"Thy Glory"
Deborah lay in bed--thinking. It was two hours now since she and
Claude, with the rest of the frightened Court, had received a sharp
command from the ushers to depart instantly to their various
apartments, in the palace or out of it. That the ushers' voices were
the echo of the King's was beyond doubt; and that fact was reason
sufficient for the prompt obedience given to the bidding.
Thus Deborah, like every other witness of the evening's sensation,
had retired, to lie wide awake, and go, over and over again, through
the little chain of incidents which had passed before her eyes. Her
meditations were more involuntary, less purposive, than most,
however. The sight of a human being in great suffering had roused in
her that keen instinct which had lain nearly dormant now for so many
months. After the fall, she had been one of the first to reach the
side of Claude's cousin. She recalled the press of fluttering women
and excited men. The King himself had been obliged to force his way
to her. The Queen, supported on either side by Mesdames de Boufflers
and de Luynes, remained in her chair, making frightened, unanswered
inquiries as to the Duchess' state. And through it all madame had
lain prostrate, writhing and shuddering, in her long velvet robes.
It was finally Mirepoix, with d'Argenson, white-lipped, Maurepas,
very stern and still, and Marshal Coigny, who, at a sign from their
sovereign, lifted the woman from the floor and carried her away from
the eager, gaping throng to her own rooms. The King, having
despatched two messengers, one for Falconet, the other for Quesnay,
and having left the whispered command with the ushers, himself
departed after la Châteauroux, taking with him his usual companion in
all things, Richelieu. Hereupon followed the dispersal of the Court,
and here, later, was where the recollections and meditations of the
common courtiers ended, and only a fresh beginning could be made and
gone through, for future gossip and reference. It was different with
Deborah. Her heated brain had reflected the whole kaleidoscopic
picture in a flash, as a single impression, again, and once again.
But it was not upon small incidents, the acts or words of others,
that her later imagination halted. Instead, she was reviewing, moan
by moan, shudder by shudder, wild look and desperate closing of the
eyes, the strange illness that had so suddenly seized the woman
Claude had loved. That guttural cry, as if the throat had contracted
suddenly--the fever-flush, visible to a keen gaze beneath the
rouge--the growing dulness of the eyes that contradicted the theory
of natural fever--the incessant, useless retching--the paroxysms that
had wrung a groan of pity from Louis himself--all these,
incomprehensible to those about her, Deborah had noted. And she
found two things, two little points, which seemed to convey, as out
of some past, a shred of memory, a suggestion that she had been
witness of another such struggle--somewhere--at some time. The first
fact was that la Châteauroux, as the pain, after a second's
cessation, reattacked her with new fury, suddenly threw up her arms
and clutched, with stiffening fingers, at the air. Secondly, just
after this, a bright sweat broke out upon her forehead, and, as a
great drop rolled down her face, Deborah saw the body quiver as if
with cold.
Such things--where had she seen them before? Who was it that had
passed through her life undergoing such experience? No shadow of
grief clung about the memory. No. There had been no death, then.
Who had been with her? Carroll! Sambo! The _amanita muscaria_
pitted against the _atropa belladonna_! It had all come back now.
She had seen the symptoms of poisoning by the deadly fungus again,
here, in this France. She, even here, possessed the means of saving
life again, perhaps; if--if--if there was only time!
Simultaneously with that last thought Deborah leaped out of bed, and,
holding up her long white gown, ran swiftly through her quiet boudoir
and into the salon, which was, as usual, faintly lighted with a
night-lantern. Seizing this from the table where it stood, she
opened its door, snuffed the candle within to greater brilliancy, and
carried it over to the mantel-piece, where she set it down. An
instant more and the cabinet was open before her. Inside, in their
even rows, stood her bottles of liquids, and near them--near
them--the box of _amanita muscaria_. Deborah's eyes fell instantly
upon this object. Strangely enough, the thought had not heretofore
struck her that _she_ possessed some of these things. The blood
around her heart suddenly grew cold. Who was it that had seen them
not three days ago? Who was it that had stood beside her here, had
taken that box down from its place, and asked her about its contents?
How much had she told him about them? Had--could he-- No!
Suspicion was carrying her too far. The thing was
preposterous--impossible. Nevertheless, with a hand that shook, and
fingers numb with cold, she took down the white box. In it there had
been--ten--of the--things. Now--she must look. Could she? Her
eyes, that should have sought the box, were raised for a moment. She
saw that the room was lighter. Behind her another candle burned.
