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Instrument of the State
 AMERICAN MUSICSPHERES
Series Editor Mark Slobin
Fiddler on the Move Exploring the
Klezmer World
Mark Slobin
The Lord’s Song in a Strange Land Music and Identity in Contemporary Jewish
Worship
Jeffrey A. Summit
Lydia Mendoza’s Life in Music
Yolanda Broyles-González
Four Parts, No Waiting
A Social History of American Barbershop Harmony
Gage Averill
Louisiana Hayride
Radio and Roots Music Along the Red River
Tracey E. W. Laird
Balkan Fascination
Creating an Alternative Music Culture in America
Mirjana Laušević
Polkabilly
How the Goose Island Ramblers Redefined American Folk Music
James P. Leary
Cajun Breakdown
The Emergence of an American-Made Music
Ryan André Brasseaux
Claiming Diaspora
Music, Transnationalism, and Cultural Politics in Asian/Chinese America
Su Zheng
Bright Star of the West Joe Heaney, Irish Song-Man
Sean Williams and Lillis Ó Laire
Romani Routes
Cultural Politics and Balkan Music in Diaspora
Carol Silverman
Voices from the Canefields Folksongs from Japanese Immigrant Workers in Hawai‘i
Franklin Odo
Greeted with Smiles Bukharian Jewish Music and Musicians
in New York
Evan Rapport
Resounding Afro Asia Interracial Music and the Politics of Collaboration
Tamara Roberts
Singing God’s Words
The Performance of Biblical Chant in Contemporary Judaism
Jeffrey Summit
Cajun Breakdown
The Emergence of an American-Made Music
Ryan Andre Brasseaux
Jump Up!
Caribbean Carnival Music in New York
Ray Allen
Capital Bluegrass
Hillbilly Music Meets Washington, DC
Kip Lornell
Sound Relations
Native Ways of Doing Music History in Alaska
Jessica Bissett Perea
Instrument of the State
A Century of Music in Louisiana’s Angola Prison
Benjamin J. Harbert
 Instrument of the State
A Century of Music in Louisiana’s Angola Prison
BENJAMIN J. HARBERT
 Oxford University Press is a department of the University of Oxford. It furthers the
University’s objective of excellence in research, scholarship, and education by publishing
worldwide. Oxford is a registered trade mark of Oxford University Press in the UK and
certain other countries.
Published in the United States of America by Oxford University Press
198 Madison Avenue, New York, NY 10016, United States of America.
© Oxford University Press 2023
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval
system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in
writing of Oxford University Press, or as expressly permitted by law, by license, or under
terms agreed with the appropriate reproduction rights organization. Inquiries concerning
reproduction outside the scope of the above should be sent to the Rights Department,
Oxford University Press, at the address above.

You must not circulate this work in any other form and you must impose this same
condition on any acquirer.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Harbert, Benjamin J., author.
Title: Instrument of the state : a century of music in Louisiana’s Angola prison / Benjamin J.
Harbert.
Description: [1.] | New York : Oxford University Press, 2023. | Series: American
musicspheres series |
Includes bibliographical references and index.
Identifiers: LCCN 2022060595 (print) | LCCN 2022060596 (ebook) | ISBN 9780197517512
(paperback) |
ISBN 9780197517505 (hardback) | ISBN 9780197517536 (epub) | ISBN 9780197517543
Subjects: LCSH: Music in prisons—Louisiana—Angola. |
Prisoners—Louisiana—Angola—Social conditions. | Louisiana State Penitentiary—History.
Classification: LCC ML3920 .H33 2023 (print) | LCC ML3920 (ebook) |
DDC 365/.668—dc23/eng/20221219
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2022060595
LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2022060596
DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780197517505.001.0001
 Contents

List of Figures
Forewords by Calvin Lewis, Myron Hodges, and Wayne Kramer
Acknowledgments
Note to the Reader
About the Companion Website

