CHAPTER V

The Chapel

Tuesday morning at Marly proved an ordeal for the army of valets and maids attendant on the ladies and gentlemen who had taken part in the amusement of the day before. His Majesty, indeed, could not be said to have set a good example to his companions. He was sulky, he was depressed by the weather, and he wanted de Berryer. While he was still in bed he was informed by de Rosset, his first gentleman, that the Chief of Police could not possibly be brought to Marly from Versailles under six hours. Louis made no comments, but kicked the bedclothes aside and began to dress himself with extreme rapidity, receiving his garments as willingly from the plebeian hands of Bachelier as from those of de Rosset, whose business it was to conduct matters properly. Being finally arrayed in a very much shorter time than usual, the King adjourned to the conventional room and sat down to the breakfast prepared for him. After gloomily striking off the tops of his eggs, dipping a bit of bread into each yolk, and throwing the rest away, till he had demolished seventeen of these commodities, without eating what one would contain, he ordered his sleigh prepared, and, at nine o'clock, left Marly behind, and set off at full trot for Versailles.

Behind him, at his grandfather's stiff old château, Louis left a pretty disposition of human emotions. Mme. de Châteauroux was very anxious. The more she brooded over the scene of the night before, the more she regretted the affair. Certainly it had turned out as badly as possible. Claude was inevitably ruined. He must by now have discovered how heartless and how cruel she was; and as to Louis being more jealous, and therefore more anxious to please her than before, why, that was a doubtful question. He could be very ambiguous when he chose.

As a matter of fact, Claude himself was less concerned at his position than his cousin for him. Claude had much, and, at the same time, little, to lose at Court. His love was strong, but his youthful buoyancy of spirit was stronger. He was young, happy-hearted, untrammelled. There was no one dependent on him for place. He would have passed the Bastille doors without grief had it only been promised him that Henri should visit his room there once a week with the latest stories and gossip, and that the Doublet-Persane _Nouvelles à la Main_ and a billet from his lady should reach him every Wednesday and Saturday. This was not more on account of his frivolity of taste than because of his ability to make for himself a home and amusements out of the most unpromising material. He was blessed with two things, that only the gods can give and the gods only take away--a system of pure optimism and unbounded faith in the goodness of human nature.

Claude by no means lay awake during the hours that were left between his retirement and the dawn, on that night at Marly; but his eyes unclosed in the morning more heavily than was their wont, and it took him but a second to define the sense of weight at his heart when he was awake. Sounding the hand-bell for his man, he made a rapid and silent toilet, and then hastened off to the neighboring apartment of his cousin the Marquis. Henri was in bed, still in that dream-stage between sound slumber and preliminary yawns. Claude's repeated and vigorous knocks at the door succeeded at last in bringing him to a realizing sense of all that is disagreeable in life.

"Diable! Is it you, Chaumelle? What do you mean by rousing me at this hour? Is the château on fire? Is the King ill--or Anne in a temper? Wait--wait--wait! I open!"

The Marquis, shivering with cold, crept out of bed and unlocked his door.

"Oh! You, Claude! I might have guessed it. One's family is so inconsiderate. Will you come in? I'm going to bed again to keep myself warm. For the love of Heaven, get Chaumelle to bring a tripod of charcoal or to light my grate here!"

Claude obligingly sounded the gong, whereupon the Marquis' man appeared with admirable promptness.

"Run to my room, Chaumelle, and bring in the chauffier you will find there. His Majesty's too tender of his forests to provide us with wood for burning. It's abominably cold."

The valet hurried away, to return in three minutes gingerly carrying by its handles a tripod filled with glowing charcoal, that gave out a very satisfactory heat.

"Will monsieur rise now?"

"No," answered Claude. "Set it there. Bring the water in half an hour from now. He will be ready for you then."

The man bowed and disappeared, while Henri, from the bed, grumbled discontentedly: "How in the name of a thousand devils dost thou know at what hour I will rise? Wilt let me sleep again now, or not?"

