Claude drew his dressing-gown about him and motioned his man to the door. "Open—but not too widely," he said.
Rochard unclosed the door, pushed it open six inches, and peered out. After a low-voiced colloquy with some one outside, he turned into the room again, holding out to his master a note addressed in a handwriting which Claude dreamed of. As he opened and read it, the boy turned very white. Henri, who was watching him closely, hurried to his side.
"What is it?"
"Nothing," was the quick reply. "Rochard, it—it is the valet, is it not?"
"Fouchelet, yes, Monsieur le Comte."
"Tell him that—I will come."
Rochard bowed and went to deliver the message.
"Claude—Anne—Anne has interceded for you? No. She dare not do that. She is mad enough to see you again?"
"To say good-bye," was the reply, formed with dry lips. Then suddenly he cried out, sharply: "Henri, I cannot go! I will not leave her to that man! Either I stay here to die, or she shall come with me as my wife. Henri, I tell you I cannot leave her!"
It was two o'clock in the afternoon, and the Duchess was alone in her dressing-room. She was alone, had been alone through the whole morning, refusing admittance to the usual visitors of the toilette, in the hope that Claude might come. She had learned, like the rest of the Court, of the letter delivered in the chapel. But the reason of it, which was so well known to her, the Court but guessed. Her desire to speak with her cousin again was unaccountably strong, and she could not believe that he would make no effort to see her—for the last time. Nevertheless the hours had passed, and Claude neither sent her any word of farewell nor came himself. She was anxious, and she was bored. The King, who had that morning been informed that she was ill, had gone hunting. Versailles was deserted. Even Victorine was at Rambouillet. And so madame, more restless with every passing instant, was at last guilty of the imprudence of sending for the man whose banishment was caused by his having dared to enter too closely into her life.