The House of de Mailly

by Margaret Horton Potter

The first sound that broke the stillness in the room of the Rue Bailleuls was the same as that on which silence had fallen—the long-drawn sigh of a woman. Then de Bernis whispered, imperatively: "Madame—you must go. Morning dawns."

A second after came the gentle reply: "Yes, François. Have no fear. I go."

As the gray dawn came up at last over the eastern horizon, a coach rattled through the city streets upon its way to the Sèvres barrier. Inside, upon the cushions, her reclining figure covered with a heavy velvet robe, her drawn face showing paler than the day in its frame of disordered hair, covered with the black hood, lay Mme. de Coigny. Her eyes wandered aimlessly from one window of the coach to the other. Without thought, without feeling of any kind, she beheld the tall, narrow houses with their wooden galleries and crazy, outer staircases; the shuttered shops, the narrow, lifeless streets. As they neared the barrier they passed the first market carts, laden with butter, milk, eggs, cheese, and meat. There were no green things at this time of year. And yet—it was the first day of March, the first day of spring. The long winter was at an end. Summer would presently be back.

The panelled coach passed out of the city without difficulty, and entered, upon the country road. The pale yellow light along the end of the distant horizon grew brighter. Victorine regarded it dully. The coach jolted and jarred over the frozen ruts in the road. Bare-branched trees swayed in the biting morning wind. The inhabitants of the rude houses and taverns along the way still slept. The sweet, frosty air of very early morning came gratefully to the lips of the woman; but, as she breathed it in, she shivered, and drew her coverings a little closer. Presently they drew near to Versailles, and smoke began to rise lazily from the chimneys of the houses and to drift slowly upward. A few moments more, and the cumbrous vehicle stopped before a house of stone. It was Victorine de Coigny's "home." A footman leaped from the back of the coach to the ground and opened the door for her. With a strong effort she alighted, leaning heavily on the servant's arm.

At her knock the concierge, just dressed for the day, bowed her into the house, looking sharply the while at her pinched, expressionless face. She did not see him. Before her were the stairs. By the strength of her will she ascended them, and was presently admitted to the apartment on the first floor. To the slight surprise of the waiting valet, she forbade him to call her maid; and then, without further commands, passed into her own room. Here she flung off her hood and pelisse. Then, with quiet, stealthy steps, she crossed the passage into her husband's room.

Marshal Coigny, weary with the long night at Paris, whence he had returned an hour or two since, conscience-free, careless, from long training, of his wife's whereabouts, lay in a sound sleep, dreaming of her, perhaps. He had not heard her return to the house; and he was perfectly unaware of her quiet entrance into his room.

She passed him without a look, and went straight to the cabinet where he kept papers, orders, medals, trophies of the last campaign, his sword, and his duelling pistols. One of these last, silver-mounted weapons, loaded for possible use, Victorine took, weighing it in her hand a second before she began her retreat. She could not leave the room as she had entered it, without a glance at him whose name she had borne for three years. For an instant she paused beside his bed, looking a little wistfully at the face that was half turned from her.

"Jules," she said, so softly that de Coigny, had he been awake, could not have heard her, "Jules, I have been very wicked, very cruel to you. May God put it into your heart that I tell you so—now. Perhaps, somewhere, some time, you will find a good woman who will love you as I did—him. When that time comes, Jules, try to think a little kindly of me—sometimes."

Then, with a faint, tired sigh, she turned from him and went back into her own room.

Three or four minutes later the Marquis de Coigny was roused from his sleep by the sharp crack of a pistol-shot. Opening his eyes dreamily for an instant, he rolled over again, murmuring, "Magnificent—your Majesty!"