CHAPTER XI

"Thy Glory"

Deborah lay in bed--thinking. It was two hours now since she and Claude, with the rest of the frightened Court, had received a sharp command from the ushers to depart instantly to their various apartments, in the palace or out of it. That the ushers' voices were the echo of the King's was beyond doubt; and that fact was reason sufficient for the prompt obedience given to the bidding.

Thus Deborah, like every other witness of the evening's sensation, had retired, to lie wide awake, and go, over and over again, through the little chain of incidents which had passed before her eyes. Her meditations were more involuntary, less purposive, than most, however. The sight of a human being in great suffering had roused in her that keen instinct which had lain nearly dormant now for so many months. After the fall, she had been one of the first to reach the side of Claude's cousin. She recalled the press of fluttering women and excited men. The King himself had been obliged to force his way to her. The Queen, supported on either side by Mesdames de Boufflers and de Luynes, remained in her chair, making frightened, unanswered inquiries as to the Duchess' state. And through it all madame had lain prostrate, writhing and shuddering, in her long velvet robes. It was finally Mirepoix, with d'Argenson, white-lipped, Maurepas, very stern and still, and Marshal Coigny, who, at a sign from their sovereign, lifted the woman from the floor and carried her away from the eager, gaping throng to her own rooms. The King, having despatched two messengers, one for Falconet, the other for Quesnay, and having left the whispered command with the ushers, himself departed after la Châteauroux, taking with him his usual companion in all things, Richelieu. Hereupon followed the dispersal of the Court, and here, later, was where the recollections and meditations of the common courtiers ended, and only a fresh beginning could be made and gone through, for future gossip and reference. It was different with Deborah. Her heated brain had reflected the whole kaleidoscopic picture in a flash, as a single impression, again, and once again. But it was not upon small incidents, the acts or words of others, that her later imagination halted. Instead, she was reviewing, moan by moan, shudder by shudder, wild look and desperate closing of the eyes, the strange illness that had so suddenly seized the woman Claude had loved. That guttural cry, as if the throat had contracted suddenly--the fever-flush, visible to a keen gaze beneath the rouge--the growing dulness of the eyes that contradicted the theory of natural fever--the incessant, useless retching--the paroxysms that had wrung a groan of pity from Louis himself--all these, incomprehensible to those about her, Deborah had noted. And she found two things, two little points, which seemed to convey, as out of some past, a shred of memory, a suggestion that she had been witness of another such struggle--somewhere--at some time. The first fact was that la Châteauroux, as the pain, after a second's cessation, reattacked her with new fury, suddenly threw up her arms and clutched, with stiffening fingers, at the air. Secondly, just after this, a bright sweat broke out upon her forehead, and, as a great drop rolled down her face, Deborah saw the body quiver as if with cold.

Such things--where had she seen them before? Who was it that had passed through her life undergoing such experience? No shadow of grief clung about the memory. No. There had been no death, then. Who had been with her? Carroll! Sambo! The _amanita muscaria_ pitted against the _atropa belladonna_! It had all come back now. She had seen the symptoms of poisoning by the deadly fungus again, here, in this France. She, even here, possessed the means of saving life again, perhaps; if--if--if there was only time!

Simultaneously with that last thought Deborah leaped out of bed, and, holding up her long white gown, ran swiftly through her quiet boudoir and into the salon, which was, as usual, faintly lighted with a night-lantern. Seizing this from the table where it stood, she opened its door, snuffed the candle within to greater brilliancy, and carried it over to the mantel-piece, where she set it down. An instant more and the cabinet was open before her. Inside, in their even rows, stood her bottles of liquids, and near them--near them--the box of _amanita muscaria_. Deborah's eyes fell instantly upon this object. Strangely enough, the thought had not heretofore struck her that _she_ possessed some of these things. The blood around her heart suddenly grew cold. Who was it that had seen them not three days ago? Who was it that had stood beside her here, had taken that box down from its place, and asked her about its contents? How much had she told him about them? Had--could he-- No! Suspicion was carrying her too far. The thing was preposterous--impossible. Nevertheless, with a hand that shook, and fingers numb with cold, she took down the white box. In it there had been--ten--of the--things. Now--she must look. Could she? Her eyes, that should have sought the box, were raised for a moment. She saw that the room was lighter. Behind her another candle burned. She faced about. Then, seeing some one in the doorway, Deborah's over-wrought nerves gave way, she shuddered convulsively, dropped the box and its contents to the floor, put both hands pitifully out towards the figure, and swayed where she stood. Claude sprang forward, and caught her just in time. For a moment or two she leaned heavily upon him. Placing his light upon the mantel near the lantern, and taking her in both arms, he carried her over to a small sofa near the dark window. There, smoothing the tangled, half-powdered curls back from her face and neck, and taking both the cold hands in his to chafe warmth back to them again, he asked, gently:

"What is it, Deborah? What is the matter? What were you doing here?"

