The House of de Mailly

She shook her head with a faint smile; but her hands were cold.

He put her light cloth cape about her, saw her tie a small hood over her powdered hair, and then he led the way into the empty hall back of the room. Down the steep flight of stairs she glided before him, stopping at last before the closed door, she less nervous than he. "You know the way? Are you not afraid?"

"The moon is up. Why should I fear?"

Without reply, he softly opened the little door, and his face was very pale as he bent over her: "You'll not fail me, Debby? I love you, dear."

She let him take her hand. Then he bent farther and kissed her swiftly on the lips, for the first time. Her eyes had looked into his for one startled instant. Afterwards—she went forth into the night.

Fairfield's heart was on fire as he watched her disappear down the garden path. Then he closed the door, breathed long and painfully, and made his way back again to the ballroom, with its throng of dancers, the candles dripping wax, the musicians mopping their brows, and Vincent Trevor and George Rockwell side by side in the doorway, looking on together. These Sir Charles approached upon his errand.

"Ah, Vincent—" with a very fair assumption of carelessness—"Deborah is gone home—that is, to Dr. Carroll's."

Vincent turned. He had been watching Mary Chase. "Deborah! Why, what for, Charlie? Surely you've not been quarrelling? She's not—"

Sir Charles laughed nervously. '"Tis nothing but a most vile headache, got from the heat of the room and too much dancing. She wouldn't have me as escort, so I—I sent one of the house-servants with her. She took no chair, saying that the walk in the fresh air would benefit her. She begs that you'll not disturb Madam Trevor till the cards are over."

"Oh, very well. I'm sorry, of course. Er—I'm engaged for the next dance. I leave Rockwell to you." And Vincent darted off abstractedly, after a lively young woman in blue satin, who seemed in no particular need of his attentions, being much absorbed in Will Paca.

"Come, Rockwell, come; we must hurry—she's gone!" whispered Fairfield agitatedly, pulling his companion's sleeve.

The rector stood still. "What the—oh! Your young one, eh? Must I come now?"

"Of course. She's waiting, I say."

Rockwell, who had not yet moved, turned on him suddenly: "Listen, Sir Charles; if you marry Deborah Travis, I marry her cousin, Lucy Trevor—you understand?"

"Deuce take it, man, marry whom you please—except Deborah. Why should I care?"

"You'll promise to take my part to-morrow against that Puritan, John Whitney?"

"Whatever you like, man. Come!"

And so the two men, one still muttering Lucy Trevor's name, the other feverishly anxious for the coming scene, passed up-stairs, and down again presently at the back, where they left the Governor's palace and the ball behind them, to follow in the footsteps of Deborah Travis, towards the ordinary of Miriam Vawse.

CHAPTER IX

The Rector, the Count, and Sir Charles

The day of the Governor's ball had been a dismal one for Claude. The few people whom he knew in the town were all agog over the prospect of the evening; and, since Governor Bladen had not heard of the residence of the Count de Mailly within his territory, the Count had very naturally received no invitation to the festivities. The hot day did not tempt Claude from his lodging. He stayed alone in his room, and in the evening, after a solitary walk, returned to it again, turning over an idea which had been growing on him for a week—that of leaving Annapolis. After all, its people were nothing to him. He would move on, as he should have done long before; and the girl, Deborah Travis, should occupy his thoughts no more. So thinking, with half his mind across the world, and his heart, did he but know it, all here, Claude sat, watching the hours, dreaming, as Fate had him do, from dusk into midnight with her moon and stars.

Down-stairs, in the common room of the peaceful ordinary, Miriam Vawse also kept a troubled watch, for the part that she was to play in the approaching scene began to appear to her as very doubtful in wisdom. As she sat alone in the warm night, beside her flickering candles, with the hours running relentlessly along, fear began to take possession of her. Half-past eleven struck from the steeple of St. Anne's. The moon was making the whole night luminous. Up Charles Street, presently, a flying shadow came, a dark, wavering thing, in round hood, flapping cape, and long, light, ruffled petticoats held up for running about two slender ankles. To the threshold of the tavern door the shadow passed, and there it halted. Claude, in his window above, saw and wondered, but did not stir.

There was a half inaudible tap upon her door. Miriam started and hearkened, half believing it her own nerves. Again the tap, more faintly than before; but now good Miriam ran to open the door.

"Good lack! Thou'rt come then, Debby!"

The hooded figure glided in and moved to the table, panting with the effects of the long run.

"Sit down—I will fetch some cordial."

Deborah sank into a chair, threw off hood and cape, and lifted a flushed face. When Miriam came to her with a cup of strong waters, she drank gratefully, and presently her expression softened to a smile.

"I'm here! I'm here! Think of it, Miriam!"

"And you'll leave my door again Lady Fairfield! Oh, Debby, Debby, is it right? Art sure I've done no wrong?"

"Oh, if there's any wrong, Miriam, 'tis mine." She was still for a moment, and then remarked: "Cousin Virginia was to marry him."

"I know. Madam told me long since."

"But he only asked for her two days ago—that is, madam and Vincent made him. And then—and then—"

"Then he told you," put in Miriam, glowing with romance.

"But where can he be? He was to come directly. He vowed he'd be here at once with George Rockwell. Oh, Miriam! If he shouldn't come!"

"Lord! How can you think of such things!" cried Mistress Vawse, hurrying to the window. Deborah followed her nervously.

"I'm sure he'll not come!" she cried, in sudden despair.

"He'll come. He'll come. Now sit down again quietly. There. That's comfortable. And so you love him dearly. How long has it been? All the summer? D'ye know, Debby, once I thought 'twasn't Sir Charles. I didn't know. I thought 'twas him."

Mistress Vawse swept her thumb mysteriously upward towards the stairs. Suddenly into Deborah's cheeks rose two vivid spots of color. She made no answer to the woman's questions. But, indeed, there was not time now. Footsteps were halting at the threshold, and there came a light, masculine tap at the door. Miriam flew to open it. Deborah rose unsteadily. Fairfield and Rockwell together entered the room.

Sir Charles went quickly to the girl's side, while the rector stayed behind to say a few words to Mistress Vawse, who was an ardent parishioner of his. Deborah remained passive as her lover caressingly lifted her hand to his lips, and looked at her with deep-seated feeling.

"Miss Travis, permit me to salute you for the second time this evening, and to congratulate you upon such a prospect of romantic happiness as is now opening to your vision," remarked Rockwell, with his most Johnsonian air, as he came forward.

"Since it is in your power alone to bestow that happiness, George, let us, for God's sake, be about it!" exclaimed Fairfield, in a passionately low voice.

Three members, at least, of the little party were growing extremely nervous. Deborah's courage, which had borne her in perfect quiet so far, was beginning to falter. Sir Charles was unreasonably fearful of some interruption. Miriam Vawse was in the same plight, her eyes being fixed continually on the fast-barred door. Rockwell alone was quite at his ease.

"Now then, Mistress Vawse, another candle or two. Charles will stand the expense; for I vow I must have light enough to tell the lady from her husband."

Deborah quivered at the last word, which, indeed, Rockwell had thrown at her.

