The House of de Mailly

De Mailly was at her side in two steps. Eagerly he seized the jewels and flung them, with angry satisfaction, far out upon the stones. La Châteauroux looked at him quizzically for an instant, then suddenly held out both hands to him. He did not fall upon his knee, as a courtier should have done; but threw his arms triumphantly about her and bent his powdered head over hers.

"Um," muttered Henri, indistinctly, "methinks I would better go and seek the fallen star."

CHAPTER III

The Gallery of Mirrors

The 16th of January fell on a Saturday, on the evening of which day the King held his usual weekly assembly in the formal halls of the palace. These affairs were not loved by Louis, whose tastes ran in more unostentatious directions; but they were a part of his inheritance, coming to him with the throne, his hour of getting up in the morning, and the national debt; so he made no audible murmur, and ordinarily presented a resplendent appearance and a dignified sulkiness on these occasions. It was his custom to enter the Hall of Battles or the Gallery of Mirrors, in company with his consort, between half-past eight and nine o'clock. Since no courtier was supposed to make his entrance after the King, the great rooms were generally thronged at an early hour, and the first dance began at nine precisely.

At a quarter to seven on this particular Saturday, four candles burned in the Gallery of Mirrors, and their petty light made of that usually magnificent place a shadowy, dreary gulf of gloom. Ordinarily, at this hour, the salon was deserted. To-night, it appeared, one individual was unhappy enough to find the place harmonious with his mood. This solitaire, who had twice paced the length of the hall, finally seated himself on a tabouret with his back to the wall, and, leaning his head against a mirror, gave himself up to some decidedly uncomfortable thoughts. It was Claude de Mailly who was young enough and unwise enough to surrender himself to his mood in such a place, at such an hour. Only late in life does the courtier learn how dangerous a thing is melancholy. Claude had not come to this yet; and for that reason, through one long hour, he remained in darkness, meditating upon a situation which he could not, or, more properly, would not, help. For Claude's eyes were well open to the precarious position into which he had got himself; they were open even to his more than possible fall. Nor was he ignorant of the direction in which salvation lay—the instant bending to Louis' wishes, repudiation of the favorite, and devotion to some other woman. But, to his honor be it said, Claude de Mailly was deeply enough in love and loyal enough by nature to scorn the very contemplation of such action. He could not see very far into the future. He dared not try to pierce the veil that hid the to-come from him. He would not think of consequences. Perhaps he was not capable of imagining them; for, to him, life and Versailles were synonymous terms, and the world beyond was space.

His vague and varied meditations were broken in upon by the appearance of eight lackeys, who had come to light the room for the evening. Claude rose from his place and slipped away by a side-door. He had nothing to do, nowhere in particular to go. The Œil-de-Bœuf would be deserted. The Court was dressing. An hour before, dismal with the loneliness of the gray sky and the falling snow, he had left his rooms in Versailles. He was dressed for the evening, but had had nothing to eat since the dinner hour. An idea came to him presently, and he bent his steps in the direction of the Staircase of the Ambassadors. At the head of this, on the second floor, he halted, knocking at a well-known door. It was opened after a moment by a well-known lackey. Claude thrust a coin into the man's hand, and passed out of the antechamber, through a half-lighted salon, and into the Persian boudoir where sat Mme. de Châteauroux and Victorine de Coigny, comfortably taking tea à l'anglaise together, and talking as only women, and women of an unholy but very entertaining Court, can talk. The little Marquise was dressed for the assembly. The duchess was coiffed, patched, and rouged, but en négligé. She rose nervously at Claude's entrance.

"Claude! Claude! How unceremonious you are!"

"And did you hear what we were saying of you, monsieur?" asked Victorine, smiling mischievously, as she gave him her hand.

"Fortunately for my vanity, madame, no," he returned, bending over it; then, at her ripple of laughter, he crossed to his cousin, took her proffered fingers, but, instead of kissing them, seized them in both his hands, clasped them close to his breast, and looked searchingly into her eyes.

"Anne, Anne, I have suffered so!" he murmured. "I wonder—if you care?"

Mme. de Coigny sprang up. "At least, monsieur, give me time to retire! Your ardor is so remarkable!"

The Duchess laughed and gently withdrew her hand from Claude's grasp. She was in excellent spirits. Never had she passed a more uniformly successful week at Court than the one just ending. If she had purchased much royal devotion, and much toadyism from hitherto lofty personages at Claude's expense, why—that was Claude's affair. His career was not in her keeping; but she could, and did, treat him very amiably in private for the sake of the fierce jealousy which he was inspiring in her royal lover. It was one of her cleverest manœuvres, one that had been tried before, this playing some quite insignificant little person against Louis of France; for the King was ardently in love for the first time, and had not yet grown old in the knowledge of woman's ways.

"Come, Claude," entreated madame, "sit here, and take at least one dish of this charming beverage. And the patties are by Mouthier himself. You must taste them; and Mme. de Coigny shall entertain you, while my dress is put on."

He accepted the invitation readily enough, seated himself at the little table, and began an attack on Mouthier's patties with such good-will that Mme. de Coigny held up her hands.

"Ciel, Monsieur le Comte! Do you protest that you are a lover, with such an appetite? 'Tis more worthy the Court of Miracles!"

Claude put down his tea. "Ah, madame—the Court of Miracles! Do you know that for the last days I have heard nothing on every side but conversations about the last experiment of the Marquise de Coigny? May I ask if it proved a really successful remedy for your deplorable ennui?"

Mme. de Coigny slightly smiled. "Indeed, monsieur, its efficacy was but too great. At the time, I was in a dream of pity and of—happiness. Since my return, my wretchedness is greater than ever before. Pouf! How can you bear the air of this hideous place? It stifles! It poisons! It kills!"

