The young Count frankly accepted the offer. Their hands clasped firmly for an instant, and the moment of brotherhood did both good.
"Do you go, now, to the salon of her Majesty?"
"I had thought not, to-night; but I have changed my mind."
"I will come with you."
"And to-morrow morning," added the Duke, as they left the room together—"to-morrow morning, after mass, I shall go to the Œil-de-B[ce]uf and remain there till you return in the evening."
"Why do that? You will gain nothing there."
"I shall gain atmosphere. It reeks of the Court, as a chandler reeks of tallow. I shall like—to take it away with me."
D'Argenson smiled faintly; and then in silence they passed into the Queen's antechamber.
Marie Leczinska's salon was not so brilliant as the one of two weeks before. It was, however, sufficiently filled to put one in proper mood, without danger of ruining hoops; which, after all, was a slight relief. Both Claude and Deborah were here to-night, never together, but also never very far apart. Mme. de Mailly had become one of the most-sought-after persons in the Court, and her husband, while he conformed always to the conventions by not approaching her in public, was, nevertheless, aware of every person who spoke to her of an evening, heard every compliment paid her by men, and a good many of the enviously malicious speeches that were beginning to be made about her by the women. To-night Richelieu, on entering the salon, made his way at once to Deborah's side. She had been speaking with the Marquis de Tessé, while the Prince de Soubise hovered near, thinking up a suitable gallantry with which to pounce upon her. Richelieu adroitly forestalled him, however, and reached her first, well pleased at being able to do so. The Duke was moving at random, for he had found no plan of possible salvation yet. There only lay in his mind a dim notion that, if safety should be his at the eleventh hour, it would come to him through this same Deborah. The idea was surely instinctive, for it had small reason in it. What could a little colonial, what could any woman—the poor, pale Queen herself—do against Claude's cousin, the reinstated favorite, the great Duchesse de Châteauroux, and that gently spoken, inflexible, indomitable "Je le veux" which Louis of France had used? True, Deborah had become a de Mailly, had been much noticed by the King, and was talked of in peculiar whispers by all the Court. Nevertheless, what so precarious as her position? What favors might she ask? None. And yet, here was falling Richelieu hurrying to no Maurepas, no Machault, or Berryer, or any powered man, but to the side of her who had been born, eighteen years before, in a wide-roofed Virginia farm-house.
"Madame, do you go to the Opéra to-morrow night?" he asked, idly.