mailly put an arm about her to help her faster on
their way. The street was empty. The heat had not yet broken, and
beads of perspiration stood on their faces as they went. A long hiss
of lightning glided like a snake through the storm-cloud. The town
was almost dark. Deborah had begun to pant, and her companion could
feel the beating of her heart shake her whole frame.
"C'est rien, mademoiselle. Nous sommes presque là. L'orage sera
vraiment énorme!" he muttered rapidly.
A moment more and, as a new thunder-clap rattled down the sky, a
sudden cold breath struck the city. With the wind, which blew like a
hurricane down the river, came a pelting rain. The two reached their
destination barely in time. Claude flung open the door of the
tavern, and Deborah was blown over its threshold in a gush of water.
It was with some difficulty that Claude shut and bolted the door in
the face of the wind. When he turned about his companion lay back on
a wooden settle in a state of exhaustion. While the gale howled
without and the thunder crashed down the heavens; he lit a candle
with his tinder-box, brought a glass of strong waters for Deborah,
and helped her gently to a more comfortable chair. He took the hat
from her tumbled hair, chafed her hands till her nails grew pink
again, and then stood back regarding her anxiously.
"Oh, I'm quite recovered. It was a long run. Where--where is
Miriam?"
"Mistress Vawse? John Squire's boy broke a limb falling from a roof,
and she has gone to attend the--what do you say?--setting of it."
"Then we are here quite alone?" asked the girl, nervously.
"Surely Miss Travis is not afraid with me?" Claude looked at her in
hurt surprise. "I will retire at once to my room. When the rain
ceases--"
Deborah laughed a little. "No, no. You misunderstand. I am afraid
of storms. I should be frightened to death to be left here alone
with--that."
Both listened as the long, low growl of thunder rolled down the sky
and died away. It was growing darker again. A new storm was rising.
Claude, much relieved at the sincerity of Deborah's tone, drew a
stool near her. "May I sit here by you, then?" he asked.
Deborah nodded and leaned back in her own chair. Then there fell a
little silence on the room. The girl's unconscious eyes travelled
over de Mailly's face as he sat regarding the rain-splashed windows;
and they found a new expression, a new paleness, an unusual
soberness, upon the clear-cut features. Unthinkingly, Deborah spoke:
"You are changed to-day, monsieur. I have not seen you so before.
Why are you melancholy?"
He turned towards her quickly. "Yes, I have what we call _les
papillons noirs_ to-day. In some way, Mistress Deborah, 'tis your
fault. In these last days I have said so much to you of my former
life, jestingly perhaps, and yet feeling it, that to-day it has
brought me homesickness."
Before his frank look Deborah's eyelids drooped, and presently, with
a little hesitation, she said: "You once told me that some day you
would relate to me why it was that you left your home. Could you
not--now?"
"Ah, no!" The exclamation was impetuous. "It is not a story for
you, mademoiselle. An older woman might hear--but to you--"
"Think of me as older," she suggested, so quietly that his resolve
was shaken.
"It will be hard to forgive me, I think, afterwards," he deprecated.
"What shall I have to forgive? 'Tis I that ask the tale."
"It is a story of unfortunate love," he said, regarding her narrowly.
Her head drooped farther. "Tell me all now, monsieur."
And so, out of an impulse which he could not have traced to its
source, but which proceeded from a spirit of honesty and true
chivalry, Claude recounted, with the utmost gentleness and delicacy,
some of the incidents which had led to his exile. He said just
enough of his cousin to let his listener decide what his feeling for
her had been. And Deborah, oddly enough, perhaps, shrank from no
part of the recital. She forgot herself, and saw through the eyes of
the narrator all that he was describing. In their recent,
half-serious talks on French life, the girl had gained a remarkably
clear idea of what that life must be; and now this story affected her
very differently than it would have done had it been her first
glimpse of another existence. It resembled one of her vague dreams,
this sitting alone in the cloud-darkened room, the feeble candle
mingling its beams with the gloomy daylight; the shadowy figure of
the man before her, and his low voice carrying on its story, seeming
to be things very far away. And the fresh rain pelted on the
windows, while the deep monotone of the thunder made a fitful and
fitting accompaniment to the narrative.
"So, mademoiselle, it was there in the chapel that M. de Maurepas
delivered me the letter from the King. Henri, madame's brother, was
with me. I read the letter just there. I have forgotten if I spoke
after it, or if either of them addressed me. Henri, I think, led me
out and away, into the town, to our apartment. But next morning it
was all very clear. Henri seemed to feel more than I. Later on that
day I went to bid madame good-bye. She was very gracious--yes, most
gracious."
"How could you go to see her? I should not have done so."
"Ah, mademoiselle, I had to see her. I wished to take her with me as
my wife. She did not come. Non. She gave me, instead, to bring
away for memory of her--this." Claude put his hand inside his vest
and brought out two things, the long white gauntlet, and a letter
with the royal seal. As he handed the gage to Deborah, the paper
dropped to the floor.
While the girl looked at the glove for the second time, de Mailly
picked up his letter of exile, and sat smoothing it on his knee.
Then he asked, unthinkingly: "This letter from the King--will you
read it?"
She held out her hand and took the small, worn paper with its
red-brown seal and the arms of France upon it. Regarding the fine,
crabbed writing, she said, with a faint smile: "I do not easily read
French, monsieur."
"Shall I read it to you, then, as well as I can--in English?"
She nodded once more, and he, taking the missive from her hand,
cleared his throat and began, with a little effort:
"'Owing to certain circumstances which of late have had the
misfortune greatly to displease S.M., the King desires to inform
Count Claude Vincent Armand Victor de Nesle de Mailly that the
absence of the Count from the château and city of Versailles after
the noon of Friday, January 22d, in this year of 1744, will be
desirable to S.M.; and that after the first day of the month of
February, Monsieur the Count, if he has not already crossed the line
of the French Kingdom, would of necessity be placed under the escort
of one of his Majesty's officers. The King wishes monsieur a
delightful journey, and--'"
Claude's eyes, running on before his tongue, suddenly realized the
subject of the next few lines, and he suddenly stopped.
"Go on, monsieur," murmured Deborah, after an instant.
[Illustration: "'GO ON, MONSIEUR,' MURMURED DEBORAH"]
"Mademoiselle, I--cannot. There is nothing more."
"Go on, monsieur," she repeated, quietly.
Claude passed his hand over his brow. Then he lifted the letter
again and continued: "'--and begs further to add that when monsieur
shall desire to present Madame la Comtesse his wife to their
Majesties at Versailles, his return to his present abode will be most
pleasing to
"'LOUIS R.'
At the close of the last line Claude looked up, apprehensively.
Deborah was very white, and there was an unusual brightness in her
eyes. He could not catch her glance. Her head drooped, and
presently she covered her face with her hands. He sprang up,
impetuously.
"Deborah--Deborah--forget that last! I--didn't mean to read it."
He spoke rather incoherently. Perhaps the girl did not even
understand him. At any rate, after a moment, she lifted her head
with a dignity that Claude did not know. "I thank you, M. de Mailly,
for telling me the story as I asked." There was a little, wretched
pause, and then she added, more faintly: "See, the storm is nearly
over. I must go back now--to the doctor's house."
CHAPTER VII
The Pearls
Another week went by, and Deborah, quite recovered from her slight
illness, bade Dr. Carroll and his sisters good-bye and returned, on a
Sunday afternoon, to the Trevor place. It was then about the 1st of
August, and certain rumors relative to the reception of the returning
commissioners from Lancaster, rumors dearly exciting to the feminine
heart, began to radiate from the gubernatorial palace and to spread
throughout the country-side. For once in its long existence rumor
spoke truth. Upon the 6th day of August were issued elaborate cards
("tickets," they called them then) of invitation for a Governor's
ball to be given upon the evening of the 21st to the returning
officials. With the delivery of these cards a thrill of excitement
and anticipation pulsated through all Anne Arundel County, even
running a little way over its irregular borders; and innumerable were
the earnest conversations through town and country houses as to
costumes suitable for such an occasion. Great hopes, that sank often
to despair, were entertained of the arrival of the _Baltimore_, with
her usual cargo of vain and delightful things. It was calculated
with the nicest discrimination that she might reach port, provided
the winds were amiable to an impossible degree, as early as the 15th.
Then the weather of the West Atlantic was watched with supreme
interest. It certainly was all that could be desired. Nevertheless,
the 15th came and went without the _Baltimore_, and there was wailing
on both sides of the Severn. In time the interest in the ship's
arrival came to surpass its object; though, indeed, Betty Pritchard
voiced many another's feeling when she one day cried out, wofully:
"If the _Baltimore_ doesn't come in, I'll have no pink taffeta for a
petticoat to my satin overdress. If I don't have the petticoat, I
won't go to the ball; and if I don't go to the ball, I shall die!"
One of the most anxious watchers for the arrival of the ship was,
oddly enough, Madam Trevor. Her anxiety concerning it quite passed
the comprehension of her daughters, who had not a suspicion of what
was in their mother's mind. Vincent knew more, but had never seen
fit to talk to his sister on the subject of the pearls which were to
form Virginia Trevor's ornaments on the day that she married Sir
Charles. It was tacitly understood between young Trevor and his
mother that he should speak to his cousin on the arrival of the
jewels, and it was madam's ambition to be able to spread the news of
Virginia's engagement at the much-talked-of ball.
The _Baltimore_ was a considerate ship, and her captain the favorite
of all sea-going men in Annapolis. Neither lost a reputation this
time, for, on the 20th of August, at ten o'clock in the morning, the
_Baltimore_ cast anchor in the lower piers, and Annapolis womanhood
sighed with relief. It was but seven o'clock on the evening of the
same day, and the Trevor family sat at supper in the glass room,
watching the twilight deepen over the scented garden, when Pompey
hastily entered to announce the unexpected arrival of young Charles
Carroll.
"An' he say _Baltimo'e_ 's heah, Mis' Trev'," he added, eagerly, glad
to be the first with the news.
Madam Trevor rose with a light in her face as the doctor's son came
merrily in. Having saluted each member of the party, he advanced to
the mistress of the house, paused for an instant to take on an air of
heavy responsibility, and finally produced, from the pockets of his
new cloth coat, two packages, wrapped in paper and tied with cord,
the one square and flat, the other five inches thick and also square.
"From Captain Croft," he observed, handing them to Madam Trevor,
while all at the table looked on with interest. In a moment the
strings were cut, and the paper wrappings thrown off. Two cases of
dark green morocco appeared. With a deep-drawn breath her mother
carried them round the table and set them before Virginia.
"They are to be yours," she said, gently. "Open them."
Virginia, surprised, but unmoved, lifted the covers from the cases.
In one, upon a green satin lining, reposed a necklace of round,
softly shining pearls, set in gold, with a pendant of pear-shaped
pearls and sapphires. The other case contained a hair ornament, also
of pearls, pink and black, in two even rows, surmounted by a delicate
scroll-work of the smaller stones, that shone in the dusk with
exquisite beauty.
Virginia drew a deep sigh of admiration. Lucy cried out with
delight; and Madam Trevor and the gentlemen, looking on in high
interest, did not notice Deborah, who sat silent, eager, with her
great eyes fixed in unwinking fascination on the perfect gems.
"Put them on, Virginia," cried young Charles, and there was a murmur
of approval.
Lilith, who had been standing by her husband at a little distance,
lost in admiration, nudged old Adam.
"Fetch some can'les," she whispered, excitedly.
Virginia, with a little smile, took up the necklace, and her mother
clasped it about her slender throat. Then the tiara was set and
pinned upon her powdered curls, and Adam, coming forward with a
candle in each hand, held the lights up before her.
"'Ginny, you must wear them to the ball!" cried Lucy, ecstatically.
Virginia had no time to reply, for her mother gently interposed:
"They are not Virginia's yet, Lucy. She shall wear them on her
wedding-day."
Charles Fairfield started slightly as his unfortunate eyes suddenly
encountered those of Virginia, who, in her turn, flushed and bent her
head.
"I shall never wear them, then," was on her tongue to say; but her
brother interrupted.
"Charlie," he said, addressing his cousin, "come down to the river
with me and see the moon rise. It's in the full to-night."
"Oh, may I come, too?" said Lucy, eagerly.
"No, Lucy; I need you here," interposed her mother, much annoyed with
Vincent's want of tact.
Fairfield, grasping the whole situation, rose at once, without a
word. Before leaving the room he stole an involuntary glance at
Deborah. She was looking at him, for she herself guessed what she
did not know. Her lips were curled into a little smile of amusement
that set the man's heart on fire with anger at--Madam Trevor. He
said nothing, however, but quietly followed Vincent into the still
evening.
An hour later Madam Trevor sat alone in the great hall. Young
Charles and the three girls, one by one, had gone to their various
rooms, and the mother was waiting alone for the return of her son and
her nephew. She was unaccountably anxious over the result of the
interview, though indeed there was not one reason which her nephew
could, in honor, conjure up, whereby he might refuse to marry
Virginia Trevor. It was with the understanding of a some-time
marriage that he had come to America with Vincent months before, and
because the matter had been so long silently understood, it should
not have been hard for him to hear it finally discussed. Thus, many
times over, Virginia's mother argued in the candle-light, while she
waited. And still, into the midst of her most unanswerable
conclusion, would creep a doubt, a suspicion that she would not
voice, the name of one whom she tried in vain to put from her mind.
It was Deborah. Deborah Travis and Charles Fairfield? Absurd! And
yet--madam could see the face of the girl as it had been that evening
when Vincent and his cousin left the room. She could see the
ironical light in the gray-blue eyes, the scornful curl of the red
mouth, the unconscious insolence of the long, natural curl that fell,
powderless, down her shoulder to the muslin ruffles at her elbow.
Madam Trevor had a measure of justice in her, and she gave Deborah
her due, admitting to herself that Virginia, in all her stateliness,
with the pearls upon her, would never have tempted man to half the
desperation that might be raised within him over this other silent
creature, half child, half woman, of madam's own generation.
The clock on the wall ticked ten and went on again. At a quarter
after, Trevor and Fairfield came in from the moonlight to the hall.