"I hear," remarked Mme. de Châteauroux, from her toilet table, "that Griffet will, in a few days, formally present Monsieur l'Abbé de Bernis to her Majesty as eligible to the post of third chaplain to the Dauphin. Now, if it were desirable, it is possible that the King might"—she touched an eyebrow—"might be prevailed upon to ask him to supper with the royal family."

Victorine de Coigny moved uneasily, and Claude noted, from beneath his lids, that a sudden color, which did not quite match the rouge, had started into her face. "Do not jest, Marie," she murmured, half to herself.

"Oh, it is quite a possibility, my dear! If you ask it, I will—give him a salon here on a Tuesday evening. Will that please you? You will be able, then, to—"

Victorine sprang nervously to her feet. "Good Heaven, Marie! Do you not know that M. de Bernis considers me a man? How could you dream that I would wish him to know my sex? I—I beg of you—do not let me meet him here, or—or—if I should, at least you must disclose nothing. It would be too mortifying."

Mme. de Châteauroux paused in the manipulation of her gown to look at her friend. Never before had she beheld Victorine de Coigny in confusion; never had she seen her betray the smallest sign of emotion about any thing or person. Claude also regarded her with unfeigned interest. Presently he turned slowly to his cousin.

"Madame," he said, softly, "why will you not make a pilgrimage with me into the Court of Miracles?"

"Dear Claude," she answered, smiling dreamily, "when I go there, I must carry with me only an image of—the King."

And, while Claude colored with displeasure, Victorine turned her head to hide an irrepressible smile.

By this time the candles in the great gallery were all lighted, and the mirrors reflected the brilliant colors of a richly costumed and continually increasing throng that passed and repassed in endless procession before them. No woman here was untitled; few of the men had less than five, and many had twenty, generations of unsmirched aristocracy behind them. Many were there who did not own the clothes upon their backs; and many others whose debts would have impoverished a half-dozen of the wealthiest of the bourgeoisie. Yet few ever went abroad with an empty pocket; and money was generally their last source of worry. Here passed the Marquis de Sauvré, a member of the King's intimate circle, a page of the Court, whose estates were mortgaged, and whose Paris hôtel was almost dismantled of furniture, in an unpaid-for dress of cherry-and-white satin, with pearls worth fifty thousand livres on him, arm in arm with M. de la Poplinière, a farmer-general, worth forty millions, but not attired with half the extravagance of his companion. In a corner, taking snuff, and commenting on the degeneracy of the grand manner since the last reign, were the old Duc de Charost, who had attached himself to the Queen and the religious party; the Duc de Duras, who lived on the influence of his wife's implacable etiquette; and M. de Pont-de-Vesle, a successful diplomatist in a small way, and the most disagreeably ubiquitous man at Court. Opposite them the Marquis d'Entragues, a man whose scutcheon had come into existence two hundred years before, beginning with a bar sinister to the discredit of a certain King of France, and M. Marchais, at whose hôtel could be found the best vin d'Ai in the kingdom, and who was a favorite with Louis on that account, were discussing, with the Comtesse d'Estrades, the pompous intrigues of Mme. de Grammont. Every one waited, more or less eagerly, first, for the appearance of the favorite; secondly, for the arrival of the King.

"It is half-past eight," remarked de Coigny to Charost, whose group he had just joined. "I am unable to discover madame, my wife. She must be with Mme. de Châteauroux, who, by-the-way, is late."

"The Duchess is actually more haughty than la Montespan was," returned the old Duke. "The Fourteenth Louis showed less indulgence than his present Majesty."

"Possibly. But where is the favorite of the old Court with the presence, the magnificence, the carriage of the present Duchess?" cried Duras, popularly.

"Quite so," murmured Pont-de-Vesle, rubbing his chin.

"Well—yes. She has, perhaps, the manner," admitted Charost, unwillingly.

"And she is here!" cried de Coigny.

"Ah! What a carriage! What a glance! What a toilet!" cried Duras, rapturously.

"It is not difficult to perceive that she means, at all events, to wreck her cousin as she did the little d'Agenois."

"It is de Mailly's own fault, then. He is mad, to betray such devotion. One would never believe that he had been brought up at Court."

"You are quite right, M. de Charost. Such honesty and truth as his are absurdities that we do not often discover here," observed de Coigny, shrugging his shoulders.

The Duchess, handed by Claude, whose eyes were fastened on her, followed by Victorine and Henri de Mailly-Nesle, was entering the salon. The perfumed crowd, half unconsciously, drew back a little on either side to make a way for her as they did for the King. Her bearing was certainly royal. The heavy velvet of her robe, with its glittering silver fern-leaves, swept about her like a coronation mantle. Her breast glittered with a mass of diamonds, and in her hair were five stars, fastened together like a coronet. She was turned slightly towards Claude, and noticed no one till he had finished what he was saying to her, so that all had time to note the manner of her entrance and the details of the costume. Then, as Richelieu pressed towards her, she gently dropped Claude's hand and turned aside.

He stood still for a moment where she left him, till he saw her quite surrounded with men and women. Then he moved away, dreading the next hour, but buoyed up with the thought of a promise she had given before they left her apartments. There were few people about him whom he did not know, and he bowed continually from right to left as he walked aimlessly through the throng. Oddly enough, however, as it seemed to him, the salutes that were returned were coldly formal. No one addressed him beyond a chilly "Good-evening," and Mme. de Grammont passed by with her eyes fixed on some distant goal. Claude's heart was beginning to throb a little, and he could feel the color surge over his face. Presently there was a touch upon his arm. Quickly he turned his head. M. de Berryer was beside him.

"Good-evening, M. de Mailly. Your face is troubled. In the midst of such a scene the expression is unusual. Am I impertinent to ask if I can be of service?"

Claude gave the man a quick and searching glance.

"Yes," he said, after a pause, "you can tell me, if you will, your idea as to why I am in disfavor with—all these. And, also, if you will, answer this question: is my present position dangerous?"

