CHAPTER XII

One More de Mailly?

"Henri—Henri—why are you questioning me? I know nothing! Mon Dieu! I know less than nothing!"

Claude and his cousin sat together in the Marquis' salon in the Hôtel de Mailly. Before them, on a table, were various liqueurs and some untasted cakes. The two young men had returned from a visit to the Ursuline convent in the old city, where lived and repented Henri's sister, Claude's sister-in-law, Louise Julie de Mailly, once queen of the little apartments in Versailles. Four days ago the funeral of la Châteauroux had taken place, with quiet unostentation, in the Rue du Bac, the body being carried to St. Cyr. Henri and Claude were now in black, though their period of mourning, according to Court etiquette, could last but a short time.

The Marquis sipped his cordial tentatively. "Claude," said he, after the pause which had followed his cousin's foregoing exclamations, "we have not been much together since you came home."

"No. Of course, it is very different from the old days. One is so much more bound when one is married."

"I have not found it so," was the dry response.

"Oh—but you married into a French family of our station. Naturally, Madame la Marquise conformed more easily to our customs than—Deborah."

"And yet," said Henri, contemplating a panel, "yet the Countess has not been backward in comprehending the forms. Do you think so?"

Claude's face flushed quickly. "What do you mean?" he asked, playing nervously with his glass.

Henri's eyes fell from the picture and sought his cousin's face. His look was very kindly, but he made no reply to Claude's question.

"What do you mean? Do not hide from me what you know. We have been as brothers always. Nom de Dieu, Henri, speak!"

The Marquis perceived Claude's great agitation with some surprise. Emotion from Claude was not usual. "What shall I say?" he asked, quietly.

"The truth about Deborah. What do you hear about Deborah?"

Henri passed a hand over his forehead before he said, slowly and with weariness: "What one hears of—most women."

"Ah!" The exclamation was like a sharp cry. Henri had a glimpse of Claude's face grown very white, and then Claude's head sank forward till it rested on the table, encircled by both arms.

The Marquis sat and looked for a little on the bowed figure. Then he rose gently, moved to his cousin's side, and laid a hand upon the black shoulder. "Forgive me, Claude; forgive me. It was brutal. It is probably untrue. Gossip from the Œil-de-Bœuf! Who credits that? Claude—Claude—"

Claude shook his shoulders impatiently. Then he sat up again, ashamed of having betrayed his feelings. The line of his lips grew hard. "No, it is true," he said, harshly. "The King means her for the next; while I—I—the fool—I love! I love! I love!"

"Ah, yes—so do we all. But 'tis not worth what we give for it. I am growing older, Claude. I see many things differently from what I did in youth. I should deeply rejoice at peace, honesty, fidelity, truth; but, since those things are not, and cannot be, I am satisfied with what I have—money, life, clothes, wines, dinners, a good bed, and a man who really knows how to prepare perfect snuff. I let women alone. I am wiser than you."

Claude looked sharply at his cousin. Certainly, if this were his creed, he was changed. The words and tone, however, served for the moment to still his own growing disquietude. He leaned dully back in his chair. "I should like to go down for a week or two to my estate—to Languedoc—if I dared leave," he observed. "It is an entire year since I was there."

"I went in July. They were doing well with it. Take madame, Claude, and live there for a month or two. It would be an idea."

"In all the cold? With a wolf-pack between us and every neighbor? Peste! What are you dreaming of? We should die. No. Some time Henri—some time, soon, now, when Versailles has become unbearable to me, I shall sell my ancestral possessions in la belle France, and with the proceeds I will sail away, over seas, to King George's colonies, perhaps; and there take up my abode among the good colonials, in the honorable capacity of tobacco-planter; a king in my own right, my plantation the kingdom, and the serfs all of ebony hue; with an overseer for intimate, and—not a little apartment in all my red brick palace."

Claude spoke half bitterly, half in jest. To his astonishment, Henri answered, seriously: "That would not be an unwise plan. When you wish to carry it out, I—will buy the estate from you."

De Mailly laughed shortly. "Well, I return to Versailles to-night. I must leave you presently."

"I am sorry. I should have liked to keep you here for the night."

"A thousand thanks. It is impossible."

"Before you go, tell me something of the Court. What occurs? How is the King? What is—said of the death?"