She faced about. Then, seeing some one in the doorway, Deborah's
over-wrought nerves gave way, she shuddered convulsively, dropped the
box and its contents to the floor, put both hands pitifully out
towards the figure, and swayed where she stood. Claude sprang
forward, and caught her just in time. For a moment or two she leaned
heavily upon him. Placing his light upon the mantel near the
lantern, and taking her in both arms, he carried her over to a small
sofa near the dark window. There, smoothing the tangled,
half-powdered curls back from her face and neck, and taking both the
cold hands in his to chafe warmth back to them again, he asked,
gently:
"What is it, Deborah? What is the matter? What were you doing here?"
The figure in his arms trembled and stiffened. Deborah sat up, and
then rose to her feet. Drawing one hand away from his, she put it
over her eyes. "Claude," she said, in a-low voice, "pick up for me
those--those things on the floor and put them into the box. Hunt
well--don't let any of them escape you. Then--tell me--how
many--there--are."
Claude wondered, looked at her intently for a moment, and finally
obeyed her without a word. He picked up the small black objects that
lay about the box, searching the floor carefully to get them all, and
counting them as he replaced them, with a kind of interest.
"Look well," she repeated. "As you believe--in God--do not miss a
single one!"
"They are all here."
"How many?"
"Six."
Silence followed that word; and Claude, watching his wife, could not
see that a muscle in her body moved. Nevertheless, he dared not
break the stillness. When she spoke at last, it was in a normal tone.
"Claude, we must go to the palace at once."
"Child! You are mad! What do you mean?"
"Claude, you must trust me. I know the sickness of your cousin. I
can--perhaps--save her life. Come with me now, at once."
"No."
"Claude! For the sake of mercy, you must come!"
Claude de Mailly sent towards his wife a glance that cut her like a
knife. "What do you know?" he asked.
"Everything."
"Tell me."
"No; I cannot do that. You must wait. Mme. de Châteauroux has been
poisoned. I know how--by whom--but not why. By making me wait, you
are killing her. Claude, you love her. I will save her life for
you. Do you hear? I will save the woman you love! Come!"
Claude looked about him feverishly. "I love her!" he muttered. Then
aloud he asked: "Who was it--that tried--to kill her?"
"Claude! Claude! Be still! Come with me!"
Claude de Mailly strode over to his wife's side and grasped one of
her wrists so tightly that she bit her lips with pain.
"Answer me. Who was it? What do you know?"
Deborah cast at him a look which had in it a kind of despair, but
which held neither fear nor dread. "You will be her murderer if you
delay longer. Claude, the coma will come. We shall be helpless
then. Let me go--I am going to the palace!"
Claude released her and stepped back. Something in the expression of
her clear eyes had brought him boundless relief. There was no guilt
in her face, none in her manner.
"Dress yourself. I will go!" he said, sharply; and then, after
seeing her fly away towards her room, he retreated to his own, to don
heavy cloak, hat, and rapier, for he had not yet undressed for the
night. When, after some moments, he returned to the salon, his wife,
in her heavy pélisse and hood, with muff under her arm, was standing
in front of the still open cabinet, looking at the bottles within.
At last, from among them, she took one that was half filled with
clear liquid. Fixing its cork in tightly, she slipped the flask into
her muff, and turned to Claude.
"I am ready now. How long you were!" she said.
They passed together out of their rooms, through the dark passage,
and down the stairs. It was scarcely yet midnight. The front doors
of the house were still unlocked, and the _concièrge_ was just
reflecting on bed.
"How shall we go?" whispered Deborah, as they stepped into the frozen
night.
"It may be possible to find a coach. Otherwise, we must walk."
They had gone but twenty yards up the street when, luckily enough, an
empty vehicle, which had just left a party of roystering nobles at a
gambling-house, came rattling towards them. Claude called out to the
driver, who stopped on hearing his voice.
"A louis d'or if you get us to the palace in ten minutes," cried
young de Mailly.
The coachman opened his eyes. "We shall do it in seven,
Monseigneur," he said, eagerly.
Claude opened the door and Deborah sprang in before him. There was a
snap of the whip, a plunge of the horses, and for something like the
time designated they fairly flew through the darkness, from the Rue
Royale to the Avenue de Sceaux, and down St. Miche to the Boulevard
de la Reine. When they finally crossed the second Avenue St.
Antoine, Claude drew a deep breath.
"We are nearly there," he said.
In another moment they had drawn up before the grand entrance on the
Court of Ministers.