Fairfield was very pale. Vincent's face was calm and unreadable.
Sir Charles, seeing his aunt expectant, went over to her, lifted her
passive hand to his lips, bowed, and left the room to retire to his
own. When he was gone madam turned a puzzled and anxious face
towards her son, who stood still, narrowly scrutinizing a portrait on
the opposite wall.
"He has refused, then, Vincent?" she asked, finally.
"On the contrary, he will marry Virginia when you please."
"Then he asked too much dowry?"
"He said nothing at all of dowry."
"In Heaven's name, then--what is the matter?"
Vincent sighed, rather wearily. "Nothing is the matter. He does not
love Virginia, of course, but--"
"Nonsense, my boy! He would not marry her if she were distasteful to
him. Love will come. What girl loves her husband when she marries
him? What else did he say, Vincent?"
Vincent shrugged his shoulders. "He said nothing at all. He
informed me, when I spoke, that he did himself the honor formally to
ask of me the hand of my elder sister. I accepted the offer. After
that we walked about. I suppose you will make the engagement public
at the ball on Wednesday. I'm deucedly tired to-night. Permit me to
wish that you will sleep well."
"Good-night, my dear Vincent. Your scruples portray the height of
your nature. I honor you for them--but do not worry. Everything
will be well. And so good-night."
With great relief at her heart the mother gently kissed her son, and
then, as he departed with his candle, she blew out all but one of
those remaining in the hall, and with that lighted herself to her
rooms in the eastern wing.
At the other end of the house, in the chamber corresponding to Madam
Trevor's, on the ground floor, was that of Sir Charles. Outside his
room, in the passage, were the stairs; and directly overhead were the
long, narrow spinning-room, the hand-loom in its corner, and,
incidentally, Deborah's diminutive chamber. Sir Charles had retired,
for want of anything better to do, and now lay on his cool, flat bed,
sleepless, restless, and a prey to unhappy thoughts. It had come to
pass, that thing which he had dreaded all the summer through. He was
engaged to marry Virginia Trevor. In a night or two all Maryland
would be ringing with the affair. In as many months he and his bride
would be leaving the colonies, Annapolis, the plantation--in short,
Deborah--probably forever. And Sir Charles twisted and turned and
tried to put the grayish eyes and the curling red lips out of his
mind. They refused to go. Finally another thought came to bear them
company--a thought generated by them, perhaps, and certainly bold
enough and daring enough to smack of the Court of a Stuart, and to
seem absolutely mad in this prim colonial bedroom of old George
Guelph's staid American dependency. None the less the thought had
found a congenial home, and it expanded, flourished, and gained body
and limb till a merry, full-grown plot was playing havoc with young
Fairfield's hope of sleep. He continued to lie there, restless and
scheming, till all his own thoughts were banished by the sound of
footsteps and a trailing of garments, and a curious liveliness of
movement coming to his quickened senses from the room overhead.
Deborah also was awake. Rather, the moonlight, creeping along the
pillow to her face, had roused her, by slow degrees, from a half
waking dream. Alone, in the silent, enchanted night, with no
disturbing day-thoughts to banish the lingering visions of sleep, the
dream stayed and grew to be a fantasy of reality. She rose from her
bed and moved slowly towards her open windows, through which the
bluish silver moonlight flowed, changing the room into a misty-veiled
fairy place. Below, outside the window, lay the dreaming
rose-garden. The lazily floating odor of full-blown flowers came up
to her, as incense on its way to a higher heaven. Beyond this lay
the deep-shadowed wood, with here and there a high, feathery tree-top
waving to the stars. The rippling plash of the river played a low
accompaniment to the night hymns of the myriad creatures singing
through the country-side. Far beyond the garden, rising like two
cloud-shadows through the luminous night, were the great tobacco
barns. Slave-cabins, still-house, kitchen, well-sweep, all were
changed, by the mysterious power of night, to things of natural
beauty. And Deborah was changed. Her dreams had been of courts and
palaces, of dimly resplendent royal figures, among which she, and
Charles Fairfield, and Claude de Mailly moved in inexplicable
near-relationship. She, Deborah Travis, had just been crowned Queen
of all Europe by the hand of Majesty, with her cousin Virginia's
pearls. Now, in the waking dream, Deborah could not turn her
thoughts from those same softly shining things that Virginia was to
wear upon her wedding-day.
Presently, with this single image in her mind, Deborah found herself
outside her room, and creeping, in her white garment, with naked
feet, down, down the stairs, past Sir Charles's door, through the
deserted, moonlit living-rooms, with their misplaced furniture and
the scattered articles of a day waiting for dawn and Lilith to be put
straight. She passed across the sitting-room, down the east passage,
and, finally, in at the doorway of Madam Trevor's dressing-room.
Once inside Deborah halted. Madam Trevor's garments lay, neatly
folded, upon a chair. The door to the bedchamber beyond was half
closed. From within came the light sound of regular breathing.
Deborah smiled, and turned to the great black chest of drawers beside
the window. Here also the moonlight illumined her way. She opened
the top drawer noiselessly. Within, on a bed of lavender, lay the
two morocco cases for which she had come. She took them up, left the
drawer open, and glided quietly away again.
Once more in her own room the girl opened the cases and placed them
on her dressing-table, their priceless contents all unveiled. Then
she went to her own chest of drawers, and took from one of them the
dress that she was to wear two nights later at the Governor's ball, a
petticoat of stiff, white satin, and an overdress of China crepe, of
the color of apple-blossoms, a thing that clung lovingly to her lithe
figure, and vied in softness of tone with her neck and arms. These
things she put on, with rapid, careless precision; and then, her
fingers grown a little colder, she lifted the pearl necklace from its
satin bed and clasped it about her warm throat. Afterwards she sat
down on a low chair before the dressing-table, with its dim mirror,
and took the tiara from the other box, placing it over her
rebellious, silky curls.
"Ah, Claude, Claude, how was it, that thy cousin looked?" she
murmured indistinctly, with a vague smile at her thought.
The dreamy, languorous eyes that knew not all they beheld, gazed at
the reflected image of her face. How beautifully the young head in
its coronet was poised upon the pearl-wreathed neck! Was it a new
Deborah sprung to life here, in this August midnight? Was it only a
momentary madness that should not be told, this carrying out of a dim
vision? What was it that Deborah murmured to her mirror? What did
she say to the shadowy throngs of courtiers that pressed about her
chair? Was ever la Châteauroux more regal, more gracious? Were ever
Comtesse de Mailly, and poor little Pauline Félicité, Marie Anne's
predecessors, more gay, more delicately glowing, than this other, of
alien race?
From the heap of her finery Deborah sought out a painted fan, and,
with this finishing touch of coquetry, she began walking up and down
her tiny room, pausing now and then at the window, for the night
would not be disregarded, waving the fan with an air inimitable and
unacquired, seeing herself thus in the Orangerie of Versailles, or on
one of the Paris boulevards as crowded with fashion and gallantry
upon a Sunday afternoon. After a little she grew tired, and her mind
dropped its imaginings. She seated herself beside the window, and,
unclasping the necklace, took it off and held the jewels up in the
moonlight, pressing their soft smoothness to her cheek, where the
pendant drops hung like falling tears.
Suddenly, upon the perfect stillness around her, broke a sound. Slow
stealthy footsteps were crossing the floor of the spinning-room just
outside. Deborah grew cold with instant terror. She heard a hand
placed upon her door, and then came a voice, soft, well known,
through the stillness: "Deborah--Deborah!"
It was the lightest of whispers, but every accent fell distinctly on
the girl's terrified ears. Moving noiselessly in her bare feet, she
carried the necklace to the bureau, took the ornament from her head,
and laid each piece in its case. Then, running across the floor, she
knelt in her ball-dress, at the door, grasping its handle firmly.
"Deborah--you are awake?" repeated Sir Charles, more delicately yet.
The girl breathed fast, but made not a sound. Only her hand
tightened upon the handle, and her figure stiffened with
determination.
"Let me come in," he said.
Then silence fell between the two, separated by three inches of board
and Deborah's will, there in the August night. There was no one to
know that he was there. Vincent, and Lucy, and young Charles
Carroll, sound sleepers all of them, were in the body of the house;
and Virginia was above her mother in the far eastern wing. The
muscles in Deborah's body grew more rigid, and desperately she held
herself against the door. But Fairfield was making no effort to
enter. It should be only with her own consent that he would do that.
"Deborah--beloved--open to me! Deborah--hear me as I have heard you
for an hour past. Let me in--Deborah--my dear!"
She shut her eyes and pressed her forehead against her arm. There
was a silence, breathless, endless, terrifying to the girl in the
room. Then her weight of fear was lifted. The footsteps slowly
retreated from her door, out of the spinning-room, down the stairs,
and entered into the room below her own. She sank weakly to her
knees, and a breath like a sob shook her slight frame. She was
intensely sleepy now. For very weariness, it was hard to realize the
crisis through which she had passed. But there was a task still
before her, and one at which she trembled. Rising unsteadily, too
wise to give herself time to think, she took the jewel-cases from her
toilet-table, opened her door, crept out, and down the stairs, and
passed stealthily back to madam's dressing-room. The room, the
drawer, were as she had left them. Replacing Virginia's pearls in
their bed of lavender, she pushed the drawer to, inch by inch, till
it was closed. Three minutes later she had once more crossed the
threshold of her own room. And while the pale moon set and the day
dawned in crimson and turquoise over the distant Chesapeake, Deborah
slept dreamlessly--Claude, and the Versailles pageants, and Charles
Fairfield's strange madness all lost to her for the moment under the
spell of the great blessing of youth.
Matters were different with Sir Charles, below. No sleep had the
dusky dawn, with its liquid bird-warblings and its fresh day-odor,
for him. He was thinking of what he had done--and of what he should
do. The impulse that had driven him to go to the room above was past
now. He knew only that he had forfeited her very tolerance of him;
and the thought quickened his half-generated love into a sudden,
fervid life that swayed his senses and fired his brain to plots and
plans of unwise daring. At six o'clock he was dressed, and sat him
down to wait for Deborah's waking. It was an endless hour, and day
had begun over the whole plantation before he heard her cross the
floor over his head, and knew that his waiting was bounded at last.
Deborah was half dressed before the sudden memory of the past night
flashed over her. Then her hands dropped to her sides, and she sat
still for a little, thinking. How should she meet Charles Fairfield
before them all--or, worse yet, if possible, alone? How could he
meet her? Had she done anything wrong? No. What he had done was
not her concern. And thereupon, with a lighter heart, but doubt
still in her face, she finished dressing, set her room to rights--for
she was immaculately neat--and started away without seeming
reluctance. She was going downstairs, her thoughts centred on the
breakfast-room as the place of ordeal. The door at the stair-foot
opened; Sir Charles came out of his room and stood below her, barring
the way.
She stopped stock-still, noting the pallor of his face and the dark
circles below his blue eyes. Then suddenly she smiled, and said,
brightly, "Good-morning, Sir Charles."
"Is it good-morning to me, Deborah? Deborah, I make you my humblest
apologies. I crave your for--"
She came down the last three steps with a changed expression. "We'll
not speak of that," she said, slowly, in a perfectly frigid tone.
Thereupon she would have passed him, but he caught her suddenly by
the delicate wrists. "Yes, we will speak of it, Debby. I will have
it so. You shall grant me pardon, Debby."
"And why, sir, pray? Is my pardon at your command?"
"You'll forgive me because--because I love you, Deborah. You'll
forget when you are become my wife. You will pardon me when you know
all."
Down the upper hall came the blithe, morning whistle of young Charles
Carroll. He was approaching the stairs.
"Speak to me, Deborah," muttered Fairfield, with desperate
earnestness.
Deborah gave him a long, strange look from her gray eyes. It was an
inscrutable look, one that baffled him who caught it; but he did not
know that the feeling which it called forth had baffled also the girl.
"Good-morning to you, Deborah!" cried young Charles. "Good-morning,
Fairfield! Oh, but I'm hungry! Are we going to breakfast now?"
"Yes, I suppose so," responded Deborah, absently.
"Do you return to town this morning?" inquired Fairfield, as they all
passed through the sitting-room.
"Yes. Though if I could help it, I would not."
"I'll ride with you, then. I am going to-day to call on Rockwell.
Good-morning, Lucy. Ah, Vincent!"
"You ride to town to-day?" inquired Vincent, when the greetings were
over. "You'll see Rockwell to-morrow, you know, at our famous ball."
"Um--yes, but I prefer to-day. I've a matter to arrange with him."
At this speech Deborah glanced at Fairfield, and, at the meaning in
his look, a wave of color rolled swiftly over her face. It was as
well that, at this moment, Madam Trevor, with Virginia close behind
her, entered the breakfast-room, and the morning meal began.
CHAPTER VIII
The Governor's Ball
Tuesday passed as rapidly or as slowly as one would have had the last
day before a long-looked-for event. Sir Charles rode away in the
early morning, but returned to the plantation in the afternoon, to
find even Vincent busy over a package of finery sent out, at Madam
Trevor's order, from the _Baltimore_. Sir Charles himself was not
interested. His spotless full-dress uniform, his orders, his finest
ruffles, his paste buckles and silk stockings were quite ready, and
there were no further touches that he could add to the costume.
During the afternoon and evening he paid no attention at all to
Deborah, but was, on the contrary, so attentive to his _fiancée_ that
Madam Trevor softened and grew voluble with pleasure.
Wednesday dawned clear and hot, and from earliest morning every
household in the county was in a moil of final preparation. Governor
Bladen was to give a dinner to the commissioners and his own staff
and officials before the ball. To this, of course, Sir Charles had
been bidden, and he, therefore, was to leave the house at four in the
afternoon, fully dressed for the evening, wrapped about in a long and
voluminous cloak to protect him from the dust and the foam of his
horse. As he passed through the sitting-room on his way out to the
portico, where his animal waited, he found Deborah standing by a
tableful of moss-roses which she was sorting. Passing close to her
side he said, gallantly: "Faith, Debby, you'll be no fairer to-night
in the satins than you are now in calico." And, while he stopped to
take a bud from the heap, he added, in a rapid undertone: "If you'd
not drive me mad, little girl, bring your courage with you to-night,
and see that you trust to me truly, as I do to you."
