De Mailly rose and began to pace the room. He did not speak at once, but, after a thoughtful pause, began, soberly: "I have not been at the palace till yesterday since the night—of her death. Yesterday Deborah and I were in the Œil-de-Bœuf for fifteen minutes. It was extremely dull. Only such creatures as old Pont-de-Vesle, la Vauguyon, Charost, two or three petty Chevaliers, and some of the Queen's women were there. His Majesty has not appeared, even in the circle of the Queen, of an evening, since. Marie Anne is never spoken of. She is forbidden as a topic. You know—they say—she died here, in Paris. All the journals—d'Argenson's, the Boufflers', Maurepas', de Luynes'—as many as were known—were examined, and the entries changed. I had that from Coigny. The Nouvelles à la Main for the week was suppressed. In the next, it is said, there will be an officially 'authentic' account. Berryer or Maurepas, of course, will write it. Richelieu has gone away for a time—on what business no one knows. It is not for the King; for it seems that d'Argenson has written him, at royal command, that his Majesty misses him frightfully. Of course, there are a thousand conjectures, one as absurd as another. I have heard that he was going to marry. Meantime the younger women of the Court are preparing fresh and elaborate costumes. You know what the struggle will be. But—but—"
"Why, then, are you fearing for your little Countess?"
"I—cannot tell. I see her looked at, whispered after, sought by men, shunned by women. Her invitations to suppers, to the Opéra, the Français, are numberless. I, Henri, am not included in them. Mordi! I will not think! Next month the King must wake from his lethargy for the marriage of the dauphin."
"Ah, yes! The Infanta will soon be leaving Madrid."
"She is expected to arrive here by the day of the feast of the Conversion of St. Paul."
"The 25th, then."
Claude nodded. "They say Monseigneur is busy learning mottoes for her, and—it is not pretty—practising for the abominable night ceremony with Père Griffet as the bride."
Henri burst into a laugh, in which Claude, after an instant, joined.
"Well, then, I will part from you in laughter, after all. Good-bye—or, au revoir, cousin. Come to us when thou canst."
Claude seized cloak and hat, and hurried towards the door. Henri followed him. They clasped hands in silence. Claude sent a deep look into his cousin's eyes. The Marquis smiled, bitterly. "Were I you, Claude, my friend, I should trust the wife. She—has honest eyes."