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