If Claude had been wise, he would have entered the palace by the
chapel, and so avoided the guards. But this adventure was not of his
planning. Deborah's desires he could only conjecture, for she had
not spoken during the drive. Therefore, tossing the coachman his
golden coin, he helped his wife from the coach, and with her entered
the great vestibule, which was filled with Suisses and extra King's
guards. These saluted respectfully enough as the couple entered the
doorway; but, when Claude proceeded towards the staircase, a
musqueteer barred his way.
"Your order, monsieur?" he said, respectfully.
"My order? I have none!"
"It is not permitted to pass without, to-night. His Majesty's
commands, monsieur," said the man.
Claude turned to his wife. "You hear?" he said.
For answer, Deborah herself turned towards the soldier. "We may wait
here--in the vestibule?" she asked.
"Certainly, madame," answered the guard, at once moving out of the
way.
Claude and Deborah turned reluctantly and walked towards the other
side of the great vestibule. As they went Claude accosted another
member of the royal guard. "My good man, I am a cousin of Mme. de
Châteauroux. We come on a matter of the greatest importance. Will
you not permit us to ascend?"
The man stared at them keenly, with a kind of smile. "Mme. de
Châteauroux is not in the palace," said he.
Deborah looked aghast. "Not in the palace!" she murmured.
"Sh! It is the usual method. It means nothing. She is here.
Listen, Deborah; I am going to ask Michot, yonder, whom I know very
well, if you may retire to the little _chambre-à-manteaux_ to wait.
From there we can get into a passage which will take us to the little
staircase. Remain here for a moment."
Deborah watched him go towards a Suisse, who addressed him by title
as he approached. She perceived that he thrust something into the
man's hand, and, when he returned to her side, it was with relief in
his face. "That was better," he whispered. "Come now--here."
He drew her hurriedly into a narrow room off the vestibule, and from
there, three minutes later, through a small, panelled door that led
into the south wing of the palace. Here they were safely beyond the
provinces of guards; and, after passing through a long series of
dimly lighted rooms, they came presently upon a small staircase just
off what is now the _Cour de la Surintendance_. Up one flight of
these, through two deserted rooms and a short hallway at the end of
the King's state apartments, and they halted before a tapestried door.
"This is her antechamber," said Claude.
Deborah put out her hand and pushed it open. They entered. The room
was brightly lighted, but empty.
"The boudoir," muttered de Mailly. He hurried across the room to
another door, Deborah close at his heels. It was he who opened this.
As they crossed the threshold of the Persian-hung room they faced two
people, a man and a woman--Antoinette Crescot and his Grâce de
Richelieu.
"Madame!"
Claude had never heard so strange an intonation from his friend's
lips. He saw his wife start nervously and stand perfectly still,
while the King's gentleman took two or three steps backward towards
the door which led into the bedroom. Silence followed the
exclamation. Antoinette, the maid, astonished at this appearance of
the young man whom she had once known so well, together with a
companion, a woman, whom she had never seen, dared not, by reason of
her place, voice curiosity. She whom Richelieu had addressed simply
as madame remained as if petrified, her large grayish eyes burning
into Richelieu's, her face colorless, her expression inscrutable.
And the Duke's eyes shifted--a thing that no one had ever seen
before--shifted from Deborah's feet to her face, from her to Claude,
and then stared away at nothing, while his white hands were clenched,
and his graceful body stiffened. Finally, after uncomfortable
minutes, Claude lifted his hand and pointed.
"Marie Anne is there?" he asked.
Richelieu drew back yet more closely against the door. "No one--is
permitted to enter," he said, in a low, dogged voice.
His tone seemed to break the spell under which Deborah had been
standing. "I will enter!" she said, moving swiftly towards him.
Du Plessis did not stir.
"Let me pass," she whispered.
"By what right, madame? Have you his Majesty's order?"
"Let me pass!" she repeated, lower than before.
"Why?"
For answer she looked straight into his eyes; but he, though every
muscle in his body quivered, steadily held his own. Then she said,
rapidly: "I can save her life if only--there is time."
Thereupon, a little more stubbornly, a little more relentlessly, he
shrank against the door.
Deborah drew a sharp breath, and suddenly seized both his large white
wrists with her own hands. For an instant, by reason of the
suddenness of her move, it seemed as though he must yield. With an
effort he regained his equilibrium; and then all the strength which
desperation might have put into her could not have moved him one inch.
"Deborah, what are you doing?" came Claude's clear, sharp voice.
"Claude--help me!--I must pass that door. I must--I _will_ pass that
door! Help me!"
