CHAPTER XXII.
BROKEN-HEARTED
IT was evening. The day had been intensely hot. Now, stormy clouds scud across the western skies, and the sun sets in a yellow haze, which lights up the surrounding woods. Groups of stately elms that tuft the park cast deep shadows upon the grass; their huge branches sway to and fro in the rising wind, which moans among the thickets of laurels and lilacs separating the grounds of the Hôtel Biron from the royal gardens of Versailles.
Louise la Vallière sat alone in a gorgeous boudoir lined with mirrors and gilding. She was engaged on some embroidery. As she stooped over the frame on which her work was strained, her countenance bore that resigned and plaintive expression habitual to it. She was still graceful and pretty, and her simple attire gave her the appearance of a girl.
As the failing light warned her that night was approaching, she put aside her work, seated herself beside an alcoved window which opened upon a terrace, and listened to the wind, each moment growing more boisterous among the neighbouring forests that topped the hills towards Saint-Cloud.
Suddenly the door opened, and Madame de Montespan appeared. After saluting La Vallière, she seated herself in an easy-chair opposite to her. Her bearing was greatly changed. No longer subservient and flattering, she was now confident, familiar, and domineering. Her eyes wandered round the room with a defiant expression. The very tone of her voice showed how much she assumed upon the consciousness of favour. She was more beautiful than ever; many jewels adorned her neck and hair which she had never worn before.
"Louise," said she, with an air which, if intended to be gracious, was only patronising, "I can only stay for an instant. How dismal you look! what is the matter?"
Louise shook her head despondingly. "Nothing more than usual."
"The Queen is just arrived from Saint-Germain; I am in attendance. I escaped for a few minutes, accompanied by the Comte de Lauzun. We came through the gardens and the thicket by the private alley. You must not ask me to stay; her Majesty may inquire for me. Lauzun is waiting outside on the terrace by the new fountain."
"Will he not come in?" asked La Vallière.
"No, he is in attendance on his Majesty, who is engaged at this moment with the architect. He may call for him at any moment."
"Do you think I shall see his Majesty this evening?" asked La Vallière timidly, looking up and meeting the haughty stare of the Marquise.
"I imagine not. It is late, and his Majesty has said nothing of such an intention."
"Yet he is so near," murmured Louise sadly.
"Monsieur de Lauzun tells me that the flotilla of boats is ordered for this evening. There is to be a water party on the canal; the shores are to be illuminated. I trust it will not rain."
"How I envy you – not the water party, but that you will see the King," and La Vallière's eyes glistened.
"Adieu, adieu, ma belle! I can't keep Lauzun waiting," and Madame de Montespan rose and left the boudoir as hastily as she had entered it.
Louise had also risen to attend her to the door. She did not reseat herself, but stood gazing wistfully after her. She anxiously bent her ear to catch every sound. Louis was close at hand; he might still come. A thrill of joy shot through her at the thought. Once the sound of footsteps was audible, and a flush of delight overspread her face. The sound died away, and again the night wind, sighing without, alone broke the silence. Her heart sank within her. She rebuked herself, but in vain; spite of remorse, spite of self-conflicts, Louis was dearer to her than life.
It was rapidly growing dusk; only a little light still lingered in the room. A feeling of utter loneliness, a foreboding of coming misfortune, suddenly overcame her. The shadows of approaching night seemed to strike into her very soul. She started at her own footstep as she crossed the parquet floor towards a taper which stood upon a marble table, covered with costly trifles given to her by the King. She stretched out her hand to light it. When she had done so, something sparkled on the floor close to the chair on which Madame de Montespan had been seated. Louise stooped down to see what it was. She at once recognised some golden tablets which she had often noticed in the hands of Madame de Montespan. The diamonds, set in the rich gold chasing, and the initials, had caught the light. The snap was open. It was so dark that La Vallière held it close to the taper in order to close the spring. In doing so the tablets fell open – her eyes fixed themselves on the pages. An expression of horror came into them as she gazed. Could it be, or was she dreaming? All the blood in her body rushed to her heart. She put down the light which she had held, and, with the tablets in her hand, sat down to collect her senses, for her head was dizzy. Could it be? Yes; it was the handwriting of the King. How well she knew it – each stroke, every little turn of the pen, how she had studied it! As she passed page after page through her quivering fingers, each bore the same well-known characters. She tried to read; a film gathered over her eyes. Yet she must read on. She pressed her hand upon her brow; her brain seemed on fire. At length a desperate resolution gave her power – she read. There were verses of passionate fondness, signed "Louis." The first dated three months back; the last only yesterday.