Introduction
The Book as a Multimovement Musical Piece
Uncovering Histories
The Musicality of Prison
A Brief Overview of Louisiana Behind Bars
1. Astonishment
Models: Angola’s Preprison Polyphony
Outlawry | Out-of-Law
Penance | Penitentiary
Slavery | Plantation
Imagining Folklore in the Convict-Lease System
The Astonishing Polyphony of State Control
Enter Lomax and Lead Belly
Curating “Prison Music”
Conclusion
2. Association
Thinking Beyond the Individual
Carceral Associationalism
Songs of the Gunmen
Finding Swing in a Prison Newsmagazine
A Sudden Call for Attention
Hillbilly to Jazz in Camp E
 The Rhythm Makers of Camp A
The All-Stars Start in Camp H-2
Minstrelsy to Jazz with the Nic Nacs in Camp A
The Nic Nacs Occupy the New Prison
The Warden’s Band
Listening to Jazz in Prison
3. Politics
Singing Out-of-Law
Outlawry of the Field
Music of Outlawry
Associations/Cliques and By-Laws/Muscle
The New Feel
Freedom in a New Unity
Transforming the Listenership
Adding Rhythm to the Concept
The Long Arm of the Band Room
The New Nic Nacs
Coda
4. Surfaces
War Zone
The Rodeo Surface Redraws Boundaries
The Westernaires 1.0
The Westernaires 2.0
Silencing the Black Panthers
Free-World Surfacework
The Demise of the Westernaires
Banquets
Sublime Surfaces
Lingering Surfaces
5. Inflection
The Promise of Otis Neal
Uneven Reforms of the Field
Time Factor
Def Posse
 Megasound
Big River Band
Gospel Melodies
Conclusion
6. Recapitulation
Inflection by Statute
Strapped Rodeo Surfaces
Transposed Secular Banquet Surface
Hostile Takeover
Banjo Scars
Playing Politics
Association for Rights
Property
Assembly
Mobility
Astonishing Call of the Canaries
Lead Belly Remembered
A Radical Revision of an Old Metaphor

Notes
References
Index
 Figures

1.1. Angola landing on the Mississippi River, ca. 1900–1910

1.2. Picking cotton, Angola State Farm, 1901
1.3. Map of Angola Camps (illustration by William Livingston)
1.4. Quarters A, Angola State Farm, 1901
1.5. “Fun in levee camp, Atchafalaya River”
1.6. Stills from “Leadbelly,” in March of Time
2.1. Men singing for Harry Oster
2.2. A trusty guard on duty, 1955
2.3. White jazz orchestra rehearsing in Camp E
2.4. Outdoor festival performance
2.5. 1940s Camp A Minstrel Troupe
2.6. The new main prison, 1955
2.7. Voting for Inmate Council in the main prison, 1955
3.1. Transcription of “Rumor Enough,” sung by Charles Neville
3.2. Transcription of “Tone the Bell,” sung by Charles Neville
3.3. Horizontal and vertical illustrations of music
3.4. The major (Ionian) and the Lydian scales
4.1. The Westernaires at the 1968 rodeo
4.2. Westernaires playing an outside show
4.3. The Scientists of Soul perform in front of the Big Stripe Band Ro
om, 1976
5.1. Otis Neal, left, 1978
5.2. Fieldworkers after the decommissioning of the sugar mill, ca. 19
89
5.3. Photos from a 1983 banquet
6.1. Filming Follow Me Down with the Pure Heart Messengers, 2009
6.2. Larry Wilkerson and Myron Hodges perform outside the Ranch
House, 2013
6.3. Guts and Glory Band performing in the crow’s nest, 2013
6.4. Dancing to the Jazzmen at the music stage outside the rodeo ri
ng, 2013
6.5. William Hall in his woodshop in the recreation building, 2013
6.6. John Henry Taylor singing on the perimeter of the main prison,
2009
6.7. Mickey Lanerie and Laird Veillon in the band room at the main p
rison, 2008
 Forewords

