"You know that I have neither, Claude. But I want the cabinet."
Claude shrugged, never dreaming what she intended the place for. It was but a little thing to ask; and besides, curiously enough, Claude, who had been brought up among the most unreliable class of women in the world, had yet been so little affected by their ways that, ten weeks after their marriage, he was beginning to trust his wife. She was as honest as a man when she did not like a thing, or when she wanted one; she was not talkative; she did not make scenes; he had beheld her angry, but it was not with a malicious anger; and, more than all, she never complained. So far Claude had found nothing to regret in his marriage. He realized it now as he stood there in her dressing-room, while she sat looking at him expectantly.
"Eh, well—the cabinet and its key are yours. You'll not forget what I have been telling you this afternoon?"
"No."
He smiled again, went to her side and kissed her. "Good-bye, then. I am going out. You will not be lonely? Mme. de Coigny may come. After your presentation to the Queen, you know, there will be no idle moments."
He left her with a little nod and smile, and, donning hat and cloak, departed towards the Avenue de Sceaux, from which he turned into the Rue des Chaniers, bound for a little building at the end of it, not far from the deer-park, which was much in favor as an afternoon assembling place for gentlemen of the Court during the unoccupied hours of the afternoon. Here one might gamble as he chose, high or low; drink coffee, rum, or vin d'Ai; fight his duel, if need be; or peruse an account of the last one in a paper, if he did not want to talk. It was a comfortable and ugly little place, kept by M. Berkley, of fame somewhat undesirable in London, but of gracious personality here.
To-day, for the first time in months, the little place was creditably filled with its customary patrons, noblemen and lords to whom camp-life had lately become more familiar than the Court. Here were assembled all those gentlemen who, two days ago, had ridden into Paris with Louis; and a good many more who mysteriously reappeared out of the deeps of lower Paris, where they had been hidden from salon gossip and too many women. That morning Richelieu, d'Epernon, and de Gêvres left the Tuileries in despair. The King, clad in a stout leathern suit, was shut into an empty room with his friend the carpenter, making snuff-boxes with all his might, and admitting neither silk, velvet, his wife, nor the Dauphin into his presence. His gentlemen were now less harmlessly occupied. De Gêvres was opposing d'Epernon on the red. Richelieu, in a mood, played solitaire à la Charles VI. against himself, the sums that he lost being vowed to go to Mlle. Nicolet of the Opéra ballet. De Mouhy, d'Argenson, de Coigny, de Rohan, Maurepas, Jarnac, and half a dozen others were grouped about the room, drinking, betting, and gossiping. The conversation turned, as it was some time bound to do, on la Châteauroux and d'Agenois.
"The King has not yet, I believe, discovered the renewed relationship," drawled d'Epernon, mildly.
"Perhaps not. But in a week—imagine it! Madame la Duchesse is fortunate in having gentlemen scattered over most of the civilized world on whom she may cast herself for protection in case of need!" returned Richelieu, crossing glances with Maurepas.
There was a little round of significant looks and nods. Evidently the Duke's sang-froid had not deserted him. Every one knew very well that the deposed favorite and her former preceptor were soon bound to be at opposite ends of the scales, and that her rise now meant his fall.