De Mailly rose and began to pace the room. He did not speak at once, but, after a thoughtful pause, began, soberly: "I have not been at the palace till yesterday since the night—of her death. Yesterday Deborah and I were in the Œil-de-Bœuf for fifteen minutes. It was extremely dull. Only such creatures as old Pont-de-Vesle, la Vauguyon, Charost, two or three petty Chevaliers, and some of the Queen's women were there. His Majesty has not appeared, even in the circle of the Queen, of an evening, since. Marie Anne is never spoken of. She is forbidden as a topic. You know—they say—she died here, in Paris. All the journals—d'Argenson's, the Boufflers', Maurepas', de Luynes'—as many as were known—were examined, and the entries changed. I had that from Coigny. The Nouvelles à la Main for the week was suppressed. In the next, it is said, there will be an officially 'authentic' account. Berryer or Maurepas, of course, will write it. Richelieu has gone away for a time—on what business no one knows. It is not for the King; for it seems that d'Argenson has written him, at royal command, that his Majesty misses him frightfully. Of course, there are a thousand conjectures, one as absurd as another. I have heard that he was going to marry. Meantime the younger women of the Court are preparing fresh and elaborate costumes. You know what the struggle will be. But—but—"

"Why, then, are you fearing for your little Countess?"

"I—cannot tell. I see her looked at, whispered after, sought by men, shunned by women. Her invitations to suppers, to the Opéra, the Français, are numberless. I, Henri, am not included in them. Mordi! I will not think! Next month the King must wake from his lethargy for the marriage of the dauphin."

"Ah, yes! The Infanta will soon be leaving Madrid."

"She is expected to arrive here by the day of the feast of the Conversion of St. Paul."

"The 25th, then."

Claude nodded. "They say Monseigneur is busy learning mottoes for her, and—it is not pretty—practising for the abominable night ceremony with Père Griffet as the bride."

Henri burst into a laugh, in which Claude, after an instant, joined.

"Well, then, I will part from you in laughter, after all. Good-bye—or, au revoir, cousin. Come to us when thou canst."

Claude seized cloak and hat, and hurried towards the door. Henri followed him. They clasped hands in silence. Claude sent a deep look into his cousin's eyes. The Marquis smiled, bitterly. "Were I you, Claude, my friend, I should trust the wife. She—has honest eyes."

This same afternoon was spent dully enough by Deborah, who sat for two hours in her salon, drinking tea and being entertained by a somewhat incompatible couple, arrived together by chance, and remaining through perverseness—M. de Bernis and the Duc de Gêvres.

These were exciting days for the fertile-minded abbé. The imminent danger of the reaccession of la Châteauroux had not troubled him, because he had known nothing of it till all was over. Just now his curiosity on that subject was insatiable. But, had it been never so moderate, it must have starved outright in the end, for nothing from any one could he learn. To every question, subtle or frank, the inevitable, instantaneous reply was given: "Madame la Duchesse died in her hôtel in Paris of malignant fever, on December 4th—or 8th—whichever day he pleased."

"But—mordi!" stammered the bewildered François to old Pont-de-Vesle, "they say that on the 7th she was at Choisy; that the King—"

"Chut! Then it must have been on the 8th, dear abbé," was the lean and grinning response. "And let me suggest, monsieur, that you do not discuss the matter with imprudent ones. There have been whispers of Bastille for those who waste too much breath—in speech."

And Pont-de-Vesle, delighted at being able to mystify some one as much as he himself was mystified, leisurely took snuff and turned away.

De Bernis, thus warned, grasped enough of the situation to keep him out of difficulties. Meantime, all doubt about the future of some new favorite being now removed, he employed himself during the days of the royal retirement in a most thoughtful manner. He visited the Comtesse de Mailly at her own apartment with some frequency. This was in great measure the result of the conversation of the snuff-boxes on the evening of M. Vauvenargues' salon. If Richelieu himself considered Mme. Deborah so eminently qualified for the post, she was certainly a person to be treated with consideration. The abbé might be, with prophetic instinct, rather stubborn in his ideas concerning Mme. d'Etioles, to whom he clung loyally; but he was none the less broad-minded enough to be very thankful for two new strings to his bow.

The old string, the first which he had used at Court, that which had shot his first keen arrow into an inner circle of the great Court target, had become unsafe now, frayed at the ends. He dared use it but little. He felt that it kept him from trying his real strength. He was tired of treating it with care. He meditated on how he should take it off the wood and throw it entirely away. Some day, not far distant, that must be done. Yet, as the cord had served him long and faithfully, and he had once been very proud of it, perhaps some touch of sentiment, rather than a wish of appearing freshly equipped at just the right moment in the contest, prompted him still to hesitate in being rid of it.

