CHAPTER III

November Thirteenth

It was thus that Claude brought home his wife. Two months before he had been married to her in Dr. Carroll's chapel by Aimé St. Quentin, with all Annapolis to witness; and next day he left America on the _Baltimore_, in company with Deborah, and her very modest little travelling coffer. Truly bridal weather was theirs. The skies were fair, seas calmly blue, and continuous light western winds, sent by the very gods themselves, carried them straight to the English coast. All told, they were on the ship but six weeks--six strange, half-terrible weeks to the colonial girl. She was learning to know her husband, and he her. In a way, not always, but by spells, Deborah was happy. She loved the sea, and she grew to be very fond of the ship, clinging to it during the last days of the voyage as she had not clung to her far Maryland home. She had become dimly apprehensive of the life into which she was going, of which Claude had lately told her so much more than he could do during their comradeship in Annapolis. He also made her speak with him much in the French tongue, which she did readily enough at first, in a manner caught from St. Quentin, her first instructor. But when it came to using no English, to hearing none from Claude, her tongue faltered, and she would remain silent for hours at a time rather than appear awkward before him. Claude was very gentle. He made her finally understand, however, how much easier it would be for her to make mistakes now, than to do so in the land to which they were going. He told her the story of Marie Leczinska, who had acquired all her knowledge of the language of her adopted country from a waiting-maid who spoke a Provençal patois, and how the Queen was ridiculed by all the Court till she studied secretly, many hours a day, with her confessor, and was now, when she chose to exert herself, one of the most excellent linguists in France. So Deborah took heart, and tried more bravely, until, by the time they had crossed the English Channel and landed in Calais, none but a close observer could have found a flaw in her ordinary conversation.

Claude de Mailly himself passed a very contented six weeks on the Atlantic. A day or two after his marriage the realization of that marriage, its haste, its rashness, its short-sightedness, the fact that his wife had not one drop of blue blood in her veins, came over him in such a wave that he was half drowned. What was it that he had done? Who was he carrying back with him to the most fastidious, the most critical Court in Christendom? A bourgeois! A Provençal! A child! And Claude, with angry, anxious injustice, for three days avoided his wife, and barely saw her except at meals. The thing that reattracted his attention to her was the fact that, during this time, Deborah never made the slightest attempt to force her presence upon him. If she were unhappy, he did not know it. He never saw her weep; he heard no word of complaint. And this unusual thing piqued his interest. On the fourth morning he found her sitting alone in the stern of the vessel, gazing back at the western horizon with far-off eyes. Seating himself beside her, he leaned over and took one of her hands in his. She turned towards him instantly, looked at him for a moment, and then drew it quietly away.

"You needn't do that," she said.

And then it was that Claude knew how glad he was to do it--to have the right to do it. And thereupon he threw care to the winds and became her slave. He, too, regretted the end of the voyage, when it came. Nevertheless, he had, in the past, suffered severely from homesickness, and Paris, Versailles, Henri, Elise, and, more than all of them together, his other cousin, were constantly in his mind. He dreamed and talked of them when he slept, and, if Deborah had been proficient enough in French to make out the half-coherent sentences that passed her husband's lips at night, she would probably have learned still more about her approaching life in this way.

Unquestionably, Deborah dreaded the new life. She had reason to; not alone because of the natural shyness attendant on a country girl's first appearance at a great Court. She knew that Claude's whole existence was bound up there. She believed that he cared rather more than he actually did about this life that she had never lived. In consequence, upon the drive of several days from Calais to Paris, Deborah grew more and more silent, more and more definitely apprehensive, with each new stage. On the evening of November 8th they arrived at Issy, and there spent the night. Next morning Claude rose with the sun, some time before Deborah even awoke. He went outside of their post-house and walked delightedly through the familiar streets, listening to his own language spoken with his own accent on every hand, discovering well-known shops and buildings, and returning in the highest spirits to Deborah at nine o'clock. They had their chocolate and rolls together, Deborah eating little and silently, Claude jesting and laughing continually till she was roused out of her apathy by his thoughtlessness towards her. It was not, however, till they were rolling along the Paris road that she spoke--in English:

"Well, Claude, you have brought your Madame the Countess home to the King. He'll be satisfied, I hope."

Apparently both the allusion and the bitterness were lost upon him. He only answered with a bright smile: "I am satisfied, my Deborah. What the King thinks is not my concern. Oh, I had not told you, had I?--that the King is not here. He is coming home with the army next Saturday, the 13th, from Strasbourg. You know he has been fighting all summer. They are going to give him a triumph on his return. There will be a procession through the street, and the King will ride in it. You will see him then, Deborah. Shall you like it all?"

