Deep Waters
The King and his companion returned to Versailles on Friday, as
quietly as they had left it three days before; and it was probable
that most of the court was unaware that his Majesty had been
invisible for any but usual reasons--exclusive hunting, and intimate
suppers, somewhere, with some one. The little circle of royal
companions who selected what details of gossip might cross the
threshold of the Salle du Conseil or the Petits Cours Intérieurs into
the Œil-de-Bœuf were extremely discreet. For days Rumor,
always with the name of la Châteauroux as a refrain for her verses,
flapped over Paris and Versailles, chanting vigorously. Keepers of
journals, d'Argenson and the worthy de Luynes, wrote wildly,
contradicting one day all that had been said on the day before, and
which, in turn, would be falsified to-morrow. Was Madame la Duchesse
really to be reinstated, or, like her sister predecessor, to be kept
on there in Paris in sackcloth and regret ever after? This question
no one definitely answered. Mme. d'Etioles, now and then in the
palace, more often away under the close surveillance of her husband,
trembled between anticipation and despair. There was another at
court in much the same way. This was Richelieu, who, for the first
time since his début, living as he did at the very door of the
kingdom's adytum, was still outside the pale of knowledge. Daily he
scanned the face of Maurepas, a suavely blank space, which hinted
tantalizingly at how much lay behind it. The King's demeanor was no
less incomprehensible. He was generally sulky; seemed to have
settled down into a routine; attended four war councils and two of
finance, to Machault's terror, in one week; ate little; drank much;
was seen often in unofficial but very private conference with
Maurepas; and now and then treated Richelieu with such open and
kindly affection that fainting hope revived in the Duke's heart, and
he ceased numbering days.
As a matter of fact, la Châteauroux continued to be ill; for a king's
favor will not banish malaria in one day. Mme. de Lauraguais was
growing intensely anxious to be safe at Versailles again. The
Duchess, curiously enough, was infinitely less impatient. Perhaps
she knew too well what Versailles meant to experience unmixed joy at
the prospect of the return. Not till physical strength was hers
again did she care to go into the inevitable maze of intrigue,
enmity, and deceit which one entered by the door to the little
apartments. Dr. Quesnay, of Méré, a friend of Mme. d'Etioles, none
the less a good physician and a bluffly honest man, attended her in
Paris assiduously. Under his care the favorite certainly improved,
day by day, till, on the 4th of the last month of the year, four
messages flew over the road, two from Paris to Versailles, and two
from the palace there to the Rue du Bac. And that night the King did
not sleep, but was, nevertheless, late to mass on the morning of the
fifth, when a new day and a new era dawned for the Œil-de-Bœuf
and for the history of France.
The 5th of December fell on Sunday, and proved a day dull enough for
all the court. For once their Majesties dined together in the Salle
du Grand Couvert, as Louis XIV. would have had them do. But the King
did not appear at his consort's salon in the evening. He merely
informed her that it was his pleasure that she should hold a special
reception two nights later, on the evening of the 7th, at which he
would be present; why, he did not explain. Though it would be the
evening before the Feast of the Conception, and therefore a time for
extra devotions, Marie Leczinska gratefully acceded to her husband's
request, delighted at anything which should bring him into her rooms.
In the evening Louis supped in the small apartments with a select
company of privileged gentlemen, his pages of the Court, Maurepas,
and d'Argenson.
"It is a feast of nine, my friends--the old Roman number. Let us,
then, be classic in our drinking and our conversation," observed his
Majesty, with unusual loquacity.
"And is it to gods or goddesses that we chant our praises, Sire? Do
we look to Olympus or--Cythera?" demanded Maurepas, slyly.
The King did not at once reply. Finally, with a smile peculiar to
himself, he glanced at his favorite. "You shall choose the toast, du
Plessis. Jove or Venus?"
Richelieu, ignorant of a cause, was at a loss to read the subtlety.
"Venus, Sire," he replied, raising a glass to the candle-light before
he drank.
"Merely the goddess in abstract?" murmured de Sauvré. "Surely her
present living counterpart were better worthy the wine."
"Sire, will you not christen the toast?"
"Is it necessary? There is but one." The King negligently lifted
his glass, while only de Coigny of all the tableful breathed
normally. "Marie Leczinska, your Queen, gentlemen!"
Each face fell slightly. Glasses were emptied without a word, and
the silence continued as the dishes of the first course were passed.
"These birds are very fine, but there is no venison," remarked Louis,
helping himself to his favorite fillet of partridge.
"The last hunt was four days ago," observed Penthièvre.
The King looked quickly up. "Quite true. The councils have demanded
me. But I am arranging a hunt--a large hunt. What meetings
to-morrow, d'Argenson?"
"An important one, Sire, at which M. Machault reads a report of the
taxes of the Navarraise clergy during the last quarter--"
"Ah, yes. You and Machault are diligent enough there. But the day
after--the 7th? I do not wish to be at council on that day."
"There will be none, Sire," responded the young man, obediently, the
interest dying out of his eyes; and Maurepas, with some amusement,
watched him begin to crumble his bread.
"That is very well. On Tuesday, gentlemen, we will follow the hounds
through Sénart, retire to Choisy in the afternoon, and return to
Versailles in time for her Majesty's salon in the evening. At
Choisy, gentlemen, I shall myself prepare a dish, an especial one,
which Mouthier* has created for me, and in the making of which the
greatest delicacy is necessary. It is to be a _vol-au-vent royal, à
la_--the last of the name is not important. It will be a triumph of
art."
* Louis' favorite chef.
"Shall you prepare it for the company, or--for one person, Sire?"
queried de Gêvres.
"There will be more for the party. This one--is--particular."
"For her Majesty, without doubt," murmured d'Epernon, smiling.
Maurepas and the King exchanged glances, and Richelieu, intercepting
the look, started suddenly, not recovering his poise till de Gêvres
had read into his mind.
"Sire, this one person whom you so honor returns in the party to
Versailles--is it not so?" asked de Sauvré, bravely.
"Naturally her Majesty returns to Versailles."
"She holds a salon that evening," muttered de Gêvres to de Coigny,
who sat next him.
"Who?--The Queen?" whispered the marshal in his turn.
"I don't know. We are not really speaking of the Queen?"
"D'Argenson, you hold the supper-list for Choisy. I--a--would speak
with you about invitations later this evening. You will be in the
Salle des Pendules at an early hour."
D'Argenson bowed.
The supper-list? Deborah was upon that. Richelieu breathed deeply.
Was he wrong in his fears? And yet, was it possible that this
secrecy should be used in the installation of a new favorite?
Certainly none at that table except Maurepas was any more enlightened
concerning this affair than he was himself. He scanned the faces
around him. De Sauvré and Coigny were unconcerned. Veiled curiosity
was perceptible in the eyes of d'Epernon and Penthièvre. D'Argenson,
like a very young diplomat, appeared reflective, and inclined to
conjecture by analysis the real object of his forthcoming interview
with the King. And de Gêvres, whose face was invariably set in an
expression of bored indifference, had now something in the line of
mouth and eyes that gave his countenance a suggestion of alertness
and satisfaction. Richelieu concluded his scrutiny with even less
hope than he had begun it. However, since the table were eating with
good appetite, he made shift to follow, and forget himself as far as
might be in a well-seasoned ragout of pigeon.
"_Vol-au-vent_ is certainly a charming dish!" cried Louis, presently,
harking back to his favorite pursuit.
"And of what is it made, Sire? Is it--sweet?"
"Ah, Sauvré, that is a secret. You shall learn it on Tuesday. Bring
an appetite with you from the hunt. Perhaps you may even assist in
its manufacture. I told Mouthier that I would have no cooks meddle
with my dish, but that my good friends would assist me in the
kitchen."
"We are honored," came the little chorus.
Louis inclined his head.
"Your Majesty has--a--been making candies, of late," observed
d'Epernon, with intended malice.
The King coughed. "A few--chocolates. I have been experimenting
with a new _fondant_. It is delightful."
"Who gets them?--the de Mailly?" whispered de Sauvré to Richelieu.
The Duke shook his head helplessly. "I have never seen any there. I
do not think that it is she." Again he looked round the circle, and
again was Maurepas' the only intelligent face present. Richelieu bit
his lip in anger; but, as the second course and much wine now made
its appearance, the conversation turned to less ambiguous topics, and
the drinking, with all its conviviality, began. Many were the ladies
to whom Louis deigned to raise his glass, the Countess de Mailly
being among the first of them. And when, an hour later, the nine
gentlemen rose from the table, the cares and fears of all of them
were lighter. After a bottle of old Tokay, a tender partridge, and a
successful epigram, who would not rise above a dread of the intrigues
of a fickle, unhappy King, whose best hours were spent with men, and
to whom, at such times, women seemed unimportant enough?
