TheNouvelles à la Mainof the 15th of November announced, among many things, that the Count and Countess de Mailly had entered their apartment in the Rue d'Anjou at Versailles. Deborah, who for some time had been secretly caressing the thought of "home," went into the little suite of rooms with a glorified, colonial sense of mistress-ship. Madam Trevor's method of housekeeping was familiar to her in every detail, from candle-dipping to the frying of chickens; and, while she felt rather helpless, having no slaves at her command, she determined to do what she could with the two liveried lackeys, and to demand others of Claude if she found it necessary. She and Claude had never discussed housekeeping together, for the reason that Claude had no conception of the meaning of the word.
They arrived and were served with dinner in their little abode on Monday. Tuesday afternoon found Deborah seated helplessly in the boudoir, with her husband, rather pale and nervous, before her. He had found her, utterly oblivious of the consternation of the chef, the lackeys, and the scullion, washing Chinese porcelain teacups in the kitchen. And it was then that Deborah received her first lesson in French great-ladyhood, by whose iron laws all her housewifely instincts were to be bound about and imprisoned. She must never give an order relative to the management of theirménage. She must never purchase or arrange a single article of food that was to be prepared for their table. She must never dream of performing the smallest act of manual labor. She might designate the hour for meals, or inform the first lackey how many were to be served, or what beverage should be passed at her toilette. She might keep her appointments with costumers, milliners, hair-dressers, furriers, jewellers, toy-men; and she might see that her engagement-book was filled. That was all that was expected of her in the way of labor. She had made a great false step to-day, and it must not occur again.
And Deborah listened to Claude's explanation in silence, with her pretty new world all tumbling about her ears.
"We might, then, as well have stayed at your cousin's house. This is only our tavern, kept for our convenience," she said, at last.
Claude nodded, and paid no attention to the sarcasm. "This is where we sleep, where we change our clothes, where we receive our friends."
"We've no home?"
"On the contrary, we make all Paris, all Versailles, our home."
Deborah folded her hands, and her face grew suddenly helpless in expression. "I don't like it," she said, faintly.
"Dear, you do not know it. Wait. You will soon be too much occupied to think of it. Why is your coffer still here? Has not Julie unpacked it? You must not permit laziness."
"She has done all that I would allow. I will finish it myself. Claude, may I have something?"
"What? You shall have it."
"You know in our salon there is, near the mantel, a little cabinet against the wall—a little cabinet with two shelves, and a door and key."
"Yes, yes. 'Tis for liqueurs, if we want to keep them. Well?"
"I want that—I want the cabinet to use for myself."
"Just Heaven! Have you then so many valuables, or so many secrets?" He laughed, but there was curiosity also in his tone.
"You know that I have neither, Claude. But I want the cabinet."
Claude shrugged, never dreaming what she intended the place for. It was but a little thing to ask; and besides, curiously enough, Claude, who had been brought up among the most unreliable class of women in the world, had yet been so little affected by their ways that, ten weeks after their marriage, he was beginning to trust his wife. She was as honest as a man when she did not like a thing, or when she wanted one; she was not talkative; she did not make scenes; he had beheld her angry, but it was not with a malicious anger; and, more than all, she never complained. So far Claude had found nothing to regret in his marriage. He realized it now as he stood there in her dressing-room, while she sat looking at him expectantly.
"Eh, well—the cabinet and its key are yours. You'll not forget what I have been telling you this afternoon?"
"No."
He smiled again, went to her side and kissed her. "Good-bye, then. I am going out. You will not be lonely? Mme. de Coigny may come. After your presentation to the Queen, you know, there will be no idle moments."
He left her with a little nod and smile, and, donning hat and cloak, departed towards the Avenue de Sceaux, from which he turned into the Rue des Chaniers, bound for a little building at the end of it, not far from the deer-park, which was much in favor as an afternoon assembling place for gentlemen of the Court during the unoccupied hours of the afternoon. Here one might gamble as he chose, high or low; drink coffee, rum, orvin d'Ai; fight his duel, if need be; or peruse an account of the last one in a paper, if he did not want to talk. It was a comfortable and ugly little place, kept by M. Berkley, of fame somewhat undesirable in London, but of gracious personality here.
To-day, for the first time in months, the little place was creditably filled with its customary patrons, noblemen and lords to whom camp-life had lately become more familiar than the Court. Here were assembled all those gentlemen who, two days ago, had ridden into Paris with Louis; and a good many more who mysteriously reappeared out of the deeps of lower Paris, where they had been hidden from salon gossip and too many women. That morning Richelieu, d'Epernon, and de Gêvres left the Tuileries in despair. The King, clad in a stout leathern suit, was shut into an empty room with his friend the carpenter, making snuff-boxes with all his might, and admitting neither silk, velvet, his wife, nor the Dauphin into his presence. His gentlemen were now less harmlessly occupied. De Gêvres was opposing d'Epernon on the red. Richelieu, in a mood, played solitaireà laCharles VI. against himself, the sums that he lost being vowed to go to Mlle. Nicolet of the Opéra ballet. De Mouhy, d'Argenson, de Coigny, de Rohan, Maurepas, Jarnac, and half a dozen others were grouped about the room, drinking, betting, and gossiping. The conversation turned, as it was some time bound to do, on la Châteauroux and d'Agenois.
"The King has not yet, I believe, discovered the renewed relationship," drawled d'Epernon, mildly.
"Perhaps not. But in a week—imagine it! Madame la Duchesse is fortunate in having gentlemen scattered over most of the civilized world on whom she may cast herself for protection in case of need!" returned Richelieu, crossing glances with Maurepas.
There was a little round of significant looks and nods. Evidently the Duke'ssang-froidhad not deserted him. Every one knew very well that the deposed favorite and her former preceptor were soon bound to be at opposite ends of the scales, and that her rise now meant his fall.
"I wonder—" began Coigny, thoughtfully, when again, for the twentieth time, the door opened, and some one entered whose appearance paralyzed the conversation.
"Well, gentlemen, I am thankful only that I am not a débutante at the Opéra. Such a reception would ruin me. Am I forgotten?"
"Forgotten!" It was a chorus. Then one voice continued: "When one sees a ghost, Claude, one fears to address it hastily. It might take offence."
"'I think it is a weakness of mine eyes that shapes—'"
"'This monstrous apparition'? Thanks, truly!" observed de Mailly.
Richelieu then strode forward and seized his hand. "He's in the flesh, messieurs. I am delighted, I am charmed, I am somewhat overcome, dear Claude. I should have pictured you at this moment flirting in Spain, storming a seraglio at Constantinople, toasting some estimable fräulein in beer, drowning yourself in tea and accent in London, or—fighting savages in the West. Anything but this! Your exile is over, then?"
Claude smiled, but, before he spoke, Maurepas had come forward:
"My faith, gentlemen, you seem to be but slightly informed of the last news. Monsieur has been in Paris for a week with Madame the Countess his wife, and—"
"Hiswife!Diable!"
"Come, come, then, I was not far wrong. Is she Spanish, Turkish, German, English, or—by some impossible chance—French? Speak!"