"I--don't know. I never saw a king," responded the girl, interested in spite of herself in the anticipation of these hitherto scarcely dreamed-of glories.

At half-past eleven o'clock their chaise passed the barrier, and they rolled down the narrow street towards the river, in Paris at last. Claude himself was quiet now. He was a little anxious; he could not be sure just what he should find "at home." Moreover, the familiar streets and sounds no longer raised his spirits. Instead, they came so near to bringing tears to his eyes, that he was relieved when Deborah asked:

"Where are we going? To another inn?"

"I am not sure. I have directed the man to the Hôtel de Mailly. But, if no one is there, we must go to an inn. Look, Deborah, there is the Seine, there is the Pont Royal, and there, just ahead, is Henri's house, where we are going. Are you glad--little one?"

* * * * * * *

It was half-past ten o'clock that night before Claude and his wife were again alone together. They had left the salon thus early through weariness, leaving the rest of the family party to disband as it would. Neither the Count nor Deborah spoke till the suite of apartments assigned them on the second floor had been gained and the door to their antechamber closed. Deborah was going on to what she supposed must be their bedroom, when Claude caught her hand.

"Surely you are going to say good-night?" he asked, smiling.

"_Good-night_! Why--I don't understand," she said, quickly.

Of a sudden the smile left Claude's face. He had not thought of this before. "There, Debby, is your room--on this side is mine. A maid whom Mme. de Mailly-Nesle has kindly lent you is waiting for you. Henri's valet is there--where I sleep. We do not occupy the same room. It--it is not the custom. Therefore sit here with me for a few moments, and tell me--how you like them all--my family?"

Deborah stared at him in bewilderment during the explanation; but, true to her nature, she accepted it without comment, permitting herself to be drawn down upon the little sofa where he sat, and passively leaving her hands in his.

"Tell me now--do you like them?"

Deborah hesitated. "What mistakes did I make?" she asked, finally.

"Not one, my Deborah, save that you were not insolent enough."

She smiled faintly. "I like Monsieur le Marquis."

"And he you! Yes, you must love him for my sake. He is more than my brother. And his wife?"

"_Is_ she his wife, Claude? Why does he always call her madame? Why did you call me madame? And she treated him so--so formally."

"_Parbleu!_ you are right; they do not know each other very well, else she could hardly help loving him; and she would not be so bourgeois as that! Do you like her? She was kinder to you, Debby, than I have ever seen her to any woman. Answer me--dost like her?"

"Yes--I liked her. She never looked at me when she spoke, and she scarcely spoke to any one else."

"True. She does not approve them. But Elise--Mme. de Lauraguais--"

"Yes, she is very pleasant, and a little pretty, too."

"And now--now--you met Mme. de Châteauroux. What do you think of her?" Claude asked the question firmly, after a struggle with himself.

Deborah turned crimson, and started to rise from her place, but de Mailly gently held her back. He would have his answer; and it was given him. After all, he had married a woman, and one whose feelings, though often unexpressed, were none the less acute. She voiced them now. "Claude--I hate her! She is not pretty. Her face is hideous! She was rude to me, to her sister, to the Marquise, to every one but you. And you sat beside her almost the whole afternoon. Ah! I cannot bear her! Mme. de Mailly told me why she was in Paris, how she had been made to leave the King. Claude, are you not ashamed that she is of your blood?"

Deborah was on her feet now, and flung her words straight at her husband. He sat silent, quite still, rather pale, through the outburst. After it he did not answer her question, but only murmured to himself, "Why do women so seldom like her?" Then, looking up at his wife, he said, kindly:

"Deborah, you know that I have always been fond of my cousin. I--have been very proud of her. So have we all. Was it unnatural that she should wish to talk with me after we had been separated for so long?"

Deborah jerked her head impatiently. "I do not like her," she reiterated, with dogged displeasure.

Claude rose, with a faint sigh. "Your French was wonderfully good. I was very pleased, dear. To-morrow--you shall have some costumes ordered. Naturally, yours are a little ancient in mode. Good-night."

"Good-night."

He kissed her upon the forehead, and would have turned away, but that suddenly she flung her arms about his neck passionately, and, raising her lips to his ear, whispered: "Claude--Claude--I am a stranger here. You are all I have of--the old life. Be--be kind to me."

It was almost the first emotion that he had ever seen her display, and his heart was warm as he took her tenderly into his arms again, whispering such words as only lovers know. Five minutes later Deborah crept away to her room happier than she had been before upon the soil of France; and not even the somewhat terrifying stiffness of madame's maid, nor the loneliness of this strange room, had power to banish the memory of her husband's good-night.

