CHAPTER XII

One More de Mailly?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"A thousand thanks. It is impossible."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"The 25th, then."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Richelieu, after gaining a surprised and peevish permission from his King, left Versailles at six o'clock on the morning of December 9th. He was perfectly aware of the comment which this conduct would excite; but for once he was beyond the dread of gossip. He could not remain in that palace. His insouciance--his nerve--had left him. He departed in search of it. The impedimenta which accompanied him were not ostentatious. He went post, in a series of coaches, his valet in front, his travelling-coffer behind, he alone in the body. In this way, by dull stages, they reached Chalons-sur-Marne. Here he had intended to remain for a little, when he chanced to remember that Mme. de Châteauroux had written him from here, after her flight from Metz. It seemed that France had been created to remind him of her. He hurried on to Vitry, and there sought rest. Quiet enough were the long, frozen days passed incognito at a village inn. Monsieur le Duc would have fared infinitely better at one of his three châteaux. He could now almost smile at himself for not having gone to them. But when he left Versailles it seemed that he was a man who must hide, and that to go to one of his own estates would have meant to remain there for life--exiled by some sudden order of Louis. Truly, had any one prophesied to him six months before what an absolutely paralyzing shock his nervous system was to undergo, he--well acquainted with that _blasé_ structure--would have laughed at it as an impossibility. But this present species of accident--necessary accident--had not been foreseen. He forbade himself now, rigidly, to consider the matter, or to encourage memory in any form. But memory would come back, sometimes, in the form of some one of whom he must beware. Mme. de Mailly--what to do concerning her? She knew--had surmised--everything. But she had no proof. Court gossip was well checked; for the Duke had stayed long enough at the palace to make sure of that. Mme. de Mailly, were she wise, would, for her own sake, say nothing. Was she wise? If not--he was ruined--unless--he could ruin her. A counter-accusation might certainly be possible, however undesirable it would prove. After carefully balancing the matter for many nights, his Grace decided upon a middle course. If Deborah kept her silence, she might take her course with the King, unhindered--secretly helped, perhaps, by her former champion. Richelieu would advance no other candidate, and the de Mailly might be very sure of the post. Then, when she was installed, would it be so difficult to ingratiate himself once more, he who, out of good-will to her, by her own methods, had forever disembarrassed her of her only rival? Ah, Richelieu was a diplomat--a true French diplomat! But he had studied France only, and was moving along well-known ways. The American colonies were his unknown world.

For three days Vitry was amusingly dull. For three more it was endurable. And for seventy-two hours after that Richelieu and his suffering Grachet remained in their impossible inn. Under a diet of salt meat, hard black bread, a rare egg or two, and milk soup, the Duke's gout-twinges left him, he found himself able to leave off half his usual rouge, and his conscience became stifled under the fiercer pangs of ennui. Then, into this wilderness, there came a letter--from Marc Antoine d'Argenson, in reply to one of Richelieu's.

"Why do you bury yourself, my friend? Surely your mourning cannot be as heartfelt as that of the King. Our poor master wears a look which makes us tremble for his life."*

* Authentic

Then followed entreaties, innumerable and eloquent, to return to the King's side. There were reminders of Christmas fêtes, of the approaching marriage of the Dauphin, and the necessity that Louis make a speedy reappearance among his gentlemen, or he would die of the vapors on Bachelier's hands.

Richelieu smiled as he read. This was better. Evidently Mme. Deborah had been very wise, indeed. She really deserved what she would attain to. His Grace considered his nervous system for some minutes, pictured to himself certain ordeals through which he must pass, found that his nonchalance had returned, and so summoned his faithful Grachet to pack his things and order out a post-chaise at once. Needless to say, Grachet worked with delight. A court valet suffers as much from court-fever as any noble of them all; and no better proof of Richelieu's position could be put forth than the fact that his servant was content to stay with him through such days as had just passed, for the sake of still being known as "Richelieu's man." However, this very day, the 20th of December, saw the two once more upon their homeward way.

On the afternoon of the 23d the King walked the length of the great gallery with M. de Chartres and the Cardinal de Luynes, permitting himself to be seen by the whole Œil-de-Bœuf. That night, for the first time since December 8th, he slept in the small bedroom, removing from the state apartments in which he was always so forlorn. On the following day, to his great delight, Richelieu reappeared, and was the first of the little entries to be admitted between breakfast and mass. The Duke seemed perfectly well, and in better spirits than ever before. Louis brightened under his very glance, and kept him talking for an hour, to the displeasure of the ministers in the antechamber. When Richelieu finally emerged from the cabinet he was seized upon by d'Argenson, and accompanied that gentleman willingly enough into the empty Salle du Jeu, where, with a desire for mutual conversation, they sat down opposite each other at one of the square tables.

"Well, then, Monsieur le Duc--"

"Well, then, my dear Comte.--"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"No, monsieur."

"To-morrow?"

"No."

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

"No, monsieur.

"We are friends?" he ventured.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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