The figure in his arms trembled and stiffened. Deborah sat up, and then rose to her feet. Drawing one hand away from his, she put it over her eyes. "Claude," she said, in a-low voice, "pick up for me those--those things on the floor and put them into the box. Hunt well--don't let any of them escape you. Then--tell me--how many--there--are."

Claude wondered, looked at her intently for a moment, and finally obeyed her without a word. He picked up the small black objects that lay about the box, searching the floor carefully to get them all, and counting them as he replaced them, with a kind of interest.

"Look well," she repeated. "As you believe--in God--do not miss a single one!"

"They are all here."

"How many?"

"Six."

Silence followed that word; and Claude, watching his wife, could not see that a muscle in her body moved. Nevertheless, he dared not break the stillness. When she spoke at last, it was in a normal tone.

"Claude, we must go to the palace at once."

"Child! You are mad! What do you mean?"

"Claude, you must trust me. I know the sickness of your cousin. I can--perhaps--save her life. Come with me now, at once."

"No."

"Claude! For the sake of mercy, you must come!"

Claude de Mailly sent towards his wife a glance that cut her like a knife. "What do you know?" he asked.

"Everything."

"Tell me."

"No; I cannot do that. You must wait. Mme. de Châteauroux has been poisoned. I know how--by whom--but not why. By making me wait, you are killing her. Claude, you love her. I will save her life for you. Do you hear? I will save the woman you love! Come!"

Claude looked about him feverishly. "I love her!" he muttered. Then aloud he asked: "Who was it--that tried--to kill her?"

"Claude! Claude! Be still! Come with me!"

Claude de Mailly strode over to his wife's side and grasped one of her wrists so tightly that she bit her lips with pain.

"Answer me. Who was it? What do you know?"

Deborah cast at him a look which had in it a kind of despair, but which held neither fear nor dread. "You will be her murderer if you delay longer. Claude, the coma will come. We shall be helpless then. Let me go--I am going to the palace!"

Claude released her and stepped back. Something in the expression of her clear eyes had brought him boundless relief. There was no guilt in her face, none in her manner.

"Dress yourself. I will go!" he said, sharply; and then, after seeing her fly away towards her room, he retreated to his own, to don heavy cloak, hat, and rapier, for he had not yet undressed for the night. When, after some moments, he returned to the salon, his wife, in her heavy pélisse and hood, with muff under her arm, was standing in front of the still open cabinet, looking at the bottles within. At last, from among them, she took one that was half filled with clear liquid. Fixing its cork in tightly, she slipped the flask into her muff, and turned to Claude.

"I am ready now. How long you were!" she said.

They passed together out of their rooms, through the dark passage, and down the stairs. It was scarcely yet midnight. The front doors of the house were still unlocked, and the _concièrge_ was just reflecting on bed.

"How shall we go?" whispered Deborah, as they stepped into the frozen night.

"It may be possible to find a coach. Otherwise, we must walk."

They had gone but twenty yards up the street when, luckily enough, an empty vehicle, which had just left a party of roystering nobles at a gambling-house, came rattling towards them. Claude called out to the driver, who stopped on hearing his voice.

"A louis d'or if you get us to the palace in ten minutes," cried young de Mailly.

The coachman opened his eyes. "We shall do it in seven, Monseigneur," he said, eagerly.

Claude opened the door and Deborah sprang in before him. There was a snap of the whip, a plunge of the horses, and for something like the time designated they fairly flew through the darkness, from the Rue Royale to the Avenue de Sceaux, and down St. Miche to the Boulevard de la Reine. When they finally crossed the second Avenue St. Antoine, Claude drew a deep breath.

"We are nearly there," he said.

In another moment they had drawn up before the grand entrance on the Court of Ministers.