"I have not before had the chance, my lord," returned Claude, bowing. "However, my tale is not so wonderful. When I went upon my little journey the King was so gracious as to express the hope that I would return to Versailles when I should be able to present to him madame my wife. Well—in the English Americas I was so happy as—to have engaged the affections of a charming daughter of their excellent aristocracy there. We were married nearly three months ago in a private chapel by the Father Aimé St. Quentin; and so, madame being pleased to return with me to Court, we set sail shortly after the wedding, and—behold me!"
"Bravo—bravo! You have been making history! Madame, of course, is not yet presented?"
"Scarcely, Chevalier, since her Majesty is barely returned."
"Are you stopping in Paris?"
"We have Rohan's former apartment in the Rue d'Anjou here."
"Aha! Madame possibly brought a worthydot—is it not so?"
If the question displeased Claude, he did not show it. Shrugging and smiling with some significance, he moved towards a card-table, and instantly the estimate of Mme. de Mailly's prestige went up a hundred thousand livres. The room was now all attention to Claude. He ordered cognac, and his example was followed by a dozen others. De Gêvres and d'Epernon ceased their play. Even Richelieu seemed for a moment to be on the point of leaving the interests of Mlle. Nicolet, but eventually he continued his amusement, only stopping occasionally to glance around at the group of new sycophants, biding his own time.
"Of course, you have seen la Châteauroux, Claude?" questioned Rohan, a little intimately.
De Mailly stared at him. "Of course, as you say, I have seen her."
"D'Agenois' reign will be short, then," muttered Coigny to Maurepas.
Claude heard, flushed, and turned again to Rohan: "Chevalier, will you dice?"
"With pleasure."
Cups were produced, and the rest began betting among themselves on the outcome of the first throws. Odds were not in Rohan's favor.
"A thousand louis, Chevalier, that my number is less than yours."
This was an unusual stake. Rohan's eyebrows twitched up once, but he took the wager calmly. Deborah's reputed fortune went up another hundred thousand francs, and advanced still further when Claude won his throw; for they only win who do not need to do so. De Rohan made an effort to retrieve himself, but failed. Then the stakes diminished, for Claude had had his revenge for an impertinent question, and did not desire to gain a new reputation for wealth. However, he was three thousand louis to the good when Richelieu came over and touched him on the shoulder.
"Enough, Claude, enough for the time. Come with me. I need you now. M. Berkley will be always here to welcome you. I—well, I shall not be here every day. Come."
Claude rose, good-naturedly. "Certainly I will come, du Plessis.Au revoir, gentlemen."
"Au revoir!Au revoir! When do you present us to madame?"
"We shall be delighted to see you as soon as Mme. de Mirepoix has bestowed a card upon us."
A few further good-byes, and de Mailly and his old-time friend left the house together and moved slowly down the street, the Duke leading. Claude did not speak, for it was for his companion to open conversation. This Richelieu seemed in no haste to do. They had proceeded for some distance before he remarked, suddenly:
"It is cold."
"Most true. What hangs upon the weather?"
"This. It is too chilly to wander about outside. Take me to your apartment and present me to the Countess."
"With pleasure, if you wish it."
"Many thanks." They turned into a cross street that led towards the little Rue Anjou, when Richelieu, after a deep breath, began quickly, in a new strain: "Claude—do you know—that my fall is imminent?"
"What!"
"Oh, it is true. My fall is imminent. I am frank with you when I say that never before has my position been so beset with difficulties. You would learn soon, at any rate, and I prefer that you hear now, from me, what every member of the Court save Mme. de Châteauroux herself knows—that it was I who, beside myself with anxiety for the King, was the instrument of her dismissal from Metz."
Claude opened his mouth quickly as if to speak. Thinking better of it, however, he remained silent and waited.
"As I have said, madame, now out of touch with Court circles, has not yet heard of what she would term my treachery. But during the first conversation she holds with a courtier she must learn the truth. Of course, you perceive that, if she comes again into favor—I—am dismissed. Of course, also, her every nerve is strained towards the natural object of reattaining to her former position. My dear Claude, I am speaking to you in my own interests, but they are yours as well. Your cousin is just now playing with d'Agenois in order to rouse the possible jealousy of the King. It is her method. It may, for the third time, prove successful. But if the success does come, it will be over my fallen body. I shall oppose her as I have opposed nothing before, because never before have I been so deeply concerned. I would ask you, Claude, which side you will espouse—hers or mine?"
Claude was silent for a few steps. Then he said, musingly: "A battle between my cousin and my friend. You ask me a difficult question. Perhaps you are thinking that, if a d'Agenois alone fails with his Majesty, a d'Agenois and a de Mailly might do her work. Is that your notion? Hein?"
"Your astuteness is as perfect as of old. That is my notion. And I would beg of you that you do not allow yourself to be played with again."
"As a de Mailly—I might be willing. As the husband of my charming wife—I do not need your pleading to decide me."
Richelieu laughed, and there was relief in the tone. He had secured himself from one danger, and, out of gratitude, he should befriend this unknown wife if she were in the smallest degree possible. "And now for Mme. de Mailly!" he cried, gayly, with lips and heart, as they approached the house in the Rue d'Anjou.
"She will be delighted. I fancy her afternoon so far has been lonely."
In this Claude was wrong. Deborah's afternoon had been far from dull. Quite without her husband's assistance she was learning something more of this Court life, this atmosphere in which he had lived through his youth. When he left her, early in the afternoon, after the gentle lecture on manners, Deborah's first move had been to take from her trunk those articles which Julie had been forbidden to touch, to carry them into the empty salon, and place them in the little black cabinet by the mantel, where she stood regarding them for some moments absently. They were ten crystal phials, of different sizes, filled with liquids varying in tone from brown to limpid crystal. Upon each was pasted a paper label, covered with fine writing, which told, in quaint phraseology and spelling, the contents of the bottle, and the method of obtaining it. Beside the flasks was a small wooden box with closed lid, containing a number of round, dry, brownish objects, odorless, and tasteless, too, if one had dared bite into them. They were specimens ofamanita muscariaandamanita phalloideswhich Deborah, still catering to her strange delight, had brought to her new home, together with the best of her various experiments in medicinal alkaloids. To her profound regret, she had been unable to pack Dr. Carroll's glass retort. But here, some time when Claude was in humor, she would ask him to get her another; for surely, in this great city of Paris, such things might be obtained. Then, even here, in her own tiny dressing-room, she would arrange a little corner for her work, and so make a bit of home for herself at last. Poor Deborah was young, heedless, enthusiastic, and in love with her talent, as, indeed, mortals should be. She did not consider, and there was no one to tell her, since she did not confide in Claude, that no more dangerous power than hers could possibly have been brought into this most corrupt, criminal, and intriguing Court in the world. Reckless Deborah! After a last, long look at her little flasks, she closed the cabinet door upon them, locked it, and carried the key into her dressing-room, where she laid it carefully in one of the drawers of her chiffonier, From this little place she did not hear the rapping at the antechamber door, nor see her lackey go through the salon. It was only when, with a slight cough, he announced from the doorway behind her, "The Maréchale de Coigny," that Mme. de Mailly turned about.
"Oh!" she said, in slightly startled fashion. It was very difficult for her as yet to regard white servants as her inferiors. As she entered the little salon with cordial haste, Victorine, cloaked and muffed, rose from her chair.
"You are very kind to come. Cl—M. de Mailly is out. I was quite alone."
