"Oh yes. The King himself commanded de Gêvres to teach him stitches a year ago. He began four sièges at once, I remember, and de Mouhy made an excellent bon-mot about it. No matter. Your tapestries in apple-green, your tables in mahogany, and your sets in ivory—or gold? Which?"
"Ivory, I think. Pink satin and ivory would be—oh, most beautiful!" she replied, cocking her head a little on one side.
He nodded, appreciative of her taste. "The salon—blue and gold; the dining-room in green; and, for monsieur's room, we will let it go. At nine in the morning you have your chocolate in bed. Half an hour later you rise, and your toilette à la mode begins."
"Oh, what is a toilette à la mode?"
The Count shrugged his shoulders. "You, in a delightful négligé, receive in the pink satin boudoir, while your hair is powdered. Yours would never need to be curled, mademoiselle. Eh bien! During the toilette you would have cakes and cordial, or more chocolate. At one o'clock you meet monsieur the husband, and dine with him either alone or at the palace. For the afternoon there are a thousand things. You attend a levée, the hunt, a salon, a tea à l'anglaise; you drive, promenade in the Orangerie or a Paris boulevard; you visit shops; you attend a sale; you receive at home; or, perhaps, if the night is to be fatiguing, you sleep. You never spin, you do not knit, nor do you—distil poisons and save lives, Mistress Deborah. At seven you sup—hardly this time with monsieur, who has his own engagements. Later you attend the Opéra or the Italiens, indulge in a little supper with a party later, and return to Versailles shortly after midnight. If you are in his Majesty's immediate circle you go to Choisy, perhaps. But—that, mademoiselle—I trust—you will never do. Now do you think the life pleasant?"
"I'm sure I cannot tell," was the demure response; but the girl's face belied her words. It was aglow with pleasure. "And what is it that you would do, monsieur? How—how could you have borne it to leave such a life? Did you really tire of it? Was—"
He rose sharply to his feet, and she broke off at once, astonished and half frightened at the change in his face. "There are many thorns among the roses, mademoiselle. Life is not happier there than here. And some day—some day, perhaps—I will tell you the other side of it; why"—he almost whispered now, for his throat was dry—"why I left it all."
"Oh, forgive me! I had not meant to pain you."
He looked down into the face that had lost all its glow of pleasure, took her slight hand, kissed it quietly, and left her alone to think over all that had been said, to wonder over the uncertain promise of more, and to hope that he would neither forget nor repent.
The little conversation had taken her mind away from herself and set it in a new and far-off channel. When Dr. Carroll came back from his walk to the wharves, he found his little guest with color in her face and animation in her air. She told him of de Mailly's visit, and Carroll, judging its effect, resolved that the tonic should be administered often while his patient remained with him. The result was that, in the following days, Claude de Mailly and Deborah were thrown constantly together. And during their lively conversations, or, perhaps, even more so in their desultory ones, there grew up between them an intimacy more of good-fellowship than anything else, the spirit of which deceived both Claude and the doctor, though how much prophecy Deborah might have made concerning it, would be more difficult to say.