CHAPTER VI

Claude's Memories

Deborah recovered from her afternoon over Sambo's sick-bed far less rapidly than the small negro did from the effects of his remarkable breakfast. In fact, three days after that upon which he had substituted the fly agaric for hoe-cake, he was running about the plantation as usual, only with a new and useful working knowledge concerning vermilion-colored fungi. With beautiful impartiality he sought the still-room on the afternoon of the first day that he left the cabin. He found its door locked, and presently discovered that Miss Deb was to be seen nowhere about the grounds. On making peremptory inquiries, he was informed, much to his disgust, that his play-fellow was ill in bed, without _amanita_ for cause, and that he might not dream of such a thing as seeing her. Thereupon, retiring to the still-house door-step, young Sambo lifted up his voice and wept, though he got no consolation from the process.

Strictly speaking, Deborah was not in bed. She was too restless to remain long in any one place, but she felt no desire to leave the house. What care she needed, and a little more, was lavished on her by Madam Trevor, her cousins, and the slaves. Nevertheless, she was very wretched. She could not understand her continual weariness and her impatience with the familiar scenes of everyday life. She suffered inexpressibly with the mid-day heat, and shivered with cold through the mild nights. "Nerves" were to her unnecessary and incomprehensible things, and her disgust with herself was none the less exasperating because it was unreasonable. Dr. Carroll, however, was wiser than she. A week after Sambo's affair he heard of her condition and went out to her at once. His prescription pleased the whole family, with the exception, perhaps, of Sir Charles. He proposed taking her back with him to Annapolis, to spend ten days under his own hospitable roof, with his two sisters to take care of her, and young Charles for company. Permission for the visit was granted on the asking, and, upon the next afternoon, Deborah set out in the family coach, with the doctor on horseback as outrider. The only regret that she felt on leaving was, oddly enough, the parting from Sir Charles. His attentions to her during the past week had been remarkably delicate. Madam Trevor herself could hardly have objected to them. Through long hours he had sat near her while she lay upon a sofa, generally with Lucy or Virginia, or both, beside her, recounting little stories of his own or his comrades' adventures; describing London and London life; stopping when he saw that his voice tired her; fanning her, perhaps, in silence; arranging the tray that held her meals on the stand beside her; and only once in a long, long time looking into her wandering eyes with an expression that would set her to thinking of grave and far-off things. Thus she left the plantation, feeling a new and not unpleasant regret at losing the companionship which had almost made her illness worth the having.

Dr. Carroll's sisters, Mistress Lettice and little Frances Appleby, awaited their guest with solicitation. The coach that held her arrived at their door just at tea-time, and Deborah was smiling with pleasure when the doctor lifted her out and carried her bodily up the walk and into the house, with St. Quentin on one side, his son on the other, and the little old maids smiling together in the doorway. The young lady then refused absolutely to retire, but sat up to tea, partook of some of Miriam Vawse's raspberry conserve, and afterwards lay upon the sofa in the parlor with an unexpressed hope in her heart that Claude might come.

Claude was to have come. Mistress Lettice, when she learned from her brother that their guest would arrive that afternoon, had sent down a polite request by young Charles that monsieur would honor them with his presence in the evening. As politely de Mailly returned thanks for the invitation, gave no definite reply, but intended to go. Upon that afternoon, however, the _Sea-Gull_ arrived, after a fair voyage, from Portsmouth; and in her came a long letter and a consignment of rents from Mailly-Nesle to his cousin. Many things were happening in France. In March, war with England and Maria Theresa had been declared, and the French armies prepared for a campaign. In May came the astounding intelligence that, through the influence of la Châteauroux, who loved the heroic, Louis would command his forces in person. A week later it was understood that the favorite was to follow in the royal train, together with the King's staff, his aides, his chefs, his valet, and the impedimenta. The letter was dated May 28th. As he read it, Claude's heart burned; and with the evening, in the bitterness of his memories of the old life, and in the wretched conjectures that he made as to what was the French news now, he forgot Deborah. Where was she, Marie Anne, his cousin? What battles had been fought over the water? Was the fifteenth Louis still reigning over France? Had not some chance shot struck him, and with him the third daughter of the de Maillys, down in all their clanging glory? Did la Châteauroux never now think of the cousin exiled for her, at her instance? Henri did not say. And Miriam Vawse of the Annapolis inn wondered that night what news her lodger had received, that he should sit, stoop-shouldered, over the empty fireplace, and forget that, only two blocks away, in Dr. Carroll's house, Debby Travis was vainly waiting for him to come to her.

