Deborah Travis bent her head forward towards the window till the light from the lantern that hung above her shone full in her face. In the street, directly below, she beheld a great sorrel charger caparisoned in white and silver, bearing a rider also in white, with laced coat, cloth breeches, shining black riding-boots, white hat à la Garde Française, and across his breast a wide blue ribbon, fastened with three orders. The eyes of Claude's wife flashed over the figure and to the face, which was markedly distinct in the light of the torches.
"Is that the King?" she whispered to herself, unconscious of speaking.
At the instant that Louis passed beneath the string of lamps across the way, Deborah's eyes fell upon his bright blue ones. As though she possessed magnetic power, the King responded to the look. It was not the face that he had hoped to find here, but it was one—as fair. The royal hat came off, the royal figure bent to the saddle-bow. And then he was gone. Deborah's cheeks were redder than her rouge. Every woman in the room had turned to look at her, but some eyes, perhaps, stopped at sight of Claude. His face was deathly, and upon it was plainly written new, quickening dread; while both of his white hands were tightly clenched over his polished nails.
CHAPTER IV
Claude's Own
The Nouvelles à la Main of the 15th of November announced, among many things, that the Count and Countess de Mailly had entered their apartment in the Rue d'Anjou at Versailles. Deborah, who for some time had been secretly caressing the thought of "home," went into the little suite of rooms with a glorified, colonial sense of mistress-ship. Madam Trevor's method of housekeeping was familiar to her in every detail, from candle-dipping to the frying of chickens; and, while she felt rather helpless, having no slaves at her command, she determined to do what she could with the two liveried lackeys, and to demand others of Claude if she found it necessary. She and Claude had never discussed housekeeping together, for the reason that Claude had no conception of the meaning of the word.
They arrived and were served with dinner in their little abode on Monday. Tuesday afternoon found Deborah seated helplessly in the boudoir, with her husband, rather pale and nervous, before her. He had found her, utterly oblivious of the consternation of the chef, the lackeys, and the scullion, washing Chinese porcelain teacups in the kitchen. And it was then that Deborah received her first lesson in French great-ladyhood, by whose iron laws all her housewifely instincts were to be bound about and imprisoned. She must never give an order relative to the management of their ménage. She must never purchase or arrange a single article of food that was to be prepared for their table. She must never dream of performing the smallest act of manual labor. She might designate the hour for meals, or inform the first lackey how many were to be served, or what beverage should be passed at her toilette. She might keep her appointments with costumers, milliners, hair-dressers, furriers, jewellers, toy-men; and she might see that her engagement-book was filled. That was all that was expected of her in the way of labor. She had made a great false step to-day, and it must not occur again.
And Deborah listened to Claude's explanation in silence, with her pretty new world all tumbling about her ears.
"We might, then, as well have stayed at your cousin's house. This is only our tavern, kept for our convenience," she said, at last.
Claude nodded, and paid no attention to the sarcasm. "This is where we sleep, where we change our clothes, where we receive our friends."