The letter in which these things were said was perfectly cold, perfectly polite, and perfectly unreasonable. Its tone, however, was not to be mistaken. It was the first deep wound given to the deposed sub-queen, and its sensation was too fresh to be easily borne. At something after two o'clock in the morning she fell into an unquiet sleep, and then Mme. de Lauraguais, who had attended her, crept away to her own room, too tired to scold her maid.
On the following morning la Châteauroux had, apparently, recovered from her chagrin. She ate an egg with her chocolate, laughed at her sister's clouded face, sent Alexandre to a furniture house with orders to refurnish completely her present abode, advised her sister to make a round of the toy-shops that morning, and at eleven o'clock re-dressed herself preparatory to the forthcoming visit to her old-time lover.
François Emmanuel Frederic, Duc d'Agenois, returned from a long Italian exile to Paris and fever, had left his bed this morning for the second time, and, wrapped in silken dressing-gown and cap, with a couvre-pied to correspond, reclined upon a small couch in his most comfortable salon, indulging in a profound fit of melancholy. His history certainly warranted an occasional turn of despair. Unfortunate enough to have fallen in love with her who was destined to become favorite of France; unwise enough to have kept his passion alight in defiance of the King of this, his adopted country; unforeseeing enough to have offered the woman marriage; by all these things winning a two-years' banishment; he had now been absurd enough, after the exile, to return again to the very den of the lion. More than this, having, even in illness, learned the story of the disgrace of the favorite and her return to Paris, he was now capping the climax of folly by daring to wish—that she would come to him. What benefit he could possibly derive from such a proceeding, the rash youth did not stop to consider. He only lay upon his couch, very weak in body and very flushed of countenance, hoping one moment, utterly despairing, as was sensible, the next. Really, according to Fate's usual laws, the idea of her coming was utterly absurd. And yet she came. About noon d'Agenois heard, with sharpened ears, the great front door open and close. Then there was silence again, while he nervously fingered the tassels of his gown and stared at the ceiling—more hopeless than ever. Presently his valet hurried in, with an anxious expression on his lively face. Passing to his master's side, he whispered a question in the Duke's ear.
"See her!" cried d'Agenois, leaping up. "Nom de Dieu, Jean, fly! Fly, I tell you! Admit her—admit her—admit her—"
Jean ran back across the room, pushed open the door, and stood aside. Mme. de Châteauroux, clothed in clouds of white muslin that floated about her in fold after fold, luminous, filmy, her golden hair unpowdered, curling upon her shoulders, her eyes lustrous, an expression of tender melancholy on her face, appeared on the threshold, framed in the bright sunshine that streamed through the windows.
"Anne!" The man gave a faint cry and began to move towards her, dizzily, both arms outstretched. He had loved her faithfully throughout the two years. Had he not a right to tremble now, at their reunion?
The Duchess smiled slowly into his eyes, and moved towards him in a fashion peculiar to herself, not walking, floating rather.
"Anne, you are not changed—you are not changed at all. You are just as I have thought of you. You are my angel. You came—you did not forget—I have been so ill, have suffered so. Ah, you are adorable!"
With nervous eagerness he drew her to the sofa beside him, and sat looking into her face, delightedly noting every feature, every shining hair tendril, counting the very breaths that passed her lips. Madame, who had known him so well in the old days, who thought of him always as one much younger than herself, ran her fingers through his dark hair, smoothed the forehead that was so hot, and insisted on his lying down again. This being accomplished, she seated herself near him, one of his hands fast holding hers, his eyes smiling up at her.
"You know my story—that I am nothing, now, François?" she asked.