They had drawn a little to one side of the greatest press while Claude spoke. De Berryer stopped an instant to think before he replied; but when he did so it was evidently with perfect honesty.

"My dear Count, you are experiencing these little and very disagreeable cuts, in my opinion, first, because of your reckless attentions in spite of his Majesty's open displeasure; secondly, because of an unpleasant mistake in the story of your game with the King on Tuesday evening. The first matter you alone can rectify, but the method is simple. In the second, I will try to assist you. As to the—possible danger of your position—well, let me advise you to—do what may be done while it still is possible. Your pardon. Au revoir."

The Chief of Police, bowing courteously, turned aside and was lost in the crowd before Claude could say anything further. To tell the truth, the last words had nonplussed de Mailly not a little. Presently, however, he flung up his head, and, passing his hand over his forehead, muttered to himself: "You may be right—God knows you may be right. But no honest man gives up the woman he loves because his rival is a king. And, from my soul, I believe that in time Marie must love me in spite of all!" And so the lights grew a little brighter as Claude passed on again through the Gallery of Mirrors.

It was a quarter to nine, and the company grew slightly bored. In three-quarters of an hour two hundred people can easily dispose of ten new scandals, redigest twenty ancient ones, and anticipate as many as the remaining minutes will permit. But undiluted gossip, spiced with epigram and heated with wit though it may be, grows nauseating after a while, if taken in too great quantities; and, through the great room, to-night, there were enough chronic dispeptics of this class to make conversation finally begin to lag. The abstract murmur, to which Claude was moodily listening, changed in character. Suddenly, as the cries of the ushers at last rang out, it became as present wine to former tepid milk:

"Mesdames, messieurs, their Majesties! Way for the King! Way for the Queen!—Will you have the goodness to move just here."

The four royal ushers, with their white staffs, passed down the room, forming an alley for the passage of the King. No ribbons were used, as in the days of the fourteenth Louis. The courtiers were better trained now. They pressed back voluntarily on either side, leaving a very well-formed lane between the two crowds. A quick silence fell over the room and the circling throng was still. Each one had sought the company in which he or she wished to stand. For none knew just how long it would take his Majesty to reach the other end of the room, where he would open the first minuet. Claude, by a series of delicate manœuvres, had reached the side of Mme. de Châteauroux, and, despite the silence, found opportunity to whisper:

"You will not forget—that you have promised me the first dance?"

And the favorite, looking into her cousin's eyes, felt, even in her heartless heart, a little throb of pity for the utter abandon of his infatuation.

"I do not forget, mon cher. But thou shouldst have kept away from me till the progress was over."

Claude shrugged and smiled happily.

"Mesdames, messieurs, their Majesties!"

Two more ushers entered and passed rapidly down the aisle, backward. Louis and his wife, hand in hand, followed after. The King was, as usual, magnificently dressed and glittering with jewels. His face, however, was as unpropitious as possible. He wore his most bored and fretful look, and he walked straight down the room for a distance of twenty-five feet, heedless of his wife, without glancing at a soul. Marie Leczinska, on the contrary, carelessly attired in a costume of deep brownish-red brocade, pale of face, tired-eyed, yet wearing a curiously contented look, bowed timidly to three or four of her dames du palais and some of her abbés, who had the grace to return the salutes with a show of respect that was born of pity. The company, however, quickly felt the chilling breath of the master's ill-humor.

"Parbleu!" muttered de Gêvres to Richelieu, as they stood together at the far end of the gallery, "madame herself is to be ignored to-night."

But the Duke was mistaken. His Majesty, in his rapid walk, had seen many more things than one might have imagined. He knew that Claude was beside the favorite, and he accurately surmised Claude's intent. Therefore, when he came abreast of the Duchess, who was not in the front row, he suddenly stopped, turned his head towards her, and remarked, in a perfectly expressionless tone:

"Mme. de Châteauroux, I have the pleasure of opening the dance with you to-night."

And before she had time to courtesy her thanks he had passed on again.

"Ah, de Gêvres, take note," murmured Richelieu, cautiously, "'tis two forms of the same expression that her Majesty and Claude de Mailly are at this instant wearing."

"You are right, my friend. You should propose something of the sort as the next subject for the competitive philosophical essay at the Academy."

"With whom do you dance?"

"The Princesse d'Hénin. And you?"

"I am going to bore myself for appearances. The Duchesse de Boufflers."

"Oh. You might amuse her, then, with some anecdotes of your past sanctity."

"She knows them too well. She will merely insist on talking to me of the frightful improprieties of Mme. de Coigny."

"Oh, by-the-way, as to that, I hear that de Bernis did not even know her sex."

"I have met him at Mme. Doublet's; and I give him credit for rather more brain than that."

"Really? In that case I must take the affair into my repertoire. M. de Mailly-Nesle will be able to weep in Claude's company."

"Such tears appear to run in the family. You've been rather unkind to Claude of late—and, moreover, it was dangerous to garble the story. His disfavor with la Châteauroux certainly did not last long."

"No—silly boy! Really, Richelieu, that little invention should have done him a good turn. If the Duchess had refused to speak to him for a week, he would have been saved. As it is—um—I am glad that my position is not his."

"Well, au revoir. I go to seek my dame d'étiquette."

"Au revoir. But oh! Richelieu! Remember, when you relate the tale, that it is not only from the affections of Mailly-Nesle, but from those of de Coigny himself, that the abbé is tearing the lady."

"What! Coigny in love with his wife?"

"Madly. Only it is with the most delicate unostentation in the world. He is perfectly comme il faut, and to general eyes devoted still to Mme. d'Egmont."

"A charming romance. Thank you, and farewell."

