"Vol-au-Vent Royal"
Twelve miles from Versailles, or fourteen by the Sceaux road, nearly
eight from Paris, situated upon the bank of the Seine, shaded with
woods and flanked by a tiny hamlet, stood the most famous retreat of
Louis XV., the château or palace called Choisy-le-Roi. As Marly,
with its rows of cold salons, its stiff corridors and great suites of
rooms, was Louis XIV.'s ideal of a private house, so Choisy, with its
tiny apartments, cosey fireplaces, little, circular reception-room,
and miniature _salle-à-manger_, with ample kitchen and magnificent
appurtenances on the first floor in the rear, was the present
Bourbon's great delight. Here for ten years, now, ever since the
first months of Louise de Mailly's reign, Louis, in increasing fits
of ennui or weariness, and, later still, perhaps, during periods of
regret, had been accustomed to seek relief from the formality of his
existence in parties taking different degrees of freedom, which, more
often than not, rose towards their end to a pitch of positive
rowdyism. Only a certain set of the Court was ever asked here; and
nothing, perhaps, could more plainly illustrate the difference in the
characters of Louis XV. and of his grandfather than the contrast
between the list for Marly in the old days and that for Choisy half a
century later.
The gayety to be attained by this party of the 7th of December,
however, promised to be less notable in several respects than was
usually the case. First, the whole thing must take place in the
afternoon, since the King was to return to her Majesty's salon at
Versailles in the evening. Secondly, the gentlemen of the company
would have been all day in the saddle, and were certain to be weary
and inclined to eat, rather than talk. Thirdly, according to general
rumors, his Majesty, and, in consequence, the pages of the Court,
would be occupied in the kitchen till refreshments were served, thus
leaving the lesser lights alone to entertain the women for an hour or
more. After the repast it would be necessary to depart speedily for
Versailles, in order to be in time to make a toilet for the Queen's
salon.
As a matter of fact, this entire affair had been planned with the
greatest care by Louis himself, who, with purpose very different from
usual in visiting Choisy to-day, had taken care to leave no loophole
for impropriety, which, in its wholesale form, was the most
distasteful thing that Mme. de Châteauroux ever had to endure.
At eleven o'clock in the morning Mouthier, with his staff and extra
train of servants to assist those regularly installed at the château,
arrived, and entered immediately upon his duties. In a box which he
himself had borne all the way from Versailles on his knee, reposed
twelve cases of fresh pastry, with elaborate scroll-work patterns
upon their sides and covers. One of these, smaller by half than the
rest, was a work of art such as only Mouthier could have contrived.
These were the foundations for the dish of the day; and the special
case was to be filled with a composition of the King's own, for the
delectation of the--so-called--most beautiful, certainly the most
far-famed, lady in France.
At something after two o'clock in the afternoon there arrived at the
grand entrance of the château a panelled coach, the first of a little
procession of vehicles, each bearing a costly burden of petticoated
beings, in great pelisses and hoods, with muffs for their hands that
were very much larger than any three of their heads put together--and
had as much in them, perhaps. By half past two the circular hallway
was a fluttering mass of panniers, silks, brocades, and satins; while
the adjoining salons echoed to the hum of light conversation and
feminine laughter. No _dames d'étiquette_ in this gay company! No
sheep of Père Griffet's flock here; and only one among them to whom
this was the first of Choisy.
The one was Deborah, who, in direct disobedience to Claude's angry
commands, after a sharp quarrel with him, had had her own headstrong
way and come hither, to see, forsooth, what it would all be like. As
yet she had found nothing, certainly, that could drive from her
thoughts the unhappy image of her husband, with the love-light gone
out of his eyes; and she was waiting with intense eagerness for the
arrival of the hunting-party. The rest of the company being in the
same state of anticipation, her restlessness called forth only one
whisper from Mme. de Gontaut, to the effect that it was shockingly
bad taste to watch openly at the windows for the arrival of his
Majesty. The companion lady sniffed slightly, but presently rustled
over herself to join the group of dames, who were looking out upon
the snowy driveway and the black, bare-branched trees before them.
Presently there came from this little company a quick murmur of
exclamations, which occasioned an instantaneous general movement
towards them.
