Old Court Life in France, vol. 1

“You talk of the Queen-mother, do you know that she warned me long ago that you were dishonouring me?”

“Oh, Sire, if you forget who I am,” exclaimed the Queen, “remember at least that I am a woman!” and she burst into tears, and for a few moments sobbed bitterly.

“Can you deny it, Madame,” continued the King, with rising fury, his mouth twitching nervously, as was his wont when much agitated – “can you deny it? Am I not become a jest among my own courtiers? You, the Queen of France, openly encourage the addresses of many lovers. You are wanting, Madame, even in the decency of the reserve becoming your high station,” and Louis clenched his fist with rage.

“I deny what you say,” returned the Queen boldly; “I have discoursed with no man to the dishonour of your Majesty.” She was trembling violently, but she spoke firmly and with dignity. “If I am wanting in concealment,” added she, “it is because I have nothing to conceal.”

“I do not believe you,” answered the King rudely.

“No, Sire, you do not, because you are my enemy. Your mind is poisoned against me. You encourage the lies of Richelieu, you slander me to my own attendants. Worse than all, you dare to couple my name with that of the Duc d’Orléans, your own brother. It is a gross calumny.”

Her voice rose as she spoke; the power of truth and innocence was in her look – it was impossible not to believe her. For an instant the King’s suspicions seemed shaken. He followed eagerly every word she uttered; but at the name of Monsieur a livid paleness overspread his face; for a moment he looked as if he would have swooned. Then recovering himself somewhat he came close up to her, and with a wild look he scanned her curiously, as though to read some answer to his suspicions. “Who can have told her? who can have told her?” he muttered half aloud – “a secret of state too. It is not possible that – ” The last words were spoken so low that they were lost. Louis was evidently struggling with some painful but overwhelming conviction. His head sunk on his breast. Again he became lost in thought. Then, looking up, he saw that the Queen was watching him. She was waiting for him to speak. This awakened him suddenly to a consciousness of what was passing, and his anger burst forth afresh.

“You say I am your enemy – yes, I am, and with reason. Are you not devoted to the interests of Spain, now at war with France? Do you not betray me in letters to your brother? Answer me.” It was now the Queen’s turn to falter and turn pale. The King perceived it. “I have you there, Madame Anne; I have you there;” and he laughed vindictively. “My life is not safe beside you. Like my great father, I shall die by an assassin whose hand will be directed by my wife!” A cold shiver passed over him. “Richelieu has proofs. Vrai Dieu, Madame, he has proofs. It is possible,” he added, with a sardonic smile, which made him look ghastly, “that you may return to Madrid sooner than you imagine – you and the Duchesse de Chevreuse, your accomplice.”

“Not sooner than I desire, Sire, after your unworthy treatment,” exclaimed Anne, proudly, her anger overcoming her fears that her letters might have been really deciphered. “I come of a race that cannot brook insult; but I can bear disgrace.”

Louis, who felt that the Queen was getting the better of him, grew furious – “I will have no more words, Madame,” shouted he; “we will deal with facts. I shall appeal to my minister and to my council. For myself, I am not fit to govern,” he added, in an altered voice, and with the forlorn air of a man who cannot help himself.

“Speak not to me, Sire, of Richelieu and the council over which he presides,” cried Anne, goaded beyond endurance. “Richelieu is a traitor, a hypocrite, a libertine – not even his sovereign’s wife is sacred to him!”

“Ah, Madame, it is natural that you and Richelieu should disagree,” retorted the King, with an incredulous sneer. “He is a match for you and for the Duchess your counsellor – the Duchess whose life disgraces my Court.”

Anne had now thrown herself into a chair, her hands were crossed on her bosom, her eyes bent steadily on the King, as if prepared for whatever fresh extravagance he might utter. Even the enraged Louis felt the influence of her fixed, stern gaze. He ceased speaking, grew suddenly confused, paced up and down hurriedly, stopped, essayed again to address her – then abruptly strode out of the room.

…

The Queen and her ladies are seated on a stone balcony that overlooks the parterre and the park of Saint-Germain. Below, the King’s violins are playing some music of his composition, set to words in praise of friendship, full of covert allusions to Mademoiselle de Hautefort. The Queen’s fair young face is clouded with care; she leans back listlessly in her chair, and takes no heed of the music or of what is passing around her. The Chevalier de Jars approaches her. There is something in his air that alarms her; she signs to him to place himself beside her.