The four succeeding days passed both rapidly and slowly. From late morning till late night Deborah's hours were filled. She and Claude were to remain at the Hôtel de Mailly till the return of the King, after which they would take an apartment in Versailles. For the purpose of selecting one, they went together to the little city on Thursday. In the Rue Anjou, near the pièce des Suisses, they discovered a very pretty abode in the second floor of a house--rooms once occupied by the Chevalier de Rohan, of duelistic fame, furnished and hung in perfect taste, with precisely the number of rooms desired. Then Deborah went to see the monstrous, silent palace and park; after which she and Claude dined together at a café in the open air, quite _à la bourgeois_, somewhat to the unspoken apprehension of Claude, who was not pleased with the unconventional affair, which, however, unduly delighted his wife. They returned to Paris in the early evening by coach, well satisfied with the day. To Deborah's consternation, Claude next engaged a maid for her, a woman whom she was supposed to command at will, who was to dress and undress her, arrange her coiffure in the absence of the regular hair-dresser, care for her wardrobe, and conduct madame's affairs of the heart with discretion. To the little Countess's great delight, however, her first person in this line left her service after three days, for the reason that Mme. de Mailly seemed too devoted to monsieur the husband, and, in consequence, there were no chances for fees of secrecy such as she was accustomed to count upon as among her perquisites of office. By the time of their removal to Versailles, another attendant had been found who pleased her mistress better. Julie was lively, young, rather pretty, and not long from the provinces. If her modes for hair and panniers were not so Parisian as those of her predecessor, at least she and young Mme. de Mailly took a fancy to each other from the first, and Deborah was more than content. Meantime Claude had happily discovered and re-engaged his former valet, and thus, with the addition of a chef and scullion and two lackeys, their little _ménage_ would be complete. Before all these matters were arranged, however, the Marquise de Mailly-Nesle, who had taken an unaccountable fancy to Claude's wife, accompanied Deborah to a milliner, to whom was intrusted the task of preparing a wardrobe for the Countess. Deborah watched the selections with delight and a secret consternation. Could Claude afford such things, and such an infinite variety of them? Finally, unable to hold her peace about the matter, she drew the Marquise one side, and stammered out the question of prices with pretty embarrassment.

"Mon Dieu! child, why should I ask prices? If the bill is reasonable, be assured that Claude will pay. If it is too large--pouf!--he will refuse to look at it! That is all. Do not be alarmed."

Deborah, surprised and disturbed, felt that she must stop proceedings at once, for the Maryland school of economy had been strict. But a shimmering blue satin, with cloth of silver for petticoat, and ruffles of Venice point, was now under consideration. Blue was her own color. She had never worn satin in her life--and dearly she loved its enticing swish. Why, unless Claude forbade, should she refuse it? And Claude did not forbid. When she confessed her doubts during their anteroom conference that evening, he laughed at her, cried that she should live in blue satin if she chose, and asked what she was to wear on the morrow at the royal procession.

"Oh--it is something that madame got at once--white silk brocaded with pink flowers, and a petticoat with lace. And I am to have a lace cap with pink ribbons."

"Charming--and good-night. Sleep late to-morrow, in preparation."

Upon this Saturday, the 13th of November, Paris did not wake up until afternoon. By two o'clock, however, St. Antoine had left its domicile and was dispersing itself in unkempt groups along those streets which, as it had been posted, his Majesty would ride through in his triumphant home-coming, on his way to the Tuileries. Marie Leczinska and the Dauphin spent the morning in prayer, and were off together, after a hurried dinner, to join their lord at the southeastern barrier. On the previous day Louis had been at Meaux, but left that town in the afternoon, and spent the night at no great distance from Paris. To tell the truth, he was not too well pleased at the information that his metropolis was desirous of giving him a heroic welcome. Certainly his title of _bien-aimé_ was anything but his own choice. Nothing bored him so thoroughly as affection taken in the abstract. All through his early life he seemed to be unfortunate in having about him people to whom he was totally indifferent, yet who persisted in blindly worshipping him. In the case of his wife, it had not always been so. As a boy he had been devoted to her. But for the Dauphin, with his Jesuitical manners and phrases for all occasions, his father had never pretended to care. The daughters were more amusing. This afternoon Louis would have been very well pleased to see them when her Majesty's coach came up with the royal staff, in the midst of which Louis sat on horseback. The Queen, after alighting, stood looking at her husband with wistful yearning; but young France, dropping on one knee in a dry spot in the road, cried out, with very good expression:

"Sire, regard me as the representative of that nation which, with tears of devotion and thanksgiving, greets its Father, its Hero, and its King!"

