Deborah looked aghast. "Not in the palace!" she murmured.
"Sh! It is the usual method. It means nothing. She is here. Listen, Deborah; I am going to ask Michot, yonder, whom I know very well, if you may retire to the little chambre-à-manteaux to wait. From there we can get into a passage which will take us to the little staircase. Remain here for a moment."
Deborah watched him go towards a Suisse, who addressed him by title as he approached. She perceived that he thrust something into the man's hand, and, when he returned to her side, it was with relief in his face. "That was better," he whispered. "Come now—here."
He drew her hurriedly into a narrow room off the vestibule, and from there, three minutes later, through a small, panelled door that led into the south wing of the palace. Here they were safely beyond the provinces of guards; and, after passing through a long series of dimly lighted rooms, they came presently upon a small staircase just off what is now the Cour de la Surintendance. Up one flight of these, through two deserted rooms and a short hallway at the end of the King's state apartments, and they halted before a tapestried door.
"This is her antechamber," said Claude.
Deborah put out her hand and pushed it open. They entered. The room was brightly lighted, but empty.
"The boudoir," muttered de Mailly. He hurried across the room to another door, Deborah close at his heels. It was he who opened this. As they crossed the threshold of the Persian-hung room they faced two people, a man and a woman—Antoinette Crescot and his Grâce de Richelieu.
"Madame!"
Claude had never heard so strange an intonation from his friend's lips. He saw his wife start nervously and stand perfectly still, while the King's gentleman took two or three steps backward towards the door which led into the bedroom. Silence followed the exclamation. Antoinette, the maid, astonished at this appearance of the young man whom she had once known so well, together with a companion, a woman, whom she had never seen, dared not, by reason of her place, voice curiosity. She whom Richelieu had addressed simply as madame remained as if petrified, her large grayish eyes burning into Richelieu's, her face colorless, her expression inscrutable. And the Duke's eyes shifted—a thing that no one had ever seen before—shifted from Deborah's feet to her face, from her to Claude, and then stared away at nothing, while his white hands were clenched, and his graceful body stiffened. Finally, after uncomfortable minutes, Claude lifted his hand and pointed.
"Marie Anne is there?" he asked.