Mademoiselle de Hautefort, conscious that every one is watching the effect of the music and the words upon her, sits apart at the farther end of the gallery, from which the balcony projects, almost concealed from view. A door near her opens noiselessly, and the King puts in his head. He peers round cautiously, sees that no one has perceived him, and that Mademoiselle de Hautefort is alone, then he creeps in and seats himself by her side. He looks saddened and perplexed.

“Why do you shun me?” he asks, abruptly.

“You have been absent, Sire.”

“Did you miss me?” His voice sounds so strange and hollow that Mademoiselle de Hautefort looks up into his face. Something has happened; what could it be? Some misfortune to the Queen is always her first thought. Before she can reply, Louis sighs profoundly, so profoundly that he almost groans, contemplating her, at the same time, with looks of inexpressible sorrow. “Alas!” exclaims he at last, “I had hoped so much from this interview when we parted at Fontainebleau; I have lived upon the thought, and now – my dream is ended; all is over!” The maid of honour grows alarmed: either he is gone mad, she thinks, or something dreadful has happened.

“I cannot conceive what you mean, Sire?” she replies, not knowing what to say.

“Are you, too, false?” he continues, “with those eyes so full of truth? Yet it must be you, it can be no other. False like the rest; a devil with an angel’s face!” The maid of honour is more and more amazed. “Yet I trusted you; with my whole heart I trusted you,” and he turns to her with a piteous expression, and wrings his hands. “I unfolded to you my forlorn and desolate condition. It might have touched you. Tell me,” he continues, in a tone of anguish, “tell me the truth; was it you who betrayed me?”

Mademoiselle de Hautefort is terribly confused. She understands now what the King means; a mortal terror seizes her; what shall she say to him? She is too conscientious to deny point-blank that she has told his secret, so she replies evasively, “that she is his Majesty’s faithful servant.”

“But, speak,” insists the King, “give me a plain answer. How does the Queen know a state secret, that I confided to you alone, that I even whispered in your ear?”

“Sire, I – I do not know,” falters the maid of honour.

“Swear to me, mademoiselle, that you have not betrayed me to the Queen; swear, and I will believe you. Pardieu! I will believe you even if it is not true!” Louis’s eyes shine with hidden fire; his slight frame quivers.

Mademoiselle de Hautefort, trembling for her mistress, with difficulty controls herself. “Your Majesty must judge me as you please,” she replies, struggling to speak with unconcern. “I call God to witness I have been faithful to my trust.”

“I would fain believe it,” replies the King, watching her in painful suspense; he seems to wait for some further justification, but not another syllable passes her lips. Still the King lingers; his looks are riveted upon her.

At this moment the music ceases. The maid of honour starts up, for the Queen has left the balcony. The King had vanished.

Anne of Austria, quitting those around her, advances alone to the spot where Mademoiselle de Hautefort had been talking with the King. “I am going at once to the Val de Grâce,” she whispers in great agitation.

“Indeed, Madame; so suddenly?”

“Yes, at once. I have just heard from the Chevalier de Jars that Chalais is arrested at Nantes. He accuses me and the Duchesse de Chevreuse of conspiring with him. Richelieu meditates some coup de main against me. I shall be safe at the Val de Grâce. You and the Duchess will accompany me. Here is a letter I have written in pencil to my brother; it is most important. I dare not carry it about me; take care to deliver it yourself to Laporte.”

The Queen drew from her pocket a letter, placed it in the maid of honour’s hand, and hastened back to rejoin the company. Mademoiselle was about to follow her, when Louis suddenly rose up before her, and barred her advance.

“Mademoiselle de Hautefort,” he said, “I have heard all. I was concealed behind that curtain. Give me that letter, written by my wife, I command you.”

“Never, Sire, never!” and Mademoiselle de Hautefort crushed the letter in her hand.

“How – dare you refuse me? Give it to me instantly!” and he tried to tear it from her grasp. She eluded him, retreated a few steps, and paused for a moment to think, then, as if a sudden inspiration had struck her, she opened the lace kerchief which covered her neck, thrust the letter into her bosom, and exclaimed: —

“Here it is, Sire; come and take it!”

With outstretched arms she stood before him; her cheeks aglow with blushes, her bosom wildly heaving. Wistfully he regarded her for a moment, then thrust out his hand to seize the letter, plainly visible beneath the gauzy covering. One glance from her flashing eye, and the King, crimson to the temples, drew back; irresistibly impelled, he advanced again and once more retreated, then with a look of baffled fury shouted, “Now I know you are a traitress!” and rushed from the gallery.