If Claude had been wise, he would have entered the palace by the chapel, and so avoided the guards. But this adventure was not of his planning. Deborah's desires he could only conjecture, for she had not spoken during the drive. Therefore, tossing the coachman his golden coin, he helped his wife from the coach, and with her entered the great vestibule, which was filled with Suisses and extra King's guards. These saluted respectfully enough as the couple entered the doorway; but, when Claude proceeded towards the staircase, a musqueteer barred his way.

"Your order, monsieur?" he said, respectfully.

"My order? I have none!"

"It is not permitted to pass without, to-night. His Majesty's commands, monsieur," said the man.

Claude turned to his wife. "You hear?" he said.

For answer, Deborah herself turned towards the soldier. "We may wait here--in the vestibule?" she asked.

"Certainly, madame," answered the guard, at once moving out of the way.

Claude and Deborah turned reluctantly and walked towards the other side of the great vestibule. As they went Claude accosted another member of the royal guard. "My good man, I am a cousin of Mme. de Châteauroux. We come on a matter of the greatest importance. Will you not permit us to ascend?"

The man stared at them keenly, with a kind of smile. "Mme. de Châteauroux is not in the palace," said he.

Deborah looked aghast. "Not in the palace!" she murmured.

"Sh! It is the usual method. It means nothing. She is here. Listen, Deborah; I am going to ask Michot, yonder, whom I know very well, if you may retire to the little _chambre-à-manteaux_ to wait. From there we can get into a passage which will take us to the little staircase. Remain here for a moment."

Deborah watched him go towards a Suisse, who addressed him by title as he approached. She perceived that he thrust something into the man's hand, and, when he returned to her side, it was with relief in his face. "That was better," he whispered. "Come now--here."

He drew her hurriedly into a narrow room off the vestibule, and from there, three minutes later, through a small, panelled door that led into the south wing of the palace. Here they were safely beyond the provinces of guards; and, after passing through a long series of dimly lighted rooms, they came presently upon a small staircase just off what is now the _Cour de la Surintendance_. Up one flight of these, through two deserted rooms and a short hallway at the end of the King's state apartments, and they halted before a tapestried door.

"This is her antechamber," said Claude.

Deborah put out her hand and pushed it open. They entered. The room was brightly lighted, but empty.

"The boudoir," muttered de Mailly. He hurried across the room to another door, Deborah close at his heels. It was he who opened this. As they crossed the threshold of the Persian-hung room they faced two people, a man and a woman--Antoinette Crescot and his Grâce de Richelieu.

"Madame!"

Claude had never heard so strange an intonation from his friend's lips. He saw his wife start nervously and stand perfectly still, while the King's gentleman took two or three steps backward towards the door which led into the bedroom. Silence followed the exclamation. Antoinette, the maid, astonished at this appearance of the young man whom she had once known so well, together with a companion, a woman, whom she had never seen, dared not, by reason of her place, voice curiosity. She whom Richelieu had addressed simply as madame remained as if petrified, her large grayish eyes burning into Richelieu's, her face colorless, her expression inscrutable. And the Duke's eyes shifted--a thing that no one had ever seen before--shifted from Deborah's feet to her face, from her to Claude, and then stared away at nothing, while his white hands were clenched, and his graceful body stiffened. Finally, after uncomfortable minutes, Claude lifted his hand and pointed.

"Marie Anne is there?" he asked.

Richelieu drew back yet more closely against the door. "No one--is permitted to enter," he said, in a low, dogged voice.

His tone seemed to break the spell under which Deborah had been standing. "I will enter!" she said, moving swiftly towards him.

Du Plessis did not stir.

"Let me pass," she whispered.

"By what right, madame? Have you his Majesty's order?"

"Let me pass!" she repeated, lower than before.

"Why?"

For answer she looked straight into his eyes; but he, though every muscle in his body quivered, steadily held his own. Then she said, rapidly: "I can save her life if only--there is time."

Thereupon, a little more stubbornly, a little more relentlessly, he shrank against the door.

Deborah drew a sharp breath, and suddenly seized both his large white wrists with her own hands. For an instant, by reason of the suddenness of her move, it seemed as though he must yield. With an effort he regained his equilibrium; and then all the strength which desperation might have put into her could not have moved him one inch.

"Deborah, what are you doing?" came Claude's clear, sharp voice.

"Claude--help me!--I must pass that door. I must--I _will_ pass that door! Help me!"

