Again the Duke shrugged. "Really, my friend, I know nothing. The Maréchal has never honored me with domestic confidences."
This, in substance, together with the complete story of her death, and endless conjectures as to its immediate cause, was all that was anywhere repeated, in Bull's-Eye or salon. Naturally enough, then, people began to grow weary of the subject, and at length little Victorine, with her hopeless tragedy, was laid aside, to become one of that company of ghosts who, as memories, haunted the corridors of the great palace, to be recalled occasionally from oblivion upon a dull and rainy day.
And now another topic, one by no means new, but freshened in interest, was introduced, by hints, to the general room from the King's cabinet, for the entertainment of the scandal-mongers. This was the de Maillys once more. For many weeks, now, his Majesty had purposely suspended the long-awaited choice, and had paid his court with equal gallantry to half a dozen women. After the incident of the "throwing the handkerchief," a topic long since threadbare in the salons, Mme. d'Etioles, bourgeoise though she was, seemed to stand a fair chance for the post. Thereafter, periodically, she had been rumored as being separated from her husband, of living now at Paris, now at Sénart, again at Versailles—perhaps in the palace itself. Nothing definite was known in the Œil or the Queen's circle. D'Argenson looked wise, and Bachelier blinked occasionally, but the matter got no further, and nothing was proclaimed. All this, however, was later, through the last of March and the beginning of April. Some time since, during the first week in March, indeed, the Cabinet du Conseil learned something of royal intentions in another quarter. On a certain Friday some orders were given, a paper made out at Majesty's command by de Berryer, and from Maurepas certain others demanded, the subject of which made even that imperturbable person start with surprise. Such papers were expected to be in readiness by Saturday afternoon.
Upon the momentous Friday young d'Argenson and Phélippeaux de Maurepas encountered each other, by chance, in the vaisselier. These two, who were never to be found talking together in the public rooms, were of necessity so intimate in private that the one could fairly read the other's thoughts by the curve of the lips or the shape of the brow. To-day, both minds being on the same subject, both mouths formed into the same peculiar smile of greeting as the two found themselves alone in this inner room. Maurepas was on his way to the grand gallery. D'Argenson, to his great disgust, was at work enumerating candlesticks (the King being prone to periodic spells of household economy). At one end of the table Maurepas stopped, looking down in some amusement at his comrade's task.
"You would make a woeful housekeeper, Marc. Now I—have been occupied in a more engrossing way."
"Eh? Oh, something apropos of the little de Mailly."
"Your astuteness is unsurpassed. Can you guess the next thing—the subject of my labors?"
"I thought that I had guessed it," was the reply.
"Oh, no. Mme. de Mailly is their object."
"I am, then, at a loss."