People on the outside say we are “scums of the earth.” Others treat
us like we are just a number. And yet, we are human beings,
musicians with gifts that will never be confined. When I was first
introduced to Benjamin J. Harbert, I thought he was just another
free person that would come in, take pictures, and tell us what he
wanted—and that we would never hear from him again. But he
continued his communication with the musicians and continued to
come back. Harbert is not just an author/filmmaker or music
scholar/educator. In our eyes, he’s a person that incarcerated
musicians in Louisiana prisons can call a friend. Harbert allowed the
men and women to share their musical experiences without dictating
our words, as other authors and film directors have done. He was
genuine and down-to-earth.
Harbert not only interviewed those of us in the music fraternity,
but he also researched books, magazines, and newspapers and
spoke with historic legends who had been incarcerated. He did this
to fully understand what it means to be a musician while
incarcerated. He cared about our stories. Instrument of the State
covers present musicians and the legends that paved the way for
today’s musicians. Harbert researched all the different entities that
made Angola what it is today, from administration, government,
wardens, floods, legislations, movies, documentaries, and the
legendary musicians incarcerated at Angola. The author covered it
all, and I am amazed by his research.
As a musician, I know that this is a community where the past
means so much. At Angola, someone will always speak of earlier
bands and musicians and ask to hear the music from the bands that
made an impact in the past. You need to know the history of the
past musicians because you want to continue that legacy.
 By educating me about the history of music here at Angola, this
book allows me to better pave the way for up-and-coming musicians
and bands at the prison. Hopefully, new arrivals will be inspired to
become part of a legendary music scene during their incarceration.
Reading Instrument of the State has inspired me to work harder to
keep the musical legacy alive here. This is why we care about legacy
—we are caring human beings.

Calvin Lewis, drummer for the Angola Jazzmen Band

Angola, LA
April 2022

I want to say how deeply honored I am to be a part of Instrument of

the State. Words cannot express the debt of my appreciation to the
author for being so intrigued with Angola’s music culture and
investing so much of himself through years of research and hard
work. The book highlights a prison music culture that exists in no
other prison in the nation.
For prisoners in other parts of the country, I imagine that the
notion of a convicted felon, especially a lifer, privileged with so much
liberty to play music would be inconceivable. Nonetheless, this level
of performance is managed and produced by the inmates
themselves. Here, an inmate band can be commissioned to play for
events ranging from interinstitutional banquets to festival fairs
throughout Louisiana. Instrument of the State details how musicians
of Angola at times seem to possess an uncanny ability to take even
the most unlikely mixture of people, and unify them with music.
Having been incarcerated for over thirty-eight years, I’ve spent
much of my time playing music for various events inside and outside
of Angola. Some people (or fans) whom I’ve met along the way
travel long distances to hear me play or see a particular Angola
band, purchase a band T-shirt, have it autographed by certain band
members, and appreciate a rare personal encounter with those of us
behind the music.
Instrument of the State is like no other book I’ve read about
Angola because it doesn’t stereotype its subjects. Instead, it focuses
on the musical history and the endeavors of men serving time, those
of us who seek to achieve a sense of purpose, meaning, peace, and
normalcy in our lives, using our musical abilities to captivate the
hearts and minds of our audiences and our keepers. In this way, we
transcend the social boundaries of prison itself. This book is a true
testament to the ability of the human spirit to thrive, even under the
worst circumstances.

