De Maurepas, to whom his good friend, the Chief of Police, had intrusted this unpleasant task, slightly bowed. He was watching the man beside him, the new royal victim, the gentleman who had been his companion in so many places, at so many times, for years. He saw Claude read that short, polite, rather suave missive, which gave small reason for its being, but made the gravity of its threat perfectly apparent in royal language. Claude read it twice, quite through, to the last word, the signature. Then his hand fell heavily to his side, and the paper dropped to the floor. Maurepas stooped to pick it up, but some one else was quicker than he. Henri de Mailly, returning in search of his cousin, had stood for a full minute unnoticed on the threshold. Now, retaining the letter, he turned a questioning gaze towards the pair. Maurepas failed to meet his eyes; but Claude smiled.
"I am starting soon upon a journey, Henri," he remarked. "Monsieur le Comte, may I request that you convey my farewells to his Majesty, since I have not the honor to bid him au revoir in person? Permit me to wish you a good-morning."
Claude bowed bravely, but ungracefully enough, and looked towards the Marquis. His lips were dry, his cheeks suddenly flushed, his eyes very bright. Henri understood the look, and passed with him out of the chapel. De Maurepas was left alone to gaze after them. When they were gone he shifted his position slightly, but made no move to leave the room. Presently de Berryer appeared from the vestibule and joined him.
"I saw them go," he said. "How did he take it?"
Maurepas shook his head. "I am not certain, but I think it was hard for him. I imagine that he was not very sure of what he did. He asked me to say 'au revoir' to the King. Bah! You might have done this yourself, de Berryer. I don't like such work."
"And do you think, Monsieur le Comte, that I like it better?" queried the King's favorite minister, with a weary frown.
CHAPTER VI
Claude's Farewell
On the morning of Thursday, January 21st, when a feeble ray of sunlight first straggled into the window of Claude's room on the Avenue de St. Cloud, in the town of Versailles, it fell upon an early company of four men engaged in an unwonted occupation. Upon the canopied bed, half dressed, unwigged, powderless, sat Claude, directing, with some animation, the movements of two men, his own valet and Henri's, one of whom stood before an oaken wardrobe, while the other knelt upon the floor beside a travelling coffer of brown hide, studded with brass nails. At some distance from these three, by a table, was the Marquis, quite dressed, his head leaning on his hand, watching operations in silence. Now and then he turned his eyes to the face of his cousin, while for the rest of the time they wandered about the disordered room. Henri's face was unusually pale to-day, and under his eyes lay shadows of sleeplessness. His mouth was set firmly, and the hand that hung by his side was clenched.
Certainly the room was in a state. All about it, on every chair, on the bureau, the desk, the tabourets, and upon the floor, lay clothes—court-suits, riding-suits, hunting-suits, every-day suits, dressing-gowns, boots, shoes, slippers, long stockings of silk and of thread, laces, ruffles, fine linen shirts, undergarments, wigs, a peruke, two swords, hats, cloaks, gauntlets—every article known to the masculine wardrobe of that day. From the various heaps Claude, by means of a riding-whip which he held, designated what he wished packed, Chaumelle would pick it out and carry it to Rochard, who folded it and placed it, with melancholy care, in the little coffer.