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The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to
real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the
author.

Copyright © 2023 by Elizabeth Hand, and Laurence Jackson Hyman

for the children of Shirley Jackson
Cover design by David Litman
Cover image copyright © Getty Images
Cover copyright © 2023 Hachette Book Group, Inc.

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E3-20230822-JV-NF-ORI
 Contents

Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Epigraph

Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
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Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Epilogue

Acknowledgments
Discover More
About the Author
Books by Elizabeth Hand
 In memory of Peter Straub
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the dark
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This workaday actuality of ours—with its bricks, its streets, its
woods, its hills, its waters—may have queer and, possibly,
terrifying holes in it.

—Walter de la Mare
 PROLOGUE

Most houses sleep, and nearly all of them dream: of conflagrations

and celebrations, births and buckled floors; of children’s footsteps
and clapboards in need of repair, of ailing pets and peeling paint,
wakes and weddings and windows that no longer keep out rain and
snow but welcome them, furtively, when no one is home to notice.
Hill House neither sleeps nor dreams. Shrouded within its
overgrown lawns and sprawling woodlands, the long shadows of
mountains and ancient oaks, Hill House watches. Hill House waits.
 CHAPTER 1

I left the rental just as the sun poked its head above the nearby
mountains, and golden light filled the broad stretch of river that ran
alongside the little town. Nisa was still curled up in bed, breathing
deeply, her dark curls stuck to her cheek. I brushed them aside but
she never stirred. Nisa slept like a child. Unlike me, she was never
troubled by nightmares or insomnia. It would be another hour or
two before she woke. Longer, maybe. Probably.
I kissed her cheek, breathing in her scent—lilac-and-freesia
perfume mingled with my own imported Jasmin et Tabac, one of my
few luxuries—and ran my hand along her bare shoulder. I was
tempted to crawl back into bed beside her, but I also felt an odd
restlessness, a nagging sense that there was somewhere I needed
to be. There wasn’t—we knew no one around here except for
Theresa and Giorgio, and both would be at work in their home
offices overlooking the river.
I kissed Nisa again: if she woke, I’d take it as a sign, and remain
here. But she didn’t wake.
I scrawled a note on a piece of paper—Nisa often forgot to turn
her notifications off, she’d be grumpy all morning if a text woke her.
Going for a drive, back with provisions. Love you.
I dressed quickly, propelled by an anticipation I couldn’t explain.
Being in a new place, perhaps, and out of New York City after such a
long time.
The night before, we’d polished off a bottle of champagne in our
rental, and that was after beers and celebratory shots of twelve-
year-old Jura at the bar that Theresa had recommended as the best
in this part of upstate. The rental had been Theresa’s idea, too. She
and her husband, Giorgio, had bought a second home here years
ago, but during the pandemic, they’d forsaken their Queens
apartment and moved permanently. Ever since, they’d been on me
and Nisa and their other friends still in the city to do the same.
“Seriously, Hols, you will love it,” Theresa had urged me the night
before. “You should have done it years ago, you know that, right?”
“Right,” Nisa retorted. She thought Theresa and Giorgio were
going insane with boredom, which was likely true. They came down
to the city at least once or twice a month, couch-surfing because
even for them short-term rentals had become too expensive, and
they’d sublet their own beautiful two-bedroom in Sunnyside. “And I
should have had a father who left me a million dollars when his
ultralight crashed last time he was out at Torrey Pines. Why didn’t I
think of that?”
Nisa smacked herself in the forehead. Theresa smiled ruefully,
made a touché gesture, and ordered another round for all of us. She
and her father had long been estranged. The inheritance was a
surprise, and she liked to share her largesse.
Still, Theresa had a point. It was beautiful up here. The long
winding journey along the river, the city’s sprawl giving way first to
outer exurbia—apple orchards, pastures repurposed as solar farms,
and warehouses, all those not-yet-gentrified, sketchy-seeming river
towns, poisoned by brownfields and decades of poverty. Nisa and I
had passed a lot of For Sale by Owner signs, in front of houses that
seemed too derelict to merit anything but a teardown. And you’d still
have to remediate soil made toxic by runoff from mass agriculture
and factories that had been shuttered half a century ago.
But after several hours, the long drive had rewarded us with
jeweled villages like this one. Little towns long since colonized by
self-styled artists and artisans who are really just people rich enough
to flee the city and call themselves whatever they want. Craft
brewers, textile designers, glass artists specializing in bespoke bongs
and neti pots. Dog chiropractors. Masons who would demolish a
centuries-old fieldstone chimney, number each stone, and then
rebuild it, piece by piece, in an adjoining room. People who distilled
rare liqueurs from echinacea and comfrey, or made syrup out of
white pine needles, or wove intricate rings and brooches from your
own hair, charging what I earned as a teacher in a month. A very
good month.
I tried not to think about that as I eased my old Camry along
Main Street, craning my neck to see if the café was open yet. Nisa
and I had chatted with the owner the day before—he was from
Queens, too. He’d only been here for six months, but he told us that
there were lines outside the café every morning when he arrived to
unlock the door.
Apparently, he still kept city hours—it was six a.m., and the place
was closed. But the parking lot at the Cup and Saucer, on the
outskirts of town, was packed, pickups and SUVs sprawled across
the cracked asphalt. I pulled in alongside a tractor-trailer rig and
stepped inside, past three guys who stood by the door, talking.
“Morning,” one said. He caught my gaze and held it long enough
that I felt obligated to smile, though he hadn’t.
I grabbed a to-go coffee, heavy on the half-and-half, glanced at
the donuts on the counter. I decided to hold off and get some
croissants at the café when I returned. They’d cost twice as much
but Nisa didn’t like donuts. Too bad, since these were homemade
and the real deal, fried in lard.
