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.