The House of de Mailly

by Margaret Horton Potter

At a quarter to seven on this particular Saturday, four candles burned in the Gallery of Mirrors, and their petty light made of that usually magnificent place a shadowy, dreary gulf of gloom. Ordinarily, at this hour, the salon was deserted. To-night, it appeared, one individual was unhappy enough to find the place harmonious with his mood. This solitaire, who had twice paced the length of the hall, finally seated himself on a tabouret with his back to the wall, and, leaning his head against a mirror, gave himself up to some decidedly uncomfortable thoughts. It was Claude de Mailly who was young enough and unwise enough to surrender himself to his mood in such a place, at such an hour. Only late in life does the courtier learn how dangerous a thing is melancholy. Claude had not come to this yet; and for that reason, through one long hour, he remained in darkness, meditating upon a situation which he could not, or, more properly, would not, help. For Claude's eyes were well open to the precarious position into which he had got himself; they were open even to his more than possible fall. Nor was he ignorant of the direction in which salvation lay—the instant bending to Louis' wishes, repudiation of the favorite, and devotion to some other woman. But, to his honor be it said, Claude de Mailly was deeply enough in love and loyal enough by nature to scorn the very contemplation of such action. He could not see very far into the future. He dared not try to pierce the veil that hid the to-come from him. He would not think of consequences. Perhaps he was not capable of imagining them; for, to him, life and Versailles were synonymous terms, and the world beyond was space.

His vague and varied meditations were broken in upon by the appearance of eight lackeys, who had come to light the room for the evening. Claude rose from his place and slipped away by a side-door. He had nothing to do, nowhere in particular to go. The Œil-de-Bœuf would be deserted. The Court was dressing. An hour before, dismal with the loneliness of the gray sky and the falling snow, he had left his rooms in Versailles. He was dressed for the evening, but had had nothing to eat since the dinner hour. An idea came to him presently, and he bent his steps in the direction of the Staircase of the Ambassadors. At the head of this, on the second floor, he halted, knocking at a well-known door. It was opened after a moment by a well-known lackey. Claude thrust a coin into the man's hand, and passed out of the antechamber, through a half-lighted salon, and into the Persian boudoir where sat Mme. de Châteauroux and Victorine de Coigny, comfortably taking tea à l'anglaise together, and talking as only women, and women of an unholy but very entertaining Court, can talk. The little Marquise was dressed for the assembly. The duchess was coiffed, patched, and rouged, but en négligé. She rose nervously at Claude's entrance.

"Claude! Claude! How unceremonious you are!"

"And did you hear what we were saying of you, monsieur?" asked Victorine, smiling mischievously, as she gave him her hand.

"Fortunately for my vanity, madame, no," he returned, bending over it; then, at her ripple of laughter, he crossed to his cousin, took her proffered fingers, but, instead of kissing them, seized them in both his hands, clasped them close to his breast, and looked searchingly into her eyes.

"Anne, Anne, I have suffered so!" he murmured. "I wonder—if you care?"

Mme. de Coigny sprang up. "At least, monsieur, give me time to retire! Your ardor is so remarkable!"

The Duchess laughed and gently withdrew her hand from Claude's grasp. She was in excellent spirits. Never had she passed a more uniformly successful week at Court than the one just ending. If she had purchased much royal devotion, and much toadyism from hitherto lofty personages at Claude's expense, why—that was Claude's affair. His career was not in her keeping; but she could, and did, treat him very amiably in private for the sake of the fierce jealousy which he was inspiring in her royal lover. It was one of her cleverest manœuvres, one that had been tried before, this playing some quite insignificant little person against Louis of France; for the King was ardently in love for the first time, and had not yet grown old in the knowledge of woman's ways.

"Come, Claude," entreated madame, "sit here, and take at least one dish of this charming beverage. And the patties are by Mouthier himself. You must taste them; and Mme. de Coigny shall entertain you, while my dress is put on."

He accepted the invitation readily enough, seated himself at the little table, and began an attack on Mouthier's patties with such good-will that Mme. de Coigny held up her hands.