Myron Hodges, guitarist for Angola Big River Band

Angola, LA
April 2022
The Framers started out with a truly revolutionary idea: democracy,
“with liberty and justice for all.” A grand reach, no doubt about it. To
date, though, the in-real-life application of this aspirational principle
has fallen woefully short. As it stands, “all” turns out to mean white,
male, middle class (or above), and decidedly heterosexual. You’re
not “all” if you’re anything other than white and are of limited
economic means. Nowhere is this reality more apparent in America’s
jails and prisons.
Today, over two million of our fellows—men, women, and children
—are incarcerated. Let that sink in. The United States of America
has more American citizens locked up today than any country in the
history of the world, most of whom are part of the aforementioned
not all group. That we had outlawed slavery via the Thirteenth
Amendment to the US Constitution “except for the punishment of
crime” explicitly represents a degree of deliberate human suffering
and cruelty that is as vicious as is possible to imagine.
Instrument of the State chronicles this derangement using stories
of people going as far back as 1699 when Louisiana was still a
French colony. Harbert documents stories of prison sentences served
in the American South, namely Louisiana State Penitentiary, Angola.
This history is not only rich and complex, it is often incredibly cruel
yet tempered with life-affirming music made by people who were
forced to endure disproportionately heavy sentencing inside
profoundly corrupt institutions. It’s a mouthful, I know, but this is
not a simple account of one man’s struggle. These are centuries of
inequity.
Instrument of the State is a deeply and accurately researched
work. Harbert reconstructs the events and abuses that grew out of
the “convict leasing” system in American corrections. From the
founding of the penal system through the decades, up to and
including today, this book is a journey worth taking. You will
experience it through the lens of musicians who lived and expressed
it. From the early deprivations up through the time of Alan Lomax
and Lead Belly to today, music serves as a salve and a rejuvenator
for us all—and even more poignantly for those who were locked up.
Prisoners found release and hope in the music they could create
and share in prison. This may be the most revolutionary, life-
affirming act ever to grace humanity. A tradition born in pain and
cruelty that has been forged into a powerful transformative force is
an exceptional American undertaking. Here, you will feel that walk to
freedom. It reads like fiction, but it’s not. This is the real deal and
more inspiring than you could have dreamed.
Author Benjamin J. Harbert has done this country a great service.
Instrument of the State is a major work of social, cultural, and
academic accomplishment. It’s a story that should be required
reading for every student in America and every musician as well. It
shows us who we are at our worst and what we’re capable of at our
best, reminding us that America’s prisons are an abomination of
justice and that the people who have populated them over history
have discovered, through the art form of music, a path to
unadulterated transcendence.

Wayne Kramer, cofounder of Jail Guitar Doors USA and guitarist for
the MC5
Los Angeles, CA
July 2022
 Acknowledgments