There was a dead silence as Miriam placed three more candles on the table, and lit them at the flame of the first. Then the clergyman took from one of the pockets of his coat the prayer-book, and motioned the two to move back a little towards the empty fireplace. Deborah's heart had almost stopped beating, and her throat was so strained that she could not have spoken a word. Sir Charles, taking her arm, gently drew her to his side, and looked to Rockwell, who stood in front of them. He began to speak softly, omitting not a word of the service, even the address to the people assembled, now solely represented by Mistress Vawse, who was supporting herself against the table.

"'Dearly beloved, we are gathered here together in the sight of God—'"

"Oh!" cried Sir Charles, with a sudden start, "we were to have had another fellow—a witness—that de Mailly—don't you know, George?"

"I am here," came in a low tone from the stairs.

"Lord!" cried Mistress Vawse, on the verge of collapse. Four pairs of startled eyes were lifted to where Claude, who had heard the sound of voices in his room and started to come down to learn more of the midnight arrivals, had halted in his descent, Rockwell's words in his ears.

After the sharp pause, the rector was first to speak: "Well, now that he's here, we'll go on. Come down, sir, and be witness to this marriage."

Claude was very white as he replied, with his slight accent: "I will remain here. I can see and hear quite perfectly, if I am necessary."

"Go on, then! Go on!" cried Sir Charles, wiping his brow.

"'—and in the face of this company to join together this man and—'"

"No—no—stop!"

In amazement, Rockwell obeyed the huskily whispered command. It was from Deborah, and Deborah now, her cheeks feverishly flushed, eyes brilliant, lips parted, and breath quickened, moved, as if drawn by magnetism, from Fairfield's side to the stairs. After a moment of confused silence, Fairfield said, with unnatural calm:

"What is it, Deborah? Come back."

"No."

"Come back."

"No."

"Don't you understand? What is the matter? What are you doing?"

"I—I'll not marry you."

"Deborah!"

After that cry from Fairfield there was silence. The rector, Sir Charles, and Miriam Vawse stood as if petrified, staring at the girl, who faced them with quiet, dogged resolution written in her face. Claude, from the stairs, looked down upon her, scarcely surprised, perhaps, but with a very gentle light in his eyes. His deliberate descent into the room was the first move made by any one. Going over to Rockwell's side, he laid a finger on the clergyman's arm:

"This wedding—it is—what you call—legal?"

"Perfectly!" snapped Rockwell, in anger.

"There's no license," remarked Deborah, slowly.

"Indeed, Miss Travis, I protest—it isn't necessary. This is perfectly legal. It is customary—quite customary. You will have the oaths of two witnesses; though, indeed, with Sir Charles's honor, those are not needed. Let us go on at once."

"Sure you must go on now, Miss Debby. Think of the time o' night!"

"Come—come, child," and Fairfield started towards her, with a little gleam of anger in his eyes.

Deborah shrank back against the stairs; but, lo! with an adroit movement, Claude was at her side, with evident intention of interposing.

"You shall not use force," he remarked, quietly.

"— — you! You French hound! Out of my way! I'll have you know your place!"

"I am aware of my place, Sir Charles Fairfield." He stepped quickly in front of Deborah. "If this lady is forced into any action contrary to her desire, it shall be because my sword is broken."

There was barely a second's pause, then came a little whipping sound as two blades were drawn. Claude sprang on guard as Fairfield lunged. There was a flash of steel. The Frenchman made the riposte, and his sword just pierced the white ruffled shirt of his opponent, breaking the skin. The lieutenant paid no attention to it. De Mailly returned into tierce, and parried the second attack with immaculate grace. Rockwell, his eyes wide with interest, dropped his book and came over to watch the duel. It did not endure, however. After Sir Charles' third unsuccessful attempt to break the French guard, he felt his sword-blade seized, lifted, and himself pushed back. Claude's blade dropped. Deborah had taken command of the situation. Drawing Sir Charles' sword out of his passive hand, she gave it to Miriam Vawse, who had sunk into a chair, on the verge of hysteria. In helpless amazement she received the rapier, finding strength nevertheless to rise and go with it towards the stairs as Deborah spoke to her in whispered imperative. Presently, then, Deborah was alone with the rector, the Count, and Sir Charles. All three paid tribute to her supremacy with expectant silence. Fairfield was sunk in desperate dejection, Rockwell merely amazed, Claude mentally reeling, for the horizon of his life was changed. It was a blank no longer. Many things were taking shape upon it. He was prepared, when Deborah took two or three hesitating steps towards him, and said, in a half-whisper:

"I must go back—to Dr. Carroll's. Will you—take me?"

With a glad light in his face, he came at once to her side. "I thank you, mademoiselle, for the honor you offer me. My life is yours."

"Let us go, then," she said, her voice low and trembling dangerously.

Suddenly Charles Fairfield rushed forward and, seizing both her hands, fell upon his knees. "Deborah! Deborah! Deborah! I love you! In the name of God Almighty, give me some hope! I meant everything honestly—honorably—do you hear? The marriage would have been legal. Rockwell will swear that to you. What right have you—Debby! Debby, you promised! Is it true that you don't care?"

Deborah drew away from him as far as she could. Her face was drawn and weary, and no light in her eyes answered his entreaties. Claude, who had watched her narrowly, now interposed. Grasping the other's hands, he forced them, with a single twist, from Deborah's helpless ones, and then, with that kind of brute strength that comes to all men at times, he lifted the Englishman bodily to his feet, thrust him back, took Deborah gently about the waist, and carried her to the door. Opening it, he turned around. Miriam Vawse, from the stairway, saw his face as she had never beheld it before, white, set, triumphant, his greenish eyes blazing like jewels as he cried out to Fairfield, who was stiff with fury:

"We will meet—where you like, when you like, how you like, but not in the presence of ladies, monsieur."

The door closed, and Claude and Deborah were alone together in the still, white moonlight. She walked herself, now, only clinging fast to his arm, and trembling with the strain of the long evening. They were half-way to the doctor's before either spoke. Then Deborah whispered, just audibly:

"You must not fight—for me. I am not worthy."

"I have fought for far slighter things than this. But do not be alarmed. There will not be much blood shed."

Deborah shuddered, but was silent. She longed unutterably to try to justify herself to this man, to explain the reason for her behavior; and, as if divining her thought, he presently asked, quietly:

"How, mademoiselle, did you come to do this thing? Do you love this Sir Charles? Did you think of the imprudence?"

Suddenly all thoughts but one fled from her. This one she voiced with quick eagerness: "I do not love Sir Charles! Indeed—indeed—believe me—I do not love him."

Instinctively Claude's arm tightened upon hers, but he said no more. He was too chivalrous a man to take any advantage of the time, the place, and their solitude. Deborah waited vainly for a word from him. When at last they stood at the doctor's gate, she whispered:

"I'll go in alone. I—can't thank you to-night. Good-bye."

One hand of hers he took, and the moonlight and the woodbine kissed each other as he touched it to his lips.

"Good-night," he said. And then, without more, he let her go, saw her pass up to the door, in her pale dress and light cloak, with hooded head bent low. He heard her knock, and presently saw the door opened by a sleepy servant. Then he turned away, back towards the tavern of Miriam Vawse.