"That is charming. We shall get to know each other better now—is it not so? May I take off my pelisse? Thank you. M. de Coigny and I have just come out—to Versailles, you know—for the winter. Later, we may be commanded to the palace. If so, I shall have to be under that atrocious Boufflers; and, in that case, life will be frightful."
While Victorine spoke she had, with some assistance from Deborah, removed all her things and thrown them carelessly upon a neighboring chair, after which she seated herself opposite her hostess, smiling in her friendliest manner.
"I should like to be able to offer you something, madame," said Deborah, hesitatingly, unable to banish the instinct of open hospitality. "What—would you like?"
Victorine smiled again, with a quick pleasure at the unaffected offer. "Thank you very much. A dish ofthé à l'anglaiswould be delightful."
Deborah's heart sank. In Maryland tea was a luxury drunk only upon particular occasions. She had not the slightest idea that there was such an article in her kitchen here. Bravely saying nothing, however, she struck a little gong, and, at the appearance of Laroux, ordered, rather faintly, two dishes of Bohea. Laroux, receiving the command with perfect stoicism, bowed and disappeared, to return, in a very short space of time, with two pretty bowls filled with sweet, brown liquid. These he deftly arranged on a low stand between the ladies, placing beside them a little plate of rissoles. Madame la Comtesse decided at once that such a servant as this should not soon leave her.
"Ah—this is most comfortable. I am going to remain with you during the whole afternoon. It is wonderful to find some one who is neither a saint, an etiquette, nor a rival. My faith, madame, one might say anything to you!"
Deborah smiled, sipped her tea, and could find nothing to reply. Her face, however, invited confidence; and the Maréchale sighed and continued:
"You seem to be almost happy! The look on your face one sees only once a lifetime. It is youth, and—innocence, I think. How old are you? Oh, pardon! I am absurdly thoughtless! But you look so young!"
"I am eighteen," responded Deborah at once.
"And I—nineteen. Beside you I appear thirty. It is because I have lived here for three years. Ah! How I have been bored!"
"It must have been very lonely all the summer. But now, with Monsieur the Marshal returned, it will be better."
"Oh, you are right! It will be more difficult now, and so, more absorbing. But Jules lets me do almost as I please. If he were but more strict, less cold, François would have more interest. He is growing indifferent. Dieu! How I have worked to prevent that! But—it is imbecile of me! I care so much for him that I cannot behave as I should!"
"I do not understand," said Deborah, indistinctly, with a new feeling, one of dread, stealing over her. Instinctively she feared to hear what this pale, big-eyed little creature was going to say next.
For an instant Victorine stared at her. Then, leaning slowly forward and looking straight into Deborah's honest eyes, she asked, in a low tone, "You did not know—that de Bernis—that—I—"
Deborah sprang up, the empty tea-bowl rolling unheeded at her feet. She had grown suddenly very white, and, as she returned Victorine's own look, searchingly, she found in the other face what made the horror in her own deepen, as she backed unconsciously towards the wall.
"You don't know!—Mon Dieu!—Why, Claude—was mad, mad, to have brought you here!—Why, madame—Deborah—we're all alike! You mustn't look at me like that. I am not different from the others. Henri de Mailly—the Marquise—the Mirepoix—Mme. de Rohan—Mme. de Châteauroux—child, it is a custom. The King—Claude himself—before—"
"Ah!" Deborah made a sound in her throat, not a scream, not an articulate word, but a kind of guttural, choking groan. Then she covered her face with her hands. For a moment that seemed an eternity she stood there repeating to herself those last cruel, insensate words, "'Claude himself—before—'"
And then Victorine, looking at her, came to a realizing sense of what she had done. Moved by a half-impulse, she started up unsteadily, swayed for an instant, and then fell back upon her chair, covering her head with her hands and arms, and bursting into a passion of sobs so heart-broken, so deep, so childlike forlorn, that they roused Deborah from herself. Letting her hands fall, she looked over towards her visitor. There was a note in the Maréchale's voice, and a line of utter abandon in her position, that brought a pang of woman's sympathy into the heart of the woman-child who regarded her. Putting away from her all selfishness, even that miserable thought of Claude, forgetting the brutal openness with which Victorine had spoken, she suddenly ran across the room and took Victorine into both her strong, young arms. Victorine's head found a resting-place on her shoulder; Victorine's aching, hopeless, impure heart beat for an instant in unison with that other one; Victorine's racking sobs ceased gradually. She gave a long, shivering sigh. There was a quickening silence through the room. Then the frail little figure loosed its grasp on Deborah, straightened quickly up, and turned to move to the chair where her wraps lay. Dully, Deborah watched the Maréchale tie on her hood and pull the cloak about her shoulders. Then, picking up gloves and muff, the visitor turned again and moved back to where Deborah stood. In front of her she stopped, and her eyes, in which shone two great tears, rested in dim pity and sorrow upon Deborah's white face. The look lasted for a long moment. Then, slowly, without a word, the Maréchale picked her handkerchief from the floor where it lay and began moving towards the door. Before she had reached it Claude's wife spoke again, more steadily:
"Mme. de Coigny—you must not go—yet."
The Mare'chale paused, with her back to Deborah, and stood hesitating.
"You must not go yet," repeated the voice. "You must tell me, first—about Claude."
A little moan came from Victorine's lips. "Claude—Claude—I c-cannot tell you about him. I know nothing! I—I lied to you. He is not like the rest."
"No, madame; that is not so. You try to be—kind. Was it—tell me—Mme. de Châteauroux? Yes. Now I know. That is true."
Victorine faced quickly around, the tears coming again into her eyes. Mme. de Mailly had begun to walk up and down the room, speaking in a monotone, twisting and untwisting her fingers as she went.
"I see. I know. Claude was exiled because the King—did not like him." Here she turned about and looked her companion squarely in the face. "Claude married me so that he might return to Court. In his letter the King said that he might return when he could present his wife at Versailles. Yes. Claude read that letter to me, and still—I married him. Oh, madame—" a nervous laugh broke from her—"did M. de Coigny do that to you?"
Victorine stared at her in horror of her tone. "Deborah—Deborah—don't look so! Claude isn't like that. And you—you are good. You are pure. Ah—I cannot forgive myself while I live for what I have done! Is there anything that I can do? Tell me, is there nothing—nothing that I can do?"
"Oh, madame, may we not help also? Is it a new costume, or—"
It was Claude who spoke. He and Richelieu had entered the antechamber just in time to hear the last phrase. Mme. de Coigny faced about sharply. She knew that Deborah must have time to recover herself.
"It was not a garment—but a secret, messieurs. Monsieur le Duc, I am offended that I meet you for the first time since your return in the apartment of a friend. Have you struck me from your list?"
"Ah, madame, one does well to keep from your side, since one does not fight an abbé. M. de Bernis has more enemies from jealousy than any man about the Court," returned Richelieu, a trifle maliciously.
Claude, much displeased with the Duke's ill-timed pleasantry, glanced anxiously at his wife. Her manner was composed, but her expression he did not know.
"Madame, allow me to present to you M. de Richelieu, of whom I have so often spoken. Monsieur, Mme. de Mailly."
