The Hôtel de Ville
For the next seven weeks life in the de Mailly _ménage_ was anything
but agreeable. Monsieur and madame addressed each other, when
necessary, in rigidly polite terms. Ordinarily there was silence
between them. Claude's jealousy was very real, and, if one judged by
Court gossip and the manner of the King, instead of Deborah's acts,
it was by no means unfounded. Claude always knew where his wife was
and to what solemn functions and small parties she went. If
questioned absolutely, he would have admitted that he believed her
true--as yet. But he lived upon the extreme edge of a volcanic
crater, and the existence was not tranquil. He grew morose,
irritable, and habitually silent. Rarely was he to be found in his
usual haunts, in his usual company; but remained at home, or in Paris
with Henri, when he was not, with all too palpable anxiety, following
his wife. His new manner was speedily remarked by the Court.
"De Mailly is showing execrably bad taste," observed the Marquis de
Tessé to the Comte d'Egmont, one evening at Marly.
"Poor fellow! It is a pity he has such good taste in women. He
courts his wife like a lover."
"Bah! He watches her like a duenna. He _courts_ something
different."
"And what is that, my dear Marquis?"
"When the King is quite ready--a new exile."
"Ah!"
But the King was, at any rate, not ready yet. When he came out of
his retirement he found many things demanding immediate attention;
and the chief of these was something which promised great and
brilliant gayety for the Court. It was the approaching marriage of
the Dauphin, whose betrothal to the Infanta Maria Theresa Antoinette
Raphaelle, daughter of Philip V. of Spain, had been arranged to
obliterate the memory of the insult to the younger sister of the
Princess, who, designed for the wife of Louis XV. himself, and
brought up in France, had been returned with thanks to Spain, at the
instigation of Mme. de Prie, who had fancied herself, for a little
while, a successful creator of queens. Preparations for the
celebration of the Dauphin's wedding were therefore begun on the most
elaborate scale which the King and Richelieu together could devise;
and with the beginning of the new year came a series of
entertainments given at Versailles, or by great families in Paris
_hôtels_, which allowed the Court no time for anything but thoughts
of the splendor of existence and the details of new costumes.
It was not till February, however, that the Dauphiness Infanta
arrived in France; and on the 20th day of that month the King rode to
Etampes to meet her. She and her sixteen-year-old Dauphin were
married in the Chapel of Versailles on February 23d, in the presence
of their Majesties and as many persons of blue blood as the place
would hold.
"My Heaven, but she is homely!" whispered the Maréchale de Mirepoix
to Mme. de Boufflers.
"All princesses are, my dear. It is one of their duties to be
hideous. The good God could not give them too much. They say she is
sympathetic."
"One would need to be with that countenance. Poor Dauphin."
"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.
It was understood that the twelve goddesses were to remain on their
Olympus until Jove, otherwise his Majesty, made his appearance in the
room. But it had occurred to no one that, in all probability, the
King's entrance would be unobserved, since he, also, was to be
disguised. This, unfortunately, was the case. Louis had no idea of
ascending to a purple-and-gold position this evening. Thus the
twelve dames posed upon their platform for an hour or more, speaking
but seldom, keeping their eyes fastened close on the grand entrance,
and longing mightily to join the gay throng about them, where they
also might enter into all the little intrigues and mysteries that
formed the amusement of such an affair.
Mme. d'Etioles was, whether by nature or cultivation, a remarkably
graceful woman. As she moved slowly about the dais, each step was a
classic pose, each movement as studied as it seemed careless. From
her manner one would have imagined her as tranquilly happy as was the
goddess whom she represented. In reality her heart palpitated with
anger and mortification. She realized that the King must have
arrived long before this. He was somewhere in that company which she
looked upon, and from which, by means of this silly display, she was
debarred. In gazing leisurely over the crowd, she was able to
recognize many of the women and not a few of the men merely by their
figures and their manner of walking. There was the Comtesse de
Mailly, her all-but-successful rival, fluttering beside a warrior of
Clovis' time. Diana shrugged enviously at Deborah's costume. It was
made to represent a large white butterfly, or moth, perhaps. The
vestment was of white silk crepe, figured with yellow. On her back
were two huge wings of grayish gauze, faintly patterned in yellow,
and glittering with silver spangles. Her head was crowned with a
silver circlet, from which, in front, sprang two long, quivering
"feelers" tipped with tiny diamonds that flashed like fireflies as
they swayed up and down. The butterfly was presently approached by a
slender figure in star-spangled, black gauze draperies, her head
ornamented with a larger crescent than that which Diana wore. Mme.
d'Etioles did not recognize this black-masked figure, but it was
Victorine de Coigny who had chosen the sombre, commonplace raiment.
