Old Court Life in France, vol. 1

“Your Majesty has been summoned by the King here present to answer certain matters laid to your charge.”

Anne of Austria rises and makes an obeisance, looking towards the King, then reseats herself.

“I am here to answer whatever questions his Majesty sees good to put to me,” she replies, in a clear, firm voice.

“His Majesty, Madame, speaks through my voice,” answers Richelieu, significantly, observing her pointed reference to the King’s presence; “I am here as his alter ego. It is said,” he continues, in the same impassive manner in which he had at first addressed her, “that you, Madame Anne of Austria, consort of the King, hold a treasonable correspondence in cipher with your brother, Philip, King of Spain, now waging war against this realm of France, and that therein you betray to him secrets of state to the manifest hurt and danger of the King’s armies, by affording treacherous foreknowledge of their movements and of the measures of his Government. What answer does your Majesty make to so grave a charge?”

“If it be so, let these letters be produced,” answers the Queen boldly. “I declare that beyond the natural love I bear my brother and his consort, Elizabeth of France, sister to the King, – which love surely is no crime, – I have never, by word or deed, betrayed aught that I might know to the prejudice of the King, my husband, or of this great country of which I am the Queen.”

“Why, then, Madame, if these letters were harmless did you write in a cipher unknown to the King’s ministers?” asks the Cardinal, bending his piercing eyes keenly upon her.

“Because,” replies the Queen, “I knew that spies were set, by the King’s order, at your instance,” and she points to the Cardinal, “to waylay these letters, the writing of which has been to me, next to God, my greatest comfort in much sorrow and persecution which I have suffered wrongfully since I came into France.”

“Madame,” continues Richelieu, speaking with the same unmoved voice and manner, “do you know Henry de Talleyrand, Comte de Chalais, Master of the Robes to his Majesty, and once esteemed by him as his faithful subject?”

“I do know him,” answers the Queen.

“Do you know also that this gentleman, the Comte de Chalais, has been lately arrested at Nantes, and is now lying in the prison of the Bastille, accused of having treacherously conspired against the sacred person of his Majesty, with the design of placing on the throne, at his death, Monseigneur, Duc d’Orléans – brother of the King; and that the Comte de Chalais avers and declares, before witnesses, that he acted by your order and by your counsel? What answer have you to make to this, Madame?”

“That it is false, and unsupported by any evidence whatever, and that you, Cardinal Richelieu, know that it is false.” Then Anne of Austria raises her hands towards the crucifix hanging before her – “By the blessed wounds of our Lord Jesus, I swear that I never knew that the life of the King, my husband, was threatened; if it were so, it was concealed from me.” A stifled groan is heard from the King. Both the Chancellor and the Archbishop appear greatly impressed by the Queen’s solemn declaration, and whisper together. Richelieu alone is unmoved.

Then the Queen rises, and for the first time, turns her large eyes full upon the Cardinal, over whose frame a momentary tremor passes. “It was of another plot that the Comte de Chalais spoke; and of another assassination, not that of the King. His Majesty himself – if I mistake not – knew and did not disapprove of this other project, and of removing him whom I mean. Nevertheless I shrank from the proposal with horror; I expressly forbade all bloodshed, although it would have removed a deadly enemy from my path.” And the Queen, while she speaks, fixes her undaunted gaze full on the Cardinal, who casts down his eyes on the papers he holds in his hands. “Let his Majesty confront me with Chalais; he will confirm the truth of what I say.” Anne of Austria stops to watch the effect of her words. Something like a groan again escapes from the King; he pulls at his beard, and moves uneasily in his chair, as the Cardinal’s lynx eyes are directed, for an instant, towards him with a malignant glare. The Cardinal stoops to consult some documents that lie upon the table, and for a few moments not a word was uttered. Then resuming his former placid voice and manner, Richelieu faces the Queen, and proceeds: —

“Further, Madame, it is averred, and it is believed by his Majesty, that you, forgetting the duty of a wife, and the loyalty of a Queen, have exchanged love-tokens with the said prince of the blood, Gaston, Duc d’Orléans, now for his manifest treason fled into Spain,” – at these words, to which she listens with evident horror, Anne clasps her hands; – “further, that you, Madame, and your lady of the bedchamber, Marie de Lorraine, Duchesse de Chevreuse, did conspire, with Chalais and others, for this unholy purpose.”