"Not, Henri," was the reply, as Claude drew a tabouret up to the bed and spoke in a tone so new that his cousin sat up and looked at him.

"You are in trouble, Claude, and you do not tell me of it."

Claude leaned over the bed, took up the pillows, and fixed them, as a woman might, at the Marquis' back.

"Sit there so, and pull the coverlet about thy shoulders, and then listen to my history, and tell me--what the end will be."

Thereupon the younger de Mailly proceeded to recount, very accurately, with neither exaggeration nor palliation, all that had occurred on the previous night, together with certain incidents which had gone before, unthought of, but which now stood out from the tangle of life with significant relationship to the present situation. The Marquis listened closely, with increasing anxiety in his expression; and when Claude ceased to speak there was a silence between the cousins. It was this silence that forced upon the Count his first twinge of real dread.

"Well, Henri!" he said at last, with sharp intensity.

"Well, Claude?" returned the other, sadly.

"What dost think of it?"

"I think--do you remember, Claude, the affair of young d'Agenois?"

Claude started. Then he rose, walked measuredly over to the window, and looked out upon the bleak landscape. His face was invisible as he said, in a muffled voice: "François d'Agenois, the Italian, who--who once asked in marriage the hand of the Marquise de la Tournelle? François, Duc d'Agenois--"

"Has lived since then near Geneva, while Mme. de la Tournelle was created Duchesse de Châteauroux.... I meant that one, Claude,--yes."

"And you think," said the young fellow, turning about, and squarely facing his companion--"you think that I shall--be invited to undergo the same--fate?"

"Ah, Claude, my cousin--my comrade--surely not! Surely the King is older, his penchant for Marie is now perfectly understood, perfectly secure; nay--"

"Don't say that," interrupted Claude, suddenly. "Why should he be secure with her? Ah, Henri, last night she refused my offer of marriage, it is true; but it may have been to lessen his Majesty's fury against me. Henri, I swear to you, that with her, for her, as my wife, I would live in the desert, a wilderness, anything, and be the happiest man in all the world. She knows this. Henri, she must care--a little!"

Mailly-Nesle listened with a face more serious than ever, and, when Claude finally stopped, he shook his head. "Do not put your faith in her, Claude. I, her brother, warn you. She gave up everything in life to win the place she obtained. Remember how d'Agenois was her promised husband when he was exiled with her consent. Remember that she drove her own sister, Alexandre's wife, out of Versailles, to the Ursulines, for life. She--no, Claude, she will not help you. She cannot."

The younger sighed. "Ah, well--I ask too much, perhaps. At any rate, it may mean nothing more than a month in the Bastille. That would not be at all difficult. Indeed, I should indulge in a much-needed rest. You and de Coigny should come to tell me all the news; I would invite Monsieur le Gouverneur, and, possibly, my turn-key to dine, and we should all be merry with feasting and fasting by turns. You see, Henri, my spirit will not be shaken till the final blow. This room is like a furnace. When, dear Lord Doleful, are you going to rise?"

"At once, Claude. My friend, your buoyancy is worth rubies. Even now I am mourning for you more than you for yourself. How are you able to move hand or foot?"

"Come, you are aping d'Epernon. You make a bad lover. No woman likes a man with a face so long. Ah! And that reminds me--but what shall you do when you are dressed?"

"Coffee--if 'tis to be had here--and eggs; the health of Mme. de Châteauroux; that of Mme. de Coigny; our sleigh; Versailles; you with me. Now, of what is it that you are reminded?"

"Good. Good. Hurry now, Chaumelle. I famish.... I was reminded that, last evening, as I left the last antechamber on the great hall, I beheld your charming Victorine, herself charming--and being charmed."

"Ah!--Mordi! It is that vile abbé--de Bernis, they call him--who was her companion in Paris."

"A handsome fellow," observed the Count, from a mirror where he was adjusting his wig.

The Marquis turned so sharply under Chaumelle's razor that he narrowly missed having his chin laid open. "You think so?" he cried out, anxiously.

