The House of de Mailly

by Margaret Horton Potter

"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.