Richelieu hurried away, and de Gêvres also moved more rapidly than was his wont in search of his partner. While the hours of that long evening passed, the emotions varied with them. As la Châteauroux had her triumph with, so had her cousin his revenge upon, the King. The third dance—menuet des sabres—Louis performed with his wife. Under cover of imitating royalty, de Coigny sought Victorine for his companion. Henri, biting his lips, watched de Gêvres lead madame forth, and then, totally indifferent to every unengaged woman in the room, sought out his Marquise, who left M. Trudaine with a little laugh, and devoted herself prettily to the husband with whom she had, as she said, merely a casual acquaintance. Meantime the King was frowning furiously on the presumption of his still dauntless rival. For Claude, in the face of a dozen competitors, under the very shadow of a warning glance from de Berryer, which unmistakably spelled lettre de cachet, had, with scarcely so much as a by-your-leave, triumphantly carried his cousin off from her admirers to the head of the third twenty, and proceeded to make two wrong steps during the dance, much to the amusement of la Châteauroux and the disgust of the King: who, though France were tottering, had never been guilty of such a misdemeanor.

The grand supper, which began at midnight, was virtually ended at one o'clock by the departure of the King; although Mme. de Châteauroux, at Richelieu's side, still stayed at table, and the Court, from curiosity, remained with her. There was a murmur, whether of disappointment or surprise, when the de Mailly cousins, Henri and Claude, with merely the customary salutes, passed together from the room. Five minutes later the Duchess, refusing escort, departed unattended, and the lingering Court, heartily sick of its own dull self, bored, sleepy, with aching eyes and feet, rose from the horseshoe table, and went its way to a dubious rest.

For an hour every apartment on the upper floors of the palace was ablaze with light. In the city of Versailles those streets which, during the great season, were the abodes of the lesser nobility, were still alive with coaches, chairs, and link-boys; while not a window in any of the tall, narrow houses but glowed with the mild fire of candles. In one of these streets, the Avenue de St. Cloud, within the building called by its owner the Châtelet Persane, in half the apartment of the third floor, Claude and Henri kept rooms together. Just below them, more luxurious in fashion and less in content, were the court apartments of the Marquis and Marquise de Coigny.

Victorine, nearly ready for the night, with a silken négligé thrown over her elaborate white gown, sat before her dressing-table, brushing with her own hands the clouds of powder from her dark hair. This hair, comparatively short, according to the dictates of fashion, was still her only claim to beauty. Thus at night, when the soft, natural curls could cluster unreservedly about her pale face and neck, the little Marquise was far prettier than in the daytime. She was not beautiful even now. The mirror showed her a delicate, oval face, pallid and hollow-cheeked; two abnormally large eyes, that were green and weary-looking to-night; the brows above them lightly marked, and too straight to harmonize with her great orbs; a nose delicate, short, and tilted piquantly upward—a feature more worthy of a coquettish grisette than the daughter of one of the oldest families in France; and a mouth indefinite, long, pale, sometimes very full of character, that would have rendered Boucher and the miniature painters desperate.

Victorine had sent away her maid as soon as she was ready to sit down quietly. It seemed to her that, sleepy as the girl appeared, she would be able to read too much from her mistress's face, to see too far into her mind. Besides this, it was a relief to be alone. During the strange month which she had just lived, Mme. de Coigny had fallen suddenly in love with freedom. The suffering which she was enduring from bondage was the penalty she paid for her reckless wilfulness. But had it been ennui now, as of old, under which she chafed, she might have made further effort to dispel it by means of another of those startling escapades which, since she had amused the King with one of them, the Court had become reconciled to. This was not ennui, then. This, she thought vaguely, and with a kind of rebellion, was the haunting image of a single person, the unchanging recurrence before her mental eyes of a man's face—the face of François de Bernis, as she had seen it first a month since at Fontainebleau.

The brush in her hand had almost ceased to pass over her hair, and Victorine was staring fixedly into the mirror, without, however, seeing herself. Presently the door to her boudoir swung gently open. She started slightly and turned about in her chair. M. de Coigny, her husband, in his long lounging-robe of green and gold, stood upon the threshold. She regarded him silently. He hesitated for a moment, and then asked, deprecatingly:

"Will you perhaps be so gracious as to permit my entrance?"

"Certainly, Monsieur le Marquis, if it is your wish."

"I thank you."

He walked lingeringly into the delicate little place, and seated himself at some distance from her, upon a small chair. Then the silence fell again, lasting several seconds. Victorine waited; her husband was nervously at a loss for words. Finally, seeing that she did not know how to help him, he began, in a low, impersonal tone:

"Madame, it is now four days since your return from your little journey to this abode, and—and to my nominal protection. During the month in which your place of retreat was unknown to me, I confess to having experienced extreme concern for your welfare. I believe that I have never spoken to you upon the subject of those short flights to freedom which, from time to time, you have been accustomed to take, in order to overcome, as I have understood, your always unfortunate tendency towards ennui. This one just passed, however, having been of so much longer duration than usual, I have taken the liberty of questioning your old servitor, Jérôme, whom you were so wise as to take with you as attendant. He has informed me that, so far as he has been able to determine, your conduct as regards any of my sex whom you chanced to encounter in that month, was eminently reserved and dignified. Upon this, madame, I venture to congratulate you. I have come to you to-night, however, with a proposal on which I have meditated carefully for some weeks. At first it will not improbably appear to you to be too unconventional and perhaps too uninteresting to be desirable; but I beg, for my sake as well as yours, that you will consider it from every point of view.

"I have thought, Victorine, that perhaps one reason for your carelessness about existence at Court was due to your entire indifference to any of the cavaliers there at your disposal. I should have surrendered my supposed rights to M. de Mailly-Nesle had I ever perceived that you desired him for your comrade. I have been impelled to the belief that you do not care for him. Therefore it is, madame, that I approach you to-night with the offer of myself to you, as devoted to you in heart and feeling, to be your companion as well as the protector of your name, or, as the Court understands the word, your lover. With this request I couple the assurance that my love and esteem for you are now far stronger than two years ago, when we were united in marriage."

