CHAPTER VI

Claude's Farewell

On the morning of Thursday, January 21st, when a feeble ray of sunlight first straggled into the window of Claude's room on the Avenue de St. Cloud, in the town of Versailles, it fell upon an early company of four men engaged in an unwonted occupation. Upon the canopied bed, half dressed, unwigged, powderless, sat Claude, directing, with some animation, the movements of two men, his own valet and Henri's, one of whom stood before an oaken wardrobe, while the other knelt upon the floor beside a travelling coffer of brown hide, studded with brass nails. At some distance from these three, by a table, was the Marquis, quite dressed, his head leaning on his hand, watching operations in silence. Now and then he turned his eyes to the face of his cousin, while for the rest of the time they wandered about the disordered room. Henri's face was unusually pale to-day, and under his eyes lay shadows of sleeplessness. His mouth was set firmly, and the hand that hung by his side was clenched.

Certainly the room was in a state. All about it, on every chair, on the bureau, the desk, the tabourets, and upon the floor, lay clothes--court-suits, riding-suits, hunting-suits, every-day suits, dressing-gowns, boots, shoes, slippers, long stockings of silk and of thread, laces, ruffles, fine linen shirts, undergarments, wigs, a peruke, two swords, hats, cloaks, gauntlets--every article known to the masculine wardrobe of that day. From the various heaps Claude, by means of a riding-whip which he held, designated what he wished packed, Chaumelle would pick it out and carry it to Rochard, who folded it and placed it, with melancholy care, in the little coffer.

"I must have one court-suit, but I vow I'll take no more. Which shall it be, Henri--the peach-colored or the white satin? Speak, man!"

The Marquis, with an effort, raised his head. "Both. You will need the white one for your wedding."

Claude stared at his cousin for an instant, and his lips twitched with laughter. Then, with a sudden change of expression, he pulled from his breast, where it had lain all night, the letter that Maurepas had delivered to him. He had not read it since leaving the chapel.

"Owing to certain circumstances which of late have had the misfortune greatly to displease S.M., the King desires to inform Count Claude Vincent Armand Victor de Nesle de Mailly that the absence of the Count from the château and city of Versailles after the noon of Friday, January 22d, in this year of 1744, will be desirable to S.M.; and that after the first day of the month of February, Monsieur the Count, if he has not already crossed the line of the French Kingdom, would of necessity be placed under the escort of one of his Majesty's officers. The King wishes Monsieur the Count a delightful journey, and begs further to add that when monsieur shall desire to present Madame la Comtesse his wife to their Majesties at Versailles, his return to his present abode will be most pleasing to

"Louis R."

As Claude for the second time perused this curious letter his face darkened, and, at the last lines, flushed.

"I heard your '_au revoir_' sent to his Majesty," observed Henri, "and, after I read the dismissal, I understood it. You will discover some pretty child in Madrid or Vienna. In six months you will be back again with her for presentation; and here she will quickly find some marquis or duke for cavalier, while you return again with your rashness to the little apartments."

The Marquis spoke these words by no means in raillery, but with such a tone of solemn prophecy that Claude turned a serious and questioning gaze upon his cousin. Then he shook his head.

"Do you, indeed, Henri, think so ill of me as that? Should I, by such a loveless bargain, dishonor myself and the woman who bore my name? What of the shame to me in bringing such a one, unprotected even by my affection, to this Court of Versailles, of all places on earth; to plunge her into the life that she would find here? You would run me through for a deed like that. Besides, I am going from here to no Court. I leave by post to-morrow for Flanders--Antwerp, or some seaport. And after, unless I travel in the Low Countries and up into Sweden, I have a mind to turn to strange places. Perhaps I shall sail for America."

"Ah, Claude, it is too far! Where wouldst thou go? To our colony of Louisiana, or the settlements of the South coast--the flower-land that is pestered with Spanish and English pirates? Be sane, my Claude. Remain nearer home. Surely some day you will return to us. Think, think of the homesickness. Without thee here, Claude, I--I--" Henri went no further. His voice had broken, and he suddenly hid his face in his hands and bent over the table.

The Count sprang from the bed, crying roughly to the two servants to continue their work. Then, standing by the chair of Mailly-Nesle, he put both hands affectionately on the two bent shoulders.

