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.--"

And thereupon, for some reason, they burst into laughter,

When it had subsided d'Argenson's eyes still twinkled.  "Well, du
Plessis, we are still here."

Richelieu grew a shade more serious.  "Let us thank the gods," he
said, dryly.

"And--the 'malignant fever.'  What do you think of the King?"

"He is pale.  He looks ill.  We must rouse him, amuse him, get rid of
this ennui.  In that case he will forget soon enough."

"We intrust the task to you, then.  None of us has been successful."

"We shall see.  Now, put me in touch with events.  What has happened?
Who is turned devotee?  Who is the last unfaithful?  Also, and
principally, what is the last development in the contest for the post
of King's lady?"

"First, it is said that Mme. de Boufflers and the Vauguyon have
quarrelled.  When one is in the Queen's circle, the other leaves it.
Her Majesty is in great distress.  The Cardinal de Tencin has
insulted Maréchal Saxe by referring slightingly to the Marshal's
mother.  Trudaine is d'Hénin's rival in the direction of Mme. de
Chambord.  And Mme. de Grammont is utterly furious with--the little
de Mailly."

"Ah!  And why?" asked the Duke, softly.

"Can you ask?  Mme. de Mailly is to replace her cousin.  Every one
says it.  The King talks of her, her youth, her _naïveté_, her
freshness, continually.  You are to be congratulated.  She was your
choice, was she not, from the first?"

Richelieu made an effort.  "Yes--yes--from the first, as you say.
What of the other, the bourgeois, Mme. d'Etioles?"

"Oh--his Majesty sees her sometimes, I think.  She is pretty,
but--bourgeois, of course.  M. de Gêvres is following in your lead.
He is to be seen at all times with the Countess."

"And what of Claude?  Does he say nothing?"

"Nothing, I believe.  The King seems fatal to him."

"Well, let us depart now for the Œil.  I am anxious to behold all
the gossips once again."

The two rose and passed together into the corridor, which opened on
the great gallery.  "Ah!  By-the-way," observed d'Argenson, as they
went, "his Majesty has begun to cook again."

"To cook!"  Richelieu's heart quivered suddenly.  "What--"

"M. de Richelieu!  Good-morning--a thousand congratulations on your
return to us.  You go to the Œil?  I will return there with you.
Charming--charming--the Court has been empty without you.  You will
reawaken his Majesty.  Doubtless Monsieur le Comte has been giving
you the details of our deplorably dull state.  _Voyons!_"

At any other time de Tessé would have annoyed Richelieu excessively
with this shower of familiarity; but at the moment he was grateful
for it, since it brought him to himself again.  During the walk down
the gallery they encountered half a dozen more ladies and gentlemen,
all of whom greeted the Duke with effusive warmth, and enabled him to
reach a very suitable frame of mind for his appearance in the famous
Bull's-Eye, which was presently reached.

The small room was crowded.  Every one went there for the hour
preceding mass--a service which had lately become highly popular, it
being the only place where his Majesty was visible.  Richelieu was
given but an instant's survey of the throng before a group closed in
upon him.  But in that instant he had found what he sought--the
figure of Deborah, who stood under the Bull's-Eye, de Gêvres on her
right hand, Penthièvre on her left, de Sauvré in front, and Claude
ten feet away, against the wall, talking abstractedly to d'Argenson's
impossible and still unmarried cousin.

It took Richelieu ten minutes to reach the centre of the room, and
even such speed necessitated not a few curt replies to questions, and
some very brief salutations to several ladies who had hoped for much
more.  Mme. de Grammont, receiving from him only a bow, glared
angrily; and half a dozen others sniffed with envious significance as
de Sauvré made room for his friend before the unconscious Deborah.

"Mme. de Mailly, I have the honor to make you my compliments," came
in cool, smooth, smiling tones from this master of situations.

The color fled, to the last drop, behind the rouge on Deborah's face.
Her knees shook, and her hands became suddenly cold and moist.  The
Duke was bowing profoundly--giving her time.  When he raised his head
again she also had straightened, and her face was well under control.

"I congratulate Versailles upon the return of Monsieur le Duc," she
said, after a strong effort.

"Thank you," he replied, and then paused, as if waiting for something
further.

To cover the strain of the moment she made herself extend her hand.
He took it on the back of his, felt its icy coldness, and muttered
"Brava!" to himself while he lifted it to his lips.  Then, as he
moved closer to her, the other gentlemen, with reluctant politeness,
drew to one side.

"You will be visible this afternoon in the Rue d'Anjou?" he asked.

"No, monsieur."

"To-morrow?"

"No."

"I beg, madame, that you will grant me an audience at any time."

"No, monsieur.

"We are friends?" he ventured.

"You need have no fear," was her reply, as she looked him steadily in
the face, her poise regained.  "In the world--we are friends."

It was the man who was disconcerted.  Her presence, her
self-possession, amazed him; though no more, indeed, than they did
her.  Her behavior had been an inspiration.  Happily, at this moment,
an usher appeared.

"Messieurs and mesdames--his Majesty descends to mass."

There was an instantaneous movement towards the door of the grand
gallery.  As Claude advanced to his wife's side, Richelieu, with a
nod to him, turned from her and sought out de Gêvres, in whose
company he entered the chapel.

After mass, at which their Majesties sat together, the Court, much
relieved in conscience, scattered for dinner.  The de Maillys, having
no engagements for the next two hours, returned by coach to their
apartment.  The drive was accomplished in silence, neither having
anything new to say; both, for different reasons, avoiding any remark
upon the return of Richelieu, which was the only thing offering field
for discussion.  On reaching home they retired to their separate
rooms to make some slight preparation for the _tête-à-tête_ dinner.
As usual, Deborah was ready first, and seated herself in the salon to
await her husband.  Almost immediately upon her entrance her first
lackey appeared and advanced hesitatingly into the room, carrying
something in his hand.  At a little distance from madame he coughed
discreetly.

Deborah looked towards him.  "What is it, Laroux?"

"Madame "--he came closer--"madame, at noon to-day something was
delivered for you."

"For me?  What is it?  I have lost nothing."

The servant grinned, and held out to her a box--a carved sandal-wood
box--on top of which was fastened a half-blown rose.

Deborah took it from him.  "What is it?  Who brought it here?"

"Madame," whispered the valet, mysteriously, "it was brought by
Bachelier, the confidential valet of his Majesty.  It is from the
King."

"From the King!" cried the Countess de Mailly, open-eyed.

"The King!" echoed a hoarse voice beside her.  "The King!"  Then,
suddenly, the box was furiously struck out of her hands.  The lid
fell open.  Deborah and Claude, both pale, both trembling, the one
with dread, the other with uncontrollable passion, stood facing each
other, the box between them, and a shower of chocolate candies
rolling upon the polished floor.

CHAPTER XIII

The Hôtel de Ville

For the next seven weeks life in the de Mailly _ménage_ was anything
but agreeable.  Monsieur and madame addressed each other, when
necessary, in rigidly polite terms.  Ordinarily there was silence
between them.  Claude's jealousy was very real, and, if one judged by
Court gossip and the manner of the King, instead of Deborah's acts,
it was by no means unfounded.  Claude always knew where his wife was
and to what solemn functions and small parties she went.  If
questioned absolutely, he would have admitted that he believed her
true--as yet.  But he lived upon the extreme edge of a volcanic
crater, and the existence was not tranquil.  He grew morose,
irritable, and habitually silent.  Rarely was he to be found in his
usual haunts, in his usual company; but remained at home, or in Paris
with Henri, when he was not, with all too palpable anxiety, following
his wife.  His new manner was speedily remarked by the Court.

"De Mailly is showing execrably bad taste," observed the Marquis de
Tessé to the Comte d'Egmont, one evening at Marly.

"Poor fellow!  It is a pity he has such good taste in women.  He
courts his wife like a lover."

"Bah!  He watches her like a duenna.  He _courts_ something
different."

"And what is that, my dear Marquis?"

"When the King is quite ready--a new exile."

"Ah!"

But the King was, at any rate, not ready yet.  When he came out of
his retirement he found many things demanding immediate attention;
and the chief of these was something which promised great and
brilliant gayety for the Court.  It was the approaching marriage of
the Dauphin, whose betrothal to the Infanta Maria Theresa Antoinette
Raphaelle, daughter of Philip V. of Spain, had been arranged to
obliterate the memory of the insult to the younger sister of the
Princess, who, designed for the wife of Louis XV. himself, and
brought up in France, had been returned with thanks to Spain, at the
instigation of Mme. de Prie, who had fancied herself, for a little
while, a successful creator of queens.  Preparations for the
celebration of the Dauphin's wedding were therefore begun on the most
elaborate scale which the King and Richelieu together could devise;
and with the beginning of the new year came a series of
entertainments given at Versailles, or by great families in Paris
_hôtels_, which allowed the Court no time for anything but thoughts
of the splendor of existence and the details of new costumes.