The Marquise listened to this punctilious and delicate offer quite passively, with courteous attention, and no little amazement. When he had finished speaking, she sat for a little while contemplating him silently. He waited with patience while her eyes travelled over his stalwart figure and pleasant face. Finally, not without nervousness, she began her reply.

"M. de Coigny, I am now, at the beginning of our third year of marriage, eighteen years of age. Of course you remember how, for the first sixteen years of my life, spent in my family's estate in Berry, I was carefully educated for the position which I now hold. All necessary accomplishments and the code of etiquette were perfectly familiar to me before that age; but there were some few things—essential ones—about Court life of which they did not inform me. Just after my sixteenth birthday I left the château for the first time in my life. I was conveyed by my guardian to Issy, where, fifteen minutes after I had first looked upon you, I found myself your wife. You will pardon me, I am sure, monsieur, when I say that my untried emotions were so strongly affected as to be, one might say, shocked. We returned to Versailles, you remember, where I was at once presented to their Majesties. In the two days which we had alone together I had had time to admire you, monsieur. It might have come to be more than admiration. When, however, upon my first evening in the palace, it was revealed to me, inadvertently, what your generally accepted position in regard to Mme. d'Egmont was, I bitterly regretted not having been taught more truly what I should have expected at this famous Court; and, at the same time, I hastened, out of duty, to stifle at once whatever feeling I had come to have for you in forty-eight hours. So successful was I, monsieur, that I have never since been troubled by any emotion for any living thing belonging to this city and palace of Versailles. Such, then, must be my justification for the refusal of your very thoughtful offer. I can but thank you for it. I appreciate to the full the gallantry of your intended sacrifice; but I cannot permit you to make it. Believe me, monsieur, I must refuse."

The Marquis de Coigny had heard her in silence. Now, at the close of her unintentionally pitiful recital, he repressed an exclamation, and sat still, looking at her, for a long moment.

"How brutal I have been, Victorine!" he said, finally. "But I never realized. I never knew!"

His wife raised her hand. "Oh, monsieur, I beg of you, do not reproach yourself! I would not dream, indeed I would not, of blaming you in any way. It was only that I was young to the way of the world."

He looked at her again, with a love-light struggling to show itself in his face. "Victorine—can you not forget? Will you not let me try to make your life happy, now, at last?"

She returned his glance, and smiled, dreamily, as though her thoughts had flown far. "Monsieur, it is not in your power; for I am happy, now, at last."

The Marquis de Coigny rose. His face was passive. Only his mouth was drawn a little straighter than usual. His bow was in perfect form. "I have the honor to wish you good-night, Victorine."

The Marquise courtesied. "Good-night, Jules," she said, kindly.

He was at the door when he suddenly, moved by strong feeling, turned about again. She was looking at him. Their eyes met, and the glances clashed. Silently she courtesied again; and, in silence, once more, the Marquis bowed and turned away.

CHAPTER IV

Marly

On Monday afternoon, at half-past five o'clock, in a small room in the Lazariste, which was next to St. Vincent de Paul in the Rue de Sèvres, sat François de Bernis, Abbé Coyer, and St. Perle, the Lazariste prior, taking tea. The Abbé François de Bernis wore, over his non-clerical court-dress, a long, straight black coat, which did not set off to advantage his dark, handsome face, straight brows, nose, and mouth, smooth olive complexion, and deep gray eyes. His wig was short and round. His hat and gauntlets lay on a chair near at hand. Coyer, a weaker replica of his brother abbé, was in much the same costume, which denoted an approaching journey; while St. Perle, stout, round, pale-eyed, bald, and wigless, was in his usual priestly gown.

The prior had finished his second bowl of tea, and sat absently meditating on the excellence of its flavor. It was not a thing of which he partook daily. De Bernis lay back in his chair, the dish in his hand steaming unheeded, legs crossed, eyes staring into space, and a smile stretching itself over his countenance.

"Thy thought, François! I would give something for the recipe of that smile at Mme. de Tencin's. I might tell what tale I liked to explain it, and they would credit every word."

De Bernis returned to the present, and directed the smile at his two companions. "It is a tale," said he. "A very charming tale. However, our coach will have arrived before I have finished it with proper adroitness."

"The coach shall wait."

"Ah, my dear Coyer, 'tis not the first time that you will have made your bow to his Majesty and to the favorite. Consider my agitated eagerness."

"The sang-froid of M. de Bernis is known to be imperturbable," ventured the prior.

"And your appearance at Marly will be infinitely more important if you show yourself indifferent enough to be late."

De Bernis shrugged. "Very well, then. My history will—disappoint you. It might be so charming a romance. It is, in reality, so unfinished. However—I will be truthful.

"It began upon a certain morning five weeks past, the week of Christmas, when, as you know, I was at Fontainebleau. At ten of the morning I started out, on foot, my destination being the hut of one of the forest-keepers, my road through the forest's centre. I had some écus in my pouch, together with some food and some medicine of herbs, for the woodsman was wedded and was poor. The morning was frosty. There was some little snow on the ground, and here and there a wolf-track. I went slowly, composing consolatory speeches, and meditating—on holy matters. Presently I looked up, with the sense of some one near, to find myself facing a companion of the vows, dressed like myself. I stopped, saluted, and bade him good-morning. He returned my greeting in a pretty tenor voice, unusually high. I looked again at the man's face. It was peculiar, but pleasing—small, oval, white, and smooth. He was very young, and his eyes were remarkably large and blue. He had been fasting, I thought."

Coyer laughed.

"Each day," continued de Bernis, retrospectively, without heeding the interruption—"each day thereafter, by one chance or another, we met. I am not quite sure how. M. Devries seemed to be under no particular order of procedure, and so, at my invitation, he made himself my companion in charitable rounds. Daily I became more interested in him by reason of his reticence respecting himself; and, after a time, I fell completely under the spell of fascination emanating from his voice and his manner. By the time we set out together for Paris, and before my first suspicion of his personality came to me, my inexplicable infatuation had risen to great height. At the inn in Fontainebleau, on the Paris road, and again at the lodging that he, oddly enough, chose to take in the Faubourg St. Antoine, there was always in attendance upon my companion an old and very respectful man called Jérôme. When we passed the Paris barrier I overheard this servant, in a whispered communication, address Devries in a word which sounded strangely like 'madame.'"

