The House of de Mailly

by Margaret Horton Potter

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, made en 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."