CHAPTER XIII

The Hôtel de Ville

For the next seven weeks life in the de Mailly _ménage_ was anything but agreeable. Monsieur and madame addressed each other, when necessary, in rigidly polite terms. Ordinarily there was silence between them. Claude's jealousy was very real, and, if one judged by Court gossip and the manner of the King, instead of Deborah's acts, it was by no means unfounded. Claude always knew where his wife was and to what solemn functions and small parties she went. If questioned absolutely, he would have admitted that he believed her true--as yet. But he lived upon the extreme edge of a volcanic crater, and the existence was not tranquil. He grew morose, irritable, and habitually silent. Rarely was he to be found in his usual haunts, in his usual company; but remained at home, or in Paris with Henri, when he was not, with all too palpable anxiety, following his wife. His new manner was speedily remarked by the Court.

"De Mailly is showing execrably bad taste," observed the Marquis de Tessé to the Comte d'Egmont, one evening at Marly.

"Poor fellow! It is a pity he has such good taste in women. He courts his wife like a lover."

"Bah! He watches her like a duenna. He _courts_ something different."

"And what is that, my dear Marquis?"

"When the King is quite ready--a new exile."

"Ah!"

But the King was, at any rate, not ready yet. When he came out of his retirement he found many things demanding immediate attention; and the chief of these was something which promised great and brilliant gayety for the Court. It was the approaching marriage of the Dauphin, whose betrothal to the Infanta Maria Theresa Antoinette Raphaelle, daughter of Philip V. of Spain, had been arranged to obliterate the memory of the insult to the younger sister of the Princess, who, designed for the wife of Louis XV. himself, and brought up in France, had been returned with thanks to Spain, at the instigation of Mme. de Prie, who had fancied herself, for a little while, a successful creator of queens. Preparations for the celebration of the Dauphin's wedding were therefore begun on the most elaborate scale which the King and Richelieu together could devise; and with the beginning of the new year came a series of entertainments given at Versailles, or by great families in Paris _hôtels_, which allowed the Court no time for anything but thoughts of the splendor of existence and the details of new costumes.

It was not till February, however, that the Dauphiness Infanta arrived in France; and on the 20th day of that month the King rode to Etampes to meet her. She and her sixteen-year-old Dauphin were married in the Chapel of Versailles on February 23d, in the presence of their Majesties and as many persons of blue blood as the place would hold.

"My Heaven, but she is homely!" whispered the Maréchale de Mirepoix to Mme. de Boufflers.

"All princesses are, my dear. It is one of their duties to be hideous. The good God could not give them too much. They say she is sympathetic."

"One would need to be with that countenance. Poor Dauphin."

"Oh--he does not know a pretty woman when he sees one, thanks to the good Père Griffet and his mamma."

"And shall you go on Tuesday to the Hôtel de Ville?"

"Certainly. The world will be there. They say that it will be a finer ball than that in the Galerie des Glaces on Saturday."

"It will be more lively. Some of the bourgeoisie are asked."

"Ah! Then we shall have that Madame--what do you call her?--d'Etioles there. She is mad over the King, they say."

Mme. de Mirepoix leaned forward over the ribbon and gazed down the aisle to the altar, where the King was standing, close to his son. "I do not wonder at her. His Majesty is the handsomest man in France. See him now--beside Monseigneur! Were I the Dauphine, I should have managed to marry the father instead of the son."

"Yes, truly! She is nearer his Majesty's age!"

The two smiled and crossed themselves. The ceremony was over.

Mme. de Boufflers was right in her conjecture that Mme. d'Etioles would be at the ball at the Hôtel de Ville. Much to the pretty woman's discomfiture, she and her stout husband had not been bidden to any of the festivities in Versailles, thus proving that one needed sometimes something more than Mme. de Conti to secure a foothold among the _noblesse_. Some half-dozen ancestors had served better. Nevertheless, at this, her first opportunity, Mme. d'Etioles had determined to accomplish wonders. It was to be a _bal masqué_, and the choice of costume, therefore, was perfectly unrestrained. Madame designed her dress without consulting monsieur. She would go as the huntress Diana, with Grecian drapery of China silk, falling in folds scant enough to show all the pretty, rounded lines of her figure. Over her left shoulder hung a golden quiver, and she would carry the classic bow in her hand. It needed but little imagination to picture all the possibilities for coquetry which these accessories to her toilet would open to her. Lancret himself consented to design her Greek coiffeur, and to designate the exact spot from which her crescent must shine. And in the end Mme. d'Etioles was able to regard herself with high satisfaction, when she stood before her mirror fully dressed, at nine o'clock on the momentous evening of the last of February.