Claude did remember her next morning, when the sunlight gave matters a different aspect, and the letter had been shut away in his trunk. So it was with only half his mind on French battle-fields and a vaguely dreamed-of Dettingen, that he ate his colonial breakfast; and afterwards, as he left the ordinary and bent his steps leisurely northward towards Dr. Carroll's house, his homesickness fled quite away.

The Carrolls' breakfast had ended some time ago (Claude's Versailles habits of late rising were not yet broken); and Deborah, already bettered by the change of scene and atmosphere, had come down to the morning meal. She was now in the doctor's study, leaning back in his great chair, while young Charles stood moodily facing the window, sulky because she was not yet well enough to bear a morning on the bay, so obtaining for him a vacation on plea of hospitality.

"Now I know why you won't mind about me any more. Here's your de Mailly coming up the walk. Faith, I'll not bear it! You've grown into a fine lady, Debby, and are no fun nowadays. I'd as soon have Lucy running with me."

"And you, Charles, are ungentlemanly. If you were anything but a child, I wouldn't speak to you this sennight."

"I'm as old as you, lacking a month."

"Little one would think it, then."

"Pardon, if I intrude. I come to inquire after Mistress Travis' health."

Claude stood smiling upon the threshold, for he had overheard the last words of the quarrel. Deborah, her white face flushing a little, held out her hand. As he bent over it she said, in a much gentler tone than that which she had been using: "I am really well, only I have nerves. Charles, however, is using me very ill. He says that nerves are nonsense. Do you think so?"

"In my country, mademoiselle, they are considered serious. A lady who has them retires to her bed and expects all her friends to come and amuse her till she is better. Charles, you are heartless."

Deborah looked a little shocked at his first statement and his matter-of-fact tone when making it; but she said nothing. Presently Father St. Quentin appeared at the door. After stopping to extend a hearty greeting to de Mailly, he flung a Latin imperative at poor Charles, who obeyed it with the poorest possible grace, leaving the room alone to Deborah and the Count. Claude seated himself near her, and looked at her for a few seconds in silence, noting a difference in her general expression. She was too languid to be embarrassed by the pause, but, not caring to return the scrutiny, slightly turned her head and looked toward the windows.

"I owe Miss Travis an apology, do I not?"

She glanced towards him now in some surprise. "An apology? For what?"

"Nay, then I will not make it. I will only tell you that, as the preserver of a child's life, I must reverence your talent, on which, I confess, I had looked with ill-timed disapproval."

Deborah gazed at him thoughtfully. "I recollect now. You were displeased to think that I would poison a cat. I assure you it was the cat saved Sambo's life. Neither of them died."

"So Dr. Carroll told me. I have heard all that you did on that afternoon; and I, like the doctor, have not words to express my admiration."

"You are very kind. Please--do not let us talk of that. I came here to forget. Come--would you entertain me, monsieur?"

"In whatever way lies in my power."

"Why, then, it is done. It would give me infinite entertainment, monsieur, to hear the life of the ladies of the French Court, where you lived. The doctor has told me what a great Court it is. How do the ladies dress, what do they eat, do they go every night to the assembly? Faith, that would be tiresome enough, I think!"

De Mailly laughed a little at her comment, but did not immediately comply with the request. Memory had once more come home to him again, but this time with a curious addition. Of a sudden he found that he could definitely imagine Deborah Travis as having a place in that French Court that she spoke of. It was a curious notion, and he regarded her for some time contemplatively, before he began to speak.

"If you were in Versailles, Mademoiselle Deborah, you would doubtless be madame."

"What! Are there no unmarried ladies there?"

"Yes--a few. Those who cannot find a husband. But we are supposing that you would not be there unless some grand seigneur had married you and carried you away."

Deborah laughed merrily, and Claude, with some satisfaction, perceived that she had entered into his own spirit. "Continue! continue!" she cried. "I am already perishing with interest."