It was not till February, however, that the Dauphiness Infanta
arrived in France; and on the 20th day of that month the King rode to
Etampes to meet her.  She and her sixteen-year-old Dauphin were
married in the Chapel of Versailles on February 23d, in the presence
of their Majesties and as many persons of blue blood as the place
would hold.

"My Heaven, but she is homely!" whispered the Maréchale de Mirepoix
to Mme. de Boufflers.

"All princesses are, my dear.  It is one of their duties to be
hideous.  The good God could not give them too much.  They say she is
sympathetic."

"One would need to be with that countenance.  Poor Dauphin."

"Oh--he does not know a pretty woman when he sees one, thanks to the
good Père Griffet and his mamma."

"And shall you go on Tuesday to the Hôtel de Ville?"

"Certainly.  The world will be there.  They say that it will be a
finer ball than that in the Galerie des Glaces on Saturday."

"It will be more lively.  Some of the bourgeoisie are asked."

"Ah!  Then we shall have that Madame--what do you call
her?--d'Etioles there.  She is mad over the King, they say."

Mme. de Mirepoix leaned forward over the ribbon and gazed down the
aisle to the altar, where the King was standing, close to his son.
"I do not wonder at her.  His Majesty is the handsomest man in
France.  See him now--beside Monseigneur!  Were I the Dauphine, I
should have managed to marry the father instead of the son."

"Yes, truly!  She is nearer his Majesty's age!"

The two smiled and crossed themselves.  The ceremony was over.

Mme. de Boufflers was right in her conjecture that Mme. d'Etioles
would be at the ball at the Hôtel de Ville.  Much to the pretty
woman's discomfiture, she and her stout husband had not been bidden
to any of the festivities in Versailles, thus proving that one needed
sometimes something more than Mme. de Conti to secure a foothold
among the _noblesse_.  Some half-dozen ancestors had served better.
Nevertheless, at this, her first opportunity, Mme. d'Etioles had
determined to accomplish wonders.  It was to be a _bal masqué_, and
the choice of costume, therefore, was perfectly unrestrained.  Madame
designed her dress without consulting monsieur.  She would go as the
huntress Diana, with Grecian drapery of China silk, falling in folds
scant enough to show all the pretty, rounded lines of her figure.
Over her left shoulder hung a golden quiver, and she would carry the
classic bow in her hand.  It needed but little imagination to picture
all the possibilities for coquetry which these accessories to her
toilet would open to her.  Lancret himself consented to design her
Greek coiffeur, and to designate the exact spot from which her
crescent must shine.  And in the end Mme. d'Etioles was able to
regard herself with high satisfaction, when she stood before her
mirror fully dressed, at nine o'clock on the momentous evening of the
last of February.

An hour later the Hôtel de Ville presented a gorgeous spectacle.  Its
great hall, where the dancing was to take place, was hung from floor
to ceiling with priceless tapestries.  Above these, as a frieze, were
festooned the old battle-flags of France, tattered banners of many a
sturdy knight and many a long-past warrior-king.  On the west wall,
in the place of honor, just above the royal platform, hung the flag
and pennants of Louis XV.'s own guard, used in the last campaign.
The dais below these formed a centre of interest to the throngs of
glittering and perfumed men and women who were by now pouring, in a
steady stream, into the room.  The platform was raised considerably
above the floor, and was mounted by a little flight of six steps that
extended across the front of the raised space.  This was entirely
covered with a carpet of white silk and gold, draped and fastened on
the sides with golden rosettes, while over the whole hung a
voluminous canopy of purple velvet, in the fashion of Louis XIV.'s
time.  Below, in the centre of the platform, stood the throne, a
great gilt chair, with cushion and footstool of purple, around which
were grouped the stars of the evening, twelve of the prettiest women
of the bourgeoisie.  All of these ladies were in the classic garb
which had been wont so to delight the heart of the great Louis; and
among them, conspicuous alike for beauty of figure and of dress, was
Jeanne Poisson d'Etioles, a little chagrined at the thought that her
place proclaimed her class, but pleased with the assurance that the
King must perceive her as soon as he entered the room.  Like her
companions, and, indeed, every one else in the room, she wore a small
mask--of stiff, white silk.  And with masks, as with everything else,
much may be done.

It was understood that the twelve goddesses were to remain on their
Olympus until Jove, otherwise his Majesty, made his appearance in the
room.  But it had occurred to no one that, in all probability, the
King's entrance would be unobserved, since he, also, was to be
disguised.  This, unfortunately, was the case.  Louis had no idea of
ascending to a purple-and-gold position this evening.  Thus the
twelve dames posed upon their platform for an hour or more, speaking
but seldom, keeping their eyes fastened close on the grand entrance,
and longing mightily to join the gay throng about them, where they
also might enter into all the little intrigues and mysteries that
formed the amusement of such an affair.

Mme. d'Etioles was, whether by nature or cultivation, a remarkably
graceful woman.  As she moved slowly about the dais, each step was a
classic pose, each movement as studied as it seemed careless.  From
her manner one would have imagined her as tranquilly happy as was the
goddess whom she represented.  In reality her heart palpitated with
anger and mortification.  She realized that the King must have
arrived long before this.  He was somewhere in that company which she
looked upon, and from which, by means of this silly display, she was
debarred.  In gazing leisurely over the crowd, she was able to
recognize many of the women and not a few of the men merely by their
figures and their manner of walking.  There was the Comtesse de
Mailly, her all-but-successful rival, fluttering beside a warrior of
Clovis' time.  Diana shrugged enviously at Deborah's costume.  It was
made to represent a large white butterfly, or moth, perhaps.  The
vestment was of white silk crepe, figured with yellow.  On her back
were two huge wings of grayish gauze, faintly patterned in yellow,
and glittering with silver spangles.  Her head was crowned with a
silver circlet, from which, in front, sprang two long, quivering
"feelers" tipped with tiny diamonds that flashed like fireflies as
they swayed up and down.  The butterfly was presently approached by a
slender figure in star-spangled, black gauze draperies, her head
ornamented with a larger crescent than that which Diana wore.  Mme.
d'Etioles did not recognize this black-masked figure, but it was
Victorine de Coigny who had chosen the sombre, commonplace raiment.
Mme. d'Etioles beheld these two women accosted by a
monk--Richelieu--who, later, with a humor of his own, exchanged his
Capuchin dress for the red-and-black one of a devil.  The helmeted
warrior had turned to Mme. de Mailly with an evident invitation to
dance.  Mme. d'Etioles saw them go off together, and then brought her
gaze slowly back towards the platform, encountering, as she did so, a
pair of blue eyes that were looking earnestly at her from a white
mask.  Diana smiled graciously.  The owner of the blue eyes emerged
from the passing throng and advanced to the edge of the dais.  He
proved to be a tall, slender person, in the garb of a miller.  On
arriving at the platform he looked up at Diana, and said, pleasantly:
"Surely the old Olympus never knew so fair a goddess."

Jeanne Poisson started.  She recognized instantly that peculiar and
undisguisable voice.  Quickly taking command of the situation, she
drew from her quiver a golden arrow, and, pointing it at him over her
bow, began slowly to descend the steps.

"Beautiful huntress," cried the King, advancing nearer to her, "the
arrows you discharge are fatal!"

Mme. d'Etioles returned the little missile to its place.  Louis XV.
was close beside her.  With a quick, catlike movement, she raised one
hand to her face.  The white mask came off.

"Ah!" murmured his Majesty.

"_Au revoir_, Sire!" cried the audacious huntress.

The mask was slipped into place again.  Diana, free at last, slipped
into the throng, leaving her handkerchief (a serious bit of
anachronism, considering her character) at the feet of the powdery
miller.