I headed back to the car and for a few minutes sat, sipping my
coffee as I debated what to do with my restless energy. I didn’t want
to return and wake Nisa, not without croissants and lattes. But in the
past two days, we’d already combed through the village. I
remembered that Theresa and Giorgio had also given us ample
suggestions for other well-heeled towns nearby.
“Just don’t bother with Hillsdale.” Giorgio had flicked his fingers,
as though Hillsdale were a mosquito buzzing by. “It’s a dump.”
Theresa had nodded. “There must be a problem with the water
supply or something. That whole town’s been depressed for as long
as we’ve been coming here. You’d think they’d be happy to expand
their tax base, but they really, really hate outsiders.”
This seemed odd—that one small town would remain blighted,
when surrounded by so many places that had benefited from the
real estate boom. But it also suggested that Hillsdale might be
someplace where Nisa and I could afford to buy a fixer-upper
someday. I decided to do a quick bit of recon. If Hillsdale seemed
interesting, we could both head out later to investigate. I finished
my coffee, rolled down the window, and drove out of town. I didn’t
bother to check my phone for directions. Route 9K was the only real
road here, and I was on it.
The air had the intoxicating bite of early autumn: goldenrod and
dry sedge and the first fallen leaves, cut with the river’s scent of fish
and mud. With the road straight before me, my mind began to
wander. Some people hate summer’s end, but I always loved it, the
same way I always loved the beginning of the school year as a kid.
That had changed once I started working at a private school in
Queens, a job I fell into by chance nearly two decades ago and had
never learned to love. I’d had no teaching degree, I wasn’t certified,
but you don’t need that to teach at a private school. Not the one
that employed me, anyhow. The pay wasn’t great but it wasn’t
terrible, and the school covered half my health insurance. For years
I’d told myself it was only temporary, I’d find theater work again
soon.
That had never happened. If I ever complained, Nisa pointed out
that I was lucky to have a job even marginally related to my
interests. Who wants to employ an unsuccessful playwright? I taught
English, and as time passed, I’d at least been able to incorporate
plays for the eighth graders, starting with heavily stripped-down
versions of Shakespeare—Macbeth and A Midsummer Night’s Dream,
Twelfth Night, even Hamlet.
The students read the scripts I adapted aloud in class, and
sometimes performed them in the small gymnasium that doubled as
an events space, for an audience of parents, siblings, and the few
teaching colleagues I could guilt into attending, and filled with the
overwhelming scents of Axe, Victoria’s Secret cologne, and fruity lip
gloss, like a Walgreens had exploded. It was all light-years away
from what I’d set out to do with my life after I got a BFA in
playwriting from a top drama school.
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 And yet those afternoons with the students did, sometimes, ease
my despair. Running lines with them; watching them slowly gain
confidence; witnessing the magic that never failed to take over,
when they finally put on costumes and makeup and looked at
themselves in amazement, realizing they had become someone,
something, new and wonderful and strange. For those few hours, I
could imagine that it wasn’t too late. That I, too, might still be
transformed.
Delighted parents, learning of my background, would ask why I
didn’t write something for the kids to perform. I always begged off,
politely. I was terrified to see my work performed, even by kids. I
knew this made me seem standoffish, and I never developed any
real relationships among my fellow teachers. Instead, I kept up with
a few close friends in the theater world. And while I hadn’t had a
play produced since everything blew up all those years ago, I
continued to write. More recently, I’d even begun to apply for grants
and fellowships.
I didn’t tell Nisa. Instead, over the last few years I’d collected
dozens of rejections in secret.
Part of this was superstition—I didn’t want to jinx my possible
success. Most of it had to do with the fact that Nisa’s own career
was taking off. She’d always had a small but intense following as a
singer-songwriter. As the pandemic faded, she’d begun auditioning
for acting jobs as well. No one had cast her yet, but she’d had some
callbacks. Obviously I wanted my girlfriend to succeed. But I wanted
to succeed, too.
And now, at last, it seemed like I had. In the early summer, I’d
received a grant for a new play: the first sign of hope in decades,
which made it seem like, at last, things really would be different. Ten
thousand dollars, to be used however I wanted to further my work.
I’d immediately arranged for a leave of absence from teaching for
the fall semester. It wasn’t enough money to quit my job (if only!),
but it bought me a few months of freedom.
That summer was a wonderful time for me and Nisa, celebrating
my good luck with our friends, culminating in this long weekend
upstate and this beautiful drive. After all those years of teaching,
autumn again felt like possibility—a chance to be someone else, not
who I’d been just weeks earlier. A shift in attitude and wardrobe.
New shoes; a new career. Being out of the city now, following the
river north, made me feel like wonderful things were about to
happen. Maybe it wasn’t too late for me to dream, to imagine a life
that could conceivably align with the one I’d anticipated, twenty
years ago, before everything got derailed by Macy-Lee Barton’s
death.
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 "My dear Elise! Your breath is quite gone! Is there a fire—a scandal—a
death?"

"None of them. Wait!" She sank into a chair to regain her breath, while
François sounded a gong, intending to order wine.

"It is only Henri, who sends us an urgent note to come at once to his
hôtel. I received it, and came for you. The coach is outside. He sent it."

Madame shrugged. "What startling thing can have happened?" she said,
smiling. "Perhaps Laure is dying, and wishes for me. However, I come."

And, after a gentle farewell for the day to d'Agenois, madame went. The
Mailly-Nesle coach bore the two ladies at a rapid pace across the Rue St.
Honoré, out upon the quay and on to the Pont Royal, on the opposite side of
which, just across from the Théatins, was the Hôtel de Mailly. During the
drive the sisters scarcely spoke. Mme. de Châteauroux certainly did not
seem curious as to the reason for Henri's imperative summons. To tell the
truth, she was not thinking of it. She was finishing a dream.