Claude gazed at his wife as though she had gone demented; and
Antoinette, also astounded, stepped forward. "Pardon, madame, but
his Majesty is in that room, together with the doctors, Mme. de
Flavacourt, and Père Ségand. Monsieur le Duc had orders to allow
none to pass to-night."
This explanation had apparently no effect upon Mme. de Mailly. For a
bare instant she turned to look at the girl, and then shook her head
impatiently. "I tell you I can save the life of Mme. de Châteauroux.
I am the only person who can do so, for only I--"
Suddenly she stopped. The door opened from the inside. Richelieu
straightened himself and stepped forward, as out of the bedroom came
a man, tall and stoutish, in square wig and loose black suit which
made him appear old. This was Quesnay. Closing the door behind him,
he stood looking in some astonishment at the new-comers. Presently
recognizing Claude, however, he bowed slightly. Claude returned the
salute; and no one stirred as the doctor crossed the room and flung
himself upon a chair with the manner of one who has made up his mind
on an important point. It was Richelieu, who, after a doubtful
glance at Deborah, asked, gently: "She is--worse?"
Quesnay hesitated. Then, with a shrug, he replied, gruffly: "She's
lost. I say so. She's lost. That fool Falconet--would continue his
insane bleedings and cuppings. He no more knows her sickness than I
do. Let her rest in peace now, say I--till the end."
Despite his abrupt phrases, there was a good deal of feeling in
Quesnay's voice; for the Duchess had been his friend. He now turned
his back on the little party, and strode over to one of the windows,
where he stood looking into the black gulf of the Court of Marble,
below. So for many minutes no one within the room spoke; no one
moved. The silence was finally broken by the reopening of the
bedroom door. This time it was Louis of France who left the bedroom
of the dying woman. He entered the boudoir with head bent, brows
knitted, one hand nervously brushing his forehead, the other hanging
limp at his side; and no one had ever before beheld the expression
that now rested upon his face. To Deborah he looked in some way more
kingly; to the rest he was more human, older, more cognizant than
before of the deep under-life of things and of people. As for him,
if he beheld the new-comers in the room, he evinced no surprise at
their presence, nor had he taken any notice of the reverent lowering
of heads as he came among them.
"Richelieu, go to the little apartments and bring back with you
Bachelier, Maurepas, and Marc Antoine d'Argenson. Speak to no others
if you can possibly avoid it. If forced, you will say that the
Duchess of Châteauroux is not in the palace."
Richelieu bowed low. Nothing could have expressed his secret terror
at leaving that room, which contained Deborah de Mailly and the King,
together--with none to prevent her speaking if she would.
Nevertheless, he departed on his errand without protest. After the
exit Louis seated himself in the chair that Quesnay had left, his
head bowed on his hands, his attitude precluding any idea of speech
on the part of any one present. Thus the four--Quesnay, Claude,
Antoinette Crescot, and Deborah--stood there for ten long minutes
about their master, like him waiting for Richelieu's return.
When the Duke re-entered the apartment, Bachelier was alone with him.
Maurepas and d'Argenson, neither of them dressed, were to follow
presently. On seeing his valet, the King beckoned the little man to
his side, whispered to him inaudibly for several seconds, and then
dismissed him on some errand. Just without, in the antechamber,
Bachelier encountered the two ministers. There was no speech between
them, but looks, in a Court, are capable of astonishing development.
When Maurepas and d'Argenson appeared in the Persian boudoir they
were prepared for many things. Neither made any sign at sight of
Claude and Deborah. The King, bowed and deeply troubled, was before
them, in his chair. After the salute there was a short silence,
which Louis, with an effort, broke:
"Gentlemen, we shall have need of you--later. Meantime you will
remain in this room. While you are here we forbid you in any way to
address any of those about you. And upon those who have, we know not
how, been admitted here, we also impose silence. Hereafter this
night must be by all of you forgotten. Any violation of my command
will mean--understand well, messieurs and mesdames--will
mean--imprisonment--for life."
With these final words the King, after glancing solemnly around the
semicircle of mute figures, rose slowly and moved towards the bedroom
door. As he opened it all behind him saw Falconet, the royal
physician, turn and face his Majesty, whispering something. Louis
started back for a second, and covered his face with his hands.
Then, turning about, he raised one hand in a summons that was
understood by all those who stood in the adjoining room. The little
party moved forward into the sleeping-chamber of her who had ruled
Versailles. Maurepas and d'Argenson stood aside for Deborah and her
husband to enter; then they followed, with Quesnay close behind.
