CHAPTER IV

Marly

On Monday afternoon, at half-past five o'clock, in a small room in the Lazariste, which was next to St. Vincent de Paul in the Rue de Sèvres, sat François de Bernis, Abbé Coyer, and St. Perle, the Lazariste prior, taking tea. The Abbé François de Bernis wore, over his non-clerical court-dress, a long, straight black coat, which did not set off to advantage his dark, handsome face, straight brows, nose, and mouth, smooth olive complexion, and deep gray eyes. His wig was short and round. His hat and gauntlets lay on a chair near at hand. Coyer, a weaker replica of his brother abbé, was in much the same costume, which denoted an approaching journey; while St. Perle, stout, round, pale-eyed, bald, and wigless, was in his usual priestly gown.

The prior had finished his second bowl of tea, and sat absently meditating on the excellence of its flavor. It was not a thing of which he partook daily. De Bernis lay back in his chair, the dish in his hand steaming unheeded, legs crossed, eyes staring into space, and a smile stretching itself over his countenance.

"Thy thought, François! I would give something for the recipe of that smile at Mme. de Tencin's. I might tell what tale I liked to explain it, and they would credit every word."

De Bernis returned to the present, and directed the smile at his two companions. "It is a tale," said he. "A very charming tale. However, our coach will have arrived before I have finished it with proper adroitness."

"The coach shall wait."

"Ah, my dear Coyer, 'tis not the first time that you will have made your bow to his Majesty and to the favorite. Consider my agitated eagerness."

"The _sang-froid_ of M. de Bernis is known to be imperturbable," ventured the prior.

"And your appearance at Marly will be infinitely more important if you show yourself indifferent enough to be late."

De Bernis shrugged. "Very well, then. My history will--disappoint you. It might be so charming a romance. It is, in reality, so unfinished. However--I will be truthful.

"It began upon a certain morning five weeks past, the week of Christmas, when, as you know, I was at Fontainebleau. At ten of the morning I started out, on foot, my destination being the hut of one of the forest-keepers, my road through the forest's centre. I had some _écus_ in my pouch, together with some food and some medicine of herbs, for the woodsman was wedded and was poor. The morning was frosty. There was some little snow on the ground, and here and there a wolf-track. I went slowly, composing consolatory speeches, and meditating--on holy matters. Presently I looked up, with the sense of some one near, to find myself facing a companion of the vows, dressed like myself. I stopped, saluted, and bade him good-morning. He returned my greeting in a pretty tenor voice, unusually high. I looked again at the man's face. It was peculiar, but pleasing--small, oval, white, and smooth. He was very young, and his eyes were remarkably large and blue. He had been fasting, I thought."

Coyer laughed.

"Each day," continued de Bernis, retrospectively, without heeding the interruption--"each day thereafter, by one chance or another, we met. I am not quite sure how. M. Devries seemed to be under no particular order of procedure, and so, at my invitation, he made himself my companion in charitable rounds. Daily I became more interested in him by reason of his reticence respecting himself; and, after a time, I fell completely under the spell of fascination emanating from his voice and his manner. By the time we set out together for Paris, and before my first suspicion of his personality came to me, my inexplicable infatuation had risen to great height. At the inn in Fontainebleau, on the Paris road, and again at the lodging that he, oddly enough, chose to take in the Faubourg St. Antoine, there was always in attendance upon my companion an old and very respectful man called Jérôme. When we passed the Paris barrier I overheard this servant, in a whispered communication, address Devries in a word which sounded strangely like 'madame.'"

Here St. Perle started with surprise, and Coyer took snuff with a little impatience at the coup anticipated by him from the beginning.