An hour later the Hôtel de Ville presented a gorgeous spectacle. Its great hall, where the dancing was to take place, was hung from floor to ceiling with priceless tapestries. Above these, as a frieze, were festooned the old battle-flags of France, tattered banners of many a sturdy knight and many a long-past warrior-king. On the west wall, in the place of honor, just above the royal platform, hung the flag and pennants of Louis XV.'s own guard, used in the last campaign. The dais below these formed a centre of interest to the throngs of glittering and perfumed men and women who were by now pouring, in a steady stream, into the room. The platform was raised considerably above the floor, and was mounted by a little flight of six steps that extended across the front of the raised space. This was entirely covered with a carpet of white silk and gold, draped and fastened on the sides with golden rosettes, while over the whole hung a voluminous canopy of purple velvet, in the fashion of Louis XIV.'s time. Below, in the centre of the platform, stood the throne, a great gilt chair, with cushion and footstool of purple, around which were grouped the stars of the evening, twelve of the prettiest women of the bourgeoisie. All of these ladies were in the classic garb which had been wont so to delight the heart of the great Louis; and among them, conspicuous alike for beauty of figure and of dress, was Jeanne Poisson d'Etioles, a little chagrined at the thought that her place proclaimed her class, but pleased with the assurance that the King must perceive her as soon as he entered the room. Like her companions, and, indeed, every one else in the room, she wore a small mask--of stiff, white silk. And with masks, as with everything else, much may be done.

It was understood that the twelve goddesses were to remain on their Olympus until Jove, otherwise his Majesty, made his appearance in the room. But it had occurred to no one that, in all probability, the King's entrance would be unobserved, since he, also, was to be disguised. This, unfortunately, was the case. Louis had no idea of ascending to a purple-and-gold position this evening. Thus the twelve dames posed upon their platform for an hour or more, speaking but seldom, keeping their eyes fastened close on the grand entrance, and longing mightily to join the gay throng about them, where they also might enter into all the little intrigues and mysteries that formed the amusement of such an affair.

Mme. d'Etioles was, whether by nature or cultivation, a remarkably graceful woman. As she moved slowly about the dais, each step was a classic pose, each movement as studied as it seemed careless. From her manner one would have imagined her as tranquilly happy as was the goddess whom she represented. In reality her heart palpitated with anger and mortification. She realized that the King must have arrived long before this. He was somewhere in that company which she looked upon, and from which, by means of this silly display, she was debarred. In gazing leisurely over the crowd, she was able to recognize many of the women and not a few of the men merely by their figures and their manner of walking. There was the Comtesse de Mailly, her all-but-successful rival, fluttering beside a warrior of Clovis' time. Diana shrugged enviously at Deborah's costume. It was made to represent a large white butterfly, or moth, perhaps. The vestment was of white silk crepe, figured with yellow. On her back were two huge wings of grayish gauze, faintly patterned in yellow, and glittering with silver spangles. Her head was crowned with a silver circlet, from which, in front, sprang two long, quivering "feelers" tipped with tiny diamonds that flashed like fireflies as they swayed up and down. The butterfly was presently approached by a slender figure in star-spangled, black gauze draperies, her head ornamented with a larger crescent than that which Diana wore. Mme. d'Etioles did not recognize this black-masked figure, but it was Victorine de Coigny who had chosen the sombre, commonplace raiment. Mme. d'Etioles beheld these two women accosted by a monk--Richelieu--who, later, with a humor of his own, exchanged his Capuchin dress for the red-and-black one of a devil. The helmeted warrior had turned to Mme. de Mailly with an evident invitation to dance. Mme. d'Etioles saw them go off together, and then brought her gaze slowly back towards the platform, encountering, as she did so, a pair of blue eyes that were looking earnestly at her from a white mask. Diana smiled graciously. The owner of the blue eyes emerged from the passing throng and advanced to the edge of the dais. He proved to be a tall, slender person, in the garb of a miller. On arriving at the platform he looked up at Diana, and said, pleasantly: "Surely the old Olympus never knew so fair a goddess."