Anne’s face is suffused with a deep blush of shame while the Cardinal speaks; for a moment her courage seems to fail her – then, collecting herself, she stretches out her arms towards the King, and says solemnly, “I call on his Majesty, Louis – surnamed the Just – my husband, to confront me with my accusers: I am innocent of this foul charge.”

At this appeal the King half rises, as if with an intention to speak, then sinks back again into his chair. His features twitch convulsively; he never raises his eyes.

“Is that all you have to reply to the wicked and murderous project said to be entertained by you of wedding, from inclination, with the King’s brother, at his death, if by feeble health, or any other accident, his Majesty had been removed?” and the Cardinal bends his glassy eyes earnestly upon the Queen.

“I reply that I should have gained nothing by the change. The Duc d’Orléans is as fickle and unworthy as his Majesty, who sits by unmoved, and hears his consort slandered by her enemies.” Anne’s eyes flash fire; her indignation had carried her beyond fear; she stands before the council more like a judge than a criminal. “Have a care, Armand de Plessis, Cardinal Minister and tyrant of France, that you question me not too closely,” the Queen adds in a lower voice, addressing herself directly to Richelieu. As she speaks she puts her hand to her bosom, and discloses, between the folds of her dark velvet robe a portion of a letter, bound with purple cord, which Richelieu instantly recognises as the identical one he had addressed to her at Saint-Germain, asking for a private audience. The Cardinal visibly shudders; his whole expression changes; his impassive look is turned to one of anxiety and doubt; he passes his hands over his forehead, as if to shade his eyes from the light, but in reality to give his fertile brain a few moments’ time in which to devise some escape from the danger that threatens him should the Queen produce that letter before the council. So rapid has been the Queen’s action that no one else has perceived it. Something peculiar, however, in the tone of her voice attracts the notice of the King, who, rousing himself from the painful abstraction into which he has fallen, gazes round for the first time, and bends his lustreless grey eyes suspiciously on the Cardinal, and from him on the Queen; then shaking his head doubtfully, he again resumes his former weary attitude. Meanwhile the Queen, imagining that she perceives some compassion in that momentary glance, rises and advances close to the edge of the council-table. Grief, anger, and reproach are in her looks. With a haughty gesture she signs to the Cardinal to be silent, clasps her small hands so tightly that the nails redden her tender skin, and, in a plaintive voice, addresses herself directly to the King. “Oh, Sire, is not your heart moved with pity to behold a great princess, such as I, your wife, and who might have been the mother of your children, stand before you here like a criminal, to suffer the scorn and malice of her enemies?” – she is so overcome that her voice falters, and she hastily brushes the starting tears from her eyes. “I know,” she continues, with her appealing eyes resting on the King, “I know that you are weary of me, and that your purpose is, if possible, to repudiate me and send me back into Spain; you have confessed as much to one of my maids of honour, who, shocked at the proposal, repeated it to me. I appeal to yourself, Sire, if this be not true?” and laying one hand on the table she leans forward towards Louis, waiting for his reply; but, although he does not answer her appeal, he whispers a few words into the ear of the Archbishop, standing next to him, who bows. Then he falls back on his chair, as if weary and exhausted by a hopeless struggle. “My lords, the King cannot deny it,” says Anne of Austria triumphantly, addressing the council; “My lords, I have never, since I came into France, a girl of fifteen, been permitted to occupy my legitimate place in his Majesty’s affections. The Queen-dowager, Marie de’ Medici, poisoned his mind against me; and now Cardinal Richelieu, her creature,” – and Anne casts a look of ineffable disdain at Richelieu – “continues the same policy, because he dreads my influence, and desires wholly to possess himself of the King’s confidence, the better to rule him and France.”

The Queen’s bold words had greatly impressed the council in her favour. The Archbishop and the Chancellor consult anxiously together. At length the Archbishop of Paris interposes.