Then he passed on, and Deborah, unconscious of what she did, followed
him slowly out to the portico and stood gazing after him as he
galloped away down the dusty drive. Strange words he had spoken--and
the first that he had given her all day. Yet she was not surprised
by them. Words were oftentimes superfluous with Deborah, for she had
the power of knowing men's thoughts. Dreamily her eyes wandered down
the road at the little cloud of dust that lingered after him. She
was soon to follow on that way. And how--how was she to return? She
could not answer the question, and it was as well that Lucy at that
moment called her from the house:
"Come, Debby, come and pack your things for the doctor's to-night.
And 'tis nearly time to dress; and oh, Deb! Think of the dancing,
and the lights, and our dresses--and all, and all, and all!" And
with sober John Whitney gone quite out of her mind for the moment,
Lucy fluttered away to her room, leaving Deborah to follow as she
would.
His excellency John Bladen, like most colonial governors, knew how to
give a dinner to any one, and, most particularly, a dinner to men
only. To-night twenty sat at his table: the seven returned
commissioners, the gubernatorial staff, the speaker of the Burgesses,
the under-secretary, Mr. Robert King, Dr. Charles Carroll (this last
from friendship purely), and, for the sake of the Church, the
Reverend George Rockwell. The select company ate mightily, but,
later, drank more cautiously than usual out of respect to the
forthcoming festivities; and finally they sat about the disordered
table with some pipes of fine Virginia tobacco, presented by Governor
Gooch in lieu of his own presence, some bottles of Madeira from the
same patronizing source, and certain good stories, not quite invented
for the ear of the Church, but apparently in no way distasteful to
the eminent rector of St. Anne's, who, indeed, to be frank, told the
best of them himself. It was a man's dinner, an official dinner,
where, none the less, the weight of ordinary dignity was for once
dropped off, and all went merry as a marriage bell. Sir Charles was
seated opposite to Benedict Calvert, with a brother lieutenant on
either side of him. His wit was poignant, his laughter ready, and
his head cool, albeit there was enough work in his brain to have made
a man less careless too anxious to eat. Rockwell being several seats
away, it was impossible to speak with him on personal topics; but the
moment it was announced that Lady Bladen waited in the drawing-room,
Rockwell and Fairfield sought each other through the little throng,
as if by mutual understanding.
"You're prepared to go through with it, George?" asked the young man,
putting one hand on the rector's shoulder.
"Egad, if you can go it, I can, Sir Charles."
"You'll miss something of the festivity--but you'll be ten pounds
heavier in pocket to-morrow, George."
"Ay. And so the lady's consented? Faith! She well may! It's such
a chance as she never dreamed of."
"The lady does not know, yet. I'll take her to-night, in the heat of
the evening, when her blood will be up. She's rare, George, she's
rare! Odds my life that such another woman does not live! I--"
"Tut! Then you're still determined--that--"
"What?"
"It shall be legal?"
"Zounds, man, not another word! What do you take me for? She's a
cousin, I tell you, George. And I'm already engaged to Miss Trevor."
"The devil you are!"
"Ay. I couldn't escape. 'Twill be all out to-night. But I'll have
little Deborah if I have to fight Annapolis single-handed."
"Um. About the ceremony--Miriam Vawse will witness for one, but 'tis
usual to have two--"
"There's the Frenchman. Faith, that would be a stroke! He's led me
a jealous dance for months. We'll have him down from his room to
sign the articles--or whatever you do. To think that I'll be a
Benedict by morning! Lord! Lord! Congratulate me, George!"
"Come away, man. You've too much Jamaica in you, and the ladies are
beginning to arrive. I hear Mistress Paca's voice on the stairs.
Come and make your compliments to the Governor's lady."
Having performed this duty as punctiliously as only he was able, Sir
Charles left Rockwell's side and strolled slowly up the big,
candle-lit room, at one end of which a band of musicians were already
tuning their instruments. After a moment or two of indecision he
joined a little company of officers who sat together in a corner,
talking lightly among themselves, and commenting on the guests who
were beginning to arrive.
"Ouf! On my soul, there's Cradock with Rockwell. How do they stand
it?"
"Oh, the chaplain's been off so long that he's forgotten how they
once struggled for St. Anne's--"
"Or else he wants to hear the story that George wouldn't tell over
the Madeira."
"Yes, I've listened to it fourteen times, but always with Jamaica to
back it."
"There's Dorothy Mason and her mother."
"Egad, she's got on green again! 'Tis the only color that does not
become her. Why--"
"Oh, doubtless young Thomas likes it."
"There he is--"
"With Caroline Harwood. Poor Dorry!"
"I'll go comfort her."
One of the young men left the group and joined the knot of ladies who
stood talking at a little distance from the door.
"Oh, good-evening, Lieutenant Henry!" cried a piquant-looking damsel
in a gown of rather brilliant green satin, with flounced petticoat of
white.
"Your most obedient, Mistress Mason. I can see you will have small
mercy on hearts to-night."
"Lord, Mr. Henry, you're the most open flatterer! I vow I never
looked worse."
"Oh, I protest! I call the gods to witness! Are you engaged for the
minuet?"
Dorothy wriggled her shoulders, colored, glanced swiftly towards
Robin Thomas, who still lingered by Miss Harwood, saw that the case
was hopeless for her, and so replied, in a provoked manner: "La! How
should I be engaged when we've seen no one for a week? Our
plantation's such a distance from the river."
"You'll honor me, then?"
"Oh, with thanks. Look, there are the Trevors. They were just in
the dressing-room when I came down. You've heard the news?"
"No. Tell it me."
"Ginny Trevor's engaged at last."
"What! Not to--"
"Sir Charles Fairfield."
"Monstrous! Monstrous! Why, he's been eating with us for three
hours and never told! Lord! If 'twere any but you had told me, I
swear I'd discredit it. There he goes to them now."
Madam Trevor, her daughters, Vincent, and Deborah were just entering
the room. They had arrived fifteen minutes before, and no time,
certainly, had been wasted in the announcement of Virginia's
engagement. The room was in a buzz of conversation, and not a little
of it was relative to the two young people who now stood rather
uncomfortably side by side, Virginia straight and cold, her companion
cursing inwardly at women's tongues, and staring at the back of
Deborah, who was laughing with Will Paca.
"You will give me the minuet, at least, Virginia?" he asked, with
considerate nonchalance.
She shrugged slightly, as she rejoined: "Go and engage Debby for a
country-dance, then, before she is all bespoken."
Fairfield glanced at her sharply, with surprise in his look. She was
smiling at him in the most unconcerned manner possible. After an
instant's hesitation he bowed deeply, and left her side, but made his
way first to Lucy, who was manoeuvring to avoid Rockwell. From her
he obtained two country-dances, for it was the fashion to change
partners after the opening minuet and every two dances thereafter.
Then he proceeded to Deborah, with whom Carleton Jennings was
speaking.
"Ah, lieutenant!" cried that youth, merrily, at Charles's approach.
"Miss Travis is just recounting your happiness. I'm in the same
estate myself, you know, and--you have my congratulations. Miss
Trevor cannot fail to grace whatever station in life she may attain
to. I--"
"There now, that's quite enough, Jennings. Go and engage her for a
dance, and pour a few of my graces into her ears. I've come to claim
some attention of Miss Travis," cried Fairfield, with such unabashed
good-nature that Jennings could not be angry. Thereupon, with a
smile and an earnest injunction to Deborah not to forget the promised
dances, he went off to Virginia.
The instant that he was alone with Deborah, Fairfield's artificial
manner dropped from him, and he betrayed the extent to which he had
keyed his nerves.
"You'll give me the fourth and fifth, and the eighth and ninth,
Deborah?" he whispered, huskily, drawing her a little towards the
wall.
The girl looked keenly into his pale face. "Two are enough. Why do
you ask more of me?" she inquired.
"Because I have so much to explain to you. Because so much must
happen to-night. You'll grant me the dances?"
"If you like. What is to happen to-night?"
He leaned over her and looked straight down into her steady eyes. "I
am going to marry you to-night," he whispered, quietly.
Deborah did not change color. She scarcely realized what he had said.
"How? Where?" she asked, a faint smile curling her lips.
"No--I mean it. I will tell you when we dance."
Pausing a moment, undecidedly, after those words, he presently turned
and left her there, staring at the opposite wall, not perceiving the
little throng of officers who had set upon Charles with sudden
elaborate congratulations, a good deal of chaff, and some
expostulation, just across the room. Nor did she see Will Paca, her
partner for the minuet, till she found him demanding the subject of
her meditations.
The first strains of the opening minuet came from the orchestra up
the room. The moving throng suddenly resolved into order, and
various sets of sixteen were formed. The two Trevor girls were
excellent dancers, both showing appreciation of natural harmony by
the way in which they managed themselves: Lucy lightly, with an
occasional added step; Virginia, with languorous grace, keeping
perfect time, yet moving more leisurely than any other woman in the
room. As to Deborah, her dancing was, ordinarily, the delight of her
partner; for, no matter how lively her conversation, she had never
been known to halt at a step. To-night it appeared as though she had
forgotten the very rudiments of the accomplishment. She failed on
all the returns, stumbled in her courtesies, walked upon the train of
the lady in front of her, and, withal, maintained such unbreakable
silence throughout the dance that her partner breathed with relief
when the last chord was struck and the old people prepared to retire
to cards. When Will Paca had left her and Robin Thomas approached
for the first country-dance, Deborah shook herself vigorously, and
vowed that for twenty minutes, at least, she would forget the
existence of Sir Charles, in favor of her partner of the moment.
In the mean time Lucy had stumbled into a most unfortunate situation.
The minuet over, she and her companion, talking and laughing together
after the breaking up of the set, passed out of the large
drawing-room into the hall, across which were the card-rooms.
Towards these Madam Trevor, with Mrs. Harwood and Mr. King, was
making her way, chatting volubly. As Lucy and her cavalier passed
these three, the gentleman stopped her, smiling:
"Soho! This is the maid who had the impertinence to be engaged
before her elder sister! Little minx! And how d'ye like Mistress
Virginia's great match with your cousin? And will love keep the
rectory warm for you while the windows of Castle Fairfield are
blazing with lights in old England? Eh, small puss?"
Madam Trevor looked extremely ill at ease during this tasteless
speech, especially as Mr. King did not drop Lucy's arm at the end of
it, but seemed to hold her to reply. Lucy's face was flushed
scarlet, and, to crown the affair, George Rockwell, with Vincent at
his elbow, suddenly joined the group.
"I am not engaged, Mr. King," said Lucy, clearly.
"Not engaged, Lucy! Why, how now! We had all heard from thy mother,
here, that Mr. Rockwell was the happiest of men," cried Mistress
Harwood, noting madam's discomfort with a spice of malice.
"Faith, Mistress Harwood, my happiness is small enough to-night,"
remarked the portly George, coming forward. "The lady would not even
grant me one Sir Roger."
Mistress Harwood raised her brows in amusement. "For an accepted
husband, you are gentle not to command one," she said, laughing.
"Lucy, name Mr. Rockwell his dances at once, if he would still have
them from any one so discourteous. I blush for you, indeed!"
interposed her mother, sharply.
"Oh, coquetry--coquetry, madam! Youth is light o' heart. Come now,
fair Lucy, and make this man happy," put in Mr. King, detaining her
still.
Little Lucy raised her head, and caught Vincent's eyes upon her. His
glance was not unkind. "I shall not grant Mr. Rockwell any dance
to-night, and--and I am engaged, indeed, but not to him."
"What!"
"I am. I am engaged to Will Paca for the next dances." Lucy Lucy
was stumbling now, fear at her daring sweeping suddenly over her.
Mr. King, in the midst of his laughter, found breath to say: "Will
Paca for the dances, but who for the wedding, little Lucy--who's for
that?"
Once more Lucy Trevor caught her brother's gaze, and she clung to it,
unheeding Madam Trevor's angry face and Rockwell's mortified one.
"I shall wed John Whitney--the Puritan. Let me go, Mr. King! Mr.
Chase is waiting!"
And Lucy, frightened, triumphant, proud of her faith in the man she
loved, more proud of her certainty of his love for her, tore herself
from Mr. King's loosened grasp, and, giving her hand to Jerry Chase,
fairly ran away.
The group that she left behind was silent. Madam Trevor, utterly
overcome, had not a word left at her command. Rockwell was in much
the same state. Vincent, not a little astonished at his gentle
sister's boldness, and deciding that the feeling which prompted it
must be strong, was making a decision that was rather remarkable in,
and exceedingly creditable to, a man of those narrow times. Mistress
Harwood planned a morning's gossip on the morrow with a neighbor, at
Antoinette Trevor's expense, and Mr. King decided that, were he a
young blade again, it would be a girl of such spirit that he would
have for his wife. And then, as the strains of the first reel
sounded from the ballroom, the little group broke up.
Sir Charles, with cool forethought, had engaged no partner for these
next two dances, but bent his steps upstairs through the house on an
exploring expedition. He wandered through ladies' cloak-rooms, round
halls and narrow corridors, finally discovering and descending a
steep flight of stairs that took him down to the first floor, through
a small passage, and out of the house into the yard at the back.
This was what he had sought. The little door was open, for slaves
and servants had been passing in and out of it through the whole
evening; and so, satisfied in this direction, he returned to the
front of the house at the close of the third dance.
Deborah, just finishing a round of laughter with Carleton Jennings,
received Sir Charles with admirable self-possession, and they took
their place silently in the set, which was a minuet. It was now that
Fairfield had determined to set before the girl his arrangements for
the evening's reckless finale. Under cover of the first slow strains
of music and the first careful steps, he began:
"Have you any partners after the ninth dance?"
"No," said Deborah, steadily, understanding him at once.
"Do you--know of anything to come after the ninth dance?"
"No," she replied again, in a lower tone.
"Deborah--have you courage for an adventure?"
They saluted each other and gravely crossed over.