"I hear no horns. Have they shot nothing to-day?" cried one who
could not see.
"My dear, it is not the King. It is a coach."
"Ah!"
"Mon Dieu!"
"What is it? Who is it? Who is so late? Are not all here?"
Deborah had watched the arrival of the coach with some indifference.
A liveried footman leaped down from behind and opened the door.
Thereupon a woman, hooded and cloaked in scarlet velvet, sable-lined,
her huge panniers managed with graceful ease, her great fur muff held
high in both hands, stepped forth, alone.
"It is the Duchesse de Châteauroux," said Deborah, in a curiously
quiet voice, her words being utterly unheeded in the babel rising
round her. _This_, then--was _this_ why Claude had angrily forbidden
her to come? Was he riding here simply to meet this woman--for whose
sake he had been exiled from France? Naturally she--his wife--the
American colonial--was not wanted at the meeting. And thus Deborah
leaned back against the wall, having suddenly become very white.
"Look at the de Mailly!" whispered Mme. de Gontaut to Victorine de
Coigny. "His Majesty's arrival will be different now."
"You belie her. Mme. de Mailly is not in love with the King,"
returned the little Maréchale, quietly.
The Gontaut did not reply. She had no more time to waste upon
Deborah, who had ceased to be observed in the general tumult. The
chorus of exclamations fell now to a series of whispers, for la
Châteauroux was in the house. How to receive her? After so many
months of utter disgrace was she at once, without protest, to step,
with all her old, disdainful insolence, into the second seat at
Versailles? Certainly it must have been at royal bidding that she
came here. The hopeless daring of the otherwise was not conceivable.
Nevertheless, this was a shock difficult to recover from. The
whispers, which, during the anticipation, had almost ceased, began to
run again round the room.
"The Duchess is long enough in removing her wraps."
"She is disconcerted to find herself before the King."
"Nevertheless--soon or late--she must face us."
"Ah, if we but dared--all of us--to refuse recognition!"
"It is impossible. Besides--the King would banish the whole Court."
"Here she is."
At last, amid a perfect stillness, Marie Anne de Mailly-Nesle
re-entered that Choisy room which she had seen last nine months
before. Then, her exit had been the signal for the cessation of
pleasure. Her rule was unthreatened, absolute. Now, as she came
in--silence. She passed slowly across the room, glancing now and
then, to the right and left, at the frozen groups of women who, a
year ago, would have risked the ruin of their costliest garments for
the sake of the first word with her. Yet now, still, silence.
The costume of the Duchess was a marvel to see. But her face
received most mental comments: it was so thin, the eyes were so
large, the cheeks hotly flushed even through the regulation rouge,
the patches emphasizing strongly the marble whiteness of the temples
and lower part of her face. An ordeal like this, however, might have
turned any woman pale. Deborah realized it, as, dully, she watched
Claude's cousin. A kind of pity, mingled with anger at the women
about her, came over her own unhappiness. These women--what had they
to lose by the arrival of madame? Not a husband's love. Only a
possible smile from the master of a miserable, helpless Queen. And
so they stood here, like statues, torturing a woman, for the pure
malice of it. Faugh! These Court ways were not Deborah's. A moment
more and two women, out of the twenty, had started suddenly forward
to the Châteauroux. The first was Victorine de Coigny; the second
was Deborah Travis of Maryland. As she courtesied to the favorite,
and felt one of her hands taken into the cold palm of that
golden-haired cousin, a sudden fanfaronade of hunting-horns and a
cutting of hoofs through the crisp snow to the road broke the
stillness. The great Duchess drew a long sigh. Her ordeal was over.
In five minutes a stream of gentlemen was pouring into the room after
Louis, their King, who moved straight to the side of his lady, raised
her hand to his lips, and then said, in a ringing tone:
"We learn of your recovery from illness with the greatest happiness,
madame, and it is our pleasure to welcome you again to our Court,
where we trust that you will to-morrow resume your former duties, as
usual."
Then his Majesty, dropping the Majesty and his voice together,
whispered a few words that brought a smile to the curved lips; after
which he stepped back to make way for the press of men and women, who
were fairly struggling with each other for the opportunity of
speaking to their dear Duchess.