She would have wept, but the tears froze ere they reached her eyes. With a great effort she collected her scattered senses and began to think. Madame de Montespan must have dropped these tablets on purpose. She saw it all. They fell from her hand upon the floor. Lying there she gazed at them in silence. Then she glanced round the room. It was now quite dark; the burning taper only served to deepen the gloom – Louise knew she was alone in the world; the King loved another.
With the composure of despair she took up a pen to address him before she fled, for fly she intuitively felt she must. She was not capable of reflection, but it came to her quite naturally as the only thing that remained for her to do, to fly; and where could she go but to Chaillot, to the dear sisterhood?
"You have ceased to love me," she wrote; "the proofs are in my hand, written by yourself. The last time we met you told me how dear I was to you; let me never hear your beloved voice speak another language. I do not reproach you; you have treated me as I deserved. But I still love you as when we first met among the woods of Fontainebleau. If ever you waste a thought upon me, remember that death alone can quench that love."
Alas for the weakness of human nature! La Vallière, once within the walls of Chaillot, shut herself into the same cell she had before occupied, and repented that she had come. "I ought to have seen the King, and to have questioned him myself. Madame de Montespan may have purposely deceived me. That she must be false I know too well. Who can tell if it is not all a device to rob me of Louis? I may myself be but a tool in her hands. If I had seen him, all might have been explained. He is my master; I had no right to leave him. Oh! I wish I had not come!"
Thus she reasoned. Her soul was not yet wholly given to God. Further trials await her. Breathlessly she waited for what might happen; the creak of a door made her heart beat; every footstep made her tremble.
At the end of some hours the door opened and the Prince de Condé was announced.
"What, alone! Once he would have come himself," she murmured.
Composing herself as best she could, she rose to meet him. The Prince placed in her hands a letter from the King; he desired her to return immediately to Versailles with the bearer.
La Vallière meekly bowed her head and obeyed.
No sooner had La Vallière returned to the Hôtel Biron than the King arrived. He was ruddy with health; his eyes flashed with the vigour of manhood. His bearing was proud, yet dignified. On his head was a hat trimmed with point lace and jewels, from which hung a fringe of white ostrich feathers, which mixing with the dark curls of his peruke, covered his shoulders.
"Let us live our old life again," said he, uncovering, and taking her hands in his. "I hate explanations. Believe me, your presence here, under all circumstances," and he accentuated these words, "is necessary to my happiness."
"But, Sire, Madame de Montespan?"
Louis became crimson; a momentary frown knit his dark eyebrows.
"I desire you to receive her as heretofore," he replied hurriedly. "Louise, it is a sacrifice you must make for my sake. You will not refuse. It will endear you to me more than ever."
As he spoke he looked at her tenderly.
"Sire, I cannot," she replied firmly, casting her eyes on the ground.
"How! You dare to refuse me? Louise, I command you." The King drew himself up; he laid his hand heavily on her shoulder. Then, seeing how wasted and frail she was, and how her slight form quivered under his touch, he added in a softened tone, "Louise, I entreat you."
A deep blush suffused her cheeks. Some moments passed before she could command her voice. "Sire," she replied at last, and her white lips trembled, "Sire, I can never again live the old life, – but I will obey you."
The King was about to rush forward to embrace her. She stopped him by a gesture gentle yet determined. He fell back.
"Sire, you love another. Hitherto I have quieted my conscience by the conviction that I was needful to you. Now I know it is not so. Take back these tablets, Sire. Can you deny these verses, written by your own hand but a few days since?"
Louis stood before her, silenced, confounded. Her composure astonished him. Before him was La Vallière – hitherto his slave, now so determined! Her hand rested on a table for support. She was deadly pale, and carefully avoided his gaze. He was deeply moved.
"Do I not offer you enough?" said he.
"No, Louis, it is not enough. I will obey you; I will receive Madame de – " Her voice dropped, and the hated name was inaudible. "Nay, I will do more; I will again appear at Court if you command it, but all hope, all joy, is dead within me."