Louis looked rather quizzically down at the lacy thing.  He had
hunted and been hunted many times before, but never just in this way.
However, he was not a king to-night.  Stooping down, he picked the
costly offering from the floor and stood for a moment examining it.
It bore no mark, but he needed none to assure him of the identity of
its owner.  Neither, perhaps, was he unaware of the light in which
she regarded him.  Ah, well!  Generally a king is a king.  Sometimes
he is a miller.  Smiling to himself, Louis tied a loose knot in the
handkerchief and then hurried into the crowd in pursuit of the Diana,
who had left Olympus for good.  He was not obliged to go very far.
She stood upon the outer edge of the open floor, watching the
dancers.  Between him and her was an open space of twenty feet.  He
raised his hand.

"Take care, your Majesty!" cried a daring voice from one of the sets.
It was from the lips of a tall Capuchin monk.

The King flushed.  Every eye in the room was upon him now, he felt.
The heart of madame beat furiously.  Yet--no--the royal arm was not
lowered.  Louis, with a bow, tossed the handkerchief to her feet.  A
dozen hands sought to give it to her.  Again from the irrepressible
dancer came a cry which was echoed in laughter from every part of the
throng.

"The handkerchief is thrown!"  Which were more truly translated, "The
die is cast!"

Nevertheless, the significance of that prophecy even Mme. d'Etioles
herself did not realize until, in after-years, she had come to know
too well that it had been a warning.

Deborah, meantime, found the evening flying all too rapidly.  Masked
balls were by no means such hackneyed affairs to her as they appeared
to be to most of the Court.  That given at Versailles three nights
before was the first in which she had participated; and the little
mysteries occasioned by unguessed partners during the promenades
amused her greatly.  To-night she was able to pierce the disguises
more easily; and yet, all unknowing, she had danced with Richelieu,
who was well pleased with this opportunity of being with her.  She,
like all the others, recognized the King by his voice.  Nevertheless,
at the throwing of the handkerchief, she laughed, and cried the
catch-word with the others, evincing so little concern at the success
of her rival that de Gêvres' admiration for a self-control that was
not hers rose high.

Deborah danced the fourth minuet with a Turk, who persisted in
carrying on conversation by signs.  When, however, in the midst of
the dance, her companion was obliged to laugh at one of her
observations, she understood his reason.  It was the King again.
Evidently Claude had pierced this new disguise when she did.  He, in
a plain white domino, had followed her all evening, danced in the
sets with her, and rendered her as uncomfortable as she was to be
made by his surveillance.  The King himself noticed, without
recognizing, this watcher.  After the fourth dance, therefore, he
made inquiries of de Gêvres, who happened to be at hand:

"The man in white, who is always near Mme. de Mailly?"

"Who should it be, Sire, but--the husband?  I understand that
Monsieur le Comte is exceedingly fearful of madame's reputation."

"_Peste_!  That man is a nuisance.  There will come a time, de
Gêvres, when Count Claude will be quite _de trop_."

"Again?" ventured the Duke.

"Again," responded his liege, turning on his heel and walking away.

"Alas! poor Claude!"  And de Gêvres stood still for an instant,
musing, with a philosophic smile, on the history, past and present,
of this house of de Mailly, whose women were all too fair--and too
femininely weak.

Deborah was now accosted by a black domino with a silver mask, who
had just left the side of Mme. d'Etioles.  She granted his request
for a dance, and then joined him in the promenade.  He proved to be
very complaisant and very gallant.  Deborah quickly recognized his
style of compliment, and the pretty couplets, with their epigrammatic
turns, which flowed as easily from his lips as wine would have run
into them.  It was none other than the man of many strings--the Abbé
de Bernis.  He was in high spirits with his evening, with Mme.
d'Etioles' odd experience, and the quick popularity which it had
engendered among a certain set pleased him nearly as much as it did
Diana herself.

The abbé had not approached Victorine that evening.  He of course
recognized her at once, by her thin arms and slight figure; and he
was aware that she would know him by the silver mask, which he had
worn on a previous occasion.  She had even danced in the same sixteen
with him while he was with Deborah, a fact which rendered de Bernis
not a little uneasy for fear Mme. de Coigny should have seized some
opportunity of addressing him with the conventional reproaches.  His
fears were not realized.  Victorine made no attempt to waylay him.
He only felt the steady gaze of her big eyes through the mask, and
his nonchalance was proof against that.  He began to congratulate
himself on a possible happy issue from a disagreeable situation.  But
the good abbé was too quick to hope.

Victorine was in a dull maze of thought.  She was living far away,
to-night, in a land where it seemed as though she could look back
upon herself and her past life.  She suffered neither mentally nor
physically; and she did not realize how she was pressing towards a
great mental climax, presaged by this calm.  Nevertheless, in the
midst of the commonplace throng, she thought much.  While she
watched, now from one point, now another, the movements of the black
domino, and while she talked with intelligence, even with wit, to a
series of partners, she was reviewing, with calm, methodical
precision, the history of the single human connection which had
brought happiness into her child's life.  From its inception to the
present moment every scene in the drama which they two, de Bernis and
herself, had acted, passed now before her mental eyes.  She recalled,
with a wondering thrill, the great, perfect happiness of the first
months; and she perceived, with slow, sure precision, the later
undeniable lessening of her hold upon his affections.  The reason for
this?  That question she had never asked before.  Now the answer came
at once, quite plainly.  It was not jealousy that made reply.  No,
no.  She saw truly.  It was only--ambition.  She could not help him
higher.  She had given all that was hers to give, and more, perhaps.
Had he quite ceased to profit by it?  Was it quite finished?
Victorine caught her breath and looked around her.  De Bernis, drawn
by accident, was just beside her, still talking to Deborah, towards
whom the King was again advancing.  At the same moment Victorine
beheld a gentleman of Henry IV.'s time approaching her.  His walk
resembled that of the Marquis de Mailly-Nesle.  Divining his purpose,
she frowned with displeasure to think that he might keep her from her
newly formed project.

"Madame," said Henri, bowing, "may I ask your hand for the next
dance?"

"Monsieur," she returned, with a slight courtesy, "I remember that
the King of Navarre was wont to enter into mad dances with Night.  If
you have not M. de Sully to accompany us, I am afraid to venture."

De Bernis, from whom the King had taken Deborah, caught this remark,
and, without turning to the speaker, stood still, listening.

"Madame, in my old life Night was never cruel; though I admit that
she was never half so fair."

"Ah, you are wrong!  The stars are very pale, to-night."

"The moon is over them, and they faint with envy."

Victorine shrugged, rather impatiently.

"Well--your hand, Madame la Maréchale?" repeated the Marquis, gently,
abandoning the pleasantry.

"I greatly regret, monsieur, that I am already engaged."

"Indeed!  To whom?  Shall I seek your recreant knight?"

"He is here," responded Victorine, calmly.  "This black domino has my
hand."

De Bernis started.

"Then, monsieur, you should claim it at once to avoid further
mistake!" observed the Marquis, rather irritably.  And, bowing to the
lady, he turned upon his heel and walked away.

Mme. de Coigny and the abbé faced each other.  Victorine did not
speak.  De Bernis, after a moment, did so from necessity.  "Madame
has done me the honor to make me a convenience.  Does she wish, in
reality, to dance?"

"It has been your custom, François, to dance with me during the
evening.  Can you not recall the time when you begrudged me a single
minuet, a single promenade, with another?"

"One may remember many useless things, madame."  If the Fates gave
opportunity so soon, de Bernis was not the man to refuse to take it.
If he broke with her to-night, the morrow would be free.

"Give me your arm.  I wish to walk," she said, in a quiet imperative.

He offered it silently, and they joined the moving procession.

"You are very quiet, madame," he observed presently.

"Let us go, then, to where we may speak freely."

They crossed the room to the now deserted dais, and here, behind the
purple folds of the canopy's drapery, they halted and stepped apart.
In this recess they were well screened from the throng, which they
could see passing, repassing, mingling, circling in the space before
them.  And here, safe from curious eyes, Victorine removed the mask
from her pallid face, and turned to the man.  De Bernis also pulled
off his silver disguise, breathing with relief as the air, hot though
it was, touched his cheeks.

"And now, François, here, at last, we will talk together, as we
should have done many weeks ago."

"What are we to say?" he asked, warily.

"You shall answer my accusation."

"What is that?"  There was an expression very like a sneer upon his
face.

"That you are tired of me.  That you--intend--to desert me."

He smiled slowly.  "Desert you?  Impossible!  You are married."

Her breath was caught by a sob, and her throat contracted
spasmodically before she could make reply.  "Spiritually, it is the
same thing.  I have loved--only you."

De Bernis did not speak now.  Perhaps he was thinking.

"What have I done to turn you away?  I have never wept before you,
never complained to you, never showed jealousy of any one connected
with you.  What have I done?"