Deborah courtesied, and Richelieu bowed profoundly. For some unaccountable reason, the Duke's ready gallantry suddenly deserted him, and he could conjure up no fit compliment for this girl with the unrouged cheeks and the calm, frigid self-possession. Deborah's mood was new to Claude, and he regarded her with amazement, as she stood perfectly silent after the introduction, her glance moving slowly from Richelieu's immaculate shoes to his large brown eyes and the becoming curls of his wig. Once more it remained for Victorine to save the situation. She was wondering anxiously if her eyes were very red, as she asked:
"Gentlemen, you have been to—Berkley's—that name!—have you not?"
"Yes, madame, and we left your husband there. He lost to Claude here, I think. Mordi, Claude! The gods are too good to you. If you would not have Mme. de Mailly carried off by some stricken gentleman, you should keep her locked in a jewel-case. Are you to be presented soon, madame, and by whom?"
Deborah blankly shook her head. "I do not know, monsieur."
Claude looked at her, more puzzled than ever, and Richelieu commented mentally: "Beauty and presence, without brains. It is as well."
"Mme. de Mailly-Nesle may present her, is it not so?" asked Victorine, again ending the pause.
"Certainly—I believe so. She has been a lady of the palace."
"I should advise Mme. de Conti, Claude. Her price is about two thousand francs, but she does it with an unequalled manner. She will direct the courtesies, the train, the kiss, the retreat, everything—perfectly. Besides that, you have her patronage forever after, particularly if you supplement the two thousand with a small jewel, or some such gift. Her rents are mortgaged, and she lives now on her presentations."
"When does the King leave Paris?" asked Claude, contemplatively.
Richelieu shrugged. "On Wednesday, we trust. He is now making snuff-boxes by the score, and if a fit of cooking succeeds that—Heaven knows! He may remain at the Tuileries till Christmas."
Deborah stared at this information, and Victorine turned to her, laughing nervously: "Has not monsieur told you what an excellent cook his Majesty is? He rivals Marin; and it is said that, could he win acordon bleu, he would wear no other order. His bonbons are delicious. I once ate some of those that he sent to—" she stopped suddenly.
"Mme. de Châteauroux," finished the Duke, fearing that her hesitation was for him.
Victorine nodded hastily. "Well, dear madame," she continued, turning to Deborah, "I must go, I have been with you an eternity. It grows late."
"Do you return to Paris, madame?" inquired Richelieu.
"No. We are already living here. My chair is below."
"Permit me, then, to escort you," said Claude, seeing that Deborah did not press her to remain.
"My dear Count, you must resign that happiness to me," observed Richelieu. "I am to sup with the King, and I have just time to reach Paris. Mme. de Mailly, I trust that our first meeting may prove our shortest."
"That is safe gallantry, monsieur, since one could scarce be shorter," returned Deborah, with something of her usual manner.
"Ah! That was better. Perhaps it is only embarrassment," thought Richelieu, as he made his farewells to Claude and bowed to Deborah's courtesy.
A moment later de Mailly and his wife were alone together. The sound of steps in the outer hall had died away. The little salon was quiet. Then the man and woman faced each other, Deborah mute, heavy-eyed, expressionless, her husband curious and expectant. After two minutes of uncomfortable silence he spoke:
"What is the matter, Debby? What has Victorine de Coigny said to you?"
Then, to his utter amazement, for he had never imagined her doing such a thing, he saw the girl's lip tremble, her face work convulsively with effort at control, and finally, as an ominous drop suddenly rolled over her eye and down her cheek, she turned from him sharply and ran into her boudoir, shutting the door after her.
Before Deborah consented to come forth from her retreat, his Grâce de Richelieu had arrived at the Tuileries, made a necessary alteration in his dress, and was admitted to the presence of the King, who, in company with de Gêvres and Maurepas, awaited him in the small supper-room. The Duke made proper apologies for tardiness, which Louis graciously accepted on condition that, during theentremets, he should recount the adventure that had kept him.
"Ah, Sire, it has been my fortune to encounter the lady whom you deigned to salute on Saturday, in the window of the Hôtel de Mailly."
There was a murmur of interest from the other two as the King looked up. "By my faith, du Plessis, you are phenomenal! Who is she?—what is she? Is she eligible—or not?"
"Ah!" A sudden thought crossed Richelieu's mind. He answered very slowly, crumbling a bit of bread the while, "She is the Countess de Mailly, Claude's wife, and so a cousin to Madame la Duchesse de Châteauroux."
There was a pause. The atmosphere was dubious. De Gêvres and Maurepas rejoiced to think that they had been wise enough to voice no curiosity. Richelieu, perfectly calm, inwardly calculating, finished his soup. Suddenly Louis's mouth twitched, his eyes twinkled, and he permitted himself to laugh.
"Parbleu! he has taste in women, this Claude! Have her presented, du Plessis, and de Mailly shall have back his place. Her Majesty holds a salon on Sunday—the 21st, hein? Have her presented at all hazards. By my faith, the fellow has a taste in women!"
Upon the 18th of November their Majesties, the dauphin, the royal suites, and, in a word, the French Court, returned to Versailles and took up its abode in palace or town for the winter. The little city was alive with nobility and nobility's servants. Every fourth person one met bore with him, as a mantle of dignity, some fifteen generations of ancestry; and every third man with whom one came in contact was one whose forebears, for fifteen misty and not wholly glorious generations, had been accustomed to the honor of adjusting nobility's wig and helping him on with his coat.
The great park of Versailles, with its leafless bosquets, its bare avenues, its deadened terraces, its lifeless fountains, was forlorn enough. But within the monster palace hard by everything hummed with preparation for the gayest of winters. Here was a hero-King returned from the scene of his heroisms, bored with doughty deeds, waiting to be entertained with matters strained to less heroic pitch. There on the second floor, behind the court of the grand staircase, with a little private stair of its own, empty and desolate behind its locked doors, lay the deserted suite of the favorite's rooms. And who shall say how many a great lady, honorable to her finger-tips, with some honor to spare, cast a mute, curious glance at that closed door, in passing, and went her way with a new question in her heart? Who shall tell the germs of intrigue, struggling jealousy, rivalry, hatred, ambition, and care that were fostered in this abode of kings during that third week in November, when the "season" was budding, and would, on Sunday night, at the Queen's first salon, open into a perfect flower?
During that week, ever since Richelieu's visit on Monday, one would scarcely have thought that Deborah de Mailly had had time for thinking. There was never an hour when she could be alone. Claude's words were proven true. She had known nothing of what this life would mean; and she possessed not one leisure moment which she could have given to the care of their abiding-place. Slightly to her husband's surprise, certainly much to her own amazement, she had become a little sensation; and almost every member of the Court followed the speedy example of Mme. de Mirepoix and called upon her during that first week. The tale of the King's salute, of her forthcoming presentation, and, more than all, a story whispered behind Richelieu's hand of a possible favoritism, had wrought this result.
Deborah bore herself very well at the innumerable afternoon visits. Claude was always with her; but, after the first two days, she ceased to watch his eye, and found herself able to pay some little attention to the characteristics of the different people. She had small fancy for the Maréchale de Coigny, and an equally accountable dislike for de Bernis, who, for some reason of his own, paid her assiduous attention.