The musicians at Angola who informed this book include Jerry

Allison, Russell Joe Beyer, Darryl Bowman, Clint Bracken, Leotha
Brown, Curtis Carmac, Sidney DeLoach, Michael Dyer, A. J. Freeman,
Darren Green, Jason Hacker, William Hall, Clifford Hampton, Warren
Harris, Lionel Jackson, Gary Jameson, Jimmy Johnson, Frederick
Jones, Johnny Jones, Ray Jones, John Kennedy, Gary Landry, Mickey
Lanerie, Emmanuel Lee, Jesse Lee, Stanley Lindsay, Kernis “Big Lou”
Louviere, Donald Lumbel, James Marsh, Emmitt Messick, Thomas
Oliver, Albert Patterson, Robin Polk, Walter Quinn, Brian Russel, Art
Silvertone, Jewell Spotville, Samuel Stark, Herman Tausing, John
Henry Taylor Jr., Donald Thomas, Merrit Thomas Jr., John Tonabee,
Matthew Trent, Laird Veillon, Charles Venardo, Daniel Washington,
Bud Wilkerson, Larry Wilkerson, Andre Williams, and Herbert
Williams. Assistance from the staff at The Angolite came from Kerry
Meyers and Jeffrey Hilburn. Thanks to Wayne Kramer for years of
support and for writing a foreword. Special thanks to musicians
Calvin Lewis and Myron Hodges, who read a draft of the book,
gathered and delivered feedback, and took the time to write
forewords, all while still incarcerated at Angola.
Staff and administration who provided coordination and additional
conversations include Secretary James LeBlanc, Communications
Secretary Pam Laborde, Assistant Warden Cathy Fontenot, Public
Information Officer Gary Young, Executive Management Officer
Angie Norwood, Major Wilfred Cazelot, Major Joli Darbonne, and
Recreation Director Gary Frank. Sheryl Ranatza and Stephanie
Perrault with the Angola Museum also helped with research and
during visits.
Student research assistants were Rose Hayden, Bethany Hou,
Susanna Jivotovski, James Khoury, Sophia Kloncz, Viktoriya Kuz,
Nadia Mahmassani, Samantha Pasciullo Boychuck, Allie Prescott,
Dominique Rouge, and Jin-Ah Yang. They contributed hundreds of
hours of interview transcription, media logging, reading, editing,
historical research, and critical listening.
Many experts at various institutions assisted me in finding traces
of Angola’s music in the historical record. These include Todd Harvey
at the American Folklife Center of the Library of Congress, Jeff Place
at Smithsonian Folkways, Anna Lomax Wood at the Association for
Cultural Equity, John Leonard and Adam Machado at the Arhoolie
Foundation, Germain Bienvenu at the Louisiana State University
Libraries, and Charlene Bonnette at the State Library of Louisiana.
Ian MacKaye helped repair and digitize old audio cassettes I brought
back from the prison. The most expert and sustained assistance and
camaraderie came from Marianne Fisher-Giorlando. She has given
her boundless energy to this book and countless other histories of
Louisiana’s prisons.
Several organizations offered me a public forum to present
components of this book and walk away with critical feedback,
including Smithsonian Folkways, the Radcliffe Institute for Advanced
Study, the Society for Ethnomusicology, the International Council for
Traditional Music, Georgetown University’s America’s Initiative, the
Academy of Criminal Justice Sciences, the American Society of
Criminology, Georgetown University’s Prisons and Justice Initiative,
the Council of State Governments Justice Center, Resurrection After
Exoneration, the Society for American Music, the International
Association for the Study of Popular Music, the West Baton Rouge
Museum, and the University of Oslo.
Many colleagues helped read through chapter drafts,
strengthening the scholarship from many disciplinary perspectives.
Readers were Mike Amezcua, Katie Benton-Cohen, Denise Brennan,
Matthew Carnes, Anna Celenza, Kate Chandler, Louis Chude-Sokei,
Nicole Brittingham Furlonge, Jenny Guardado, Brian Hochman,
Birgitta Johnson, Erick Langer, Mireya Loza, Chandra Manning, Brian
McCabe, Ingrid Monson, Ricardo Ortiz, Douglas Reed, Adam
Rothman, Milena Santoro, Carole Sargent, John Tutino, and the peer
reviewers through Oxford who gave invaluable feedback for the
proposal and the first draft.
Writing for Oxford University Press made this a better book.
Series Editor Mark Slobin encouraged the work, eventually reading
multiple drafts quickly and carefully. Oxford editors Suzanne Ryan
and Lauralee Yeary both gave encouragement and expertise through
the complexities of publishing.
Many others helped in various ways, from engaging in sustained
discussion, offering perspectives, listening, supporting, to joining me
somehow in the project. These people include Marié Abe, Jack
Bowers, Laurie Brooks, Charlotte Brown, Gwynne Brown, Katherine
Brucher, Brendan Canty, Bill Cleveland, Mary Cohen, Bernie Cook,
Andrew Raffo Dewar, Mark DeWitt, Consuela Gaines, Jesse Gilbert,
Chauncy Godwin, Christoph Green, Mark Howard, Wendy Jason,
Wayne Kramer, Ashley Lucas, Bill Macomber, Áine Mangaoang, Bryan
McCann, Andy McGraw, Maria Mendonça, David Novak, Marina
Peterson, Ali Jihad Racy, Matt Sakakeeny, Roger Savage, Huib
Schippers, Anthony Seeger, Aram Sinnreich, John Slattery, Maria
Sonevytsky, Nick Spitzer, Chris Waterman, Peter Yates, and also my
departmental colleagues in music at Georgetown, current and
former, Anna Celenza, Anthony DelDonna, Jay Hammond, Rufus
Jones, Carlos Simon, and Robynn Stilwell.
My family has been a part of this, willing and occasionally
unwilling. Thanks to my wife, Alison, my parents, Dick and Janet,
and my children, Eli and Bea.
And a very special thank you to the late Charles Neville.
 Note to the Reader

A few comments about this book before you begin.