"Nothing, Victorine."

"Then why, François?"

Her calmness was disconcerting.  He could have endured an outbreak
very well, but this was beyond him.  He only answered, awkwardly, "I
do not know."

"But you _are_ tired of me?"

There was a moment's silence.  The woman waited.  The man, with a
physical effort, gathered himself together.  At length, stepping a
little back from her, and looking, not into her eyes, for that he
could not do, but at her low, white forehead that was crowned with
the dusky hair and the bright crescent, he spoke:
"Victorine--Victorine--you are mistaken in this matter.  Well as you
believe that you know me, after the long months that you have had in
which to study me, you can no more judge me or my motives than you
can read the mind of monsieur your husband.  You say that you have
never shown jealousy to me.  You were right not to do that, for there
has never been need of it.  You are probably the only woman for whom
I shall ever care enough to regret having injured.  You, I do regret.
Believe it.  It is true.  But, madame, our connection is over.  It
has been over for me, as you surmise, for some weeks.  I love no
other woman.  But there is something which I do value above all
things, yes, above you.  I am very frank, because it is necessary.
My ambition, my desire for place, is what I live for.  There is no
room for you in that life of mine.  You force me to say it.  After
to-night, Mme. de Coigny, after to-night, do you understand that I
wish to meet you only as an acquaintance, as a woman of the world, of
Paris, Versailles, the salons?  I would have you quite understand
this, now, since we are speaking together, alone."

Victorine heard him without interruption, her eyes fixed upon his
finely featured face.  When he ceased to speak, those eyes closed for
an instant.  She passed her hand across her forehead.  Then she said,
in a tired voice: "After to-night, François.  Yes.  I understand."

He watched her refasten her mask.  Then she turned to him with a
little inclination of the head.  "_Au revoir_."

He started forward.  "Let me accompany you."

"Thank you, no.  I shall find an escort."  And she walked away.

De Bernis stared after her in amazement.  How splendidly she had
behaved!  In what a wretched light she placed him!  After all, she
was not an ordinary woman.  Never before had he witnessed such
self-command; never had he hoped to pass through the scene so easily,
without a single reproach, without a tear.  He could scarcely yet
understand.

Leaving the little recess, he stood for a moment or two undecidedly
watching the throng before him.  The noise of mirth was louder than
ever, though the crowd was not so great.  De Bernis' head ached with
the heat.  He would leave the Hôtel de Ville and seek his own rooms
for sleep.  Making his way slowly to the dressing-rooms, he removed
his domino, donned a black cloak and hat, and, leaving the great
building, turned his steps wearily towards his apartment in the Rue
Bailleuls.  Twenty minutes later a slight, black-robed, closely
hooded figure also left the Hôtel de Ville, and, as she stepped into
the waiting coach, gave an unusual order to the stolid footman:

"To the Rue Bailleuls, the house at the corner of the Rue Jean
Tissin."

CHAPTER XIV

Victorine Makes End

The Abbé de Bernis did not keep a regular body-servant, for the
excellent reason that his somewhat slender means did not admit of
one.  This fact was wont to pique his vanity not a little, and
numberless had been his unheard sighs of envy when Monseigneur This
and Monsieur That raised their voices in lofty protestation that a
perfect valet was worth more than a perfect woman, but that no valet
in the kingdom, save Bachelier himself, deserved butter for his
bread.  There are, however, certain times when solitude is a boon to
every one.  Such a time to de Bernis were the last hours of this last
night of winter, after his return from the brilliant evening at the
Hôtel de Ville.  He was in a mood that did not admit of company.  His
swift walk homeward had, in some way, stirred his blood more than all
the dancing had done; and when he reached his rooms he found himself
in no mood for sleep.  Leisurely, then, by the flickering light of
the two candles on his table, he removed the black satin suit which
he had worn beneath his domino, took the wig from his aching head,
put on a somewhat worn dressing-gown, and seated himself before the
mirror of his dressing-table.

A very different man was this François de Bernis from what he
appeared to be in company.  The affectation, the disguise, were
dropped.  Here, at last, was the actual man, whom only one other
besides himself had ever seen: the peculiar head, with its clipped
crop of bristling black hair encircling the tonsure; the dark,
Southern face, with its straight brows, keen eyes, long nose, and
firm, straight, stubborn mouth, with an anomalous curve of weakness
somewhere lurking in it.  And his hands, unpowdered and unsoftened
now by the falling ruffles of lace, showed for what they were--bony,
dark, long-fingered, and cruelly strong.  Not so handsome, not so
elegant a man, after all, was M. François _en négligé_.

For some time he sat looking at himself, thinking--less of himself,
for once, than of the woman who had so easily accepted her dismissal.
After all, the want of a scene had hurt his vanity.  Could she be as
weary of him as he was of her?  Was there some other--to her?  The
night outside grew blacker.  It lacked more than an hour to dawn.
The candle-flames flickered in the darkness.  The hour was dreary
enough.  It were as well to get to bed.  De Bernis rose slowly,
intending to finish his laggardly preparations for the night.  He had
not yet taken a step when there came a light, quivering knock on the
door of the outer room, his salon.  He stood perfectly still,
listening.  The knock was not repeated, however, and he decided that
it had been a mistake.  Ah!  What was this?  The handle of his
bedroom door was being turned; the door was pushed slowly open.
There, in the space, stood a slight figure, cloaked, hooded, and
masked in black.  Two white hands were raised to the stranger's face.
The mask dropped to the floor.

"Victorine!" muttered the man.

"That goes without saying."

"_Grand Dieu_!  Did you think that I expected you?"

"Why not?"  The lips parted slightly, and he caught a gleam of teeth.
"You could not have imagined that that--at the ball--was the last?"

"So I did think.  Well, what do you come for?"

"Not that tone, please.  You have no right to use it--to me."

"What do you come for?"

She made a sound in her throat which he took for a laugh.
Afterwards, shivering slightly, she moved nearer to him, and at sight
of her face he started back into an attitude of defence.  He would
have repeated his question, when suddenly she answered it.

"You gave me to-night.  'After to-night,' you said.  Well, it is not
morning yet.  We shall finish to-night."

"What do you mean?"  He stared at her figure, at her working hands,
as though he expected to discover weapons about her.

Then her voice and her face both changed from reckless hardness to a
kind of pitiful, childlike pleading: "Why, François, are you so
unkind?  You gave me this time.  You must not be cruel yet--till I am
ready."

In spite of himself he softened before the helplessness of the
little, delicate creature.  "What do you want, Victorine?" he asked,
gently.

She was silent for some time, till he thought she had not heard him.
When he was about to repeat his words, however, she said, with the
faintest hesitation: "I want--to pray--here, if you will listen.  I
can never pray alone, because I need you--I need you when I am before
God."  She saw him shudder, and went on, imploringly: "Oh, François,
let me pray here, once, for the last time!  Is it so much to ask?
Let me set myself a little more right--before you."

"Will you not be setting yourself more wrong?  Can you pray?" he
asked, sternly, after a troubled pause.

Her answer was to fall upon her knees before a chair near which she
had been standing.  The seat of this she grasped painfully with both
her thin, delicate hands.  When she began to speak her voice was so
low that the man could barely hear it.  Gradually, however, it became
more distinct:

"O God! merciful Father!  Mary, Mother of Jesus!--our
Saviour--Christ--behold, I am come to you!  Look down upon me where I
am, and, in the name of Justice, no more, judge me!  You, who know
all things, know also my heart.  You know my sin, but you know its
reason.  Oh, Thou who hast said, in pity, '_Because she has much
loved, much shall she be forgiven_,' behold me, pity me, also!  "O
God, thou knowest this French Court, thou knowest its life, how they
take us, who do not yet know, into the midst of it.  We are children
at first--so young!--so young!  And we cannot foresee the end.  We do
not know the prices here for--happiness.  Is it, then, true that
happiness is never to be found on earth?  If we find it for a little
while, are we not punished enough after to--expiate?  Why were we not
told all at first?  We heard that such a thing as happiness there
was.  We wanted it--we hoped for it--we thought we found it.  But we
pay too high.  Why do you ask so much for so little?  Will you
condemn us for our youth, our ignorance?  Why must we pay?  Why
should we pay--with those years and years and endless years of
sorrow?  If I say that I _will not_ pay--what then?

"God, thou art called merciful.  Hast thou mercy for me, who have
wronged none but myself?  Ah, why was I decreed to be born and grow
to womanhood?  It has been useless.  You will see.  I--I--will not--I
can--"  She was beginning to gasp, sobbingly.  The abbé, who had
heard her in silence, came forward.