CHAPTER XXXV.

AT VAL DE GRÂCE

THE ancient Benedictine abbey of the Val Profond, near Bièvre le Châlet, three leagues from Paris, was founded by Robert, son of Hugh Capet. Soon after her arrival in France, Anne of Austria bought the ground upon which the then ruined abbey stood, moved the nuns to Paris, and placed them in a convent called the Val de Grâce,25 under the Mont Parnasse, near the Luxembourg Gardens. To this convent of the Val de Grâce the Queen often resorted to seek in prayer and meditation (for she was eminently pious), consolation and repose. On these occasions she occupied a suite of rooms specially set apart for her use.

It is a bright morning, and the sunshine streams through the painted windows, and streaks the marble floor of the Queen’s oratory with chequered colours. To the east, under a lofty window, stands an altar, covered with a costly cloth, on which, in golden sconces, burn many votive candles. Anne of Austria is seated in a recess, on a carved chair of dark oak. She is dressed in black, her golden curls are gathered under a sober coif; she looks pale, and ill at ease; her eyes, dulled by want of sleep, are anxious and restless, but there is a resolution in her bearing that shows she is prepared to meet whatever calamity awaits her with the courage of her race. Mademoiselle de Hautefort sits on a low stool at her feet. She is weeping bitterly.

“Ah! Madame,” she sobs, “this is Richelieu’s revenge. It is all his doing. How could your Majesty listen to the advice of that wild Duchess, and affront him so cruelly at Saint-Germain? Alas! he will persecute you as long as he lives.”

“I cannot recall the past,” answers Anne sadly.

“Had you reposed confidence in me, Madame, this would never have happened. Madame de Chevreuse has sacrificed you to her love of intrigue.”

“My poor Chevreuse, she is no more to blame than I am. Where is the Duchess, mademoiselle?”

While the Queen speaks a sound of wheels entering the courtyard from the street of Saint-Jacques breaks the silence. A moment after Madame de Chevreuse rushes into the oratory, so hidden in a black hood and a long cloak that no one would have recognised her. She flings herself on her knees before the Queen, and grasps her hands.

“Ah, my dear mistress, you are saved!” she cries, breathlessly. Anne raises her and kisses her tenderly. “I am just come from the Bastille. I went there disguised as a priest. I have seen Chalais. The Cardinal interpreted what Chalais said – purposely, of course – into meaning an attempt upon the life of the King.”

“Great God!” exclaims Anne, turning her glistening eyes to heaven, “what wickedness!”

“The King has joined the Cardinal in a purpose to prosecute your Majesty for treason. His Majesty is furious. He declares that he will repudiate you, and send you back into Spain. He has commanded the Chancellor Séguier and the Archbishop of Paris to repair here to the convent of the Val de Grâce to search your private papers for proofs of your guilt and of your treasonable intrigues with Spain. They are close at hand. I feared lest they had already arrived before I could return and apprise your Majesty.”

“But what of Chalais?” cries Anne. “Why did you visit him in the Bastille?”

“To learn what had passed between him and the Cardinal. We must all tell the same story. Chalais confesses to me that, in the confusion of his arrest at Nantes, he did let fall some expressions connecting your Majesty, Monsieur, and myself with the plot against Richelieu, and that when questioned he avowed that he acted with your knowledge.”

“Ah, the coward!” cries Mademoiselle de Hautefort bitterly. “And you love him.”

“No, mademoiselle, Chalais is no coward. He is a noble gentleman, whose fortitude will yet save her Majesty. He has been betrayed by Louvigni, the traitor, out of jealousy. Do not interrupt me, mademoiselle,” continues the Duchess, seeing that Mademoiselle de Hautefort is again about to break forth into reproaches against Chalais. “No sooner had Chalais arrived at the Bastille than Richelieu visited him in his cell. He offered him his life if he would consent to inculpate your Majesty in the plot. Chalais refused, and declared that the plot of which you were informed by Monsieur the Duc d’Orléans, was directed against himself; and he told the Cardinal he might tear him in pieces with wild horses before he would say one word to your Majesty’s prejudice.”

“Generous Chalais!” exclaims the Queen, clasping her hands. “Can he not be saved?”

“No, Madame, my noble friend must die. He knows it, and places his life at your feet.”