Deborah felt no nervousness on entering the doctor's house. It had not occurred to her to dread lest the family had returned from the ball. In point of fact, the last reel was, at this moment, just beginning at the palace. The doctor's slave, therefore, received the young lady in dull surprise.

"I had a headache, Jeremiah," she explained, faintly. "I came home—with one of the Governor's house-blacks. Where's the candle?"

"Heah, Miss Travis. Yo' want su'th'n t' eat, p'haps?"

"Oh yes, yes, Jerry. Send Leah up with a cup of posset and some bread. That's all."

"Yes'm. Lor! Yo' done got headache fo' shuah!" he muttered, watching the candle that she held shake so that the flame was endangered, as she passed up the stairs to bed.

CHAPTER X

Puritan and Courtier

"What time was it when you reached home last night, Deborah?" asked Madam Trevor.

The doctor, his sisters, and their guests were seated at a very late breakfast, of which extremely little was being eaten.

Deborah looked uncomfortable at the bald directness of the question. Being under no suspicious eye, however, she dropped an hour, and was able to reply, with some nonchalance: "About twelve, I believe, madam. Really—my head—I'm not quite certain about the time."

Lucy nodded sympathetically: "Indeed, Debby, if your head then was like mine now—"

"You will not complain of your health in this manner, before us all. It is most unladylike!" said Madam Trevor, sharply.

Lucy quivered and shrank into silence. She was in the highest disfavor with her mother this morning, and only too well did she know why. Aching head or not, there was an ordeal ahead of her for the afternoon, to endure which she was inwardly praying for strength, but over which she was in reality desperate. If Rockwell appeared at the plantation, as he had vowed to do, with Madam Trevor still in this morning's mood, poor Lucy knew that John Whitney's fate and hers hung in a hopeless balance. And there was no one to whom she could look for help. Virginia and Deborah would be very kind, but neither of them could bring any opposition to her mother's intention. Of Vincent she did not think at all. Had she done so, it would have been merely to add a new despair; for to consider Vincent as her ally against his mother was impossible on the face of it. So little Lucy reasoned, dolefully, through the meal, till her attention was caught by Vincent's question:

"Where's Charles, doctor—Fairfield, I mean? I haven't seen him since we were dancing last night."

"Sir Charles is not in the house," replied the doctor, with a quick glance at Virginia, whose face was perfectly passive.

"Not in the house! Why—what has happened?"

"Oh, very little, I fancy. Last night, as we came up Church Street, I saw him with Rockwell at the door of the 'Three Blue Balls.' He was probably about to celebrate his happiness. Young men, you know."

Vincent's face grew dark. "Pretty ways for Rockwell," he muttered; and St. Quentin, whose eye was upon him, nodded slightly.

Lucy took sudden heart, but was wise enough not to look up till her mother, much displeased, rose from the table, and so ended the meal.

"Mistress Lettice, we will not trespass longer on your hospitality, for which we are vastly indebted. I have ordered the coach for eleven. You, Vincent, at least, will ride with us?"

Her son bowed courteously, and presently disappeared into the doctor's study, where he took the liberty of making use of his host's desk for a few moments. Upon finishing his note he carried it out to the deserted dining-room, where Jeremiah was clearing the table.

"Jerry, can you do an errand for me this morning—no, at once?"

"Fo' shuah, Mist' Trev', if Doc' Ca'l 'll let me go."

"I'll explain that I sent you off. Here's a note to be taken round to the cottage that Mr. John Whitney lives in. He's a Puritan parson. His house is just on the other side of the Gloucester Street bridge. Give him this note, Jerry, and here's a shilling for some extra tobacco, if you get it to him by eleven o'clock. Understand?"

"Ye-ah! He'll get it 's mo'n fo' shuah. Thanks, Mist' Trev'."

Showing all his glistening teeth, the negro pocketed the coin, which no slave was supposed to possess, and, leaving his work unfinished, departed at once on the very welcome errand which served to let him out of the house for an hour into the August sunshine.

Vincent found the doctor in the hall, and lightly touched his arm: "I have sent your black, Jerry, on an errand, Carroll. It was important, or I shouldn't have presumed. You'll pardon me?"

"My dear Vincent, while you are with me my house is yours. Don't speak of it. So soon, madam? This is a niggardly visit, I vow!"

Carroll hurried forward as Madam Trevor entered the hall. She had just come down, the three young women behind her, each carrying a package containing her party finery and night garments. The coach and Vincent's riding-horse were already at the door. After a chorus of farewells and acknowledgments of hospitality, the ladies were finally settled in the roomy vehicle, which set off in a whirl of dust down Gloucester Street. On their way through the town they passed the door of the "Blue Balls" tavern, and madam bit her lip.

"Virginia, be assured that I shall speak to Charles when he returns. It is disgraceful, it is abominable, this behavior on the very night of his engagement to you. You may be certain that it shall not go unnoticed."

For an instant Virginia's lip curled scornfully. Then all the former indifference came back again to her face. She made no reply to her mother's words, but, as they continued on their way, some other train of thought brought a new expression to her fine features—an expression of resigned sorrow, of hidden suffering, of strong repression, that her mother did not see, and could not have read even had she noticed it. The rest of the drive was silent. Madam Trevor, seated beside Virginia, was very firm of lip, very straight of shoulder, very immovable as to hands. Lucy and Deborah, on the opposite side of the coach, had no desire to indulge in the usual ball reminiscences common to young girls. One of them was anxious-eyed and pale with foreboding; the other sat motionless, eyes closed, face unreadable, but enduring such inward tumult as none, seeing her, could have conceived.

At three o'clock in the afternoon of that same Thursday a man on foot crossed the narrow bridge over the inlet at the end of Prince George Street, and started up the country road that led along the left bank of the Severn. The day was intensely hot, the white dust inches deep, and what wind blew at all was from the west, a mere breath of parching grass and thirsting prairie lands. The man, however, was not thinking of heat. His face showed very plainly that his mind was some distance away, and that it was fixed on a subject of deep import to him. His prim black suit grew gray with sand, his immaculate queue flopped limply on his shoulder, his face was damp with perspiration, his very eyebrows were ruffled by the vigorous mopping which he now and then gave his forehead. Nevertheless, oblivious of discomfort, John Whitney plodded on his way towards the Trevor plantation, his eyes on the road, his hope in the clouds. For the first time he was treading this well-known path with an untroubled conscience. He was going to Lucy openly, not even of his own planning, but at the request of Lucy's brother, whose courteous note of invitation lay hot under his vest, next to the homespun linen shirt which it was his pleasure to wear.

Whitney was within five minutes of his destination, already visible above the trees round the little bend in the shore, when the sound of wheels rapidly approaching from behind him caused him hastily to mount the bank at the side of the road. A calèche, drawn by two horses and containing a man garbed in shining pink satin, flashed by in a whirl of dust, and presently turned in at the road leading to the Trevor house. Whitney pursed his lips, stared a little, and moved on again.

Claude, in his court costume and hired vehicle, stopping at the door of Deborah's home, found Jim, the stable-boy, white-eyed and open-mouthed with amazement at his dress, waiting to receive him and to fetch water for the horses.

"I am seeking Mr. Trevor—and—madame," said Claude, on the step of the portico.