Jeanne Poisson started. She recognized instantly that peculiar and undisguisable voice. Quickly taking command of the situation, she drew from her quiver a golden arrow, and, pointing it at him over her bow, began slowly to descend the steps.

"Beautiful huntress," cried the King, advancing nearer to her, "the arrows you discharge are fatal!"

Mme. d'Etioles returned the little missile to its place. Louis XV. was close beside her. With a quick, catlike movement, she raised one hand to her face. The white mask came off.

"Ah!" murmured his Majesty.

"_Au revoir_, Sire!" cried the audacious huntress.

The mask was slipped into place again. Diana, free at last, slipped into the throng, leaving her handkerchief (a serious bit of anachronism, considering her character) at the feet of the powdery miller.

Louis looked rather quizzically down at the lacy thing. He had hunted and been hunted many times before, but never just in this way. However, he was not a king to-night. Stooping down, he picked the costly offering from the floor and stood for a moment examining it. It bore no mark, but he needed none to assure him of the identity of its owner. Neither, perhaps, was he unaware of the light in which she regarded him. Ah, well! Generally a king is a king. Sometimes he is a miller. Smiling to himself, Louis tied a loose knot in the handkerchief and then hurried into the crowd in pursuit of the Diana, who had left Olympus for good. He was not obliged to go very far. She stood upon the outer edge of the open floor, watching the dancers. Between him and her was an open space of twenty feet. He raised his hand.

"Take care, your Majesty!" cried a daring voice from one of the sets. It was from the lips of a tall Capuchin monk.

The King flushed. Every eye in the room was upon him now, he felt. The heart of madame beat furiously. Yet--no--the royal arm was not lowered. Louis, with a bow, tossed the handkerchief to her feet. A dozen hands sought to give it to her. Again from the irrepressible dancer came a cry which was echoed in laughter from every part of the throng.

"The handkerchief is thrown!" Which were more truly translated, "The die is cast!"

Nevertheless, the significance of that prophecy even Mme. d'Etioles herself did not realize until, in after-years, she had come to know too well that it had been a warning.

Deborah, meantime, found the evening flying all too rapidly. Masked balls were by no means such hackneyed affairs to her as they appeared to be to most of the Court. That given at Versailles three nights before was the first in which she had participated; and the little mysteries occasioned by unguessed partners during the promenades amused her greatly. To-night she was able to pierce the disguises more easily; and yet, all unknowing, she had danced with Richelieu, who was well pleased with this opportunity of being with her. She, like all the others, recognized the King by his voice. Nevertheless, at the throwing of the handkerchief, she laughed, and cried the catch-word with the others, evincing so little concern at the success of her rival that de Gêvres' admiration for a self-control that was not hers rose high.

Deborah danced the fourth minuet with a Turk, who persisted in carrying on conversation by signs. When, however, in the midst of the dance, her companion was obliged to laugh at one of her observations, she understood his reason. It was the King again. Evidently Claude had pierced this new disguise when she did. He, in a plain white domino, had followed her all evening, danced in the sets with her, and rendered her as uncomfortable as she was to be made by his surveillance. The King himself noticed, without recognizing, this watcher. After the fourth dance, therefore, he made inquiries of de Gêvres, who happened to be at hand:

"The man in white, who is always near Mme. de Mailly?"

"Who should it be, Sire, but--the husband? I understand that Monsieur le Comte is exceedingly fearful of madame's reputation."

"_Peste_! That man is a nuisance. There will come a time, de Gêvres, when Count Claude will be quite _de trop_."

"Again?" ventured the Duke.

"Again," responded his liege, turning on his heel and walking away.

