"Monsieur le Duc, I shall be but too happy to accompany you, if you will arrange the party. I do not think that I know—quite how."
Richelieu bowed his thanks, and looked long into her honest gray eyes. "I will call for you in my coach at seven, madame, if you will permit. I bid you—au revoir." With a bow such as he would have given to a superior in rank, he moved away, making room for M. de Soubise, who had settled upon his compliment, and was itching to have it out before it should lose flavor with silent rehearsal.
Richelieu did not remain much longer in the room. Towards the end of the promenade his Majesty, his dog Charlotte under one arm, unexpectedly made his appearance, negligent in manner, intent, as it seemed, on speaking with Deborah. Richelieu saw the King with a new feeling. It was the first time that he had ever thought of Louis as holding interests foreign to his own. Hitherto they had been allies in every council, in every amusement. Now, at last, in desire and intention, they were separated, and it was a woman who stood between them. Richelieu shook himself. His thoughts were becoming bitter. Cutting short an exchange of graces with Mme. de Mirepoix, he left the rooms, and, informing the grand chamberlain that he would be unable to assist at the royal couche that evening, sought his own apartment, and was put to bed by his valet, not to sleep, but to plan, to twist, to turn, and still, with a new, unconquerable dread, to anticipate the morrow.
Morning came late. Richelieu, in fact, rose with the dawn, for the King was always roused at eight, and it was the duty of the first gentleman, since he had been absent on the previous evening, to bring water in which his Majesty should wash, and to put the royal dressing-gown about the royal shoulders. Louis was in a quizzical mood, and tried, rather unkindly, to play with the feelings of his favorite courtier. Richelieu's sang-froid was imperturbable, however. He was now bound in honor to his own code to exhibit no trace of the feeling which, last night, he had almost been guilty of betraying, through nervous uncertainty.
The King dressed, he completed his prayers, despatched the early entries, and, when he was finally installed with his chocolate and eggs in the council-hall, where the matter of the Navarraise taxes was later to be taken up, Richelieu himself partook of a light breakfast, and then made a dignified progress towards the room of rooms—the Œil-de-Bœuf—where, possibly, his fate might, by accident, be already known. On his way through the halls of the gods and the grand gallery, he met not a few with the same destination in mind. Certainly none could have told, from his measured morning greetings, his offers or acceptance of snuff, his lightly witty words, what a tumult of anxiety raged within him. By this time d'Argenson must be entering Paris. Did any besides himself know that errand on which he went? More, did any surmise its result? How long had he still to remain in this, his home? Hours? Years? Was his dread, after all, reasonable? Had any one divulged to her his part in the Metz affair? True, it was Court property; but—ah! he had been very rash in the Alsatian city. Never should he forget the morning when he had cried out, before all the salon there, the news that Louis had grown worse in the last hours. Here, even now, like a ghost conjured up by memory, was young Monseigneur de Chartres, coming out from the Bull's-eye. Du Plessis, as he saluted, quivered. Then, with a gallant recuperation, he smiled to himself, and passed on into that little room of fate.
Considering that the hour was before morning mass, the Œil-de-Bœuf was unusually thronged. Both men and women were there, and the place hummed with conversation. For the first moment or two Richelieu held off from the company, judging, by means of his trained ear and his long experience, the nature of the gossip from the key of the conglomerate sound. It varied to-day, now high with laughter, now more ominous, again medium with uncertainty. The omen was good. It boded no definite evils of knowledge—yet. Thereupon the Duke permitted himself to be accosted by M. de Pont-de-Vesle, of the King's formal household, an old man, tall and lean, wearing his wig à la Catogan, and with a miniature of Ninon de l'Enclos in his snuff-box.
"Good-morning, Monsieur the Grand-Nephew! Whom does the King receive to-day during the little hours?" With the question he proffered snuff.
"Thank you. Ah! You use civet. The King does not receive to-day. He is in council. Machault reads the report," returned Richelieu, very civilly, considering the fact that Pont-de-Vesle had addressed him in the form which, of all others, he most disliked.
"Ah! When his Majesty has not hunted for a week we are all forlorn. When he takes to council—Ciel!—it is like the beginning of a reign of Maintenon. How do you perfume your snuff?"
"Oh, it is something aromatic, composed for me by Castaigne, of Paris. Sandalwood, cinnamon, attar—I forget the rest. Do me the honor to try it."