Mme. d'Etioles beheld these two women accosted by a
monk--Richelieu--who, later, with a humor of his own, exchanged his
Capuchin dress for the red-and-black one of a devil. The helmeted
warrior had turned to Mme. de Mailly with an evident invitation to
dance. Mme. d'Etioles saw them go off together, and then brought her
gaze slowly back towards the platform, encountering, as she did so, a
pair of blue eyes that were looking earnestly at her from a white
mask. Diana smiled graciously. The owner of the blue eyes emerged
from the passing throng and advanced to the edge of the dais. He
proved to be a tall, slender person, in the garb of a miller. On
arriving at the platform he looked up at Diana, and said, pleasantly:
"Surely the old Olympus never knew so fair a goddess."
Jeanne Poisson started. She recognized instantly that peculiar and
undisguisable voice. Quickly taking command of the situation, she
drew from her quiver a golden arrow, and, pointing it at him over her
bow, began slowly to descend the steps.
"Beautiful huntress," cried the King, advancing nearer to her, "the
arrows you discharge are fatal!"
Mme. d'Etioles returned the little missile to its place. Louis XV.
was close beside her. With a quick, catlike movement, she raised one
hand to her face. The white mask came off.
"Ah!" murmured his Majesty.
"_Au revoir_, Sire!" cried the audacious huntress.
The mask was slipped into place again. Diana, free at last, slipped
into the throng, leaving her handkerchief (a serious bit of
anachronism, considering her character) at the feet of the powdery
miller.
Louis looked rather quizzically down at the lacy thing. He had
hunted and been hunted many times before, but never just in this way.
However, he was not a king to-night. Stooping down, he picked the
costly offering from the floor and stood for a moment examining it.
It bore no mark, but he needed none to assure him of the identity of
its owner. Neither, perhaps, was he unaware of the light in which
she regarded him. Ah, well! Generally a king is a king. Sometimes
he is a miller. Smiling to himself, Louis tied a loose knot in the
handkerchief and then hurried into the crowd in pursuit of the Diana,
who had left Olympus for good. He was not obliged to go very far.
She stood upon the outer edge of the open floor, watching the
dancers. Between him and her was an open space of twenty feet. He
raised his hand.
"Take care, your Majesty!" cried a daring voice from one of the sets.
It was from the lips of a tall Capuchin monk.
The King flushed. Every eye in the room was upon him now, he felt.
The heart of madame beat furiously. Yet--no--the royal arm was not
lowered. Louis, with a bow, tossed the handkerchief to her feet. A
dozen hands sought to give it to her. Again from the irrepressible
dancer came a cry which was echoed in laughter from every part of the
throng.
"The handkerchief is thrown!" Which were more truly translated, "The
die is cast!"
Nevertheless, the significance of that prophecy even Mme. d'Etioles
herself did not realize until, in after-years, she had come to know
too well that it had been a warning.
Deborah, meantime, found the evening flying all too rapidly. Masked
balls were by no means such hackneyed affairs to her as they appeared
to be to most of the Court. That given at Versailles three nights
before was the first in which she had participated; and the little
mysteries occasioned by unguessed partners during the promenades
amused her greatly. To-night she was able to pierce the disguises
more easily; and yet, all unknowing, she had danced with Richelieu,
who was well pleased with this opportunity of being with her. She,
like all the others, recognized the King by his voice. Nevertheless,
at the throwing of the handkerchief, she laughed, and cried the
catch-word with the others, evincing so little concern at the success
of her rival that de Gêvres' admiration for a self-control that was
not hers rose high.
Deborah danced the fourth minuet with a Turk, who persisted in
carrying on conversation by signs. When, however, in the midst of
the dance, her companion was obliged to laugh at one of her
observations, she understood his reason. It was the King again.
Evidently Claude had pierced this new disguise when she did. He, in
a plain white domino, had followed her all evening, danced in the
sets with her, and rendered her as uncomfortable as she was to be
made by his surveillance. The King himself noticed, without
recognizing, this watcher. After the fourth dance, therefore, he
made inquiries of de Gêvres, who happened to be at hand:
"The man in white, who is always near Mme. de Mailly?"