There was a little pause. Then Louis remarked, casually, "You will catch cold without your hat, child," after which he turned to one of his marshals with some remark upon the day.

How the Dauphin arose from his knee is not recorded.

Like all much-prepared-for cavalcades, this one was slow in starting. His Majesty objected to the length of the route planned. He was anxious to be at home again; and he was tired of people. Had somebody sent for his turning-lathe? He would do a bit of work when he reached the Tuileries. Why could not Richelieu take his place as representative, and let him get quietly through the city in a public coach? It was nearly dark now. Only after an endless series of expostulations was he at last persuaded to conform to the wishes of his people, and show himself in all the real beauty of his manhood.

Paris had waited very patiently through the bleak November afternoon, shivering and laughing in anticipation of its pleasure. Now the windows of every house along the way were gleaming with candles and dotted with heads. On either side of the street torches began to be lighted among the standing throngs. Presently, as the heavy twilight fell lower, officers of the police began, here and there, to illumine the long chains of lanterns that were strung along the walls of houses, and, at short intervals, across the streets; for Paris would admit no night yet. Every now and then, down among the standing throngs, dashed the coach of some nobleman on the way to his own view-point. The drivers of these vehicles took no heed of the people in their paths. They were allowed to scramble away as best they might, or left to be crushed beneath the horses' hoofs if they chose. No one murmured, for the affair was quite usual.

By half-past five o'clock a goodly company was assembled in the salons of Mme. de Mailly-Nesle; ladies who, in their eagerness to behold the return of their King, were very willing to forget the fact that they had ever failed to recognize the Marquise, for reasons connected with a relative Duchess. Upon their arrival at their hostess' _hôtel_ they found awaiting them a new sensation in the person of Claude, and a two-weeks' subject of gossip and discussion in Claude's foreign wife.

Deborah, arrayed in her brocade, her rebellious hair fastened stiffly in place with a thousand pins, the enormous hoops of her overdress annoying her as much as possible, patches and powder upon her face and hair, with the customary rouge on her cheeks, stood beside Victorine de Coigny, the only new-comer with whom she did not feel ill at ease. Mesdames de Mirepoix, Rohan, and Châtelet stared at her unceasingly, found her dress in good style, and her face, on the whole, not bad. L'Abbé de Bernis, who, to Henri's fruitless rage, had accompanied Victorine hither, looked upon Deborah approvingly. As to Claude, he did not approach his wife, but he watched her, quietly, from wherever he chanced to be, involuntarily admiring her presence, but undeniably dreading possible _faux pas_. Of these there had been as yet no signs. Deborah certainly was frightened, but she did not show it. Obeying her husband's last behest, she kept her head well up and her eyes on a level with those of the person to whom she talked. Mme. de Coigny, lively, good-natured, bored, but never supercilious, conversed with the little Countess for some moments upon her journey, upon Paris, and upon the return of the King. Deborah bravely answered her questions, and, less uncertain of her French than she had been a week ago, even hazarded a few remarks of her own with which the little Maréchale seemed pleased. Their _tête-à-tête_, however, was checked in its early stages by the beginning of a general conversation opened by one of the _dames d'étiquette_, Mme. de Rohan, who cried to her hostess, from across the room:

"Truly, Mme. de Nesle, you have here all the world but two people."

"And who are those?" responded the Marquise, graciously, while the salon grew suddenly quiet.

"Those?--why, the Duc d'Agenois and your cousin, Mme. de Châteauroux. Where, if one may ask, are they?"

There was a vaguely indefinite murmur of interest from every part of the room. Then from la Mirepoix came another remark, one such as only she was capable of making: "M. de Mailly--oh, I mean the Count--you were formerly always cognizant of the whereabouts of the dear Duchess. Can you not inform us of them now?"

The company lifted its brow and a dozen glances were cast at Deborah--this new little creature from the Americas. "She does not comprehend the allusion," was the general thought, when they saw her attitude of large-eyed, inattentive innocence. Only Claude, as he came forward a little, snuff-box in hand, turned white.

"Ah, Madame la Maréchale, you speak of by-gone days. I know the engagements of Mme. de Châteauroux? Impossible! Am I my cousin's keeper?"

"Perhaps," murmured the Marquise de Châtelet, sweetly, "she is to form part of his Majesty's escort."

Silence followed this remark. Mme. de Rohan glared with displeasure at her companion, and the Marquise flushed a little beneath her rouge. It was too much, for once. Mme. de Mailly-Nesle, with commendable haste, turned to her near neighbor and reinstated the _tête-à-têtes_.