De Bernis went on tranquilly: "At that instant all my vague conjectures and my unconscious suspicions suddenly leaped together into a certainty of knowledge. Need I add, my friends, that, as a man and a poet, I was disgusted with all the lost opportunities, but still enraptured with the glowing future? But, alas! I soon discovered that my goddess--M. l'Abbé Devries, as I punctiliously called her--was as unapproachable as she was irreproachable. This I came to realize gradually, and by means of repeated failures in small advances. I was still, fortunately, too careful to betray myself. It was she who proposed our pilgrimages into that most unsavory of holes, the Court of Miracles. Naturally I acquiesced, with the utmost eagerness, to the proposal of continuing in her society for two weeks more. From here I went for her every morning. I left her every evening to return hither. By degrees I became madly in love with her mystery, and so, at length, with herself, for her self's sake. I would have squandered all my small fortune for a sight of her without her abbess dress. At every turn I was foiled, either by her or by her guardian, the incorruptible Jérôme. At last, a week ago, I became rash through desperation. I frankly approached this M. Jérôme, offered him one hundred louis d'or for her name, and five hundred if he would admit me secretly to her presence that evening. Actually the fool refused me--refused me stolidly, and at length with so much vigor of purpose that I desisted from the attempt. The next morning--the next morning--by ten thousand devils!--she was gone! I know not how, I know not where. I know not if the old man warned her of danger in my presence, or if she went of her own adorable accord. In fine, I love the lady abbess of an undreamed-of convent, I love a mad-cap demoiselle of I know not what château, the siren of an undiscovered Venusberg, the angel of a heaven too high. Now, Coyer, you have learned the romance. Show me, if you have pity for the stricken, the road--to knowledge and to recovery."

At the close of his recital de Bernis' expression did not accord with his words. His tone was irritated, and the displeasure in it was caused as much by the failure of Coyer to appear interested as it was that the relation of his adventure recalled his hopeless defeat at the hands of a member of the sex over whom de Bernis loved to feel himself conqueror. Therefore he finished his tea in silence, and took three hasty and inelegant pinches of snuff.

St. Perle was troubled at the doubtful propriety of the story related, in which he had been too much interested to refuse to listen. He now folded his hands resignedly, and meditated a little lecture to come a day or two hence.

The Abbé Coyer was still indifferent, or apparently so. He stirred his tea and stifled a yawn before he remarked, casually: "Your road to knowledge, de Bernis, is also that to Marly, where I trust you will recover your _sang-froid_ in the presence of your inamorata, who happens to be Mme. la Marquise de Coigny. You will meet her to-night. Come, the coach is at the door."

His Majesty, who had been more than usually bored during the past week, occupied his mind during the Sunday-morning sermon in thinking over all the grievances of kinghood, the uselessness of affairs of state, and the possibilities of some amusement on the morrow as recompense for the prayers of to-day. In the afternoon he sought his Châteauroux, and, happily finding her Claudeless, asked her aid in planning a diversion. Madame, with more tact than originality--in which factor her nature was lacking--proposed a hunt at Sénart in the morning, a sleighing-party from the forest to Marly in the afternoon, a supper and salon at that stiff château in the evening. His Majesty received the idea graciously, since it did away with any possibility of morning mass; and so, though he remarked later that he preferred Choisy to Marly, and madame alone to madame's salons, the programme was carried out as arranged, and the King seemed, in the morning at least, to be having a very good time, indeed.

Late in the afternoon a long procession of sleighs stopped, one by one, at the open portals of the great Louis' favorite retreat. Their occupants were chilly, tired, and hungry. Nevertheless, the Salle des Cardinaux presented a brilliant appearance when, an hour later, the company descended, in fresh and costly toilets, from the upper chambers to the supper-room.

The first course of the evening meal was served at six. It was a less elaborate affair than had been the custom under the old régime; but surely no man who had not inherited the appetite of a Louis XIV. could have complained of a scarcity in the number of dishes set forth. The company had apparently forgotten its weariness. The room rang with laughter; the air was alive with conversation, with toasts, with the relating of anecdotes, with snatches of verse, with low-voiced compliments; and the candle-light was dimmed by the flash of diamonds and the sparkle of champagne.

At the head of the first table sat the King--kingship dropped for the evening. Upon his right hand, more royal than her liege, was the Châteauroux; on his left, through some whim of his own devising, sat Mme. de Gontaut, who had once rivalled the Duchess for her position, and came dangerously near to winning it. Louis was supposed to be not over-fond of this lady, who possessed that worst of all feminine attributes, an indiscreet tongue. But to-night he was fanning her long-smouldering hopes with such a breeze of devotion that the Duchess, seeing, first of any, the newly rising flame, openly showed her anger and disgust by turning her back upon the King to talk inanities with d'Epernon, her neighbor.