Each morning Deborah went to Paris, to her milliner's, where the presentation dress was being made. Claude almost always accompanied her on these trips, and during the long drives there should have been more than enough opportunity for them to discuss her first impressions of the new life. Though Claude could not tell why, such conversations never occurred. He felt, vaguely, that his wife was holding aloof from him. She was perfectly courteous, sometimes merry, in his company; but she was never confiding as she had been. At home there was no longer any necessity for them to linger in an antechamber before retiring, for the sake of being alone together. After eleven at night they had their apartment to themselves. But, oddly enough, they now never saw each other alone. Deborah was occupied, was too tired, was not in the mood—any of a thousand things. Claude wondered, and was disappointed, but never pressed the point. Not once did it occur to him to connect her present impenetrability with the singular crying-spell on Monday evening, after her afternoon alone with Victorine de Coigny. He put her new manner down rather to the growing influence of the Court customs. And perhaps, to some extent, he was right.
Just now Claude's attention, like that of the rest of the Court, was concentrated upon the approaching Sunday evening. He was ambitious for Deborah. He wanted to make her success as great as possible. The danger of success he knew, perhaps, but the other alternative was worse; and, besides, not a hint of Richelieu's careful gossip had reached his ears. As to the royal salute which had, at the time, so annoyed him, he had now all but forgotten it in the renewal of his old connections, his old associations with every foot of this ground that was home to him. He had played a good deal during the week, to such purpose that there was now small cause to fear the necessary expenditures for the winter; and out of his first day's winnings at Berkley's he could pay for Deborah's entire wardrobe. Claude took more interest than his wife herself, perhaps, in the presentation dress, which had been especially designed to emphasize her freshness, her youth, and her slender figure. She was to wear very small hoops, which articles of dress were now in their largest possible state, preparatory to a long-needed collapse to the graceful puffs of the Pompadour era. Her petticoat was of white India crépe, embroidered in white. Her over-dress was of lace, madeen princesse, with the train falling from the shoulders and flowing behind her for more than a yard, like a trail of foam in the wake of a ship.
The busy week ended almost too soon, and Sunday dawned—about an hour before his Majesty rose. During the morning Versailles was deserted. Not a lady had risen, and the gentlemen went shooting, after mass, with his Majesty. Deborah, greatly to her displeasure, had been commanded to stay in bed till three in the afternoon, at which hour she might begin her toilet. Claude was with the hunting-party, however, and his wife rose at ten o'clock and had her chocolate in the dining-room, to the bland amazement of the first lackey. A little later, however, Madame la Comtesse regretted her wilfulness, for she had nothing to do. Despite Mme. de Conti's reassuring instructions, she was extremely nervous as to the evening. She had already practised the presentation at home, with Julie for her Majesty, chairs for the ladies of honor, and the King rather inadequately represented by her dressing-table. This morning, however, Deborah was not in the mood for the tiresome manoeuvres, but instead sat disconsolately at the window, rigorously keeping her thoughts from home, and trying to fasten them, for want of a better subject, on the lady who was also to be presented that evening by Mme. de Conti. This, as history would have it, was a person of somewhat humbler birth than Deborah herself, styled in the beginning Jeanne Poisson, later wedded to solid Lenormand d'Etioles, and at some day now neither dim nor distant to become that Marquise de Pompadour whom an Empress of Austria should salute as an equal. Deborah mused for some time on this unknown lady, ate her solitary dinner without appetite, and lay on her salon sofa for two hours more, thinking unhappily of Maryland, before Julie roused her to begin the momentous toilet.
Evening drew on apace. Claude, returning at something past five from his royal day, found the hair-dresser at his task, and so proceeded to dress before he visited his wife. Supper was served to monsieur and madame in their rooms. Claude ate heartily and gossiped with his valet while his wig was being adjusted, his face powdered, and his suit, the most costly that he had ever worn, together with his diamonds, put on. When all was to his taste, he despatched Rochard to inquire, with much ceremony, if madame would receive her lord. Madame would. And so Claude, with a smile of anticipation, drew from a little cabinet a large, flat, purple morocco box, and, with this in his hand, crossed the passage and tapped gently at the door of Deborah's boudoir.
Julie opened it. Within, facing him, her back to the toilet-table, stood his wife. The room was not very light. Only four candles burned in it, and the disorder of the little place was but dimly exposed. Deborah was quite dressed. Her figure looked taller than usual, from the smallness of her hoops; and, in her delicate, misty robes, with the uncertain light she appeared like some shadowy spirit. Claude stopped upon the threshold and looked at her in silence. She did not speak. And Julie, who had rightly thought her mistress the most beautiful woman in France, stood back in quick chagrin that Monsieur le Comte did not go into ecstasies of delight over madame.
"More light, Julie. She is very well so, but there will be a trying glare in the Queen's salon," was his first remark.
Deborah herself felt disappointed, and turned aside as her maid hastily lit the various waxen tapers in the brackets on the walls. When the little place was as bright as it could be made, Claude went to his wife, placed a hand upon her shoulder, and drew her gently about till she once more faced him. Then he stood off a little, critically examining her, and carefully refraining from any expression of his pleasure. Finally, when he had decided that art could do no more, he merely said, with a little smile, "You wear no jewels, Debby."
She was silent with displeasure, knowing him to be well aware that she possessed none. He passed behind her, however, picked up the box that he had brought in with him, and put it into her hands.
"It is my presentation gift," he said, a little wistfully.
"Claude!" she whispered, without lifting the cover.
"Open it—open and put it on. It is growing late."
Quite breathless now, she opened the box, and gave a low exclamation. Julie shrieked with rapture, and Claude, reading his wife's expression, was satisfied with the reception of his gift.
"Oh, they are much—much more beautiful than Virginia's!" murmured Deborah, as, half afraid to touch them, she lifted the jewels from the box. They consisted of three rows of white pearls, clasped with a larger one, the first string passing just comfortably about her throat, the second somewhat longer, and the third touching the lace edge of her dress. The ornament was simple enough, but the stones needed no pendants to set them off. In size, evenness, and purity they were incomparable. Deborah's heart was touched. He was very kind to her—as kind as any real lover could be. Why must she always remember that she was a secondary object to him? Why could she never forget that he had only brought her here that his exile might be ended?
"Well then—you are pleased?" he asked, still wistfully.
"Oh yes! You are too good to me, Claude."
"A kiss, then?"
As she kissed him gently upon the forehead he seized one of her hands, clasped it tightly for an instant, and then, putting it quickly away from him, let her go. Julie approached with her wraps, and the lackey announced that the coach was waiting.
The apartments of the Queen in the palace of Versailles were on the south side of therez-de-chaussée, in the body of the palace, looking out along the south wing. They consisted of five rooms, the Salon de la Reine, where so many royal functions were held, being between her Majesty's bedroom and the Salle du Grand Couvert; while a third door on the north side opened into the antechamber which led out to the Court of the Staircase. This last small room was, to her Majesty's circle, what the Œil-de-Bœuf was to the general court.
The reception planned for this evening of Sunday, November 21st, was to be rather more ceremonious than such affairs became later in the season. There would be six presentations—a large number; and, to the Queen's delight, not only her usual small circle of friends, but the entire Court, had assembled here for the first time in more than a year. Judging from her smiling appearance, it was not probable that the Queen guessed that the reason why her rooms were so frequented was that certain tongues had set afloat the rumor that a new candidate for the favorite's post was to be presented to-night to Queen and Court, to be judged by them as eligible or not.