Henri himself met them at his door, smiled at Marie Anne's languid
greeting, refused to reply to the eager question of Elise, but conducted them
rapidly up-stairs into the grand salon. Here stood the Marquise, Henri's wife,
with two people, a man and a woman. As she caught sight of the man's face,
Mme. de Châteauroux gave a little cry, and turned suddenly colorless.

"Claude!" she said.

Claude came forward, raising her hand to his lips, and saluting Mme. de
Lauraguais, who was staring at him as at one raised from the dead.

Then de Mailly went back, and took the woman by the hand. A slight,
straight, girlish figure she had, a fair complexion, and a pair of large grayish
eyes, that were presently lifted to the face of la Châteauroux.

"Anne," said Claude, quietly, "let me make known to you my wife."

"Your wife!"
 Deborah, with rather a pathetic little smile, courtesied low.

CHAPTER III

November Thirteenth

It was thus that Claude brought home his wife. Two months before he
had been married to her in Dr. Carroll's chapel by Aimé St. Quentin, with all
Annapolis to witness; and next day he left America on the Baltimore, in
company with Deborah, and her very modest little travelling coffer. Truly
bridal weather was theirs. The skies were fair, seas calmly blue, and
continuous light western winds, sent by the very gods themselves, carried
them straight to the English coast. All told, they were on the ship but six
weeks—six strange, half-terrible weeks to the colonial girl. She was learning
to know her husband, and he her. In a way, not always, but by spells,
Deborah was happy. She loved the sea, and she grew to be very fond of the
ship, clinging to it during the last days of the voyage as she had not clung to
her far Maryland home. She had become dimly apprehensive of the life into
which she was going, of which Claude had lately told her so much more than
he could do during their comradeship in Annapolis. He also made her speak
with him much in the French tongue, which she did readily enough at first,
in a manner caught from St. Quentin, her first instructor. But when it came to
using no English, to hearing none from Claude, her tongue faltered, and she
would remain silent for hours at a time rather than appear awkward before
him. Claude was very gentle. He made her finally understand, however, how
much easier it would be for her to make mistakes now, than to do so in the
land to which they were going. He told her the story of Marie Leczinska,
who had acquired all her knowledge of the language of her adopted country
from a waiting-maid who spoke a Provençal patois, and how the Queen was
ridiculed by all the Court till she studied secretly, many hours a day, with her
confessor, and was now, when she chose to exert herself, one of the most
excellent linguists in France. So Deborah took heart, and tried more bravely,
until, by the time they had crossed the English Channel and landed in Calais,
none but a close observer could have found a flaw in her ordinary
conversation.

Claude de Mailly himself passed a very contented six weeks on the

Atlantic. A day or two after his marriage the realization of that marriage, its
haste, its rashness, its short-sightedness, the fact that his wife had not one
drop of blue blood in her veins, came over him in such a wave that he was
half drowned. What was it that he had done? Who was he carrying back with
him to the most fastidious, the most critical Court in Christendom? A
bourgeois! A Provençal! A child! And Claude, with angry, anxious injustice,
for three days avoided his wife, and barely saw her except at meals. The
thing that reattracted his attention to her was the fact that, during this time,
Deborah never made the slightest attempt to force her presence upon him. If
she were unhappy, he did not know it. He never saw her weep; he heard no
word of complaint. And this unusual thing piqued his interest. On the fourth
morning he found her sitting alone in the stern of the vessel, gazing back at
the western horizon with far-off eyes. Seating himself beside her, he leaned
over and took one of her hands in his. She turned towards him instantly,
looked at him for a moment, and then drew it quietly away.

"You needn't do that," she said.

And then it was that Claude knew how glad he was to do it—to have the
right to do it. And thereupon he threw care to the winds and became her
slave. He, too, regretted the end of the voyage, when it came. Nevertheless,
he had, in the past, suffered severely from homesickness, and Paris,
Versailles, Henri, Elise, and, more than all of them together, his other cousin,
were constantly in his mind. He dreamed and talked of them when he slept,
and, if Deborah had been proficient enough in French to make out the half-
coherent sentences that passed her husband's lips at night, she would
probably have learned still more about her approaching life in this way.

Unquestionably, Deborah dreaded the new life. She had reason to; not
alone because of the natural shyness attendant on a country girl's first
appearance at a great Court. She knew that Claude's whole existence was
bound up there. She believed that he cared rather more than he actually did
about this life that she had never lived. In consequence, upon the drive of
several days from Calais to Paris, Deborah grew more and more silent, more
and more definitely apprehensive, with each new stage. On the evening of
November 8th they arrived at Issy, and there spent the night. Next morning
Claude rose with the sun, some time before Deborah even awoke. He went
outside of their post-house and walked delightedly through the familiar
streets, listening to his own language spoken with his own accent on every
hand, discovering well-known shops and buildings, and returning in the
highest spirits to Deborah at nine o'clock. They had their chocolate and rolls
together, Deborah eating little and silently, Claude jesting and laughing
continually till she was roused out of her apathy by his thoughtlessness
towards her. It was not, however, till they were rolling along the Paris road
that she spoke—in English:

"Well, Claude, you have brought your Madame the Countess home to the
King. He'll be satisfied, I hope."

Apparently both the allusion and the bitterness were lost upon him. He
only answered with a bright smile: "I am satisfied, my Deborah. What the
King thinks is not my concern. Oh, I had not told you, had I?—that the King
is not here. He is coming home with the army next Saturday, the 13th, from
Strasbourg. You know he has been fighting all summer. They are going to
give him a triumph on his return. There will be a procession through the
street, and the King will ride in it. You will see him then, Deborah. Shall you
like it all?"

"I—don't know. I never saw a king," responded the girl, interested in

spite of herself in the anticipation of these hitherto scarcely dreamed-of
glories.

