Deborah looked into the uplifted face of the King. Certainly it was marvellously handsome—beautiful enough to have turned the heads of many women. Perhaps, after all, there was excuse for those poor creatures, the three sisters, who had yielded to him. Perhaps, after all, pity was their only just measure. But she—Deborah Travis—had known handsome faces before. Indeed, she had come near to life-long unhappiness through that which she had known best. Suddenly, as in a picture, she beheld there, beside the King, the head of Charles Fairfield. Yes, Louis was the finer-featured of the two. Nevertheless, all temptation was gone.
"Monsieur le Roi," she said, clearly, and with a kind of cynicism even through her nervousness, "you are too late. I have been courted before, and I've plighted my troth and given my heart into some one's keeping. You are too late."
"Diable! Dix milles diables!" cried his Majesty, scrambling awkwardly to his feet and backing away from her. "Do you know who I am?—what I can do, madame? Do you know that, with one word, I can exile you? Bah! Who—who—is the man you prefer to me?"
"My husband," was the demure reply.
"Oh! It is an insult! Already your husband has his commands. He leaves Versailles to-night, forever. Do not be afraid."
"Leaves to-night!" A dark flush spread over Deborah's face. "Leaves to-night! Mon Dieu! When—where—how? Oh, I will go now! You shall let me go to him, do you hear? At once! Why, I shall be left here alone! I—I—shall be like Mme. de Coigny. Your Majesty—" suddenly she grew calm, and her voice gently sweet—"Your Majesty, let me go."
"As you have seen, the door is locked."
"Open it, then, or—there is another!" she pointed across the room to the door in the opposite wall which led into the royal suite.
The King moved about quickly, placing himself in front of it. The act was sufficient. It showed Deborah that she had neither pity nor mercy to hope for, nothing but her own determination on which to depend. And, as the knowledge of helplessness became more certain, so did her will become stronger, her brain more alert. She looked about the room. Was there a weapon of defence or of attack anywhere within reach? On the supper-table were knives and forks of gold—dull, useless things. On one side of the room was a great clock; on the mantel stood another. There were also stiff chairs, tabourets, an escritoire, and the table—these were all. What to do? She must get home, get to Claude, as rapidly as possible. Would he be there? Would he have trusted and waited for her? If not—what? She would not think of that now. She must first escape through that unlocked door guarded by the King. How to do it? Strategy, perhaps.
"Well, madame, have you decided?" inquired the King, coolly.