Poor little Victorine! These days of hers had become endlessly forlorn. Her face grew pale and pinched. She lost the piquant, fretful prettiness that had been hers a year ago. A year ago she had not yet lived. Now—she had lived too long. After that first meeting with de Bernis in her woman's dress, had followed eight months of fierce, golden happiness, as beautiful to her as they were wrong. Then, with the first, faintest suspicion of weariness on his part, the first breath of fear, of unhappiness, crept over her. Its growth had been gradual. It was none the less sure. From the beginning Mme. de Coigny had been very quiet about her love. Now she was still more quiet in her growing misery. She spoke of it to no one, least of all to the abbé. But he was not so blind as to be unaware that the misery was there; and the knowledge was not pleasant to him. He was acting according to the strongest quality of his nature—ambition. Nevertheless, there were occasional rebellions from the side of humanity that caused him sleepless nights and wearisome days. At such times he would, perhaps, spend a morning at Victorine's side. But the afternoon was sure to find him, conscience appeased, either on his way to the château of Sénart or to the apartment in the Rue d'Anjou.

The dull December days passed, and Christmas week, with its religious festivities, drew near. The Court roused itself into interest. At last the King must come forth from his retreat, and then— And then? This was the indefinite and suggestive question which most of the young women of the Court were asking themselves, as they devised fresh ways of expending gold—or credit—upon already priceless toilets. In many families it was impossible that madame and monsieur should dress with proper magnificence. Thus, at this period, there sprang to life certain Paris houses, backed with good capital, where single garments or entire costumes of any design, color, or elaboration might be rented for a day or evening, at from five to fifty louis. Each costume was guaranteed unique, and no article was ever worn twice at any time by any one. It was the most madly extravagant period of the most extravagant reign in the history of France. Monseigneur de Chartres appeared one evening in a coat which was valued at thirty thousand livres. He was not particularly marked in it. But, when he was guilty of wearing the thing just as it was a second time, he excited the sneers and the malicious wit of the Œil and of every salon in Paris—prince of the blood though he was.

Of all the women who hoped and planned to entrap royalty in royal Versailles, none was supposed to have more justifiable hope of success than Claude's colonial wife, the last eligible de Mailly. She was watched, commented on, envied. Wherever she was seen, a train of followers was to be found. Her style in dress, which still, though none but Claude knew it, was an adumbration of Maryland fashions, began to be copied. Extremely curly hair, and great neatness as to bodices and petticoats, with a lessening of hoops, became gradually more and more common. Deborah was unaffectedly demure. It had been instilled into her from babyhood as the proper manner for a gentlewoman. The French notion of simplicity, which was no more than a new form of coquetry, became something which was practised everywhere. Despite imitative flattery, however, Deborah was not sought after by many women. She had more than one bitter enemy at Court, had she known or cared for it; and many were the spiteful whispers current about Mme. de Mailly's dull stupidity.

True, Deborah lacked French verve. Nor did she possess French deceitfulness. But, as Louis de Richelieu had disastrously discovered, she was neither heavy nor stupid. During the days that followed the death of Mme. de Châteauroux, while the King lived in retirement, the Countess de Mailly existed dully, as in a dream. It seemed as though the night that followed the return from Choisy had blunted her sensibility. She could not understand her apparent want of feeling; and Claude was no more surprised at her than was she at herself. They had never afterwards discussed the incidents of that night, though both had intended to open the subject—some time. Yet, had Claude questioned her again as to her discovery, and the manner of it, Deborah could not be sure that she would have told him. They seemed now to be growing always further apart. Claude, unhappy and lonely, went his own way. Deborah permitted herself to be tossed, unresistingly, on the waves of circumstances. Only two things she dreaded. One was the sight of that cabinet in the wall, wherein still stood the row of bottles and the white box. The second was the return of Richelieu to Versailles. How would the great Duke meet her, and how was she to treat him upon that inevitable return? A difficult question, this last. And yet Deborah need not have worried upon it, for it was Richelieu himself who would determine the affair; and, though it seemed impossible that he should ever reap as he had sown, yet the two weeks that he spent away from Versailles were two which, in later years, he never permitted himself to contemplate in memory.

Richelieu, after gaining a surprised and peevish permission from his King, left Versailles at six o'clock on the morning of December 9th. He was perfectly aware of the comment which this conduct would excite; but for once he was beyond the dread of gossip. He could not remain in that palace. His insouciance—his nerve—had left him. He departed in search of it. The impedimenta which accompanied him were not ostentatious. He went post, in a series of coaches, his valet in front, his travelling-coffer behind, he alone in the body. In this way, by dull stages, they reached Chalons-sur-Marne. Here he had intended to remain for a little, when he chanced to remember that 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.