At half-past eleven o'clock their chaise passed the barrier, and they rolled
down the narrow street towards the river, in Paris at last. Claude himself was
quiet now. He was a little anxious; he could not be sure just what he should
find "at home." Moreover, the familiar streets and sounds no longer raised
his spirits. Instead, they came so near to bringing tears to his eyes, that he
was relieved when Deborah asked:

"Where are we going? To another inn?"

 "I am not sure. I have directed the man to the Hôtel de Mailly. But, if no
one is there, we must go to an inn. Look, Deborah, there is the Seine, there is
the Pont Royal, and there, just ahead, is Henri's house, where we are going.
Are you glad—little one?"

* * * * * *
*

It was half-past ten o'clock that night before Claude and his wife were
again alone together. They had left the salon thus early through weariness,
leaving the rest of the family party to disband as it would. Neither the Count
nor Deborah spoke till the suite of apartments assigned them on the second
floor had been gained and the door to their antechamber closed. Deborah
was going on to what she supposed must be their bedroom, when Claude
caught her hand.

"Surely you are going to say good-night?" he asked, smiling.

"Good-night! Why—I don't understand," she said, quickly.

Of a sudden the smile left Claude's face. He had not thought of this
before. "There, Debby, is your room—on this side is mine. A maid whom
Mme. de Mailly-Nesle has kindly lent you is waiting for you. Henri's valet is
there—where I sleep. We do not occupy the same room. It—it is not the
custom. Therefore sit here with me for a few moments, and tell me—how
you like them all—my family?"

Deborah stared at him in bewilderment during the explanation; but, true

to her nature, she accepted it without comment, permitting herself to be
drawn down upon the little sofa where he sat, and passively leaving her
hands in his.

"Tell me now—do you like them?"

Deborah hesitated. "What mistakes did I make?" she asked, finally.

"Not one, my Deborah, save that you were not insolent enough."

She smiled faintly. "I like Monsieur le Marquis."

 "And he you! Yes, you must love him for my sake. He is more than my
brother. And his wife?"

"Is she his wife, Claude? Why does he always call her madame? Why
did you call me madame? And she treated him so—so formally."

"Parbleu! you are right; they do not know each other very well, else she
could hardly help loving him; and she would not be so bourgeois as that! Do
you like her? She was kinder to you, Debby, than I have ever seen her to any
woman. Answer me—dost like her?"

"Yes—I liked her. She never looked at me when she spoke, and she
scarcely spoke to any one else."

"True. She does not approve them. But Elise—Mme. de Lauraguais—"

"Yes, she is very pleasant, and a little pretty, too."

"And now—now—you met Mme. de Châteauroux. What do you think of

her?" Claude asked the question firmly, after a struggle with himself.

Deborah turned crimson, and started to rise from her place, but de Mailly
gently held her back. He would have his answer; and it was given him. After
all, he had married a woman, and one whose feelings, though often
unexpressed, were none the less acute. She voiced them now. "Claude—I
hate her! She is not pretty. Her face is hideous! She was rude to me, to her
sister, to the Marquise, to every one but you. And you sat beside her almost
the whole afternoon. Ah! I cannot bear her! Mme. de Mailly told me why
she was in Paris, how she had been made to leave the King. Claude, are you
not ashamed that she is of your blood?"

Deborah was on her feet now, and flung her words straight at her
husband. He sat silent, quite still, rather pale, through the outburst. After it
he did not answer her question, but only murmured to himself, "Why do
women so seldom like her?" Then, looking up at his wife, he said, kindly:

"Deborah, you know that I have always been fond of my cousin. I—have
been very proud of her. So have we all. Was it unnatural that she should wish
to talk with me after we had been separated for so long?"
 Deborah jerked her head impatiently. "I do not like her," she reiterated,
with dogged displeasure.

Claude rose, with a faint sigh. "Your French was wonderfully good. I
was very pleased, dear. To-morrow—you shall have some costumes ordered.
Naturally, yours are a little ancient in mode. Good-night."

"Good-night."

He kissed her upon the forehead, and would have turned away, but that
suddenly she flung her arms about his neck passionately, and, raising her lips
to his ear, whispered: "Claude—Claude—I am a stranger here. You are all I
have of—the old life. Be—be kind to me."

It was almost the first emotion that he had ever seen her display, and his
heart was warm as he took her tenderly into his arms again, whispering such
words as only lovers know. Five minutes later Deborah crept away to her
room happier than she had been before upon the soil of France; and not even
the somewhat terrifying stiffness of madame's maid, nor the loneliness of
this strange room, had power to banish the memory of her husband's good-
night.

The four succeeding days passed both rapidly and slowly. From late
morning till late night Deborah's hours were filled. She and Claude were to
remain at the Hôtel de Mailly till the return of the King, after which they
would take an apartment in Versailles. For the purpose of selecting one, they
went together to the little city on Thursday. In the Rue Anjou, near the pièce
des Suisses, they discovered a very pretty abode in the second floor of a
house—rooms once occupied by the Chevalier de Rohan, of duelistic fame,
furnished and hung in perfect taste, with precisely the number of rooms
desired. Then Deborah went to see the monstrous, silent palace and park;
after which she and Claude dined together at a café in the open air, quite à la
bourgeois, somewhat to the unspoken apprehension of Claude, who was not
pleased with the unconventional affair, which, however, unduly delighted his
wife. They returned to Paris in the early evening by coach, well satisfied
with the day. To Deborah's consternation, Claude next engaged a maid for
her, a woman whom she was supposed to command at will, who was to dress
and undress her, arrange her coiffure in the absence of the regular hair-
dresser, care for her wardrobe, and conduct madame's affairs of the heart
with discretion. To the little Countess's great delight, however, her first
person in this line left her service after three days, for the reason that Mme.
de Mailly seemed too devoted to monsieur the husband, and, in
consequence, there were no chances for fees of secrecy such as she was
accustomed to count upon as among her perquisites of office. By the time of
their removal to Versailles, another attendant had been found who pleased
her mistress better. Julie was lively, young, rather pretty, and not long from
the provinces. If her modes for hair and panniers were not so Parisian as
those of her predecessor, at least she and young Mme. de Mailly took a
fancy to each other from the first, and Deborah was more than content.
Meantime Claude had happily discovered and re-engaged his former valet,
and thus, with the addition of a chef and scullion and two lackeys, their little
ménage would be complete. Before all these matters were arranged,
however, the Marquise de Mailly-Nesle, who had taken an unaccountable
fancy to Claude's wife, accompanied Deborah to a milliner, to whom was
intrusted the task of preparing a wardrobe for the Countess. Deborah
watched the selections with delight and a secret consternation. Could Claude
afford such things, and such an infinite variety of them? Finally, unable to
hold her peace about the matter, she drew the Marquise one side, and
stammered out the question of prices with pretty embarrassment.