"Yes, sah; ef you'll walk right in, sah—dey's right—"

"M. de Mailly! You honor us, sir!" Vincent, who had witnessed the arrival, appeared from the hall and came hastily out to meet his guest. His astonishment at such a costume as he had never before, even in England, beheld, was, perhaps, visible in his face; but if Claude perceived it he said nothing.

"Come inside, will you not? The heat is great to-day. We—Rockwell is here," explained the host, in a slightly disconcerted tone. He was expecting another visitor, and de Mailly's arrival was ill-timed.

"Thank you," responded Claude, still suavely oblivious, and flicking some dust from his sleeve with an enormous lace-bordered handkerchief.

Side by side they entered the hall, wherein, all very stiff as to appearance, and even more uncomfortable in expression, sat Madam Trevor, Lucy, Virginia, and George Rockwell. There was the usual series of salutations, followed by a pause so heavy, so unbreakable, that Claude flushed. He glanced at the rector, to find that gentleman glaring at him with a mixture of intense apprehension and extreme anger. Madam Trevor looked infinitely annoyed, and her lips were firmly set. Lucy, dull, mute, motionless, was pathetically hopeless. Finally, Virginia, with a kind of dry humor, set herself to save the situation.

"Perhaps, M. de Mailly," she said, "you come as suitor for my sister Lucy's hand?"

Claude turned to her quickly: "I have not that honor, Miss Trevor. I had, indeed, understood that your sister was already—um—bespoken. I came to ask of Mr. Trevor that I may pay my addresses to Miss Travis."

"Deborah!" cried both Lucy and her mother.

Rockwell breathed, a sweat broke gently upon his brow, and all danger of spontaneous combustion was happily at an end.

"Deborah, madame," repeated Claude, quietly.

At the same moment a dusty figure ascended the portico steps and came presently into the hall. At sight of him Lucy grew pink, Rockwell purple, and Virginia Trevor very white. Madam bridled as she saw her son grasp the "Puritan" cordially by the hand, and Claude glanced rapidly over the face and figure, which were not unlike his own.

John Whitney looked measuredly round the circle, greeted his rival with perfect imperturbability, sent a long glance into Lucy's eyes, and profoundly saluted Madam Trevor, who returned the bow with the barest inclination of her head. Then Vincent spoke:

"M. de Mailly, let me make you known to the Reverend Mr. Whitney, of Boston. Gentlemen, you are here on like errands. 'Tis a curious thing. Perhaps—it were as well to settle all, here, at once."

"I protest, sir!" cried Rockwell, jumping up. "The present matter lies between Mistress Lucy, Master Whitney, and myself. I vow no stranger shall be in it!"

"The Count de Mailly is no stranger, sir!" returned Vincent. "He has announced his intention, without hesitancy, before you. I see no objection to his learning that you and that gentleman are rivals for the hand of my sister Lucy, and that you are here to-day in order that the affair be decided once for all."

"I cannot see any necessity for discussion, Vincent. Lucy is promised to Mr. Rockwell. Mr.—Whitney has nothing to do with the affair," observed Madam Trevor, rather insolently.

The controversy being now open, Claude was, for the moment, forgotten.

"Madam, I crave pardon, but Mr. Whitney has just this to do with the matter. It appears, from all I have heard, that Lucy herself does not care for Mr. Rockwell as she should care for the man she marries. Also—I believe—she does so care for Mr. Whitney."

"Let me ask, Mr. Whitney, what means you have at your disposal for this young lady's support? How many slaves have you? How—

"I have no slaves at all, Mr. Rockwell, being a Christian!" retorted Whitney, forgetting himself for an instant. Then, after an ominous little pause, he remarked, in another tone: "I crave your pardon. I have one hundred pounds a year from my parish, and something laid by. It is quite true that I cannot give Mistress Lucy a home like this; but I will engage to keep her always housed from God's weather, well shielded from cold, and with enough to eat—if not of the finest, at least of such as should satisfy her, provided it be served with the sauce of sweet content. Moreover—I will take no dower with my wife."

At this last Claude opened his eyes widely, Rockwell looked put out, and Madam Trevor glanced at the speaker with a new expression.

Vincent, turning from the Puritan with the barest smile at his earnestness, addressed his rival: "And you, George Rockwell—what have you?"

Rockwell cleared his throat, and rose as if he were to speak from the pulpit: "My income from St. Anne's is, I confess without mortification, no greater than that which this gentleman—um—ah—has just said to be his portion from the meeting-house. My fees and perquisites as Church of England clergyman, however, make the sum far larger annually. I think also that you, madam, and Mistress Lucy, will recognize the difference between the—to speak gently—the somewhat humble abode of Mr. Whitney and the rectory which I myself have the honor to occupy, and where I am accustomed to entertain his excellency himself."

"Pardon me, sir, but could you indeed imagine that, after my marriage, I should not instantly remove to an abode more suited than my present one to a lady's convenience? Do you imagine—"

"You interrupt, sir. I make no observations on what your conduct will be. I am only aware of what it is."

"It is, sir, so far as I am aware, irreproachable!"

"Come, come, gentlemen," interposed Vincent, in some displeasure, "we wander from the subject. You—a—have not spoken of dower, Rockwell. Of course, my sister, being of our family, would not lack suitable outfit and settlement on entering a new estate. Still—"

"I was sure," interrupted Rockwell, hastily, for the point was delicate—"I was sure that you would regard it as well—nay, might as a pride consider it indispensable, Vincent, that—"

"Stop! Let me go away." Lucy had risen, quivering, to her feet, her mild eyes blazing, her voice low and unnatural. "I will not be bargained for, bought and sold, as slaves or horses are. Vincent, you have insulted me by permitting such a scene. And you—" turning to Whitney and Rockwell—"you are heartless and soulless. Love! What do you know of that?"

She turned, with Virginia at her side, and, not looking again at any one in the room, swept away towards the west wing. As her daughter departed, Madam Trevor rose undecidedly, then reseated herself, with a new and firm intention of having more to say in the forthcoming battle than she had had heretofore. Three of the men, Vincent and the rivals, were staring at each other, Whitney and Trevor in mortification, Rockwell merely in surprise.

"Egad!" murmured Vincent, softly, "the little girl was right."

"I apologize to you, Mr. Trevor, and to Mistress Lucy, for my utterly thoughtless and discourteous behavior," cried Whitney. "Indeed, I was thoughtless and unfeeling. I most painfully acknowledge that your sister's anger became the situation."

"Oh—the lady was piqued, sir, at your lack of worldly goods," observed Rockwell, with a grin of ingenuous conceit.

Claude regarded the man with languid disgust. Vincent flushed angrily, and Madam Trevor rose.

"We waste time, gentlemen," she said. "It is perfectly fitting that these matters should form part of the discussion. For my part, Mr. Rockwell, I am entirely with you. I wish my daughter to marry you, since I believe you competent of caring for her as should be. As to the settlements, of course—"

"Pardon me, madam, but this is quite useless," interrupted Vincent, coming forward, with the light of sudden resolve in his eyes. "You are aware that once before this matter has been most unsatisfactorily decided in this way. My sister has continually denied your statement that she was affianced to Mr. Rockwell, and I have been led to believe that it was through her attachment to Mr. Whitney, who some time since honorably professed to me his love for her. As legal head of this house, then, I cannot feel it otherwise than just to insist that my sister herself, and none other, shall choose between these two; and I now say that it shall be entirely without consideration of dower, settlement, or—perquisite. Further, I maintain that, if Lucy choose to reject both of these gentlemen, of her own free will, she shall thereafter be housed and protected under my roof till she find some one to her taste, or till she die here unmarried."

