Old Court Life in France, Volume II (of 2)

"Ah, Celestine, are you sure that this girl, this Mortémart – they are a dangerous family – seeks me for myself alone? Are you sure that she has no deeper motive for all these professions? I confess I have my misgivings."

"You are quite mistaken, Louise. She is a naïve creature, clever indeed, but guileless. You could not make a better choice. Take my advice, ask his Majesty's permission to invite the Marquise next time he comes. Believe me, he is perfectly indifferent to her. He will be grateful to you for the attention; he will be amused. You will find him return to his first ardour, he will be as devoted as at first. You will recover your spirits; you will return to Court" (La Vallière shook her head sadly), "and all will be well!"

CHAPTER XXI.

MADAME DE MONTESPAN

ATHANAISE DE MORTÉMART, Marquise de Montespan, the most beautiful woman of her age, was, at this time, twenty-two years old. She was fair, but not so fair as La Vallière. Her features were faultless, and there was an aureole of youth and freshness about her that made her irresistible. She affected to be careless, impulsive, even infantine; but she was in reality profoundly false, and could be insolent, cruel, and domineering; a syren or a fury, as suited her humour or her purpose. There was no mercy in those voluptuous eyes that entranced while they deceived; no truth in those coral lips that smiled only to betray.

No sooner was she informed that the Duchesse de la Vallière would receive her, than she flew to the Hôtel Biron. Louise was astounded at her extraordinary beauty.

"How much I thank you, Marquise, for your goodness in sparing a few hours from the gaieties of the Court to visit a poor recluse like me."

"On the contrary, Madame la Duchesse, it is I who am grateful"; and the Marquise kissed her on both cheeks. "Ever since I came to Court, I have longed to become acquainted with you. No words can express the love and respect I entertain for you."

"Alas! madame, I fear that you cannot know me. I deserve no respect," replied La Vallière sadly. "If you can love me, I shall be satisfied."

"Love you, dear Duchess! I will devote my life to you, if you will permit me such an honour," cried Madame de Montespan, her eyes flashing with eagerness. "Will you allow me to look on you as an old friend?"

"I shall consider it a privilege," replied La Vallière.

"I have so often talked about you with the Comtesse du Roule, that I feel already as though we were long acquainted," continued Madame de Montespan; and she seized La Vallière's small hand and pressed it. La Vallière returned her caress more quietly. "Dear Duchess," exclaimed De Montespan impulsively, "I am so young, so inexperienced."

"And so beautiful," added La Vallière, smiling.

"Well, I am told so, madame. Your counsel will be invaluable to me. I am yet but a novice at Court."

"I will be a mother to you," replied Louise meekly. But, in her inmost heart, she asked herself, "Am I indeed so old, so changed, that she can accept this offer from me? It seems but yesterday I was as young and as light-hearted as herself!"

"I know little of the Court now," replied La Vallière, speaking in a very subdued voice. "What I do know, can be of little service to you. Heaven guard you from my experiences!" and a deep sigh escaped her.

"Oh, Madame la Duchesse, wherever you are, there is the Court. Your modesty only adds to your merit. We all know you are the dispenser of all favour, all power – that your word is law." This was spoken rapidly by the Marquise, who all the while kept her eyes on the Duchess to study the effect of her flattery.

"God forbid," replied La Vallière coldly; and a look of displeasure contracted her brow for an instant. "I possess no power of that kind, madame. I would never permit myself to exercise any such influence over his Majesty, I assure you."

The crafty Marquise saw she had made a mistake, and instantly set about repairing it. She sighed, affected an air of deep concern, and cast down her magnificent eyes. Then she timidly stretched out her hand to clasp that of La Vallière.

"Will you teach me your patience, your resignation? Will you teach me to bear sorrow?"

"Gracious heavens! what can a creature so young and brilliant know of sorrow?"

"Much. Alas! too much!" The beautiful Marquise raised her handkerchief to her eyes. "Monsieur de Montespan never loved me. It was a marriage arranged by my sister, Madame de Thiange. She sacrificed me to family arrangements; he to his love of play – he is a desperate gambler. Worse still, he is a libertine." She paused, and tried to blush. "Can I, dare I hope, Madame la Duchesse, to find a friend in you? Nay more – a protectress? May I be permitted to ask your counsel?"

"Reckon on me," cried La Vallière, who was deeply interested in this artful appeal. Madame de Montespan cared no more for her husband than he did for her. "Come to me whenever you need advice, whenever you want sympathy or protection. Come to me freely – at all hours, at all times – this house is yours."

"But, Madame la Duchesse, his Majesty may perhaps object to my presence here. I do not think he likes me. He has scarcely once addressed me during the few times I have been at Court."

"Ah, I will arrange that," answered La Vallière, her face all aglow with excitement. "I will manage that you shall be here when he comes. To see you, dear Marquise, as I do now, must be to esteem and respect you. His Majesty's heart is so excellent, all his ideas so great, so noble! You shall help me to entertain him; you have such charming spirits, such a sunny smile."

Madame de Montespan gave a little start. She could with difficulty conceal the delight this speech gave her, La Vallière had so completely fallen into the trap she had laid. Again she kissed her thin white hand, and pressed the long delicate fingers laid confidingly in her own.

"What an honour!" she exclaimed. "How happy I shall be to serve you in the smallest way, in return for all your goodness!"

"To serve me!" repeated La Vallière, gazing at her vacantly. "Not to serve me – that is impossible. Ah, no one can serve me. My life is a long remorse. I love – with my whole soul I love. That love is a crime. I can neither leave the King nor can I bear to remain. God's image rises up within me to shut out his dear form from my eyes. Alas, alas! – I prefer him to God." La Vallière melted into tears. She sank back on her chair, lost to all else but the agony of her own feelings.