At one side of her salon, upon a raised dais, beneath a golden canopy, sat Marie Leczinska, royally dressed, looking only like the gentle Polish woman that she was, talking in low tones with Mme. de Boufflers, who would have liked very well to escape for a few moments into the throng. In two semicircular lines, from the throne to the door of the anteroom, leaving between them an open space, stood thedames d'étiquette, or, more properly, the ladies of the palace of the Queen, among whom, magnificently dressed, with the proceeds of her forthcoming task, was the Princess de Conti. Behind these formidable rows the rest of the Court stood, packed in such close masses that many a hooped toilet was threatened with collapse. About the throne were gathered the Queen's immediate friends, the "Saints," as they were termed by members of the King's set; Mme. de Boufflers, from necessity; the Duc and Duchesse de Luynes; M. and Mme. de la Vauguyon; the Duc and Duchesse de Luxembourg; the Cardinal de Tencin; the Cardinal de Luynes; Mme. d'Alincourt; the inevitable Père Griffet; and President Hénault. One person, however, who was becoming a very familiar figure to the Queen's household, was not with them to-night. This was the Abbé François de Bernis, whose connection with Mme. de Coigny had never been discussed in that part of the palace.
M. de Bernis was not, however, absent from Court on this interesting occasion. At the present moment he was in the antechamber, conversing in his peculiarly charming manner with a lady to whom he had just been presented by Richelieu, and who was to be presented to the Queen by Mme. de Conti—Mme. Lenormand d'Etioles. An extremely pretty woman she was, thought the abbé; and well dressed also, in her white satin, with stately hoops, and her neck covered with the sapphires that matched her eyes. While chatting with de Bernis she eyed Richelieu or made close scrutinies of the half-dozen other ladies in the room, with one of whom her stout husband was talking nervously.
"Are all the women here, Monsieur l'Abbé?" she asked, presently.
De Bernis glanced about him. "I have not yet seen Mme. de Mailly. She is late."
"Ah, Mme. de Mailly—the new Countess, is she not? I am curious to see her. She is a cousin of Mme. de Châteauroux."
"Her husband is the cousin. His wife—" de Bernis shrugged—"ended his exile for him, and so brought him back to his famous Marie Anne. However, they say that he never sees her now, so furious is the jealousy of his fair colonial. You know it has been whispered, madame, that his Majesty is less insensible than the young de Mailly."
"Ah! She is not lost yet, then?" inquired Mme. d'Etioles, hastily.
"Not yet. But—when you have been presented, madame—" and de Bernis finished the tactful sentence with a look which completed it admirably.
Mme. d'Etioles smiled with affected indifference; and her next remark was interrupted by the entrance of some one whose arrival at the anteroom created a small sensation. Deborah, with Claude beside her, carrying her cloak, and Henri de Mailly a step behind, with her fan and scarf, floated delicately in, her laces trailing noiselessly about her, apparently unconscious of her beauty, or of the fact that every eye in the little place was upon her. Richelieu, abruptly leaving de Mouhy, hurried to her side, inwardly delighted with her appearance. To Claude's surprise, and perhaps a little to Deborah's also, he paid her no compliment whatever, but merely began a flying conversation on the people, the evening, and the season's promise of gayety.
"So that is the Countess de Mailly," observed Mme. d'Etioles, after a long scrutiny. "How very—a—colonial she appears, and how inelegant she is with those small hoops! Her manner is bourgeois, one can perceive at once. Present her to me, Monsieur l'Abbé."
De Bernis, with an inward smile and very willing obedience, crossed over to Mme. de Mailly, and, after his salutation and some murmured phrases that made Deborah flush, informed her of the request of Mme. d'Etioles. Deborah assented readily, for she hailed with no little relief the prospect of talking to a woman. She was not fond of the conspicuousness that Court ladies struggled for, and which resulted from being surrounded with men. A Maryland training was not that of Versailles.
In the end it was Richelieu who performed the introduction between the women. After their courtesies, Mme. d'Etioles addressed Deborah very cordially, and with so many pretty words about her toilet that de Bernis nodded to himself at her display of one of the traits which promised a Court success. While the little group stood talking in one corner of the anteroom the first lady was summoned for presentation. No one but the abbé took any notice of the exit. He, however, whispered to Richelieu:
"They say that the King will not be present this evening. Is it so?"
The Duke took snuff, slowly. "My dear abbé, if I could read his Majesty's mind I should be first minister in a week."
De Bernis smiled, but looked unsatisfied as he turned again to the ladies. Presently, however, Richelieu continued in his ear: "The King had supper with Monseigneur, who made certain dutiful remarks regarding hisfiancée, the Infanta Marie. These, since they might be construed into casting a slur on his Majesty's devotion to the Queen, threw Louis into a—well, a temper. One cannot tell whether he will recover or not. I, like the rest of the Court, shall infinitely regret it if he does not receive these charming women."
"Ah, my lord, has it ever occurred to you—beneath the rose—that Mme. de Mailly almost, in beauty and charm, approaches her—cousin, the Duchesse de Châteauroux?"
A quick frown passed over Richelieu's face, and he glanced sharply about him. Seeing no one who could have overheard the remark, however, he nodded shortly, saying in a tone that finished the matter: "Approaches—perhaps. That, Monsieur l'Abbé, many women might do."
By this time, in the salon, the first four presentations were over. They had been utterly uninteresting, the costumes commonplace, the courtesies only passably executed, and, worse than all, the King had not appeared. It was already long after ten o'clock, and there was small chance now of his entering on the scene. The Court yawned, not even behind its hand, and the very "saints" began to long for some better amusement. Rumor of interest to be found in such functions was certainly false.
After the fourth presentation came a pause.
"Are they finished?" inquired the Queen, hopefully, of the first lady.
"Mme. de Conti announces still two more, your Majesty."
"Two! That is not quite customary. However, bid her hasten them. This is very fatiguing."
A moment later the Princess de Conti passed into the antechamber, the pages at her side. Two or three moments after came the clear announcement from the chamberlain, at the door:
"Mme. de Conti has the honor to present to her Majesty the Comtesse de Nesle de Mailly."
At that moment a small, tapestried door cut in the wall beside the throne, and designed for unceremonious escape or arrival of royalty, was pushed quietly open, and Louis appeared. He was not instantly perceived, for every eye in the room was just then fixed on Deborah, who, with Mme. de Conti at her side and a royal page bearing her train, entered and passed slowly up the salon towards the Queen. Half-way up the aisle, at a slight sign from her conductress, she made the first reverence. They were not simple to perform, these presentation courtesies. One was obliged to stop short in the walk, and, without any perceptible break in movement, sink slowly to the floor, rise again, and proceed. Many had been the nervous débutante who overbalanced in going down, and had to be rescued from disgrace by the skill of her lady of honor. The barest murmur—approval from the gentlemen and assent from the ladies—floated through the room as Deborah went gracefully down a second time. And the murmur continued, changed into one of surprise, when, Marie Leczinska being perceived to have risen, the King was discovered beside the throne, his whole attention concentrated on Mme. de Mailly in her laces. Deborah herself was extremely nervous. She alone, of all the roomful, had witnessed the entrance of the King. And now, as she finished the progress, her eyes, unconscious of what they were doing, remained fixed on Louis' face. The King was delighted. He answered the gaze with a slight smile, and beheld the young woman's eyes quickly fall, while the color rushed into her cheeks. The Queen, owing to the presence of her husband, stood, while Deborah made the last of the three grand courtesies. Her Majesty was greatly pleased with the youthful innocence of Mme. de Mailly's face and the odd simplicity of her costly dress. Therefore, when Deborah made the motion of kissing the hem of her garment, she extended her hand instead, and afterwards murmured, graciously:
"It is with delight, madame, that we receive you in our salon."
