The House of de Mailly

It was the evening of Tuesday, January 12th, in the year 1744. By six o'clock the gray of afternoon had deepened to the blackness of night, and a heavy rain began to fall, so that the Sèvres road, a mile beyond the Paris barrier, was shortly thick with mud. The only light here visible came from the window of a wretched tavern at the way-side; and by this mine host, had he been watching, would have had some difficulty in perceiving the two riders who came to an uncertain halt by his door.

"It is late, du Plessis, and we have still three miles to go. More than that, 'tis the worst cabaret in France."

"And you would be no more of a Jean-Jacques than necessary to-night--eh, Claude?" returned the other good-humoredly.

"I should prefer drowning or to perish of a rheum by the way than be poisoned by the liquor to be had here," returned the other, flicking his saddle restlessly with his riding-whip.

"So be it, then. Come, we waste time. Mordi! A little gently there, I beseech! It is raining mud."

A dig of the spur in the thoroughbred's flank, a spattering of drops from the puddle in which they had stood, a quick apology, and the landlord had lost his guests, illustrious guests, who paid never a sou too much for their wine, but could make a drinking-place the fashion for weeks by five minutes' presence within it.

The two rode for some minutes in silence, though no one of the finest apperception could have felt any enmity existent between them. The night lowered. The rain pelted coldly from the starless sky; and horses and riders alike shrank from the raw, streaming atmosphere. When the silence was again broken the lights of Paris were visible in the distance. This time it seemed that du Plessis--the Duc de Richelieu--addressed his companion's secret thoughts as though he had been reading them for some time past.

"Believe me, Claude, you are unwise. She is not quite--quite of your fibre. The elder branch, you will often find, if you study these things, is less quick in sensibility, though perhaps not lacking in finesse. The King, dear child, the King--"

"The King is a man. I also am one; he, de Bourbon; I, de Mailly."

Richelieu laughed heartily. "Pretty--pretty, Claude! I must enter it in the unauthenticated register at Mme. Doublet's to-morrow! Why do you not lay the matter thus before Mme. de Châteauroux herself?"

"Ah, monsieur, I think you understand her even less than I. I do not dare address her as my position admits. My cousin cannot be more proud of our family than am I; and yet--and yet--"

In the darkness Louis Armand François du Plessis de Fronsac de Richelieu, from strong force of habit, snapped his fingers. "Afraid of a woman! Truly, we have schooled you well, Claude!"

"You, Monsieur le Duc, you yourself--have you kissed my cousin on the lips?"

"Oh, I do not infringe on his Majesty's rights."

"Mon Dieu! If it were any but you!--"

"Come, my dear Count, you are making an enormous mistake, permit me to say. The one thing which no man should ever do is to take himself in great seriousness. You have yet many a lesson to learn about women. Now hear from me a bit of gravity, which shall prove my friendship for all of you--madame, yourself, and his Majesty. When it happens that a man chooses a woman, and the woman accepts that man, whether it be for love, or--something else,--it is the place of the world merely to look on. A third personality will not enter complaisantly into the tête-à-tête. The King heaps upon his Duchess the favors which only a royal lover can confer. And madame certainly does not seem loath to accept them. A dozen besides yourself are sighing after her to-day. Yet remember d'Agenois, my friend. And--and Mlle. d'Angeville is charming in 'L'Ecole des Femmes.'"