By the time that the first course was over madame was exceedingly uncomfortable. Never, since the beginning of her reign, had she known the King to treat her so inconsiderately. Once or twice, from beneath her eyelids, she glanced at her rival. Mme. de Gontaut was radiant. She was racking her brain, she was tearing her nerves, to keep Louis entertained for an hour--one little hour--more. She was not a pretty woman, this Gontaut; but Marie Anne de Mailly perceived, with a pang, that she could carry off a kind of light _espièglerie_, which was amusing to the King because of its novelty. The glance of the Châteauroux shifted to Louis' face. His Majesty was leaning to the left, his blue eyes brilliant, his lips curved into the most charming of smiles, his hands, which sparkled with jewels, lying close beside those of the other woman. La Châteauroux forgot d'Epernon while she watched the hands. The King drummed lightly on the table. He was repeating an animated bit of gossip to his companion. His head was thrown back, and a curious smile lurked in his face. Presently his eyes, also, fell upon his hand. One of the rings that he wore was a solitaire ruby of great value, set in a band of finely chased gold. Still smiling, he slipped the ring from his finger, and contemplated it for an instant, knowing well how two women were watching him. He was not usually prodigal of gifts, this most Christian king. But this time there was a score to be paid off, a score of jealousy; and revenge is worth more than rubies. Louis leaned forward, still speaking, gently took Mme. de Gontaut's hand from the table, and slipped upon its third finger the ring he had been wearing.

"Oh, Sire!" murmured the woman, her heart throbbing with a wild hope.

Louis, unable to resist the temptation, turned his head towards the Duchess. She sat so that he could only see her profile, but from it he knew that her face was flushed. He noted the stiff poise of her head, the pure immobility of her shoulder, the slight dilation of her nostril, the mouth firmly closed even while she smiled at a witticism. Louis was satisfied. His anger with Claude de Mailly was dispelled. Surely no woman would have the effrontery longer to encourage a petty cousin while her position wavered in the balance. Already the King released the hand he held and took a different tone of conversation with the Gontaut.

But Louis of France did not yet realize what things an offended woman will be reckless enough to do. Mme. de Châteauroux was furious, and her fury knew no prudence. She was accustomed to her way, a way which was not that of submission. Her pride was greater than the King's own, and woe to the king who affronted it! In the instant after she had watched Louis' carefully prepared scene, her eyes fell, by accident, on the figure of Claude, who sat far down the table. The sight of him showed her her opportunity for satisfaction. While she ate, while she laughed, and talked, and quaffed champagne and the new Bordeaux, she planned all in her mind. What matter if she lost one man his freedom? She, Marie Anne de Mailly-Nesle, would make a king suffer the consequences of his malice, and would once more make sure of her own place, her position as Queen of France.

At eight o'clock the King rose from the table. Generally speaking, the supper had not been particularly enjoyable. Every one was wearied by the long drive, and a long continuance of gayety over the food proved impossible. Besides this, the favorite had not set the tone of conversation, and those who knew her expression were aware that she was in the worst possible humor. Mme. de Gontaut was displaying her short triumph so openly that his Majesty frowned and actually left her side as the company adjourned in informal groups to the salons next the banquet-room. Mme. de Châteauroux, still assiduously attended by d'Epernon, sought out Victorine de Coigny, who stood beside Henri de Mailly-Nesle. The little Marquise very well knew the reason for this meeting, and she was suddenly seized with a chill of terror. Looking up at her friend, she found the Duchess's eyes fixed on her in kindly interest.

"He will be here?" she breathed, just audibly.

The Duchess nodded and smiled. "With Coyer. It was my command," she answered. And Victorine, impulsively seizing her hand, carried it to her lips.

Once in the Salon Pastorale, with none of those salutations to members of the royal family or guests of royal blood which were invariably expected, at a Versailles' affair, to be made, the King, contrary to his first purpose, but led irresistibly, made his way to the side of Mme. de Châteauroux. She and Victorine stood near the door-way, talking with a small company of Louis' intimates. There was some slight apprehension in the King's manner of approach, for la Châteauroux very rarely concealed any displeasure that she might be feeling towards him. But this time he was received by a pretty gesture of welcome. Louis kissed her hand, and, as he lifted his head again, caught sight of some one at the other end of the room who arrested his attention.

"Since when, Madame," he inquired, "have our assemblies in retreat been frequented by members of the clergy?"

La Châteauroux was in no way disturbed by the tone. "Have you forgotten, then, Sire, my request that M. de Bernis be presented by the Abbé Coyer, who brings him to-night? De Bernis was one of the protégés of the Cardinal Fleury. I thought that, in such case, his appearance before you could not be dis--"

"Enough, enough, Anne," interrupted the King at once, with the strangely gentle manner which the mention of his former preceptor and minister invariably called forth. "I shall be delighted to know M. de Bernis."