Claude gazed at his wife as though she had gone demented; and Antoinette, also astounded, stepped forward. "Pardon, madame, but his Majesty is in that room, together with the doctors, Mme. de Flavacourt, and Père Ségand. Monsieur le Duc had orders to allow none to pass to-night."

This explanation had apparently no effect upon Mme. de Mailly. For a bare instant she turned to look at the girl, and then shook her head impatiently. "I tell you I can save the life of Mme. de Châteauroux. I am the only person who can do so, for only I--"

Suddenly she stopped. The door opened from the inside. Richelieu straightened himself and stepped forward, as out of the bedroom came a man, tall and stoutish, in square wig and loose black suit which made him appear old. This was Quesnay. Closing the door behind him, he stood looking in some astonishment at the new-comers. Presently recognizing Claude, however, he bowed slightly. Claude returned the salute; and no one stirred as the doctor crossed the room and flung himself upon a chair with the manner of one who has made up his mind on an important point. It was Richelieu, who, after a doubtful glance at Deborah, asked, gently: "She is--worse?"

Quesnay hesitated. Then, with a shrug, he replied, gruffly: "She's lost. I say so. She's lost. That fool Falconet--would continue his insane bleedings and cuppings. He no more knows her sickness than I do. Let her rest in peace now, say I--till the end."

Despite his abrupt phrases, there was a good deal of feeling in Quesnay's voice; for the Duchess had been his friend. He now turned his back on the little party, and strode over to one of the windows, where he stood looking into the black gulf of the Court of Marble, below. So for many minutes no one within the room spoke; no one moved. The silence was finally broken by the reopening of the bedroom door. This time it was Louis of France who left the bedroom of the dying woman. He entered the boudoir with head bent, brows knitted, one hand nervously brushing his forehead, the other hanging limp at his side; and no one had ever before beheld the expression that now rested upon his face. To Deborah he looked in some way more kingly; to the rest he was more human, older, more cognizant than before of the deep under-life of things and of people. As for him, if he beheld the new-comers in the room, he evinced no surprise at their presence, nor had he taken any notice of the reverent lowering of heads as he came among them.

"Richelieu, go to the little apartments and bring back with you Bachelier, Maurepas, and Marc Antoine d'Argenson. Speak to no others if you can possibly avoid it. If forced, you will say that the Duchess of Châteauroux is not in the palace."

Richelieu bowed low. Nothing could have expressed his secret terror at leaving that room, which contained Deborah de Mailly and the King, together--with none to prevent her speaking if she would. Nevertheless, he departed on his errand without protest. After the exit Louis seated himself in the chair that Quesnay had left, his head bowed on his hands, his attitude precluding any idea of speech on the part of any one present. Thus the four--Quesnay, Claude, Antoinette Crescot, and Deborah--stood there for ten long minutes about their master, like him waiting for Richelieu's return.

When the Duke re-entered the apartment, Bachelier was alone with him. Maurepas and d'Argenson, neither of them dressed, were to follow presently. On seeing his valet, the King beckoned the little man to his side, whispered to him inaudibly for several seconds, and then dismissed him on some errand. Just without, in the antechamber, Bachelier encountered the two ministers. There was no speech between them, but looks, in a Court, are capable of astonishing development. When Maurepas and d'Argenson appeared in the Persian boudoir they were prepared for many things. Neither made any sign at sight of Claude and Deborah. The King, bowed and deeply troubled, was before them, in his chair. After the salute there was a short silence, which Louis, with an effort, broke:

"Gentlemen, we shall have need of you--later. Meantime you will remain in this room. While you are here we forbid you in any way to address any of those about you. And upon those who have, we know not how, been admitted here, we also impose silence. Hereafter this night must be by all of you forgotten. Any violation of my command will mean--understand well, messieurs and mesdames--will mean--imprisonment--for life."

With these final words the King, after glancing solemnly around the semicircle of mute figures, rose slowly and moved towards the bedroom door. As he opened it all behind him saw Falconet, the royal physician, turn and face his Majesty, whispering something. Louis started back for a second, and covered his face with his hands. Then, turning about, he raised one hand in a summons that was understood by all those who stood in the adjoining room. The little party moved forward into the sleeping-chamber of her who had ruled Versailles. Maurepas and d'Argenson stood aside for Deborah and her husband to enter; then they followed, with Quesnay close behind. Antoinette Crescot, waiting to be last, saw Richelieu, whose face had grown ghastly white, falter to the threshold of the door. There he stopped, hesitating, struggling with himself. Finally, with an effort that cost him all that remained of his nerve force, he stepped quickly into the bedroom and halted just inside, his back to the wall. Antoinette, who had sent one glittering look, like a dart, through the man in front of her, followed him into the bedroom, and passed him, as he stopped beside the wall.