"Mon Dieu! child, why should I ask prices? If the bill is reasonable, be
assured that Claude will pay. If it is too large—pouf!—he will refuse to look
at it! That is all. Do not be alarmed."

Deborah, surprised and disturbed, felt that she must stop proceedings at
once, for the Maryland school of economy had been strict. But a shimmering
blue satin, with cloth of silver for petticoat, and ruffles of Venice point, was
now under consideration. Blue was her own color. She had never worn satin
in her life—and dearly she loved its enticing swish. Why, unless Claude
forbade, should she refuse it? And Claude did not forbid. When she
confessed her doubts during their anteroom conference that evening, he
laughed at her, cried that she should live in blue satin if she chose, and asked
what she was to wear on the morrow at the royal procession.

"Oh—it is something that madame got at once—white silk brocaded

with pink flowers, and a petticoat with lace. And I am to have a lace cap with
pink ribbons."

"Charming—and good-night. Sleep late to-morrow, in preparation."

Upon this Saturday, the 13th of November, Paris did not wake up until
afternoon. By two o'clock, however, St. Antoine had left its domicile and
was dispersing itself in unkempt groups along those streets which, as it had
been posted, his Majesty would ride through in his triumphant home-
coming, on his way to the Tuileries. Marie Leczinska and the Dauphin spent
the morning in prayer, and were off together, after a hurried dinner, to join
their lord at the southeastern barrier. On the previous day Louis had been at
Meaux, but left that town in the afternoon, and spent the night at no great
distance from Paris. To tell the truth, he was not too well pleased at the
information that his metropolis was desirous of giving him a heroic
welcome. Certainly his title of bien-aimé was anything but his own choice.
Nothing bored him so thoroughly as affection taken in the abstract. All
through his early life he seemed to be unfortunate in having about him
people to whom he was totally indifferent, yet who persisted in blindly
worshipping him. In the case of his wife, it had not always been so. As a boy
he had been devoted to her. But for the Dauphin, with his Jesuitical manners
and phrases for all occasions, his father had never pretended to care. The
daughters were more amusing. This afternoon Louis would have been very
well pleased to see them when her Majesty's coach came up with the royal
staff, in the midst of which Louis sat on horseback. The Queen, after
alighting, stood looking at her husband with wistful yearning; but young
France, dropping on one knee in a dry spot in the road, cried out, with very
good expression:

"Sire, regard me as the representative of that nation which, with tears of

devotion and thanksgiving, greets its Father, its Hero, and its King!"

There was a little pause. Then Louis remarked, casually, "You will catch
cold without your hat, child," after which he turned to one of his marshals
with some remark upon the day.

How the Dauphin arose from his knee is not recorded.

 Like all much-prepared-for cavalcades, this one was slow in starting. His
Majesty objected to the length of the route planned. He was anxious to be at
home again; and he was tired of people. Had somebody sent for his turning-
lathe? He would do a bit of work when he reached the Tuileries. Why could
not Richelieu take his place as representative, and let him get quietly through
the city in a public coach? It was nearly dark now. Only after an endless
series of expostulations was he at last persuaded to conform to the wishes of
his people, and show himself in all the real beauty of his manhood.

Paris had waited very patiently through the bleak November afternoon,
shivering and laughing in anticipation of its pleasure. Now the windows of
every house along the way were gleaming with candles and dotted with
heads. On either side of the street torches began to be lighted among the
standing throngs. Presently, as the heavy twilight fell lower, officers of the
police began, here and there, to illumine the long chains of lanterns that were
strung along the walls of houses, and, at short intervals, across the streets;
for Paris would admit no night yet. Every now and then, down among the
standing throngs, dashed the coach of some nobleman on the way to his own
view-point. The drivers of these vehicles took no heed of the people in their
paths. They were allowed to scramble away as best they might, or left to be
crushed beneath the horses' hoofs if they chose. No one murmured, for the
affair was quite usual.

By half-past five o'clock a goodly company was assembled in the salons

of Mme. de Mailly-Nesle; ladies who, in their eagerness to behold the return
of their King, were very willing to forget the fact that they had ever failed to
recognize the Marquise, for reasons connected with a relative Duchess.
Upon their arrival at their hostess' hôtel they found awaiting them a new
sensation in the person of Claude, and a two-weeks' subject of gossip and
discussion in Claude's foreign wife.