"You would dwell in an apartment in--we will say the Rue des Rossignols--that is the name of a street. Let us see. You sleep in a charming room hung in white brocade. Your dressing-room will be in pink satin, with the chairs in tapestry which monsieur would have embroidered for you--"

"Monsieur--a man--embroider!"

"Oh yes. The King himself commanded de Gêvres to teach him stitches a year ago. He began four _sièges_ at once, I remember, and de Mouhy made an excellent _bon-mot_ about it. No matter. Your tapestries in apple-green, your tables in mahogany, and your sets in ivory--or gold? Which?"

"Ivory, I think. Pink satin and ivory would be--oh, most beautiful!" she replied, cocking her head a little on one side.

He nodded, appreciative of her taste. "The salon--blue and gold; the dining-room in green; and, for monsieur's room, we will let it go. At nine in the morning you have your chocolate in bed. Half an hour later you rise, and your toilette _à la mode_ begins."

"Oh, what is a toilette _à la mode_?"

The Count shrugged his shoulders. "You, in a delightful _négligé_, receive in the pink satin boudoir, while your hair is powdered. Yours would never need to be curled, mademoiselle. _Eh bien_! During the toilette you would have cakes and cordial, or more chocolate. At one o'clock you meet monsieur the husband, and dine with him either alone or at the palace. For the afternoon there are a thousand things. You attend a levée, the hunt, a salon, a tea _à l'anglaise_; you drive, promenade in the Orangerie or a Paris boulevard; you visit shops; you attend a sale; you receive at home; or, perhaps, if the night is to be fatiguing, you sleep. You never spin, you do not knit, nor do you--distil poisons and save lives, Mistress Deborah. At seven you sup--hardly this time with monsieur, who has his own engagements. Later you attend the Opéra or the Italiens, indulge in a little supper with a party later, and return to Versailles shortly after midnight. If you are in his Majesty's immediate circle you go to Choisy, perhaps. But--that, mademoiselle--I trust--you will never do. Now do you think the life pleasant?"

"I'm sure I cannot tell," was the demure response; but the girl's face belied her words. It was aglow with pleasure. "And what is it that you would do, monsieur? How--how could you have borne it to leave such a life? Did you really tire of it? Was--"

He rose sharply to his feet, and she broke off at once, astonished and half frightened at the change in his face. "There are many thorns among the roses, mademoiselle. Life is not happier there than here. And some day--some day, perhaps--I will tell you the other side of it; why"--he almost whispered now, for his throat was dry--"why I left it all."

"Oh, forgive me! I had not meant to pain you."

He looked down into the face that had lost all its glow of pleasure, took her slight hand, kissed it quietly, and left her alone to think over all that had been said, to wonder over the uncertain promise of more, and to hope that he would neither forget nor repent.

The little conversation had taken her mind away from herself and set it in a new and far-off channel. When Dr. Carroll came back from his walk to the wharves, he found his little guest with color in her face and animation in her air. She told him of de Mailly's visit, and Carroll, judging its effect, resolved that the tonic should be administered often while his patient remained with him. The result was that, in the following days, Claude de Mailly and Deborah were thrown constantly together. And during their lively conversations, or, perhaps, even more so in their desultory ones, there grew up between them an intimacy more of good-fellowship than anything else, the spirit of which deceived both Claude and the doctor, though how much prophecy Deborah might have made concerning it, would be more difficult to say.

One afternoon, a Friday, and two days before Deborah was to return to the plantation, while the doctor was at his counting-house near the wharves, and the two little sisters sat together spinning in the sitting-room, their guest, panting with the heat inside the house, and wishing also to escape young Charles, who would presently be relieved from his _Horace_, sought out her largest hat and crept out of doors, passing down the street in the direction of the Vawse inn. She had not seen de Mailly for nearly twenty-four hours, and, as a consequence, her day was empty. She had small hopes of encountering him now, but was too restless to remain any longer in the room with the two old maids and their whirring wheels. She passed the quaintly gabled tavern, whose door, contrary to custom, was closed. Evidently Miriam was out. There was no sign of life about the windows. Claude himself was probably not there. Deborah walked on, disappointedly, as far as the court-house, and, still not wishing to admit to herself that she had come out simply with the hope of encountering de Mailly, turned down Green Street and followed it to the water's edge. The Stewart quay was deserted, and she halted there to look over the smooth, warm stretch of water. It was very still. The idle swash of the ripples against the pier was the only sound that reached her ears. The atmosphere was hazy with heat. It seemed as though it was the very weight and thickness of the air which gradually formed a solid arch of purple storm-clouds above the river to the west. Presently the sun was obscured. Still Deborah stood, heedlessly watching the bay, and breathing slowly in the stifling heat. Suddenly some one appeared beside her.

