Louise de la Valliere

“My dear sister,” said the king, “you are aware that Mademoiselle de la Valliere fled from her own room this morning, and that she has retired to a cloister, overwhelmed by grief and despair.” As he pronounced these words, the king’s voice was singularly moved.

“Your majesty is the first to inform me of it,” replied Madame.

“I should have thought that you might have learned it this morning, during the reception of the ambassadors,” said the king.

“From your emotion, sire, I imagined that something extraordinary had happened, but without knowing what.”

The king, with his usual frankness, went straight to the point. “Why did you send Mademoiselle de la Valliere away?”

“Because I had reason to be dissatisfied with her conduct,” she replied, dryly.

The king became crimson, and his eyes kindled with a fire which it required all Madame’s courage to support. He mastered his anger, however, and continued: “A stronger reason than that is surely requisite, for one so good and kind as you are, to turn away and dishonor, not only the young girl herself, but every member of her family as well. You know that the whole city has its eyes fixed upon the conduct of the female portion of the court. To dismiss a maid of honor is to attribute a crime to her – at the very least a fault. What crime, what fault has Mademoiselle de la Valliere been guilty of?”

“Since you constitute yourself the protector of Mademoiselle de la Valliere,” replied Madame, coldly, “I will give you those explanations which I should have a perfect right to withhold from every one.”

“Even from the king!” exclaimed Louis, as, with a sudden gesture, he covered his head with his hat.

“You have called me your sister,” said Madame, “and I am in my own apartments.”

“It matters not,” said the youthful monarch, ashamed at having been hurried away by his anger; “neither you, nor any one else in this kingdom, can assert a right to withhold an explanation in my presence.”

“Since that is the way you regard it,” said Madame, in a hoarse, angry tone of voice, “all that remains for me to do is bow submission to your majesty, and to be silent.”

“Not so. Let there be no equivocation between us.”

“The protection with which you surround Mademoiselle de la Valliere does not impose any respect.”

“No equivocation, I repeat; you are perfectly aware that, as the head of the nobility in France, I am accountable to all for the honor of every family. You dismiss Mademoiselle de la Valliere, or whoever else it may be – ” Madame shrugged her shoulders. “Or whoever else it may be, I repeat,” continued the king; “and as, acting in that manner, you cast a dishonorable reflection upon that person, I ask you for an explanation, in order that I may confirm or annul the sentence.”

“Annul my sentence!” exclaimed Madame, haughtily. “What! when I have discharged one of my attendants, do you order me to take her back again?” The king remained silent.

“This would be a sheer abuse of power, sire; it would be indecorous and unseemly.”

“Madame!”

“As a woman, I should revolt against an abuse so insulting to me; I should no longer be able to regard myself as a princess of your blood, a daughter of a monarch; I should be the meanest of creatures, more humbled and disgraced than the servant I had sent away.”

The king rose from his seat with anger. “It cannot be a heart,” he cried, “you have beating in your bosom; if you act in such a way with me, I may have reason to act with corresponding severity.”

It sometimes happens that in a battle a chance ball may reach its mark. The observation which the king had made without any particular intention, struck Madame home, and staggered her for a moment; some day or other she might indeed have reason to dread reprisals. “At all events, sire,” she said, “explain what you require.”

“I ask, madame, what has Mademoiselle de la Valliere done to warrant your conduct toward her?”

“She is the most cunning fomenter of intrigues I know; she was the occasion of two personal friends engaging in mortal combat; and has made people talk of her in such shameless terms that the whole court is indignant at the mere sound of her name.”

“She! she!” cried the king.

“Under her soft and hypocritical manner,” continued Madame, “she hides a disposition full of foul and dark conceit.”

“She!”

“You may possibly be deceived, sire, but I know her right well; she is capable of creating dispute and misunderstanding between the most affectionate relatives and the most intimate friends. You see that she has already sown discord betwixt us two.”

“I do assure you – ” said the king.

“Sire, look well into the case as it stands; we were living on the most friendly understanding, and by the artfulness of her tales and complaints, she has set your majesty against me.”

“I swear to you,” said the king, “that on no occasion has a bitter word ever passed her lips; I swear that, even in my wildest bursts of passion, she would not allow me to menace any one; and I swear, too, that you do not possess a more devoted and respectful friend than she is.”