Here St. Perle started with surprise, and Coyer took snuff with a little impatience at the coup anticipated by him from the beginning.

De Bernis went on tranquilly: "At that instant all my vague conjectures and my unconscious suspicions suddenly leaped together into a certainty of knowledge. Need I add, my friends, that, as a man and a poet, I was disgusted with all the lost opportunities, but still enraptured with the glowing future? But, alas! I soon discovered that my goddess—M. l'Abbé Devries, as I punctiliously called her—was as unapproachable as she was irreproachable. This I came to realize gradually, and by means of repeated failures in small advances. I was still, fortunately, too careful to betray myself. It was she who proposed our pilgrimages into that most unsavory of holes, the Court of Miracles. Naturally I acquiesced, with the utmost eagerness, to the proposal of continuing in her society for two weeks more. From here I went for her every morning. I left her every evening to return hither. By degrees I became madly in love with her mystery, and so, at length, with herself, for her self's sake. I would have squandered all my small fortune for a sight of her without her abbess dress. At every turn I was foiled, either by her or by her guardian, the incorruptible Jérôme. At last, a week ago, I became rash through desperation. I frankly approached this M. Jérôme, offered him one hundred louis d'or for her name, and five hundred if he would admit me secretly to her presence that evening. Actually the fool refused me—refused me stolidly, and at length with so much vigor of purpose that I desisted from the attempt. The next morning—the next morning—by ten thousand devils!—she was gone! I know not how, I know not where. I know not if the old man warned her of danger in my presence, or if she went of her own adorable accord. In fine, I love the lady abbess of an undreamed-of convent, I love a mad-cap demoiselle of I know not what château, the siren of an undiscovered Venusberg, the angel of a heaven too high. Now, Coyer, you have learned the romance. Show me, if you have pity for the stricken, the road—to knowledge and to recovery."

At the close of his recital de Bernis' expression did not accord with his words. His tone was irritated, and the displeasure in it was caused as much by the failure of Coyer to appear interested as it was that the relation of his adventure recalled his hopeless defeat at the hands of a member of the sex over whom de Bernis loved to feel himself conqueror. Therefore he finished his tea in silence, and took three hasty and inelegant pinches of snuff.

St. Perle was troubled at the doubtful propriety of the story related, in which he had been too much interested to refuse to listen. He now folded his hands resignedly, and meditated a little lecture to come a day or two hence.

The Abbé Coyer was still indifferent, or apparently so. He stirred his tea and stifled a yawn before he remarked, casually: "Your road to knowledge, de Bernis, is also that to Marly, where I trust you will recover your sang-froid in the presence of your inamorata, who happens to be Mme. la Marquise de Coigny. You will meet her to-night. Come, the coach is at the door."

His Majesty, who had been more than usually bored during the past week, occupied his mind during the Sunday-morning sermon in thinking over all the grievances of kinghood, the uselessness of affairs of state, and the possibilities of some amusement on the morrow as recompense for the prayers of to-day. In the afternoon he sought his Châteauroux, and, happily finding her Claudeless, asked her aid in planning a diversion. Madame, with more tact than originality—in which factor her nature was lacking—proposed a hunt at Sénart in the morning, a sleighing-party from the forest to Marly in the afternoon, a supper and salon at that stiff château in the evening. His Majesty received the idea graciously, since it did away with any possibility of morning mass; and so, though he remarked later that he preferred Choisy to Marly, and madame alone to madame's salons, the programme was carried out as arranged, and the King seemed, in the morning at least, to be having a very good time, indeed.

Late in the afternoon a long procession of sleighs stopped, one by one, at the open portals of the great Louis' favorite retreat. Their occupants were chilly, tired, and hungry. Nevertheless, the Salle des Cardinaux presented a brilliant appearance when, an hour later, the company descended, in fresh and costly toilets, from the upper chambers to the supper-room.

The first course of the evening meal was served at six. It was a less elaborate affair than had been the custom under the old régime; but surely no man who had not inherited the appetite of a Louis XIV. could have complained of a scarcity in the number of dishes set forth. The company had apparently forgotten its weariness. The room rang with laughter; the air was alive with conversation, with toasts, with the relating of anecdotes, with snatches of verse, with low-voiced compliments; and the candle-light was dimmed by the flash of diamonds and the sparkle of champagne.

At the head of the first table sat the King—kingship dropped for the evening. Upon his right hand, more royal than her liege, was the Châteauroux; on his left, through some whim of his own devising, sat Mme. de Gontaut, who had once rivalled the Duchess for her position, and came dangerously near to winning it. Louis was supposed to be not over-fond of this lady, who possessed that worst of all feminine attributes, an indiscreet tongue. But to-night he was fanning her long-smouldering hopes with such a breeze of devotion that the Duchess, seeing, first of any, the newly rising flame, openly showed her anger and disgust by turning her back upon the King to talk inanities with d'Epernon, her neighbor.