Deborah, arrayed in her brocade, her rebellious hair fastened stiffly in

place with a thousand pins, the enormous hoops of her overdress annoying
her as much as possible, patches and powder upon her face and hair, with the
customary rouge on her cheeks, stood beside Victorine de Coigny, the only
new-comer with whom she did not feel ill at ease. Mesdames de Mirepoix,
Rohan, and Châtelet stared at her unceasingly, found her dress in good style,
and her face, on the whole, not bad. L'Abbé de Bernis, who, to Henri's
fruitless rage, had accompanied Victorine hither, looked upon Deborah
approvingly. As to Claude, he did not approach his wife, but he watched her,
quietly, from wherever he chanced to be, involuntarily admiring her
presence, but undeniably dreading possible faux pas. Of these there had been
as yet no signs. Deborah certainly was frightened, but she did not show it.
Obeying her husband's last behest, she kept her head well up and her eyes on
a level with those of the person to whom she talked. Mme. de Coigny, lively,
good-natured, bored, but never supercilious, conversed with the little
Countess for some moments upon her journey, upon Paris, and upon the
return of the King. Deborah bravely answered her questions, and, less
uncertain of her French than she had been a week ago, even hazarded a few
remarks of her own with which the little Maréchale seemed pleased. Their
tête-à-tête, however, was checked in its early stages by the beginning of a
general conversation opened by one of the dames d'étiquette, Mme. de
Rohan, who cried to her hostess, from across the room:

"Truly, Mme. de Nesle, you have here all the world but two people."

"And who are those?" responded the Marquise, graciously, while the
salon grew suddenly quiet.

"Those?—why, the Duc d'Agenois and your cousin, Mme. de

Châteauroux. Where, if one may ask, are they?"

There was a vaguely indefinite murmur of interest from every part of the
room. Then from la Mirepoix came another remark, one such as only she
was capable of making: "M. de Mailly—oh, I mean the Count—you were
formerly always cognizant of the whereabouts of the dear Duchess. Can you
not inform us of them now?"

The company lifted its brow and a dozen glances were cast at Deborah—
this new little creature from the Americas. "She does not comprehend the
allusion," was the general thought, when they saw her attitude of large-eyed,
inattentive innocence. Only Claude, as he came forward a little, snuff-box in
hand, turned white.

"Ah, Madame la Maréchale, you speak of by-gone days. I know the

engagements of Mme. de Châteauroux? Impossible! Am I my cousin's
keeper?"

"Perhaps," murmured the Marquise de Châtelet, sweetly, "she is to form

part of his Majesty's escort."

Silence followed this remark. Mme. de Rohan glared with displeasure at

her companion, and the Marquise flushed a little beneath her rouge. It was
too much, for once. Mme. de Mailly-Nesle, with commendable haste, turned
to her near neighbor and reinstated the tête-à-têtes.

"Ah!" murmured Mme. de Coigny to Deborah, "these dames d'étiquette

are insufferable. They should be stricken with a plague!"

Deborah smiled very faintly, and could make no reply. One of her hands
was tightly clenched. Otherwise she appeared unconcerned enough.

At this moment M. de Bernis, having decided the new Countess to be

rather presentable at a distance, drew nearer, with intent to converse with
her. The abbé was, to-day, in his clerical dress, and thus Deborah
acknowledged Mme. de Coigny's introduction with great gravity. When
Victorine presently turned aside to Coyer, de Bernis began his conversation:

"Come to the window, here, madame, and look at the crowd upon the
quay. In your country I dare swear you have no such canaille."

"Poor things! How dirty and ragged they look in all the light," murmured
Deborah, in English.

"You should one day drive through the Faubourg where they live; it
would interest you," returned the abbé, in the same tongue.

Deborah looked at him with a quick smile. "English sounds very dear to
me. Thank you vastly for speaking it."

"One would learn Sanscrit to gain a word of praise from your lips,
madame," was the abbé's unnecessary reply, whispered, not spoken.

The young girl was embarrassed. How could a priest say such things?
Turning her head uneasily, she found Mme. de Coigny close to her, and
beheld a new expression on that childlike, fretful face. It was as well that, at
this moment, the distant shouting of the throng proclaimed the advance of
the royal procession. Under cover of the general hastening to the lantern-
hung windows, Victorine took occasion to murmur in de Bernis' ear:

"Why are you always cruel, François? Why will you continually torture
me so? This child, now! Have pity on her."

De Bernis shrugged impatiently. "You are silly, Victorine. It is not my

fault that you are jealous every time I speak to a woman."

They were silent for a moment. Then Mme. de Coigny, as she stared into
the torchlit street below, sighed. "Those faces—the rags—the dirt—François,
do they not remind you of our first days together in the Court of Miracles?"

For reply the abbé silently kissed her hand.

All of Mme. de Mailly-Nesle's guests were by this time arranged in the

windows along the front of the hôtel. Claude, escaping from the women who
would have questioned his heart away, sought Deborah's side. She received
him with a friendly little smile that relieved him of many fears. A silence of
expectation had fallen now over the room, for the distant sounds of shouting
and cheering were increasing in clearness.

To his intense relief, Louis' long ride was nearly over; and, almost at its
end, when there should remain only a bridge to be crossed to the Tuileries,
he was hoping for something that should repay him for all his sacrifice of
time and comfort. Since the day of the dismissal from Metz the name of la
Châteauroux had never crossed the King's lips. But silence is not indicative
of forgetfulness. On the contrary, with every passing day Louis felt his life
more intolerably lonely, in the absence of her for whom he really cared more
than any one else. Now, as he drew near to the Hôtel de Mailly, which he
knew well, expectation and hope increased his speed, and he passed the
Théatins at a lively trot.

"See, Deborah, here is the royal regiment. Those, there, at the head, just
coming under the lights, are the marshals—ay, that is Coigny!"

"Madame, your husband," murmured de Bernis in Victorine's ear.

 "—And there are the Court pages in uniform, look—on the white horses
—Richelieu, d'Epernon, de Gêvres, de Mouhy, Trudaine—Heavens, how
familiar they all are! And here is the Queen's coach. Voila! She looked out
just then, at the shouts. The Dauphin is with her—they would not let the
child ride. He's all of fifteen now—is he not, de Bernis? And now, Deborah
—there, alone—in front of the corps—with the torches around him—that is
the King."