Reactions
If the stories of musicians in this book move you, and if the
perspective on incarceration and the criminal justice system shocks
you, I encourage you to do something with those feelings. Consider
supporting the following organizations. Ones that support
incarcerated musicians and prison art programs include:

Justice Arts Coalition, www.thejusticeartscoalition.org

Jail Guitar Doors, USA, www.jailguitardoors.org
William James Association, www.williamjamesassociation.org
Beyond the Bars, www.beyondthebarsmusic.org
Give a Beat, www.giveabeat.org
Music on the Inside, www.musicontheinside.org
Songs in the Key of Free, www.songsinthekeyoffree.com
Musicambia, www.musicambia.org

Organizations that address mass incarceration in the United States

through research, information presentation, lobbying, and direct
involvement with prisoners and returning citizens include:
 ACLU of Louisiana, www.laaclu.org
Louisianans for Prison Alternatives, www.prisonreformla.com
VOTE | Voice of the Experienced, www.vote-nola.org
Southern Poverty Law Center, www.splcenter.org
Justice and Accountability Center of Louisiana, www.jaclouisiana.o
rg
Power Coalition for Equality and Justice, www.powercoalition.org
The Sentencing Project, www.sentencingproject.org
The Marshall Project, www.themarshallproject.org

Conventions
For this book, I capitalize “Black” and “White.” With my capitalization
of the word “Black,” I follow the growing standard convention to
convey a sense of shared experience in a racialized country, signify
that race is a historical and social construction and not a natural
trait, and encourage respect. Throughout the book, I also capitalize
“White,” which is not a widely used convention. My reasoning is
different than for capitalizing “Black.” By no means are Whiteness
and Blackness balanced racial equivalents. I am aware that many
white supremacist groups capitalize “White” and also understand
how “white” signifies a neutral racial category (a signal that most
Americans of European descent benefit from not having to think
about “Whiteness” every day), but I believe that “White” is a useful
convention for a book that engages race at Angola Prison.
In a historically and majority-Black prison, Whiteness is a
complex, evolving, and everyday experience with its own history.
Whiteness at Angola comes with its own set of privileges and
challenges. Capitalizing the term signals that race is a social
convention at play in macro- and microlevels in the lives of
prisoners, guards, administrators, and visitors. This conventional
binary of “Black/White,” however, ought not to simplify the gray
areas, the complications, and the changing definitions of racial
logics.
Another random document with
no related content on Scribd:
 CHAPTER XIII

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."
 CHAPTER XIV

Victorine Makes End

The Abbé de Bernis did not keep a regular body-servant, for the
excellent reason that his somewhat slender means did not admit of one. This
fact was wont to pique his vanity not a little, and numberless had been his
unheard sighs of envy when Monseigneur This and Monsieur That raised
their voices in lofty protestation that a perfect valet was worth more than a
perfect woman, but that no valet in the kingdom, save Bachelier himself,
deserved butter for his bread. There are, however, certain times when
solitude is a boon to every one. Such a time to de Bernis were the last hours
of this last night of winter, after his return from the brilliant evening at the
Hôtel de Ville. He was in a mood that did not admit of company. His swift
walk homeward had, in some way, stirred his blood more than all the
dancing had done; and when he reached his rooms he found himself in no
mood for sleep. Leisurely, then, by the flickering light of the two candles on
his table, he removed the black satin suit which he had worn beneath his
domino, took the wig from his aching head, put on a somewhat worn
dressing-gown, and seated himself before the mirror of his dressing-table.

