CHAPTER VI

Snuff-Boxes

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 the _pâtê_. 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 freely _en 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."

"Good-afternoon."

And thus it was to the vague relief of the woman that he left her there, in her small salon, alone.

The first part of the foregoing conversation might have proved very serviceable, at this time, to the Abbé de Bernis. He was not, however, so fortunate as even to chance upon the idea of such a thing as the reinstallation of la Châteauroux. As he drove towards Paris he continued his meditations on the topic which had occupied him all day. They had now taken a surer trend. One doubtful possibility was done away with. He found himself left with two others, less dubious, but, had he the wit to surmise it, possibilities which half the men of the Court were quietly planning, even as he himself, to make their own.

De Bernis dined at the Café de la Régence, a popular and fashionable resort; and thereafter, being now happily independent of the Lazariste and all such houses, betook himself to his rooms in the Rue des Bailleuls, not a great way from the Hôtel de Ville, and near the old Louvre. After adding, here, a few touches to his toilet, he took a chair to the Hôtel de Tours, where M. de Vauvenargues held his brilliant salons.

It was a night when nothing was happening at Versailles. The Queen, satisfied for the time with her success of the previous evening, played cavagnole with Hénault, and prepared for an extra hour in her oratory. His Majesty had claimed de Berryer for the night, and gone off on one of those strange expeditions in which he occasionally indulged. The great palace thus being desolate, all the world bethought itself of Paris, and, in the same instant, of the Hôtel de Tours and its host. The rooms there were crowded by the time de Bernis arrived. Every possible circle, from the Court to the philosophical, was in evidence. In the first room, where Monsieur was obliged to receive till a late hour, the lesser and most professional lights of society mingled in a heated throng. In the second salon, connected with the first by a small, yellow-hung ante-chamber, the gaming-tables were set, around which, talking or at play, were grouped the aristocratic dwellers of Versailles. Among these was Claude, sunk in piquet, and Deborah, conducted by Mme. de Jarnac, and hence claiming place with the bluest-blooded dames of the day; which fact, however, incredible as it seemed, failed to make her happy.

While the crowded and uncomfortable devotees were circling in slow masses through the larger apartments, there had been gradually collecting, in the yellow antechamber, a small group of gentlemen who, as it happened, had more at stake than gold. The tacit subject of their apparently superficial conversation was the decision of the next ruler of Versailles and the consequent determination of their own forthcoming influence in Court circles. Here, foremost of all, with most at stake, was Richelieu--Richelieu in violet satin and silver, with pearls, point de Bruxelles, and snuff-box. Next to him, upon a tabouret, apparently half asleep, indolent, smiling, was de Gêvres, with opposition to Richelieu coursing in fiery determination through every vein. Yonder sat d'Epernon and Penthièvre; while, completing the group, were Holbach, who had left Montesquieu at the point of interaction between body and soul, and François de Bernis, swelling with vanity at being seen in such company. All about this impenetrable band, during their conversation, incomprehensible to him who should catch but a syllable or two of it, wandered men and women of various degrees, curious, envious, anxious, one and all willing to have given half a fortune to have been able to join this party, which represented the dwellers in sacred, nearest places to royalty, to France's King. Possibly these men were unconscious of their greatness. Certainly they were too interested in themselves and their plans to enjoy, for the moment, the apparent adulation of outsiders. It was like a meeting of the Council of Ten held in the middle of St. Mark's Square of an afternoon.

Penthièvre had finished an anecdote of the far-off days of Gabrielle d'Estrées, containing a clever apologue, for which he was mentally applauded by the group.

"A clever woman!" murmured Richelieu, dreamily. "I cannot help thinking that if Sully had taken her part, instead of opposing her--"

"Marie de Médicis would have made less difficulty."

Richelieu stared at de Gêvres, who had interrupted somnolently, and remarked, with some insolence: "You miss the point, I think. Her Majesty is scarcely included in the affair."

"Noailles--Sully. Marie de Médicis--Fate," was the retort.

Richelieu shrugged. "It was too vague, Jacques."

"Let us return to the present. We shall find it less complicated," suggested Holbach, quietly.

The others acquiesced with alacrity. Their problem was too important to trust to forgotten history for solution. At this moment Richelieu, with serious intent, took snuff, raising the cover of his box in so significant a manner that it was impossible that all should not perceive its miniature to have been removed, leaving the tarnished gold alone visible under the pearl-surrounded glass.

"Ah!" murmured d'Epernon, "what has become of the Duchess?"

"I shall present the picture, as a mark of my high esteem," said Richelieu, "to M. d'Agenois."

There was a general smile. Then de Gêvres remarked, slowly: "I will purchase that miniature of you for my own use, du Plessis."

"What! Have you not one of her?" cried de Bernis.

De Gêvres pulled out his own box and handed it to the abbé. In it was an exquisitely painted portrait of Marie Anne de Nesle, done just before she was created Duchesse de Châteauroux.

"What, then, would you do with another?"

"I should present it, in a few weeks' time, to the King."

"Diable! You are not stupid enough to believe that she is to be reinstated?"

"I am sufficiently stupid--to believe exactly that."

Richelieu looked seriously annoyed. For a long time he and de Gêvres had, from policy, been the best of friends and strong allies. They, together, one summer evening, on the terraces of Versailles, had first presented the Marquise de la Tournelle to the King. And since then they had worked constantly on her behalf. De Gêvres, however, having been the more moderate of the two, was now in a position which Richelieu had recklessly forfeited--sure of favor in any case.