“Friend!” said Madame, with an expression of supreme disdain.

“Take care, Madame!” said the king; “you forget that you now understand me, and that from this moment everything is equalized. Mademoiselle de la Valliere will be whatever I may choose her to become; and to-morrow, if I were determined to do so, I could seat her on a throne.”

“She was not born to a throne, at least, and whatever you may do can affect the future alone, but cannot affect the past.”

“Madame, towards you I have shown every kind consideration, and every eager desire to please you; do not remind me that I am master.”

“It is the second time, sire, that you have made that remark, and I have already informed you I am ready to submit.”

“In that case, then, you will confer upon me the favor of receiving Mademoiselle de la Valliere back again.”

“For what purpose, sire, since you have a throne to bestow upon her? I am too insignificant to protect so exalted a personage.”

“Nay, a truce to this bitter and disdainful spirit. Grant me her forgiveness.”

“Never!”

“You drive me, then, to open warfare in my own family.”

“I, too, have a family with whom I can find refuge.”

“Do you mean that as a threat, and could you forget yourself so far? Do you believe that, if you push the affront to that extent, your family would encourage you?”

“I hope, sire, that you will not force me to take any step which would be unworthy of my rank.”

“I hoped that you would remember our recent friendship, and that you would treat me as a brother.”

Madame paused for a moment. “I do not disown you for a brother,” she said, “in refusing your majesty an injustice.”

“An injustice!”

“Oh, sire! if I informed others of La Valliere’s conduct; if the queen knew – ”

“Come, come, Henrietta, let your heart speak; remember that, for however brief a time, you once loved me; remember, too, that human hearts should be as merciful as the heart of a sovereign Master. Do not be inflexible with others; forgive La Valliere.”

“I cannot; she has offended me.”

“But for my sake.”

“Sire, it is for your sake I would do anything in the world, except that.”

“You will drive me to despair – you compel me to turn to the last resource of weak people, and seek counsel of my angry and wrathful disposition.”

“I advise you to be reasonable.”

“Reasonable! – I can be so no longer.”

“Nay, sire! I pray you – ”

“For pity’s sake, Henrietta; it is the first time I entreated any one, and I have no hope in any one but in you.”

“Oh, sire! you are weeping.”

“From rage, from humiliation. That I, the king, should have been obliged to descend to entreaty. I shall hate this moment during my whole life. You have made me suffer in one moment more distress and more degradation than I could have anticipated in the greatest extremity in life.” And the king rose and gave free vent to his tears, which, in fact, were tears of anger and shame.

Madame was not touched exactly – for the best women, when their pride is hurt, are without pity; but she was afraid that the tears the king was shedding might possibly carry away every soft and tender feeling in his heart.

“Give what commands you please, sire,” she said; “and since you prefer my humiliation to your own – although mine is public and yours has been witnessed but by myself alone – speak, I will obey your majesty.”

“No, no, Henrietta!” exclaimed Louis, transported with gratitude, “you will have yielded to a brother’s wishes.”

“I no longer have any brother, since I obey.”

“All that I have would be too little in return.”

“How passionately you love, sire, when you do love!”

Louis did not answer. He had seized upon Madame’s hand and covered it with kisses. “And so you will receive this poor girl back again, and will forgive her; you will find how gentle and pure-hearted she is.”

“I will maintain her in my household.”

“No, you will give her your friendship, my sister.”

“I never liked her.”

“Well, for my sake, you will treat her kindly, will you not, Henrietta?”

“I will treat her as your —mistress.”

The king rose suddenly to his feet. By this word, which had so infelicitously escaped her, Madame had destroyed the whole merit of her sacrifice. The king felt freed from all obligations. Exasperated beyond measure, and bitterly offended, he replied:

“I thank you, Madame; I shall never forget the service you have rendered me.” And, saluting her with an affectation of ceremony, he took his leave of her. As he passed before a glass, he saw that his eyes were red, and angrily stamped his foot on the ground. But it was too late, for Malicorne and D’Artagnan, who were standing at the door, had seen his eyes.