A very different man was this François de Bernis from what he appeared
to be in company. The affectation, the disguise, were dropped. Here, at last,
was the actual man, whom only one other besides himself had ever seen: the
peculiar head, with its clipped crop of bristling black hair encircling the
tonsure; the dark, Southern face, with its straight brows, keen eyes, long
nose, and firm, straight, stubborn mouth, with an anomalous curve of
weakness somewhere lurking in it. And his hands, unpowdered and
unsoftened now by the falling ruffles of lace, showed for what they were—
bony, dark, long-fingered, and cruelly strong. Not so handsome, not so
elegant a man, after all, was M. François en négligé.
 For some time he sat looking at himself, thinking—less of himself, for
once, than of the woman who had so easily accepted her dismissal. After all,
the want of a scene had hurt his vanity. Could she be as weary of him as he
was of her? Was there some other—to her? The night outside grew blacker.
It lacked more than an hour to dawn. The candle-flames flickered in the
darkness. The hour was dreary enough. It were as well to get to bed. De
Bernis rose slowly, intending to finish his laggardly preparations for the
night. He had not yet taken a step when there came a light, quivering knock
on the door of the outer room, his salon. He stood perfectly still, listening.
The knock was not repeated, however, and he decided that it had been a
mistake. Ah! What was this? The handle of his bedroom door was being
turned; the door was pushed slowly open. There, in the space, stood a slight
figure, cloaked, hooded, and masked in black. Two white hands were raised
to the stranger's face. The mask dropped to the floor.

"Victorine!" muttered the man.

"That goes without saying."

"Grand Dieu! Did you think that I expected you?"

"Why not?" The lips parted slightly, and he caught a gleam of teeth.
"You could not have imagined that that—at the ball—was the last?"

"So I did think. Well, what do you come for?"

"Not that tone, please. You have no right to use it—to me."

"What do you come for?"

She made a sound in her throat which he took for a laugh. Afterwards,
shivering slightly, she moved nearer to him, and at sight of her face he
started back into an attitude of defence. He would have repeated his
question, when suddenly she answered it.

"You gave me to-night. 'After to-night,' you said. Well, it is not morning
yet. We shall finish to-night."
 "What do you mean?" He stared at her figure, at her working hands, as
though he expected to discover weapons about her.

Then her voice and her face both changed from reckless hardness to a
kind of pitiful, childlike pleading: "Why, François, are you so unkind? You
gave me this time. You must not be cruel yet—till I am ready."

In spite of himself he softened before the helplessness of the little,

delicate creature. "What do you want, Victorine?" he asked, gently.

She was silent for some time, till he thought she had not heard him.
When he was about to repeat his words, however, she said, with the faintest
hesitation: "I want—to pray—here, if you will listen. I can never pray alone,
because I need you—I need you when I am before God." She saw him
shudder, and went on, imploringly: "Oh, François, let me pray here, once, for
the last time! Is it so much to ask? Let me set myself a little more right—
before you."

"Will you not be setting yourself more wrong? Can you pray?" he asked,
sternly, after a troubled pause.

Her answer was to fall upon her knees before a chair near which she had
been standing. The seat of this she grasped painfully with both her thin,
delicate hands. When she began to speak her voice was so low that the man
could barely hear it. Gradually, however, it became more distinct:

"O God! merciful Father! Mary, Mother of Jesus!—our Saviour—Christ

—behold, I am come to you! Look down upon me where I am, and, in the
name of Justice, no more, judge me! You, who know all things, know also
my heart. You know my sin, but you know its reason. Oh, Thou who hast
said, in pity, 'Because she has much loved, much shall she be forgiven,'
behold me, pity me, also! "O God, thou knowest this French Court, thou
knowest its life, how they take us, who do not yet know, into the midst of it.
We are children at first—so young!—so young! And we cannot foresee the
end. We do not know the prices here for—happiness. Is it, then, true that
happiness is never to be found on earth? If we find it for a little while, are we
not punished enough after to—expiate? Why were we not told all at first?
We heard that such a thing as happiness there was. We wanted it—we hoped
for it—we thought we found it. But we pay too high. Why do you ask so
much for so little? Will you condemn us for our youth, our ignorance? Why
must we pay? Why should we pay—with those years and years and endless
years of sorrow? If I say that I will not pay—what then?