"Henri, look at me. Thou shalt not take it in this way. I have got no more than has come to a thousand others. I have loved too well. And since I may not have that one thing for which I would sell the soul from my body, 'tis small matter, after all, where I live, or what my portion is. Some day I shall return hither, doubtless--when--when--or thou shalt come to me. Things may occur, perhaps, that shall make all right. Take courage. Thou art a man! There is no time for this. We must talk together of many things. There is my money, my rents--"

The Marquis raised his head, and Claude nodded with satisfaction to see that he was again in control of himself.

"'Tis better, _hein_? Thou knowest, Henri, I get from Touraine and Languedoc together some fifty thousand livres yearly. I have made that suffice me here, with what I could win at play. My debts, as Fortune wills, are paid. Can the King say as much? What has paid for this life will stay me better abroad, in whatsoever land I may find myself, than it has done here. How to receive it--"

"That shall be my task, Claude. In May, as you have done, and again later in the year, I will go to both estates, as I visit my own. Your stewards will accept me as master, I imagine. They are good fellows, both."

"Between them they steal, with perfect regularity, seven thousand yearly."

"So little? They are not good, then, but stupid. Mine, on my single estate, costs me ten."

"Your lands nearly double mine."

The Marquis shrugged. "Well--and each three months you will write to me, that I may send the rents where you may be?"

"Yes. I will burden thee with news more often than that. Do you know, my friend, I have a mind to set out from Flanders or England for King George's colonies? It has been said that the summer is a paradise in Virginia, or in Lord Baltimore's province."

"'Tis too far, Claude! Italy or England--well. But America! _Ciel_! I should be as content with you in the moon."

"It is no more than a month's voyage in fair weather, I have heard."

"Ay, and six in foul."

"Ah, well--we'll not speak of it now. I--"

"And the language! Recollect your love of the English tongue."

"I do not love French to-day. I swear to you that I will perish at once rather than go to swell the peopling of our Christian Majesty's damnable colonies!"

"Chut! That is treason. Finish your selection of garments there, and let us go out to seek a dinner. I perish of hunger."

"I come, I come. You must not die to-day. Is the suit of olive there, Rochard? Then--"

His next word was interrupted by a tapping at the door.

"Umph! Some gossip to visit you!" growled the Marquis.

Claude drew his dressing-gown about him and motioned his man to the door. "Open--but not too widely," he said.

Rochard unclosed the door, pushed it open six inches, and peered out. After a low-voiced colloquy with some one outside, he turned into the room again, holding out to his master a note addressed in a handwriting which Claude dreamed of. As he opened and read it, the boy turned very white. Henri, who was watching him closely, hurried to his side.

"What is it?"

"Nothing," was the quick reply. "Rochard, it--it is the valet, is it not?"

"Fouchelet, yes, Monsieur le Comte."

"Tell him that--I will come."

Rochard bowed and went to deliver the message.

"Claude--Anne--Anne has interceded for you? No. She dare not do that. She is mad enough to see you again?"

"To say good-bye," was the reply, formed with dry lips. Then suddenly he cried out, sharply: "Henri, I cannot go! I will not leave her to that man! Either I stay here to die, or she shall come with me as my wife. Henri, I tell you I cannot leave her!"

It was two o'clock in the afternoon, and the Duchess was alone in her dressing-room. She was alone, had been alone through the whole morning, refusing admittance to the usual visitors of the toilette, in the hope that Claude might come. She had learned, like the rest of the Court, of the letter delivered in the chapel. But the reason of it, which was so well known to her, the Court but guessed. Her desire to speak with her cousin again was unaccountably strong, and she could not believe that he would make no effort to see her--for the last time. Nevertheless the hours had passed, and Claude neither sent her any word of farewell nor came himself. She was anxious, and she was bored. The King, who had that morning been informed that she was ill, had gone hunting. Versailles was deserted. Even Victorine was at Rambouillet. And so madame, more restless with every passing instant, was at last guilty of the imprudence of sending for the man whose banishment was caused by his having dared to enter too closely into her life.