And as Claude's wife repeated the formula of her gratitude and devotion, his Majesty gayly advanced, and, with a "Permit me, Madame la Comtesse," kissed her, as was his custom, upon the left cheek.
Deborah had not been informed of this possible part of the ceremony, and would have backed away in horror had not Mme. de Conti vigorously pinched her arm. A moment later they began the retreat. This time all the ladies of the palace must be included in the semi-courtesies which occurred with every four or five backward steps. It was a difficult performance for all three of the party, the presented, the presenter, and the train-bearer. Moreover, it was generally done under a running fire of whispered comments, some of which generally reached the ears of the débutante. Only one speech, however, was audible to Deborah as she passed; and over this she pondered, at intervals, for some days after, so that, when its full meaning was apparent to her, the shock of it was lessened.
"Positively, my dear," observed Mme. Crequy to Mme. de Grammont, "I begin to believe that the post is hereditary in this family."
It was with a sigh of perfect relief that Deborah saw the portière of the antechamber fall before her, blotting out the view of the salon, and, as she turned to Claude, Mme. de Conti said to her, graciously:
"Madame, permit me to make you my compliments on a most successful début. It is a pleasure to have been your conductress."
Mme. d'Etioles, hearing this from the corner wherein she still talked with de Bernis, at once advanced to her: "Mme. de Mailly, you put me in a difficult position. How am I to equal your success?"
Deborah looked a little nonplussed, for the insincerity of the remark was perfectly apparent to her. Claude, however, said at once, "Mme. d'Etioles, you have but to enter the room, when any one who appeared before you will be utterly forgotten."
Mme. Lenormand was satisfied, and responded to her summons without any apparent embarrassment. She was so complete a contrast to Mme. de Mailly that the two were not compared. Her manner, her bearing, her dress, all were perfectly conventional, all were of Court make, and of such extreme elegance that they defied criticism. There was neither affectation nor particular modesty in her air as she made her three graceful courtesies, was addressed by the Queen, and saluted by the King. Neither were there many comments while she performed the retreat. She was more or less a familiar figure to the Court, where, though the fact of her low birth hampered her at every turn, she was secretly a good deal admired by many. On her return to the antechamber her husband received her, she exchanged a few cool words with him, a jest with de Bernis, and then, leaning upon the arm of the latter, returned to the salon, which was now a lively and informal scene.
The presentation of Mme. d'Etioles having been the last of the evening, her Majesty descended from the dais, the lines of the ladies of the palace were broken, and the promenade began. Richelieu, taking a flattering leave of Claude and Deborah, made his way as rapidly as possible to his Majesty, who, by a coincidence, was hurrying towards him.
"Ah, du Plessis, I find that I did well to come. Where is d'Argenson?"
"Just behind us, Sire. He is talking with the Count de Mailly."
"Come with me, then. I must speak to them both, but separately. You understand? You will occupy one, while—"
"I understand, Sire."
Claude and young Marc Antoine ceased their conversation as the King approached. After saluting both gentlemen, his Majesty turned to Claude. "Monsieur," he said, heartily, "we welcome your return with the greatest satisfaction. You read our letter well. Oh, we have not forgotten, you see. And we—compliment you, monsieur, upon having won the most charming of ladies. She is English, Monsieur le Comte?"
"From the colonies, Sire."
"A pity they are so far away. One would like to visit them."
Claude forced a smile, while Louis turned next to d'Argenson. Upon this Richelieu at once crossed to the Count and opened conversation with him so adroitly that the King's next remarks were happily inaudible.
"And, by-the-way, my dear Voyer—put Mme. de Mailly, the new Countess, on the supper-list for Choisy."
D'Argenson bowed profoundly, to conceal his expression. "And—Mme. d'Etioles, Sire?" he ventured.
Louis hesitated. "Not—not as yet," he said, finally.
It was the afternoon of November 22d, ten days after the King's return to Paris, not yet twenty-four hours since her Majesty's first salon at Versailles. The Abbé de Bernis, companionless, was proceeding slowly out of the grand entrance of the palace and down the broad avenue towards the first fountain. It was a raw day, gray and bleak, with a northeast Austrian wind, and an atmosphere resembling the relations between France and England. Nevertheless, the Abbé François was not walking hurriedly. If he were going into the town of Versailles, he was taking a circuitous route. The dress that he wore was decidedly non-clerical, being a rich costume of cramoisie satin, with very presentable Mechlin ruffles, and a heavily embroidered waistcoat. The wig was the only thing about him that proclaimed his calling, and even that, just now, was concealed by his hat and the high collar of the black cloak in which he was muffled.
De Bernis was on his way to spend an hour or two with Mme. de Coigny, whom of late he felt that he had neglected; and as he walked he reflected upon certain objective but important things. In the Court circles, as they stood to-day, and as he carefully reviewed them, there were infinite possibilities for advancement. It was a time when no level-headed man could fail to take certain advantages of the present situation for the betterment of his position. For the first time in ten years, the Court was open. No favorite ruled the King, and, by consequence, the kingdom. And here the way was almost as clear for the ambitious among men as among women. For he who should be the one to bring to the notice of the King of France his next more than queen might, by his own unaided effort, obtain all the honor, glory, and left-handed, subtle power now divided among half a dozen ministers and courtiers.
By the time de Bernis got so far in his meditations he had reached the Star, and was about to enter the grand park, with its love-named allées, and the gloomy bosquets, so enticing in summer, now so grimly gray. The bare, black trees and shrubs, the frozen ground, the unshaded statues, poetic only when set in plumy foliage, hideous and indelicate now—all suddenly flashed over the abbé's senses as being like the remains of a dead passion, stripped of all the softening graces and secret beauty lent by love when love is hot. The simile turned his mind again to the woman whom he was going to see—Victorine, the little Victorine, whose whimsicalities had won his heart, but who was as tiresome as any other woman when she became to him devoted, submissive, content to obey, without even the desire to rouse jealousy in him. Was he tired of Victorine? Was her influence gone? Was she no longer of any use? De Bernis paused for an instant and thought. Of use? There was only one usage to which he could put a woman of Mme. de Coigny's position. That was—make, or at least attempt to make, her the greatest lady at Court. Would Victorine de Coigny be capable of filling that place at his request? Had she influence enough in high places? Would she be fresh enough to his Majesty to please? Should he make the attempt?
By the time the abbé reached his temporary destination he had made shift to answer his not very creditable questions and come to a kind of hazy determination concerning his course.
Mme. de Coigny was at home and would receive him. He was shown directly from the antechamber to the little salon off her boudoir. Here he seated himself by the heavily curtained window, after throwing hat and cloak upon a chair beside the tall escritoire. Madame kept him waiting. He crossed his knees, and pulled from one of his pockets a little article wrapped in a feminine handkerchief. Returning the wrapper to the pocket, he sat idly examining what he held. It was a cross of golden filigree, apparently of Eastern workmanship, and set with red stones. The sun, at the moment, was near to breaking through the clouds, and he held the little thing up to watch the light play over the garnets, when the boudoir door opened and Victorine came quietly in.