"God, thou art called merciful. Hast thou mercy for me, who have
wronged none but myself? Ah, why was I decreed to be born and grow to
womanhood? It has been useless. You will see. I—I—will not—I can—" She
was beginning to gasp, sobbingly. The abbé, who had heard her in silence,
came forward.

"Victorine, rise. This is a useless blasphemy."

"I know. I know. I cannot pray. God—will not—let me!" Her words
came convulsively, and she shivered with cold. He picked her up in his arms
and carried her over to the largest chair in the room. Here she remained,
helpless and passive; and he left her, to return presently with a glass of
cordial. In obedience to a look from him she took it, without protest. When
he had set aside the empty glass, he turned to her and spoke:

"Madame, it is nearly morning. You must go."

Looking up at him, she smiled—as she had sometimes used to do. "Not
yet," she said, with pretty decision.

"Not yet! Mon Dieu! what can you do? Why do you stay?"

"Because in my last hours I wish to be with you," she said, softly and
lightly, with old-time playful tenderness.

In spite of himself this manner influenced him as no other would have

done. He shrugged his shoulders slightly, and returned, with a gallant air:
"Madame, I should wish to assist you with your cloak and mask; but if you
have anything to ask of me, first—"

She sprang lightly to her feet, went to him, and placed her hands on his
shoulders. He felt the force in her merely by her touch. It seemed as though
fire from her fingers were trickling down through his flesh to his heart.
 "Yes, you are right; I have something to ask, something to tell. You have
heard it before, but this last time you must learn it well, and must remember
it. François—I love you. In heaven or in hell, wherever I go, I shall love you.
I will not forget—and you shall not. This is the last night here. But—out,
somewhere—in the infinite—I wait for you. Now, sit here."

She pushed him, gently, inflexibly, over to the chair whence she had
risen. Then she passed to the table, where stood the two candles that lighted
the room. Her great gray eyes fastened themselves burningly, steadily, upon
those of de Bernis. Under the gaze he sat still, fascinated. "Victorine—you
are mad," he murmured once, vaguely.

Hearing the words, she smiled at him, but never moved her eyes. At
length, when he had become passively expectant, she lifted her hand.
"Remain there—do not move—" she whispered. Then her fingers moved
over the candle-flames. They flared and went out. There was a sound of
rustling garments, a faintly murmured word from the man, a long breath, and
then silence, heavy, absolute, in the thick darkness.

It lasted long. All about that room, for miles in the blackness, the great
city lay sleeping through the hour before dawn. The lights of the Hôtel de
Ville were out. King and valet alike rested. Mme. d'Etioles and Marie
Leczinska had forgotten triumph and trouble. Richelieu, devil and monk, lay
abed like an honest man. And Deborah de Mailly, under her canopy,
dreamed, in the Versailles apartment, of the fresh quiet of her room at Trevor
Manor, the golden dawn over the Chesapeake, and the lapping of the river
against the banks that were lined with drooping willows and peach-trees.

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!"

Then there came the sounds of a man's sharp cry and a hurrying of feet in
the passage, and the Maréchal started up as a lackey rushed into his room.

"Nom de Dieu, Gérome, what—"

"Monsieur—monsieur—madame—madame la Maréchale—"

"What is it? Speak, fool!"

"It was—madame's—shot!"
 CHAPTER XV

Deborah

For three days it was the supreme topic in the Œil-de-Bœuf, and the
Maréchal gave another day's interest by himself taking her unconsecrated
body back to the château where she had spent sixteen of her nineteen little
years, for burial. No one of the Court had caught so much as a glimpse of de
Coigny before his departure; but certain valets, news scavengers of
Versailles, spent much time with the Marshal's servants, and learned from
them that their master's hair was gray beneath his wig, that he was starving
himself, and that none save old Gérome could make him speak.

"I always said that he had the bad taste to be in love with her," observed
de Gêvres, with a superior shrug.

"Will the abbé be called out, or did the affair lie in another direction?"

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