"I have courage, Sir Charles, if I have the will."
"Ah, Deborah--I entreat you to gain the will to-night!"
"For what?" she asked, softly.
"You know."
"Say it."
"To become--my wife."
Deborah flushed scarlet, and then the color fled, leaving her deathly
white. There was a necessary silence between them, owing to the
dance. When they came together again her partner went on:
"Would you fear, Debby, to walk from here to Mistress Vawse's house
alone at midnight?"
Deborah looked at him quickly: "Why must I do that?"
"Listen." Again the courtesy and bow, and he continued: "After the
seventh dance--you are engaged to me for the eighth and ninth--you
must go up-stairs, put on your cloak and hood, and leave the
dressing-room by the door that leads into the hall at the back.
There I will meet you and conduct you down the servants' stairs, and
you can escape the house by the little door into the yard. You know
your way round the garden and out upon Church Street. From there
'tis easy to Miriam's."
"Ah!"
Fairfield went on, without heeding the faint exclamation: "Mistress
Vawse expects you. I have seen her. She will make you comfortable
till I come. I will give your excuses to Vincent, telling him that
Carroll's black has taken you home since you have--a headache, or a
torn ruffle, or a megrim--anything. I fancy he'll not follow you.
As soon as I can, I will go after you with Rockwell. At the tavern
he will marry us by book, Debby, and after--after I'll take you to
the doctor's, and all will be well. 'Tis not difficult, Debby.
Come--you will make me live among the gods to-night?"
He pressed to her side for the answer; but the dance presently
separated them and she had not given it. Deborah's blood was running
fast; her head was hot, her eyes brilliant, her cheeks flushed, none
of which things would have been had she had no thought of considering
this wild proposition. Nevertheless, she hesitated. Become Lady
Fairfield, and, some day, something higher? She had dreamed of it,
it must be confessed, before she ever suspected that such a thing
could actually be. She had even fancied, long ago, that she wanted
nothing more than Sir Charles; for, as men went, he was, to her,
perfection. But this idea had undergone a change, some time since.
How long since? Did she care to reckon the days? Perhaps they
needed no reckoning. Perhaps Deborah knew very well that since the
hour when her eyes had first met those of Claude de Mailly, Charles
Fairfield had changed for her forever. But Deborah had been hurt by
Claude. She would think of him no more, after that day when, in the
midst of the thunder-storm, they had sat alone in Miriam's tavern,
and he had laid bare before her his life at the Court of France.
Claude de Mailly belonged, heart and soul, to another life. Here was
Sir Charles, who could give one to her. Lady Fairfield--Deborah
Fairfield--the name pleased her.
"Debby, will you not answer?" came a tremulous whisper from beside
her. Sir Charles was becoming anxious.
All at once she flung debate, prudence, the conventions, and--the
other man, alike away from her in a jumbled heap, and made reply,
clear, firm, unhesitating, to his question:
"Yes, Sir Charles. I grant your wish. Shall we walk a little?"
A curious tone in which to decide one's destiny, and a curious choice
of words to express such decision. But they were within possible
hearing now, and, besides, Deborah was peculiar. The dance had ended
before she spoke, and now they proceeded slowly down the room, side
by side, silent, save when they stopped to answer some remark from
others. Neither of them was ever after very clear as to how the
ensuing hour passed. Both were with other partners, surrounded with
other forms, moving, passing, talking, laughing, as though each
present moment were supreme. Only when, out of the kaleidoscopic
mass, one caught an instant's glimpse of the other's figure, distant
or near at hand, a sudden heart-thrill would reclaim them from
insensibility, and thrust them once more under the warm shadow of
that near-approaching, veiled Future, that seemed to portend so much
to both.
In the interval between the eighth and ninth dances Sir Charles again
sought Deborah, and his manner banished a lingering partner from her
side. She did not once look up as Fairfield led the way out into the
hall by the open card-rooms, and then up the distant, deserted
staircase.
"You are not afraid?" he asked once.
[Illustration: "DEBORAH PERMITTED HIM TO LEAD HER FROM THE BALL-ROOM"]
She shook her head with a faint smile; but her hands were cold.
He put her light cloth cape about her, saw her tie a small hood over
her powdered hair, and then he led the way into the empty hall back
of the room. Down the steep flight of stairs she glided before him,
stopping at last before the closed door, she less nervous than he.
"You know the way? Are you not afraid?"
"The moon is up. Why should I fear?"
Without reply, he softly opened the little door, and his face was
very pale as he bent over her: "You'll not fail me, Debby? I love
you, dear."
She let him take her hand. Then he bent farther and kissed her
swiftly on the lips, for the first time. Her eyes had looked into
his for one startled instant. Afterwards--she went forth into the
night.
Fairfield's heart was on fire as he watched her disappear down the
garden path. Then he closed the door, breathed long and painfully,
and made his way back again to the ballroom, with its throng of
dancers, the candles dripping wax, the musicians mopping their brows,
and Vincent Trevor and George Rockwell side by side in the doorway,
looking on together. These Sir Charles approached upon his errand.
"Ah, Vincent--" with a very fair assumption of carelessness--"Deborah
is gone home--that is, to Dr. Carroll's."
Vincent turned. He had been watching Mary Chase. "Deborah! Why,
what for, Charlie? Surely you've not been quarrelling? She's not--"
Sir Charles laughed nervously. '"Tis nothing but a most vile
headache, got from the heat of the room and too much dancing. She
wouldn't have me as escort, so I--I sent one of the house-servants
with her. She took no chair, saying that the walk in the fresh air
would benefit her. She begs that you'll not disturb Madam Trevor
till the cards are over."
"Oh, very well. I'm sorry, of course. Er--I'm engaged for the next
dance. I leave Rockwell to you." And Vincent darted off
abstractedly, after a lively young woman in blue satin, who seemed in
no particular need of his attentions, being much absorbed in Will
Paca.
"Come, Rockwell, come; we must hurry--she's gone!" whispered
Fairfield agitatedly, pulling his companion's sleeve.
The rector stood still. "What the--oh! Your young one, eh? Must I
come now?"
"Of course. She's waiting, I say."
Rockwell, who had not yet moved, turned on him suddenly: "Listen, Sir
Charles; if you marry Deborah Travis, I marry her cousin, Lucy
Trevor--you understand?"
"Deuce take it, man, marry whom you please--except Deborah. Why
should I care?"
"You'll promise to take my part to-morrow against that Puritan, John
Whitney?"
"Whatever you like, man. Come!"
And so the two men, one still muttering Lucy Trevor's name, the other
feverishly anxious for the coming scene, passed up-stairs, and down
again presently at the back, where they left the Governor's palace
and the ball behind them, to follow in the footsteps of Deborah
Travis, towards the ordinary of Miriam Vawse.
CHAPTER IX
The Rector, the Count, and Sir Charles
The day of the Governor's ball had been a dismal one for Claude. The
few people whom he knew in the town were all agog over the prospect
of the evening; and, since Governor Bladen had not heard of the
residence of the Count de Mailly within his territory, the Count had
very naturally received no invitation to the festivities. The hot
day did not tempt Claude from his lodging. He stayed alone in his
room, and in the evening, after a solitary walk, returned to it
again, turning over an idea which had been growing on him for a
week--that of leaving Annapolis. After all, its people were nothing
to him. He would move on, as he should have done long before; and
the girl, Deborah Travis, should occupy his thoughts no more. So
thinking, with half his mind across the world, and his heart, did he
but know it, all here, Claude sat, watching the hours, dreaming, as
Fate had him do, from dusk into midnight with her moon and stars.
Down-stairs, in the common room of the peaceful ordinary, Miriam
Vawse also kept a troubled watch, for the part that she was to play
in the approaching scene began to appear to her as very doubtful in
wisdom. As she sat alone in the warm night, beside her flickering
candles, with the hours running relentlessly along, fear began to
take possession of her. Half-past eleven struck from the steeple of
St. Anne's. The moon was making the whole night luminous. Up
Charles Street, presently, a flying shadow came, a dark, wavering
thing, in round hood, flapping cape, and long, light, ruffled
petticoats held up for running about two slender ankles. To the
threshold of the tavern door the shadow passed, and there it halted.
Claude, in his window above, saw and wondered, but did not stir.
There was a half inaudible tap upon her door. Miriam started and
hearkened, half believing it her own nerves. Again the tap, more
faintly than before; but now good Miriam ran to open the door.
"Good lack! Thou'rt come then, Debby!"
The hooded figure glided in and moved to the table, panting with the
effects of the long run.
"Sit down--I will fetch some cordial."
Deborah sank into a chair, threw off hood and cape, and lifted a
flushed face. When Miriam came to her with a cup of strong waters,
she drank gratefully, and presently her expression softened to a
smile.
"I'm here! I'm here! Think of it, Miriam!"
"And you'll leave my door again Lady Fairfield! Oh, Debby, Debby, is
it right? Art sure I've done no wrong?"
"Oh, if there's any wrong, Miriam, 'tis mine." She was still for a
moment, and then remarked: "Cousin Virginia was to marry him."
"I know. Madam told me long since."
"But he only asked for her two days ago--that is, madam and Vincent
made him. And then--and then--"
"Then he told you," put in Miriam, glowing with romance.
"But where can he be? He was to come directly. He vowed he'd be
here at once with George Rockwell. Oh, Miriam! If he shouldn't
come!"
"Lord! How can you think of such things!" cried Mistress Vawse,
hurrying to the window. Deborah followed her nervously.
"I'm sure he'll not come!" she cried, in sudden despair.
"He'll come. He'll come. Now sit down again quietly. There.
That's comfortable. And so you love him dearly. How long has it
been? All the summer? D'ye know, Debby, once I thought 'twasn't Sir
Charles. I didn't know. I thought 'twas him."
Mistress Vawse swept her thumb mysteriously upward towards the
stairs. Suddenly into Deborah's cheeks rose two vivid spots of
color. She made no answer to the woman's questions. But, indeed,
there was not time now. Footsteps were halting at the threshold, and
there came a light, masculine tap at the door. Miriam flew to open
it. Deborah rose unsteadily. Fairfield and Rockwell together
entered the room.
Sir Charles went quickly to the girl's side, while the rector stayed
behind to say a few words to Mistress Vawse, who was an ardent
parishioner of his. Deborah remained passive as her lover
caressingly lifted her hand to his lips, and looked at her with
deep-seated feeling.
"Miss Travis, permit me to salute you for the second time this
evening, and to congratulate you upon such a prospect of romantic
happiness as is now opening to your vision," remarked Rockwell, with
his most Johnsonian air, as he came forward.
"Since it is in your power alone to bestow that happiness, George,
let us, for God's sake, be about it!" exclaimed Fairfield, in a
passionately low voice.
Three members, at least, of the little party were growing extremely
nervous. Deborah's courage, which had borne her in perfect quiet so
far, was beginning to falter. Sir Charles was unreasonably fearful
of some interruption. Miriam Vawse was in the same plight, her eyes
being fixed continually on the fast-barred door. Rockwell alone was
quite at his ease.
"Now then, Mistress Vawse, another candle or two. Charles will stand
the expense; for I vow I must have light enough to tell the lady from
her husband."
Deborah quivered at the last word, which, indeed, Rockwell had thrown
at her.
There was a dead silence as Miriam placed three more candles on the
table, and lit them at the flame of the first. Then the clergyman
took from one of the pockets of his coat the prayer-book, and
motioned the two to move back a little towards the empty fireplace.
Deborah's heart had almost stopped beating, and her throat was so
strained that she could not have spoken a word. Sir Charles, taking
her arm, gently drew her to his side, and looked to Rockwell, who
stood in front of them. He began to speak softly, omitting not a
word of the service, even the address to the people assembled, now
solely represented by Mistress Vawse, who was supporting herself
against the table.
"'Dearly beloved, we are gathered here together in the sight of
God--'"
"Oh!" cried Sir Charles, with a sudden start, "we were to have had
another fellow--a witness--that de Mailly--don't you know, George?"
"I am here," came in a low tone from the stairs.
"Lord!" cried Mistress Vawse, on the verge of collapse. Four pairs
of startled eyes were lifted to where Claude, who had heard the sound
of voices in his room and started to come down to learn more of the
midnight arrivals, had halted in his descent, Rockwell's words in his
ears.
After the sharp pause, the rector was first to speak: "Well, now that
he's here, we'll go on. Come down, sir, and be witness to this
marriage."
Claude was very white as he replied, with his slight accent: "I will
remain here. I can see and hear quite perfectly, if I am necessary."
"Go on, then! Go on!" cried Sir Charles, wiping his brow.
"'--and in the face of this company to join together this man and--'"
"No--no--stop!"
In amazement, Rockwell obeyed the huskily whispered command. It was
from Deborah, and Deborah now, her cheeks feverishly flushed, eyes
brilliant, lips parted, and breath quickened, moved, as if drawn by
magnetism, from Fairfield's side to the stairs. After a moment of
confused silence, Fairfield said, with unnatural calm:
"What is it, Deborah? Come back."
"No."
"Come back."
"No."
"Don't you understand? What is the matter? What are you doing?"
"I--I'll not marry you."
"Deborah!"
After that cry from Fairfield there was silence. The rector, Sir
Charles, and Miriam Vawse stood as if petrified, staring at the girl,
who faced them with quiet, dogged resolution written in her face.
Claude, from the stairs, looked down upon her, scarcely surprised,
perhaps, but with a very gentle light in his eyes. His deliberate
descent into the room was the first move made by any one. Going over
to Rockwell's side, he laid a finger on the clergyman's arm:
"This wedding--it is--what you call--legal?"
"Perfectly!" snapped Rockwell, in anger.
"There's no license," remarked Deborah, slowly.
"Indeed, Miss Travis, I protest--it isn't necessary. This is
perfectly legal. It is customary--quite customary. You will have
the oaths of two witnesses; though, indeed, with Sir Charles's honor,
those are not needed. Let us go on at once."
"Sure you must go on now, Miss Debby. Think of the time o' night!"
"Come--come, child," and Fairfield started towards her, with a little
gleam of anger in his eyes.