"Mademoiselle--mademoiselle--you will surely be wet."

Deborah turned her head towards him with a smile of pleasure which she would have repressed if she could. "Did you fall from the clouds, sir?"

"No. I have myself been wandering by the water this afternoon; and for the past quarter of an hour I have been watching the gathering storm--and you. Come, mademoiselle, we must seek shelter--and quickly."

"Let us try to reach Miriam's. We can run."

He took her arm as she spoke, and they started together down Hanover Street to Charles, which ran straight up for five blocks to Gloucester Street and the Vawse tavern. As they passed the Reynolds ordinary a deafening clap of thunder broke over them. Deborah shivered, and de Mailly put an arm about her to help her faster on their way. The street was empty. The heat had not yet broken, and beads of perspiration stood on their faces as they went. A long hiss of lightning glided like a snake through the storm-cloud. The town was almost dark. Deborah had begun to pant, and her companion could feel the beating of her heart shake her whole frame.

"C'est rien, mademoiselle. Nous sommes presque là. L'orage sera vraiment énorme!" he muttered rapidly.

A moment more and, as a new thunder-clap rattled down the sky, a sudden cold breath struck the city. With the wind, which blew like a hurricane down the river, came a pelting rain. The two reached their destination barely in time. Claude flung open the door of the tavern, and Deborah was blown over its threshold in a gush of water.

It was with some difficulty that Claude shut and bolted the door in the face of the wind. When he turned about his companion lay back on a wooden settle in a state of exhaustion. While the gale howled without and the thunder crashed down the heavens; he lit a candle with his tinder-box, brought a glass of strong waters for Deborah, and helped her gently to a more comfortable chair. He took the hat from her tumbled hair, chafed her hands till her nails grew pink again, and then stood back regarding her anxiously.

"Oh, I'm quite recovered. It was a long run. Where--where is Miriam?"

"Mistress Vawse? John Squire's boy broke a limb falling from a roof, and she has gone to attend the--what do you say?--setting of it."

"Then we are here quite alone?" asked the girl, nervously.

"Surely Miss Travis is not afraid with me?" Claude looked at her in hurt surprise. "I will retire at once to my room. When the rain ceases--"

Deborah laughed a little. "No, no. You misunderstand. I am afraid of storms. I should be frightened to death to be left here alone with--that."

Both listened as the long, low growl of thunder rolled down the sky and died away. It was growing darker again. A new storm was rising.

Claude, much relieved at the sincerity of Deborah's tone, drew a stool near her. "May I sit here by you, then?" he asked.

Deborah nodded and leaned back in her own chair. Then there fell a little silence on the room. The girl's unconscious eyes travelled over de Mailly's face as he sat regarding the rain-splashed windows; and they found a new expression, a new paleness, an unusual soberness, upon the clear-cut features. Unthinkingly, Deborah spoke:

"You are changed to-day, monsieur. I have not seen you so before. Why are you melancholy?"

He turned towards her quickly. "Yes, I have what we call _les papillons noirs_ to-day. In some way, Mistress Deborah, 'tis your fault. In these last days I have said so much to you of my former life, jestingly perhaps, and yet feeling it, that to-day it has brought me homesickness."

Before his frank look Deborah's eyelids drooped, and presently, with a little hesitation, she said: "You once told me that some day you would relate to me why it was that you left your home. Could you not--now?"

"Ah, no!" The exclamation was impetuous. "It is not a story for you, mademoiselle. An older woman might hear--but to you--"

"Think of me as older," she suggested, so quietly that his resolve was shaken.