"Well spoken, sir!" cried Whitney, bravely, while Madam Trevor stood aghast, and Claude, intensely interested in the scene, deliberatively crossed the room and sat down with his back to the wall.

"You mean to inform me that my authority is at naught in this household?" inquired Madam Trevor, hoarse with excitement and anger.

"I am thinking only of Lucy's happiness," returned her son, gently. "She must be called to come back."

"I, certainly, shall not remain to witness this scene."

"Gentlemen, excuse me for one instant. I will summon my sister."

Vincent left the room; but, in spite of herself, his mother stayed. She was too deeply interested to go; and, despite her traditions, Lucy's happiness was really quite as dear to her as to her son. Claude, from behind the others, philosophized a little in the silence. How differently had such a scene been conducted in his country! There would have been no argument, no difficulty. Above all, Lucy herself would have been the last person to be consulted. Rockwell, for his means and position, would certainly have been chosen; and, if it were a Court affair, Whitney might have become her general escort afterwards. Claude sighed. This colonial boorishness produced far better results. Ethics here were regarded with some degree of blind appreciation. In his own country it was not so. A second sigh was in his heart when Lucy, preceded by her brother, re-entered the room.

There was still perfect silence. Near the doorway the young girl paused. She was pale and red-eyed, but steady of manner. The two clergymen, side by side, faced her, with Vincent to the right, and his mother upon the left. Claude, quite forgotten, still looked on from the opposite wall.

"Lucy, I have brought you back here that you yourself may make choice between these men. Let me now, then, entreat you, most earnestly, to consider, to decide not hastily, but as in heart and mind you deem wisest. Love is not always all. Respect—firmness—wisdom—ability to protect—these are as strong. I place confidence in you, Lucy; and, in return, I ask sincerity from you. We will wait as long as you will. Choose."

During his words Lucy had looked earnestly at her brother. Now, however, her eyes fell. A delicate smile broke over her face, and when finally she looked up it was to encounter the eyes of John Whitney, who was regarding her with a look of such mingled love, fear, and longing, that she would not torture him by suspense. Gently she extended one hand, one arm to him, while her lips smiled "Come," and her face grew beautiful with the love-light in it.

He went, never heeding the rest, no longer aware, perhaps, that they were by. And, as he clasped her in his strong, young, Puritan arms, Claude looked courteously out o' window, but Madam Trevor, with a curious dryness in her throat, turned suddenly away.

As to Rockwell, he left the house very quietly, with just what feeling in his heart no one ever knew.

Then Vincent, all at once perceiving Claude, and remembering his pink satin errand, took him quietly by the arm, and led him into the parlor, Madam Trevor following them. The three sat down in the stiff little apartment, the closed door shutting the two in the hall from their sight. Claude's hour of patience was ended. His time had come now, and he was astonished to find himself nervous.

"I must, sir, crave your indulgence for my seeming discourtesy in keeping you waiting so long. However, as you have been a witness of the affair which detained me, you may perhaps be lenient with my rudeness."

Claude made a proper rejoinder. He was but half conscious of what he said, but most vigorously aware that Madam Trevor's eyes were travelling rapidly over his costume.

"You have already announced, monsieur, the surprising nature of your errand, and I presume that you now desire to discuss it with us."

Inwardly, Claude smiled at the words. They struck him as being very absurd, though, according to prevailing English notions, they were excellently chosen.

"I love your cousin, Mistress Deborah Travis, Mr. Trevor, and I am come to you to request permission to—address her on the subject of marriage. I am a stranger in your colony. I have no friends who know my family and estate. I have brought with me such papers as I possess, such as can in any way speak for the assurance of my birth, and them, and my word as a gentleman, I must ask you to believe."

Vincent was silent for some moments, considering; while Claude drew from one of his side pockets a little, flat parcel of papers, and sat nervously fingering them. It was Madam Trevor, who, after she had once more minutely examined him, from his bag-wig to his red-heeled shoes, voiced Vincent's wish:

"Will you, sir, be so vastly obliging as to tell us, in your own manner, your title, estate, lineage, and means of livelihood? I am sure, sir, that common prudence and the ardent desire for the welfare of my ward will seem to you adequate reason for such a request, and that you will have no hesitation in being perfectly frank with us."

Whatever the reason, madam's manner was as suavely gracious during this speech as Vincent could have wished, and he, therefore, did not add to it, but, expressing his approval with a slight nod, was expectantly silent as Claude began:

"My name, Madam Trevor, is Claude Vincent Armand Victor Anne de Nesle, Comte de Mailly. I am of the younger branch of the family Mailly-Nesle, my father having been the second son of Victor Armand Henri Claude, who died in the year ninety of the last century. My estates, which are in Languedoc, in the south of France, provide me with sufficient rental to maintain me comfortably at Versailles, where I have resided for many years. The elder branch of my family, which takes the title of Marquis de Mailly-Nesle, is well known and of high position at Court. Seven months ago I fell into disfavor because of my desire that a cousin of mine should—wed a gentleman of whom—his Majesty did not approve. I was requested to leave Versailles for the time, and so, determining to travel, I came first to the colonies; and how I have lived here you know. I should be—free to return to Court if—if Mistress Travis, should she accept me, would care to go thither. To be frank, I am myself a little homesick for my country. I should like to go home."

Claude stopped, having wandered too far in his explanation. He saw Madam Trevor regarding him blankly, and he read suspicion in Vincent's face.

"It is—pardon me, sir—an unusual story. Do they exile men in France for having opinions concerning a cousin's marriage?"

"So it would appear, from my case," returned Claude, dryly.

"Again pardon me—but—have you a document of exile with you?"

Claude hesitated. The last sentence in that royal letter was the most awkward possible thing for a man who wished, in all sincerity, to marry. Long he studied young Trevor's face, and he saw the distrust therein growing with every instant. At last, with an imperceptible shrug, and a sigh, he took from his other pocket the small, worn paper with its red-brown seals that he had read to Deborah.

"It is in French, monsieur. You doubtless read it?"

Vincent took the paper scornfully, and began its perusal with a facility due to intercourse with Aimé St. Quentin. When he finished it, his mother held out her hand for the letter, and, as she read, Vincent, looking squarely into the other's eyes, said, slowly:

"You, monsieur, were the gentleman of whose marriage with your cousin the King did not approve?"

Claude, returning the look eye for eye, bowed.

"And who is this cousin?"

"The Duchesse de Châteauroux."

"Good Heaven!"

Madam Trevor, her face suddenly all alight, was looking at the young fellow in amazement—and something else. Could the other be admiration?

"Your cousin is—the—the—"

Claude nodded.

Silence.

It lasted for a long time. De Mailly felt his cause to be growing desperate. He did not understand. Morals, which were stanch in so far as Episcopal rectorship and five hundred a year were concerned, were nevertheless to be differently regarded in the presence of a courtier Count and cousinship to an almost queen, It was again Madam Trevor who finally ejaculated, from her whirling chaos of thoughts and plans:

"Deborah shall be fetched at once. Vincent, you will arrange the settlements."