"Ah!" murmured Mme. de Coigny to Deborah, "these _dames d'étiquette_ are insufferable. They should be stricken with a plague!"

Deborah smiled very faintly, and could make no reply. One of her hands was tightly clenched. Otherwise she appeared unconcerned enough.

At this moment M. de Bernis, having decided the new Countess to be rather presentable at a distance, drew nearer, with intent to converse with her. The abbé was, to-day, in his clerical dress, and thus Deborah acknowledged Mme. de Coigny's introduction with great gravity. When Victorine presently turned aside to Coyer, de Bernis began his conversation:

"Come to the window, here, madame, and look at the crowd upon the quay. In your country I dare swear you have no such _canaille_."

"Poor things! How dirty and ragged they look in all the light," murmured Deborah, in English.

"You should one day drive through the Faubourg where they live; it would interest you," returned the abbé, in the same tongue.

Deborah looked at him with a quick smile. "English sounds very dear to me. Thank you vastly for speaking it."

"One would learn Sanscrit to gain a word of praise from your lips, madame," was the abbé's unnecessary reply, whispered, not spoken.

The young girl was embarrassed. How could a priest say such things? Turning her head uneasily, she found Mme. de Coigny close to her, and beheld a new expression on that childlike, fretful face. It was as well that, at this moment, the distant shouting of the throng proclaimed the advance of the royal procession. Under cover of the general hastening to the lantern-hung windows, Victorine took occasion to murmur in de Bernis' ear:

"Why are you always cruel, François? Why will you continually torture me so? This child, now! Have pity on her."

De Bernis shrugged impatiently. "You are silly, Victorine. It is not my fault that you are jealous every time I speak to a woman."

They were silent for a moment. Then Mme. de Coigny, as she stared into the torchlit street below, sighed. "Those faces--the rags--the dirt--François, do they not remind you of our first days together in the Court of Miracles?"

For reply the abbé silently kissed her hand.

All of Mme. de Mailly-Nesle's guests were by this time arranged in the windows along the front of the _hôtel_. Claude, escaping from the women who would have questioned his heart away, sought Deborah's side. She received him with a friendly little smile that relieved him of many fears. A silence of expectation had fallen now over the room, for the distant sounds of shouting and cheering were increasing in clearness.

To his intense relief, Louis' long ride was nearly over; and, almost at its end, when there should remain only a bridge to be crossed to the Tuileries, he was hoping for something that should repay him for all his sacrifice of time and comfort. Since the day of the dismissal from Metz the name of la Châteauroux had never crossed the King's lips. But silence is not indicative of forgetfulness. On the contrary, with every passing day Louis felt his life more intolerably lonely, in the absence of her for whom he really cared more than any one else. Now, as he drew near to the Hôtel de Mailly, which he knew well, expectation and hope increased his speed, and he passed the Théatins at a lively trot.

"See, Deborah, here is the royal regiment. Those, there, at the head, just coming under the lights, are the marshals--ay, that is Coigny!"

"Madame, your husband," murmured de Bernis in Victorine's ear.

"--And there are the Court pages in uniform, look--on the white horses--Richelieu, d'Epernon, de Gêvres, de Mouhy, Trudaine--Heavens, how familiar they all are! And here is the Queen's coach. _Voila_! She looked out just then, at the shouts. The Dauphin is with her--they would not let the child ride. He's all of fifteen now--is he not, de Bernis? And _now_, Deborah--there, alone--in front of the corps--with the torches around him--that is the King."

Deborah Travis bent her head forward towards the window till the light from the lantern that hung above her shone full in her face. In the street, directly below, she beheld a great sorrel charger caparisoned in white and silver, bearing a rider also in white, with laced coat, cloth breeches, shining black riding-boots, white hat _à la Garde Française_, and across his breast a wide blue ribbon, fastened with three orders. The eyes of Claude's wife flashed over the figure and to the face, which was markedly distinct in the light of the torches.

"Is that the _King_?" she whispered to herself, unconscious of speaking.

At the instant that Louis passed beneath the string of lamps across the way, Deborah's eyes fell upon his bright blue ones. As though she possessed magnetic power, the King responded to the look. It was not the face that he had hoped to find here, but it was one--as fair. The royal hat came off, the royal figure bent to the saddle-bow. And then he was gone. Deborah's cheeks were redder than her rouge. Every woman in the room had turned to look at her, but some eyes, perhaps, stopped at sight of Claude. His face was deathly, and upon it was plainly written new, quickening dread; while both of his white hands were tightly clenched over his polished nails.