Claude burst into a shout of laughter. "On my soul, Henri, you are a prig. Use a little indifference towards her. 'Tis only that can save you now. Why, positively, you are absurd. How is it that you arrange the 'gallant' now?"

"A trifle smaller than you have it there, and farther down towards the left ear. There. That is better."

"Thanks. Ah, Chaumelle, five livres to you if you have Monsieur le Marquis ready by half-past nine."

Chaumelle more than won his prize, for it was but just half-past when the cousins, having finished their coffee and eggs, were announced at the apartments of the Duchess.

Mme. de Châteauroux, pelissed, hooded, and muffed in crimson velvet and sables, sat pensively at her window, awaiting the arrival of her sleigh. She rose in unfeigned agitation at the entrance of Claude and her brother.

"Ah, Monsieur le Comte! How rash you are! You compromise me; you--you make your own case infinitely worse. Henri, how could you have permitted him to come?"

"Madame!" cried Claude, beseechingly, but the Marquis interrupted.

"The King, Anne, has left Marly. You--"

"I know. I know. Whom did you see in the hallway as you came here? Any one?"

"De Gêvres and Richelieu," answered Claude.

Henri, frowning, pinched him.

"Good Heaven!" cried the Duchess; "we are lost, both you and I! Oh, you are thoughtless, cruel! Go at once, both of you, and let de Gêvres see you instantly depart for Versailles. I shall not now leave here until twelve o'clock. Go! Go!"

She fairly pushed them from her into her antechamber, pointing, as she did so, to the outer door. Claude had turned scarlet, but Henri was very pale. Both of them bowed in silence; for there seemed no words suitable for bidding the "fair and haughty," now very tearful and eager Châteauroux, good-bye. Once outside, the Marquis turned and looked at Claude.

"De Gêvres was to see us again," he muttered, angrily.

"De Gêvres be--!" was the low reply. "I return to Versailles."

"And I accompany you.... Good Heaven, Claude, don't think that she meant it all! You see how everlastingly she must work against all that is generous in her."

"Ah, messieurs! Your morning interview with madame, your sister and cousin, was short. You are leaving the château?"

"We follow the example of his Majesty, monsieur."

"And I, gentlemen, shall follow your first lead. I hasten to pay my compliments to the Duchess. I have the honor to wish you an enjoyable ride."

Richelieu, in a morning toilet of fawn color and lavender, an embroidery bag upon his arm, a patch-box in one hand, smilingly passed the cousins and went on his way to the apartments of the favorite.

Madame was divested of her wraps and resigned to Marly for another two hours. Richelieu seated himself comfortably in the historic boudoir, one foot, prone to repentance for many truffles and overmuch _vin d'Ai_, reposing tenderly on a cushion, his embroidery in his hands, and a snuff-box near by. The favorite, gracious, but a trifle on her guard, placed herself opposite to him and waited.

The Duke took several contemplative stitches before he remarked, gently: "Madame, you look unwell this morning. Now, were I you, I should not be nervous. As I imagine, you were slightly rash yesterday--did not manage quite so perfectly as usual. You have, no doubt, sacrificed the cousin; but you are still secure."

"His Majesty has spoken to you?"

"By no means. But the mad haste with which he departed this morning portends extreme disease of mind. It is his fear that, after all, Claude may hold charms which he does not possess."

The Duchess raised her eyes to the ceiling. "Dear uncle," she said, "Louis is perfect. I adore him!"

"Ah, but you either make him doubt too strongly or you let him know it too well. You are too impassioned, Anne. I have always told you that. I assure you I should have been married twenty times, instead of only twice, had I not been able to have any woman for the asking."

La Châteauroux, perhaps unconsciously, sighed.

"Ah, madame, life is cruel to us all. But now, Anne, come, confide in me, as your good counsellor, certain particulars which the Court but guesses. What is the last madness of young de Mailly, and why did the King, after a _petit lever_ and a vile breakfast, without admitting a single entry, order his sleigh an hour ago and set off for Versailles and de Berryer as if pursued by all the furies? All knowledge is yours, my Anne. Share it with me."