Baron d'Holbach, seeing the situation a little uncomfortable, broke the pause by producing his own snuff-box and displaying its cover. "Messieurs," he said, "we are carrying with us to-night the history of France. Behold!"

All leaned forward to look upon the delicately painted features. They were those of Pauline Félicité de Vintimille, the sister and predecessor of Mme. de Châteauroux.

"It is old-fashioned, gentlemen, but I have always liked the face--so young--so gentle--so sad beneath the smile," observed the philosopher.

"I can complete the trio," said Penthièvre, laughing, and producing another round lid. "I was reminiscent to-night, and selected this from my collection."

"Parbleu! it is entertaining," remarked d'Epernon, while the others were silent, thinking a little, perhaps, of days not long past; for the third miniature was of Louise Julie de Nesle, Comtesse de Mailly, Claude's cousin and sister-in-law.

"D'Epernon and de Bernis, let us see yours. Perhaps they will have a new bearing on the subject, and will bring a prophecy."

D'Epernon shook his head. "My top is merely amber, without decoration."

"And you, Monsieur l'Abbé?"

De Bernis flushed. "Mine is--personal, gentlemen. I shall change it."

"Let us see--ah! Mme. de Coigny. Did you take it from Mailly-Nesle?"

"No, M. de Gêvres. Mme. Victorine was so good as to present it," was the slightly haughty reply.

"But you are going to change it, you know. Tell us, what new face is to displace this?"

"I will tell you, M. de Richelieu, when you have confessed what one is to fill your empty space."

"Ah, yes--make your prophecy, du Plessis," drawled de Gêvres.

"Well then, if you will know," Richelieu lowered his tone, "the post is going to continue for a fourth turn in the family de Mailly. Within three months I shall place here the face of--Count Claude's wife."

"Ah!"

"Really!"

"The colonial?"

"Perhaps!"

"And now you, abbé?"

"I differ from M. de Richelieu. I should rather suggest--the lady now standing behind M. d'Epernon."

The party glanced discreetly about to behold a pretty woman in pink brocade, who was laughing at some remark from the Abbé Coyer.

"What! The last débutante? Mme. d'Etioles?"

"Bah! Pardon, de Bernis, but she is of the bourgeoisie."

"And is Mme. de Mailly of higher birth?"

There was a moment of unexpected silence. Then Richelieu said, slowly: "I had understood that she was of excellent blood. Six generations, it has been said."

Penthièvre and d'Epernon nodded agreement. Such, certainly, had been the rumor. De Bernis looked a little nonplussed.

"Then Mme. de Mailly is--your choice?" he asked of Richelieu.

"Oh," the Duke shrugged, "that is a little direct, Monsieur l'Abbé. I much admire Mme. de Mailly. His Majesty admires her."

"She is on the supper-list for Choisy," murmured Penthièvre.

"Ah! Where did you hear it?"

"From young d'Argenson. The King was pleased with her appearance at the presentation."

"And it was not by his arrangement, either."

"I wonder," asked d'Holbach, musingly, of the air, "if Claude de Mailly will let her go, without expostulation, to one of the Choisy suppers."

"It is doubtful," replied de Gêvres, yawning.

Richelieu said nothing, but under his languid exterior was a fierce determination that Mme. de Mailly, Claude or no Claude, should go to a Choisy supper, and the first to which she was asked.

"And now, Monsieur l'Abbé, what attributes for the post has your pretty bourgeoise, Mme. d'Etioles?" inquired d'Epernon.

Softly, as he answered, the abbé tapped Victorine's miniature. "One attribute, Monsieur le Duc, which I think that Mme. de Mailly lacks, and without which a woman is--to be frank--useless. Mme. d'Etioles has ambition to win the place."

"You know that? She confesses it?" asked Richelieu, leaning suddenly forward, and betraying more interest than, considering the proximity of de Gêvres, was dignified.

"Confessed it? Not in words. There was but her eye, her animation, her color, the quivering of the nostril--an air hard to describe, easy to read, which you all know, messieurs."

"But yes!"

"And she has the tact to compliment a rival. That is excellent."

"True. But Mme. de Mailly is a far newer type. She is young, ingenue, naïve; would not understand even that compliments were required. And novelty, gentlemen, novelty, is what we all, not less than his Majesty, require."

"That is true. I feel it necessary at this moment. Supper must surely have been announced by this time. I go to seek 'la Poule',"* observed de Gêvres, rising.

* Louis XV.'s nickname for Mme. de Flavacourt.

"Is Mme. de Flavacourt here?" whispered d'Epernon of Penthièvre as, the conference over, the little group broke up.

"Yes. She has just passed into the other room with d'Hénin."

"Gêvres follows her."

"Of course, since he is avowedly for la Châteauroux."

"And Richelieu approaches the little American. Behold, he is going to be her supper companion."

"Now it is only left for the abbé to seek Mme. d'Etioles."

"Dastard! He deserts his colors. See, he is coming with Mme. d'Egmont. Coigny not being here, it seems he lays siege to the second lady of that family."

"Hein? It is very warm here. _Au revoir_. I am going to seek the Marquis de Mailly-Nesle--you see, I am on two sides so."

Penthièvre disappeared in the throng which had begun to move more rapidly to the supper apartment in the rear. "It now behooves me," murmured d'Epernon to himself, "to take pity on de Bernis' choice. But that will be an effort. No. I will be original. I will go in alone. I will be the only man of all Versailles to-night who has no woman in his brain!"