"From the Marshal de Belle-Isle, of his carriage to convey you as far as Nancy, where you may obtain a post-chaise."
"Ah! Coward! So he would patronize me now!"
Madame's nerve was failing her at last. Her face had grown suddenly scarlet, and from her attitude d'Argenson believed that she would gladly have flung herself upon him to end the matter after the fashion of the Court of Miracles. But young d'Argenson was a diplomat, educated in a famous school, and he had a manner of steel that would not melt before the white-hot fire of a woman's wrath. Eye for eye he met the gaze of the Duchess, and, as her quivering muscles grew still under the spell of his calm, he said, quietly:
"Pardon me, madame. I think that you do not quite comprehend your situation. If you but reflect, you will instantly perceive how much of wisdom there would be in making the departure of yourself, of madame your sister, and of your two women as quiet as possible."
Whether it was his air or his eminently unemotional words that impressed the woman before him, d'Argenson never knew. It was enough that, after a long and troubled silence, la Châteauroux finally raised her head and answered, in a tone but little above a whisper:
"I thank you, Monsieur le Comte. If—the Marshal de Belle-Isle will have his coach at the abbaye door at four o'clock, I—we—will take our departure as quietly as possible."
D'Argenson breathed deeply with relief. Bowing low, he backed towards the door, pausing only an instant to repeat, musically: "At the abbaye door, madame. That is most wise. At the abbaye door."
CHAPTER II
The Disgrace
While Mme. de Lauraguais lived she remembered the journey from Metz to Paris as the most utterly wretched affair of her life. For the Duchess, she expressed no opinion on the matter one way or the other. On leaving the coach of M. de Belle-Isle at Nancy, where they were to engage their own post-horses and chaise, they found that not only word of the King's illness, but also news of the dismissal of the favorite, had preceded them, and was in every one's mouth. Moreover all France was in a state of the wildest grief and anxiety over the bien-aimé, as he was commonly known. All churches were open, and in them masses, repeated by priests actually weeping with excited sorrow, were continually said. Men and women of every class left their business and pleasure to join in the universal prayers for the recovery of the King; and the Queen and dauphin set out together from Versailles with a company of Jesuits, to hasten to Louis' side. It was when news of his Majesty's danger was carried to the Queen that the eldest son, boy as he was, bethought him nimbly and made that intensely priggish and uncalled-for remark—the one reason that France really had for rejoicing that their Louis did recover: