Old Court Life in France, vol. 1

The bloody almanack had told true. Henry had circled twenty times the magic chamber of life!

CHAPTER XXIX.

LOUIS XIII

IT is related that the night after the assassination of Henri Quatre by Ravaillac, and while his body lay in the Louvre, his little son, Louis XIII., screaming with terror, cried out that he saw the same men who had murdered his father coming to kill him. Louis was not to be pacified until he was carried to his mother’s bed, where he passed the rest of the night.

To this infantine terror, this early association with death and murder, may be traced the strange character of Louis; weak in body and mind, timid, suspicious, melancholy, superstitious, an undutiful son, a bad husband, and an unworthy king. The fame of his great father, and the enthusiasm his memory inspired, instead of filling him with emulation, crushed and depressed him. He became a complete “Roi fainéant.” His reign was the reign of favourites, and nothing was heard of the monarch but in connection with them, save that, with a superstition worthy of the Middle Ages, he formerly placed France “under the protection of the Virgin.”

His early favourite, Albret the Gascon, created Duc de Luynes and Constable of France, was his tyrant. As long as he lived Louis both hated and feared him. He hated his mother, he hated Richelieu, he hated his wife, Anne of Austria. Louis, surnamed “the Just,” had a great capacity for hatred.

Poor Anne of Austria, to whom he was married at fifteen, she being the same age, what a lot was hers!

Her personal charms actually revolted the half-educated, awkward boy, whom all the world thought she would govern despotically. He could not help acknowledging her exceeding loveliness; but she was his superior, and he knew it. He shrank back, terrified, at her vivacity and her talents. Her innocent love of amusement jarred against his morbid nature. Melancholy himself, he disliked to see others happy, and from the day of their marriage he lived as much apart from her as state etiquette permitted.

Maria de’ Medici, ambitious and unprincipled as ever, widened the breach between them. She still sat supreme in the council, and regulated public affairs. Richelieu, her favourite and minister during the Regency, in continual dread of a possible reconciliation between Louis and his wife, and in love with the young Queen himself, was rapidly rising to that dictatorship which he exercised over France and the King until he died. Both he and the Queen-mother roused Louis’s jealousy against his wife, and dropped dark hints of danger to his throne, perhaps to his life. They succeeded only too well; the King and Queen become more and more estranged.

Anne of Austria uttered no complaint. She showed no anger, but her pride was deeply wounded, and amongst her ladies and her friends her joyous raillery did not spare the King. Reports of her flirtations also, as well as of her bon mots and her mimicry, heightened by the malice of those whose interest it was to keep them asunder, reached Louis, and alienated him more and more. Anne, too young to be fully aware of the growing danger of her position, vain of her success, and without either judicious friends or competent advisers, took no steps to reconcile herself to her husband. Coldness and estrangement rapidly grew into downright dislike and animosity; suspicions were exaggerated into certainty, until at last she came to be treated as a conspirator and a criminal.

The age was an age of intrigue, treachery, and rebellion. The growing power of the nobles narrowed the authority of the throne. The incapacity of the King strengthened the pretensions of the princes. Spain, perpetually at war with France, sought its dismemberment by most disloyal conspiracies. Every disaffected prince or rebellious noble found a home at the Court of Philip, brother of Anne of Austria.

Thus Louis knew nothing of royalty but its cares and dangers. As a boy, browbeaten and overborne by his mother, when arrived at an age when his own sense and industry might have remedied defects of education, he took it for granted that his ignorance was incapacity, his timidity constitutional deficiency.

A prime minister was absolutely indispensable to such a monarch, and Louis at least showed some discernment in selecting for that important post the Bishop of Luçon (Cardinal Richelieu), the protégé of his mother.

Estranged from his wife, pure in morals, and correct in conduct, Louis, still a mere youth, yearned for female sympathy. A confidante was as necessary as a minister – one as immaculate as himself, into whose ear he could, without fear of scandal, murmur the griefs and anxieties of his life. Such a woman he found in Mademoiselle de Hautefort, maid of honour to the Queen. Her modesty and her silence first attracted him. Her manners were reserved, her speech soft and gentle. She was naturally of a serious turn of mind, and had been carefully educated. She took great apparent interest in all the King said to her. Her conversation became so agreeable to him, that he dared by degrees to confide to her his loneliness, his misery, and even his bodily infirmities, which were neither few nor slight. This intimacy, to a solitary young King who longed for affection, yet delicately shrunk from the slightest semblance of intrigue, was alluring in the highest degree.

Long, however, ere Louis had favoured her with his preference she had given her whole heart to her mistress, Anne of Austria. Every word the King uttered was immediately repeated to the Queen, with such comments as caused the liveliest entertainment to that lovely princess, who treated the liaison as an admirable joke, and entreated her maid of honour to humour the King to the very utmost, so as to afford her the greatest possible amount of amusement.

The Court is at Compiègne. Since the days of Clotaire it has been a favourite hunting-lodge of the Kings of France. One vast façade stretches along verdant banks sloping to the river Oise, across which an ancient bridge (on which Jeanne d’Arc, fighting against the English, was taken prisoner) leads into the sunny little town. On the farther side of the château a magnificent terrace, bordered by canals, links it to the adjoining forest. So close to this terrace still press the ancient trees and woodland alleys, backed by rising hills crowned with lofty elms, and broken by deep hollows where feathery beeches wave, that even to this day the whole scene faithfully represents an ancient chase. So immense is the château that the two Queens, Marie de’ Medici and Anne of Austria, could each hold distinct Courts within its walls. Marie, in the suite called the “Apartments of the Queens-dowager of France,” then hung with ancient tapestry and painted in fresco, looking over the grassy lawns beside the river and the town; Anne, in the stately rooms towards the forest and the woodland heights.

Within a vaulted room, the walls hung with Cordova leather stamped in patterns of gorgeous colours, Anne of Austria is seated at her toilette. Before her is a mirror, framed in lace and ribbons, placed on a silver table. She wears a long white peignoir thrown over a robe of azure satin. Her luxuriant hair is unbound and falls over her shoulders; Doña Estafania, her Spanish dresser, who has never left her, assisted by Madame Bertant, combs and perfumes it, drawing out many curls and ringlets from the waving mass, which, at a little distance, the morning sunshine turns into a shower of gold. Around her stand her maids of honour, Mademoiselles de Guerchy, Saint-Mégrin, and de Hautefort. The young Queen is that charming anomaly, a Spanish blonde. She has large blue eyes that can languish or sparkle, entreat or command, pencilled eyebrows, and a mouth full-lipped and rosy. She has the prominent nose of her family; her complexion, of the most dazzling fairness, is heightened by rouge. She is not tall, but her royal presence, even in youth, lends height to her figure. When she smiles her face expresses nothing but innocence and candour; but she knows how to frown, and to make others frown also.

There is a stir among the attendants, and the King enters. He is assiduous in saluting her Majesty at her lever when Mademoiselle de Hautefort is present. Louis XIII. has inherited neither the rough though martial air of his father, nor the beauty of his Italian mother. His face is long, thin, and sallow; his hair dark and scanty. He is far from tall, and very slight, and an indescribable air of melancholy pervades his whole person. As Louis approaches her, Anne is placing a diamond pendant in her ear; her hands are exquisitely white and deliciously shaped, and she loves to display them. She receives the King, who timidly advances, with sarcastic smiles and insolent coldness. While he is actually addressing her, she turns round to her lady in waiting, the Duchesse de Chevreuse, who stands behind her chair, holding a hand-mirror set in gold, whispers in her ear and laughs, then points with her dainty finger, bright with costly rings, to the King, who stands before her. Louis blushes, waits some time for an answer, which she does not vouchsafe to give; then, greatly embarrassed, retreats into a corner near the door, and seats himself.

The Duchesse de Chevreuse, the friend and confidante of Anne of Austria, widow of the King’s favourite the Duc de Luynes, now a second time

Duchess, as wife of Claude Lorraine, Duc de Chevreuse, an adventuress and an intrigante, is a gipsy-faced, bewitching woman, dark-skinned, velvet-eyed, and enticing; her cheeks dimpling with smiles, her black eyes dancing with mischief.

The King sits lost in thought, with an anxious and almost tearful expression, gazing fixedly at Mademoiselle de Hautefort who stands behind the Queen’s chair among the maids of honour. Suddenly he becomes aware that all eyes are turned upon him. He rises quickly, and makes a sign to Mademoiselle de Hautefort to approach him; but the eyes of the maid of honour are fixed upon the ground. With a nervous glance towards the door, he reseats himself on the edge of his chair. The Queen turns towards him, then to Mademoiselle de Hautefort, and laughs, whilst the maid of honour busies herself with some lace. A moment after she advances towards the Queen, carrying the ruff in her hand which is to encircle her Majesty’s neck.