Deborah Travis bent her head forward towards the window till the light
from the lantern that hung above her shone full in her face. In the street,
directly below, she beheld a great sorrel charger caparisoned in white and
silver, bearing a rider also in white, with laced coat, cloth breeches, shining
black riding-boots, white hat à la Garde Française, and across his breast a
wide blue ribbon, fastened with three orders. The eyes of Claude's wife
flashed over the figure and to the face, which was markedly distinct in the
light of the torches.

"Is that the King?" she whispered to herself, unconscious of speaking.

At the instant that Louis passed beneath the string of lamps across the
way, Deborah's eyes fell upon his bright blue ones. As though she possessed
magnetic power, the King responded to the look. It was not the face that he
had hoped to find here, but it was one—as fair. The royal hat came off, the
royal figure bent to the saddle-bow. And then he was gone. Deborah's cheeks
were redder than her rouge. Every woman in the room had turned to look at
her, but some eyes, perhaps, stopped at sight of Claude. His face was
deathly, and upon it was plainly written new, quickening dread; while both
of his white hands were tightly clenched over his polished nails.

CHAPTER IV

Claude's Own
 The Nouvelles à la Main of the 15th of November announced, among
many things, that the Count and Countess de Mailly had entered their
apartment in the Rue d'Anjou at Versailles. Deborah, who for some time had
been secretly caressing the thought of "home," went into the little suite of
rooms with a glorified, colonial sense of mistress-ship. Madam Trevor's
method of housekeeping was familiar to her in every detail, from candle-
dipping to the frying of chickens; and, while she felt rather helpless, having
no slaves at her command, she determined to do what she could with the two
liveried lackeys, and to demand others of Claude if she found it necessary.
She and Claude had never discussed housekeeping together, for the reason
that Claude had no conception of the meaning of the word.

They arrived and were served with dinner in their little abode on
Monday. Tuesday afternoon found Deborah seated helplessly in the boudoir,
with her husband, rather pale and nervous, before her. He had found her,
utterly oblivious of the consternation of the chef, the lackeys, and the
scullion, washing Chinese porcelain teacups in the kitchen. And it was then
that Deborah received her first lesson in French great-ladyhood, by whose
iron laws all her housewifely instincts were to be bound about and
imprisoned. She must never give an order relative to the management of
their ménage. She must never purchase or arrange a single article of food
that was to be prepared for their table. She must never dream of performing
the smallest act of manual labor. She might designate the hour for meals, or
inform the first lackey how many were to be served, or what beverage
should be passed at her toilette. She might keep her appointments with
costumers, milliners, hair-dressers, furriers, jewellers, toy-men; and she
might see that her engagement-book was filled. That was all that was
expected of her in the way of labor. She had made a great false step to-day,
and it must not occur again.

And Deborah listened to Claude's explanation in silence, with her pretty

new world all tumbling about her ears.

"We might, then, as well have stayed at your cousin's house. This is only
our tavern, kept for our convenience," she said, at last.

Claude nodded, and paid no attention to the sarcasm. "This is where we

sleep, where we change our clothes, where we receive our friends."
 "We've no home?"

"On the contrary, we make all Paris, all Versailles, our home."

Deborah folded her hands, and her face grew suddenly helpless in
expression. "I don't like it," she said, faintly.

"Dear, you do not know it. Wait. You will soon be too much occupied to
think of it. Why is your coffer still here? Has not Julie unpacked it? You
must not permit laziness."

"She has done all that I would allow. I will finish it myself. Claude, may
I have something?"

"What? You shall have it."

"You know in our salon there is, near the mantel, a little cabinet against
the wall—a little cabinet with two shelves, and a door and key."

"Yes, yes. 'Tis for liqueurs, if we want to keep them. Well?"

"I want that—I want the cabinet to use for myself."

"Just Heaven! Have you then so many valuables, or so many secrets?"

He laughed, but there was curiosity also in his tone.

"You know that I have neither, Claude. But I want the cabinet."

Claude shrugged, never dreaming what she intended the place for. It was
but a little thing to ask; and besides, curiously enough, Claude, who had
been brought up among the most unreliable class of women in the world, had
yet been so little affected by their ways that, ten weeks after their marriage,
he was beginning to trust his wife. She was as honest as a man when she did
not like a thing, or when she wanted one; she was not talkative; she did not
make scenes; he had beheld her angry, but it was not with a malicious anger;
and, more than all, she never complained. So far Claude had found nothing
to regret in his marriage. He realized it now as he stood there in her dressing-
room, while she sat looking at him expectantly.
 "Eh, well—the cabinet and its key are yours. You'll not forget what I
have been telling you this afternoon?"

"No."

He smiled again, went to her side and kissed her. "Good-bye, then. I am
going out. You will not be lonely? Mme. de Coigny may come. After your
presentation to the Queen, you know, there will be no idle moments."

He left her with a little nod and smile, and, donning hat and cloak,
departed towards the Avenue de Sceaux, from which he turned into the Rue
des Chaniers, bound for a little building at the end of it, not far from the
deer-park, which was much in favor as an afternoon assembling place for
gentlemen of the Court during the unoccupied hours of the afternoon. Here
one might gamble as he chose, high or low; drink coffee, rum, or vin d'Ai;
fight his duel, if need be; or peruse an account of the last one in a paper, if he
did not want to talk. It was a comfortable and ugly little place, kept by M.
Berkley, of fame somewhat undesirable in London, but of gracious
personality here.