She uttered these words deliberately. It was despair that gave her courage.
Then she raised her eyes, and rested them for the first time on him, with an agonised expression. "I must have your undivided love as heretofore, or – " and she paused. "I know that my words are sinful," she added. "I have fled from you; now I am returned for a little space."
Louis looked perplexed. "But, Louise, believe me, that you are still inexpressibly dear to me; my heart has wandered, it is true, but you yet possess my affection, my esteem."
"It is not enough," repeated La Vallière in a low voice, "it is not enough. You are turned from me, you have joined in deceiving me; I am supplanted."
The tears sprang involuntarily into the King's eyes as he stood with folded arms contemplating her. He did not dare approach her. How strange it seemed that one so meek and gentle could be so firm. Never before had her lips uttered anything to him but words of tenderness.
Once more she spoke.
"As long as you desire it, Sire, I will remain. It is a penance I shall offer up to God, to remain and to see you love another." She turned her large grey eyes up to heaven as she spoke. "When you give me permission, I shall become a Carmelite."
"I will never permit it!" cried Louis, stamping his foot upon the floor. A scowl passed over his face; he was angry, offended, at her obstinacy; his imperious will could not brook contradiction. "You have never loved me!" he exclaimed.
"Sire!" cried La Vallière. "Not loved you!"
"No; you have always preferred your religious scruples to me. You have tormented me with your remorse. You know nothing of the intoxication of passion. You ought to have gloried in my love, as others do," he muttered, in a low voice, turning from her.
"Sire," cried La Vallière, stung to the quick by his injustice, "I am at this moment forcing my conscience to obey you and to remain."
"You are too weak, too feeble, for a great passion," continued the King hurriedly. "Others can feel it, however."
"I have never sold myself for ambition, Sire, as others do. I have never desired anything of you but yourself, and I have lost you."
Louis, crimson with passion, did not reply. He strode up and down the room in moody silence. La Vallière for a time was also silent. Her eyes followed him. His face was hard, and no glance told her that he even pitied her. It was too much. The strain upon her gentle nature gave way. The pent-up tears rushed to her eyes, she burst into heart-rending sobs and sank upon a seat. The King watched her, but he spoke not a word. His look was stern and set. For a while her tears flowed fast, and her bosom heaved wildly. Then she rose to her feet, and approached him. "All is over!" she said, in a voice almost inarticulate with sobs. "Never – never – will I trouble your Majesty more. Your will shall be now as ever my law. Eternal silence shall cover my justly merited sufferings. I have nothing more to say. Permit me to retire." She turned and left the room; her heart was broken.
Bossuet was her director. To him she applied for counsel. She told him that her very soul yearned for a convent. Bossuet questioned her, – her passionate remorse, her penitence, her courage, her resignation touched him deeply. She seemed to be purified from all earthly stain. Bossuet advised her to take six months to consider her vocation, during which time she was to speak to no one of her project. La Vallière bowed her head and obeyed. At the termination of the time, she publicly declared her intention of becoming a Carmelite. The King received this announcement with some show of feeling. He sent Lauzun to her, and offered to make her abbess of the richest convent in France. He entreated her not to expose her feeble health to the austerities of so severe an order. La Vallière replied that her resolution was unalterable. Before leaving the Hôtel Biron she asked for a private audience of the Queen. It was granted. With a veil over her face, and dressed in the dark robes of the order which she was about to enter, a hempen cord around her waist, to which hung a rosary and cross, she entered the Queen's private apartments at Versailles. Maria Theresa was alone. La Vallière raised her veil, her face was moist with tears, she tottered forward with difficulty and sank upon her knees.
"My royal mistress," said she, in a faint voice, "I come to crave your pardon. Oh, Madame, do not, I implore you, repulse me. Alas! if I have sinned I have suffered. Suffered – oh, so bitterly, so long! In a few hours I shall be forgotten within a convent."
The Queen, a woman of the most kindly and womanly feelings, was deeply affected.
"Ah, Madame la Duchesse," said she, "I have learnt to know how much I owe you. My life was much happier when you were at Court. I beg you to believe I shall be glad to have you again about my person."
"Your Majesty honours me beyond expression," answered La Vallière, curtseying to the earth.
"Does the King know of your departure, Madame la Duchesse?"
"He will know it after I have acquainted your Majesty."