“The king has been crying,” thought Malicorne. D’Artagnan approached the king with a respectful air, and said in a low tone of voice:

“Sire, it would be better to return to your own apartments by the small staircase.”

“Why?”

“Because the dust of the road has left its traces on your face,” said D’Artagnan. “By heavens!” he thought, “when the king has given way like a child, let those look to it who may make the lady weep for whom the king sheds tears.”

Chapter XXXI. Mademoiselle de la Valliere’s Pocket-Handkerchief

Madame was not bad-hearted – she was only hasty and impetuous. The king was not imprudent – he was simply in love. Hardly had they entered into this compact, which terminated in La Valliere’s recall, when they both sought to make as much as they could by their bargain. The king wished to see La Valliere every moment of the day, while Madame, who was sensible of the king’s annoyance ever since he had so entreated her, would not relinquish her revenge on La Valliere without a contest. She planted every conceivable difficulty in the king’s path; he was, in fact, obliged, in order to get a glimpse of La Valliere, to be exceedingly devoted in his attentions to his sister-in-law, and this, indeed, was Madame’s plan of policy. As she had chosen some one to second her efforts, and as this person was our old friend Montalais, the king found himself completely hemmed in every time he paid Madame a visit; he was surrounded, and was never left a moment alone. Madame displayed in her conversation a charm of manner and brilliancy of wit which dazzled everybody. Montalais followed her, and soon rendered herself perfectly insupportable to the king, which was, in fact, the very thing she expected would happen. She then set Malicorne at the king, who found means of informing his majesty that there was a young person belonging to the court who was exceedingly miserable; and on the king inquiring who this person was, Malicorne replied that it was Mademoiselle de Montalais. To this the king answered that it was perfectly just that a person should be unhappy when she rendered others so. Whereupon Malicorne explained how matters stood; for he had received his directions from Montalais. The king began to open his eyes; he remarked that, as soon as he made his appearance, Madame made hers too; that she remained in the corridors until after he had left; that she accompanied him back to his own apartments, fearing that he might speak in the ante-chambers to one of her maids of honor. One evening she went further still. The king was seated, surrounded by the ladies who were present, and holding in his hand, concealed by his lace ruffle, a small note which he wished to slip into La Valliere’s hand. Madame guessed both his intention and the letter too. It was difficult to prevent the king going wherever he pleased, and yet it was necessary to prevent his going near La Valliere, or speaking to her, as by so doing he could let the note fall into her lap behind her fan, or into her pocket-handkerchief. The king, who was also on the watch, suspected that a snare was being laid for him. He rose and pushed his chair, without affectation, near Mademoiselle de Chatillon, with whom he began to talk in a light tone. They were amusing themselves making rhymes; from Mademoiselle de Chatillon he went to Montalais, and then to Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente. And thus, by this skillful maneuver, he found himself seated opposite to La Valliere, whom he completely concealed. Madame pretended to be greatly occupied, altering a group of flowers that she was working in tapestry. The king showed the corner of his letter to La Valliere, and the latter held out her handkerchief with a look that signified, “Put the letter inside.” Then, as the king had placed his own handkerchief upon his chair, he was adroit enough to let it fall on the ground, so that La Valliere slipped her handkerchief on the chair. The king took it up quietly, without any one observing what he did, placed the letter within it, and returned the handkerchief to the place he had taken it from. There was only just time for La Valliere to stretch out her hand to take hold of the handkerchief with its valuable contents.

But Madame, who had observed everything that had passed, said to Mademoiselle de Chatillon, “Chatillon, be good enough to pick up the king’s handkerchief, if you please; it has fallen on the carpet.”

The young girl obeyed with the utmost precipitation, the king having moved from his seat, and La Valliere being in no little degree nervous and confused.

“Ah! I beg your majesty’s pardon,” said Mademoiselle de Chatillon; “you have two handkerchiefs, I perceive.”