"What have you there, François?"
He rose, looked approvingly at her toilet, and held out the cross.
"I found this, by chance, two or three days ago among some old possessions of mine sent from Tours. Would you care for it? I offer it—not as a symbol, you understand. Merely an ornament. It is not valuable."
"Thank you. It is valuable to me. I will keep it always—like all of your gifts."
He smiled slightly as she seated herself at a little distance from him. She was even paler than usual, and looked as though she might have been suffering physically.
"You are not well to-day?" he asked, gently.
"Oh yes; perfectly. I am never ill. I scarcely saw you last night. What did you think of the presentations? Is not Mme. de Mailly lovely?"
The abbé shrugged. "Very pretty. Parvenu, however. I prefer Mme. d'Etioles; but you—before them all, Victorine."
A smile broke over her face, and, for a moment, transfigured it. "Ah, François, that is as you were. Lately, sometimes, I had thought you changed towards me."
He saw here an approaching opportunity for his difficult proposition. Rising, he drew another chair close to her, seated himself in it, and negligently took one of her hands into both of his. "Dear Victorine, I shall never change towards you," he said, in a low voice. "But there are some things—some things which you do not quite consider."
"What things? Tell me, François. Indeed, I will consider them. Only tell me all that is in your heart. I belong to you. You know that," she whispered.
De Bernis moved uneasily. Tell what was in his heart? He was wiser than that; but his way was not easy. "You know, little one, that I am not a powerful man—not an influential one. Yet I am ambitious. I have but a small place to keep. There is a great one which I wish to win. A—cardinal's hat, Victorine! That is my dream! You see, I am opening my heart to you."
"Ah, if I could make you a cardinal—if I could make you Pope, François! If I could make you the greatest man in the world!"
"You have made me the happiest," he answered, tenderly, touched a little by her unselfishness.
"Then, if that is true, François, what more can you desire? The beretta could do no more for you."
"I am caught, my philosopher. And yet—and yet ambition does remain. I am not quite the happiest of men. I would wish to give you a higher place. I wish to be worthy of you. I would give you, for your slave, the most powerful man in France."
"Ah," she said, smiling, "I could love him no better than I love you. My dear, if I were given my choice between you and the King of France, do you not know which I should choose?"
He bent over her quickly. "Which would you choose?"
"How can you ask? You do not doubt me?"
"Nay, but, Victorine, if, by being favorite of the Court, of the King, you could further your own interests, if you could further mine—if I asked it of you—"
He broke off suddenly. Her face was changing.
"What do you mean?" she demanded, and there was something in the tone which made him thankful that he had gone no further. "Are"—she breathed convulsively, but went on in a lighter manner—"are you testing me? Are you trying to learn my nature—how far I would sink? Ah, François, you, who have given me such joy, the only happiness that I have known, have given me also my greatest sorrow. Do not think, because I renounced everything for you, that I am like the women of the Court. I loved you—I love you—you always—more dearly than—honor. But, François, it was only for love. I am proud that you had no position to give me. I swear to you, by what I still hold sacred, that if the post won by Mme. de Châteauroux were offered me by his Majesty, on his knees, I would prefer to die than to accept such a thing." She passed her hand over her forehead, and lay back again in her chair, smiling a little at his earnest frown. "I do not censure Mme. de Châteauroux, François, you understand. She loved the King—as I love you."
The actual veracity of this last statement was an immaterial thing. It was Victorine's belief in it that did her honor. François did not remark upon it, neither did he voice any further confessions of ambition. Mme. de Coigny was singularly blind to her interests and his. She was not the type of woman that belonged to a court. True, had her position been rather more influential, no man need have desired better things than would have fallen to the lot of the sagacious abbé. But, being only the wife of a Marquis field-marshal, and too single-hearted for wisdom, she was a luxury undesirable for a rising man. For an instant de Bernis' thoughts were directed to the husband. After all, his position as one of the favorite courtiers, and one really esteemed, would have been difficult to overcome in order that madame might be installed alone in the palace. It was as well, perhaps, that her trend of mind was such as he had discovered it to be. It was also as well that, in the midst of the reflective pause, the antechamber door should unexpectedly have opened, and M. de Coigny himself have entered the room.
"Ah! Pardon me, madame. I was unaware that you were engaged."
Victorine rose quickly, looked at her husband, saw his eyes meet those of the abbé, and remained silent. De Coigny was about to turn upon his heel and leave them, to her great relief, when François spoke:
"I beg, monsieur, that you will not let me deprive you of madame's society. I am just on the way to Paris, and was taking my leave as you came."
He finished, quite heedless of Victorine's imploring glance, which, however, de Coigny caught.
"If you are going to the city, you must first have something—a glass of wine. Yes, yes! It will not be long. I will order at once."
In spite of de Bernis' earnest protestation, Victorine summoned the valet and ordered wine and rissoles for all three.
"You will, then, allow me to partake with you?" asked the Maréchal, with a quizzical scrutiny of his wife, who merely nodded, saying, dully:
"We are delighted, monsieur."
De Bernis was displeased. It was never agreeable to him to face Jules de Coigny, and he would have been glad to escape at once after that destructive silence of Victorine's. He had all his ideas to readjust, a fresh plan to make, and a verse or two to compose for extemporaneous use during the evening. However, he made better show of being at ease for the next quarter of an hour than did madame; and he managed to carry on a very creditable conversation about the Vauvenaigues salon while sipping his wine and crumbling thepâtê. He took his departure, without undue haste, at just the right moment, kissed madame's hand with ceremony, and bowed himself away from the Maréchal, feeling that he should not often see that small salon again. It would not be wise.
When the abbé was gone, and Jules and his wife were left alone together, Victorine looked uneasily about her, hoping for a means of escape.
"I must ask your pardon, madame, once more, for having been so stupid as to have intruded upon you. Gérome did not inform me—"
"It is of no consequence, monsieur. As you heard, the abbé was on the point of departure. Did you, by some chance, wish to speak with me?"
"The matter was not of great importance. However, I thought that it might please you to learn that Mme. de Châteauroux is likely soon to be reinstated. This afternoon his Majesty was good enough to talk with me freelyen tête-à-tête. He misses the Duchess very much. He is preparing, quietly, to place her at her post again. She is your friend. I thought that it might give you pleasure to know. Of course, what I have told must not be repeated."
"Thank you, Jules. I am very glad. Marie has been my good friend always."
"It was she, I believe, who presented to you M. de Bernis?"
"Yes," replied Victorine, looking up at him in surprise.
There was a pause. De Coigny should have been making his departure. Yet still he stood there, as awkwardly as possible, half turned from his wife, who sat regarding him in some astonishment, and without the desire to say a word. The marshal's head drooped a little. He put one hand to his forehead, and seemed to be going through an inward struggle. Several moments passed. Madame moved restlessly. Finally she said:
"What is it, Jules? What have you further to say to me?"
Coigny shook his head and passed his hand over his eyes. "It is immaterial, Victorine. I have already said it once. I will not repeat myself. It is—immaterial, I say. Good-afternoon."