“Her Majesty the Queen appears to have explained most satisfactorily all the accusations made against her. I was myself present at the examination of her private apartments within this convent of the Val de Grâce. Nothing was found but proofs of her pious sentiments and devout exercises, such as scourges, girdles spiked with iron to mortify the flesh, books of devotion and missals. It is to be desired that all royal ladies could disarm suspicion like her Majesty. If, therefore, the evidence which the Cardinal holds be in accordance with her Majesty’s declarations, all the charges may be withdrawn, and her Majesty be returned to those royal dignities and honours which she so fitly adorns. Speak, Cardinal Richelieu, do you hold counter evidence – yea, or nay?”

The Cardinal does not at once answer. He shuffles some papers in his hands, then turns towards the King, and whispers in his ear. Louis makes an impatient gesture of assent, and resumes his despondent attitude.

“I have his Majesty’s commands for replying,” answers Richelieu, “that no letters implicating the Queen in treasonable correspondence with her brother have been at present actually found, although his Majesty has reason to believe that such exist. Also that the Count de Chalais’s statements are in accord with those of her Majesty. Also that the King acquits Madame Anne, his consort, of the purpose of marrying with his brother, Monsieur Duc d’Orléans, on whom alone must rest the onus of such a crime. Usher of the court, summon the Queen’s ladies-in-waiting to attend her. Your Majesty is free,” adds Richelieu, and the mocking tone of his voice betrays involuntarily something of the inward rage he labours to conceal. “Madame Anne of Austria, you are no longer a prisoner of state under examination by the council, but are, as before, in full possession of the privileges, powers, immunities, and revenues belonging to the Queen Consort of France.”

Anne of Austria leaves her chair, salutes his Majesty with a profound obeisance, of which Louis takes no other notice than to turn his eyes to the ceiling, and then advances towards the door. The Chancellor and the Archbishop rise at the same time from the council-table, and hasten to open the door by which she is to pass out, bowing humbly before her.

“The royal carriages are in waiting, Madame,” whispered the Duchesse de Chevreuse, who, with Mademoiselle de Hautefort, was waiting outside; and she wrung the Queen’s hand. “My dear, dear mistress, I know you are free!”

“Praised be God!” replied Anne, “I have escaped,” and she kissed her on both cheeks, as also her maid of honour, who was so overcome she could not say one word of congratulation.

“Come, Madame,” cried the Duchesse de Chevreuse, “let us leave this dreadful place, I beseech you, lest the Cardinal should concoct some fresh plot to detain you.”

“Duchess,” replied Anne gaily, “you shall command me. It is to you I owe my liberty. But for your forethought those unhappy letters, wrung from me in moments of anguish – ah! of despair, would have been found, and I should at this moment have been on my way to the Bastille. My good Hautefort, you have not spoken to me. You look sad. What is it?” and the Queen took her hand.

“It is because I have contributed nothing towards your Majesty’s freedom. Besides, a foreboding of coming evil overpowers me,” and she burst into tears.

She again kissed her, and led her by the hand towards the cumbrous coach which was to bear her to Paris. As Anne was preparing to mount into it, assisted by her page and Laporte, who had reappeared, the Chevalier de Jars approached hastily, and bowed before her.

“How now, Chevalier! any more ill news? What is your business here?” asked Anne.

“It is with this lady,” said he, turning to the maid of honour. “Mademoiselle de Hautefort, you cannot accompany her Majesty to Paris.”

“Why, Chevalier?” demanded Anne impatiently, still holding her hand.

“Because I am commanded to make known to you that Mademoiselle de Hautefort is exiled from France during his Majesty’s pleasure. I am charged, mademoiselle, to show you this token,” and he produced the other half of the golden medallion which Louis had broken during their interview at Fontainebleau. “The King bid me say that by this token he himself commands your instant departure.”

The Queen clasped her in her arms.

“My poor Hautefort, is it indeed so? Must I lose my trusty friend?”

Mademoiselle de Hautefort threw herself, weeping bitterly, at the Queen’s feet.

“Alas! Madame,” sobbed she, “I am banished because I have been faithful to you!”

“Have you got another order – for my arrest, par exemple, Chevalier?” asked the Duchess archly. “I have also committed the awful crime of faithfulness to her Majesty. I suppose I shall go next.”

The Chevalier shook his head.

“No, madame. You will accompany the Queen to the Louvre.”

…

The Duchesse de Chevreuse did accompany the Queen to the Louvre; but, on arriving there, she found a lettre de cachet banishing her from France within twenty-four hours. A similar order was also served on the Chevalier de Jars.