The King failed to perceive the glances that passed from man to man about him at the words of the Duchess. Neither was he aware of the fact that de Bernis' presentation at Court had been delayed for eight endless years because the flagrant irregularity of his life had so displeased Fleury that the Cardinal had refused to give this priest an entrée to the circle of the Queen, whom he respected, or to that of the King, whom he loved. Mme. de Châteauroux was perfectly aware of all this; but Fleury had been dead a year, and any qualms that she might otherwise have felt were lost in the interest of watching the face of Victorine de Coigny, who had just perceived the approach of the new-comers.

At Louis' consent to the presentation, Mme. de Châteauroux had at once sent a message of the eyes across the room to Coyer, who was waiting for it. After an instant the two priests moved forward, slowly, side by side, towards the royal group, de Bernis with his eyes anywhere but upon the face of Victorine. The Duchess, with an adroit grace, moved a little in front of his Majesty, who was chatting with Richelieu. Thus she was the first to receive the two. After a cordial greeting to Coyer she turned, with some curiosity, upon his companion, to find de Bernis' sharp gray eyes fixed upon her in an admiring gaze that was but just removed from an affront. Curiously enough, however, the Duchess failed to resent it. Her deadened nerves vibrated at the glance with a sensation so long unfelt that it was a keen pleasure. Certainly the man had a fascination about him. She smiled slightly, and then Coyer, who had been awaiting the right moment, presented the Abbé in punctilious form.

"His Majesty had graciously expressed a desire to meet you," said the Duchess at once, turning slightly towards the King.

Louis, who was impatient to have done with the ceremony, stepped to her side.

"Your Majesty," murmured madame, "Monsieur l'Abbé de Bernis has the extreme honor of being presented to you."

The King extended his hand, which de Bernis, with a low and graceful salutation, received upon the back of his and lifted to his lips.

"Any man who had the great good-fortune to be beloved by the Cardinal Fleury, Monsieur l'Abbé, cannot but be at all times welcome at our Court," remarked the King.

A look of astonishment passed over the abbé's face. He shot a glance at the Duchess, who appeared perfectly unconscious. Nevertheless he was too keen a man to allow himself to fall into a mistake so early. "Your Majesty does me honor," he replied, in the slightest possible confusion.

"Not at all," returned Louis. "I am honoring the memory of my good friend Fleury, whose death--France and I--have cause to regret--more than any other event--of the reign."

With this scarcely audible reminiscence, his Majesty, in one of his peculiar moods, turned again to Richelieu, thus putting an end to the audience. Once or twice during the next ten minutes Louis glanced a little impatiently towards the favorite, with whom he wished to speak alone; but she and the abbé were engaged in a conversation which appeared to be absorbing to both. Presently the Duchess advanced a little and touched the shoulder of the Marquise de Coigny. Victorine turned with nervous quickness. Her delicate face was flushed and her hands were cold.

"M. de Bernis, will you allow me to add to your acquaintance the Marquise de Coigny, who will, I think, become your conductress for the evening, if you desire to meet others here; or your spirit of conversation, if you do not. Madame, I intrust the abbé's happiness, for the evening, to you."

De Bernis bent over Victorine's hand. "Would that my life's happiness were as secure," he murmured. And a quick light came into the woman's eyes.

"To which lady will you be presented next?" she inquired, laughingly.

"To none, madame, if you are merciful," was the reply, accompanied by one of those looks upon which de Bernis came afterwards to depend for many things. "Dare I ask that you will grant me an hour of your companionship?"

Mme. de Coigny refrained from saying how many hours of companionship she would have granted for the asking; but her reply was certainly gracious enough to content him, and, a moment later, they moved slowly away from the royal group.

Meantime, by means of Richelieu's ready tact, the knot of courtiers about the King had been dispelled, and Louis was left alone with la Châteauroux. His Majesty watched the movements of his favorite comrade with a quizzical eye; and when the doughty Duke was obliged to carry off Mme. de Gontaut by making her his own companion, the King, with huge relish, took snuff.

Mme. de Châteauroux posed beside a heavy portiére of yellow and gold, with which her own dress of palest blue satin mingled harmoniously. In the candle-light her face was perfection itself, and her manner and expression of quiet indifference were intensely pleasing to Louis, who was tired of the efforts at talking made on his behalf. He did not now approach her closely, but remarked in a half-whisper, from where he stood:

"Madame has been very cruel of late. The time, and especially the place, are unsuited to proper expression of my lasting esteem. Will madame be so generous as to receive me in her own apartments? The heat and the people here are highly annoying."