Antoinette Crescot, waiting to be last, saw Richelieu, whose face had
grown ghastly white, falter to the threshold of the door. There he
stopped, hesitating, struggling with himself. Finally, with an
effort that cost him all that remained of his nerve force, he stepped
quickly into the bedroom and halted just inside, his back to the
wall. Antoinette, who had sent one glittering look, like a dart,
through the man in front of her, followed him into the bedroom, and
passed him, as he stopped beside the wall.
Around the great bed of the third of the de Nesle sisters stood those
who had just entered into that room, the spell of the hour, the
flickering candle-light, and the terrible scene before them weaving a
spell of slow fear about them all. The heavy velvet bed-curtains had
long ago been pulled down, to give madame air in her agony. Up near
the pillows, to the left, her face hidden in her hands, utterly
exhausted with the horror of what she had seen, knelt Mme. de
Flavacourt. At the other side was Père Ségand, the confessor, who
had administered the last sacrament two hours before. Beside him
stood Quesnay's superior, M. Falconet. Directly behind was the King,
his eyes, like those of the rest, fixed upon the face of the woman he
had loved.
Marie Anne de Mailly-Nesle lay rigid on her bed. Her golden hair,
shaken free from powder in the last four hours, framed, in shining
waves, her face. That face! Dusky, wrinkled, gray; the eyes,
half-open, catching the candle-light, and glittering, glassy black,
beneath their frozen lids; the shapeless lips, two drawn, gray lines,
from beneath the upper of which the white teeth peered forth; was
this visage that which once had been the peerless countenance of the
most superb woman of her time?* And one thing more there was, which
seemed a mark put on her by some master will to stamp the life which
she had led unmistakably on her in death. Below the left corner of
her mouth, unloosened in her life-struggles, was a black patch, cut
in the shape of a crescent, named by the Court fop who had originated
it, the "coquette."
* Description taken from a medical report of the coma produced by the
_amanita muscaria_.
And so, through these December midnight hours, the little circle
remained about that bed, gazing, in tremulous fascination, at what
lay before them. Maurepas knew, now, why they had been admitted
here. Who, ever after, would voluntarily gossip of such a scene as
this? Who would willingly recall it to memory? Prudent-wise with a
terrible wisdom was this King of theirs become! Maurepas, standing
here, recalled, even as Claude was doing, another death which had
taken place in this palace of Versailles: that of little Pauline
Félicité de Vintimille, sister of this woman, seventeen years old, a
mother, who had also left her bright world behind because of the
unhallowed infatuation of the unapproachable man who stood here
now--Louis Bourbon, King of France.
Long, endlessly long, was the train of hapless recollections called
up by this scene; and when at last a whisper fell upon the silence,
its words were an echo of other thoughts. Antoinette Crescot,
forgetting everything save the unknowable face of her former
mistress, muttered, softly, half to herself, "Is she dead?"
And in the room six, like her, waited for some reply. It came; not
from the lips of Quesnay or of Falconet, but as an articulate breath
from Deborah de Mailly, "Not yet--not yet--but soon."
Again the silence and the chilling spell, to be broken, this time, by
the voice of the little golden clock from the mantel across the room.
Two strokes rang out. The winter dawn was yet many hours away.
Then, as if she had been waiting for a sound, the corpse-like figure
on the bed suddenly, without apparent effort, sat up. The sightless
eyes opened and were turned towards him whose scene this was. Louis
shuddered under the look. Mme. de Châteauroux stretched out her gray
lips in a long, slow smile. Then, in the voice of one speaking from
the hereafter, she said, audibly, with uncanny lack of expression,
"Thou--knowest--if--I have--wished--thy--glory."
It was the end. Père Ségand caught the body as it fell, and laid it
gently upon the pillow and sheet. Then, high over her, he raised the
crucifix that hung suspended from his waist. Those in the room sank
to their knees. Mme. de Flavacourt's sobs were the only ones heard.
Minutes passed, and Deborah felt hot drops from her eyes trickle
slowly down her clasped hands and fall to the floor. Then came to
her ears the tones of a hard, monotonous voice, in which all tears
had long since been petrified to stone.
"Mesdames and messieurs--you have not witnessed the--death--of Mme.
de Châteauroux; for Mme. de Châteauroux has not been in Versailles
since the month of June. Mme. de Châteauroux died four days ago, on
the morning of the 4th of December, in Paris, at her _hôtel_ in the
Rue du Bac--of--a--malignant--fever."*
* Historians differ as to the date of the death of the Duchess of
Châteauroux. It occurred upon either the 4th or the 8th of December,
1744, how or where has never been definitely known.
It was the voice of a King; and of such was the glory of Versailles.