Claude started with astonishment, and young Trevor rose:

"M. de Mailly, you may speak to Deborah. She has free choice—as did Lucy. She is now—in the rose-garden, I think."

Claude sprang to his feet and moved forward a pace or two, looking easily from one to the other of Deborah's guardians. He could not refrain from taking snuff, nor, having finished, from remarking, slowly:

"I shall certainly, Madame and Monsieur Trevor, endeavor to show myself worthy of the trust which you so readily place in me."

Thereupon, with two very polite bows, he left the parlor, alone. On entering the hall he was greeted by the sound of pawing hoofs, a negro's voice, and the steps of two men on the portico. The half-closed door was flung wide open, and Benedict Calvert, with Fairfield at his heels, entered the house. Claude stopped and turned to them.

"The devil!" said Sir Charles, his brows growing heavy.

"Monsieur, your eyes deceive you," responded de Mailly, pleasantly.

Calvert laughed.

"What's your business here?" demanded Fairfield in an ugly voice. He had been in no pleasant humor on his ride, a fact explained by his red eyes, pallid face, and slouching dress; and the unexpected presence of Claude was not calculated to render him better-natured.

"My business here, Sir Charles, concerns myself. However, if you are curious, I am about to offer myself to your cousin, Miss Travis."

Claude spoke with muscles tense, prepared to evade a sword thrust, for he himself wore no rapier to-day. To his amazement, his words for a moment produced no effect whatever on his quondam rival. Then, suddenly, while Calvert gazed at his comrade, Fairfield burst into a laugh. It was not a pleasant laugh, but it served its turn.

"What a household 'twill be! You and Deb, I and Virginia, Lou and her Puritan parson—for whom Benedict's come to plead. A fine match-maker y'are, Calvert. Why, monsieur, if 't'adn't been for him," pointing to the dark-browed ex-commissioner, "I would ha' called you out. As 'tis now, I'll—marry in a week, and be off for God's country, the Mall, St. Paul's, and White's as soon as a vessel will sail; and be damned to the colonies!"

"Hush, Charlie! Get to your room," whispered Calvert, laying a quiet hand on Fairfield's arm.

"I wish you good-afternoon, messieurs," added Claude, bowing.

Fairfield leered at him, with a glint of desperation in his eyes, and started off to the west wing, with Benedict Calvert at his elbow, while Claude de Mailly, musing gently, passed out into the golden mist of early twilight, on his way to the rose-garden and Deborah.

CHAPTER XI

Distant Versailles

He walked, quite leisurely, over the turf beside the house, past the western wing, towards the terraces that led into the garden. The sunset faced him in a blinding, hazy radiance. At the top of the little flight of white steps he paused. Silence, perfect, lonely, was all about, undisturbed by the bird-notes from the woods, or the murmurous lapping of the river along its bank. Once or twice he breathed, long and deeply, delighted with the pure fragrance of the air. Then, without haste, he passed down into the garden. What a chaotic mass of color it was! All the common garden flowers, perennials and exotics, were at his feet; clove-pinks, sweet-williams, marigolds, blue iris, candy-tuft, corn-flowers, purple-stock, cyanus, carnations, poppies, balsam, fragrant herbs innumerable, the last sweet-pease, pansies and dahlias—all in a disorderly tangle of glory. But beyond these bourgeoisie of the flowers, in statelier rows, with only here and there a blossom in their dark and lustrous foliage, was the noblesse, the court of the flowers—the rose-garden. In the midst of this, upon a little rustic seat against the northern wall, in a tumbled, forlorn heap, her face hidden in her arm, her unkempt curls all loose upon her neck, lay Deborah—poor Deborah, whose little colonial world had crumbled about her, and left her alone, wretched, hopeless, in space. In the afternoon despair overcame her. Her work was over, and she was at liberty to think unprofitable thoughts. So, after an hour of tears here in the drowsy garden, the day finally brought what peace it had to give, and she slept—was sleeping now, in the twilight, while Claude and her new world came to her.

He had discovered her almost as soon as he entered the garden, more by instinct than observation. And he made no haste to go to her, not because he was indifferent, but because he could not bear to mar the perfect progress of the hour by haste. It was almost with regret that he left behind the lower half of the garden and entered the turfy walk between the rose-bushes. From a perpetual he plucked one full pink rose, infinitely beautiful in its solitude, from where it glowed, half hidden, beneath the leaves. Gazing half at it and half at her, he softly approached the rustic bench, till his knee touched her gown.

"Deborah!" he whispered; and then again, a little louder, "Deborah!"

She stirred in her sleep, under the spell of a wandering dream.

"Deborah!"

In slow wonderment the tangled head lifted, the white face, with its tear-stained cheeks, was raised, and the gray-blue eyes fell open sleepily. He did not speak while she looked at him, the actual presence corresponding, with startling accuracy, to her dream.

"I thought—you had gone away," she said, softly.

"I could not go while you were here," he answered, seating himself beside her.

She sighed like a child. She seemed to-day many years younger than usual, and Claude looked at her curiously, wondering at her manner.

"Deborah," he said, gravely, without offering to touch her, "I am going back—home. Will you come with me? Will you trust me? Will you let me make a new life, a new home, for you?"

She caught her breath, as a child, after a long crying-spell, sobs, reminiscently. Then she sat silent while he waited.

"I can't be happy here after—last night," she said, at length.

"I will try to make you happy."

She made no answer, but perhaps he read her mind, for he grew troubled. One thought held each of them. It was that of the fair and stately Duchess—la Châteauroux, whom Claude had loved. And which picture was the fairer, Claude's memory or Deborah's imagination, it were hard to tell.

After a moment or two the pause became more than uncomfortable. Both sat in growing rigidity, looking straight before them, thinking, helplessly. Then, all at once, Deborah, with fearful hesitation, turned her head and looked into his face. And suddenly, when Claude's poor hope was all but dead, one of her hands, cold and tremulous, crept into that passive one of his that lay beside her on the seat. It was her answer. How the promise was sealed—need not be told.

Twilight deepened over the shadow of the dead day. Behind the black, lacy tree-tops of the forest a sunset flush pulsated in crimson and gold. From the still garden the evening fragrance, intoxicating, heart-stilling, to which neither the sunny morning odors nor the night's holy incense could be compared, floated in warm, rich breaths about the figures of the man and woman whose lives had come to join each other over wide seas and many lands. The spell of the evening was over them both. Their eyes wandered. Their thoughts were still. Hand in hand, two of God's pilgrims met here to rest a little ere they moved on again, they sat, silent, nerveless, feeling, perhaps, more of the universal love than that of individuals. No prophecy of storms to come disturbed their hour. Only the garden and the timeless twilight enfolded them. The bird-songs, one by one, melted away. The waves whispered unutterable things. And so, out upon the pale sunset, hanging tremulous as by a thread of heaven, came a fair silver jewel—the evening star. Deborah's eyes beheld it, and were riveted upon its liquid beauty.

"Look," she breathed, gently; "they call it the emblem of hope."