Anne leans back, adjusts the ruff, and whispers to her – “Look, mademoiselle, look at your despairing lover. He longs to go away, but he cannot tear himself from you. I positively admire his courage. Go to him, ma belle– he is devouring you with his eyes. Have you no mercy on the anointed King of France?”

Mademoiselle de Hautefort colours, and again turns her eyes to the ground.

“Duchesse,” continues Anne in a low voice, addressing the Duchesse de Chevreuse, “tell mademoiselle what you would do were you adored by a great king. Would you refuse to look at him when he stands before you – red, white, smiling, almost weeping, a spectacle of what a fool even a sovereign may make of himself?” And the Queen laughs again softly, and, for an instant, mimicks the grotesque expression of the King’s face.

“Madame,” says Mademoiselle de Hautefort, looking up and speaking gravely, “the opinion of Madame la Duchesse would not influence me. We take different views of life. Your Majesty knows that the King is not my lover, and that I only converse with him out of the duty I owe your Majesty. I beseech you, Madame,” adds she, in a plaintive voice, “do not laugh at me. My task is difficult enough. I have to amuse a Sovereign who cannot be amused – to feign an interest I do not feel. Her grace the Duchesse de Chevreuse would, I doubt not, know how to turn the confidence with which his Majesty honours me to much better account”; and Mademoiselle de Hautefort glances angrily at the Duchess, who smiles scornfully, and makes her a profound curtsey.

“You say true, mademoiselle,” replies she; “I should certainly pay more respect to his Majesty’s exalted position, and perhaps I should feel more sympathy for the passion I had inspired. However, you are but a mere girl, new to court life. You will learn in good time, mademoiselle – you will learn.”

Mademoiselle de Hautefort, about to make a bitter reply, is interrupted by the Queen.

“Come, petite sotte,” says Anne, still speaking under her breath, “don’t lose your temper. We all worship you as the modern Diana. Venus is not at all in the line of our royal spouse. Look, he can bear it no longer; he has left the room. There he stands in the anteroom, casting one last longing look after you; I see it in the glass. Go, mademoiselle, I dismiss you – go and console his Majesty with your Platonic friendship.”

Mademoiselle de Hautefort left the room, and was instantly joined by Louis, who drew her into the embrasure of an oriel window.

CHAPTER XXX.

THE ORIEL WINDOW

“YOU have come at last,” said Louis eagerly. “Why would you not look at me? I have suffered tortures; I abhor the Queen’s ladies, a set of painted Jezebels, specially the Duchesse de Chevreuse, a dangerous intriguer, her Majesty’s evil genius. I saw them all mocking me. Why did you not look at me? you knew I came for you,” repeated he, querulously.

“Surely, Sire, I could not be so presumptuous as to imagine that a visit to her Majesty from her husband concerned me.”

“Her husband! would I had never seen her, or her friend the Duchesse. They are both – well, I will not say what, certainly spies, spies of Spain. My principles forbid me to associate with such women. You look displeased, mademoiselle – what have I done?” – for Mademoiselle de Hautefort showed by her expression the disapproval she felt at his abuse of the Queen. “It is your purity, your sweetness, that alone make the Court bearable. But you are not looking at me – cruel, selfish girl! would you too forsake me?”

The maid of honour feeling that she must say something, and assume an interest she did not feel, looked up into the King’s face and smiled. “I am here, Sire, for your service. I am neither cruel nor selfish, but I am grieved at the terms in which you speak of my gracious mistress. Let me pray your Majesty, most humbly, not to wound me by such language.”

Her look, her manner, softened the irritable Louis. He took her hand stealthily and kissed it. He gazed at her pensively for some moments without speaking.

“How beautiful you are, and wise as you are beautiful!” exclaimed he at length. “I have much to say to you, but not about my Spanish wife. Let us not mention her.” His eyes were still riveted on the maid of honour; his lips parted as if to speak, then he checked himself, but still retained her hand, which he pressed.

“You hunted yesterday, Sire,” said she, confused at the King’s silence and steadfast gaze; “what number of stags did you kill? I was not present at the curée.” She gently withdrew her hand from the King’s grasp.