The Queen was free, but her friends were exiled.

CHAPTER XXXVII.

LOUISE DE LAFAYETTE

LOUISE DE LAFAYETTE – the only child of Comte Jean de Lafayette, of Hauteville, and of Margaret de Boulon-Busset, his wife – was the young lady selected to fill the vacant post of maid of honour to the Queen, vice De Hautefort, banished.

So long a time had elapsed since the departure of the latter that it seemed as though Anne of Austria never intended to replace her; however, the new mistress of the robes, the Duchesse de Sennécy, a distant relative of Mademoiselle de Lafayette, urged the Queen so strongly in her favour, that the appointment was at last announced.

Louise de Lafayette had passed many years of her girlhood in a convent, and was somewhat dévote, but she was sincere in her piety, and good-natured to excess. Not only was she good-natured, but she was so entirely devoid of malice that it actually pained her to be made acquainted with the faults of others. Perhaps her chief characteristic was an exaggerated sensibility, almost amounting to delusion. She created an ideal world around her, and peopled it with creatures of her own imagination, rather than the men and women of flesh and blood among whom she lived – a defect of youth which age and experience would rectify. She possessed that gift, so rare in women, of charming involuntarily – without effort or self-consciousness. When most attractive and most admired, she alone was unconscious of it; envy itself was disarmed by her ingenuous humility.

Louise was twenty-three years old when she was presented to the Queen at Fontainebleau by the Principessa di Mantua, during her morning reception. The saloon was filled with company, and great curiosity was felt to see the successor of Mademoiselle de Hautefort. The most critical observers were satisfied. The new maid of honour, though modest and a little abashed, comported herself with perfect self-possession. She was superbly dressed, had a tall and supple figure, good features, and a complexion so exquisitely fair and fresh, and such an abundance of sunny hair, as to remind many in the circle of her Majesty when, in the dazzling beauty of her fifteenth year, she came a bride into France. But Anne of Austria never had those large appealing grey eyes, beaming with all the confidence of a guileless heart, nor that air of maiden reserve which lent an unconscious charm to every movement, nor that calm and placid brow, unruffled by so much as an angry thought.

Why had not Mademoiselle de Lafayette married? was the general question which passed round the circle.

“Because she has found no one worthy of her,” was the reply of her friend and cousin, the Duchesse de Sennécy.

After the new maid of honour had made her curtsey to the Queen, who received her very graciously, the King (who had as usual placed himself almost out of sight, near the door, in order to ensure a safe retreat if needful) emerged, and timidly addressed her.

Since the scene at the monastery of the Val de Grâce, and the discovery of Mademoiselle de Hautefort’s treachery, Louis had never once appeared at the Queen’s lever until this morning. At the few words of compliment he found courage to say to her, Louise blushed and curtsied, but made no reply.

The next day the King was again present at her Majesty’s lever. He did not speak, but his eyes never for an instant left the new maid of honour.

The Court was at this time greatly agitated by political events. The Spaniards were making the most alarming progress in France; they had penetrated in the north as far as Corbie, in Picardy; in the south they were overrunning Provence. Troops and money were both wanting. The position of the ministry was so critical that even Richelieu was at fault. Louis, roused from his habitual apathy, suddenly remembered that he was the son of a great warrior, and electrified the Council of State by announcing that he intended at once to take the field in person. A resolve so contrary to his usual habits excited great discussion and general interest.

…

The Saloon of Saint-Louis, at Fontainebleau, opens from the royal guard-room. It is a noble apartment, divided into a card-room and a with-drawing, or, as we say, drawing-room. The decorations are the same as those in the Gallery of Francis I.; the walls, painted in fresco after designs by Primaticcio, are divided by sculptured figures, in high relief, entwined by wreaths of flowers, fruit, and foliage. The ceiling is blue, sown with golden stars. Lights blaze from the chandeliers disposed on marble tables and in the corners of the room, and display the artistic beauty of the various paintings and frescoes that cover the walls.