On being dismissed from their liege, several of the gentlemen
departed towards the salon of the Queen, to join the promenade and
see the newly presented ladies. One or two left the palace for
appointments in the town. Richelieu, out of spirits, and glad to be
alone, went off to the King's bedroom, where, as first gentleman of
the chamber, he ousted Bachelier, and himself prepared the room for
the grand _couche_. Next to this bedroom, towards the front of the
palace, its windows opening upon the little Court of Marbles, was the
Salle des Pendules. Here, after the supper, according to his
Majesty's command, came young d'Argenson, with the list of courtiers
eligible for Choisy suppers in his pocket. The King did not keep his
youthful minister waiting. After a few smiling words with Maurepas,
who was now blessing Fate for that past interview and
"reconciliation" in November, Louis hurried from the Salle des
Croisades up the corridor, into the Salle du Jeu, and so to that of
the clocks.
"Ah! You await me, monsieur. Your promptness is gratifying."
D'Argenson made obeisance.
The King passed across to the window, and stood with his hand on the
sill, looking out across the court at the lights in the opposite
rooms. "D'Argenson, have you, beside the Choisy list, one of the
entire Court and all the families here represented?"
"There is such a list, Sire, but it is in the keeping of M. de
Berryer. At your command, I will obtain it from him."
The King hesitated, seemed to reflect for a moment, and then, with
his eyes still fixed outside the room, answered: "Yes, that were as
well. De Berryer is in Paris, I believe. And, well, Monsieur le
Comte--" the King turned and faced him--"I have a mission for you
to-morrow."
D'Argenson bowed.
"You will leave for Paris, at an hour as early as you find
convenient. Arrived at the city, go at once to the Prefecture,
obtain the written list of the Court from de Berryer--I will send you
an order to-night--and proceed with that to the Rue du Bac, numéro--."
In the candle-light young d'Argenson started violently.
His Majesty smiled. "Yes. You will find there Mme. de Châteauroux;
and to her you will present the list. She will be so gracious as to
read it through and to strike from it the names of those who have not
the happiness to please her. In the afternoon you will return to me
with the revised list, which--um--I shall put into execution on
Wednesday, probably. That is all, monsieur. I wish you
good-evening."
The Count was about to leave the apartment, when the King himself
turned upon his red heel and abruptly left the room. D'Argenson,
with a new horizon to his world, moved weakly to the side of the
room, and sank upon a tabouret just as the door opposite to him swung
open, and Richelieu, his task completed, appeared from the King's
bedroom.
"Hola, Marc! What is the matter? You need rouge," he said, wearily.
"I should prefer a glass of Berkley's English gin," responded the
Count, without animation.
"What is it? You have seen his Majesty?"
"Yes."
"Well--your news?"
D'Argenson looked about him nervously. Then, rising, he moved over
and spoke in Richelieu's ear. "The new dish--vol-au-vent--is to be
_à la_ Châteauroux. To-morrow she revises the Court list."
"Mon Dieu!" Richelieu whispered the exclamation, and raised one of
his slender hands to his forehead. "What to do? You--you also are
in dread, Marc?"
D'Argenson shrugged, with a pitiful attempt at indifference. "I
carried her the message of dismissal from Metz."
"Ah!" Richelieu hesitated for a second. Then he said, softly: "When
will the revisal of the list be carried into effect at Court? Do you
know?"
"On Wednesday."
"There is, then, a day--of grace."
"One. The King hunts. We shall all be at Choisy. Madame joins us
there, you know, and returns with us--for the salon of the Queen."
"Naturally."
"What shall you do? Resign your post now?"
Richelieu was silent, and his face looked drawn. This sensation of
helplessness was very new to him. He seemed to hesitate. Then,
after a few moments he said, slowly: "No, I shall wait. One
thing--will you do me a favor?"
"What is that? There are few enough in my power now."
"To-morrow evening, when you return from Paris, show me the list."
"Monsieur, I cannot seek you. If we should meet--by chance--"
Richelieu bowed. "Certainly. It is all I ask. If we should meet by
chance."
"In that case, I will do so. At any rate, I will--tell you."
"My thanks are yours."