Deborah shrank back against the stairs; but, lo! with an adroit
movement, Claude was at her side, with evident intention of
interposing.
"You shall not use force," he remarked, quietly.
"-- -- you! You French hound! Out of my way! I'll have you know
your place!"
"I am aware of my place, Sir Charles Fairfield." He stepped quickly
in front of Deborah. "If this lady is forced into any action
contrary to her desire, it shall be because my sword is broken."
There was barely a second's pause, then came a little whipping sound
as two blades were drawn. Claude sprang on guard as Fairfield
lunged. There was a flash of steel. The Frenchman made the riposte,
and his sword just pierced the white ruffled shirt of his opponent,
breaking the skin. The lieutenant paid no attention to it. De
Mailly returned into tierce, and parried the second attack with
immaculate grace. Rockwell, his eyes wide with interest, dropped his
book and came over to watch the duel. It did not endure, however.
After Sir Charles' third unsuccessful attempt to break the French
guard, he felt his sword-blade seized, lifted, and himself pushed
back. Claude's blade dropped. Deborah had taken command of the
situation. Drawing Sir Charles' sword out of his passive hand, she
gave it to Miriam Vawse, who had sunk into a chair, on the verge of
hysteria. In helpless amazement she received the rapier, finding
strength nevertheless to rise and go with it towards the stairs as
Deborah spoke to her in whispered imperative. Presently, then,
Deborah was alone with the rector, the Count, and Sir Charles. All
three paid tribute to her supremacy with expectant silence.
Fairfield was sunk in desperate dejection, Rockwell merely amazed,
Claude mentally reeling, for the horizon of his life was changed. It
was a blank no longer. Many things were taking shape upon it. He
was prepared, when Deborah took two or three hesitating steps towards
him, and said, in a half-whisper:
"I must go back--to Dr. Carroll's. Will you--take me?"
With a glad light in his face, he came at once to her side. "I thank
you, mademoiselle, for the honor you offer me. My life is yours."
"Let us go, then," she said, her voice low and trembling dangerously.
Suddenly Charles Fairfield rushed forward and, seizing both her
hands, fell upon his knees. "Deborah! Deborah! Deborah! I love
you! In the name of God Almighty, give me some hope! I meant
everything honestly--honorably--do you hear? The marriage would have
been legal. Rockwell will swear that to you. What right have
you--Debby! Debby, you promised! Is it true that you don't care?"
Deborah drew away from him as far as she could. Her face was drawn
and weary, and no light in her eyes answered his entreaties. Claude,
who had watched her narrowly, now interposed. Grasping the other's
hands, he forced them, with a single twist, from Deborah's helpless
ones, and then, with that kind of brute strength that comes to all
men at times, he lifted the Englishman bodily to his feet, thrust him
back, took Deborah gently about the waist, and carried her to the
door. Opening it, he turned around. Miriam Vawse, from the
stairway, saw his face as she had never beheld it before, white, set,
triumphant, his greenish eyes blazing like jewels as he cried out to
Fairfield, who was stiff with fury:
"We will meet--where you like, when you like, how you like, but not
in the presence of ladies, monsieur."
The door closed, and Claude and Deborah were alone together in the
still, white moonlight. She walked herself, now, only clinging fast
to his arm, and trembling with the strain of the long evening. They
were half-way to the doctor's before either spoke. Then Deborah
whispered, just audibly:
"You must not fight--for me. I am not worthy."
"I have fought for far slighter things than this. But do not be
alarmed. There will not be much blood shed."
Deborah shuddered, but was silent. She longed unutterably to try to
justify herself to this man, to explain the reason for her behavior;
and, as if divining her thought, he presently asked, quietly:
"How, mademoiselle, did you come to do this thing? Do you love this
Sir Charles? Did you think of the imprudence?"
Suddenly all thoughts but one fled from her. This one she voiced
with quick eagerness: "I do not love Sir Charles!
Indeed--indeed--believe me--I do not love him."
Instinctively Claude's arm tightened upon hers, but he said no more.
He was too chivalrous a man to take any advantage of the time, the
place, and their solitude. Deborah waited vainly for a word from
him. When at last they stood at the doctor's gate, she whispered:
"I'll go in alone. I--can't thank you to-night. Good-bye."
One hand of hers he took, and the moonlight and the woodbine kissed
each other as he touched it to his lips.
"Good-night," he said. And then, without more, he let her go, saw
her pass up to the door, in her pale dress and light cloak, with
hooded head bent low. He heard her knock, and presently saw the door
opened by a sleepy servant. Then he turned away, back towards the
tavern of Miriam Vawse.
Deborah felt no nervousness on entering the doctor's house. It had
not occurred to her to dread lest the family had returned from the
ball. In point of fact, the last reel was, at this moment, just
beginning at the palace. The doctor's slave, therefore, received the
young lady in dull surprise.
"I had a headache, Jeremiah," she explained, faintly. "I came
home--with one of the Governor's house-blacks. Where's the candle?"
"Heah, Miss Travis. Yo' want su'th'n t' eat, p'haps?"
"Oh yes, yes, Jerry. Send Leah up with a cup of posset and some
bread. That's all."
"Yes'm. Lor! Yo' done got headache fo' shuah!" he muttered,
watching the candle that she held shake so that the flame was
endangered, as she passed up the stairs to bed.
CHAPTER X
Puritan and Courtier
"What time was it when you reached home last night, Deborah?" asked
Madam Trevor.
The doctor, his sisters, and their guests were seated at a very late
breakfast, of which extremely little was being eaten.
Deborah looked uncomfortable at the bald directness of the question.
Being under no suspicious eye, however, she dropped an hour, and was
able to reply, with some nonchalance: "About twelve, I believe,
madam. Really--my head--I'm not quite certain about the time."
Lucy nodded sympathetically: "Indeed, Debby, if your head then was
like mine now--"
"You will not complain of your health in this manner, before us all.
It is most unladylike!" said Madam Trevor, sharply.
Lucy quivered and shrank into silence. She was in the highest
disfavor with her mother this morning, and only too well did she know
why. Aching head or not, there was an ordeal ahead of her for the
afternoon, to endure which she was inwardly praying for strength, but
over which she was in reality desperate. If Rockwell appeared at the
plantation, as he had vowed to do, with Madam Trevor still in this
morning's mood, poor Lucy knew that John Whitney's fate and hers hung
in a hopeless balance. And there was no one to whom she could look
for help. Virginia and Deborah would be very kind, but neither of
them could bring any opposition to her mother's intention. Of
Vincent she did not think at all. Had she done so, it would have
been merely to add a new despair; for to consider Vincent as her ally
against his mother was impossible on the face of it. So little Lucy
reasoned, dolefully, through the meal, till her attention was caught
by Vincent's question:
"Where's Charles, doctor--Fairfield, I mean? I haven't seen him
since we were dancing last night."
"Sir Charles is not in the house," replied the doctor, with a quick
glance at Virginia, whose face was perfectly passive.
"Not in the house! Why--what has happened?"
"Oh, very little, I fancy. Last night, as we came up Church Street,
I saw him with Rockwell at the door of the 'Three Blue Balls.' He
was probably about to celebrate his happiness. Young men, you know."
Vincent's face grew dark. "Pretty ways for Rockwell," he muttered;
and St. Quentin, whose eye was upon him, nodded slightly.
Lucy took sudden heart, but was wise enough not to look up till her
mother, much displeased, rose from the table, and so ended the meal.
"Mistress Lettice, we will not trespass longer on your hospitality,
for which we are vastly indebted. I have ordered the coach for
eleven. You, Vincent, at least, will ride with us?"
Her son bowed courteously, and presently disappeared into the
doctor's study, where he took the liberty of making use of his host's
desk for a few moments. Upon finishing his note he carried it out to
the deserted dining-room, where Jeremiah was clearing the table.
"Jerry, can you do an errand for me this morning--no, at once?"
"Fo' shuah, Mist' Trev', if Doc' Ca'l 'll let me go."
"I'll explain that I sent you off. Here's a note to be taken round
to the cottage that Mr. John Whitney lives in. He's a Puritan
parson. His house is just on the other side of the Gloucester Street
bridge. Give him this note, Jerry, and here's a shilling for some
extra tobacco, if you get it to him by eleven o'clock. Understand?"
"Ye-ah! He'll get it 's mo'n fo' shuah. Thanks, Mist' Trev'."
Showing all his glistening teeth, the negro pocketed the coin, which
no slave was supposed to possess, and, leaving his work unfinished,
departed at once on the very welcome errand which served to let him
out of the house for an hour into the August sunshine.
Vincent found the doctor in the hall, and lightly touched his arm: "I
have sent your black, Jerry, on an errand, Carroll. It was
important, or I shouldn't have presumed. You'll pardon me?"
"My dear Vincent, while you are with me my house is yours. Don't
speak of it. So soon, madam? This is a niggardly visit, I vow!"
Carroll hurried forward as Madam Trevor entered the hall. She had
just come down, the three young women behind her, each carrying a
package containing her party finery and night garments. The coach
and Vincent's riding-horse were already at the door. After a chorus
of farewells and acknowledgments of hospitality, the ladies were
finally settled in the roomy vehicle, which set off in a whirl of
dust down Gloucester Street. On their way through the town they
passed the door of the "Blue Balls" tavern, and madam bit her lip.
"Virginia, be assured that I shall speak to Charles when he returns.
It is disgraceful, it is abominable, this behavior on the very night
of his engagement to you. You may be certain that it shall not go
unnoticed."
For an instant Virginia's lip curled scornfully. Then all the former
indifference came back again to her face. She made no reply to her
mother's words, but, as they continued on their way, some other train
of thought brought a new expression to her fine features--an
expression of resigned sorrow, of hidden suffering, of strong
repression, that her mother did not see, and could not have read even
had she noticed it. The rest of the drive was silent. Madam Trevor,
seated beside Virginia, was very firm of lip, very straight of
shoulder, very immovable as to hands. Lucy and Deborah, on the
opposite side of the coach, had no desire to indulge in the usual
ball reminiscences common to young girls. One of them was
anxious-eyed and pale with foreboding; the other sat motionless, eyes
closed, face unreadable, but enduring such inward tumult as none,
seeing her, could have conceived.
At three o'clock in the afternoon of that same Thursday a man on foot
crossed the narrow bridge over the inlet at the end of Prince George
Street, and started up the country road that led along the left bank
of the Severn. The day was intensely hot, the white dust inches
deep, and what wind blew at all was from the west, a mere breath of
parching grass and thirsting prairie lands. The man, however, was
not thinking of heat. His face showed very plainly that his mind was
some distance away, and that it was fixed on a subject of deep import
to him. His prim black suit grew gray with sand, his immaculate
queue flopped limply on his shoulder, his face was damp with
perspiration, his very eyebrows were ruffled by the vigorous mopping
which he now and then gave his forehead. Nevertheless, oblivious of
discomfort, John Whitney plodded on his way towards the Trevor
plantation, his eyes on the road, his hope in the clouds. For the
first time he was treading this well-known path with an untroubled
conscience. He was going to Lucy openly, not even of his own
planning, but at the request of Lucy's brother, whose courteous note
of invitation lay hot under his vest, next to the homespun linen
shirt which it was his pleasure to wear.
Whitney was within five minutes of his destination, already visible
above the trees round the little bend in the shore, when the sound of
wheels rapidly approaching from behind him caused him hastily to
mount the bank at the side of the road. A _calèche_, drawn by two
horses and containing a man garbed in shining pink satin, flashed by
in a whirl of dust, and presently turned in at the road leading to
the Trevor house. Whitney pursed his lips, stared a little, and
moved on again.
Claude, in his court costume and hired vehicle, stopping at the door
of Deborah's home, found Jim, the stable-boy, white-eyed and
open-mouthed with amazement at his dress, waiting to receive him and
to fetch water for the horses.
"I am seeking Mr. Trevor--and--madame," said Claude, on the step of
the portico.
"Yes, sah; ef you'll walk right in, sah--dey's right--"
"M. de Mailly! You honor us, sir!" Vincent, who had witnessed the
arrival, appeared from the hall and came hastily out to meet his
guest. His astonishment at such a costume as he had never before,
even in England, beheld, was, perhaps, visible in his face; but if
Claude perceived it he said nothing.
"Come inside, will you not? The heat is great to-day. We--Rockwell
is here," explained the host, in a slightly disconcerted tone. He
was expecting another visitor, and de Mailly's arrival was ill-timed.
"Thank you," responded Claude, still suavely oblivious, and flicking
some dust from his sleeve with an enormous lace-bordered handkerchief.
Side by side they entered the hall, wherein, all very stiff as to
appearance, and even more uncomfortable in expression, sat Madam
Trevor, Lucy, Virginia, and George Rockwell. There was the usual
series of salutations, followed by a pause so heavy, so unbreakable,
that Claude flushed. He glanced at the rector, to find that
gentleman glaring at him with a mixture of intense apprehension and
extreme anger. Madam Trevor looked infinitely annoyed, and her lips
were firmly set. Lucy, dull, mute, motionless, was pathetically
hopeless. Finally, Virginia, with a kind of dry humor, set herself
to save the situation.
"Perhaps, M. de Mailly," she said, "you come as suitor for my sister
Lucy's hand?"
Claude turned to her quickly: "I have not that honor, Miss Trevor. I
had, indeed, understood that your sister was already--um--bespoken.
I came to ask of Mr. Trevor that I may pay my addresses to Miss
Travis."
"Deborah!" cried both Lucy and her mother.
Rockwell breathed, a sweat broke gently upon his brow, and all danger
of spontaneous combustion was happily at an end.
"Deborah, madame," repeated Claude, quietly.
At the same moment a dusty figure ascended the portico steps and came
presently into the hall. At sight of him Lucy grew pink, Rockwell
purple, and Virginia Trevor very white. Madam bridled as she saw her
son grasp the "Puritan" cordially by the hand, and Claude glanced
rapidly over the face and figure, which were not unlike his own.