"Who should it be, Sire, but--the husband? I understand that
Monsieur le Comte is exceedingly fearful of madame's reputation."
"_Peste_! That man is a nuisance. There will come a time, de
Gêvres, when Count Claude will be quite _de trop_."
"Again?" ventured the Duke.
"Again," responded his liege, turning on his heel and walking away.
"Alas! poor Claude!" And de Gêvres stood still for an instant,
musing, with a philosophic smile, on the history, past and present,
of this house of de Mailly, whose women were all too fair--and too
femininely weak.
Deborah was now accosted by a black domino with a silver mask, who
had just left the side of Mme. d'Etioles. She granted his request
for a dance, and then joined him in the promenade. He proved to be
very complaisant and very gallant. Deborah quickly recognized his
style of compliment, and the pretty couplets, with their epigrammatic
turns, which flowed as easily from his lips as wine would have run
into them. It was none other than the man of many strings--the Abbé
de Bernis. He was in high spirits with his evening, with Mme.
d'Etioles' odd experience, and the quick popularity which it had
engendered among a certain set pleased him nearly as much as it did
Diana herself.
The abbé had not approached Victorine that evening. He of course
recognized her at once, by her thin arms and slight figure; and he
was aware that she would know him by the silver mask, which he had
worn on a previous occasion. She had even danced in the same sixteen
with him while he was with Deborah, a fact which rendered de Bernis
not a little uneasy for fear Mme. de Coigny should have seized some
opportunity of addressing him with the conventional reproaches. His
fears were not realized. Victorine made no attempt to waylay him.
He only felt the steady gaze of her big eyes through the mask, and
his nonchalance was proof against that. He began to congratulate
himself on a possible happy issue from a disagreeable situation. But
the good abbé was too quick to hope.
Victorine was in a dull maze of thought. She was living far away,
to-night, in a land where it seemed as though she could look back
upon herself and her past life. She suffered neither mentally nor
physically; and she did not realize how she was pressing towards a
great mental climax, presaged by this calm. Nevertheless, in the
midst of the commonplace throng, she thought much. While she
watched, now from one point, now another, the movements of the black
domino, and while she talked with intelligence, even with wit, to a
series of partners, she was reviewing, with calm, methodical
precision, the history of the single human connection which had
brought happiness into her child's life. From its inception to the
present moment every scene in the drama which they two, de Bernis and
herself, had acted, passed now before her mental eyes. She recalled,
with a wondering thrill, the great, perfect happiness of the first
months; and she perceived, with slow, sure precision, the later
undeniable lessening of her hold upon his affections. The reason for
this? That question she had never asked before. Now the answer came
at once, quite plainly. It was not jealousy that made reply. No,
no. She saw truly. It was only--ambition. She could not help him
higher. She had given all that was hers to give, and more, perhaps.
Had he quite ceased to profit by it? Was it quite finished?
Victorine caught her breath and looked around her. De Bernis, drawn
by accident, was just beside her, still talking to Deborah, towards
whom the King was again advancing. At the same moment Victorine
beheld a gentleman of Henry IV.'s time approaching her. His walk
resembled that of the Marquis de Mailly-Nesle. Divining his purpose,
she frowned with displeasure to think that he might keep her from her
newly formed project.
"Madame," said Henri, bowing, "may I ask your hand for the next
dance?"
"Monsieur," she returned, with a slight courtesy, "I remember that
the King of Navarre was wont to enter into mad dances with Night. If
you have not M. de Sully to accompany us, I am afraid to venture."
De Bernis, from whom the King had taken Deborah, caught this remark,
and, without turning to the speaker, stood still, listening.
"Madame, in my old life Night was never cruel; though I admit that
she was never half so fair."
"Ah, you are wrong! The stars are very pale, to-night."
"The moon is over them, and they faint with envy."
Victorine shrugged, rather impatiently.
"Well--your hand, Madame la Maréchale?" repeated the Marquis, gently,
abandoning the pleasantry.
"I greatly regret, monsieur, that I am already engaged."
"Indeed! To whom? Shall I seek your recreant knight?"
"He is here," responded Victorine, calmly. "This black domino has my
hand."
De Bernis started.
"Then, monsieur, you should claim it at once to avoid further
mistake!" observed the Marquis, rather irritably. And, bowing to the
lady, he turned upon his heel and walked away.
Mme. de Coigny and the abbé faced each other. Victorine did not
speak. De Bernis, after a moment, did so from necessity. "Madame
has done me the honor to make me a convenience. Does she wish, in
reality, to dance?"
