The House of de Mailly

by Margaret Horton Potter

"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 of amanita muscaria and amanita phalloides which 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?"