One or two men started forward a little as if to go to her. Suddenly from her lips broke a harsh, guttural cry, followed by a fainter one—"Au secours!" They saw her try one step. Then, as the sweat of agony broke out, cold and dripping, over her whole body, she sank, in a reckless heap, down upon the polished floor.
CHAPTER XI
"Thy Glory"
Deborah lay in bed—thinking. It was two hours now since she and Claude, with the rest of the frightened Court, had received a sharp command from the ushers to depart instantly to their various apartments, in the palace or out of it. That the ushers' voices were the echo of the King's was beyond doubt; and that fact was reason sufficient for the prompt obedience given to the bidding.
Thus Deborah, like every other witness of the evening's sensation, had retired, to lie wide awake, and go, over and over again, through the little chain of incidents which had passed before her eyes. Her meditations were more involuntary, less purposive, than most, however. The sight of a human being in great suffering had roused in her that keen instinct which had lain nearly dormant now for so many months. After the fall, she had been one of the first to reach the side of Claude's cousin. She recalled the press of fluttering women and excited men. The King himself had been obliged to force his way to her. The Queen, supported on either side by Mesdames de Boufflers and de Luynes, remained in her chair, making frightened, unanswered inquiries as to the Duchess' state. And through it all madame had lain prostrate, writhing and shuddering, in her long velvet robes. It was finally Mirepoix, with d'Argenson, white-lipped, Maurepas, very stern and still, and Marshal Coigny, who, at a sign from their sovereign, lifted the woman from the floor and carried her away from the eager, gaping throng to her own rooms. The King, having despatched two messengers, one for Falconet, the other for Quesnay, and having left the whispered command with the ushers, himself departed after la Châteauroux, taking with him his usual companion in all things, Richelieu. Hereupon followed the dispersal of the Court, and here, later, was where the recollections and meditations of the common courtiers ended, and only a fresh beginning could be made and gone through, for future gossip and reference. It was different with Deborah. Her heated brain had reflected the whole kaleidoscopic picture in a flash, as a single impression, again, and once again. But it was not upon small incidents, the acts or words of others, that her later imagination halted. Instead, she was reviewing, moan by moan, shudder by shudder, wild look and desperate closing of the eyes, the strange illness that had so suddenly seized the woman Claude had loved. That guttural cry, as if the throat had contracted suddenly—the fever-flush, visible to a keen gaze beneath the rouge—the growing dulness of the eyes that contradicted the theory of natural fever—the incessant, useless retching—the paroxysms that had wrung a groan of pity from Louis himself—all these, incomprehensible to those about her, Deborah had noted. And she found two things, two little points, which seemed to convey, as out of some past, a shred of memory, a suggestion that she had been witness of another such struggle—somewhere—at some time. The first fact was that la Châteauroux, as the pain, after a second's cessation, reattacked her with new fury, suddenly threw up her arms and clutched, with stiffening fingers, at the air. Secondly, just after this, a bright sweat broke out upon her forehead, and, as a great drop rolled down her face, Deborah saw the body quiver as if with cold.
Such things—where had she seen them before? Who was it that had passed through her life undergoing such experience? No shadow of grief clung about the memory. No. There had been no death, then. Who had been with her? Carroll! Sambo! The amanita muscaria pitted against the atropa belladonna! It had all come back now. She had seen the symptoms of poisoning by the deadly fungus again, here, in this France. She, even here, possessed the means of saving life again, perhaps; if—if—if there was only time!
Simultaneously with that last thought Deborah leaped out of bed, and, holding up her long white gown, ran swiftly through her quiet boudoir and into the salon, which was, as usual, faintly lighted with a night-lantern. Seizing this from the table where it stood, she opened its door, snuffed the candle within to greater brilliancy, and carried it over to the mantel-piece, where she set it down. An instant more and the cabinet was open before her. Inside, in their even rows, stood her bottles of liquids, and near them—near them—the box of amanita muscaria. Deborah's eyes fell instantly upon this object. Strangely enough, the thought had not heretofore struck her that she possessed some of these things. The blood around her heart suddenly grew cold. Who was it that had seen them not three days ago? Who was it that had stood beside her here, had taken that box down from its place, and asked her about its contents? How much had she told him about them? Had—could he— No! Suspicion was carrying her too far. The thing was preposterous—impossible. Nevertheless, with a hand that shook, and fingers numb with cold, she took down the white box. In it there had been—ten—of the—things. Now—she must look. Could she? Her eyes, that should have sought the box, were raised for a moment. She saw that the room was lighter. Behind her another candle burned. She faced about. Then, seeing some one in the doorway, Deborah's over-wrought nerves gave way, she shuddered convulsively, dropped the box and its contents to the floor, put both hands pitifully out towards the figure, and swayed where she stood. Claude sprang forward, and caught her just in time. For a moment or two she leaned heavily upon him. Placing his light upon the mantel near the lantern, and taking her in both arms, he carried her over to a small sofa near the dark window. There, smoothing the tangled, half-powdered curls back from her face and neck, and taking both the cold hands in his to chafe warmth back to them again, he asked, gently:
"What is it, Deborah? What is the matter? What were you doing here?"
The figure in his arms trembled and stiffened. Deborah sat up, and then rose to her feet. Drawing one hand away from his, she put it over her eyes. "Claude," she said, in a-low voice, "pick up for me those—those things on the floor and put them into the box. Hunt well—don't let any of them escape you. Then—tell me—how many—there—are."
Claude wondered, looked at her intently for a moment, and finally obeyed her without a word. He picked up the small black objects that lay about the box, searching the floor carefully to get them all, and counting them as he replaced them, with a kind of interest.