Both bowed. Thereupon d'Argenson would have turned away, but
Richelieu suddenly held out his right hand. "It is no ordinary
affair," he said.
The young Count frankly accepted the offer. Their hands clasped
firmly for an instant, and the moment of brotherhood did both good.
"Do you go, now, to the salon of her Majesty?"
"I had thought not, to-night; but I have changed my mind."
"I will come with you."
"And to-morrow morning," added the Duke, as they left the room
together--"to-morrow morning, after mass, I shall go to the
Œil-de-B[ce]uf and remain there till you return in the evening."
"Why do that? You will gain nothing there."
"I shall gain atmosphere. It reeks of the Court, as a chandler reeks
of tallow. I shall like--to take it away with me."
D'Argenson smiled faintly; and then in silence they passed into the
Queen's antechamber.
Marie Leczinska's salon was not so brilliant as the one of two weeks
before. It was, however, sufficiently filled to put one in proper
mood, without danger of ruining hoops; which, after all, was a slight
relief. Both Claude and Deborah were here to-night, never together,
but also never very far apart. Mme. de Mailly had become one of the
most-sought-after persons in the Court, and her husband, while he
conformed always to the conventions by not approaching her in public,
was, nevertheless, aware of every person who spoke to her of an
evening, heard every compliment paid her by men, and a good many of
the enviously malicious speeches that were beginning to be made about
her by the women. To-night Richelieu, on entering the salon, made
his way at once to Deborah's side. She had been speaking with the
Marquis de Tessé, while the Prince de Soubise hovered near, thinking
up a suitable gallantry with which to pounce upon her. Richelieu
adroitly forestalled him, however, and reached her first, well
pleased at being able to do so. The Duke was moving at random, for
he had found no plan of possible salvation yet. There only lay in
his mind a dim notion that, if safety should be his at the eleventh
hour, it would come to him through this same Deborah. The idea was
surely instinctive, for it had small reason in it. What could a
little colonial, what could any woman--the poor, pale Queen
herself--do against Claude's cousin, the reinstated favorite, the
great Duchesse de Châteauroux, and that gently spoken, inflexible,
indomitable "_Je le veux_" which Louis of France had used? True,
Deborah had become a de Mailly, had been much noticed by the King,
and was talked of in peculiar whispers by all the Court.
Nevertheless, what so precarious as her position? What favors might
she ask? None. And yet, here was falling Richelieu hurrying to no
Maurepas, no Machault, or Berryer, or any powered man, but to the
side of her who had been born, eighteen years before, in a
wide-roofed Virginia farm-house.
"Madame, do you go to the Opéra to-morrow night?" he asked, idly.
"I do not know, Monsieur le Duc. What is it to be?"
"'Jephté,' I have heard--Montclair, you know. Pélissier and
Thévénard are to sing, and the ballet in that piece is delightful.
Sallé and Nicolet will lead it."
"Oh, I should like to go! I have seen Mlle. Sallé--last week. And
Mme. Pélissier also. She has such a voice!"
"Will you, then, you and monsieur, do me the honor to occupy my box?
We will have Mme. de Coigny and the abbé--"
"Oh no! Please--" Deborah began, impulsively, but, realizing what
she was doing, stopped short in embarrassment.
"Pardon me, I did not know that you and the little Victorine
were--uncongenial. Whom shall I ask?"
"Any one--any one, of course. Mme. de Coigny, by all means,
monsieur."
Richelieu looked at her curiously, and might have spoken his thought
had not Claude at that moment moved somewhat closer to them, and the
Duke, therefore, turned to him. "I am just praying Madame la
Comtesse to arrange a party for me for the Opéra to-morrow evening.
Will you not join us?"
"Thank you, I am engaged to St. Severin for a supper and the
Français. Madame, if she has no other engagement, will be delighted
to accept your kindness, I do not doubt," returned Claude, pleasantly.
Deborah turned a half-wistful glance towards her husband, but was met
with a gentle smile of refusal that suddenly changed her manner.
"Monsieur le Duc, I shall be but too happy to accompany you, if you
will arrange the party. I do not think that I know--quite how."
Richelieu bowed his thanks, and looked long into her honest gray
eyes. "I will call for you in my coach at seven, madame, if you will
permit. I bid you--_au revoir_." With a bow such as he would have
given to a superior in rank, he moved away, making room for M. de
Soubise, who had settled upon his compliment, and was itching to have
it out before it should lose flavor with silent rehearsal.