"Hope—dearest? What need have we of hope?"

She made no answer, only her hand tightened within his, as the evening wind blew softly from the west.

Book III

THE POST

CHAPTER I

From Metz

"Good-morning, Belle-Isle! Is it good-morning? What news from the royal apartments?"

"None."

"None! Ah! Then madame—"

"Is still on guard; sees none but her own servants, and—"

"Richelieu, of course. Then it is unchanged."

"I fear not. There fly rumors—that his Majesty grows hourly worse. If this continues, the army will be in revolt, the women will be mobbed, and—Quesnay may be permitted to prolong the reign."

"Madame is playing a losing game. She is daring France. I am going to seek Richelieu, if he is accessible. This suspense cannot continue."

"I return to Saxe and the council."

"Au revoir, then."

"Au revoir! I wish you fortune with du Plessis. You are one of the few who can risk his anger."

The two marshals uncovered ceremoniously. Jules de Coigny passed into the Château de Metz, and Belle-Isle continued on his way to the camp.

It was August in the same year of 1744, and the heart of France, her army, her Court, her King, and—her Châteauroux, was at Metz, in Alsace, a resting-place sought after Dettingen and the long summer campaign. And here at Metz, whence all had thought to depart a week before for Nancy, on the road to Strasbourg, Louis XV. fell ill. That had been upon the 8th day of the month. Now, on the 14th, slow-gathering consternation was spreading through city, Court, and camp, though, since the morning of his seizure, not a single soul save Mme. de Châteauroux, her sister Mme. de Lauraguais, their personal servants, and Louis Armand de Richelieu had seen the King. Dim rumors that the illness was feigned at first circulated through the château. Then, latterly, more vivid and more startling theories, originating none knew where, but spreading with the conviction of truth, voiced the insistence that Louis was ill, worse than any one knew, and that the favorite, coercing Richelieu into her service, desperate with the fear of dismissal from Court when his Majesty's condition came to be discovered, was at Louis' side, keeping at bay the army, the Court, and the kingdom. Marie Leczinska and her dauphin were still at Versailles, praying and fasting, along with the Jesuit fathers and the wearied dames du palais, who, in the absence of la Châteauroux, had not a single crumb of gossip with which to comfort their souls till the return of the Court.

Marshal Coigny, much disturbed by his short conversation with Belle-Isle, yet anxious for confirmation of his fears before taking any possible rash steps, hurried into the morning-room of the château, temporary residence of Majesty. The place was crowded with familiar faces, mostly men, for the women who took part in the campaign had learned that their proper place in it was background. Two or three, however, had been drawn hither from curiosity. Among them was a certain pretty Mme. Lenormand d'Etioles, who, to the displeasure of la Châteauroux, had, for the past year, figured often in royal hunts, and, latterly, played a very conspicuous part in certain thanksgiving services at Lille after the first siege. So far as it could be surmised she had never been addressed by the King, but she was well enough known at Court to obtain bows from most of the men and one or two of the women. This morning she remained beside her husband at one side of the room, watching the throng that eddied about the young Duc de Chartres, who, as son of the pious d'Orléans, was at this time sole representative of the blood in Metz, and, consequently, was vested with a power which made him of the highest consequence. He alone, of all these nobles and courtiers, had the right to proceed to extreme measures, and force an entrance to the royal apartments when such were closed to the world. He might also, if he dared, demand of Majesty's self, in the face of a created Duchess, his wife's friend, whether such Duchess alone were Majesty's will and pleasure. But the man who did this, though he were of King's blood, must have grave reason ere he should so risk the royal anger.

As d'Orléans' son perceived, from the midst of the throng of courtiers, the openly curious anxiety with which he was regarded on all sides, the expression of care and responsibility in his youthful face deepened. Looking about him uneasily, while he talked, he perceived that de Coigny had entered the room and was coming towards him with rapid steps and preoccupied manner.

"What news of his Majesty's condition?" asked the marshal, abruptly and aloud, with a directness that startled the room.

The throng about Chartres pressed silently closer, and the salon waited breathlessly for reply. The young Duke turned a shade paler, and did not open his lips.

"His Majesty is worse," muttered de Coigny, half to himself.

"His Majesty is worse," responded a sudden voice from behind.

The entire company turned sharply around. De Richelieu, who had entered from an inner door, stood before them, snuff-box in hand. His face was nearly as pale as his wig. His eyes were heavy. He looked haggard and anxious.

"Monseigneur de Chartres—if I might be granted the honor of a word with you?"

"But too gladly, monsieur. Come."

Chartres hurried forward through the respectful but eager throng, seized Richelieu's arm with a whispered sentence, and drew him out of the salon to a room inaccessible to courtiers.

Behind they left a tumult of excitement. Above them, back of closed doors, Marie Anne de Mailly-Nesle, together with her sister, leaned over the bedside of the King of France, alone with a great fear, yet unspeakably dreading company.

Ah, Marie! Marie Anne de Mailly—a dangerous, a desperate game hast thou played for six days—six ages, rather—past! On the one hand Louis' prayed-for recovery; on the other, banishment, perhaps worse, for you; what for him—the Almighty knows. Here in this sultry August morning, in the second story of the ancient Château de Metz, you stand at the bed of the King; not thinking of much, it must be confessed, anxiety and sleeplessness having taken the poignancy from thought. These last days have been very wearing ones.

On the morning of Saturday, the 8th, that morning when headache had driven the King from prospective gayeties to the solitude of his own apartment, he summoned his Duchess to his side to bear him company. The morning was tedious. He could not be amused. In the afternoon, together with fever, came Richelieu, and graceful, caustic-tongued Elise de Lauraguais. And upon that afternoon, when no one dreamed how ill Louis already was, and madame and the Duke were alone with him, Richelieu the daring, now owing half his prestige to the favorite whose sponsor he had once been, and who, without her, would have found his Court life infinitely difficult, had thought, foreseen, dreaded, decided, and easily drawn the woman into his plan. The admission of any other to the rooms must mean, eventually, the confession, absolution, and unction of his Majesty. Before the performance of this last, Louis must repent of his irregular life, and as proof of repentance madame must receive her congé—for such was only customary at the great Court of France.

"And so, Anne," Richelieu said to her, in a low, menacing tone, "we keep our places here, you and I. If the King recovers, our power is unlimited."

"If he is worse?"—she looked.

"It is destiny. When we play for lives, we must risk them."

So madame stayed. She thought of that momentous little conversation now, as she sat watching the sunlight play over the drawn bed-curtain. She and her sister had removed from their rooms in the Abbaye St. Arnold beside the château, where they had lodged at first, and taken possession of the royal suite. Their own servants prepared the sick man's food, their own hands smoothed the hot pillow. They had shut the clamorous Court away, letting rumor fly as she would. During the first three days Louis, for the most of the time, sat bravely up, in satin lounging-robe, cap, and slippers. None could have striven more anxiously to distract and please him than the two favorites and the sister. Notwithstanding, upon the fourth day, Wednesday—now the day before yesterday—his body had mastered his will, and he did not rise. Since then time had not moved; eternity seemed settling down upon the trio of watchers. The King wanted no amusement now. He was perfectly content to lie, half sleeping, through the whole day, smiling faintly when madame brought his food, accepting a few mouthfuls with an effort, because they came from her fingers; otherwise unmoved, unspeaking, unthinking. Thursday was the same, ay, longer than ever; and as the three sat silent in the dusk, beside the open window, they had not much cared to talk. Only madame, with what composure she could gather, asked of Richelieu, who had for a moment that day seen de Gêvres:

"What are the people saying, good uncle?"