And the king was accordingly obliged to put into his pocket La Valliere’s handkerchief as well as his own. He certainly gained that souvenir of Louise, who lost, however, a copy of verses which had cost the king ten hours’ hard labor, and which, as far as he was concerned, was perhaps as good as a long poem. It would be impossible to describe the king’s anger and La Valliere’s despair; but shortly afterwards a circumstance occurred which was more than remarkable. When the king left, in order to retire to his own apartments, Malicorne, informed of what had passed, one can hardly tell how, was waiting in the ante-chamber. The ante-chambers of the Palais Royal are naturally very dark, and, in the evening, they were but indifferently lighted. Nothing pleased the king more than this dim light. As a general rule, love, whose mind and heart are constantly in a blaze, contemns all light, except the sunshine of the soul. And so the ante-chamber was dark; a page carried a torch before the king, who walked on slowly, greatly annoyed at what had recently occurred. Malicorne passed close to the king, almost stumbled against him in fact, and begged his forgiveness with the profoundest humility; but the king, who was in an exceedingly ill-temper, was very sharp in his reproof to Malicorne, who disappeared as soon and as quietly as he possibly could. Louis retired to rest, having had a misunderstanding with the queen; and the next day, as soon as he entered the cabinet, he wished to have La Valliere’s handkerchief in order to press his lips to it. He called his valet.

“Fetch me,” he said, “the coat I wore yesterday evening, but be very sure you do not touch anything it may contain.”

The order being obeyed, the king himself searched the pocket of the coat; he found only one handkerchief, and that his own; La Valliere’s had disappeared. Whilst busied with all kinds of conjectures and suspicions, a letter was brought to him from La Valliere; it ran thus:

“How good and kind of you to have sent me those beautiful verses; how full of ingenuity and perseverance your affection is; how is it possible to help loving you so dearly!”

“What does this mean?” thought the king; “there must be some mistake. Look well about,” said he to the valet, “for a pocket-handkerchief must be in one of my pockets; and if you do not find it, or if you have touched it – ” He reflected for a moment. To make a state matter of the loss of the handkerchief would be to act absurdly, and he therefore added, “There was a letter of some importance inside the handkerchief, which had somehow got among the folds of it.”

“Sire,” said the valet, “your majesty had only one handkerchief, and that is it.”

“True, true,” replied the king, setting his teeth hard together. “Oh, poverty, how I envy you! Happy is the man who can empty his own pockets of letters and handkerchiefs!”

He read La Valliere’s letter over again, endeavoring to imagine in what conceivable way his verses could have reached their destination. There was a postscript to the letter:

“I send you back by your messenger this reply, so unworthy of what you sent me.”

“So far so good; I shall find out something now,” he said delightedly. “Who is waiting, and who brought me this letter?”

“M. Malicorne,” replied the valet de chambre, timidly.

“Desire him to come in.”

Malicorne entered.

“You come from Mademoiselle de la Valliere?” said the king, with a sigh.

“Yes, sire.”

“And you took Mademoiselle de la Valliere something from me?”

“I, sire?”

“Yes, you.”

“Oh, no, sire.”

“Mademoiselle de la Valliere says so, distinctly.”

“Oh, sire, Mademoiselle de la Valliere is mistaken.”

The king frowned. “What jest is this?” he said; “explain yourself. Why does Mademoiselle de la Valliere call you my messenger? What did you take to that lady? Speak, monsieur, and quickly.”

“Sire, I merely took Mademoiselle de la Valliere a pocket-handkerchief, that was all.”

“A handkerchief, – what handkerchief?”

“Sire, at the very moment when I had the misfortune to stumble against your majesty yesterday – a misfortune which I shall deplore to the last day of my life, especially after the dissatisfaction which you exhibited – I remained, sire, motionless with despair, your majesty being at too great a distance to hear my excuses, when I saw something white lying on the ground.”

“Ah!” said the king.

“I stooped down, – it was a pocket-handkerchief. For a moment I had an idea that when I stumbled against your majesty I must have been the cause of the handkerchief falling from your pocket; but as I felt it all over very respectfully, I perceived a cipher at one of the corners, and, on looking at it closely, I found that it was Mademoiselle de la Valliere’s cipher. I presumed that on her way to Madame’s apartment in the earlier part of the evening she had let her handkerchief fall, and I accordingly hastened to restore it to her as she was leaving; and that is all I gave to Mademoiselle de la Valliere, I entreat your majesty to believe.” Malicorne’s manner was so simple, so full of contrition, and marked with such extreme humility, that the king was greatly amused in listening to him. He was as pleased with him for what he had done as if he had rendered him the greatest service.