"Surely he will not consent?" asked the Queen.
La Vallière shook her head – "My mind is made up, Madame. If I live for one year, I shall be a professed Carmelite."
"I am sorry," replied Maria Theresa simply, "very sorry. If my good wishes can serve you, Madame la Duchesse, you have them most sincerely. Should you, however, carry out your intention, allow me to present you with the black veil. It is a public mark of respect I would willingly pay you."
La Vallière was so overcome she could not at once reply, then kissing the Queen's hand which she held out to her, she said: "Your Majesty's goodness makes me hope that, as you have deigned to pardon me, I may still, by a life of penitence, reconcile myself with God. I most humbly thank you."
This interview over, she returned to Versailles. She distributed her possessions as though she were already dead. She assembled her servants in her oratory, and earnestly craved their forgiveness for all that she had said or done amiss. She exhorted them to be devout, to keep the fasts of the Church, and to serve God. She was thus occupied until past midnight. Towards morning she called her coach, and bid her people drive her quickly towards Chaillot. As she passed along she gazed eagerly on the blooming country for the last time. It was the month of June. The orchards were laden with the promise of coming fruit; the newly mown grass, sparkling with morning dew, made the meadows glisten, the birds carolled in the hedge-rows, and the hills, embowered in forest, rose green against the azure sky. Louise was still young; it was her last look on that world which had once been so pleasant to her.
At six o'clock in the morning she arrived at the convent. The Superior, accompanied by all the nuns, apprised of her arrival, was in waiting to receive her.
"My mother," said La Vallière, kneeling at her feet, "I have used my liberty so ill, that I am come to give it up into your hands."
Her long and beautiful hair was cut off before she entered the convent as a novice. A year afterwards she made her profession. The Queen and the whole Court were present – all save the King and Madame de Montespan. Bossuet preached his celebrated sermon. Then the Queen Maria Theresa descended from the tribune, where she had been seated in company with La Grande Mademoiselle, and invested her with the black veil. She kissed her tenderly on the forehead as she did so.
La Vallière, now Sister Louise de la Miséricorde, made an exemplary nun. She wore horse-hair next her skin, walked barefoot along the stone pavement of the convent, and fasted rigorously. She died at sixty-six, wasted to a skeleton by her austerities. Her end was peace.
CHAPTER XXIII.
M. DE LAUZUN AND "MADEMOISELLE."
ON the line of rail to Orleans, two and a half leagues from Paris, is the station and village of Choisy le Roi. Of the enchanting abode once erected here, on the verge of grassy lawns bordering the Seine, nothing has been left by the revolution but a fragment of wall, built into a porcelain manufactory.
Choisy Mademoiselle, afterwards to be called by Louis XV. Choisy le Roi, was built by Mademoiselle de Montpensier, daughter of Gaston, Duc d'Orléans, under the advice of Le Nôtre. It was to serve as a summer retreat from the gloomy splendours of the Luxembourg; a folie where she might spend the summer heats, try her English horses, train her hounds, row on the river, tend her aviaries, and watch her flowers. Here, freed from all scrutiny, she could be imperious or devout, childish or solemn, vain or humble, as suited her fickle humour; here she could set traps to catch obstinate emperors who refused to wed, fast upon the most delicate morsels, bouder the Court when neglected by her Jupiter-cousin the King, and cultivate such remains of beauty as still lingered on her oval face and almond-shaped blue eyes.
At Choisy all was formal, to suit the taste of its mistress. The corps de logis, a pavilion in one story, a mass of lofty windows, was flanked on either side by conservatories and orangeries which masked the offices. Within, the entire south front was occupied by a gallery, with frescoed ceiling and cornice; the walls covered with crimson satin, on which hung the family portraits of La Grande Mademoiselle. Each name was written under each portrait, so that all persons looking on them might read the lofty lineage of this granddaughter of Henry the Great. At one extremity of the gallery was a chapel, at the other a writing-cabinet. Here, the victories and conquests of Louis XIV., painted in miniature, by Van der Meulen, were arranged. These miniatures also were inscribed with names and dates. A likeness of his Majesty on horseback, when a youth, hung over the chimney-piece. Beyond the writing-cabinet was a billiard-room, as well as a suite of private apartments devoted to the use of the Princess herself. Without, broad terraces were balanced by flights of steps, statues, vases, and trophies; jets d'eau rose out of marble basins, and precisely arranged flowers and orange-trees adorned the walks. There was a park of a hundred acres, with woods on either hand, trimmed to an exact resemblance of each other. Choisy, like its mistress, was in perpetual costume de Cour; nothing but the river, towards which the gardens sloped, was as nature had made it. Not even La Grande Mademoiselle could prevent the soft summer breezes from rippling its silvery current, the sun from playing vagrant pranks upon its wavelets, or the water-lilies from growing in wild profusion under the shadow of its tree-shrouded bays.