John Whitney looked measuredly round the circle, greeted his rival
with perfect imperturbability, sent a long glance into Lucy's eyes,
and profoundly saluted Madam Trevor, who returned the bow with the
barest inclination of her head. Then Vincent spoke:
"M. de Mailly, let me make you known to the Reverend Mr. Whitney, of
Boston. Gentlemen, you are here on like errands. 'Tis a curious
thing. Perhaps--it were as well to settle all, here, at once."
"I protest, sir!" cried Rockwell, jumping up. "The present matter
lies between Mistress Lucy, Master Whitney, and myself. I vow no
stranger shall be in it!"
"The Count de Mailly is no stranger, sir!" returned Vincent. "He has
announced his intention, without hesitancy, before you. I see no
objection to his learning that you and that gentleman are rivals for
the hand of my sister Lucy, and that you are here to-day in order
that the affair be decided once for all."
"I cannot see any necessity for discussion, Vincent. Lucy is
promised to Mr. Rockwell. Mr.--Whitney has nothing to do with the
affair," observed Madam Trevor, rather insolently.
The controversy being now open, Claude was, for the moment, forgotten.
"Madam, I crave pardon, but Mr. Whitney has just this to do with the
matter. It appears, from all I have heard, that Lucy herself does
not care for Mr. Rockwell as she should care for the man she marries.
Also--I believe--she does so care for Mr. Whitney."
"Let me ask, Mr. Whitney, what means you have at your disposal for
this young lady's support? How many slaves have you? How--
"I have no slaves at all, Mr. Rockwell, being a Christian!" retorted
Whitney, forgetting himself for an instant. Then, after an ominous
little pause, he remarked, in another tone: "I crave your pardon. I
have one hundred pounds a year from my parish, and something laid by.
It is quite true that I cannot give Mistress Lucy a home like this;
but I will engage to keep her always housed from God's weather, well
shielded from cold, and with enough to eat--if not of the finest, at
least of such as should satisfy her, provided it be served with the
sauce of sweet content. Moreover--I will take no dower with my wife."
At this last Claude opened his eyes widely, Rockwell looked put out,
and Madam Trevor glanced at the speaker with a new expression.
Vincent, turning from the Puritan with the barest smile at his
earnestness, addressed his rival: "And you, George Rockwell--what
have you?"
Rockwell cleared his throat, and rose as if he were to speak from the
pulpit: "My income from St. Anne's is, I confess without
mortification, no greater than that which this gentleman--um--ah--has
just said to be his portion from the meeting-house. My fees and
perquisites as Church of England clergyman, however, make the sum far
larger annually. I think also that you, madam, and Mistress Lucy,
will recognize the difference between the--to speak gently--the
somewhat humble abode of Mr. Whitney and the rectory which I myself
have the honor to occupy, and where I am accustomed to entertain his
excellency himself."
"Pardon me, sir, but could you indeed imagine that, after my
marriage, I should not instantly remove to an abode more suited than
my present one to a lady's convenience? Do you imagine--"
"You interrupt, sir. I make no observations on what your conduct
will be. I am only aware of what it is."
"It is, sir, so far as I am aware, irreproachable!"
"Come, come, gentlemen," interposed Vincent, in some displeasure, "we
wander from the subject. You--a--have not spoken of dower, Rockwell.
Of course, my sister, being of our family, would not lack suitable
outfit and settlement on entering a new estate. Still--"
"I was sure," interrupted Rockwell, hastily, for the point was
delicate--"I was sure that you would regard it as well--nay, might as
a pride consider it indispensable, Vincent, that--"
"Stop! Let me go away." Lucy had risen, quivering, to her feet, her
mild eyes blazing, her voice low and unnatural. "I will not be
bargained for, bought and sold, as slaves or horses are. Vincent,
you have insulted me by permitting such a scene. And you--" turning
to Whitney and Rockwell--"you are heartless and soulless. Love!
What do you know of that?"
She turned, with Virginia at her side, and, not looking again at any
one in the room, swept away towards the west wing. As her daughter
departed, Madam Trevor rose undecidedly, then reseated herself, with
a new and firm intention of having more to say in the forthcoming
battle than she had had heretofore. Three of the men, Vincent and
the rivals, were staring at each other, Whitney and Trevor in
mortification, Rockwell merely in surprise.
"Egad!" murmured Vincent, softly, "the little girl was right."
"I apologize to you, Mr. Trevor, and to Mistress Lucy, for my utterly
thoughtless and discourteous behavior," cried Whitney. "Indeed, I
was thoughtless and unfeeling. I most painfully acknowledge that
your sister's anger became the situation."
"Oh--the lady was piqued, sir, at your lack of worldly goods,"
observed Rockwell, with a grin of ingenuous conceit.
Claude regarded the man with languid disgust. Vincent flushed
angrily, and Madam Trevor rose.
"We waste time, gentlemen," she said. "It is perfectly fitting that
these matters should form part of the discussion. For my part, Mr.
Rockwell, I am entirely with you. I wish my daughter to marry you,
since I believe you competent of caring for her as should be. As to
the settlements, of course--"
"Pardon me, madam, but this is quite useless," interrupted Vincent,
coming forward, with the light of sudden resolve in his eyes. "You
are aware that once before this matter has been most unsatisfactorily
decided in this way. My sister has continually denied your statement
that she was affianced to Mr. Rockwell, and I have been led to
believe that it was through her attachment to Mr. Whitney, who some
time since honorably professed to me his love for her. As legal head
of this house, then, I cannot feel it otherwise than just to insist
that my sister herself, and none other, shall choose between these
two; and I now say that it shall be entirely without consideration of
dower, settlement, or--perquisite. Further, I maintain that, if Lucy
choose to reject both of these gentlemen, of her own free will, she
shall thereafter be housed and protected under my roof till she find
some one to her taste, or till she die here unmarried."
"Well spoken, sir!" cried Whitney, bravely, while Madam Trevor stood
aghast, and Claude, intensely interested in the scene, deliberatively
crossed the room and sat down with his back to the wall.
"You mean to inform me that my authority is at naught in this
household?" inquired Madam Trevor, hoarse with excitement and anger.
"I am thinking only of Lucy's happiness," returned her son, gently.
"She must be called to come back."
"I, certainly, shall not remain to witness this scene."
"Gentlemen, excuse me for one instant. I will summon my sister."
Vincent left the room; but, in spite of herself, his mother stayed.
She was too deeply interested to go; and, despite her traditions,
Lucy's happiness was really quite as dear to her as to her son.
Claude, from behind the others, philosophized a little in the
silence. How differently had such a scene been conducted in his
country! There would have been no argument, no difficulty. Above
all, Lucy herself would have been the last person to be consulted.
Rockwell, for his means and position, would certainly have been
chosen; and, if it were a Court affair, Whitney might have become her
general escort afterwards. Claude sighed. This colonial boorishness
produced far better results. Ethics here were regarded with some
degree of blind appreciation. In his own country it was not so. A
second sigh was in his heart when Lucy, preceded by her brother,
re-entered the room.
There was still perfect silence. Near the doorway the young girl
paused. She was pale and red-eyed, but steady of manner. The two
clergymen, side by side, faced her, with Vincent to the right, and
his mother upon the left. Claude, quite forgotten, still looked on
from the opposite wall.
"Lucy, I have brought you back here that you yourself may make choice
between these men. Let me now, then, entreat you, most earnestly, to
consider, to decide not hastily, but as in heart and mind you deem
wisest. Love is not always all. Respect--firmness--wisdom--ability
to protect--these are as strong. I place confidence in you, Lucy;
and, in return, I ask sincerity from you. We will wait as long as
you will. Choose."
During his words Lucy had looked earnestly at her brother. Now,
however, her eyes fell. A delicate smile broke over her face, and
when finally she looked up it was to encounter the eyes of John
Whitney, who was regarding her with a look of such mingled love,
fear, and longing, that she would not torture him by suspense.
Gently she extended one hand, one arm to him, while her lips smiled
"Come," and her face grew beautiful with the love-light in it.
He went, never heeding the rest, no longer aware, perhaps, that they
were by. And, as he clasped her in his strong, young, Puritan arms,
Claude looked courteously out o' window, but Madam Trevor, with a
curious dryness in her throat, turned suddenly away.
As to Rockwell, he left the house very quietly, with just what
feeling in his heart no one ever knew.
Then Vincent, all at once perceiving Claude, and remembering his pink
satin errand, took him quietly by the arm, and led him into the
parlor, Madam Trevor following them. The three sat down in the stiff
little apartment, the closed door shutting the two in the hall from
their sight. Claude's hour of patience was ended. His time had come
now, and he was astonished to find himself nervous.
"I must, sir, crave your indulgence for my seeming discourtesy in
keeping you waiting so long. However, as you have been a witness of
the affair which detained me, you may perhaps be lenient with my
rudeness."
Claude made a proper rejoinder. He was but half conscious of what he
said, but most vigorously aware that Madam Trevor's eyes were
travelling rapidly over his costume.
"You have already announced, monsieur, the surprising nature of your
errand, and I presume that you now desire to discuss it with us."
Inwardly, Claude smiled at the words. They struck him as being very
absurd, though, according to prevailing English notions, they were
excellently chosen.
"I love your cousin, Mistress Deborah Travis, Mr. Trevor, and I am
come to you to request permission to--address her on the subject of
marriage. I am a stranger in your colony. I have no friends who
know my family and estate. I have brought with me such papers as I
possess, such as can in any way speak for the assurance of my birth,
and them, and my word as a gentleman, I must ask you to believe."
Vincent was silent for some moments, considering; while Claude drew
from one of his side pockets a little, flat parcel of papers, and sat
nervously fingering them. It was Madam Trevor, who, after she had
once more minutely examined him, from his bag-wig to his red-heeled
shoes, voiced Vincent's wish:
"Will you, sir, be so vastly obliging as to tell us, in your own
manner, your title, estate, lineage, and means of livelihood? I am
sure, sir, that common prudence and the ardent desire for the welfare
of my ward will seem to you adequate reason for such a request, and
that you will have no hesitation in being perfectly frank with us."
Whatever the reason, madam's manner was as suavely gracious during
this speech as Vincent could have wished, and he, therefore, did not
add to it, but, expressing his approval with a slight nod, was
expectantly silent as Claude began:
"My name, Madam Trevor, is Claude Vincent Armand Victor Anne de
Nesle, Comte de Mailly. I am of the younger branch of the family
Mailly-Nesle, my father having been the second son of Victor Armand
Henri Claude, who died in the year ninety of the last century. My
estates, which are in Languedoc, in the south of France, provide me
with sufficient rental to maintain me comfortably at Versailles,
where I have resided for many years. The elder branch of my family,
which takes the title of Marquis de Mailly-Nesle, is well known and
of high position at Court. Seven months ago I fell into disfavor
because of my desire that a cousin of mine should--wed a gentleman of
whom--his Majesty did not approve. I was requested to leave
Versailles for the time, and so, determining to travel, I came first
to the colonies; and how I have lived here you know. I should
be--free to return to Court if--if Mistress Travis, should she accept
me, would care to go thither. To be frank, I am myself a little
homesick for my country. I should like to go home."
Claude stopped, having wandered too far in his explanation. He saw
Madam Trevor regarding him blankly, and he read suspicion in
Vincent's face.
"It is--pardon me, sir--an unusual story. Do they exile men in
France for having opinions concerning a cousin's marriage?"
"So it would appear, from my case," returned Claude, dryly.
"Again pardon me--but--have you a document of exile with you?"
Claude hesitated. The last sentence in that royal letter was the
most awkward possible thing for a man who wished, in all sincerity,
to marry. Long he studied young Trevor's face, and he saw the
distrust therein growing with every instant. At last, with an
imperceptible shrug, and a sigh, he took from his other pocket the
small, worn paper with its red-brown seals that he had read to
Deborah.
"It is in French, monsieur. You doubtless read it?"
Vincent took the paper scornfully, and began its perusal with a
facility due to intercourse with Aimé St. Quentin. When he finished
it, his mother held out her hand for the letter, and, as she read,
Vincent, looking squarely into the other's eyes, said, slowly:
"You, monsieur, were the gentleman of whose marriage with your cousin
the King did not approve?"
Claude, returning the look eye for eye, bowed.
"And who is this cousin?"
"The Duchesse de Châteauroux."
"Good Heaven!"
Madam Trevor, her face suddenly all alight, was looking at the young
fellow in amazement--and something else. Could the other be
admiration?
"Your cousin is--the--the--"
Claude nodded.
Silence.
It lasted for a long time. De Mailly felt his cause to be growing
desperate. He did not understand. Morals, which were stanch in so
far as Episcopal rectorship and five hundred a year were concerned,
were nevertheless to be differently regarded in the presence of a
courtier Count and cousinship to an almost queen, It was again Madam
Trevor who finally ejaculated, from her whirling chaos of thoughts
and plans:
"Deborah shall be fetched at once. Vincent, you will arrange the
settlements."
Claude started with astonishment, and young Trevor rose:
"M. de Mailly, you may speak to Deborah. She has free choice--as did
Lucy. She is now--in the rose-garden, I think."
Claude sprang to his feet and moved forward a pace or two, looking
easily from one to the other of Deborah's guardians. He could not
refrain from taking snuff, nor, having finished, from remarking,
slowly:
"I shall certainly, Madame and Monsieur Trevor, endeavor to show
myself worthy of the trust which you so readily place in me."
Thereupon, with two very polite bows, he left the parlor, alone. On
entering the hall he was greeted by the sound of pawing hoofs, a
negro's voice, and the steps of two men on the portico. The
half-closed door was flung wide open, and Benedict Calvert, with
Fairfield at his heels, entered the house. Claude stopped and turned
to them.
"The devil!" said Sir Charles, his brows growing heavy.
"Monsieur, your eyes deceive you," responded de Mailly, pleasantly.
Calvert laughed.
"What's your business here?" demanded Fairfield in an ugly voice. He
had been in no pleasant humor on his ride, a fact explained by his
red eyes, pallid face, and slouching dress; and the unexpected
presence of Claude was not calculated to render him better-natured.
"My business here, Sir Charles, concerns myself. However, if you are
curious, I am about to offer myself to your cousin, Miss Travis."