"It will be hard to forgive me, I think, afterwards," he deprecated.

"What shall I have to forgive? 'Tis I that ask the tale."

"It is a story of unfortunate love," he said, regarding her narrowly.

Her head drooped farther. "Tell me all now, monsieur."

And so, out of an impulse which he could not have traced to its source, but which proceeded from a spirit of honesty and true chivalry, Claude recounted, with the utmost gentleness and delicacy, some of the incidents which had led to his exile. He said just enough of his cousin to let his listener decide what his feeling for her had been. And Deborah, oddly enough, perhaps, shrank from no part of the recital. She forgot herself, and saw through the eyes of the narrator all that he was describing. In their recent, half-serious talks on French life, the girl had gained a remarkably clear idea of what that life must be; and now this story affected her very differently than it would have done had it been her first glimpse of another existence. It resembled one of her vague dreams, this sitting alone in the cloud-darkened room, the feeble candle mingling its beams with the gloomy daylight; the shadowy figure of the man before her, and his low voice carrying on its story, seeming to be things very far away. And the fresh rain pelted on the windows, while the deep monotone of the thunder made a fitful and fitting accompaniment to the narrative.

"So, mademoiselle, it was there in the chapel that M. de Maurepas delivered me the letter from the King. Henri, madame's brother, was with me. I read the letter just there. I have forgotten if I spoke after it, or if either of them addressed me. Henri, I think, led me out and away, into the town, to our apartment. But next morning it was all very clear. Henri seemed to feel more than I. Later on that day I went to bid madame good-bye. She was very gracious--yes, most gracious."

"How could you go to see her? I should not have done so."

"Ah, mademoiselle, I had to see her. I wished to take her with me as my wife. She did not come. Non. She gave me, instead, to bring away for memory of her--this." Claude put his hand inside his vest and brought out two things, the long white gauntlet, and a letter with the royal seal. As he handed the gage to Deborah, the paper dropped to the floor.

While the girl looked at the glove for the second time, de Mailly picked up his letter of exile, and sat smoothing it on his knee. Then he asked, unthinkingly: "This letter from the King--will you read it?"

She held out her hand and took the small, worn paper with its red-brown seal and the arms of France upon it. Regarding the fine, crabbed writing, she said, with a faint smile: "I do not easily read French, monsieur."

"Shall I read it to you, then, as well as I can--in English?"

She nodded once more, and he, taking the missive from her hand, cleared his throat and began, with a little effort:

"'Owing to certain circumstances which of late have had the misfortune greatly to displease S.M., the King desires to inform Count Claude Vincent Armand Victor de Nesle de Mailly that the absence of the Count from the château and city of Versailles after the noon of Friday, January 22d, in this year of 1744, will be desirable to S.M.; and that after the first day of the month of February, Monsieur the Count, if he has not already crossed the line of the French Kingdom, would of necessity be placed under the escort of one of his Majesty's officers. The King wishes monsieur a delightful journey, and--'"

Claude's eyes, running on before his tongue, suddenly realized the subject of the next few lines, and he suddenly stopped.

"Go on, monsieur," murmured Deborah, after an instant.

[Illustration: "'GO ON, MONSIEUR,' MURMURED DEBORAH"]

"Mademoiselle, I--cannot. There is nothing more."

"Go on, monsieur," she repeated, quietly.

Claude passed his hand over his brow. Then he lifted the letter again and continued: "'--and begs further to add that when monsieur shall desire to present Madame la Comtesse his wife to their Majesties at Versailles, his return to his present abode will be most pleasing to

"'LOUIS R.'

At the close of the last line Claude looked up, apprehensively. Deborah was very white, and there was an unusual brightness in her eyes. He could not catch her glance. Her head drooped, and presently she covered her face with her hands. He sprang up, impetuously.

"Deborah--Deborah--forget that last! I--didn't mean to read it."

He spoke rather incoherently. Perhaps the girl did not even understand him. At any rate, after a moment, she lifted her head with a dignity that Claude did not know. "I thank you, M. de Mailly, for telling me the story as I asked." There was a little, wretched pause, and then she added, more faintly: "See, the storm is nearly over. I must go back now--to the doctor's house."