Around the great bed of the third of the de Nesle sisters stood those who had just entered into that room, the spell of the hour, the flickering candle-light, and the terrible scene before them weaving a spell of slow fear about them all. The heavy velvet bed-curtains had long ago been pulled down, to give madame air in her agony. Up near the pillows, to the left, her face hidden in her hands, utterly exhausted with the horror of what she had seen, knelt Mme. de Flavacourt. At the other side was Père Ségand, the confessor, who had administered the last sacrament two hours before. Beside him stood Quesnay's superior, M. Falconet. Directly behind was the King, his eyes, like those of the rest, fixed upon the face of the woman he had loved.

Marie Anne de Mailly-Nesle lay rigid on her bed. Her golden hair, shaken free from powder in the last four hours, framed, in shining waves, her face. That face! Dusky, wrinkled, gray; the eyes, half-open, catching the candle-light, and glittering, glassy black, beneath their frozen lids; the shapeless lips, two drawn, gray lines, from beneath the upper of which the white teeth peered forth; was this visage that which once had been the peerless countenance of the most superb woman of her time?* And one thing more there was, which seemed a mark put on her by some master will to stamp the life which she had led unmistakably on her in death. Below the left corner of her mouth, unloosened in her life-struggles, was a black patch, cut in the shape of a crescent, named by the Court fop who had originated it, the "coquette."

* Description taken from a medical report of the coma produced by the _amanita muscaria_.

And so, through these December midnight hours, the little circle remained about that bed, gazing, in tremulous fascination, at what lay before them. Maurepas knew, now, why they had been admitted here. Who, ever after, would voluntarily gossip of such a scene as this? Who would willingly recall it to memory? Prudent-wise with a terrible wisdom was this King of theirs become! Maurepas, standing here, recalled, even as Claude was doing, another death which had taken place in this palace of Versailles: that of little Pauline Félicité de Vintimille, sister of this woman, seventeen years old, a mother, who had also left her bright world behind because of the unhallowed infatuation of the unapproachable man who stood here now--Louis Bourbon, King of France.

Long, endlessly long, was the train of hapless recollections called up by this scene; and when at last a whisper fell upon the silence, its words were an echo of other thoughts. Antoinette Crescot, forgetting everything save the unknowable face of her former mistress, muttered, softly, half to herself, "Is she dead?"

And in the room six, like her, waited for some reply. It came; not from the lips of Quesnay or of Falconet, but as an articulate breath from Deborah de Mailly, "Not yet--not yet--but soon."

Again the silence and the chilling spell, to be broken, this time, by the voice of the little golden clock from the mantel across the room. Two strokes rang out. The winter dawn was yet many hours away. Then, as if she had been waiting for a sound, the corpse-like figure on the bed suddenly, without apparent effort, sat up. The sightless eyes opened and were turned towards him whose scene this was. Louis shuddered under the look. Mme. de Châteauroux stretched out her gray lips in a long, slow smile. Then, in the voice of one speaking from the hereafter, she said, audibly, with uncanny lack of expression, "Thou--knowest--if--I have--wished--thy--glory."

It was the end. Père Ségand caught the body as it fell, and laid it gently upon the pillow and sheet. Then, high over her, he raised the crucifix that hung suspended from his waist. Those in the room sank to their knees. Mme. de Flavacourt's sobs were the only ones heard. Minutes passed, and Deborah felt hot drops from her eyes trickle slowly down her clasped hands and fall to the floor. Then came to her ears the tones of a hard, monotonous voice, in which all tears had long since been petrified to stone.

"Mesdames and messieurs--you have not witnessed the--death--of Mme. de Châteauroux; for Mme. de Châteauroux has not been in Versailles since the month of June. Mme. de Châteauroux died four days ago, on the morning of the 4th of December, in Paris, at her _hôtel_ in the Rue du Bac--of--a--malignant--fever."*

* Historians differ as to the date of the death of the Duchess of Châteauroux. It occurred upon either the 4th or the 8th of December, 1744, how or where has never been definitely known.

It was the voice of a King; and of such was the glory of Versailles.