"If your Majesty commands," returned the Duchess, without moving, "I can, of course, but obey. Otherwise, I would suggest that your Majesty remain here for at least an hour longer. At that time a disappearance would be less remarkable."

The King sighed. "As you please--always as you please, Anne. But I am wretchedly bored with all this."

"Allow me to advise your obtaining the services of Mme. de Gontaut in dispelling your ennui," returned madame, coolly.

The King laughed. "Ah! you failed to understand my attention, I think. I made a fool perform for your benefit, that you might perceive how little any woman besides yourself could possibly please me."

The Duchesse de Châteauroux shrugged her shoulders.

"_Au revoir_--in an hour."

"_Au revoir_."

With a bow and smile peculiarly his own, Louis moved away in the direction of the little salon, and madame turned about to find Claude de Mailly close at her side.

"Dear Claude! Where have you sprung from?" she asked, smilingly.

"I have been hoping all day that you might deign to speak to me. You have been very cold of late."

She looked down upon him, and the smile died from her lips. "It is you who have made me so. Surely you must have realized, cousin, that you have been near to wrecking your own position."

"My position is nothing to me, except when it enables me to be near to you."

"Then let me tell you, Claude, that were you not indiscreet you might see far more of me than you do now."

"How--how--what shall I do?"

Madame turned away for an instant, and a resolution came into her eyes. "It is difficult, my Claude, to talk seriously with you here. I wish to see you happier. Listen. In three-quarters of an hour go to my apartments. Antoinette will let you in. There, when I can escape from this, I will come to you, and we shall have a little consultation. You shall lay bare your heart to me, if you will; and I--will turn adviser."

Claude seized her hand. "You will do this? You will let me tell you all? You will listen to what I shall plead for? My God! It is more than I could have hoped. Marie, Marie--I shall make you believe me, I shall make you consent!"

"Chut! Some one will hear you, my child. There, that is enough. Remain here while I go. Behold, de Gêvres is coming. _Au revoir_, then."

She parted from him with a smile as easy as that with which she had begun the conversation. What was one to think of her? A woman without heart, nerves, senses? No. Only a woman of the Court, a woman of the world; a woman whose heaven was Versailles, whose god was called Louis XV., whose hell would be dismissal with ten thousand livres a year.

Claude stood looking after her as she gave her hand to the lisping Duke; and then, tingling with excitement, with delight, with hope, with faith in his words and in her, the boy started upon the way she had pointed out to him. He went slowly across the room to the spot where stood Henri and a little group of ladies and gentlemen. He laid his hand upon the Marquis' arm and drew him a little away from the rest. Henri looked with curiosity and surprise upon his comrade's excited face, the brilliant green of his eyes, and the spasmodic manner in which he breathed.

"What is it, Claude? You look as though you had an inspiration, or were about to be seized with an illness. You have had too much champagne."

"Henri, I am about to be the happiest man in ten thousand worlds. Henri, will you pray for the spirit of eloquence to seize me? For one half-hour I would be a Bossuet, a Molière, a Racine! Henri, have you ever heard me talk well? No. I have not--"

"Name of a devil, Claude, what is the matter?"

"Nothing. Nothing. Never mind. Good-night!"

He started away, but his cousin darted after him and caught him by the arm. "See here, my friend, you would better let me accompany you to your room. You must not make a scene. I cannot imagine how you--"

Before Henri finished Claude broke into a laugh. "Mordi, Henri, didst think me mad? I am a trifle excited. I am weary from the hunt--what you will. I am going to retire. Do not disturb me to-night. See, there is Mlle. d'Argenson regarding me. Let me go at once. There. Good-night!"

After these words the Marquis paused more contentedly, and saw his cousin leave the room, going in the direction of the grand staircase. On his way Claude passed the King, who was with Mme. de Jarnac, and the Duchess, still with de Gêvres. He left the second salon behind and entered an antechamber opening upon the central hall. Here, quite alone, side by side in the shadow of a hanging, were Victorine de Coigny and François de Bernis. The Abbé was toying with her fan, and laughingly answering her animated questions and observations. De Mailly took mental note of her face as he bowed in passing. Never had he seen it so absolutely free from discontent or that little look of fretful weariness that neither Henri nor de Coigny himself had ever been able to dispel. Now Claude had left them behind, and the staircase was before him. Ascending rapidly, he passed along the corridor above to the old apartments of de Maintenon. He knocked, was admitted without delay, and conducted, by Antoinette, into the inner room.