"Victorine, rise.  This is a useless blasphemy."

"I know.  I know.  I cannot pray.  God--will not--let me!"  Her words
came convulsively, and she shivered with cold.  He picked her up in
his arms and carried her over to the largest chair in the room.  Here
she remained, helpless and passive; and he left her, to return
presently with a glass of cordial.  In obedience to a look from him
she took it, without protest.  When he had set aside the empty glass,
he turned to her and spoke:

"Madame, it is nearly morning.  You must go."

Looking up at him, she smiled--as she had sometimes used to do.  "Not
yet," she said, with pretty decision.

"Not yet!  _Mon Dieu!_ what can you do?  Why do you stay?"

"Because in my last hours I wish to be with you," she said, softly
and lightly, with old-time playful tenderness.

In spite of himself this manner influenced him as no other would have
done.  He shrugged his shoulders slightly, and returned, with a
gallant air: "Madame, I should wish to assist you with your cloak and
mask; but if you have anything to ask of me, first--"

She sprang lightly to her feet, went to him, and placed her hands on
his shoulders.  He felt the force in her merely by her touch.  It
seemed as though fire from her fingers were trickling down through
his flesh to his heart.

"Yes, you are right; I have something to ask, something to tell.  You
have heard it before, but this last time you must learn it well, and
must remember it.  François--I love you.  In heaven or in hell,
wherever I go, I shall love you.  I will not forget--and you shall
not.  This is the last night here.  But--out, somewhere--in the
infinite--I wait for you.  Now, sit here."

She pushed him, gently, inflexibly, over to the chair whence she had
risen.  Then she passed to the table, where stood the two candles
that lighted the room.  Her great gray eyes fastened themselves
burningly, steadily, upon those of de Bernis.  Under the gaze he sat
still, fascinated.  "Victorine--you are mad," he murmured once,
vaguely.

Hearing the words, she smiled at him, but never moved her eyes.  At
length, when he had become passively expectant, she lifted her hand.
"Remain there--do not move--" she whispered.  Then her fingers moved
over the candle-flames.  They flared and went out.  There was a sound
of rustling garments, a faintly murmured word from the man, a long
breath, and then silence, heavy, absolute, in the thick darkness.

It lasted long.  All about that room, for miles in the blackness, the
great city lay sleeping through the hour before dawn.  The lights of
the Hôtel de Ville were out.  King and valet alike rested.  Mme.
d'Etioles and Marie Leczinska had forgotten triumph and trouble.
Richelieu, devil and monk, lay abed like an honest man.  And Deborah
de Mailly, under her canopy, dreamed, in the Versailles apartment, of
the fresh quiet of her room at Trevor Manor, the golden dawn over the
Chesapeake, and the lapping of the river against the banks that were
lined with drooping willows and peach-trees.

The first sound that broke the stillness in the room of the Rue
Bailleuls was the same as that on which silence had fallen--the
long-drawn sigh of a woman.  Then de Bernis whispered, imperatively:
"Madame--you must go.  Morning dawns."

A second after came the gentle reply: "Yes, François.  Have no fear.
I go."

As the gray dawn came up at last over the eastern horizon, a coach
rattled through the city streets upon its way to the Sèvres barrier.
Inside, upon the cushions, her reclining figure covered with a heavy
velvet robe, her drawn face showing paler than the day in its frame
of disordered hair, covered with the black hood, lay Mme. de Coigny.
Her eyes wandered aimlessly from one window of the coach to the
other.  Without thought, without feeling of any kind, she beheld the
tall, narrow houses with their wooden galleries and crazy, outer
staircases; the shuttered shops, the narrow, lifeless streets.  As
they neared the barrier they passed the first market carts, laden
with butter, milk, eggs, cheese, and meat.  There were no green
things at this time of year.  And yet--it was the first day of March,
the first day of spring.  The long winter was at an end.  Summer
would presently be back.

The panelled coach passed out of the city without difficulty, and
entered, upon the country road.  The pale yellow light along the end
of the distant horizon grew brighter.  Victorine regarded it dully.
The coach jolted and jarred over the frozen ruts in the road.
Bare-branched trees swayed in the biting morning wind.  The
inhabitants of the rude houses and taverns along the way still slept.
The sweet, frosty air of very early morning came gratefully to the
lips of the woman; but, as she breathed it in, she shivered, and drew
her coverings a little closer.  Presently they drew near to
Versailles, and smoke began to rise lazily from the chimneys of the
houses and to drift slowly upward.  A few moments more, and the
cumbrous vehicle stopped before a house of stone.  It was Victorine
de Coigny's "home."  A footman leaped from the back of the coach to
the ground and opened the door for her.  With a strong effort she
alighted, leaning heavily on the servant's arm.

At her knock the _concierge_, just dressed for the day, bowed her
into the house, looking sharply the while at her pinched,
expressionless face.  She did not see him.  Before her were the
stairs.  By the strength of her will she ascended them, and was
presently admitted to the apartment on the first floor.  To the
slight surprise of the waiting valet, she forbade him to call her
maid; and then, without further commands, passed into her own room.
Here she flung off her hood and pelisse.  Then, with quiet, stealthy
steps, she crossed the passage into her husband's room.

Marshal Coigny, weary with the long night at Paris, whence he had
returned an hour or two since, conscience-free, careless, from long
training, of his wife's whereabouts, lay in a sound sleep, dreaming
of her, perhaps.  He had not heard her return to the house; and he
was perfectly unaware of her quiet entrance into his room.

She passed him without a look, and went straight to the cabinet where
he kept papers, orders, medals, trophies of the last campaign, his
sword, and his duelling pistols.  One of these last, silver-mounted
weapons, loaded for possible use, Victorine took, weighing it in her
hand a second before she began her retreat.  She could not leave the
room as she had entered it, without a glance at him whose name she
had borne for three years.  For an instant she paused beside his bed,
looking a little wistfully at the face that was half turned from her.

"Jules," she said, so softly that de Coigny, had he been awake, could
not have heard her, "Jules, I have been very wicked, very cruel to
you.  May God put it into your heart that I tell you so--now.
Perhaps, somewhere, some time, you will find a good woman who will
love you as I did--him.  When that time comes, Jules, try to think a
little kindly of me--sometimes."

Then, with a faint, tired sigh, she turned from him and went back
into her own room.

Three or four minutes later the Marquis de Coigny was roused from his
sleep by the sharp crack of a pistol-shot.  Opening his eyes dreamily
for an instant, he rolled over again, murmuring, "Magnificent--your
Majesty!"

Then there came the sounds of a man's sharp cry and a hurrying of
feet in the passage, and the Maréchal started up as a lackey rushed
into his room.

"_Nom de Dieu_, Gérome, what--"

"Monsieur--monsieur--madame--madame la Maréchale--"

"What is it?  Speak, fool!"

"It was--madame's--shot!"

CHAPTER XV

Deborah

For three days it was the supreme topic in the Œil-de-Bœuf, and
the Maréchal gave another day's interest by himself taking her
unconsecrated body back to the château where she had spent sixteen of
her nineteen little years, for burial.  No one of the Court had
caught so much as a glimpse of de Coigny before his departure; but
certain valets, news scavengers of Versailles, spent much time with
the Marshal's servants, and learned from them that their master's
hair was gray beneath his wig, that he was starving himself, and that
none save old Gérome could make him speak.

"I always said that he had the bad taste to be in love with her,"
observed de Gêvres, with a superior shrug.

"Will the abbé be called out, or did the affair lie in another
direction?"

Again the Duke shrugged.  "Really, my friend, I know nothing.  The
Maréchal has never honored me with domestic confidences."

This, in substance, together with the complete story of her death,
and endless conjectures as to its immediate cause, was all that was
anywhere repeated, in Bull's-Eye or salon.  Naturally enough, then,
people began to grow weary of the subject, and at length little
Victorine, with her hopeless tragedy, was laid aside, to become one
of that company of ghosts who, as memories, haunted the corridors of
the great palace, to be recalled occasionally from oblivion upon a
dull and rainy day.