“This is the second fortunate meeting I have had with you, monsieur,” he said; “you may count upon my good intentions.”

The plain and sober truth was, that Malicorne had picked the king’s pocket of the handkerchief as dexterously as any of the pickpockets of the good city of Paris could have done. Madame never knew of this little incident, but Montalais gave La Valliere some idea of the manner in which it had really happened, and La Valliere afterwards told the king, who laughed exceedingly at it and pronounced Malicorne to be a first rate politician. Louis XIV. was right, and it is well known that he was tolerably well acquainted with human nature.

Chapter XXXII. Which Treats of Gardeners, of Ladders, and Maids of Honor

Miracles, unfortunately, could not be always happening, whilst Madame’s ill-humor still continued. In a week’s time, matters had reached such a point, that the king could no longer look at La Valliere without a look full of suspicion crossing his own. Whenever a promenade was proposed, Madame, in order to avoid the recurrence of similar scenes to that of the thunder-storm, or the royal oak, had a variety of indispositions ready prepared; and, thanks to them, she was unable to go out, and her maids of honor were obliged to remain indoors also. There was not the slightest chance of means of paying a nocturnal visit; for in this respect the king had, on the very first occasion, experienced a severe check, which happened in the following manner. As at Fontainebleau, he had taken Saint-Aignan with him one evening when he wished to pay La Valliere a visit; but he had found no one but Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente, who had begun to call out “Fire!” and “Thieves!” in such a manner that a perfect legion of chamber-maids, attendants, and pages, ran to her assistance; so that Saint-Aignan, who had remained behind in order to save the honor of his royal master, who had fled precipitately, was obliged to submit to a severe scolding from the queen-mother, as well as from Madame herself. In addition, he had, the next morning, received two challenges from the De Mortemart family, and the king had been obliged to interfere. This mistake had been owing to the circumstance of Madame having suddenly ordered a change in the apartments of her maids of honor, and directed La Valliere and Montalais to sleep in her own cabinet. No gateway, therefore, was any longer open – not even communication by letter; to write under the eyes of so ferocious an Argus as Madame, whose temper and disposition were so uncertain, was to run the risk of exposure to the greatest danger; and it can well be conceived into what a state of continuous irritation, and ever increasing anger, all these petty annoyances threw the young lion. The king almost tormented himself to death endeavoring to discover a means of communication; and, as he did not think proper to call in the aid of Malicorne or D’Artagnan, the means were not discovered at all. Malicorne had, indeed, occasional brilliant flashes of imagination, with which he tried to inspire the king with confidence; but, whether from shame or suspicion, the king, who had at first begun to nibble at the bait, soon abandoned the hook. In this way, for instance, one evening, while the king was crossing the garden, and looking up at Madame’s windows, Malicorne stumbled over a ladder lying beside a border of box, and said to Manicamp, then walking with him behind the king, “Did you not see that I just now stumbled against a ladder, and was nearly thrown down?”

“No,” said Manicamp, as usual very absent-minded, “but it appears you did not fall.”

“That doesn’t matter; but it is not on that account the less dangerous to leave ladders lying about in that manner.”

“True, one might hurt one’s self, especially when troubled with fits of absence of mind.”

“I don’t mean that; what I did mean, was that it is dangerous to allow ladders to lie about so near the windows of the maids of honor.” Louis started imperceptibly.

“Why so?” inquired Manicamp.

“Speak louder,” whispered Malicorne, as he touched him with his arm.

“Why so?” said Manicamp, louder. The king listened.

“Because, for instance,” said Malicorne, “a ladder nineteen feet high is just the height of the cornice of those windows.” Manicamp, instead of answering, was dreaming of something else.

“Ask me, can’t you, what windows I mean,” whispered Malicorne.

“But what windows are you referring to?” said Manicamp, aloud.

“The windows of Madame’s apartments.”

“Eh!”

“Oh! I don’t say that any one would ever venture to go up a ladder into Madame’s room; but in Madame’s cabinet, merely separated by a partition, sleep two exceedingly pretty girls, Mesdemoiselles de la Valliere and de Montalais.”