Besides Choisy, Mademoiselle possessed the Palace of the Luxembourg, before-mentioned, the Castles of Eu, D'Aumale, De Thiers, Dombes, Chatellerault, and Saint-Fargeau, each surrounded by such vast estates, that no one except the well-known Marquis de Carrabas ever had the like.
Mademoiselle, although firmly convinced that the world was, in great measure, created for her particular enjoyment, was wonderfully exercised in her mind at the difficulty she experienced in securing that much-coveted game (for which she had hunted all her life), an emperor, or even a king. She, however, appeased her wounded vanity by the conviction that she must be considered too masculine in understanding to consort with any living sovereign. Whatever happened, this royal lady never by any possibility could blame herself.
About this time, a Gascon gentleman of the Caumont family, whose name has been already casually mentioned, began to make much noise at Court. He was Captain of the Royal Guards, whose service was the special care of his Majesty's person, and Field-Marshal, also Governor of Berry. Loaded with honours, he had dropped the undistinguished patronymic of Peguillem altogether, and was known as the Comte de Lauzun. The King, whose understanding was, as a matter of course, superior to every one, had said when he was first presented to him at the Comtesse de Soissons's, that "Lauzun possessed more wit and penetration than any man in France." This opinion was accepted as law. That Lauzun was, by reason of his Gascon blood, cunning, heartless, and mercenary, as well as audacious, insinuating, and brave, is only saying that he was what all Gascons (going up to Court to make their fortunes) were. But that he was above the ordinary hungry adventurer, the sequel will show. Holding Court trumps in his hand, he knew how to play them well. He was a little man, slight and well formed, with a dull, fair complexion, reddish hair, keen penetrating grey eyes, and a most insolent bearing. No one could call him handsome, no one could deny that he could be morose, vindictive, and cruel. He spoke sharp, hard words, affected a certain soldierly swagger, and was capable of being alike cringing and impertinent.
Mademoiselle was no longer young. The unsuccessful chase after an emperor had occupied a large portion of her life. She lived at Court, and was necessarily thrown much into the company of Lauzun, who affected an indifference towards her, a rough and ready manner that piqued her vanity. So she came gradually (no crowned head appearing in the matrimonial horizon, only relays of dukes and insignificant princes) to find Lauzun fascinating and original. The pleasures of Court palled upon her; she became pensive, even sentimental, and often retired to bowery Choisy to meditate on the chances and changes of life.
Finally she came to the conclusion that marriage alone would restore her spirits. But marriage without an emperor? It was a great come-down, certainly. Yet there are no laws but the laws of passion in the kingdom of love. Mademoiselle reasoned that her sublimity was so exalted she could raise any man to her own level. In a word, she discovered that all earthly bliss depended on her marriage with Monsieur de Lauzun.
Now Mademoiselle was, as we have seen, a very determined, even masculine, lady. She had pointed the guns of the Bastille against her cousin the King; she had all but led an army into the battlefield. Having come to a determination, she proceeded incontinently to carry it out. But she encountered uncontemplated difficulties. The crafty Lauzun, who read her like a book, became suddenly respectful and silent. As she approached, he receded. Mademoiselle was extremely embarrassed, and more violently in love than ever. This was precisely what Lauzun intended.
We are in the Queen's apartments at the Louvre, within a stately retiring-room. The walls are covered with white brocade, on which is a gold pattern. They are panelled by gilt scroll-work. On the carved ceiling, which is supported by pilasters, is painted Apollo ushering in the day. The furniture is of green damask; colossal chandeliers of crystal and gilt bronze are reflected in mirrors placed at either end. Over the mantelpiece, which is carved and richly gilt, hangs a portrait of the King.