Louis, on retiring from madame's side, found himself near Deborah.
Her piquant face had always pleased him. He bent over her now with a
gallant compliment. The girl, quickening with pleasure, dropped a
courtesy, murmuring, a little confusedly, "Your Majes--"
"Not Majesty--never Majesty here--dear madame. I am simple
Chevalier, to be addressed only by those who love me. Will you now
allow me to continue our conversation?" and Louis smiled slyly.
"Yes, Chevalier," was the demure response. "For it is the duty--the
du--" she stopped speaking, suddenly, her eyes fixed on something
across the room. Louis, seeing her expression, at once followed the
gaze, and himself presently encountered the look of Claude, who, with
face set and pale, was staring at them, oblivious of surroundings,
time, and place.
The King shrugged. "_Peste_! It is the husband. He is an
annoyance--that man! Well, then--I retire, Madame la Comtesse, to
prepare refreshments for our company." Smiling at her astonishment,
Louis bowed and left her, making his way to the side of Richelieu,
who was talking with Penthièvre.
"Come, gentlemen, I retire to the kitchen. See that d'Epernon, de
Coigny, de Gêvres, and Sauvré follow us immediately."
Thereupon the King, obstructed by nothing more serious than the
wistful glances of the women, passed over to a small tapestried door,
which led out of the salon and through a long passage into the
celebrated apartment where Mouthier and a reverend staff awaited him.
"Ah, my good Mouthier! All is ready? _Hein_? Excellent! What menu
is there besides our famous _pâtê_? My garments, Clement!"
While the chef, with many bows, recited with great unction the
enormous quantity of dishes which were to be served as "light
refreshment" for the distinguished company, a young valet of the
King's household approached with a set of white linen garments which
the King, his hunting-coat and waistcoat removed, proceeded to don
with great satisfaction. The toilet made, and the white cap set over
his wig, he turned to the chef:
"And now, Mouthier, for the great dish. How does it go? What do we
need for it?"
"Upon this table, Chevalier, are arranged all the ingredients. They
are not, however, prepared as yet." Mouthier waved his hand over the
special table which was covered with a variety of utensils and the
materials necessary for the composition of the _vol-au-vent_. Louis
went over and began examining them with interest.
"How long does it take in the cooking, Mouthier?"
"In half an hour the dish might be completed. Here is the case of
pastry which was prepared beforehand."
"Yes--certainly. Ah, gentlemen! You are in time!"
The last words were addressed to the six men who now entered the
kitchen in a body. They were at once furnished with garments
duplicating those of the King, which they proceeded to don with much
real or forced merriment. For all the pages, it must be confessed,
did not share their sovereign's love for this plebeian art. No one
noticed when Richelieu made a deft removal of something unseen from
the pocket of his hunting-coat to that of his cooking-jacket; for
Louis was fussing over the chicken, and the others still jested with
each other, or looked, with some distaste, over the large room, with
its rough stone walls and chilly floor, and at the great, open
fireplace, with its iron hooks and bars for kettles, its spits for
roasts, and iron pots swinging on chains or placed in the ashes, from
which already fragrant steam was rising. About this great place,
which resembled a volcanic crater tipped to one side, clustered a
group of Mouthier's assistants, busied over various dishes under
preparation.
"Come, my friends, come! To work! We must not keep the ladies too
long waiting; and there is also the return to Versailles to-night. I
am famished now. Mouthier, once again read to us the rules for
_vol-au-vent_."
Mouthier took a slight pause for breath and mental concentration, and
then, with joyful obedience, commenced: "Your Majesty will find
before him, in proper quantities, which I have myself unerringly
measured, the cooked chicken, the uncut sweetbreads and mushrooms,
truffles whole, selected cocks'-combs, essence of chicken jellied,
wheat flour of the most delicate variety, fresh butter, cream, an
onion, a carrot, salt, pepper, mace, ground spice, and a fine lemon.
Now in this small kettle the flour and butter must first be warmed
together and stirred to a cream; and when it boils we will add
one-half the salt, pepper, and jelly of chicken, together with a
suspicion of carrot and onion, which must boil in a tout ensemble for
some moments--"
"Yes, yes, yes! I will do it at once!" cried Louis, seizing the
kettle.