Anne sobs violently.

“Horrible! Oh, that I should cost those who love me so dear! Proceed, Duchess.”

“The Cardinal had in the meantime, as soon as your Majesty left Saint-Germain, sent to force your drawers and cabinets for papers.” Anne rises to her feet, white with terror. “Never fear, Madame; I had thought of that. Laporte had destroyed everything by my order. Only one letter to your brother the King of Spain was found. It was written the day you left, and confided by you, Mademoiselle de Hautefort, to Laporte,” and the Duchess gives a spiteful glance at the maid of honour. “Before he despatched it, Laporte was seized and searched.”

“There was nothing in that letter derogatory to me as Queen of France,” says the Queen quickly. “I spoke of Richelieu’s insane passion for me, and described the scene at Saint-Germain, and I told him I was about to leave for the Val de Grâce; nothing more. The Cardinal will not show that letter.”

“Yes, Madame, God be praised! it is so. But it was absolutely necessary that I should tell Chalais that but one letter had been found, and that perfectly innocent, before he was examined by the Cardinal. I have told him. He knows he can save his Queen. He is content to die!” As the Duchess speaks, the sound of wheels again interrupts them. “Hark! The Chancellor and the Archbishop have arrived. Courage, your Majesty! All now depends on your presence of mind. Nothing will be found in this convent, and Laporte waits at the door without. He will suffer no one to enter.”

Anne flings herself into the arms of the Duchess.

“You have saved me!” she cries, and covers her with kisses.

…

An hour has passed. Laporte knocks at the door, and enters. His looks betray the alarm he tries to conceal.

“The Chancellor, Madame, has arrived, in company with the Archbishop of Paris,” he says, addressing the Queen. “The Archbishop has commanded the Abbess, the venerable Louise de Milli, and all the sisterhood, who went out to meet him, to return each one within her cell, and not to exchange a single word together during the time he remains in the convent, under pain of excommunication.” The Queen and the Duchess exchange anxious glances. Laporte speaks again with much hesitation, “I regret to say that the Chancellor then proceeded to search all the cells. No papers were found.” The Duchess clasps her hands with exultation. “How can I go on?” Laporte groans, the tears coming into his eyes. “Forgive me, Madame; I cannot help it.” The Queen makes an impatient gesture, and Laporte continues: “The Chancellor craves your Majesty’s pardon, but desires me to tell you that he bears a royal warrant, which he must obey, to search your private apartment, and this oratory also.”

“Let him have every facility, my good Laporte,” answers the Queen collectedly. “Mademoiselle de Hautefort, deliver up all my keys to Laporte.”

“The Chancellor and the Archbishop desire to speak also to the lady-in-waiting on your Majesty, the Duchesse de Chevreuse,” Laporte adds.

“What new misfortune is this?” cries Anne of Austria, turning very pale. “Go, dear Duchess; all is not yet over, I fear.”

Madame de Chevreuse leaves the oratory with Laporte. The Queen casts herself on her knees before the sacred relics exposed on the altar. She hides her face in her hands.

It is not long before the Duchess returns. Her triumphant air has vanished. She tries to appear unconcerned, but cannot. Anne rises from her knees, and looks at her in silence.

“Speak, Madame de Chevreuse; I can bear it,” she says meekly.

“Alas! my dear mistress, Richelieu’s vengeance is not yet complete. The Chancellor has announced to me that a Council of State is about to assemble in the refectory of the convent. You are summoned to appear, to answer personally certain matters laid to your charge.”

Mademoiselle de Hautefort utters a loud scream. The Queen, her eyes riveted on the Duchess, neither moves nor speaks for some moments.

“You have more to say. Speak, Duchess,” she says at last in a low voice.

“Nothing whatever has been found – no line, no paper. I took care of that,” and the Duchess smiles faintly.

“You have not yet told me all. I must hear it. Conceal nothing,” again insists the Queen.

“Alas! it is indeed as you say. The Chancellor” – and her voice falls almost to a whisper – “has express orders under the King’s hand to search your Majesty’s person.”

“Search an anointed Queen!” exclaims Anne of Austria. “Never!” and she stretches out her arms wildly towards the altar. “Holy Virgin, help me!” she cries.