Mme. de Châteauroux rose from her chair and swept two or three times up and down the little room. Richelieu, examining her at his leisure, could discover no trace of agitation in her manner. Suddenly she stopped still and turned towards him.

"I do not deny that Claude is lost," she said, slowly. "But, if he is, is it not his fault alone? He is not ignorant of the ways of the Court. Why should he put himself, his career, in my hands? He will reproach me, without doubt. All will do that. Again I shall be called, as in the other case, without heart, without generosity, without love for my family. _Mon Dieu!_--you remember the scandal when my father left Versailles? Bah! Put me out of my position, uncle. Imagine me as a mere bourgeoise--of the people. Well, then? What woman but will become selfish, forgetful of all, for the man she loves? What are those others, who stand in her way, to her? And I, Monsieur le Duc, am a woman who loves. I love--I have the courage to love--the King."

A flicker passed through the eyes of the Duke as he bent over his embroidery. Was it amusement, or was it revelation? Could it be but a recollection of certain common Court memories that appertained to the "love" of Marie Anne de Mailly? Was it a fleeting remembrance of the brief and stormy careers of the two older sisters of this woman, both of whom had held her place, the one dying in it, pitifully enough, the other dismissed by the open command of the Marquise de la Tournelle, then just coming into power? Was it a vision of the angry helplessness of the old Marquis de Nesle, driven away to die in exile, because his pride of family was too great to sanction his daughters' dishonor? Was it a thought for a brother's hidden shame; of the merciless flouting of a helpless queen; of the dismissal of every minister who held at heart the best interests, not of the mistress, but of France; of the ruin of every courtier who had not paid his court to her; of the fate of the hapless d'Agenois; the impending ruin of young de Mailly? Was it, perhaps, a vision of prophecy concerning others to come, on whom disfavor should fall--Belleville, d'Argenson, Chartres, Maurepas, the Dauphin of France--nay, finally, after all, before all, _himself_, the great, the incomparable Richelieu, estranged from the King and the Court through the "love" of this woman? After all, the flutter of many thoughts takes but an instant, and madame had scarcely time for impatience when her good "uncle" was answering her with well-calculated lightness.

"You are right, Anne. And how drunk with the happiness of such love should our most gracious Majesty be! Perhaps he has flown away this morning that he may reflect in happy solitude on his great good-fortune."

Unfortunately, however, as Richelieu well knew, this was not precisely what his most gracious Majesty was engaged in this morning. Upon his unexpected arrival at Versailles at so early an hour, the King's first cry was for de Berryer. The attendant of whom he made demand performed his obeisance, looked nervously about him, and scurried away on a search. In the meantime Louis ascended to the deserted council-chamber off the Œil-de-Bœuf, threw off coat, hat, and gloves, and pounded on the bell for some one to remove his boots. A valet came, together with the unhappy announcement that M. de Berryer was in Paris--had been there, indeed, since yesterday morning--on important business. Louis fell into one of his silent rages, despatched a document commanding the instant return of the Chief of Police to his side, growled an order to serve his dinner to him alone where he was, and sank into his official chair at the great table in a fit of sulks which lasted him all day. De Berryer's arrival, at five o'clock in the afternoon, elicited the first gleam of satisfaction from his dull eyes. He ordered a fresh instalment of wine and cakes, closed the doors of the room, and motioned the minister into a chair across the table, where he could stare conveniently into the small, dark face.

"Well, Sire, you have work for me?" inquired the official, with badly concealed irritation. De Berryer had been forced to leave certain matters relative to the farmers-general in a distressingly unfinished state in Paris, had been harassed all through his ride with details of the King's anger, and finally arrived at Versailles tired, nervous, and out of sorts, to be summoned instantly before Louis, who would probably occupy him till seven with his usual tiresome and fussy budget of Court intrigue, gossip, and grievances. And at such times there was certainly one minister of France who cordially hated his position.

"You have work for me?" repeated de Berryer again.

"Yes, yes, yes. I want a _lettre-de-cachet_ at once, and you to deliver it," was the reply.