And now another topic, one by no means new, but freshened in
interest, was introduced, by hints, to the general room from the
King's cabinet, for the entertainment of the scandal-mongers.  This
was the de Maillys once more.  For many weeks, now, his Majesty had
purposely suspended the long-awaited choice, and had paid his court
with equal gallantry to half a dozen women.  After the incident of
the "throwing the handkerchief," a topic long since threadbare in the
salons, Mme. d'Etioles, bourgeoise though she was, seemed to stand a
fair chance for the post.  Thereafter, periodically, she had been
rumored as being separated from her husband, of living now at Paris,
now at Sénart, again at Versailles--perhaps in the palace itself.
Nothing definite was known in the Œil or the Queen's circle.
D'Argenson looked wise, and Bachelier blinked occasionally, but the
matter got no further, and nothing was proclaimed.  All this,
however, was later, through the last of March and the beginning of
April.  Some time since, during the first week in March, indeed, the
Cabinet du Conseil learned something of royal intentions in another
quarter.  On a certain Friday some orders were given, a paper made
out at Majesty's command by de Berryer, and from Maurepas certain
others demanded, the subject of which made even that imperturbable
person start with surprise.  Such papers were expected to be in
readiness by Saturday afternoon.

Upon the momentous Friday young d'Argenson and Phélippeaux de
Maurepas encountered each other, by chance, in the _vaisselier_.
These two, who were never to be found talking together in the public
rooms, were of necessity so intimate in private that the one could
fairly read the other's thoughts by the curve of the lips or the
shape of the brow.  To-day, both minds being on the same subject,
both mouths formed into the same peculiar smile of greeting as the
two found themselves alone in this inner room.  Maurepas was on his
way to the grand gallery.  D'Argenson, to his great disgust, was at
work enumerating candlesticks (the King being prone to periodic
spells of household economy).  At one end of the table Maurepas
stopped, looking down in some amusement at his comrade's task.

"You would make a woeful housekeeper, Marc.  Now I--have been
occupied in a more engrossing way."

"Eh?  Oh, something apropos of the little de Mailly."

"Your astuteness is unsurpassed.  Can you guess the next thing--the
subject of my labors?"

"I thought that I had guessed it," was the reply.

"Oh, no.  Mme. de Mailly is their object."

"I am, then, at a loss."

"I have been occupied, my dear Count, in making the estates of
Châteauroux, together with the duchy, fall, by a peculiar line of
heredity, from the deceased Duchess to her living cousin-german,
Mistress Deborah Travis, otherwise the Comtesse de Mailly."

"_Mordi_!  You have my compassion.  My task is as nothing to yours."

"Oh, you are wrong.  The matter is nearly arranged.  We shall see, my
dear Count--we shall see--"

"When?"

"At no later period than to-morrow evening."

"Ah!  Then his Majesty is to escape from the levee?"

"Yes, probably.  Monseigneur the Dauphin will be asked to take his
place after the fourth minuet.  And you, Marc--do you know what part
in the affair is to fall to you?"

"Alas, yes--I can conjecture it.  I had not feared that it would come
so soon.  The husband--Claude--will be my task."

"I am, indeed, sorry for it.  Once before, you remember, he fell to
me.  _Mon Dieu_!  He took it manfully enough then; but this is worse.
Unhappily, he is fond of his wife."

"Monsieur le Ministre--you of the school of Montesquieu--have you
ever been able to picture to yourself an honest woman--one who would
refuse the--post?"

"Never, Monsieur of the Interior.  In heaven there may be such.  But
then, in heaven, I am told, there are no kings."

With which regretfully sincere bit of pessimism de Maurepas passed
on, leaving his friend to mingle thoughts of Claude and Deborah and
the King's way with bronze pairs and single silvers.

Saturday evening saw the great Gallery of Mirrors filled with its
customary brilliant throng.  Claude and his wife were present as a
matter of course, and were able to dance the second minuet together,
since in that their Majesties were companions.  Thereafter they were
separated, probably for the remainder of the evening.  Deborah was
surrounded by many would-be partners, for she had long since been
able to choose as she liked from the men of the Court.  But the one
who might command a dance, he whom she expected to be seen with at
least once during the evening, did not, apparently, look at her
to-night.  The Court perceived this as quickly as she did; and, in
consequence, certain gentlemen left her side.  Richelieu, who dared
not approach her, smiled cynically at their want of foresight, and
saw, with a nod of approval, that de Gêvres, d'Epernon, de Sauvré and
Penthièvre became more than ever assiduous in their attentions.  If
Deborah were disappointed, certainly none could have guessed it.  Her
manner was just as usual--quiet, eminently unaffected, and
punctiliously gracious.  It was becoming the best manner in the
kingdom, de Gêvres observed to his neighbor, d'Epernon, as she
entered the King's set with Penthièvre.  D'Epernon weakly tapped his
snuff-box, but said nothing for a time.

"De Bernis is across the room," he observed, finally.

"Yes, and there will soon be thrushes in the bosquet of the Queen!"

The other smiled and shifted his position.  "It is more apropos than
you think.  Observe--there is de Coigny returned."

"Ah!  True!  He is accepting snuff from the abbé!"

"We shall not be seconds after all, then.  Let us go and speak with
Jules."

"I cannot now.  I wait here for Mme. de Mailly."

"_Au revoir_, then."

"_Au revoir_.  The Maréchal looks well in black."

Thus the evening wore on in customary fashion, and, as the hour for
supper approached, a little quiver of expectation fell upon the
hearts of certain people in the great room, who, so far as an
outsider could have determined, were in no way connected with each
other.  D'Argenson had been missing during the early part of the
evening, but made his appearance at eleven o'clock.  De Berryer and
Maurepas, during the ensuing quarter of an hour, each approached and
casually addressed him.  De Gêvres did not go near him, but received
a nod from across the room that seemed to be satisfactory to both.
The King himself, during a promenade, paused for an instant on his
way to whisper something that his partner herself could not hear,
into the ear of Marc Antoine.  The answer was simply, "Yes, Sire,"
but the King moved on with new gayety after hearing it.

Shortly afterwards supper was announced, and the brilliant company
leisurely prepared to get them to table.  During the recessional from
the salon there were likewise three or four incidents, which, put
properly together, formed an intricate little drama.  Claude, who had
just relinquished his last partner, Mme. de Grammont, to her new
escort, was looking, somewhat half-heartedly, for an unattended dame,
when, to his great satisfaction, Henri appeared beside him and held
him back for a moment or two of conversation, it being some days
since they had met.  For an instant the cousins eyed each other in
silence.  Then, as they drew aside from the doorway, Claude observed:

"Henri, you are not well."

The Marquis gave a slight, cynical smile.  "On the contrary, dear
Claude, I have now lost my last excuse for worry, care, or
melancholy.  What more could the gods devise for me?"

"Ah!  I know!" returned the other, very gently, as he laid one hand
upon Henri's shoulder.  "You must think--only--that she is happier
now."

Henri quivered suddenly and shook the hand away.  "Stop, Claude.
I--I--no, not even from you," he ejaculated, harshly.

"Forgive me."

"Good-evening, gentlemen."

Henri faced quickly about as Claude bowed to the man who had
approached them.  It was d'Argenson.

"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."

"Monsieur--monsieur, that is not possible," whispered d'Argenson,
anxiously.  "Mme. de Mailly will be granted her choice.  She will not
be in any way forced.  His Majesty will merely offer."

After he had spoken these words d'Argenson was not sure that Claude
had heard them.  The young man stood for a minute or two staring at
him stupidly, with a look of heavy indifference.  Then his body began
to straighten, he breathed sharply two or three times, and
d'Argenson's muscles stiffened as he prepared to avoid an attack.
Claude's hand opened and shut convulsively, but he made no move
forward.  After a long time, when the tension had grown almost past
bearing to his cousin and the minister, de Mailly, with a dignity
that Louis himself could not have equalled, said, measuredly: "Well,
messieurs, I go home to await my wife.  If her choice is free, if she
is not forced, she will return to me.  This is inevitable.  Henri,
let us go."

The Marquis, with a melancholy glance at d'Argenson's astonished
face, grasped his cousin's arm.  Before they went away, however,
Claude turned once more to the Count.

"Monsieur, if Mme. de Mailly does remain, all the bolts, all the bars
and walls of the Bastille will not be enough to save Louis of France
from death at my hands.  Tell him so."

D'Argenson bowed low, and Claude, stumbling in his walk like a
drunken man, left the room on Henri's arm.

In the mean time Deborah had not reached the supper-room.  De Gêvres
was her escort from the Hall of Mirrors, supposedly to the Salle du
Grand Couvert; but, when they stood upon the threshold of the first
corridor, he bent over her, saying, in a low voice: "Madame, the
public room will be crowded and disagreeable.  In the Salle des
Pendules there is to be a little supper, to which I am instructed to
invite you.  Will you do me the honor to accompany me?"