Her note finally despatched by the only man in her household whom she could trust, she drank a second cup of chocolate and ate a fillet of venison, of royal shooting, with some appetite. Afterwards, with the assistance of Antoinette, she made one of her most careful _négligé_ toilets, in which the carelessness was obviously becoming. Her dress was entirely of white. She wore not a single jewel, wiped off every trace of rouge, took the ornaments from her hair, and brushed its powdery locks till the bright gold lay in natural waves about her neck, and Mme. de Châteauroux had become as beautiful as flattery itself could have painted her. She was, at this time, nearly seven and twenty years of age. Her face was still young, but her manner was old--older than that of the King. She had acquired long ago the carriage of a King's consort, and that was, indeed, a role which she had played so much that it had become a natural part of herself. She had faced difficult situations since her childhood; and never, save once with her dead father and once with her husband, the old Marquis de la Tournelle, had she lost control of herself and of the affair in hand. It had made her too self-confident in appearance--a fact which she realized, but could not change. She would have liked to-day to play a younger part with Claude, but she sighed and shook her head as Antoinette finally tied back the shining hair with a white ribbon, and the grand manner descended upon her like a pall.

It was now a full half-hour since she had sat in the little room, waiting, and looking out upon the bleak courtyard below her window. She had ceased to think, and her appearance was that of a statue in marble, when Antoinette softly pushed open the door of her room and allowed a cloaked and hatted figure to pass in. The door closed again after the entrance, and at the same time there was a little click from the antechamber beyond, as the faithful maid locked the door that opened upon the great corridor. In the boudoir of the favorite two people were alone.

With a slight movement of the shoulders Claude dropped his enveloping mantle upon a chair behind him, and threw his hat down upon it also. Then, impulsively, he turned towards his cousin, as though upon the spot he would have taken her in his arms and told her all that he had come to say. But there was something in her attitude that stopped him--something that even forced him back a pace from his advance. As a matter of fact the Duchess meant to be herself mistress of the scene, and, having no idea of Claude's ill advised intent, she seated herself quietly on a chair with her back to the drawn window-curtain, and, with a gesture peculiar to herself, bade him draw a tabouret to her knee. He went to her obediently, looking at her with repressed expectation in his white face. After an instant's hesitation she said, slowly:

"And so, my poor Claude, it is come to the end."

His reply was quick. "No, Anne. It is not the end yet."

"What! What are you saying? You are exiled, Claude."

"Ah, yes. The King told you that."

"It was not the King told me that. Do you mean that the story of the letter of banishment is not true?"

Claude was silent.

"Why do you say it is not the end?"

"Because, Anne, I mean that for me it shall be the beginning."

"Of what?"

"Of freedom--of life--of love."

"Love!"

"Yes."

The Duchess was puzzled. She drew slightly away from him. "Then there is some one--some one of whom I know nothing."

"Yes, Anne, some one of whom you know nothing. Would you hear who it is? No, remain where you are! That some one whom I love, whom I have come to to-day, with whom now I am going to plead for life, is your real self. You have forgotten it in life here, my Anne. You have forgotten, in the midst of your estate, in the midst of the Court ways, what you were before all that was part of you. Listen. We played together, you and I, and Alexandre and Henri, and Louise and Pauline, in the gardens of the old château, by the river-bank, and through the forest. We were the youngest, you and I. Alexandre was our leader, and we obeyed him as our general. I liked you then better than the other girls, though you always mocked at me for a baby, while Louise was gentle, and Pauline always in difficulty. And after--we separated, all of us. You were sent to the Ursulines, I to Languedoc with a tutor, Alexandre to Paris. It was there in the old Hôtel de Mailly, at Alexandre's wedding with Louise, that again we came together. Ah, Anne, Anne, I think you have not forgotten what followed! The first scandal, Alexandre's death, Louise's life in the little apartments, how the King grew weary, how little Pauline was brought from her convent, how she, too, was sacrificed to infamy, and how she died--how she was murdered, Anne, you--"

"Stop, Claude!"

"Not yet. Pauline was murdered, I say--poisoned, in her sickness. And then, Anne, then the way was opened for you by Mme. de Mazarin's death. How should the rest of us have guessed--your father, I, Henri, already unhappy with Mme. de Mailly-Nesle--how should we have guessed that you, too, should have followed in the footsteps of your sisters? _Mon Dieu_, Anne! In your widowhood, after Maurepas took the Hôtel Mazarin, Henri's house was open to you. Why did you choose instead to put yourself under the protection, not of the Queen, not of Louise, but of his Majesty? And then--the end was so swift. You drove Louise pitilessly away--you ruined d'Agenois with your coquetries--you infatuated the King with your daring and your loftiness; your title was bestowed; you reigned; and then comes the last: my history with you. I know your life, Anne, from its beginning to to-day. You know what my feeling has always been. And now, when I am so nearly at the end of hope, you would have me make no resistance to fate; you would have me acquiesce; you would have me bid you good-bye with de Gêvres' manner, and depart, quietly. I have right to more than that."