By the time that the first course was over madame was exceedingly uncomfortable. Never, since the beginning of her reign, had she known the King to treat her so inconsiderately. Once or twice, from beneath her eyelids, she glanced at her rival. Mme. de Gontaut was radiant. She was racking her brain, she was tearing her nerves, to keep Louis entertained for an hour—one little hour—more. She was not a pretty woman, this Gontaut; but Marie Anne de Mailly perceived, with a pang, that she could carry off a kind of light espièglerie, which was amusing to the King because of its novelty. The glance of the Châteauroux shifted to Louis' face. His Majesty was leaning to the left, his blue eyes brilliant, his lips curved into the most charming of smiles, his hands, which sparkled with jewels, lying close beside those of the other woman. La Châteauroux forgot d'Epernon while she watched the hands. The King drummed lightly on the table. He was repeating an animated bit of gossip to his companion. His head was thrown back, and a curious smile lurked in his face. Presently his eyes, also, fell upon his hand. One of the rings that he wore was a solitaire ruby of great value, set in a band of finely chased gold. Still smiling, he slipped the ring from his finger, and contemplated it for an instant, knowing well how two women were watching him. He was not usually prodigal of gifts, this most Christian king. But this time there was a score to be paid off, a score of jealousy; and revenge is worth more than rubies. Louis leaned forward, still speaking, gently took Mme. de Gontaut's hand from the table, and slipped upon its third finger the ring he had been wearing.

"Oh, Sire!" murmured the woman, her heart throbbing with a wild hope.

Louis, unable to resist the temptation, turned his head towards the Duchess. She sat so that he could only see her profile, but from it he knew that her face was flushed. He noted the stiff poise of her head, the pure immobility of her shoulder, the slight dilation of her nostril, the mouth firmly closed even while she smiled at a witticism. Louis was satisfied. His anger with Claude de Mailly was dispelled. Surely no woman would have the effrontery longer to encourage a petty cousin while her position wavered in the balance. Already the King released the hand he held and took a different tone of conversation with the Gontaut.

But Louis of France did not yet realize what things an offended woman will be reckless enough to do. Mme. de Châteauroux was furious, and her fury knew no prudence. She was accustomed to her way, a way which was not that of submission. Her pride was greater than the King's own, and woe to the king who affronted it! In the instant after she had watched Louis' carefully prepared scene, her eyes fell, by accident, on the figure of Claude, who sat far down the table. The sight of him showed her her opportunity for satisfaction. While she ate, while she laughed, and talked, and quaffed champagne and the new Bordeaux, she planned all in her mind. What matter if she lost one man his freedom? She, Marie Anne de Mailly-Nesle, would make a king suffer the consequences of his malice, and would once more make sure of her own place, her position as Queen of France.

At eight o'clock the King rose from the table. Generally speaking, the supper had not been particularly enjoyable. Every one was wearied by the long drive, and a long continuance of gayety over the food proved impossible. Besides this, the favorite had not set the tone of conversation, and those who knew her expression were aware that she was in the worst possible humor. Mme. de Gontaut was displaying her short triumph so openly that his Majesty frowned and actually left her side as the company adjourned in informal groups to the salons next the banquet-room. Mme. de Châteauroux, still assiduously attended by d'Epernon, sought out Victorine de Coigny, who stood beside Henri de Mailly-Nesle. The little Marquise very well knew the reason for this meeting, and she was suddenly seized with a chill of terror. Looking up at her friend, she found the Duchess's eyes fixed on her in kindly interest.

"He will be here?" she breathed, just audibly.

The Duchess nodded and smiled. "With Coyer. It was my command," she answered. And Victorine, impulsively seizing her hand, carried it to her lips.

Once in the Salon Pastorale, with none of those salutations to members of the royal family or guests of royal blood which were invariably expected, at a Versailles' affair, to be made, the King, contrary to his first purpose, but led irresistibly, made his way to the side of Mme. de Châteauroux. She and Victorine stood near the door-way, talking with a small company of Louis' intimates. There was some slight apprehension in the King's manner of approach, for la Châteauroux very rarely concealed any displeasure that she might be feeling towards him. But this time he was received by a pretty gesture of welcome. Louis kissed her hand, and, as he lifted his head again, caught sight of some one at the other end of the room who arrested his attention.

"Since when, Madame," he inquired, "have our assemblies in retreat been frequented by members of the clergy?"

La Châteauroux was in no way disturbed by the tone. "Have you forgotten, then, Sire, my request that M. de Bernis be presented by the Abbé Coyer, who brings him to-night? De Bernis was one of the protégés of the Cardinal Fleury. I thought that, in such case, his appearance before you could not be dis—"

"Enough, enough, Anne," interrupted the King at once, with the strangely gentle manner which the mention of his former preceptor and minister invariably called forth. "I shall be delighted to know M. de Bernis."

The King failed to perceive the glances that passed from man to man about him at the words of the Duchess. Neither was he aware of the fact that de Bernis' presentation at Court had been delayed for eight endless years because the flagrant irregularity of his life had so displeased Fleury that the Cardinal had refused to give this priest an entrée to the circle of the Queen, whom he respected, or to that of the King, whom he loved. Mme. de Châteauroux was perfectly aware of all this; but Fleury had been dead a year, and any qualms that she might otherwise have felt were lost in the interest of watching the face of Victorine de Coigny, who had just perceived the approach of the new-comers.

At Louis' consent to the presentation, Mme. de Châteauroux had at once sent a message of the eyes across the room to Coyer, who was waiting for it. After an instant the two priests moved forward, slowly, side by side, towards the royal group, de Bernis with his eyes anywhere but upon the face of Victorine. The Duchess, with an adroit grace, moved a little in front of his Majesty, who was chatting with Richelieu. Thus she was the first to receive the two. After a cordial greeting to Coyer she turned, with some curiosity, upon his companion, to find de Bernis' sharp gray eyes fixed upon her in an admiring gaze that was but just removed from an affront. Curiously enough, however, the Duchess failed to resent it. Her deadened nerves vibrated at the glance with a sensation so long unfelt that it was a keen pleasure. Certainly the man had a fascination about him. She smiled slightly, and then Coyer, who had been awaiting the right moment, presented the Abbé in punctilious form.

"His Majesty had graciously expressed a desire to meet you," said the Duchess at once, turning slightly towards the King.

Louis, who was impatient to have done with the ceremony, stepped to her side.

"Your Majesty," murmured madame, "Monsieur l'Abbé de Bernis has the extreme honor of being presented to you."