"It has been your custom, François, to dance with me during the
evening. Can you not recall the time when you begrudged me a single
minuet, a single promenade, with another?"
"One may remember many useless things, madame." If the Fates gave
opportunity so soon, de Bernis was not the man to refuse to take it.
If he broke with her to-night, the morrow would be free.
"Give me your arm. I wish to walk," she said, in a quiet imperative.
He offered it silently, and they joined the moving procession.
"You are very quiet, madame," he observed presently.
"Let us go, then, to where we may speak freely."
They crossed the room to the now deserted dais, and here, behind the
purple folds of the canopy's drapery, they halted and stepped apart.
In this recess they were well screened from the throng, which they
could see passing, repassing, mingling, circling in the space before
them. And here, safe from curious eyes, Victorine removed the mask
from her pallid face, and turned to the man. De Bernis also pulled
off his silver disguise, breathing with relief as the air, hot though
it was, touched his cheeks.
"And now, François, here, at last, we will talk together, as we
should have done many weeks ago."
"What are we to say?" he asked, warily.
"You shall answer my accusation."
"What is that?" There was an expression very like a sneer upon his
face.
"That you are tired of me. That you--intend--to desert me."
He smiled slowly. "Desert you? Impossible! You are married."
Her breath was caught by a sob, and her throat contracted
spasmodically before she could make reply. "Spiritually, it is the
same thing. I have loved--only you."
De Bernis did not speak now. Perhaps he was thinking.
"What have I done to turn you away? I have never wept before you,
never complained to you, never showed jealousy of any one connected
with you. What have I done?"
"Nothing, Victorine."
"Then why, François?"
Her calmness was disconcerting. He could have endured an outbreak
very well, but this was beyond him. He only answered, awkwardly, "I
do not know."
"But you _are_ tired of me?"
There was a moment's silence. The woman waited. The man, with a
physical effort, gathered himself together. At length, stepping a
little back from her, and looking, not into her eyes, for that he
could not do, but at her low, white forehead that was crowned with
the dusky hair and the bright crescent, he spoke:
"Victorine--Victorine--you are mistaken in this matter. Well as you
believe that you know me, after the long months that you have had in
which to study me, you can no more judge me or my motives than you
can read the mind of monsieur your husband. You say that you have
never shown jealousy to me. You were right not to do that, for there
has never been need of it. You are probably the only woman for whom
I shall ever care enough to regret having injured. You, I do regret.
Believe it. It is true. But, madame, our connection is over. It
has been over for me, as you surmise, for some weeks. I love no
other woman. But there is something which I do value above all
things, yes, above you. I am very frank, because it is necessary.
My ambition, my desire for place, is what I live for. There is no
room for you in that life of mine. You force me to say it. After
to-night, Mme. de Coigny, after to-night, do you understand that I
wish to meet you only as an acquaintance, as a woman of the world, of
Paris, Versailles, the salons? I would have you quite understand
this, now, since we are speaking together, alone."
Victorine heard him without interruption, her eyes fixed upon his
finely featured face. When he ceased to speak, those eyes closed for
an instant. She passed her hand across her forehead. Then she said,
in a tired voice: "After to-night, François. Yes. I understand."
He watched her refasten her mask. Then she turned to him with a
little inclination of the head. "_Au revoir_."
He started forward. "Let me accompany you."
"Thank you, no. I shall find an escort." And she walked away.
De Bernis stared after her in amazement. How splendidly she had
behaved! In what a wretched light she placed him! After all, she
was not an ordinary woman. Never before had he witnessed such
self-command; never had he hoped to pass through the scene so easily,
without a single reproach, without a tear. He could scarcely yet
understand.
Leaving the little recess, he stood for a moment or two undecidedly
watching the throng before him. The noise of mirth was louder than
ever, though the crowd was not so great. De Bernis' head ached with
the heat. He would leave the Hôtel de Ville and seek his own rooms
for sleep. Making his way slowly to the dressing-rooms, he removed
his domino, donned a black cloak and hat, and, leaving the great
building, turned his steps wearily towards his apartment in the Rue
Bailleuls. Twenty minutes later a slight, black-robed, closely
hooded figure also left the Hôtel de Ville, and, as she stepped into
the waiting coach, gave an unusual order to the stolid footman:
"To the Rue Bailleuls, the house at the corner of the Rue Jean
Tissin."