Mouthier sprang towards him. "Sire, I beg--I plead--one moment!
This must not be begun till the sweetbreads are chopping, the
mushrooms and truffles cut in cubes, the lemon grated and its juice
pressed out."
"Certainly. Let us begin! Mouthier, you shall direct us all as we
proceed. De Gêvres, you shall prepare the sweetbreads--"
"And I, Chevalier, will cut mushrooms, while d'Epernon, who is on
tiptoe with enthusiasm, does the truffles!" suggested Richelieu,
smiling.
"Very well--very well! Marshal, you shall slice the carrot. You may
imagine that it is an English army. Sauvré--weep over the
onion!--ah! That progresses now!"
While he flung these rapid phrases about him, the King, with a by no
means unskilful hand, had thrown the flour and butter into his
kettle, and hurried to the fire, while an attendant made ready a bed
of red embers in a corner, where the hottest flames might be avoided.
Here, over the first part of his preparation, squatted the grandson
of the Sun King, spoon in hand, stirring vigorously, puffing with
heat, and mightily enjoying himself. No casual observer, looking
into the room at this moment, could have distinguished born cook from
Marquis, scullion from Duke, chef from King. M. de Gêvres, his
delicate brow damp with the sweat of toil, sat gloomily upon a wooden
stool, a flat board on his knees, a villanous knife in his hands,
hacking vindictively at the helpless sweetbreads. De Coigny, with a
light touch, sliced carrots and carried on a laughing conversation
with M. de Sauvré, who, with nose tilted in the air, demolished a
very large onion with a very bad grace; while d'Epernon, near by, his
usual _blasé_ manner gone, worked laboriously at the truffles,
proving so slow at the business that Penthièvre, after watching him
for a moment or two, obtained an implement from Mouthier, and went to
his assistance. De Richelieu was more exclusive. He, with board,
bowl, knife, and four dark mushrooms, had crossed the room and seated
himself in a distant corner. Who was to note any change in the
appearance of four of his fungi? Who suspicious enough and
discourteous enough to question such a man about the contents of his
earthen bowl when the King, after much measuring, stirring, boiling,
and adding, finally called in excited tones for the mushrooms,
truffles, and cocks'-combs, announcing to the anxious de Gêvres that
for five minutes still he must work at the sweetbreads?
The three Dukes, each with his tribute, approached the fireplace,
where Louis knelt over the savory mixture, which had by now been
transferred to a larger kettle.
"The truffles, d'Epernon--slowly--with care-- _Voilà_! 'Tis done."
Louis stirred vigorously, and d'Epernon, with a sigh of relief,
returned to the table, his task completed.
"The cocks'-combs, Penthièvre--so! That is well. That goes
charmingly. And now, du Plessis--the mushrooms. They are finely
cut?"
"I trust so, Chevalier."
The King glanced into the dish, but the flames which danced before
his eyes made it impossible to notice the slight trembling of
Richelieu's hands. Slowly the contents of his bowl streamed into the
rich mixture.
"That is all now. Your linen will burn," observed Louis, as the Duke
remained standing before him.
Richelieu started. "Pardon, Sire," he said, absently, as he moved
off towards the table.
"And now the sweetbreads and the chicken!" cried his Majesty.
"The _vol-au-vent_ is nearly completed. When shall we announce
refreshment?" asked Mouthier, as he bent over and sniffed his
invention.
"In fifteen minutes. It is really delightful, Mouthier. Du Plessis,
my coat!"
As the Duke helped his sovereign again into the green hunting-coat,
he took occasion to whisper, with well-concealed anxiety: "Will your
Majesty grant me a favor for the afternoon?"
"What's that?"
"Permit me to sit at table at some distance from--Mme. de
Châteauroux."
The King shot a swift look into his gentleman's eyes, and it seemed
as though he would speak. Richelieu knew from the glance that the
fatal list had already been seen, though not executed, by the master
of Versailles. "Sit where you choose. It will be as usual--_hors
d'étiquette_," he said, at length, with indifference. And then, when
the others came up, after recoating themselves, his Majesty led the
way back to the salons.