Claude spoke with muscles tense, prepared to evade a sword thrust,
for he himself wore no rapier to-day. To his amazement, his words
for a moment produced no effect whatever on his quondam rival. Then,
suddenly, while Calvert gazed at his comrade, Fairfield burst into a
laugh. It was not a pleasant laugh, but it served its turn.
"What a household 'twill be! You and Deb, I and Virginia, Lou and
her Puritan parson--for whom Benedict's come to plead. A fine
match-maker y'are, Calvert. Why, monsieur, if 't'adn't been for
_him_," pointing to the dark-browed ex-commissioner, "I would ha'
called you out. As 'tis now, I'll--marry in a week, and be off for
God's country, the Mall, St. Paul's, and White's as soon as a vessel
will sail; and be damned to the colonies!"
"Hush, Charlie! Get to your room," whispered Calvert, laying a quiet
hand on Fairfield's arm.
"I wish you good-afternoon, messieurs," added Claude, bowing.
Fairfield leered at him, with a glint of desperation in his eyes, and
started off to the west wing, with Benedict Calvert at his elbow,
while Claude de Mailly, musing gently, passed out into the golden
mist of early twilight, on his way to the rose-garden and Deborah.
CHAPTER XI
Distant Versailles
He walked, quite leisurely, over the turf beside the house, past the
western wing, towards the terraces that led into the garden. The
sunset faced him in a blinding, hazy radiance. At the top of the
little flight of white steps he paused. Silence, perfect, lonely,
was all about, undisturbed by the bird-notes from the woods, or the
murmurous lapping of the river along its bank. Once or twice he
breathed, long and deeply, delighted with the pure fragrance of the
air. Then, without haste, he passed down into the garden. What a
chaotic mass of color it was! All the common garden flowers,
perennials and exotics, were at his feet; clove-pinks,
sweet-williams, marigolds, blue iris, candy-tuft, corn-flowers,
purple-stock, cyanus, carnations, poppies, balsam, fragrant herbs
innumerable, the last sweet-pease, pansies and dahlias--all in a
disorderly tangle of glory. But beyond these bourgeoisie of the
flowers, in statelier rows, with only here and there a blossom in
their dark and lustrous foliage, was the noblesse, the court of the
flowers--the rose-garden. In the midst of this, upon a little rustic
seat against the northern wall, in a tumbled, forlorn heap, her face
hidden in her arm, her unkempt curls all loose upon her neck, lay
Deborah--poor Deborah, whose little colonial world had crumbled about
her, and left her alone, wretched, hopeless, in space. In the
afternoon despair overcame her. Her work was over, and she was at
liberty to think unprofitable thoughts. So, after an hour of tears
here in the drowsy garden, the day finally brought what peace it had
to give, and she slept--was sleeping now, in the twilight, while
Claude and her new world came to her.
He had discovered her almost as soon as he entered the garden, more
by instinct than observation. And he made no haste to go to her, not
because he was indifferent, but because he could not bear to mar the
perfect progress of the hour by haste. It was almost with regret
that he left behind the lower half of the garden and entered the
turfy walk between the rose-bushes. From a perpetual he plucked one
full pink rose, infinitely beautiful in its solitude, from where it
glowed, half hidden, beneath the leaves. Gazing half at it and half
at her, he softly approached the rustic bench, till his knee touched
her gown.
"Deborah!" he whispered; and then again, a little louder, "Deborah!"
She stirred in her sleep, under the spell of a wandering dream.
"Deborah!"
In slow wonderment the tangled head lifted, the white face, with its
tear-stained cheeks, was raised, and the gray-blue eyes fell open
sleepily. He did not speak while she looked at him, the actual
presence corresponding, with startling accuracy, to her dream.
"I thought--you had gone away," she said, softly.
"I could not go while you were here," he answered, seating himself
beside her.
She sighed like a child. She seemed to-day many years younger than
usual, and Claude looked at her curiously, wondering at her manner.
"Deborah," he said, gravely, without offering to touch her, "I am
going back--home. Will you come with me? Will you trust me? Will
you let me make a new life, a new home, for you?"
She caught her breath, as a child, after a long crying-spell, sobs,
reminiscently. Then she sat silent while he waited.
"I can't be happy here after--last night," she said, at length.
"I will try to make you happy."
She made no answer, but perhaps he read her mind, for he grew
troubled. One thought held each of them. It was that of the fair
and stately Duchess--la Châteauroux, whom Claude had loved. And
which picture was the fairer, Claude's memory or Deborah's
imagination, it were hard to tell.
After a moment or two the pause became more than uncomfortable. Both
sat in growing rigidity, looking straight before them, thinking,
helplessly. Then, all at once, Deborah, with fearful hesitation,
turned her head and looked into his face. And suddenly, when
Claude's poor hope was all but dead, one of her hands, cold and
tremulous, crept into that passive one of his that lay beside her on
the seat. It was her answer. How the promise was sealed--need not
be told.
Twilight deepened over the shadow of the dead day. Behind the black,
lacy tree-tops of the forest a sunset flush pulsated in crimson and
gold. From the still garden the evening fragrance, intoxicating,
heart-stilling, to which neither the sunny morning odors nor the
night's holy incense could be compared, floated in warm, rich breaths
about the figures of the man and woman whose lives had come to join
each other over wide seas and many lands. The spell of the evening
was over them both. Their eyes wandered. Their thoughts were still.
Hand in hand, two of God's pilgrims met here to rest a little ere
they moved on again, they sat, silent, nerveless, feeling, perhaps,
more of the universal love than that of individuals. No prophecy of
storms to come disturbed their hour. Only the garden and the
timeless twilight enfolded them. The bird-songs, one by one, melted
away. The waves whispered unutterable things. And so, out upon the
pale sunset, hanging tremulous as by a thread of heaven, came a fair
silver jewel--the evening star. Deborah's eyes beheld it, and were
riveted upon its liquid beauty.
"Look," she breathed, gently; "they call it the emblem of hope."
"Hope--dearest? What need have we of hope?"
She made no answer, only her hand tightened within his, as the
evening wind blew softly from the west.
Book III
THE POST
CHAPTER I
From Metz
"Good-morning, Belle-Isle! _Is_ it good-morning? What news from the
royal apartments?"
"None."
"None! Ah! Then madame--"
"Is still on guard; sees none but her own servants, and--"
"Richelieu, of course. Then it is unchanged."
"I fear not. There fly rumors--that his Majesty grows hourly worse.
If this continues, the army will be in revolt, the women will be
mobbed, and--Quesnay may be permitted to prolong the reign."
"Madame is playing a losing game. She is daring France. I am going
to seek Richelieu, if he is accessible. This suspense cannot
continue."
"I return to Saxe and the council."
"_Au revoir_, then."
"_Au revoir_! I wish you fortune with du Plessis. You are one of
the few who can risk his anger."
The two marshals uncovered ceremoniously. Jules de Coigny passed
into the Château de Metz, and Belle-Isle continued on his way to the
camp.
It was August in the same year of 1744, and the heart of France, her
army, her Court, her King, and--her Châteauroux, was at Metz, in
Alsace, a resting-place sought after Dettingen and the long summer
campaign. And here at Metz, whence all had thought to depart a week
before for Nancy, on the road to Strasbourg, Louis XV. fell ill.
That had been upon the 8th day of the month. Now, on the 14th,
slow-gathering consternation was spreading through city, Court, and
camp, though, since the morning of his seizure, not a single soul
save Mme. de Châteauroux, her sister Mme. de Lauraguais, their
personal servants, and Louis Armand de Richelieu had seen the King.
Dim rumors that the illness was feigned at first circulated through
the château. Then, latterly, more vivid and more startling theories,
originating none knew where, but spreading with the conviction of
truth, voiced the insistence that Louis was ill, worse than any one
knew, and that the favorite, coercing Richelieu into her service,
desperate with the fear of dismissal from Court when his Majesty's
condition came to be discovered, was at Louis' side, keeping at bay
the army, the Court, and the kingdom. Marie Leczinska and her
dauphin were still at Versailles, praying and fasting, along with the
Jesuit fathers and the wearied _dames du palais_, who, in the absence
of la Châteauroux, had not a single crumb of gossip with which to
comfort their souls till the return of the Court.
Marshal Coigny, much disturbed by his short conversation with
Belle-Isle, yet anxious for confirmation of his fears before taking
any possible rash steps, hurried into the morning-room of the
château, temporary residence of Majesty. The place was crowded with
familiar faces, mostly men, for the women who took part in the
campaign had learned that their proper place in it was background.
Two or three, however, had been drawn hither from curiosity. Among
them was a certain pretty Mme. Lenormand d'Etioles, who, to the
displeasure of la Châteauroux, had, for the past year, figured often
in royal hunts, and, latterly, played a very conspicuous part in
certain thanksgiving services at Lille after the first siege. So far
as it could be surmised she had never been addressed by the King, but
she was well enough known at Court to obtain bows from most of the
men and one or two of the women. This morning she remained beside
her husband at one side of the room, watching the throng that eddied
about the young Duc de Chartres, who, as son of the pious d'Orléans,
was at this time sole representative of the blood in Metz, and,
consequently, was vested with a power which made him of the highest
consequence. He alone, of all these nobles and courtiers, had the
right to proceed to extreme measures, and force an entrance to the
royal apartments when such were closed to the world. He might also,
if he dared, demand of Majesty's self, in the face of a created
Duchess, his wife's friend, whether such Duchess alone were Majesty's
will and pleasure. But the man who did this, though he were of
King's blood, must have grave reason ere he should so risk the royal
anger.
As d'Orléans' son perceived, from the midst of the throng of
courtiers, the openly curious anxiety with which he was regarded on
all sides, the expression of care and responsibility in his youthful
face deepened. Looking about him uneasily, while he talked, he
perceived that de Coigny had entered the room and was coming towards
him with rapid steps and preoccupied manner.
"What news of his Majesty's condition?" asked the marshal, abruptly
and aloud, with a directness that startled the room.
The throng about Chartres pressed silently closer, and the salon
waited breathlessly for reply. The young Duke turned a shade paler,
and did not open his lips.
"His Majesty is worse," muttered de Coigny, half to himself.
"His Majesty _is_ worse," responded a sudden voice from behind.
The entire company turned sharply around. De Richelieu, who had
entered from an inner door, stood before them, snuff-box in hand.
His face was nearly as pale as his wig. His eyes were heavy. He
looked haggard and anxious.
"Monseigneur de Chartres--if I might be granted the honor of a word
with you?"
"But too gladly, monsieur. Come."
Chartres hurried forward through the respectful but eager throng,
seized Richelieu's arm with a whispered sentence, and drew him out of
the salon to a room inaccessible to courtiers.
Behind they left a tumult of excitement. Above them, back of closed
doors, Marie Anne de Mailly-Nesle, together with her sister, leaned
over the bedside of the King of France, alone with a great fear, yet
unspeakably dreading company.
Ah, Marie! Marie Anne de Mailly--a dangerous, a desperate game hast
thou played for six days--six ages, rather--past! On the one hand
Louis' prayed-for recovery; on the other, banishment, perhaps worse,
for you; what for him--the Almighty knows. Here in this sultry
August morning, in the second story of the ancient Château de Metz,
you stand at the bed of the King; not thinking of much, it must be
confessed, anxiety and sleeplessness having taken the poignancy from
thought. These last days have been very wearing ones.
On the morning of Saturday, the 8th, that morning when headache had
driven the King from prospective gayeties to the solitude of his own
apartment, he summoned his Duchess to his side to bear him company.
The morning was tedious. He could not be amused. In the afternoon,
together with fever, came Richelieu, and graceful, caustic-tongued
Elise de Lauraguais. And upon that afternoon, when no one dreamed
how ill Louis already was, and madame and the Duke were alone with
him, Richelieu the daring, now owing half his prestige to the
favorite whose sponsor he had once been, and who, without her, would
have found his Court life infinitely difficult, had thought,
foreseen, dreaded, decided, and easily drawn the woman into his plan.
The admission of any other to the rooms must mean, eventually, the
confession, absolution, and unction of his Majesty. Before the
performance of this last, Louis must repent of his irregular life,
and as proof of repentance madame must receive her _congé_--for such
was only customary at the great Court of France.
"And so, Anne," Richelieu said to her, in a low, menacing tone, "we
keep our places here, you and I. If the King recovers, our power is
unlimited."
"If he is worse?"--she looked.
"It is destiny. When we play for lives, we must risk them."
So madame stayed. She thought of that momentous little conversation
now, as she sat watching the sunlight play over the drawn
bed-curtain. She and her sister had removed from their rooms in the
Abbaye St. Arnold beside the château, where they had lodged at first,
and taken possession of the royal suite. Their own servants prepared
the sick man's food, their own hands smoothed the hot pillow. They
had shut the clamorous Court away, letting rumor fly as she would.
During the first three days Louis, for the most of the time, sat
bravely up, in satin lounging-robe, cap, and slippers. None could
have striven more anxiously to distract and please him than the two
favorites and the sister. Notwithstanding, upon the fourth day,
Wednesday--now the day before yesterday--his body had mastered his
will, and he did not rise. Since then time had not moved; eternity
seemed settling down upon the trio of watchers. The King wanted no
amusement now. He was perfectly content to lie, half sleeping,
through the whole day, smiling faintly when madame brought his food,
accepting a few mouthfuls with an effort, because they came from her
fingers; otherwise unmoved, unspeaking, unthinking. Thursday was the
same, ay, longer than ever; and as the three sat silent in the dusk,
beside the open window, they had not much cared to talk. Only
madame, with what composure she could gather, asked of Richelieu, who
had for a moment that day seen de Gêvres:
"What are the people saying, good uncle?"
And Richelieu, nervously smoothing his knee, looked at her with grim
significance. "We stake high," he said.
The Duchesse de Lauraguais gave a little cough.
Then silence fell again, while the lips of la Châteauroux closed more
firmly, and a rarely seen light came into her eyes. Richelieu's
expression, however, did not change. Was it possible that her
courage in desperation was greater than his? No. It was this.