Richelieu did not remain much longer in the room. Towards the end of
the promenade his Majesty, his dog Charlotte under one arm,
unexpectedly made his appearance, negligent in manner, intent, as it
seemed, on speaking with Deborah. Richelieu saw the King with a new
feeling. It was the first time that he had ever thought of Louis as
holding interests foreign to his own. Hitherto they had been allies
in every council, in every amusement. Now, at last, in desire and
intention, they were separated, and it was a woman who stood between
them. Richelieu shook himself. His thoughts were becoming bitter.
Cutting short an exchange of graces with Mme. de Mirepoix, he left
the rooms, and, informing the grand chamberlain that he would be
unable to assist at the royal _couche_ that evening, sought his own
apartment, and was put to bed by his valet, not to sleep, but to
plan, to twist, to turn, and still, with a new, unconquerable dread,
to anticipate the morrow.
Morning came late. Richelieu, in fact, rose with the dawn, for the
King was always roused at eight, and it was the duty of the first
gentleman, since he had been absent on the previous evening, to bring
water in which his Majesty should wash, and to put the royal
dressing-gown about the royal shoulders. Louis was in a quizzical
mood, and tried, rather unkindly, to play with the feelings of his
favorite courtier. Richelieu's _sang-froid_ was imperturbable,
however. He was now bound in honor to his own code to exhibit no
trace of the feeling which, last night, he had almost been guilty of
betraying, through nervous uncertainty.
The King dressed, he completed his prayers, despatched the early
entries, and, when he was finally installed with his chocolate and
eggs in the council-hall, where the matter of the Navarraise taxes
was later to be taken up, Richelieu himself partook of a light
breakfast, and then made a dignified progress towards the room of
rooms--the Œil-de-Bœuf--where, possibly, his fate might, by
accident, be already known. On his way through the halls of the gods
and the grand gallery, he met not a few with the same destination in
mind. Certainly none could have told, from his measured morning
greetings, his offers or acceptance of snuff, his lightly witty
words, what a tumult of anxiety raged within him. By this time
d'Argenson must be entering Paris. Did any besides himself know that
errand on which he went? More, did any surmise its result? How long
had he still to remain in this, his home? Hours? Years? Was his
dread, after all, reasonable? Had any one divulged to her his part
in the Metz affair? True, it was Court property; but--ah! he had
been very rash in the Alsatian city. Never should he forget the
morning when he had cried out, before all the salon there, the news
that Louis had grown worse in the last hours. Here, even now, like a
ghost conjured up by memory, was young Monseigneur de Chartres,
coming out from the Bull's-eye. Du Plessis, as he saluted, quivered.
Then, with a gallant recuperation, he smiled to himself, and passed
on into that little room of fate.
Considering that the hour was before morning mass, the
Œil-de-Bœuf was unusually thronged. Both men and women were
there, and the place hummed with conversation. For the first moment
or two Richelieu held off from the company, judging, by means of his
trained ear and his long experience, the nature of the gossip from
the key of the conglomerate sound. It varied to-day, now high with
laughter, now more ominous, again medium with uncertainty. The omen
was good. It boded no definite evils of knowledge--yet. Thereupon
the Duke permitted himself to be accosted by M. de Pont-de-Vesle, of
the King's formal household, an old man, tall and lean, wearing his
wig _à la_ Catogan, and with a miniature of Ninon de l'Enclos in his
snuff-box.
"Good-morning, Monsieur the Grand-Nephew! Whom does the King receive
to-day during the little hours?" With the question he proffered
snuff.
"Thank you. Ah! You use civet. The King does not receive to-day.
He is in council. Machault reads the report," returned Richelieu,
very civilly, considering the fact that Pont-de-Vesle had addressed
him in the form which, of all others, he most disliked.
"Ah! When his Majesty has not hunted for a week we are all forlorn.
When he takes to council--Ciel!--it is like the beginning of a reign
of Maintenon. How do you perfume your snuff?"
"Oh, it is something aromatic, composed for me by Castaigne, of
Paris. Sandalwood, cinnamon, attar--I forget the rest. Do me the
honor to try it."
With ceremonious solemnity Pont-de-Vesle accepted a pinch, just as
young d'Aiguillon came smilingly up to them. "Good-morning, Monsieur
le Duc! Do you bring news, or come for it?"