The re-entrance of the royal group apparently made no stir in the
drawing-room. No one rose; but a new, more open note crept into the
conversation, and there ensued a short, interested silence as the
King, speaking on the way to various ladies and gentlemen, made his
way slowly to the side of the Châteauroux, seated himself by her, and
told her companion, d'Egmont, by a very readable look, to
depart--which the Count did. Five minutes later the repast, which
could be called neither dinner nor supper, was announced.
In a slow, rustling stream the gayly dressed dames, and the gentlemen
in their disordered hunting-suits, poured into the delightful little
supper-room, with its panels by Watteau and Lancret, its great
crystal chandeliers in which candles already burned, and with its two
long tables covered with flowers, silver, glass, and decanters of
glowing wine. Places were chosen indiscriminately, for no order of
rank was observed. Madame and the King seated themselves on the left
side of the first table. Richelieu was at the far end, with Mme.
d'Egmont. Deborah and M. d'Aiguillon sat across from the King, not a
great distance down from him; and Claude, with a persistent Marquise,
managed to face his wife. At the other table Mme. de Coigny was in
an awkward situation, with Henri de Mailly-Nesle upon her right hand,
and her husband, the Marshal, on the other side. Messieurs d'Epernon
and Penthièvre also, to their disgust, had been obliged to retreat to
the second table; but de Gêvres, always lazily fortunate, was at the
right hand of la Châteauroux, as the King sat at her left.
His Majesty inaugurated the meal and an era with a toast to "Our dear
friend, Marie Anne de Châteauroux, and her happy recovery from recent
illness."
Every glass was promptly raised and the toast drunk after a murmur of
concurrence. Madame smiled slightly, in her peculiar way. She was
wondering with what heart certain gentlemen near her would have drunk
could they have foreseen the morrow. Her eyes travelled to
Richelieu's place. No doubt he still deemed her ignorant of the Metz
treachery. He should discover, later, his mistake.
At the conclusion of the toast the room was invaded by six footmen,
bearing, on silver platters, the first dish of the afternoon--the
long-awaited _vol-au-vent_. Just inside the door, however, they
halted in two lines. There followed a pause, an instant of delay,
and then Mouthier himself entered from the kitchen, bearing in his
hands a round, golden plate, on which, delicately smoking, was the
King's pâtê.
As it was placed before Mme. de Châteauroux a murmur of polite
interest rose from every side.
"This is for me--alone?" inquired the Duchess, smiling languorously
at her liege.
"For you alone. I made it myself, Anne. Like it, then, for my sake!"
His words were audible to many around them, and from all sides came
little murmurs of applause and praise for such devotion. The
favorite's heart throbbed. Her misery was at an end. The old days
had at last returned. The waiting had not been in vain. As a
footman from the right presented one of Mouthier's _pâtês_ to Louis,
her Grace slid the pastry cover of her own dish off, and, with a
spoon of the same metal as her platter, dipped the hot and creamy
filling into her plate. It was not such food as, in her debilitated
condition, she should have had. This she was well aware of, and
determined that no morsel of any of the other complicated entrêes
served hereafter should pass her lips. This one thing it was her
place to eat. As, for the first time, she raised the fork to her
lips, she was conscious of the fire of many eyes. It was wonderful,
indeed, that the gaze of Louis de Richelieu did not burn her through
all the others, so steadily fixed, so dilating with dire prophecy was
it. However, it was the big gray glance of Deborah de Mailly that
she caught, as the fork was lowered to the plate again. Deborah was
watching, with fascinated curiosity, this woman whom she saw for the
second time--this woman for whom Claude had been exiled.
Madame turned to the King. "It is a marvel--the most truly delicious
thing that I have ever tasted," she said. And her remark was not
utterly untrue. The dish was good.
"Mouthier shall have fifty louis from the treasury to-morrow,"
observed France. "He invented it."
"I shall eat nothing else this afternoon," she added. And the King
was quite satisfied with his success.
She was true to her word, steadfastly refusing to try the numberless
dishes that followed the first. Richelieu, talking rapidly and
brilliantly with Madame d'Egmont, watched the golden spoon return to
the plate again and again, till that which he had helped the King to
make was gone, and his die and hers were finally cast, though the
cups would remain over them still for a little while.