“I did not hunt yesterday; I was ill,” replied Louis. “I am ill, very ill.”

This allusion to his health instantly changed the current of his thoughts, for Louis was a complete valetudinarian. He became suddenly moody, and sank heavily into a seat placed behind a curtain, the thick folds of which concealed both him and the maid of honour.

“I am harassed, sick to death of everything. I should die but for you. I can open my heart to you.” And then suddenly becoming conscious that Mademoiselle de Hautefort still stood before him, he drew a chair close to his side, on which he desired her to seat herself.

Mademoiselle de Hautefort, knowing well that the King would now go on talking to her for a long time, assumed an attitude of pleased attention. Louis looked pale and haggard. His sallow cheeks were shrunk, his large eyes hollow. As he spoke a hectic flush went and came upon his face.

“Will you not let me take your hand, mademoiselle?” said he, timidly. “I feel I could talk much better if I did, and I have much to say to you.”

She reluctantly placed her hand in his. The King sighed deeply.

“What is the matter, Sire?”

“Ah, that is the question! I long to tell you. I sigh because I am weary of my life. My mother, who still calls herself Regent, and pretends to govern the kingdom, quarrels perpetually with Richelieu. The council is distracted by her violence and ill-temper; affairs of state are neglected. She reproaches Richelieu publicly for his ingratitude, as she calls it, because he will not support her authority rather than the good of the kingdom. The Duc d’Epernon supports her. He is as imperious as she is. Her ambition embitters my life, as it embittered that of my great father.”

“Oh, Sire, remember that the Queen-dowager of France is your mother. Besides, Richelieu owes everything to her favour. Had it not been for her he would have remained an obscure bishop at Luçon all his life. She placed him at Court.”

“Yes, and he shall stay there. Par Dieu! he shall stay there. If any one goes it shall be my mother. I feel I myself have no capacity for governing; I shrink from the tremendous responsibility; but I am better able to undertake it than the Queen-mother. Her love of power is so excessive she would sacrifice me and every one else to keep it – she and the Duc d’Epernon,” he added, bitterly. “Richelieu is an able minister. He is ambitious, I know, but I am safe in his hands. He can carry out no measures of reform, he cannot maintain the dignity of the Crown, if he is for ever interfered with by a fractious woman, – vain, capricious, incompetent.”

“Oh, Sire!” and Mademoiselle de Hautefort held up her hands to stop him.

“It is true, madame. Did not the Queen-mother and her creatures, the Concini and the Duc d’Epernon, all but plunge France into civil war during her regency? She was nigh being deposed, and I with her. What a life I led until De Luynes rescued me! He presumed upon my favour, le fripon, and brought boat-loads of Gascon cousins to Court from Guienne. I never knew a man have so many cousins! They came in shoals, and never one of them with a silken cloak to his back – a beggarly lot!”

“But, Sire,” said Mademoiselle de Hautefort, sitting upright in her chair, and trying to fix the King’s wandering mind, “why do you need either her Majesty the Queen-mother or the Cardinal de Richelieu? Depend on no one. Govern for yourself, Sire.”

“Impossible, impossible. I am too weak. I have no capacity. I have none of my great father’s genius.” And the King lifted his feathered hat reverently from his head each time he named his father. “Richelieu rules for me. He has intellect. He will maintain the honour of France. The nation is safe in his hands. As for me, I am tyrannised over by my mother, laughed at by my Spanish wife, and betrayed by my own brother. I am not fit to reign. Every one despises me – except you.” And the King turned with an appealing look towards Mademoiselle de Hautefort. “You, I hope, at least, understand me. You do me justice.”

There was a melting expression in the King’s eyes which she had never seen before. It alarmed her. She felt that her only excuse for the treacherous part she was acting was in the perfect innocence of their relations. A visible tremor passed over her. She blushed violently, a look of pain came into her face, and her eyes fell before his gaze.

“You do not speak? Have I offended you?” cried Louis, much excited. “What have I said? Oh, mademoiselle, do not lose your sympathy for me, else I shall die! I know I am unworthy of your notice; but – see how I trust you. The hours I spend in your society give me the only happiness I enjoy. Pity, pity the King of France, who craves your help, who implores your sympathy!”