To-day, for the first time in months, the little place was creditably filled
with its customary patrons, noblemen and lords to whom camp-life had
lately become more familiar than the Court. Here were assembled all those
gentlemen who, two days ago, had ridden into Paris with Louis; and a good
many more who mysteriously reappeared out of the deeps of lower Paris,
where they had been hidden from salon gossip and too many women. That
morning Richelieu, d'Epernon, and de Gêvres left the Tuileries in despair.
The King, clad in a stout leathern suit, was shut into an empty room with his
friend the carpenter, making snuff-boxes with all his might, and admitting
neither silk, velvet, his wife, nor the Dauphin into his presence. His
gentlemen were now less harmlessly occupied. De Gêvres was opposing
d'Epernon on the red. Richelieu, in a mood, played solitaire à la Charles VI.
against himself, the sums that he lost being vowed to go to Mlle. Nicolet of
the Opéra ballet. De Mouhy, d'Argenson, de Coigny, de Rohan, Maurepas,
Jarnac, and half a dozen others were grouped about the room, drinking,
betting, and gossiping. The conversation turned, as it was some time bound
to do, on la Châteauroux and d'Agenois.
 "The King has not yet, I believe, discovered the renewed relationship,"
drawled d'Epernon, mildly.

"Perhaps not. But in a week—imagine it! Madame la Duchesse is

fortunate in having gentlemen scattered over most of the civilized world on
whom she may cast herself for protection in case of need!" returned
Richelieu, crossing glances with Maurepas.

There was a little round of significant looks and nods. Evidently the
Duke's sang-froid had not deserted him. Every one knew very well that the
deposed favorite and her former preceptor were soon bound to be at opposite
ends of the scales, and that her rise now meant his fall.

"I wonder—" began Coigny, thoughtfully, when again, for the twentieth
time, the door opened, and some one entered whose appearance paralyzed
the conversation.

"Well, gentlemen, I am thankful only that I am not a débutante at the

Opéra. Such a reception would ruin me. Am I forgotten?"

"Forgotten!" It was a chorus. Then one voice continued: "When one sees
a ghost, Claude, one fears to address it hastily. It might take offence."

"'I think it is a weakness of mine eyes that shapes—'"

"'This monstrous apparition'? Thanks, truly!" observed de Mailly.

Richelieu then strode forward and seized his hand. "He's in the flesh,
messieurs. I am delighted, I am charmed, I am somewhat overcome, dear
Claude. I should have pictured you at this moment flirting in Spain, storming
a seraglio at Constantinople, toasting some estimable fräulein in beer,
drowning yourself in tea and accent in London, or—fighting savages in the
West. Anything but this! Your exile is over, then?"

Claude smiled, but, before he spoke, Maurepas had come forward:

"My faith, gentlemen, you seem to be but slightly informed of the last
news. Monsieur has been in Paris for a week with Madame the Countess his
wife, and—"
 "His wife! Diable!"

"Come, come, then, I was not far wrong. Is she Spanish, Turkish,
German, English, or—by some impossible chance—French? Speak!"

"I have not before had the chance, my lord," returned Claude, bowing.
"However, my tale is not so wonderful. When I went upon my little journey
the King was so gracious as to express the hope that I would return to
Versailles when I should be able to present to him madame my wife. Well—
in the English Americas I was so happy as—to have engaged the affections
of a charming daughter of their excellent aristocracy there. We were married
nearly three months ago in a private chapel by the Father Aimé St. Quentin;
and so, madame being pleased to return with me to Court, we set sail shortly
after the wedding, and—behold me!"

"Bravo—bravo! You have been making history! Madame, of course, is

not yet presented?"

"Scarcely, Chevalier, since her Majesty is barely returned."

"Are you stopping in Paris?"

"We have Rohan's former apartment in the Rue d'Anjou here."

"Aha! Madame possibly brought a worthy dot—is it not so?"

If the question displeased Claude, he did not show it. Shrugging and
smiling with some significance, he moved towards a card-table, and instantly
the estimate of Mme. de Mailly's prestige went up a hundred thousand livres.
The room was now all attention to Claude. He ordered cognac, and his
example was followed by a dozen others. De Gêvres and d'Epernon ceased
their play. Even Richelieu seemed for a moment to be on the point of leaving
the interests of Mlle. Nicolet, but eventually he continued his amusement,
only stopping occasionally to glance around at the group of new sycophants,
biding his own time.

"Of course, you have seen la Châteauroux, Claude?" questioned Rohan,

a little intimately.
 De Mailly stared at him. "Of course, as you say, I have seen her."

"D'Agenois' reign will be short, then," muttered Coigny to Maurepas.

Claude heard, flushed, and turned again to Rohan: "Chevalier, will you
dice?"

"With pleasure."

Cups were produced, and the rest began betting among themselves on the
outcome of the first throws. Odds were not in Rohan's favor.

"A thousand louis, Chevalier, that my number is less than yours."

This was an unusual stake. Rohan's eyebrows twitched up once, but he

took the wager calmly. Deborah's reputed fortune went up another hundred
thousand francs, and advanced still further when Claude won his throw; for
they only win who do not need to do so. De Rohan made an effort to retrieve
himself, but failed. Then the stakes diminished, for Claude had had his
revenge for an impertinent question, and did not desire to gain a new
reputation for wealth. However, he was three thousand louis to the good
when Richelieu came over and touched him on the shoulder.

"Enough, Claude, enough for the time. Come with me. I need you now.
M. Berkley will be always here to welcome you. I—well, I shall not be here
every day. Come."

Claude rose, good-naturedly. "Certainly I will come, du Plessis. Au

revoir, gentlemen."

"Au revoir! Au revoir! When do you present us to madame?"

"We shall be delighted to see you as soon as Mme. de Mirepoix has

bestowed a card upon us."

A few further good-byes, and de Mailly and his old-time friend left the
house together and moved slowly down the street, the Duke leading. Claude
did not speak, for it was for his companion to open conversation. This