"Monsieur le Comte will wait here. He is early," she said, as she slipped away.

In the centre of the room in which he was left stood a round table. To this Claude drew a chair, seated himself, and then, obeying an impulse, leaned forward on the mahogany and laid his head upon his arms. Minutes passed, and he distinguished them neither from seconds nor from hours. After a time the maid once more went through the room. There was the murmur of a phrase or two spoken in the antechamber, a door softly opened, the delicate swish of satin, and then Claude was upon one knee at the feet of his cousin of Châteauroux.

She raised him up and smiled slowly into his brilliant eyes. "You are tired of waiting, and, indeed, I do not wonder. But I have not been able to effect my disappearance till now. 'Toinette will bring a _pâtê_ and a glass of wine to us here, which we will take together, not as cousins, Claude, but--"

"As lovers," he murmured.

She shook her head at him. "As very good friends, my dear."

"Ah, no--Anne, no! Surely you could not think when you had granted me so much--so much as this--that I would not dare more--would not risk all, at last--"

"Chut! Stop, Claude! Why, would you finish our colloquy in a word? We have much time before us. To hurry is ungraceful."

He flushed and laughed at the same time. Happily at that moment Antoinette and Fouchelet, the valet, entered together, the man bearing their repast upon a silver tray. While the dishes were being set out madame moved leisurely over to her toilet-table for a fan, and Claude sat silent till they were alone again.

"And now, my Claude, you will pledge me in a glass of this wine of Champagne. See--to thee, and me, and our house, Claude! Come--drink!"

Was madame suddenly nervous? Claude heard her voice tremble, and thought that her hand shook as she raised the delicate crystal goblet, with its tracery of golden grapes and vines, filled to the brim with that foaming gold which the court of the fifteenth Louis knew so well.

"To you, Anne! Only to you!"

The glass was at his lips, and he drank the toast with his soul in his eyes. He was blind; he was deaf. He did not hear that sound in the neighboring room that had stopped his companion's hand and fixed her eyes. The door to the boudoir was thrown violently open, and, at the same instant, there was the crash of glass on the floor.

"Diable!" cried a peculiar voice; and then a silence, thick, terrifying, fell upon the little room.

Slowly, so slowly that the woman was fascinated with the sight, Claude carried the glass from his lips back to the table. His eyes had met those of the King, and both men hung to the glance. The boy rose, his limbs as steady as his hand had been. And still no one spoke. Mme. de Châteauroux was not acting now. Claude had not seen her first terror, but he knew when her hand crept to her mouth, perceived the trembling of it, heard dimly the sharpness of her breathing. Finally her voice came to him as if from a great distance, as she faintly said:

"I had not--expected--your Majesty--so early."

"So early, madame," echoed the royal voice, suavely. "And does Mme. de Châteauroux now make appointments for her evenings by the hour?"

Claude shut his teeth. "Sire, you insult my cousin!"

Mme. de Châteauroux started unfeignedly, and Louis' face flushed. His tone, however, was unmoved, as he said, slowly:

"Madame, order this person to leave the room."

La Châteauroux hesitated for the fraction of a second. Then she turned to de Mailly. "Monsieur," she said, "do you need further--"

But before she could finish Claude took the affair into his own hands. Moving until he stood between her and the King, and looking straight into her now impenetrable face, he spoke:

"Anne, when I came here to-night, I think you must have known what it was to say; and you will let me speak it now. Anne--I love you. I love you more dearly than anything upon earth. I offer you what I have to give--marriage, and the devotion of my life. You have been mistress of France, but I offer you an honester home, one in which you may obtain absolution. Choose, then, here and now, between us two. I ask that the King, as a man, will allow that choice--between marriage with me and freedom to live where we choose, or--the other life."

In the stillness which followed Louis de Bourbon glanced from the woman to the speaker and back again. Truly, the boy had courage, but something lacked in wit. Then the King felt for his snuff-box, opened it, smiled leisurely, took a pinch in his fingers, and, before absorbing it, re marked, dryly:

"Choose, madame."

La Châteauroux bent her head. It was not what she had planned, this situation. She herself it was who was bearing the difficult and the despicable part in it; for madame was but twenty-seven, and had still traditions of the family honor clinging to her. The answer came as though it cut her a little to speak her words, there, with the King's cynical eyes upon her, and all Claude's young, mad hope in his face:

"Claude--I wish you--good-night. Will your Majesty do me the honor to take a glass of wine?"