Mademoiselle de Hautefort, speaking in her usual quiet manner, entreated him to be calm.

“Am I forgiven?” said he in a faltering voice, looking the picture of despair. “Will you still trust me?”

“Yes, yes, Sire. I am ashamed to answer such a question. Your Majesty has given me no offence.”

Louis reseated himself.

“It is to prepare you for an unexpected event that I wish to talk to you. It is possible that I may shortly leave Compiègne suddenly and secretly. I must tear myself away from you for a while.”

“Leave the Court, Sire! What do you mean?”

“The quarrels between my mother and Richelieu are more than I can endure. They must end. One must go – I will not say which. You can guess. I am assured by Richelieu, who has information from all parts of France, that her Majesty is hated by the people. She is suspected of a knowledge of my great father’s death; she has abused her position. No one feels any interest in her fate.”

“But, surely, your Majesty feels no pleasure in knowing that it is so, even if it be true, which I much doubt.”

“Well, her Majesty has deserved little favour of me,” replied he with indifference. “Richelieu tells me that her exile would be a popular act – ”

“Her exile, Sire! You surely do not contemplate the exile of your own mother?”

“Possibly not – possibly not; but a sovereign must be advised by his ministers. It is indispensable to the prosperity of the State.”

Mademoiselle de Hautefort was silent, but something of the contempt she felt might have been seen in her expressive eyes.

“I do not feel disposed,” continued he, “to face the anger of the Queen-mother when she hears my determination. She would use violent language to me that might make me forget I am her son. Richelieu must break it to her. He can do it while I am away. Agitation injures my health, it deranges my digestion. I have enough to bear from my wife, from whom it is not so easy to escape – ”

Again he stopped abruptly, as if he were about to say more than he intended.

Mademoiselle de Hautefort, ever on the lookout for all that concerned her mistress the Queen, glanced at him with sullen curiosity. Her eyes read his thoughts.

“Your Majesty is concealing something from me?” she said.

“Well, yes,” – and he hesitated – “it is a subject too delicate to mention.”

“Have you, then, withdrawn your confidence from me, Sire?” asked she, affecting the deepest concern.

“No, no – never. I tell you everything – yet, I blush to allude to such a subject.”

“What subject, Sire? Does it concern her Majesty?”

“By heaven it does!” cried the King, with unwonted excitement, a look of rage on his face. “It is said – ” and he stopped, and looked round suspiciously, and became crimson. “Not here – not here,” he muttered, rising. “I cannot speak of it here. It is too public. Come with me into this closet.”

Mademoiselle de Hautefort, foreboding some misfortune to the Queen, followed him, trembling in every limb, into a small retiring-closet opening from the gallery where they had been seated. He drew her close to the window, glanced cautiously around, and placed his hand on her arm.

“It is said,” – he spoke in a low voice – “it is said – and appearances confirm it – that” – and he stooped, and whispered some words in Mademoiselle de Hautefort’s ear, who started back with horror. “If it be so,” he added coolly, “I shall crave a dispensation from the Pope, and send the Queen back to Madrid.”

“For shame, Sire! you are deceived,” cried Mademoiselle de Hautefort, an expression of mingled disgust, anger, and terror on her face. She could hardly bring herself to act out the part imposed upon her for the Queen’s sake. She longed to overwhelm the unmanly Louis with her indignation; but she controlled her feelings. “On my honour, Sire,” said she firmly, “they do but converse as friends. For the truth of this I wager my life – my salvation.”

“Nothing of the kind,” insisted Louis doggedly. “It is your exalted virtue that blinds you to their wickedness. My mother, who hates me – even my mother pities me; she believes in the Queen’s guilt.”

“Sire,” broke in the maid of honor impetuously, her black eyes full of indignation, “I have already told you I will not hear my royal mistress slandered; this is a foul slander. To me she is as sacred as your Majesty, who are an anointed king.” Louis passed his hand over his brow, and mused in silence. “I beseech you, Sire, listen to me,” continued she, seeing his irresolution. “I speak the truth; before God I speak the truth!” Louis looked fixedly at her. Her vehemence impressed, if it did not convince him. “Your Majesty needs not the counsel of the Queen-mother in affairs of state; do not trust her, or any one else, in matters touching the honour of your consort.” And she raised her eyes, and looked boldly at him. “Promise me, Sire, to dismiss this foul tale from your mind.”