The meal only endured for the space of an hour. Louis had become
visibly impatient and restless. His dish once made, served, and
praised, he was satisfied with his day, and would have been glad to
start at once upon the return to Versailles. Since this could not
be, he made the tedium as brief as possible. Certainly the affair
was anything but lively. Deborah wondered more and more why Claude
had forbidden her coming here. Her first suspicion that it was his
plan to meet his cousin had been gradually dispelled. Perceiving the
King's intentions, he had had nothing at all to do with her. The
matter was puzzling. To be sure, much champagne and _vin d'Ai_ were
being consumed by every one. The conversation flowed easily on the
edge of questionable topics, and the broadness of her neighbor's
compliments annoyed her. But Deborah had seen all this, and more, in
many other places. In fact, it was the common tone of Court society.
The bugaboo of Choisy and its wild carousings was rapidly being
driven from her belief.
At a little past five o'clock the King gave the signal for the
breaking up of the party, and, after a few moments of lingering in
the halls over wraps and hoods, coaches began to drive away from the
royal retreat into the dark direction of Versailles. The first
vehicle to depart was that of the Duchesse de Châteauroux; and in it,
beside her, sat the King. Louis was very happy. Marie Anne de
Mailly was more to him, infinitely more, than either of her sisters
had been. Her type of character, her quiet hauteur, her indifference
to many things usually prized, the few demands that she made upon
him, her long periods of silence, the hours when he knew her to be
suffering as much from ennui as he was himself--all of her moods, in
fine, were sympathetic to him; and for this he had made her what she
was. Both of them were intensely cold-blooded. He knew that he
lacked in feeling. He divined her to be like himself. And this
fact, which might have repelled many men, pleased him, as he realized
that it put him beyond all danger of rivalry, so long as she was sure
of an undivided sway over him.
It was a curious drive from Choisy to Versailles. They traversed
almost the whole distance in silence. The road was dark, save for
what faint light the carriage lamps and the postilion's lantern cast
ahead, and the horses plunged rapidly over the frozen road, dragging
the heavy coach in and out of deep ruts, and over many stones
embedded in the snow. Occasionally Louis spoke in a low voice, and
madame made effort to answer him; but the effort was apparent. She
felt strongly disinclined towards conversation, though her brain
worked feverishly enough. When finally, about seven o'clock, the
town of Versailles was gained, and there were but ten minutes left of
the drive, Louis broached a necessary subject.
"Your old apartments are ready for you, Anne; and I have also had
prepared for you two extra rooms in the little interior courts. In
the absence of Elise, our good Hen will be your companion. Your
servants are already installed; and I have commanded d'Argenson to
meet you at the chapel entrance. We shall not arrive publicly."
Madame tried to speak, but was obliged to make two or three efforts
before the muscles of her throat responded. "D'Argenson--goes
to-morrow?" she said, finally, with a dull intonation.
"For your sake--yes. He is hard to spare. I was going to make him
Minister of Foreign Affairs."
Madame saw no necessity for replying to this; but presently she
observed, "So her Majesty is not yet informed of my return?"
"She is unaware that her salon to-night is held in your honor. The
Court also is ignorant of that. I have planned it so that your
appearance may be that of a meteor in the heavens--the rising of an
unlooked-for star, a new planet."
"You treat her--your wife--very badly, France."
"_Mordi_! She is only a machine for prayers. She does not think."
Silence fell on this remark, for the coach was rolling up the
approach to the palace. Passing the Court of Ministers, where was
the grand entrance, it entered another long, narrow court, a kind of
cleft between the main building and the north wing, halting before a
little private door leading into the hallway between the vestibule
supérieure and the chapel itself. This door was open, and by the
light of the lantern hanging from an iron projection above it might
have been seen a man in household livery, watching. As the King
alighted from the coach the servant called softly, "Monsieur!"
Out of the darkness beyond came a man, who appeared in time to behold
la Châteauroux step from the vehicle.
"D'Argenson--conduct madame to her suite."
"Madame--I have the honor," muttered young Marc Antoine, faintly.
With a small, cruel smile, visible in the lantern-light, Marie Anne
de Mailly extended her hand. D'Argenson, inwardly quivering, lifted
it to his lips.