The Queen is playing cards with the Bishop of Limoges. The Court groups itself about the double rooms, and at the other card-tables. Near the Queen are her favourites of the hour, the Principesse di Gonzaga and di Mantua; the Duchesse de Sennécy is in attendance. The King is seated on a settee in the darkest and most distant corner. Anne dares not now treat him either with impertinence or hauteur. If she cannot bring herself actually to fear him, she knows that he is capable of revenge. She has learnt, however, both to fear and to dread his minister, Richelieu, under whose insolent dominion Louis’s life is passed. Madame de Chevreuse is no longer at hand to tempt her into rebellion, and she has learnt to submit quietly, if not contentedly, to her lot. She has perceived the impression made upon the King by her new maid of honour, and looks on amused and indifferent. Of the absolute goodness and perfect rectitude of Louise de Lafayette, no one, and certainly not the Queen, could entertain a doubt.

As she pushes the cards towards the Bishop of Limoges to deal for her, which he does after making her a low bow, she turns round, the better to observe his Majesty. He has moved from the settee, and is now seated in earnest conversation with Mademoiselle de Lafayette. A sneer gathers about the corners of her rosy mouth, and her eyes dwell upon him for an instant with an expression of intense contempt; then she shrugs her snowy shoulders, leans back in her chair, takes up the cards that lie before her, and rapidly sorts them. The conversation between Louis and Mademoiselle de Lafayette is low and earnest. His naturally dismal face expresses more lively interest, and his lack-lustre eyes are more animated than they have been for years. As to the maid of honour, she listens to him with every faculty of her being, and hangs upon his words as though, to her at least, they are inspired.

“The condition of France,” the King is saying, “overwhelms me. Would that I could offer up my life for my beloved country! Would that I possessed my great father’s military genius to defend her! I go, perhaps never to return! Alas! no one will miss me,” and he heaves a heavy sigh, and the tears gather in his eyes.

The maid of honour longs to tell him all the interest she feels for him, her genuine admiration, her devotion, her pity for his desolate condition; but she is new to court life, and, like himself, she is too timid as yet to put her feelings into words. She sits beside him motionless as a statue, not daring even to lift up her eyes, lest they may betray her.

“Happy, ah! happy beyond words is the man who feels he is beloved, who feels that he is missed!” – here Louis stops, casts a reproachful glance at the Queen, whose back was towards him, then a shy, furtive look at Mademoiselle de Lafayette, whose heightened colour and quickened breathing betrays the intensity of her feelings: “such a one,” continues the King, “has a motive for desiring fame; he can afford to risk his life in the front of the battle. Were I” – and his voice sinks almost into a whisper – “were I dear to any one, which I know I am not, I should seek to live in history, like my father. As it is,” and he sighs, “I know that I possess no quality that kindles sympathy. I am betrayed by those whom I most trust, and hated and despised by those who are bound by nature and by law to love and honour me. My death would be a boon to some,” – again his eyes seek out the Queen – “and a blessing to myself. I am a blighted and a miserable man. Sometimes I ask myself why I should live at all?” It was not possible for the human countenance to express more absolute despair than does the King’s face at this moment.

“Oh, Sire!” was all Mademoiselle de Lafayette dare trust herself to reply; indeed, she is so choked by rising sobs that it is not possible for her to say more.

The King is conscious that her voice trembles; he notices also that her bosom heaves, and that she has suddenly grown very pale. Her silence, then, was not from lack of interest. Louis feels infinitely gratified by the discovery of this mute sympathy. All that was surpressed and unspoken had a subtle charm to his morbid nature. After a few moments of silence, Louis, fearful lest the Queen’s keen eyes should be turned upon them, rises. “I deeply deplore, mademoiselle, that this conversation must now end. Let me hope that it may be again resumed before my departure for the army.” Louise does not reply, but one speaking glance tells him he will not be refused.

At supper, and when she attends the Queen in her private apartments, she is so absent that her friend, Madame de Sennécy, reprimands her sharply.

The next morning the Duchess went to her young cousin’s room. Madame de Sennécy had a very decided taste for intrigue, and would willingly have replaced the Duchesse de Chevreuse in the confidence of Anne of Austria, but she wanted her predecessor’s daring wit, her adroitness, witcheries, and beauty; above all, she lacked that generous devotion to her mistress, which turned her life into a romance. Now Madame de Sennécy thought she saw a chance of advancing her interests by means of her cousin’s growing favour with the King. She would gain her confidence, and by retailing her secrets excite the jealousy and secure the favour of the Queen.