At this moment the sound of many footsteps is heard without in the stone passage, approaching the door. Anne of Austria has risen; she stands in the centre of the oratory; an unwonted fire glows in her eyes, a look of unmistakable command spreads itself over her whole person. Never had she looked more royal than in this moment of extreme humiliation. The Duchess rushes to the door and draws the ponderous bolts. “Now let them come,” cries she, “if they dare!” They all listen in breathless silence. The voice of Laporte, who has returned to his post outside the door, is heard in low but angry altercation. Then he is heard to say, in a loud voice —

“No one can be admitted to her Majesty, save only the King, without her permission.”

“We command you in the name of the law. Stand aside!” is the reply.

Then another voice speaks: —

“We are the bearers of an order from the King and the Council of State to see her Majesty.” It is the Chancellor’s voice, and his words are distinctly audible within.

“I know of no order but from the Queen my mistress. Your Grace shall not pass. If you do, it shall be across my body,” Laporte is heard to reply.

“We enter our solemn protest against this breach of the law; but we decline to force her Majesty’s pleasure.” It was still the Chancellor who spoke. Then the sound of receding footsteps told that he was gone.

“Where will this end?” asks Anne in a hollow voice, sinking into a chair.

The Duchess and Mademoiselle de Hautefort fling their arms round her.

“Bear up, Madame, the worst is over. Be only firm; they can prove nothing,” whispers the Duchess. “There is not a tittle of evidence against you.”

“Ah, but, my friend, you forget that the King is eager to repudiate me. Mademoiselle de Hautefort knows it from his own lips.”

“He cannot, without proofs of your guilt,” the Duchess answers resolutely. “There are none. And if he does, qu’importe? Why mar that queenly brow with sorrow, and wrinkle those delicate cheeks with tears? Be like me, Madame, a citizen of the world – Madrid, Paris, London – what matters? The sun shines as brightly in other lands as here. Life and love are everywhere. You are young, beautiful, courageous. To see you is to love you. Swords will start from their scabbards to defend you. Your exile in your brother’s Court will be a triumph. You will rule all hearts; you will still be the sovereign of youth, of poetry, and of song!”

As she speaks the Duchess’s countenance beams with enthusiasm. Anne of Austria shakes her head sorrowfully, and is silent.

“You are happy, Duchess, in such volatile spirits,” says Mademoiselle de Hautefort contemptuously, her eyes all the while fixed on her royal mistress; “but I cannot look on the disgrace of the Queen of France as though it were the finale to a page’s roundelay.”

The sound of many heavy coaches thundering into the inner court of the convent puts a stop to further conversation.

“The council is assembling!” exclaims the Duchess.

At these words the Queen rises mechanically; her large eyes, dilated and widely open, are fixed on vacancy, as though the vision of some unspoken horror, some awful disaster, had risen before her. She knows it is the crisis of her life. From that chamber she may pass to banishment, prison, or death. For a moment her mind wanders. She looks round wildly. “Spare me! spare me!” she murmurs, and she wrings her hands. “Alas! I am too young to die!” Then collecting her scattered senses, she moves forward with measured steps. “I am ready,” she says, in a hollow voice. “Unbar the door.”

CHAPTER XXXVI.

THE QUEEN BEFORE THE COUNCIL

THE refectory of the convent of the Val de Grâce is a vast apartment, dimly lit by rows of small lancet windows placed along the side walls. These walls are bare, panelled with dark wood; great oaken rafters span the tented roof. At the eastern end hangs a large crucifix of silver. In the centre is a table, round which the three principal members of the council are assembled. Alone, at the head, is the King, uneasily seated on the corner of a huge chair. His whole body is shrunk and contracted, as though he were undergoing some agonising penance. He never raises his eyes; his pallid face works with nervous excitement. His hat is drawn over his brow; his hands are clasped upon his knees. That he had come in haste is apparent, for he wears his usual dark hunting-dress.

At his right hand is the Cardinal, wearing a long tightly fitting soutane of purple silk, with a cloak of the same colour. His countenance is perfectly impassive, save that when he moves, and the light from above strikes upon his dark eyes, they glitter. In his delicate hands he holds some papers, to which he refers from time to time: others lie on the table near him. Opposite the Cardinal are the Archbishop of Paris and the Chancellor Séguier. At the farther end of the council-table, facing the King, Anne of Austria is seated. The colour comes and goes upon her downy cheeks; but otherwise no sovereign throned in fabled state is more queenly than this golden-haired daughter of the Cæsars.

The Cardinal turns towards her, but, before addressing her, his eyes are gathered fixedly upon her. Then, in a placid voice, he speaks —