"Alas! poor Claude!" And de Gêvres stood still for an instant, musing, with a philosophic smile, on the history, past and present, of this house of de Mailly, whose women were all too fair--and too femininely weak.

Deborah was now accosted by a black domino with a silver mask, who had just left the side of Mme. d'Etioles. She granted his request for a dance, and then joined him in the promenade. He proved to be very complaisant and very gallant. Deborah quickly recognized his style of compliment, and the pretty couplets, with their epigrammatic turns, which flowed as easily from his lips as wine would have run into them. It was none other than the man of many strings--the Abbé de Bernis. He was in high spirits with his evening, with Mme. d'Etioles' odd experience, and the quick popularity which it had engendered among a certain set pleased him nearly as much as it did Diana herself.

The abbé had not approached Victorine that evening. He of course recognized her at once, by her thin arms and slight figure; and he was aware that she would know him by the silver mask, which he had worn on a previous occasion. She had even danced in the same sixteen with him while he was with Deborah, a fact which rendered de Bernis not a little uneasy for fear Mme. de Coigny should have seized some opportunity of addressing him with the conventional reproaches. His fears were not realized. Victorine made no attempt to waylay him. He only felt the steady gaze of her big eyes through the mask, and his nonchalance was proof against that. He began to congratulate himself on a possible happy issue from a disagreeable situation. But the good abbé was too quick to hope.

Victorine was in a dull maze of thought. She was living far away, to-night, in a land where it seemed as though she could look back upon herself and her past life. She suffered neither mentally nor physically; and she did not realize how she was pressing towards a great mental climax, presaged by this calm. Nevertheless, in the midst of the commonplace throng, she thought much. While she watched, now from one point, now another, the movements of the black domino, and while she talked with intelligence, even with wit, to a series of partners, she was reviewing, with calm, methodical precision, the history of the single human connection which had brought happiness into her child's life. From its inception to the present moment every scene in the drama which they two, de Bernis and herself, had acted, passed now before her mental eyes. She recalled, with a wondering thrill, the great, perfect happiness of the first months; and she perceived, with slow, sure precision, the later undeniable lessening of her hold upon his affections. The reason for this? That question she had never asked before. Now the answer came at once, quite plainly. It was not jealousy that made reply. No, no. She saw truly. It was only--ambition. She could not help him higher. She had given all that was hers to give, and more, perhaps. Had he quite ceased to profit by it? Was it quite finished? Victorine caught her breath and looked around her. De Bernis, drawn by accident, was just beside her, still talking to Deborah, towards whom the King was again advancing. At the same moment Victorine beheld a gentleman of Henry IV.'s time approaching her. His walk resembled that of the Marquis de Mailly-Nesle. Divining his purpose, she frowned with displeasure to think that he might keep her from her newly formed project.

"Madame," said Henri, bowing, "may I ask your hand for the next dance?"

"Monsieur," she returned, with a slight courtesy, "I remember that the King of Navarre was wont to enter into mad dances with Night. If you have not M. de Sully to accompany us, I am afraid to venture."

De Bernis, from whom the King had taken Deborah, caught this remark, and, without turning to the speaker, stood still, listening.

"Madame, in my old life Night was never cruel; though I admit that she was never half so fair."

"Ah, you are wrong! The stars are very pale, to-night."

"The moon is over them, and they faint with envy."

Victorine shrugged, rather impatiently.

"Well--your hand, Madame la Maréchale?" repeated the Marquis, gently, abandoning the pleasantry.

"I greatly regret, monsieur, that I am already engaged."

"Indeed! To whom? Shall I seek your recreant knight?"

"He is here," responded Victorine, calmly. "This black domino has my hand."

De Bernis started.

"Then, monsieur, you should claim it at once to avoid further mistake!" observed the Marquis, rather irritably. And, bowing to the lady, he turned upon his heel and walked away.

Mme. de Coigny and the abbé faced each other. Victorine did not speak. De Bernis, after a moment, did so from necessity. "Madame has done me the honor to make me a convenience. Does she wish, in reality, to dance?"

"It has been your custom, François, to dance with me during the evening. Can you not recall the time when you begrudged me a single minuet, a single promenade, with another?"

