"Possibly she is ill," muttered Maurepas, under his breath.
And Maurepas' surmise was right. La Châteauroux was ill. A long and fruitless course of d'Agenois, of repining for her lost position, of battling for herself, single-handed, against the drawn ranks of the dames d'étiquette, with but a momentary glimpse of the King on his way to mass after his return, with the news of the beginning of the winter fêtes, and, finally, more than all, the possibility that she had been effaced from Louis' memory by the appearance of a rival—these things had preyed upon her woman's nature till they threw her into a nervous fever which medicine but increased, and for which there was but one remedy. Sad weeks, indeed, these were. Her brave defiance was broken. Day after day, through the long gray hours, she would lie in her bedroom, silent, impatient, answering sharply if spoken to, otherwise mute, uncomplaining, and melancholy. Young d'Agenois was with her constantly, and now importuned marriage till at times she was near consent. What frayed strand of hope still held her back it were difficult to surmise. How had it been with her had she accepted this young man's eagerly proffered self? Had the tragedy of Versailles been doubled or avoided? Had de Bernis or Richelieu won his wager? Useless to guess. At eleven o'clock on this night of the 23d of November young d'Agenois left his lady's fauteuil, and the light in the top story of the Rue du Bac went out for a little time.
At twelve o'clock on the following day, while madame was meditating another struggle with the clothes that so tortured her fevered body, Fouchelet, down-stairs, was called to the door. At the entrance stood a muffled man, bearing in his hand a note—for the Duchesse de Châteauroux. Fouchelet was well trained. He gave no sign, but his heart grew big, for his own position's sake, when he recognized the sharp features of Bachelier, the King's confidential valet.
"There is no answer?" queried madame's man, peering out.
"Yes," was the reply. And so Bachelier waited in the lower hall.
In ten minutes the lackey returned. Bachelier rose. "Well?" he asked.
"At nine o'clock this evening," was the message. And with it, and a nod of satisfaction, the royal servant left the house.
He left much behind him that may be easily enough imagined. Enough to say that the designated evening hour found the once gloomy little hôtel in a most unwonted condition. The whole lower floor was lighted softly, with not too many candles, for Mme. de Châteauroux's face bore the ravages of anxiety and illness. The salon, in perfect order, was empty. Not so the little dining-room, a charming place, with elaborate decorations of palest mauve and gold, a crystal chandelier, and a tiny round table in its centre, heaped with a profusion of flowers, and the most delicate collation that Mme. de Flavacourt and the chef together could devise. No wines had been brought up, for they were kept cooler below. But here, upon her chaise-longue, no rouge upon her flaming cheeks to-night, hair elaborately coiffed for the first time in many days, swathed all in laces, covered with a piece of pale, embroidered satin, arms and hands transparent in the light, her whole form more delicate than ever before, reclined Marie Anne de Mailly—waiting.
Minutes passed and the hour drew near. Madame moved nervously, her hands wandering over the shadowy garments. The whole hidden household breathed uneasiness, anticipation. Clocks chimed nine. The hour was past. He was late—no! Mme. de Châteauroux sat up. There had been the faintest knock at the door. Fouchelet hurried through the hall. For an instant the Duchess tightly clenched her hands. Then her face changed utterly in expression. All anxiety and eagerness slipped away from it. It had become calm, cool, indifferent, showing strong marks of physical suffering. The eyes burned with determination, but her mouth wore a peculiar, disdainful smile that few women, in her place, would have dared to use.
Now a black-cloaked figure hurried through the salon, stopping on the threshold of the room where madame lay. Here the protecting hat and coat were rapidly thrown aside, and the new-comer hastened to madame.