Like all much-prepared-for cavalcades, this one was slow in starting. His Majesty objected to the length of the route planned. He was anxious to be at home again; and he was tired of people. Had somebody sent for his turning-lathe? He would do a bit of work when he reached the Tuileries. Why could not Richelieu take his place as representative, and let him get quietly through the city in a public coach? It was nearly dark now. Only after an endless series of expostulations was he at last persuaded to conform to the wishes of his people, and show himself in all the real beauty of his manhood.
Paris had waited very patiently through the bleak November afternoon, shivering and laughing in anticipation of its pleasure. Now the windows of every house along the way were gleaming with candles and dotted with heads. On either side of the street torches began to be lighted among the standing throngs. Presently, as the heavy twilight fell lower, officers of the police began, here and there, to illumine the long chains of lanterns that were strung along the walls of houses, and, at short intervals, across the streets; for Paris would admit no night yet. Every now and then, down among the standing throngs, dashed the coach of some nobleman on the way to his own view-point. The drivers of these vehicles took no heed of the people in their paths. They were allowed to scramble away as best they might, or left to be crushed beneath the horses' hoofs if they chose. No one murmured, for the affair was quite usual.
By half-past five o'clock a goodly company was assembled in the salons of Mme. de Mailly-Nesle; ladies who, in their eagerness to behold the return of their King, were very willing to forget the fact that they had ever failed to recognize the Marquise, for reasons connected with a relative Duchess. Upon their arrival at their hostess' hôtel they found awaiting them a new sensation in the person of Claude, and a two-weeks' subject of gossip and discussion in Claude's foreign wife.
Deborah, arrayed in her brocade, her rebellious hair fastened stiffly in place with a thousand pins, the enormous hoops of her overdress annoying her as much as possible, patches and powder upon her face and hair, with the customary rouge on her cheeks, stood beside Victorine de Coigny, the only new-comer with whom she did not feel ill at ease. Mesdames de Mirepoix, Rohan, and Châtelet stared at her unceasingly, found her dress in good style, and her face, on the whole, not bad. L'Abbé de Bernis, who, to Henri's fruitless rage, had accompanied Victorine hither, looked upon Deborah approvingly. As to Claude, he did not approach his wife, but he watched her, quietly, from wherever he chanced to be, involuntarily admiring her presence, but undeniably dreading possible faux pas. Of these there had been as yet no signs. Deborah certainly was frightened, but she did not show it. Obeying her husband's last behest, she kept her head well up and her eyes on a level with those of the person to whom she talked. Mme. de Coigny, lively, good-natured, bored, but never supercilious, conversed with the little Countess for some moments upon her journey, upon Paris, and upon the return of the King. Deborah bravely answered her questions, and, less uncertain of her French than she had been a week ago, even hazarded a few remarks of her own with which the little Maréchale seemed pleased. Their tête-à-tête, however, was checked in its early stages by the beginning of a general conversation opened by one of the dames d'étiquette, Mme. de Rohan, who cried to her hostess, from across the room:
"Truly, Mme. de Nesle, you have here all the world but two people."
"And who are those?" responded the Marquise, graciously, while the salon grew suddenly quiet.
"Those?—why, the Duc d'Agenois and your cousin, Mme. de Châteauroux. Where, if one may ask, are they?"
There was a vaguely indefinite murmur of interest from every part of the room. Then from la Mirepoix came another remark, one such as only she was capable of making: "M. de Mailly—oh, I mean the Count—you were formerly always cognizant of the whereabouts of the dear Duchess. Can you not inform us of them now?"
The company lifted its brow and a dozen glances were cast at Deborah—this new little creature from the Americas. "She does not comprehend the allusion," was the general thought, when they saw her attitude of large-eyed, inattentive innocence. Only Claude, as he came forward a little, snuff-box in hand, turned white.
"Ah, Madame la Maréchale, you speak of by-gone days. I know the engagements of Mme. de Châteauroux? Impossible! Am I my cousin's keeper?"