Mademoiselle, attended by her lady of honour, enters about the time of the Queen's lever. She finds Lauzun in a corner talking with the Comtesse de Guiche. He takes no notice of her, though she gives a slight cough to attract his attention. She does not like it. Besides not saluting her, which he ought to have done, he seems quite to have thrown off his usual insouciance, and to find the conversation of the Comtesse de Guiche much too interesting. Mademoiselle retires into the recess of a window, and watches him.
Lauzun continues talking with unaccustomed eagerness. He still takes no notice whatever of Mademoiselle; her royal highness has therefore to wait – yes, actually to wait; a thing she has never done in her life before to an inferior – until he has done talking.
But when he does approach her, he advances with such a noble air, he is in her eyes so handsome, that "To me," she says in her memoirs, "he seemed the very master of the world." Not only does she forgive him, but her whole heart goes out to meet him, and her pulses throb violently – so violently, indeed, she is obliged to wait for a moment ere she can address him.
Lauzun makes her a ceremonious bow, places his hand on his embroidered waistcoat and point-lace jabot, at the place where, if he had one, his heart would have been, casts down his eyes, and awaits her pleasure.
Now, it must be specially borne in mind that Mademoiselle, much against her will, may be now called "an old maid," which condition may reasonably excuse her ardour.
"I flatter myself, Count," she says – blushing at her own backwardness, yet infinitely gratified at the same time by Lauzun's attitude of respectful attention – "I flatter myself you take some interest in me." She looks up, expecting some outburst of protestation at the studied humility of her language. Lauzun, his hand still resting somewhere in the region of where his heart ought to be, bows again, but does not reply. "You are a faithful friend, I know, Monsieur de Lauzun," continues Mademoiselle, confused at his perfect composure, and evolving in her own mind the impossibility of saying all that she desires if he continues silent. "You are, too, a man of the world – " she hesitates. Still Lauzun is mute. "Even his Majesty has the highest respect for your judgment." Again she pauses, flushes crimson, not only on her cheeks, but over her well-formed neck and snowy shoulders. Lauzun makes a slight inclination, but otherwise maintains the same attitude. Mademoiselle's voice, ordinarily rather shrill and loud, is low and persuasive. She looks at him inquiringly, and stretches out both her hands as if to claim his special attention to what she is about to say. Lauzun appears not to observe her anxiety, and fixes his eyes on the ground. "Will you favour me with your advice, Monsieur de Lauzun? I shall esteem it a great kindness." Her tone is almost one of supplication.
"I am deeply sensible of the honour your highness does me," replies Lauzun, disengaging his hand from his waistcoat, and again bowing, this time very stiffly. "On what subject may I venture to advise your royal highness?"
Mademoiselle is conscious she has something very extraordinary to say. She hoped that, seeing her evident perplexity, Lauzun would have helped her. Not a bit. She must trust entirely to herself. Her pride comes to her help. She remembers who she is, draws herself up, steadies her voice, and takes a few steps nearer to where he is standing.
"It is a very delicate subject, Monsieur de Lauzun; nothing but my confidence in your honour and your discretion would otherwise induce me to broach it. But – " and she falters.
Lauzun does not stir, only with the slightest perceptible motion he raises his eyebrows, which Mademoiselle perceives, and, fearing that he is impatient, speaks quickly.
"Do you know – can you tell me – " here she pauses; then observing that he makes a hasty gesture, she forces herself to proceed – "you, Monsieur de Lauzun, who are the confidant of the King, can you tell me whom he purposes me to marry?"
Having said thus much she is so overcome she would like to sink into a chair. There is none at hand; besides, she dare not leave Lauzun, so eager is she for his reply.
He raises his head and fixes his deep-set eyes upon her with a bold, cold gaze.
"I assure you, madame, I am absolutely ignorant of his Majesty's pleasure in this matter. I am persuaded, however, from what I know of the elevation of his sentiments on all subjects, that he would desire you solely to follow your own inclination." A malicious twinkle comes into his eye, and he smiles almost as it seems in mockery.
Mademoiselle becomes more and more discomposed. Never had an interview been so difficult to manage. "Surely," she thinks, "Lauzun is not laughing at me!" Yet she is too much in love to drop a conversation which she is determined shall lead to an explanation of his feelings towards herself. All this Lauzun is aware of; he rejoices in intensifying her perplexity.