"I come for it, my dear Count," returned Richelieu. "What do they
talk of in the Œil to-day?"
"One subject only."
"So bad as that? Who has committed it? I am all ignorance!"
"You mistake. There is no fresh scandal. It is--"
"Women," put in Pont-de-Vesle, sourly.
"Oh! What women?"
"That is more difficult. There are many rumors. It is said in Paris
that--Mme. de Châteauroux is to come back."
The Duke raised his eyebrows. "Paris! That is a curious news-mart.
What says Versailles?"
"Oh!--" Young d'Aiguillon stopped, assuming a mysterious expression.
"We say," interrupted the other, quickly, "that there are other
candidates who would please better."
"For instance?"
"Well, for one, the little American, Mme. de Mailly. But, parbleu!
the post must not remain forever in one family! I think that this
girl should never have been taken up. What is her blood? Her
husband swears to five generations; but--the husband!--Pouf!"
"But the Queen was delighted with her, and--the King will be," cried
the young Count, pleasantly.
"Who is your candidate, monsieur?" demanded Richelieu of
Pont-de-Vesle.
"Mine? Oh--that is a delicate question. Nevertheless, I think 'tis
time we had a woman of station. Now, Mme. de Grammont--"
"Heavens!"
"An _étiquette_? You are mad, monsieur!"
"Not at all. I protest--"
"Is she, then, so willing to accept the post?"
Pont-de-Vesle stiffened. "Oh, as to that--I cannot say. She is
spoken of--not to."
"Ah, well," decided d'Aiguillon, sagely, "after all, it will be the
ladies, not we, who will settle matters for themselves."
"As for me, I should like to find a woman who would refuse the post."
And with this Richelieu, who could see no advantage in continuing the
conversation, saluted his companions of the moment and passed on to
others, whose talk, however, did not much vary from the foregoing
style. By the time that the hour for mass arrived, and the Court
wended a leisurely way towards Mansard's chapel, the favorite Duke
was comforted in mind and heart. He hoped; though why, and on what
grounds, he could not have told. The Œil-de-Bœuf was densely
ignorant of the King's real project. He, Richelieu, knew it only too
well. La Châteauroux was to come back. Paris knew. How, then, had
he any right, or any reason, to hope? And, with this logic, the
shadow of despair came over him again, and through it, as through a
veil, he heard the melancholy intoning of priests' voices and the
monotonous chanting of the choir.
Dinner passed, it were difficult to say how, and the afternoon began.
There was attendance on his Majesty, who alternately played with
three dogs and sulked because there was nothing further to do; a few
moments at English tea with the circle of Mme. de Boufflers; an
enforced interchange of polite hostilities with de Gêvres, in the
Salle d'Apollo; and then, some little time after dusk began to fall,
Richelieu made his way down to the landing of the Staircase of the
Ambassadors, out of sight of the Suisses and the King's guards, in
the great vestibule below. He was intensely nervous. With each beat
of his heart a new shock thrilled unpleasantly over him. D'Argenson
must be returning soon now, and must come in this way. Minutes only
remained before he should know the end. The lights in the great
candelabra at the stair-top illumined the vast, lifeless ascent but
dimly. Dreamily Richelieu thought of the pageants that he had seen
upon this stair; wondered, indeed, if he should see such again.
Before great dread, time itself flies. It seemed no half-hour, but a
few seconds only, to the waiting man before a darkly cloaked figure
entered into the vestibule, passed the Suisses in silence, and came,
with wearily dragging steps, up the stairs. Half-way up, the
candle-light gleamed for an instant into his pallid face.
Richelieu's heart quivered downward as he stepped out from his
sheltering pillar and stood before young d'Argenson.
"Well, then--you return."
D'Argenson shot a look into the other's face. "For a day," he
replied, without much expression, his lip curling slightly.
"Then she--"
"Struck me off at once."
Richelieu drew a heavy breath. "And I?" he asked, softly.
"And you--also."
It had come, then. The two men stood still on the stairs, facing
each other for an unnoted time. Then Richelieu smiled. "You are wet
with the rain, Marc. When you leave the King, come to my rooms.
There you will find Grachet and some hot rum. I must make my toilet
now. I have a party to-night--for the Opéra."
D'Argenson stared. "Mon Dieu!" he muttered to himself, "we diplomats
have not such training!"