The costume of the Duchess was a marvel to see. But her face received most mental comments: it was so thin, the eyes were so large, the cheeks hotly flushed even through the regulation rouge, the patches emphasizing strongly the marble whiteness of the temples and lower part of her face. An ordeal like this, however, might have turned any woman pale. Deborah realized it, as, dully, she watched Claude's cousin. A kind of pity, mingled with anger at the women about her, came over her own unhappiness. These women—what had they to lose by the arrival of madame? Not a husband's love. Only a possible smile from the master of a miserable, helpless Queen. And so they stood here, like statues, torturing a woman, for the pure malice of it. Faugh! These Court ways were not Deborah's. A moment more and two women, out of the twenty, had started suddenly forward to the Châteauroux. The first was Victorine de Coigny; the second was Deborah Travis of Maryland. As she courtesied to the favorite, and felt one of her hands taken into the cold palm of that golden-haired cousin, a sudden fanfaronade of hunting-horns and a cutting of hoofs through the crisp snow to the road broke the stillness. The great Duchess drew a long sigh. Her ordeal was over. In five minutes a stream of gentlemen was pouring into the room after Louis, their King, who moved straight to the side of his lady, raised her hand to his lips, and then said, in a ringing tone:
"We learn of your recovery from illness with the greatest happiness, madame, and it is our pleasure to welcome you again to our Court, where we trust that you will to-morrow resume your former duties, as usual."
Then his Majesty, dropping the Majesty and his voice together, whispered a few words that brought a smile to the curved lips; after which he stepped back to make way for the press of men and women, who were fairly struggling with each other for the opportunity of speaking to their dear Duchess.
Louis, on retiring from madame's side, found himself near Deborah. Her piquant face had always pleased him. He bent over her now with a gallant compliment. The girl, quickening with pleasure, dropped a courtesy, murmuring, a little confusedly, "Your Majes—"
"Not Majesty—never Majesty here—dear madame. I am simple Chevalier, to be addressed only by those who love me. Will you now allow me to continue our conversation?" and Louis smiled slyly.
"Yes, Chevalier," was the demure response. "For it is the duty—the du—" she stopped speaking, suddenly, her eyes fixed on something across the room. Louis, seeing her expression, at once followed the gaze, and himself presently encountered the look of Claude, who, with face set and pale, was staring at them, oblivious of surroundings, time, and place.
The King shrugged. "Peste! It is the husband. He is an annoyance—that man! Well, then—I retire, Madame la Comtesse, to prepare refreshments for our company." Smiling at her astonishment, Louis bowed and left her, making his way to the side of Richelieu, who was talking with Penthièvre.
"Come, gentlemen, I retire to the kitchen. See that d'Epernon, de Coigny, de Gêvres, and Sauvré follow us immediately."
Thereupon the King, obstructed by nothing more serious than the wistful glances of the women, passed over to a small tapestried door, which led out of the salon and through a long passage into the celebrated apartment where Mouthier and a reverend staff awaited him.
"Ah, my good Mouthier! All is ready? Hein? Excellent! What menu is there besides our famous pâtê? My garments, Clement!"