And Deborah, to whom these private parties so frequently arranged for
six or eight in some courtier's suite were far preferable to the
general feast, accepted the invitation with cordial good-will.
Thereupon they turned from the procession and passed through various
courts, halls, and antechambers till they reached the Grande Galerie.
Down the still, empty length of this, into the long corridor opening
out of it at the other end, and finally into the passage of the Salle
du Jeu, they walked.

"It must be a small party, or are we the first?" asked Deborah, as
they entered the room and paused before a closed door.

De Gêvres did not answer.  Instead, he knocked twice upon the panel.

"Enter," came a voice from within.

The Duke pulled open the door, and Deborah passed before him.  The
door closed again, softly, behind her.  She was alone with the King.

"Sire!" she cried, with a little gasp.

Louis, who stood at the end of the room, his back to the fire, smiled
at her.  "Oh, there are no terms of etiquette to-night.  We are only
very good friends, you and I, my dear little Countess.  Do you see?
Now let us sit down together at this little table, where Mouthier has
prepared a most delicate repast; and as we eat and quaff together
some of the golden wine of Champagne, we will talk.  Will you not
thus honor me, madame?"

Deborah, who had grown very white during the King's speech, looked
anxiously about her.

"We are utterly alone.  None can hear us," observed his Majesty
again, with the idea of being reassuring.  He did his companion
unguessed injustice.  She had been thrown into a sudden panic of fear.

"Pardon, your Majesty, I--I do not desire to eat.  I am not hungry.
When M. de Gêvres conducted me here, I did not understand what he
meant.  If you will grant me permission, I will go."

This speech pleased the King incredibly.  Here at last was a woman
who would not fall at his feet, whom it were worth his while to win.
Her fear was certainly genuine.  She was actually moving towards the
door.  He did not stir from his place, wishing not to alarm her
further.

"My dear Mme. de Mailly, how cruel to leave me quite alone!  As your
sovereign, I might command.  As a man, however, I only entreat.  Try,
for me, one of these rissoles, which I myself assisted in making.
Ah!  That is better."

Deborah, something reassured by the quiet tone and the apparent
liberty which was hers, looked doubtfully over to the little table
whose glass and gold shone brightly under the great chandelier.  The
King was holding a chair for her.  Flight now, were there really
nothing intended by this gallantry, might be a little awkward to
explain next day.  After a moment's thought, Deborah went slowly over
and sat down at the table.  Louis, with a sigh of comfort and relief,
placed himself beside her; and, taking her plate, filled it with
portions from a number of dishes.  The girl looked down at them with
a troubled expression.  She was thinking of Choisy.

"Madame--pledge me in this," murmured the King, filling her
broad-bowled glass with the sparkling wine which she did not very
much like.  Wetting her lips with it, however, she said, demurely:
"To your Majesty."

"Oh--that is a cold toast indeed.  See, I will do better."  He lifted
his glass.  "I drink to Deborah de Mailly, lady of the palace of the
Queen, and beloved comrade of his Gracious Majesty the Fifteenth
Louis of France.  Eh, little one, is it not better?"

"Lady of the palace of the Queen," repeated Deborah, slowly, her
large eyes fixed upon the King's face.

"Yes, I have said it.  Your appointment is here," he replied, tapping
the breast of his coat.  "Now tell me what else there is in the world
that you wish for.  Ah--there is something, I know.
Estates--money--servants--what will you have, my little one?"

Deborah shivered with cold.  She realized the situation now, and the
nerves beneath her flesh were quivering.  Pulling herself together
with a strong mental effort, she sat up, rigid and stiff, before her
untouched food.  Her mind was quite clear, her path well defined.

"What is it that you want?  I read desire in your eyes," repeated the
King, thinking to win his suit more easily than he had at first
believed.

"No, no.  There is nothing.  I--thank your Majesty for your kindness.
There is nothing that I want.  Indeed, indeed, there is nothing."

"Happiest of humankind!  To want nothing!  Yet there is something
that I desire.  I, King of France, am not like you.  Can you guess,
Deborah, what it is that I long for more than I wanted my crown?"

"Another rissole, Sire, I think."

He was put out, and yet there was a little twinkle in her eyes that
became her wonderfully, and seemed, too, to give him hope.  After an
instant he felt that anger was unnecessary, and thus recovered his
ardent dignity as best he could.  "I beg of you--be serious.  Since
you will name for me nothing that you wish, I will at least tell you
in what you are lacking.  When you hear these things--desire will be
born.  Madame--read this."

From his coat Louis took a broad paper, folded and royally sealed.
Deborah, her face troubled and her hands shaking slightly, rose to
receive it, and, after a moment of hesitation, at a most impatient
nod from the King, broke the seals, and found the inside of the
document covered with the neat, legible writing of Maurepas.  She
glanced quickly over its lines:

"The right to confer titles of honor being one of the most sublime
attributes of supreme power, the Kings, our predecessors, have left
us divers monuments of the use they have made of it in favor of
persons whose virtues and merits they desired to extol and make
illustrious.  Considering that our very dear and well-beloved cousin,
Deborah Travis, wife of the Comte de Mailly, issues from one of the
greatest families of a nation closely allied to us, whom we delight
to honor; that she is attached as lady of the palace to the Queen,
our very dear companion; that she is united by marriage to one of the
most ancient and illustrious families in our realm, whose ancestors
have, for several centuries, rendered important services to our
crown; and that she joins to all these advantages those virtues and
qualities of heart and mind which have gained for her a just and
universal consideration, we take the highest satisfaction in
proclaiming her succession to the title and estate of that esteemed
and honored lady, her cousin, Marie Anne de Mailly, and we hereby
invest her with the Duchy of Châteauroux, together with all its
appurtenances and dependencies, situated in Berry,"*

* This form is taken from the letters-patent used in the case of
Marie Anne de Mailly.

Deborah, having finished the perusal of this document, let it float
from her fingers to the floor, while she stood perfectly still,
staring at the face of the man seated before her.  Her expression,
first of amazement, then of horror, was changing now to something
puzzled and undecided, which the King beheld with relief.

"Madame," he observed, "you should thank me.  I make you first lady
of the Court.  I give you title, wealth, power.  I place a Queen
below you in my own esteem.  I give you ministers to command, no one
to obey.  I make your antechamber a room more frequented than my own
cabinet.  I leave it for you, if you wish it, to rule France.  And
what is it that I ask in return?  Nothing!  Nothing that your own
generosity will not grant without the asking.  Think of what you are,
and of what you will become.  Have you, then, no word in which to
thank me?"

He also had risen now, and was looking at her, as she stood, with a
mixture of curiosity, admiration, and impatience.

Deborah was still--so still that she might have been taken for a
man-made thing.  And by the expression of her face Louis knew that he
must not speak more now.  She was fighting her battle; his forces
must win or lose as they stood, augmented no further.  Before her had
risen the picture of two lives, the one that was opening to her and
the one that she had thought to live.  As she thought, the real life,
for a little, grew dim, distant, unimportant.  The other, with its
scarce imaginable power, glory, position, became clearer and still
more clear till she could see into its inmost depths.  Adulation,
pleasure, riches, ease, universal sway, a court at her feet, a King
to bar malice from her door, an existence of beauty, culture,
laughter, light, founded on--what? ending--how?  Yes, these questions
came, inevitably.  To answer the first, she looked slowly over the
man before her, as he stood in all the beauty of his young manhood
and majesty.  Nevertheless, through that beauty his true nature was
readable, showing plainly through his eyes, in the expression of his
heavy lower lip, in his too weak chin--that sullen, morose, pettish,
carnal, warped nature, best fitted for the peasant's hut, destined by
Fate, lover of grim comedy, for the greatest palace of earth.  This
man, who had no place in her soul-life, must build her pedestal, must
place her thereon.  And the end of all--when end should come--ah!
Now Deborah saw again the bed of Marie Anne de Châteauroux, with the
Duchess upon it, as she had lain there for the last time.  And Marie
Anne de Mailly had been Claude's cousin--Claude's--

"Mme. de Châteauroux, will you examine to-night your apartments in
the little courts?  Will you take possession at--"

"Oh!--O God!--Help me!"

"What are you saying!" uttered the King, sharply.

Then she turned upon him with that which for the moment she had let
lie dormant in her heart, now all awake and quivering with life--her
love for Claude.  It was, perhaps, God, who was helping as she asked.

