True, Deborah lacked French verve. Nor did she possess French deceitfulness. But, as Louis de Richelieu had disastrously discovered, she was neither heavy nor stupid. During the days that followed the death of Mme. de Châteauroux, while the King lived in retirement, the Countess de Mailly existed dully, as in a dream. It seemed as though the night that followed the return from Choisy had blunted her sensibility. She could not understand her apparent want of feeling; and Claude was no more surprised at her than was she at herself. They had never afterwards discussed the incidents of that night, though both had intended to open the subject—some time. Yet, had Claude questioned her again as to her discovery, and the manner of it, Deborah could not be sure that she would have told him. They seemed now to be growing always further apart. Claude, unhappy and lonely, went his own way. Deborah permitted herself to be tossed, unresistingly, on the waves of circumstances. Only two things she dreaded. One was the sight of that cabinet in the wall, wherein still stood the row of bottles and the white box. The second was the return of Richelieu to Versailles. How would the great Duke meet her, and how was she to treat him upon that inevitable return? A difficult question, this last. And yet Deborah need not have worried upon it, for it was Richelieu himself who would determine the affair; and, though it seemed impossible that he should ever reap as he had sown, yet the two weeks that he spent away from Versailles were two which, in later years, he never permitted himself to contemplate in memory.
Richelieu, after gaining a surprised and peevish permission from his King, left Versailles at six o'clock on the morning of December 9th. He was perfectly aware of the comment which this conduct would excite; but for once he was beyond the dread of gossip. He could not remain in that palace. His insouciance—his nerve—had left him. He departed in search of it. The impedimenta which accompanied him were not ostentatious. He went post, in a series of coaches, his valet in front, his travelling-coffer behind, he alone in the body. In this way, by dull stages, they reached Chalons-sur-Marne. Here he had intended to remain for a little, when he chanced to remember that Mme. de Châteauroux had written him from here, after her flight from Metz. It seemed that France had been created to remind him of her. He hurried on to Vitry, and there sought rest. Quiet enough were the long, frozen days passed incognito at a village inn. Monsieur le Duc would have fared infinitely better at one of his three châteaux. He could now almost smile at himself for not having gone to them. But when he left Versailles it seemed that he was a man who must hide, and that to go to one of his own estates would have meant to remain there for life—exiled by some sudden order of Louis. Truly, had any one prophesied to him six months before what an absolutely paralyzing shock his nervous system was to undergo, he—well acquainted with that blasé structure—would have laughed at it as an impossibility. But this present species of accident—necessary accident—had not been foreseen. He forbade himself now, rigidly, to consider the matter, or to encourage memory in any form. But memory would come back, sometimes, in the form of some one of whom he must beware. Mme. de Mailly—what to do concerning her? She knew—had surmised—everything. But she had no proof. Court gossip was well checked; for the Duke had stayed long enough at the palace to make sure of that. Mme. de Mailly, were she wise, would, for her own sake, say nothing. Was she wise? If not—he was ruined—unless—he could ruin her. A counter-accusation might certainly be possible, however undesirable it would prove. After carefully balancing the matter for many nights, his Grace decided upon a middle course. If Deborah kept her silence, she might take her course with the King, unhindered—secretly helped, perhaps, by her former champion. Richelieu would advance no other candidate, and the de Mailly might be very sure of the post. Then, when she was installed, would it be so difficult to ingratiate himself once more, he who, out of good-will to her, by her own methods, had forever disembarrassed her of her only rival? Ah, Richelieu was a diplomat—a true French diplomat! But he had studied France only, and was moving along well-known ways. The American colonies were his unknown world.
For three days Vitry was amusingly dull. For three more it was endurable. And for seventy-two hours after that Richelieu and his suffering Grachet remained in their impossible inn. Under a diet of salt meat, hard black bread, a rare egg or two, and milk soup, the Duke's gout-twinges left him, he found himself able to leave off half his usual rouge, and his conscience became stifled under the fiercer pangs of ennui. Then, into this wilderness, there came a letter—from Marc Antoine d'Argenson, in reply to one of Richelieu's.
"Why do you bury yourself, my friend? Surely your mourning cannot be as heartfelt as that of the King. Our poor master wears a look which makes us tremble for his life."*
* Authentic
Then followed entreaties, innumerable and eloquent, to return to the King's side. There were reminders of Christmas fêtes, of the approaching marriage of the Dauphin, and the necessity that Louis make a speedy reappearance among his gentlemen, or he would die of the vapors on Bachelier's hands.
Richelieu smiled as he read. This was better. Evidently Mme. Deborah had been very wise, indeed. She really deserved what she would attain to. His Grace considered his nervous system for some minutes, pictured to himself certain ordeals through which he must pass, found that his nonchalance had returned, and so summoned his faithful Grachet to pack his things and order out a post-chaise at once. Needless to say, Grachet worked with delight. A court valet suffers as much from court-fever as any noble of them all; and no better proof of Richelieu's position could be put forth than the fact that his servant was content to stay with him through such days as had just passed, for the sake of still being known as "Richelieu's man." However, this very day, the 20th of December, saw the two once more upon their homeward way.
On the afternoon of the 23d the King walked the length of the great gallery with M. de Chartres and the Cardinal de Luynes, permitting himself to be seen by the whole Œil-de-Bœuf. That night, for the first time since December 8th, he slept in the small bedroom, removing from the state apartments in which he was always so forlorn. On the following day, to his great delight, Richelieu reappeared, and was the first of the little entries to be admitted between breakfast and mass. The Duke seemed perfectly well, and in better spirits than ever before. Louis brightened under his very glance, and kept him talking for an hour, to the displeasure of the ministers in the antechamber. When Richelieu finally emerged from the cabinet he was seized upon by d'Argenson, and accompanied that gentleman willingly enough into the empty Salle du Jeu, where, with a desire for mutual conversation, they sat down opposite each other at one of the square tables.
"Well, then, Monsieur le Duc—"
"Well, then, my dear Comte.—"