"You look very serious, Monsieur le Comte. What is the matter? Do the powers of Europe threaten the last treaty, or is one of the King's lapdogs dead?" inquired Claude, with his most catching smile, and anxious to give Henri a moment to change his thought.
D'Argenson's expression did not brighten. Rather, it grew still more gloomy. It seemed difficult for him to answer the laughing question. At this moment, in fact, he would have preferred being in the thick of Dettingen to standing here, where he was about to inflict a merciless blow on a defenceless head. "Monsieur le Comte," he began, looking steadily at Claude, "I wish you to believe me when I say that never before, in all my life, have I so regretted my duty. In speaking to you I am obeying an absolute command. Monsieur—my friend—Claude—I have been this evening to the Rue d'Anjou. I left there—a letter—from the King—which you—"
He stopped. Maurepas had told him that this man would behave well. It was not so. Claude had turned deathly white. Both hands had flown to his head, and he reeled where he stood. Henri sprang forward and caught him about the body.
"Let me alone," muttered Claude, thickly. "I sha'n't fall."
"I will bring some wine," said d'Argenson, gently.
"No. I will have nothing." For a moment the three stood motionless and silent. Then Claude opened his eyes and looked upon the King's minister. "The letter—invites me—to travel?"
D'Argenson bowed.
Claude slowly drew a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his lips with it. "May God damn to hell the King of France! All the armies in his kingdom shall not drive me from it till I've got back my wife!"
"Claude! Claude! Come away!" said Henri, sharply.
"No. Not till I have Deborah to go with me."