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."

"Ah, true! I had not noticed the clock."

"You are exhausted from having watched all night. Go and rest. I will call you when dinner is served."

A long, slow smile stretched itself over Richelieu's imperturbable features. "I go, then; but it is on condition that madame calls me when dinner is served." With which enigmatically spoken commonplace, he forthwith disappeared.

"It is his habit to make significance of manner count for wit," observed Elise, turning to the window.

For half an hour there was silence, perfect, drowsy. Mme. de Lauraguais' hands fell passively into her lap. The King, under his great canopy, was still. None could tell whether he slept or no. La Châteauroux, her eyes half closed, watched the sunlight play over the roofs of the houses in the town, and listened absently to the noon murmur that rose from its streets. Only Richelieu, in the room beyond, was alert, waiting, as he lay on his extemporized couch. At half-past twelve the King demanded wine. Madame poured it out and carried it to his side. He had not taken it from her hand when the door to the anteroom opened vigorously, and four men appeared on the threshold of his Majesty's bedroom. The glass dropped from the suddenly nerveless fingers of madame, and crashed down upon the wooden floor. Elise, with a low exclamation, rose from her chair, her face colorless. La Châteauroux, leaving the King's side, moved slowly over to her sister, and stood facing the intruders. After the first instant calmness came to her. M. de Chartres had forced the _consigne_ at last. With him were the King's chaplain, Bishop of Soissons, Fitz-James, Père Perusseau the confessor, and M. de Maurepas, possibly as representative of de Berryer. These four men stood facing the Duchess, who regarded them steadily, death knocking at her heart.

"Why--do you come?" she asked, dully, knowing well enough the reason.

"It is time, I think, madame," returned Maurepas, with something ill-advised in his tone.

"His Majesty is here?" interposed Chartres, sternly.

"Naturally," she replied, with curling lip.

"And M. de Richelieu?"

"I have the honor, Monseigneur."

Richelieu spoke from the doorway of his bedroom, where he stood, quite still, a little stiffer than usual, eyeing de Chartres as though he would have impressed something upon him. Perhaps Monseigneur understood. At any rate, the hesitation became a pause, and the pause grew into a hopeless stillness as the Duchesse de Châteauroux turned slowly about and faced the companion of these last days.

"Du Plessis--you--" she faltered, actually unsuspecting, speaking as if to a companion in trouble.

"Madame," he responded, brokenly.

"Can you--do nothing? Have you no help?" she whispered.

Richelieu bent his head. "Nothing."

Maurepas smiled sarcastically, but no one noticed it. Fitz-James of Soissons advanced into the room, his robes trailing, his manner lofty and severe.

"Mme. Marie, and you--Mme. de Lauraguais--are requested to retire to the apartment which you have occupied since quitting the abbaye. There--later--some one will go to you."

He raised his hand and pointed to the door which led into the antechamber, and so to the corridor. For the shadow of an instant madame hesitated, her eyes passing in a long glance from Richelieu's unreadable face to the great, silent bed. Then, with a slight gesture to her sister, she moved slowly, unsteadily, towards the door which the bishop designated. In silence the five men saw them go. Louis XV., closed in by his curtains, silent, passive, heard all, and guessed the unspoken; surmised Richelieu's loyal treachery, read madame's heart from her steps, realized that his time for repentance approached, deplored the necessity, thought of his dinner, and rather hoped that existence might not be too much prolonged.

While Falconet* was hastily summoned to attend the King, while Monseigneur made humble explanation to his relative, and Richelieu adroitly assisted in carrying out the bishop's ideas for the forthcoming confession, absolution, and unction of his Majesty, the two sisters had gained their apartment. Elise, by this time on the way to hysterics, threw herself desperately on the bed. The sister watched her with pale, silent scorn. Her arms were folded. Her foot tapped nervously on the floor. She said not a word.

* The King's consulting physician.

"Madame," whispered Antoinette, at last, "what shall I do?"

Madame's eyes turned towards her for an instant. "Nothing," she said, shortly.

Elise's woman was busy over her with sal-volatile, tears, entreaties, and a fan. By degrees she grew quieter, forgetting herself sufficiently at last to look at her sister.

"Marie--why do you look so? What are you doing?" she asked.

"I? I am waiting."

"Waiting! For what?"

The Duchess, who had studied well the ways of courts, and who knew each step of an affair like this, did not answer. Her lips straightened into a bitter smile. Mme. de Lauraguais might read it if she would.

Matters were at this juncture when the waiting was ended conventionally. In response to a rap Antoinette, having received the nod of permission from her mistress, opened the door and admitted Marc Antoine Voyer, Comte d'Argenson, a man closely associated with Maurepas, and hence not loved by the favorite. He entered the apartment with perceptible hesitation, and stopped not very far inside to turn to madame. She sat regarding him like a sphinx, immovable, unspeaking. Poor d'Argenson had been in few less happy situations. Here were four pairs of feminine eyes fixed upon him in dread anticipation. How near to explosion from one of them matters had gone, the young man did not know. He perceived by the expression of la Châteauroux that there had been no going to pieces yet. Even while he faced her, fumbling for words, she put out her hand to him, saying:

"Give me your letter, monsieur, or--" the hand dropped--"or was it in words that the order was given?"

"No, madame. Here is the paper."

He took it from under the hat which he carried in the left arm, and gave it to her. It was not long, and the ink upon it was scarcely dry. Yet its seals--those of Orléans and France--precluded any possibility of disobedience of the command it expressed. As her sister read it through, Mme. de Lauraguais sat up on the bed, a growing sense of terror coming over her. Not the smallest expression crossed the face of la Châteauroux. Her mouth was firmly set. She read slowly, as one who forced herself to see written out something of which she was already thoroughly cognizant. When she had finished the last line, madame opened her fingers, and the paper fluttered to the floor.

"That is all, monsieur? Have the goodness to retire."

"Pardon, madame; it is not quite all."

"What further, then? What insult can be added?"

"It is no insult, but an offer of assistance."

"From whom? For what?"

"From the Marshal de Belle-Isle, of his carriage to convey you as far as Nancy, where you may obtain a post-chaise."

"Ah! Coward! So he would patronize me now!"

Madame's nerve was failing her at last. Her face had grown suddenly scarlet, and from her attitude d'Argenson believed that she would gladly have flung herself upon him to end the matter after the fashion of the Court of Miracles. But young d'Argenson was a diplomat, educated in a famous school, and he had a manner of steel that would not melt before the white-hot fire of a woman's wrath. Eye for eye he met the gaze of the Duchess, and, as her quivering muscles grew still under the spell of his calm, he said, quietly:

"Pardon me, madame. I think that you do not quite comprehend your situation. If you but reflect, you will instantly perceive how much of wisdom there would be in making the departure of yourself, of madame your sister, and of your two women as quiet as possible."

Whether it was his air or his eminently unemotional words that impressed the woman before him, d'Argenson never knew. It was enough that, after a long and troubled silence, la Châteauroux finally raised her head and answered, in a tone but little above a whisper:

"I thank you, Monsieur le Comte. If--the Marshal de Belle-Isle will have his coach at the abbaye door at four o'clock, I--we--will take our departure as quietly as possible."

D'Argenson breathed deeply with relief. Bowing low, he backed towards the door, pausing only an instant to repeat, musically: "At the abbaye door, madame. That is most wise. At the abbaye door."