The King extended his hand, which de Bernis, with a low and graceful salutation, received upon the back of his and lifted to his lips.

"Any man who had the great good-fortune to be beloved by the Cardinal Fleury, Monsieur l'Abbé, cannot but be at all times welcome at our Court," remarked the King.

A look of astonishment passed over the abbé's face. He shot a glance at the Duchess, who appeared perfectly unconscious. Nevertheless he was too keen a man to allow himself to fall into a mistake so early. "Your Majesty does me honor," he replied, in the slightest possible confusion.

"Not at all," returned Louis. "I am honoring the memory of my good friend Fleury, whose death—France and I—have cause to regret—more than any other event—of the reign."

With this scarcely audible reminiscence, his Majesty, in one of his peculiar moods, turned again to Richelieu, thus putting an end to the audience. Once or twice during the next ten minutes Louis glanced a little impatiently towards the favorite, with whom he wished to speak alone; but she and the abbé were engaged in a conversation which appeared to be absorbing to both. Presently the Duchess advanced a little and touched the shoulder of the Marquise de Coigny. Victorine turned with nervous quickness. Her delicate face was flushed and her hands were cold.

"M. de Bernis, will you allow me to add to your acquaintance the Marquise de Coigny, who will, I think, become your conductress for the evening, if you desire to meet others here; or your spirit of conversation, if you do not. Madame, I intrust the abbé's happiness, for the evening, to you."

De Bernis bent over Victorine's hand. "Would that my life's happiness were as secure," he murmured. And a quick light came into the woman's eyes.

"To which lady will you be presented next?" she inquired, laughingly.

"To none, madame, if you are merciful," was the reply, accompanied by one of those looks upon which de Bernis came afterwards to depend for many things. "Dare I ask that you will grant me an hour of your companionship?"

Mme. de Coigny refrained from saying how many hours of companionship she would have granted for the asking; but her reply was certainly gracious enough to content him, and, a moment later, they moved slowly away from the royal group.

Meantime, by means of Richelieu's ready tact, the knot of courtiers about the King had been dispelled, and Louis was left alone with la Châteauroux. His Majesty watched the movements of his favorite comrade with a quizzical eye; and when the doughty Duke was obliged to carry off Mme. de Gontaut by making her his own companion, the King, with huge relish, took snuff.

Mme. de Châteauroux posed beside a heavy portiére of yellow and gold, with which her own dress of palest blue satin mingled harmoniously. In the candle-light her face was perfection itself, and her manner and expression of quiet indifference were intensely pleasing to Louis, who was tired of the efforts at talking made on his behalf. He did not now approach her closely, but remarked in a half-whisper, from where he stood:

"Madame has been very cruel of late. The time, and especially the place, are unsuited to proper expression of my lasting esteem. Will madame be so generous as to receive me in her own apartments? The heat and the people here are highly annoying."

"If your Majesty commands," returned the Duchess, without moving, "I can, of course, but obey. Otherwise, I would suggest that your Majesty remain here for at least an hour longer. At that time a disappearance would be less remarkable."

The King sighed. "As you please—always as you please, Anne. But I am wretchedly bored with all this."

"Allow me to advise your obtaining the services of Mme. de Gontaut in dispelling your ennui," returned madame, coolly.

The King laughed. "Ah! you failed to understand my attention, I think. I made a fool perform for your benefit, that you might perceive how little any woman besides yourself could possibly please me."

The Duchesse de Châteauroux shrugged her shoulders.

"Au revoir—in an hour."

"Au revoir."

With a bow and smile peculiarly his own, Louis moved away in the direction of the little salon, and madame turned about to find Claude de Mailly close at her side.

"Dear Claude! Where have you sprung from?" she asked, smilingly.

"I have been hoping all day that you might deign to speak to me. You have been very cold of late."

She looked down upon him, and the smile died from her lips. "It is you who have made me so. Surely you must have realized, cousin, that you have been near to wrecking your own position."

"My position is nothing to me, except when it enables me to be near to you."

"Then let me tell you, Claude, that were you not indiscreet you might see far more of me than you do now."

"How—how—what shall I do?"

Madame turned away for an instant, and a resolution came into her eyes. "It is difficult, my Claude, to talk seriously with you here. I wish to see you happier. Listen. In three-quarters of an hour go to my apartments. Antoinette will let you in. There, when I can escape from this, I will come to you, and we shall have a little consultation. You shall lay bare your heart to me, if you will; and I—will turn adviser."

Claude seized her hand. "You will do this? You will let me tell you all? You will listen to what I shall plead for? My God! It is more than I could have hoped. Marie, Marie—I shall make you believe me, I shall make you consent!"

"Chut! Some one will hear you, my child. There, that is enough. Remain here while I go. Behold, de Gêvres is coming. Au revoir, then."

She parted from him with a smile as easy as that with which she had begun the conversation. What was one to think of her? A woman without heart, nerves, senses? No. Only a woman of the Court, a woman of the world; a woman whose heaven was Versailles, whose god was called Louis XV., whose hell would be dismissal with ten thousand livres a year.

Claude stood looking after her as she gave her hand to the lisping Duke; and then, tingling with excitement, with delight, with hope, with faith in his words and in her, the boy started upon the way she had pointed out to him. He went slowly across the room to the spot where stood Henri and a little group of ladies and gentlemen. He laid his hand upon the Marquis' arm and drew him a little away from the rest. Henri looked with curiosity and surprise upon his comrade's excited face, the brilliant green of his eyes, and the spasmodic manner in which he breathed.

"What is it, Claude? You look as though you had an inspiration, or were about to be seized with an illness. You have had too much champagne."

"Henri, I am about to be the happiest man in ten thousand worlds. Henri, will you pray for the spirit of eloquence to seize me? For one half-hour I would be a Bossuet, a Molière, a Racine! Henri, have you ever heard me talk well? No. I have not—"