Richelieu was not yet desperate. There was, for him, still one move
that was not left to her. He would not necessarily be banished from
Court if it came to a point of extreme unction and madame. But if
the King of France were to expire here alone, with them, _then_ Louis
Armand du Plessis might, indeed, tremble for what happiness life held
for him. He said nothing, however, yet. Twilight mingled with the
dark. From many windows glimmered forth the city lights, and madame
finally swallowed a cup of chocolate and sought her rest. Richelieu
was left to watch alone, in the darkness, by the King.
Louis XV. slept, now and then restless with fever, but for the most
part quietly. The Duke sat in his chair by the window, the sultry
night air stealing in to him, not asleep, but thinking of many
things, of much history known to him alone of Court, of camp, of
street, and of the lives of real men. All men, beneath their masks
of manners, are very real! What a little game these courtiers
played! How lives were broken and intellects stunted for the sake of
being, for one little hour, associated with that single man born,
willy-nilly, to immortality in history! This very King, for whom he,
Richelieu, was living a life envied and unenviable, what was he but a
disagreeable fellow, handsome, rather sulky, either really or
unaffectedly stupid, lazy, unutterably weary of himself and his
business, with more of a taste for turning and cookery than for
governing a kingdom or managing an army? After all, these Bourbons
might have made an excellent line of workmen, all but Louis XIV., who
would have been the ne'er-do-weel of them. Not one but had his taste
and real talent for an honest profession. And how were France
to-day, we wonder, had Louis XV. turned chef and Louis XVI.
cultivated to its utmost his no mean ability for locks and clocks?
The night grew hotter as it advanced, and rain was promised for the
morrow.
At midnight, suddenly, the King woke, and demanded, in a voice much
changed, something to drink. Richelieu hastily brought wine and
water, not too cool. His Majesty drank thirstily, and lay back once
more, but with eyes open, till the Duke had put away the glass.
Then, with unusual directness, he said:
"Here, du Plessis, sit by the bed. I want to talk with you."
"Will you have light, Sire?"
"No. It disturbs my eyes. Listen to what I shall say. You are
here? Yes. Well, then, I am going to die."
"Sire! For God's sake--let me call some--"
"Chut! I want no one. It'll be a comfort to go in peace. I am
going to die. I have always feared the thought; but when one really
arrives at the time--it is not much. I am not afraid, du Plessis. I
wish to express to you my gratitude for having kept the Court and the
doctors and the Orléans lot away from me. They are bores. What I
would say is this: When I am really gone, there will, of course, be a
scandal concerning my sickness and death, having none but you
and--her--to attend me. You'll get through it, du Plessis. Parbleu!
There is no nation that can withstand your manner. My dear
Dauphin--ought to love you. But Anne--Anne! Where will she go?
What to do for her? Richelieu, I love her. Yes, truly, as no woman
before. Take her, then, under your protection. I leave her to your
care. Get her from here safely. Send her for a little to her
estates, or one of yours. Say that I command her title to remain to
her. But, my friend, do not let her marry. Keep her from that.
_Par le ciel_! If I dreamed that she would--d'Agenois, or that de
Mailly, or any other--promise, du Plessis!"
"Your will, always, Sire!"
"More wine, then. Diable! My head is on fire! More wine, and I
sleep again."
Richelieu refilled the glass, which his master drained to the last
drop. Then he sank back to the pillows, turned restlessly half a
dozen times, whistled a bar or two in the darkness, and so dozed
again, while the Duke, with a new and very heavy weight upon his
heart, returned to the window. The King had frightened him more than
he dared confess to himself. Certainly Louis' words had been
unmistakably sincere. He believed that he was going to die. The
King's fear of danger to his favorite Duchess was well founded,
unquestionably. But the King's confidence in Richelieu's ability to
rise again in the world, Richelieu himself held in very decided
doubt. If matters were come to this pass, it were well to act. When
a man's Damocles has actually got to the single-hair state, that man,
if there be any way in which to move, does very well to get from
under it, though he must leave a companion behind, helpless, in his
place. The King must live till morning, must absolutely live till
morning, and then--Richelieu would once more prove himself a wise
man. He must turn traitor to his personal trust with madame and the
King, too, for the sake of the safety of the King, and, therefore,
his own. If he regretted the inevitable consequences in the career
of la Châteauroux, he was philosopher enough to wave them aside
without difficulty. Something one must lose in such a place. It
should be as little as possible.
On Friday morning the King awoke to find his three attendants all
beside him, and what repast he might take--chocolate, a roll, a
jelly--not too well prescribed, waiting. From his manner one could
not have told whether or not he recalled that midnight conversation
with du Plessis. Certainty he looked ill enough this morning. His
flushed face was haggard, his lips cracked, his blue eyes dull, his
brain feeble, but half working. Madame looked upon him with a pang
of grief and fear. While she smoothed out his bright yellow locks,
freed from their wig, and bathed his unpainted face and dry hands
with scented water, her sister holding the silver basin, Richelieu
disappeared. An hour later, when the room was again still, a fly or
two buzzing at the window, Mme. de Lauraguais purfling, Marie Anne
beside the drowsy King, the Duke had not yet returned. It was the
longest absence that he had made from the bedside, except for sleep.
That he was not asleep now, madame knew very well. His bed in the
royal suite had been made. He had let himself quite out of these
rooms, and was gone--to whom? Whither? And Mme. de Châteauroux,
though she trusted Richelieu as she did herself, became, after a
little, nervous with anxiety for his return. Presently she moved
over to Mme. de Lauraguais, her puppet-shadow.
"Elise, du Plessis is absent still. I am disturbed. Why should he
be so long away? Do you think--do you think--"
"I think that he has gone to de Gêvres. He will bring us back some
news of the Court. It will be something to divert his Majesty this
afternoon, and something for us to listen to this morning. Heigh-ho!"
At this moment the King's hand slipped through the bed-curtains and
drew one of them aside till his face was visible. Smiling faintly at
the Duchess, he motioned her to him with a peculiar glance. "Du
Plessis is out, you say?"
Madame nodded.
"Send for him, then. Recall him at once. He--"
"He is here," interrupted Elise.
The door from the broad hall to the anteroom had opened. For an
instant madame's heart stood still. Then Richelieu, patch-box in
hand, came leisurely in.
"Ah!" The relief in the sigh was very apparent. "You have been
absent so long, we became anxious."
The Duke smiled pleasantly and shrugged. "His Majesty is awake?" he
asked, seeing that madame was by the bed.
"He--"
Louis suddenly dropped the curtain, hid himself from view, and so
signified that he was not to be disturbed.
"He has just been speaking with us," whispered la Châteauroux, moving
again across to her sister.
Richelieu nodded. "You have not yet dined?" he asked, idly.
"It is still an hour to one."
"Ah, true! I had not noticed the clock."
"You are exhausted from having watched all night. Go and rest. I
will call you when dinner is served."
A long, slow smile stretched itself over Richelieu's imperturbable
features. "I go, then; but it is on condition that madame calls me
when dinner is served." With which enigmatically spoken commonplace,
he forthwith disappeared.
"It is his habit to make significance of manner count for wit,"
observed Elise, turning to the window.
For half an hour there was silence, perfect, drowsy. Mme. de
Lauraguais' hands fell passively into her lap. The King, under his
great canopy, was still. None could tell whether he slept or no. La
Châteauroux, her eyes half closed, watched the sunlight play over the
roofs of the houses in the town, and listened absently to the noon
murmur that rose from its streets. Only Richelieu, in the room
beyond, was alert, waiting, as he lay on his extemporized couch. At
half-past twelve the King demanded wine. Madame poured it out and
carried it to his side. He had not taken it from her hand when the
door to the anteroom opened vigorously, and four men appeared on the
threshold of his Majesty's bedroom. The glass dropped from the
suddenly nerveless fingers of madame, and crashed down upon the
wooden floor. Elise, with a low exclamation, rose from her chair,
her face colorless. La Châteauroux, leaving the King's side, moved
slowly over to her sister, and stood facing the intruders. After the
first instant calmness came to her. M. de Chartres had forced the
_consigne_ at last. With him were the King's chaplain, Bishop of
Soissons, Fitz-James, Père Perusseau the confessor, and M. de
Maurepas, possibly as representative of de Berryer. These four men
stood facing the Duchess, who regarded them steadily, death knocking
at her heart.
"Why--do you come?" she asked, dully, knowing well enough the reason.
"It is time, I think, madame," returned Maurepas, with something
ill-advised in his tone.
"His Majesty is here?" interposed Chartres, sternly.
"Naturally," she replied, with curling lip.
"And M. de Richelieu?"
"I have the honor, Monseigneur."
Richelieu spoke from the doorway of his bedroom, where he stood,
quite still, a little stiffer than usual, eyeing de Chartres as
though he would have impressed something upon him. Perhaps
Monseigneur understood. At any rate, the hesitation became a pause,
and the pause grew into a hopeless stillness as the Duchesse de
Châteauroux turned slowly about and faced the companion of these last
days.
"Du Plessis--you--" she faltered, actually unsuspecting, speaking as
if to a companion in trouble.
"Madame," he responded, brokenly.
"Can you--do nothing? Have you no help?" she whispered.
Richelieu bent his head. "Nothing."
Maurepas smiled sarcastically, but no one noticed it. Fitz-James of
Soissons advanced into the room, his robes trailing, his manner lofty
and severe.
"Mme. Marie, and you--Mme. de Lauraguais--are requested to retire to
the apartment which you have occupied since quitting the abbaye.
There--later--some one will go to you."
He raised his hand and pointed to the door which led into the
antechamber, and so to the corridor. For the shadow of an instant
madame hesitated, her eyes passing in a long glance from Richelieu's
unreadable face to the great, silent bed. Then, with a slight
gesture to her sister, she moved slowly, unsteadily, towards the door
which the bishop designated. In silence the five men saw them go.
Louis XV., closed in by his curtains, silent, passive, heard all, and
guessed the unspoken; surmised Richelieu's loyal treachery, read
madame's heart from her steps, realized that his time for repentance
approached, deplored the necessity, thought of his dinner, and rather
hoped that existence might not be too much prolonged.
While Falconet* was hastily summoned to attend the King, while
Monseigneur made humble explanation to his relative, and Richelieu
adroitly assisted in carrying out the bishop's ideas for the
forthcoming confession, absolution, and unction of his Majesty, the
two sisters had gained their apartment. Elise, by this time on the
way to hysterics, threw herself desperately on the bed. The sister
watched her with pale, silent scorn. Her arms were folded. Her foot
tapped nervously on the floor. She said not a word.
* The King's consulting physician.
"Madame," whispered Antoinette, at last, "what shall I do?"
Madame's eyes turned towards her for an instant. "Nothing," she
said, shortly.
Elise's woman was busy over her with sal-volatile, tears, entreaties,
and a fan. By degrees she grew quieter, forgetting herself
sufficiently at last to look at her sister.
"Marie--why do you look so? What are you doing?" she asked.
"I? I am waiting."
"Waiting! For what?"
The Duchess, who had studied well the ways of courts, and who knew
each step of an affair like this, did not answer. Her lips
straightened into a bitter smile. Mme. de Lauraguais might read it
if she would.
Matters were at this juncture when the waiting was ended
conventionally. In response to a rap Antoinette, having received the
nod of permission from her mistress, opened the door and admitted
Marc Antoine Voyer, Comte d'Argenson, a man closely associated with
Maurepas, and hence not loved by the favorite. He entered the
apartment with perceptible hesitation, and stopped not very far
inside to turn to madame. She sat regarding him like a sphinx,
immovable, unspeaking. Poor d'Argenson had been in few less happy
situations. Here were four pairs of feminine eyes fixed upon him in
dread anticipation. How near to explosion from one of them matters
had gone, the young man did not know. He perceived by the expression
of la Châteauroux that there had been no going to pieces yet. Even
while he faced her, fumbling for words, she put out her hand to him,
saying:
"Give me your letter, monsieur, or--" the hand dropped--"or was it in
words that the order was given?"
"No, madame. Here is the paper."
He took it from under the hat which he carried in the left arm, and
gave it to her. It was not long, and the ink upon it was scarcely
dry. Yet its seals--those of Orléans and France--precluded any
possibility of disobedience of the command it expressed. As her
sister read it through, Mme. de Lauraguais sat up on the bed, a
growing sense of terror coming over her. Not the smallest expression
crossed the face of la Châteauroux. Her mouth was firmly set. She
read slowly, as one who forced herself to see written out something
of which she was already thoroughly cognizant. When she had finished
the last line, madame opened her fingers, and the paper fluttered to
the floor.
"That is all, monsieur? Have the goodness to retire."
"Pardon, madame; it is not quite all."
"What further, then? What insult can be added?"
"It is no insult, but an offer of assistance."
"From whom? For what?"
"From the Marshal de Belle-Isle, of his carriage to convey you as far
as Nancy, where you may obtain a post-chaise."
"Ah! Coward! So he would patronize me now!"
Madame's nerve was failing her at last. Her face had grown suddenly
scarlet, and from her attitude d'Argenson believed that she would
gladly have flung herself upon him to end the matter after the
fashion of the Court of Miracles. But young d'Argenson was a
diplomat, educated in a famous school, and he had a manner of steel
that would not melt before the white-hot fire of a woman's wrath.
Eye for eye he met the gaze of the Duchess, and, as her quivering
muscles grew still under the spell of his calm, he said, quietly:
"Pardon me, madame. I think that you do not quite comprehend your
situation. If you but reflect, you will instantly perceive how much
of wisdom there would be in making the departure of yourself, of
madame your sister, and of your two women as quiet as possible."
Whether it was his air or his eminently unemotional words that
impressed the woman before him, d'Argenson never knew. It was enough
that, after a long and troubled silence, la Châteauroux finally
raised her head and answered, in a tone but little above a whisper:
"I thank you, Monsieur le Comte. If--the Marshal de Belle-Isle will
have his coach at the abbaye door at four o'clock, I--we--will take
our departure as quietly as possible."
D'Argenson breathed deeply with relief. Bowing low, he backed
towards the door, pausing only an instant to repeat, musically: "At
the abbaye door, madame. That is most wise. At the abbaye door."