Madame de Montespan observed her with a look of sarcastic scrutiny. No shade of pity tempered her bold stare. Her eyes were hard as steel, her full lips were compressed.

"How I admire your devotion to his Majesty," she said, in the most insinuating voice. "It is extraordinary." Her kind words singularly belied her cruel expression, but Louise, blinded by her tears, did not observe this. "What astonishes me is that, feeling as you do, you can endure to remain here – so close to the palace, almost living in the Court, so long. In such magnificence too," – and she gave a spiteful glance round the superbly decorated saloon. "You must have extraordinary self-command," she added artfully, "immense self-denial. I suppose you see his Majesty often, Madame la Duchesse?" she asked this question with well-affected indifference, fixing her eyes steadily on poor La Vallière, who still lay back in her chair, weeping. "He is always at Versailles. It must be a great trial, and with your religious convictions too." As she spoke she carefully noted the effect each word produced upon La Vallière.

"Alas!" replied her victim, her cheeks now suffused with a burning blush, "I see him almost daily. Those hours are all that render life endurable."

"Do you really mean this, dear Duchess?" returned Madame de Montespan, feigning extreme surprise. "I should have imagined that the refinement of your nature would have rendered the indulgence of a guilty passion impossible."

"Ah! I see you despise me," groaned poor La Vallière, overcome by shame. "I cannot wonder. Young and pure as you are, I must be to you an object of horror."

"Oh, Madame la Duchesse, what a word! On the contrary, I admire the sacrifice you make."

"Alas!" interrupted La Vallière, "it is no sacrifice. I cannot tear myself from him because – because – " she stopped for a moment, then added hastily, "I fear to give him pain. It seems to me I ought to bear anything rather than hurt one whose love has raised me so near himself. I have not the courage to wound him – perhaps to embitter his whole life. No, although conscience, duty, religion command it, I have not the courage." La Vallière turned aside and hid her face.

Madame de Montespan fell into a deep muse. Again an expression of cruel determination passed over her fair young face, and she gave La Vallière a glance in which malice, anger, and contempt were mingled. La Vallière, absorbed in her own sorrow, did not perceive it.

"How I grieve for you, dear friend," Madame de Montespan continued, speaking in her sweetest voice. "How I respect your scruples. Are you sure," added she, carefully noting the effect of her words, "that the King would really suffer from your absence as keenly as you imagine!"

"I have never dared broach the subject," answered La Vallière, looking up. "My remorse I cannot hide. He knows I suffer, he sees I am ill. But I would not for worlds openly acknowledge that I wish to forsake him."

"Yet, dear Duchess, this struggle will kill you. What a balm to your sensitive feelings the solitude of a convent would be! Among those holy sisters, in a life of prayer, you would find new life."

"I know it – I know!" cried La Vallière, passionately; "but how to leave him – how to go?"

"Perhaps, Duchess, I may assist you," and Madame de Montespan bent, with well simulated interest, over the slight form beside her, and gazed inquiringly into the trusting eyes that were turned so imploringly upon her. "I might be able to place this dilemma before his Majesty as your friend, dear Duchess. A third party is often able to assist in a matter so delicate. If his Majesty would indeed suffer as poignantly as you imagine, your departure is out of the question. I could at least learn this from himself in your interest."

Louise sprang to her feet, she threw her soft arms round Madame de Montespan, and nestled her pale face on her bosom.

"At last I have found a real friend," she cried; "at last I have found one who understands me. But," and she looked up quickly into the other's face, with a confidence that was most touching, "you will say nothing to his Majesty. Not a word. Be here when he next comes. (I will ask his permission.) You will then be able to judge for yourself – to counsel me. I would rather suffer torture, I would rather die, than give him a moment's pain, remember that," and La Vallière put out her little hand and pressed that of Madame de Montespan, whose face was wreathed with smiles.

"Do you think his Majesty will consent to my presence here?" asked Madame de Montespan, carefully concealing her feelings of exultation, for she foresaw what the reply must be.

"I will make him," cried La Vallière. "I will teach you exactly how to please him – what to say – never to contradict him – to watch the turn of his eye, as I do. The ice once broken, your tact, your winning manners, will make all easy."

Madame de Montespan acquiesced. She strove to appear careless, but she knew that her fate was on the balance. If she met the King there, she was resolved her rival should not long trouble her.

"Then you will tell me what I ought to do," continued La Vallière. "I shall be for ever grateful to you – you will reconcile me to myself!"

When next the King visited La Vallière, Madame de Montespan was present. She was as plainly dressed as was consistent with etiquette. At first she said little, sat apart, and only spoke when the King addressed her. But afterwards, gradually feeling her way, she threw in the most adroit flattery, agreed with all he said, yet appeared to defer in everything to La Vallière. Sometimes she amused him by her follies, and brought with her a team of mice she had tamed and harnessed to a little car of filigree, to run upon a table; sometimes she astonished both La Vallière and the King by her acute observation, her daring remarks, and pungent satire. The King's visits to the Hôtel Biron became longer and more frequent. If Madame de Montespan was not there he asked for her, and expressed regret at her absence. The Comtesse du Roule inquired anxiously of La Vallière if Madame de Montespan was useful to her. Reports had reached her which made her uneasy. It was said that this beautiful young friend, whom she had so unwittingly introduced to La Vallière, had designs of her own upon the King; and that she openly boasted that she would speedily supplant the Duchess.

Madame du Roule had also heard that Monsieur de Montespan had appeared at the Queen's circle dressed entirely in black, and that on being asked by the King for what relative he wore such deep mourning, had replied —

"For my wife, Sire."

La Vallière laughed at this story, and would not listen to a syllable against her new friend.

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.