The House of de Mailly

by Margaret Horton Potter

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.