The throng about Chartres pressed silently closer, and the salon waited breathlessly for reply. The young Duke turned a shade paler, and did not open his lips.
"His Majesty is worse," muttered de Coigny, half to himself.
"His Majesty is worse," responded a sudden voice from behind.
The entire company turned sharply around. De Richelieu, who had entered from an inner door, stood before them, snuff-box in hand. His face was nearly as pale as his wig. His eyes were heavy. He looked haggard and anxious.
"Monseigneur de Chartres—if I might be granted the honor of a word with you?"
"But too gladly, monsieur. Come."
Chartres hurried forward through the respectful but eager throng, seized Richelieu's arm with a whispered sentence, and drew him out of the salon to a room inaccessible to courtiers.
Behind they left a tumult of excitement. Above them, back of closed doors, Marie Anne de Mailly-Nesle, together with her sister, leaned over the bedside of the King of France, alone with a great fear, yet unspeakably dreading company.
Ah, Marie! Marie Anne de Mailly—a dangerous, a desperate game hast thou played for six days—six ages, rather—past! On the one hand Louis' prayed-for recovery; on the other, banishment, perhaps worse, for you; what for him—the Almighty knows. Here in this sultry August morning, in the second story of the ancient Château de Metz, you stand at the bed of the King; not thinking of much, it must be confessed, anxiety and sleeplessness having taken the poignancy from thought. These last days have been very wearing ones.
On the morning of Saturday, the 8th, that morning when headache had driven the King from prospective gayeties to the solitude of his own apartment, he summoned his Duchess to his side to bear him company. The morning was tedious. He could not be amused. In the afternoon, together with fever, came Richelieu, and graceful, caustic-tongued Elise de Lauraguais. And upon that afternoon, when no one dreamed how ill Louis already was, and madame and the Duke were alone with him, Richelieu the daring, now owing half his prestige to the favorite whose sponsor he had once been, and who, without her, would have found his Court life infinitely difficult, had thought, foreseen, dreaded, decided, and easily drawn the woman into his plan. The admission of any other to the rooms must mean, eventually, the confession, absolution, and unction of his Majesty. Before the performance of this last, Louis must repent of his irregular life, and as proof of repentance madame must receive her congé—for such was only customary at the great Court of France.