"All this is well enough if you wish it, little one. Neither do those long 'recollections' of thine disturb me, save that they are very stupid, my Claude. But now, how shall you continue? Are there yet more of them?" Evidently the Duchess was not overpleased with the interview, so far.

"I have done with the recollections, but I have more to say," returned the boy, undaunted by her manner. "I have something to say which, once before, you have heard, but which you shall listen to again. It is why I obeyed your note. In other case I should have left Versailles without seeing you. It is something that I am going to offer you, something that I have to give that is not elsewhere, I think, to be found in Versailles. You will seek long, Anne, before you find it again. It is something that you, and every woman about you, make light of daily; and yet it is what women--ay, and men--sell their souls for."

"Love," murmured Madame la Duchesse, absently.

"Yes, it is love--my love, that I have to give. Anne, to you, here, being as you are; what you are; belonging to none who has the right to guard you; paid with much gold, it is true, yet with false gold; puppet-queen, without real honor in any heart, your name a byword in many countries--"

"Ah! Ah! You insult--"

"_I speak truth_! You know that. To you, I say, who have so little of love, none of real honor, I offer all. I offer you marriage, a name unstained, a pure-hearted devotion, a life that shall be pure-- Ah, now, Anne, now, I am making you feel! There. Do not turn from me. No, no. Listen! I did not mean it. Forget what I have said--forgive it. Think only of how I have suffered. Think how utterly I love you; how I am a man desperate. My whole existence, my heart, my mind, my hopes, are here at your feet. Crush them--you kill me. You cannot spurn all. To leave you is to enter a living death. But--but--you must know what love means! It means that my soul belongs to you; that in you, for you, only, forever, I live. How, then, can you let me go from you? You will be tearing the heart from my body. You know that all my life--it has been you. Had I ever cared for another, it would not have mattered so. Anne--" he was upon his knee--"Anne--you shall come with me! You shall come away with me--into the sweetest exile that ever man was blessed with. Why, look you, I take you from a palace, but I will give you that which I shall transform to paradise! Oh, my dear--my dear--I can say no more. Anne, Anne, I die for you!"

Both her hands were in his, clasped so tightly that she was pained. Much of the force of his passion had entered into her. It could not but do so, for it was too real. She was trembling; her breath came unsteadily, and she could not give her answer with his upturned eyes upon her. Gently, very gently, she pushed him aside, rose from her chair, and, turning away from him, began to pace the end of the room, steadying herself as she walked. De Mailly, a little dazed now, the reaction from his nervous strain already beginning to overcome him, passed slowly to the opposite side of the dressing-room and stood there with his back to the door, one cold hand pressed to his damp forehead. His face was deathly white. His body quivered. Presently madame stopped, in her walk, before her cabinet of toys, opened one little drawer, and took something therefrom. Then she went over to where her cousin was standing, and, with an effort, spoke:

"Thank you," she said, dreamily, "for what you have said to me. May God, in his goodness, bless you, little cousin. You know that it is all useless, what you wish. Some day you will be glad that my place was here--that I knew that I was not fit for you. Remember it. I am not fit for you. You spoke truth at first. See, I grant you all that. You must go your way alone. Such as I could not make you happy. I--give you only this--if you care to take it--for memory. 'Tis all I have. As to my love--who knows what I love--or where? Adieu."

[Illustration: "'I GIVE YOU ONLY THIS'"]

She held something out to him, something white, and heavy with gold and little jewels. It was the mate to that gauntlet which he had won from her and given to the King ten days ago. He took it, mechanically, and placed it, almost without looking at it, in a pocket. Then he picked up his cloak and his hat. Slowly he put both on; and, once more, all accoutred, he turned to look at her. Her back was towards him. Her head was bent. He could not speak coherently. He put out his hand and felt for the fastening of the door. There was a long, inaudible sigh. The door swung open. An effort, two steps, a slight mist before his eyes--he was gone. In the antechamber Henri, with haggard face and tears unconcealed, waited also for a clasp of the hand, to bid him godspeed to his banishment.

Book II

DEBORAH