"I am saying that I refuse to listen any more to your insults.  I am
saying that I am ashamed--utterly ashamed--that you should so have
thought of me that you dare offer them.  I am _not_ Duchess of
Châteauroux!"  She placed her foot on the fallen paper, and stammered
over the French words as she spoke, for she was thinking in English
now.  "God save me from it!  I am no lady of the palace of the
Queen--I am not of Versailles, nor of France.  I owe allegiance to no
French King.  I come from a country that is true and sweet and pure,
where they hate and despise your French ways, your unholy customs,
your laws, your manners, your dishonoring of honest things, your
treatment of women.  I am honest.  I hate myself for having lived
among you for months as I have done.  I am going away, I will leave
here, this place, to-night.  If my--my husband will not take me--I
shall go back alone, by the way I came, to my country, where the men,
if they are awkward, are upright, if the women have not etiquette,
they are pure.--Let me go!--Let me go!"

[Illustration: "'I AM NOT THE DUCHESS OF CHATEAUROUX'"]

Louis, in a sudden access of fury, had sprung forward and seized her
by the wrists.  Deborah's temper was fully roused at last; her blood
poured hotly through her veins.  Her life had become a little thing
in comparison to the laws for which she was speaking, the sense of
right which seemed to hold no part in this French order of things.
Bracing herself as she might in her high-heeled slippers, she
suddenly threw all her weight forward against the man, taking him off
his guard, and so forcing him back that he was obliged to loosen his
hold of her in order to regain equilibrium.  The instant that she was
free Deborah turned and fled to the door.  She flung herself bodily
against it.  It was locked from the outside.

"Good Heaven!" muttered the girl, in English.

"What is it you say, dear madame?" inquired the King, smiling in
amused triumph as she turned to him, still grasping the handle of the
door.

"You are unfair!  This is unlawful!  I am not to blame!" she said,
her voice quivering.

"Madame--my dear Deborah--who could be unfair with you?"  He came
towards her, looking not too well pleased that she shrank back as far
as possible at his approach.  When she was close against the
immovable door, and he just before her, he stopped, looked at her for
a long moment with a peculiar, half-patronizing smile, then suddenly
fell upon his knee at her feet, and captured one of her unwilling
hands.

"Deborah--my Deborah--_quel drôle de nom!_--let us now forget locked
doors, let us forget Majesties and riches and favors, and let us
think only that here am I, Louis, thus before you, declaring my love.
Let us make as though we were two peasants.  I swear to you that to
me you are all in all.  Without you I cannot live.  All the days of
my life I will work for you, will cherish you.  Now tell me if you
will not accept such love?"

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.

Deborah gave a slight, pretty smile.  "I have only decided that I
should like to finish Mouthier's comfits.  We have not even touched
the cream," she said, coquettishly.

Louis laughed.  "Ah!  That is well, that!  Let us sit down."

Pardonable vanity, considering his experiences heretofore, had thrown
him easily off his guard.  So the two seated themselves again at the
little table, Deborah, for an added bit of flattery, as he thought,
taking the chair which he had used before, and which was nearest the
door of escape.  The King helped her bountifully to the smooth cream,
which she began upon with apparent avidity.

"Louis," she said, suddenly, looking at him with a significant smile
and eyes half closed, "pick up for me the paper that I dropped upon
the floor.  I--have not finished reading it."

The King was enchanted.  She was surrendering at last.  If she chose
to make it easier for her vanity by treating him like a servant--why,
he was willing.  He rose at once and went back to the spot where
Maurepas' document had fallen and been spurned by Deborah's heel.  He
stooped to pick it up.  There was a crisp rustle of stiff, silk
petticoats.  He looked up just in time to behold his prize fling open
the north door and hurry through it into the room beyond.  This was
the King's bedroom, and in it, at this hour, were only Bachelier,
Levet, and two under-footmen.  These four, in open-mouthed amazement,
beheld the flying figure of a lady burst in from the Salle des
Pendules, run across the royal room, and escape into the
council-chamber, just as the King, purple with anger, shouted from
the doorway: "Beasts!  Fools!  Idiots!  Could you not hold her?"

Bachelier started up.  "Shall I follow, your Majesty?"

"No, _imbecile_!  Should the King's valet be seen chasing a woman
through the corridors of Versailles at midnight?  Ah!  It is
abominable!"

Thereupon his gracious Majesty threw himself into an arm-chair with
an expression on his royal countenance which plainly told his valet
that it would be many days ere an unnecessary word again passed the
master's lips.

Once more, as a year ago, Henri de Mailly-Nesle sat in Claude's
bedroom, on the eve of that young man's departure from Versailles.
But the situation was different enough this time.  Now it was Henri
who, with a strong effort, sat trying to calm the feverish excitement
and anxiety of the other.  Upon the floor an open coffer stood ready;
but nothing had yet been put into it.  Claude would not admit a
servant to the room.  He was pacing rapidly up and down, up and down
the apartment, talking sometimes wildly to Henri, sometimes silent,
sometimes muttering incoherently to himself.  His dress was
disordered, his wig awry; one slipper and his sword had been tossed
together into a corner.  He was for the time bereft of reason.  It
was now half an hour since the return from the palace.  D'Argenson's
letter had been found awaiting them, but Claude had not read it.
What need was there to do so?

"Henri, two hundred thousand is too much for the estate.  The château
is impossible--you are giving me money.  I'll not have it--"

"Chut, child!  Do you think--"

"Ah!  She has not come--she does not come--she does not come!  I
shall go mad.  I shall shoot myself if she does not return!  _Mon
Dieu!--Mon Dieu!_"

"Claude, be calm.  There is time.  She could not yet have got away.
Be calm.  She will come, of course."

Henri spoke soothingly, but, as the minutes passed, and still Deborah
delayed, his heart sank.  What to do with his cousin?  Claude would,
in a little time, be actually unbalanced, he feared.

"Henri, the château might be repaired.  I should like to live in it
again.  I should like to be buried there.  Ah, if she is not here in
ten minutes, I shall use my pistol.  Then I will be buried there, in
the vault, beside Alexandre.  Poor Alexandre!  You remember--he never
knew her.  He knew what it meant to lose
his--Deborah!--Deborah!--Deborah!  _Mon Dieu_, Henri, I have been
brutal to her.  She will not come back.  The time is come--the time
is come--I will put an end to myself!"

Claude made a quick dash for the table, on which, amid a pile of
varied articles, were his duelling pistols.  He picked one of them
up.  Henri sprang from his place and seized his cousin round the
shoulders.

"Idiot!--Put it down!--Stop!"

Claude was struggling to free himself from the grasp.  The strength
of a madman seemed to be in his arms.  Henri felt his hold weakening.
He was being repulsed.

"Armand!" shouted the Marquis hoarsely.  "_Armand!  A moi!  Au
secours!  Monsieur le Comte--_"

"_Mordi!_ you shall not!" growled Claude, furiously.  "I tell you she
is not coming!  I will kill myself!  Let me--let me go!"

With a mighty wrench Claude pulled himself free, overbalancing his
cousin, who fell heavily to the floor.  Claude had the pistol in his
hand.  The valet had not appeared.  For just the shade of an instant
de Mailly hesitated.

"Claude!" came a tremulous, quivering voice from the doorway.

The weapon clattered to the floor.  Claude held out both arms, and
Deborah, dazed, weary, utterly happy, went into them and was clasped
close to his heart.

"Claude--we must go away," she whispered, her lips close to his ear.

"We will go,"

"Where--where--Claude?"

"I have no longer a country, my wife.  But I know that which is there
for us over the sea--that wherein I found you first."

Deborah gave a little sob of relief; and, as her lips met those of
her husband, Henri de Mailly, who had kept him for her, sharply
turned away.

EPILOGUE

A Trail on the Water

And thus at last we come down to the sea--black, murmurous
waste--rolling vastly under the evening sky, and against the far
golden horizon.  In this swift approaching night all that has been,
all the base dishonesty, the foulness, the little-visible much-felt,
shall be washed away, for it is the world that was.  When the
dripping sun flashes up again out of the east, 'twill be to send a
shower of golden beams down the wind that is bearing a white-winged
bark westward over the blue expanse.  What two souls this vessel
bears, whence--from what darkness of the Old--whither--to what
brightness of the New--need scarce be told.  The trial of their faith
and love is over.  Obedient to the victory call, out of the depths
that have so long surrounded them, the future, star-crowned, rises up
at last.

THE END