At eleven o'clock in the morning Mouthier, with his staff and extra train of servants to assist those regularly installed at the château, arrived, and entered immediately upon his duties. In a box which he himself had borne all the way from Versailles on his knee, reposed twelve cases of fresh pastry, with elaborate scroll-work patterns upon their sides and covers. One of these, smaller by half than the rest, was a work of art such as only Mouthier could have contrived. These were the foundations for the dish of the day; and the special case was to be filled with a composition of the King's own, for the delectation of the—so-called—most beautiful, certainly the most far-famed, lady in France.
At something after two o'clock in the afternoon there arrived at the grand entrance of the château a panelled coach, the first of a little procession of vehicles, each bearing a costly burden of petticoated beings, in great pelisses and hoods, with muffs for their hands that were very much larger than any three of their heads put together—and had as much in them, perhaps. By half past two the circular hallway was a fluttering mass of panniers, silks, brocades, and satins; while the adjoining salons echoed to the hum of light conversation and feminine laughter. No dames d'étiquette in this gay company! No sheep of Père Griffet's flock here; and only one among them to whom this was the first of Choisy.
The one was Deborah, who, in direct disobedience to Claude's angry commands, after a sharp quarrel with him, had had her own headstrong way and come hither, to see, forsooth, what it would all be like. As yet she had found nothing, certainly, that could drive from her thoughts the unhappy image of her husband, with the love-light gone out of his eyes; and she was waiting with intense eagerness for the arrival of the hunting-party. The rest of the company being in the same state of anticipation, her restlessness called forth only one whisper from Mme. de Gontaut, to the effect that it was shockingly bad taste to watch openly at the windows for the arrival of his Majesty. The companion lady sniffed slightly, but presently rustled over herself to join the group of dames, who were looking out upon the snowy driveway and the black, bare-branched trees before them. Presently there came from this little company a quick murmur of exclamations, which occasioned an instantaneous general movement towards them.
"I hear no horns. Have they shot nothing to-day?" cried one who could not see.
"My dear, it is not the King. It is a coach."
"Ah!"
"Mon Dieu!"
"What is it? Who is it? Who is so late? Are not all here?"
Deborah had watched the arrival of the coach with some indifference. A liveried footman leaped down from behind and opened the door. Thereupon a woman, hooded and cloaked in scarlet velvet, sable-lined, her huge panniers managed with graceful ease, her great fur muff held high in both hands, stepped forth, alone.
"It is the Duchesse de Châteauroux," said Deborah, in a curiously quiet voice, her words being utterly unheeded in the babel rising round her. This, then—was this why Claude had angrily forbidden her to come? Was he riding here simply to meet this woman—for whose sake he had been exiled from France? Naturally she—his wife—the American colonial—was not wanted at the meeting. And thus Deborah leaned back against the wall, having suddenly become very white.