And Richelieu, nervously smoothing his knee, looked at her with grim significance. "We stake high," he said.

The Duchesse de Lauraguais gave a little cough.

Then silence fell again, while the lips of la Châteauroux closed more firmly, and a rarely seen light came into her eyes. Richelieu's expression, however, did not change. Was it possible that her courage in desperation was greater than his? No. It was this. Richelieu was not yet desperate. There was, for him, still one move that was not left to her. He would not necessarily be banished from Court if it came to a point of extreme unction and madame. But if the King of France were to expire here alone, with them, then Louis Armand du Plessis might, indeed, tremble for what happiness life held for him. He said nothing, however, yet. Twilight mingled with the dark. From many windows glimmered forth the city lights, and madame finally swallowed a cup of chocolate and sought her rest. Richelieu was left to watch alone, in the darkness, by the King.

Louis XV. slept, now and then restless with fever, but for the most part quietly. The Duke sat in his chair by the window, the sultry night air stealing in to him, not asleep, but thinking of many things, of much history known to him alone of Court, of camp, of street, and of the lives of real men. All men, beneath their masks of manners, are very real! What a little game these courtiers played! How lives were broken and intellects stunted for the sake of being, for one little hour, associated with that single man born, willy-nilly, to immortality in history! This very King, for whom he, Richelieu, was living a life envied and unenviable, what was he but a disagreeable fellow, handsome, rather sulky, either really or unaffectedly stupid, lazy, unutterably weary of himself and his business, with more of a taste for turning and cookery than for governing a kingdom or managing an army? After all, these Bourbons might have made an excellent line of workmen, all but Louis XIV., who would have been the ne'er-do-weel of them. Not one but had his taste and real talent for an honest profession. And how were France to-day, we wonder, had Louis XV. turned chef and Louis XVI. cultivated to its utmost his no mean ability for locks and clocks? The night grew hotter as it advanced, and rain was promised for the morrow.

At midnight, suddenly, the King woke, and demanded, in a voice much changed, something to drink. Richelieu hastily brought wine and water, not too cool. His Majesty drank thirstily, and lay back once more, but with eyes open, till the Duke had put away the glass. Then, with unusual directness, he said:

"Here, du Plessis, sit by the bed. I want to talk with you."

"Will you have light, Sire?"

"No. It disturbs my eyes. Listen to what I shall say. You are here? Yes. Well, then, I am going to die."

"Sire! For God's sake—let me call some—"

"Chut! I want no one. It'll be a comfort to go in peace. I am going to die. I have always feared the thought; but when one really arrives at the time—it is not much. I am not afraid, du Plessis. I wish to express to you my gratitude for having kept the Court and the doctors and the Orléans lot away from me. They are bores. What I would say is this: When I am really gone, there will, of course, be a scandal concerning my sickness and death, having none but you and—her—to attend me. You'll get through it, du Plessis. Parbleu! There is no nation that can withstand your manner. My dear Dauphin—ought to love you. But Anne—Anne! Where will she go? What to do for her? Richelieu, I love her. Yes, truly, as no woman before. Take her, then, under your protection. I leave her to your care. Get her from here safely. Send her for a little to her estates, or one of yours. Say that I command her title to remain to her. But, my friend, do not let her marry. Keep her from that. Par le ciel! If I dreamed that she would—d'Agenois, or that de Mailly, or any other—promise, du Plessis!"

"Your will, always, Sire!"

"More wine, then. Diable! My head is on fire! More wine, and I sleep again."

Richelieu refilled the glass, which his master drained to the last drop. Then he sank back to the pillows, turned restlessly half a dozen times, whistled a bar or two in the darkness, and so dozed again, while the Duke, with a new and very heavy weight upon his heart, returned to the window. The King had frightened him more than he dared confess to himself. Certainly Louis' words had been unmistakably sincere. He believed that he was going to die. The King's fear of danger to his favorite Duchess was well founded, unquestionably. But the King's confidence in Richelieu's ability to rise again in the world, Richelieu himself held in very decided doubt. If matters were come to this pass, it were well to act. When a man's Damocles has actually got to the single-hair state, that man, if there be any way in which to move, does very well to get from under it, though he must leave a companion behind, helpless, in his place. The King must live till morning, must absolutely live till morning, and then—Richelieu would once more prove himself a wise man. He must turn traitor to his personal trust with madame and the King, too, for the sake of the safety of the King, and, therefore, his own. If he regretted the inevitable consequences in the career of la Châteauroux, he was philosopher enough to wave them aside without difficulty. Something one must lose in such a place. It should be as little as possible.

On Friday morning the King awoke to find his three attendants all beside him, and what repast he might take—chocolate, a roll, a jelly—not too well prescribed, waiting. From his manner one could not have told whether or not he recalled that midnight conversation with du Plessis. Certainty he looked ill enough this morning. His flushed face was haggard, his lips cracked, his blue eyes dull, his brain feeble, but half working. Madame looked upon him with a pang of grief and fear. While she smoothed out his bright yellow locks, freed from their wig, and bathed his unpainted face and dry hands with scented water, her sister holding the silver basin, Richelieu disappeared. An hour later, when the room was again still, a fly or two buzzing at the window, Mme. de Lauraguais purfling, Marie Anne beside the drowsy King, the Duke had not yet returned. It was the longest absence that he had made from the bedside, except for sleep. That he was not asleep now, madame knew very well. His bed in the royal suite had been made. He had let himself quite out of these rooms, and was gone—to whom? Whither? And Mme. de Châteauroux, though she trusted Richelieu as she did herself, became, after a little, nervous with anxiety for his return. Presently she moved over to Mme. de Lauraguais, her puppet-shadow.

"Elise, du Plessis is absent still. I am disturbed. Why should he be so long away? Do you think—do you think—"

"I think that he has gone to de Gêvres. He will bring us back some news of the Court. It will be something to divert his Majesty this afternoon, and something for us to listen to this morning. Heigh-ho!"

At this moment the King's hand slipped through the bed-curtains and drew one of them aside till his face was visible. Smiling faintly at the Duchess, he motioned her to him with a peculiar glance. "Du Plessis is out, you say?"

Madame nodded.

"Send for him, then. Recall him at once. He—"

"He is here," interrupted Elise.

The door from the broad hall to the anteroom had opened. For an instant madame's heart stood still. Then Richelieu, patch-box in hand, came leisurely in.

"Ah!" The relief in the sigh was very apparent. "You have been absent so long, we became anxious."

The Duke smiled pleasantly and shrugged. "His Majesty is awake?" he asked, seeing that madame was by the bed.

"He—"

Louis suddenly dropped the curtain, hid himself from view, and so signified that he was not to be disturbed.

"He has just been speaking with us," whispered la Châteauroux, moving again across to her sister.

Richelieu nodded. "You have not yet dined?" he asked, idly.

"It is still an hour to one."