Something more than an hour later Claude and Deborah, in chairs,
arrived at the grand entrance of the palace, and went in together.
They were a little late for the Queen's salon, which fact was due to
Claude's fastidiousness. Both he and his wife had made fresh and
elaborate toilets, and, as Deborah was very much more rapid in her
operations than her lord, she had had nearly half an hour to wait for
him at their apartment. Debby Travis never was noted for great
patience, save in still-room processes; and though she made no
comments, when Claude finally signified his readiness to proceed, it
was just as well that a lady's panniers took up all the room in one
chair, so that custom obliged him to be carried in another.
They went up the Staircase of the Ambassadors together, in perfect
(apparent) amicability, ascended the left side of the second flight,
stopping to speak to two or three more belated couples, hurried
through the marble room at the top, and so passed into the Queen's
antechamber, in which stood half a dozen gentlemen. From the salon
beyond came a subdued murmur of conversation; and Deborah, as soon as
a servant had taken her cloak, passed into it. Claude, however, was
detained by M. de Pont-de-Vesle, who seized him by the coat-lapel.
"My dear Count--what is the world here for? Why is his Majesty in
the next room there? Why do we wait? What is the news?"
"You speak like a catechism, monsieur. How should I know the news?"
"Humph! You are--a de Mailly."
"Confessed! What does it betoken?" asked Claude, smiling.
"These rumors--that la Châteauroux is on her way back to
Versailles--are they true?"
"Am I my cousin's keeper?"
"You were."
"But am not."
"Then do you know nothing?" persisted the old fellow, disappointedly.
"Nothing, monsieur."
"_Ah, peste_! I am still in every one's boat. I, also, know
nothing. What is one to do?"
"Here is du Plessis. Ask him."
Richelieu was just entering from the salon. As the light from the
candles in the antechamber fell upon his face Claude saw the
expression, and wondered a little. It was like that of a harassed
animal who has been goaded too far. Going up to de Mailly, he seized
him by the arm, and, adroitly avoiding the importunities of the other
man, pulled him roughly to one side.
"Claude, where is the Duchess? She is late. The King is becoming
irritated at the delay. The Court knows nothing, and waits to learn.
There are all sorts of rumors. Have you seen her?"
"_Mordi_! You hurt my arm! What in the world is the matter? How
should I have seen her? Do you think--here she is."
The Duchesse de Châteauroux was at the threshold of the antechamber;
stood there, quite still, for a moment, perhaps that those within the
room might see her. She was worth looking at, attired as she was in
royal purple velvet, her neck and waist girt with diamonds, her
cheeks much rouged, but her temples as white as her powdered hair.
Her sister, Mme. de Flavacourt, a foil in white, followed at
train's-length.
"Ah, Claude!" observed Marie Anne, in a voice hoarser than usual, "I
have come to life again, you see!" She smiled, extending her hand.
Claude took it, wondering at its burning heat. There was no
opportunity for replying to her; for, the instant that she began to
move forward, the few who were in the small room pressed towards her,
eager for a first word.
"You have returned--returned to us forever?" croaked Pont-de-Vesle,
as Richelieu slipped quietly away behind him.
"Yes, yes. I am making my re-entrance before her Majesty now.
Al--allow me--to pass!"
Those who saw her suddenly gasp thought it, perhaps, excess of
emotion. She made her way through the group in a quick, uncertain,
almost tottering way. She gained the threshold of the salon, seeing
once more, with failing eyes, that room, as she had dreamed of it so
many times. All were before her--Court, Queen, King. Yes. Louis'
eyes met hers, and held them for an instant. She must begin the
advance now. But--but--this pain--this new, hideous, torturing
pain--this burning of her throat--this frightful thirst! She had
been uncomfortable for an hour past. This was unendurable.
Walking--standing--were impossible. Her clothes pressed her as
though they were of iron. The Court stood staring at her hesitation.
One or two men started forward a little as if to go to her. Suddenly
from her lips broke a harsh, guttural cry, followed by a fainter
one--"_Au secours!_" They saw her try one step. Then, as the sweat
of agony broke out, cold and dripping, over her whole body, she sank,
in a reckless heap, down upon the polished floor.