"One may remember many useless things, madame." If the Fates gave opportunity so soon, de Bernis was not the man to refuse to take it. If he broke with her to-night, the morrow would be free.

"Give me your arm. I wish to walk," she said, in a quiet imperative.

He offered it silently, and they joined the moving procession.

"You are very quiet, madame," he observed presently.

"Let us go, then, to where we may speak freely."

They crossed the room to the now deserted dais, and here, behind the purple folds of the canopy's drapery, they halted and stepped apart. In this recess they were well screened from the throng, which they could see passing, repassing, mingling, circling in the space before them. And here, safe from curious eyes, Victorine removed the mask from her pallid face, and turned to the man. De Bernis also pulled off his silver disguise, breathing with relief as the air, hot though it was, touched his cheeks.

"And now, François, here, at last, we will talk together, as we should have done many weeks ago."

"What are we to say?" he asked, warily.

"You shall answer my accusation."

"What is that?" There was an expression very like a sneer upon his face.

"That you are tired of me. That you--intend--to desert me."

He smiled slowly. "Desert you? Impossible! You are married."

Her breath was caught by a sob, and her throat contracted spasmodically before she could make reply. "Spiritually, it is the same thing. I have loved--only you."

De Bernis did not speak now. Perhaps he was thinking.

"What have I done to turn you away? I have never wept before you, never complained to you, never showed jealousy of any one connected with you. What have I done?"

"Nothing, Victorine."

"Then why, François?"

Her calmness was disconcerting. He could have endured an outbreak very well, but this was beyond him. He only answered, awkwardly, "I do not know."

"But you _are_ tired of me?"

There was a moment's silence. The woman waited. The man, with a physical effort, gathered himself together. At length, stepping a little back from her, and looking, not into her eyes, for that he could not do, but at her low, white forehead that was crowned with the dusky hair and the bright crescent, he spoke: "Victorine--Victorine--you are mistaken in this matter. Well as you believe that you know me, after the long months that you have had in which to study me, you can no more judge me or my motives than you can read the mind of monsieur your husband. You say that you have never shown jealousy to me. You were right not to do that, for there has never been need of it. You are probably the only woman for whom I shall ever care enough to regret having injured. You, I do regret. Believe it. It is true. But, madame, our connection is over. It has been over for me, as you surmise, for some weeks. I love no other woman. But there is something which I do value above all things, yes, above you. I am very frank, because it is necessary. My ambition, my desire for place, is what I live for. There is no room for you in that life of mine. You force me to say it. After to-night, Mme. de Coigny, after to-night, do you understand that I wish to meet you only as an acquaintance, as a woman of the world, of Paris, Versailles, the salons? I would have you quite understand this, now, since we are speaking together, alone."

Victorine heard him without interruption, her eyes fixed upon his finely featured face. When he ceased to speak, those eyes closed for an instant. She passed her hand across her forehead. Then she said, in a tired voice: "After to-night, François. Yes. I understand."

He watched her refasten her mask. Then she turned to him with a little inclination of the head. "_Au revoir_."

He started forward. "Let me accompany you."

"Thank you, no. I shall find an escort." And she walked away.

De Bernis stared after her in amazement. How splendidly she had behaved! In what a wretched light she placed him! After all, she was not an ordinary woman. Never before had he witnessed such self-command; never had he hoped to pass through the scene so easily, without a single reproach, without a tear. He could scarcely yet understand.

Leaving the little recess, he stood for a moment or two undecidedly watching the throng before him. The noise of mirth was louder than ever, though the crowd was not so great. De Bernis' head ached with the heat. He would leave the Hôtel de Ville and seek his own rooms for sleep. Making his way slowly to the dressing-rooms, he removed his domino, donned a black cloak and hat, and, leaving the great building, turned his steps wearily towards his apartment in the Rue Bailleuls. Twenty minutes later a slight, black-robed, closely hooded figure also left the Hôtel de Ville, and, as she stepped into the waiting coach, gave an unusual order to the stolid footman:

"To the Rue Bailleuls, the house at the corner of the Rue Jean Tissin."