The poor servant groaned inwardly as he drew from his pocket an ever-ready bunch of these conveniences, prepared for filling out. "What name, Sire? It is immediate?"

"Yes. No. Wait. I will tell you about it," responded the King, leaning comfortably back in his chair and munching a _gâteau purlaine_.

De Berryer passed the back of his hand over his forehead and resigned himself. Louis began to speak, recounting in a leisurely but not unentertaining fashion the last developments of the _affaire_ de Mailly, as it was called at Court. Presently, despite himself, de Berryer grew interested in the tale. He remembered his last conversation with Claude at the assembly, perceived that the young man had not taken his advice, but had gone along upon his own career of audacious fidelity to a foolish cause. On the whole, de Berryer rather admired him, and certainly regretted his approaching fall. Besides this, there was that other amusing phase of the matter--that of Louis' furious jealousy of this two-penny Count for whom the favorite doubtless cared not the least in the world, save for the fresh fires of royal devotion that she could kindle at his hands. All things considered, de Berryer had spent duller hours than this in his Majesty's presence.

"And now, my good de Berryer," finished Louis, more comfortably than ever, "you know all. What shall I do? Shall it be the Bastille for a couple of years? _Hein?_"

"No--no, your Majesty," returned the King's companion, calmly.

"What!"

"Listen, Sire, I beg of you, to my reasons. In the first place, la Bastille is no longer what it once was as a place of retirement for rash members of the younger nobility. It is generally crowded to the doors. It is by no means strictly kept. The apartments on the east side fairly reek with a Court atmosphere. All day long there is a continual stream of visitors for the prisoners, who keep quite as much in touch with the times as though they dwelt in the Œil-de-Bœuf. I assure you the reputation of a Court gallant is not complete till he has lived a month or two in that old fortress. M. de Mailly's fame would be greatly enhanced during his residence there, and it would be by no means unusual were Mme. de Châteauroux herself to visit him."

The King blasphemed below his breath, and the minister smiled covertly.

"Precisely so, your Majesty. No, it is not bolt, bar, and stone walls to foment his passion that our young Count needs. On the contrary, it is space, time, other courts, other women, new comrades--in fine, a second case of d'Agenois--that will fit the amorous M. de Mailly. He--"

"Bravo, bravo, de Berryer! Excellent, by my faith! It is enough. Wait." Louis touched his bell, and a lackey appeared.

"More candles for the table."

Lights were brought and set before the minister, who drew from a drawer in the table some paper, quills, a sandbox, wax, and the small seal.

"Write!" commanded the King.

"And the delivery, Sire, shall take place--when?"

"To-morrow morning, in the chapel, after mass."

De Berryer frowned. "Your Majesty is a second Molière," he observed, politely.

Louis, holding a glass of Burgundy to the light, bowed thanks.

To the delight of the pale puppet-queen, Marie Leczinska, Louis, on Wednesday morning, came to her apartments in the best of humors, to conduct her in person to mass in Mansard's famous chapel. It was an unwritten law in this sanctuary that husbands and wives, not a few of whom had seen each other for the first time at the altar here, but had no cause to love it the more on that account, should sit together. Their Majesties, with Mesdames Henriette and Adelaide, and Monseigneur, the young, Jesuitical Dauphin, set the example by appearing _en famille_ in the front space. Behind them sat those of the Queen's ladies who were unmarried or widowed, together with all the _demoiselles d'honneur_, presided over by the unbending Duchesse de Boufflers, who, in spite of herself, could not prevent the glances that passed between this delightful bevy and the company of gallants across the aisle. Mme. de Châteauroux, here always sombrely dressed, excited no comment. Claude de Mailly, alone, out of the whole Court, chose his place with reference to her; and in this place to-day, as usual, he sat, his head on his hand, dreamily listening to the chanting of the choir, and the low intoning, mingling the incense of his earthly but none the less pure adoration with that which ascended from the golden censer to a higher heaven.

Mme. de Châteauroux was pale to-day. More than one person had already noted that fact, and remarked it to a neighbor. If Claude were whiter about the temples and lips than she, none but Henri, beside him, knew it. Never once throughout the service did madame turn to answer the unwavering look that seemed as if it must draw her cold blue eyes by very force about to answer it. But Louis' smooth, satin back was within reach of her hand. She could almost stir his loosely tied locks with her breath. She felt Claude's presence with rare discomfort. The knowledge of his danger was crying to her conscience painfully; but she could not speak, and her eyes must keep their place.

Behind the de Maillys, Marquis and Count, Victorine de Coigny, pale also, great-eyed, and small, sat beside her tall husband, who, though he stared steadily at the altar, failed to make a single response, and no more knew the subject of the address than did his wife, whose thoughts were wandering in far and fair new places.

Mass, to the relief of every one present save, possibly, Marie Leczinska and her son, came presently to an end. In a measured press the many-colored throng passed down the aisle after the sovereigns, bowing, chatting, shrugging, smiling, retailing the last bit of gossip as they might do to-day, happy in the knowledge that twenty-four hours intervened between them and the next chapel. Mme. de Châteauroux, who, to the end, had resolutely avoided her cousin's entreaty, was among the last to set forth for less depressing apartments, surrounded, as usual, by a group of the King's gentlemen. Behind her, aimless, objectless, speaking to few, addressed by many, for a high interest centred around him now, went Claude, with Henri still close beside him. They arrived together at the door, and Mailly-Nesle, a pace ahead, was whispering a compliment into the ear of Mme. de Coigny, when a light hand fell upon Claude's shoulder. The young fellow started under the touch as though thrilled with a sudden presentiment. The Count de Maurepas was beside him.

"Be so good as to come back with me for an instant, monsieur," whispered the minister.

Claude turned and placed himself beside the other. They waited together till the last stragglers had left the chapel. Dim light, and silence that was a relief, fell about them. Up at the far end of the room an acolyte was extinguishing the candles at the altar. Then de Mailly quietly faced his companion.

'What is it that you want?" he asked.

"This, M. de Mailly. Believe me--I regret--exceedingly--my duty. M. de Berryer, however, requested--"

Without further ado Claude took from Maurepas' hand the letter that he held, with its dangling brown seal.

"You choose an odd place for its delivery," he remarked, as he unfolded the paper.

De Maurepas, to whom his good friend, the Chief of Police, had intrusted this unpleasant task, slightly bowed. He was watching the man beside him, the new royal victim, the gentleman who had been his companion in so many places, at so many times, for years. He saw Claude read that short, polite, rather suave missive, which gave small reason for its being, but made the gravity of its threat perfectly apparent in royal language. Claude read it twice, quite through, to the last word, the signature. Then his hand fell heavily to his side, and the paper dropped to the floor. Maurepas stooped to pick it up, but some one else was quicker than he. Henri de Mailly, returning in search of his cousin, had stood for a full minute unnoticed on the threshold. Now, retaining the letter, he turned a questioning gaze towards the pair. Maurepas failed to meet his eyes; but Claude smiled.

"I am starting soon upon a journey, Henri," he remarked. "Monsieur le Comte, may I request that you convey my farewells to his Majesty, since I have not the honor to bid him _au revoir_ in person? Permit me to wish you a good-morning."

Claude bowed bravely, but ungracefully enough, and looked towards the Marquis. His lips were dry, his cheeks suddenly flushed, his eyes very bright. Henri understood the look, and passed with him out of the chapel. De Maurepas was left alone to gaze after them. When they were gone he shifted his position slightly, but made no move to leave the room. Presently de Berryer appeared from the vestibule and joined him.

"I saw them go," he said. "How did he take it?"

Maurepas shook his head. "I am not certain, but I think it was hard for him. I imagine that he was not very sure of what he did. He asked me to say 'au revoir' to the King. Bah! You might have done this yourself, de Berryer. I don't like such work."

"And do you think, Monsieur le Comte, that I like it better?" queried the King's favorite minister, with a weary frown.