Sire,” said Sully to him, entering his room one day, bearing the marriage contract in his hand, “you have only to affix your signature.” “Well, well,” Henry had replied, “so be it. If the good of France demands it, I will marry.” Nevertheless, he had bitten his nails furiously and stamped up and down the room for some hours, like a man possessed. Ever reckless of consequences, he consoles himself by plunging deeper than ever into a series of intrigues which compromise his dignity and create endless difficulties and dangers.
What complicated matters was his readiness to promise marriage. He would have had more wives than our Henry VIII. could he have made good all his engagements. Gabrielle would have been his queen in a few weeks had not the subtle poison of Zametti, the Italian usurer, cleared her from the path of the Florentine bride. Even in the short interval between her death and the landing of Marie de’ Medici at Marseilles, he had yielded to the wiles of Henriette de Balsac d’Entragues, half-sister to the Comte d’Auvergne, son of Charles IX., and had given her a formal promise of marriage.
Henriette cared only for the sovereign, not for the man, who was old enough to be her father. In the glory of youth and insolence of beauty, stealthy, clever, and remorseless, a finished coquette and a reckless intrigante, she allured him into signing a formal contract of marriage, affianced though he was to a powerful princess proposed by the reigning Pontiff, whose good-will it was important to the King, always a cold Catholic, to secure.
The new favourite claimed to be of royal blood through her mother, Marie Touchet, and, therefore, a fitting consort for the King. She showed her “marriage lines” to every one—did not hesitate to assert that she, not Marie de’ Medici, was the lawful wife; that the King would shortly acknowledge her as such, and send the Queen back whence she came, together with the hated Concini, her chamber-women and secretary, along with all the jesters and mountebanks who had come with her from Italy. Endless complications ensued with the new Queen. Quarrels, recriminations, and reproaches ran so high that Marie on one occasion struck the King in the face. Henry was disgusted with her ill-temper, but was too generous either to coerce or to control her. Her Italian confidants, Concini and his wife, however, made capital of these dissensions to incense Marie violently against her husband, and at the same time to gain influence over herself. Henry was watched,—no very difficult undertaking, as he had assigned a magnificent suite of rooms in the Louvre to his new mistress, between whose apartments and those of the wife there was but a single corridor.
Henrietta meanwhile lived with all the pomp of a sovereign; there were feasts at Zametti’s, balls, and jousts, and hunting-parties at Saint-Germain and Fontainebleau. Foreign ambassadors and ministers scoured the country after the King; so engaged was he in pleasure and junketing.
THE great gallery of the Louvre is just completed. It is on the first floor, and approached through a circular hall with a fine mosaic floor; it has painted walls and a vaulted ceiling. The gallery is lighted by twelve lofty windows looking towards the quays and the river, which glitters without in the morning sun. Every inch of this sumptuous apartment is painted and laden with gilding; the glittering ceiling rests upon a cornice, where Henry’s initials are blended with those of the dead Gabrielle. A crowd of lords-in-waiting and courtiers walk up and down, loll upon settees, or gather in groups within the deep embrasures of the windows, to discuss in low tones the many scandals of the day, as they await his Majesty’s lover. Presently Maréchal Bassompierre enters. Bassompierre, the friend and confidant of Henry, as great a libertine as his master, who has left behind him a minute chronicle of his life, is a tall, burly man; his face is bronzed by the long campaigns against the League, and his bearing as he moves up and down, his sword clanging upon the polished floor, has more of the swagger of the camp than the refinement of the Court. He wears the uniform of the Musketeers who guard the person of the King, and on his broad breast is the ribbon of the Order of the “Saint-Esprit.” He is joined by the Duc de Roquelaure. Now Roquelaure is an effeminate-looking man, a gossip and a dandy, the retailer of the latest scandal, the block upon which the newest fashions are tried. He wears a doublet of rose-coloured Florence satin quilted with silk, stiff with embroidery and sown with seed-pearls. The sleeves are slashed with cloth of silver; a golden chain, with a huge medallion set in diamonds, hangs round his neck. Placed jauntily over his ear is a velvet cap with a jewelled clasp and white ostrich plume. Broad golden lace borders his hose, and high-heeled Cordovan boots—for he desires to appear tall—of amber leather, with huge golden spurs, complete his attire. Being a man of low stature—a pigmy beside the Marshal—as the sun streams upon him from the broad window-panes, he looks like a gaudy human butterfly.
“Well, Bassompierre,” says the Duke eagerly, standing on the points of his toes, “is it true that your marriage with the incomparable Charlotte de Montmorenci is broken off?”
Bassompierre bows his head in silence, and a sorrowful look passes over his jovial face.
“Pardieu! Marshal, for a rejected lover you seem well and hearty. Are you going to break your heart, or the Prince of Condé’s head—eh, Marshal?”
A malicious twinkle gathers in Roquelaure’s eye, for there is a certain satisfaction to a man of his inches in seeing a giant like Bassompierre unsuccessful.
“Neither, Duke,” replies Bassompierre drily. “I shall in this matter, as in all others, submit myself to his Majesty’s pleasure.”
“Mighty well spoken, Marshal; you are a perfect model of our court virtue. But how can a worshipper of ‘the great Alexander,’ at the court of ‘Lutetia,’ in the very presence of the divine Millegarde, the superb Dorinda, and all the attendant knights and ladies, tolerate the affront, the dishonour of a public rejection?” And Roquelaure takes out an enamelled snuff-box, taps it, and with a pinch of scented snuff between fingers covered with rings awaits a reply. “Not but that any gentleman,” continues he, receiving no answer, “who marries the fair Montmorenci will have perforce to submit to his Majesty’s pleasure—eh, Marshal, you understand?” and Roquelaure takes his pinch of snuff and dusts his perfumed beard.
“I cannot allow the lady to be made a subject for idle gossip, Duke,” replies Bassompierre, drawing himself up to his full height and eying the other grimly. “Although I am not to have the honour of being her husband, her good name is as dear to me as before.”
“But, morbleu! who blames the lady?”
“Not I—I never blamed a lady in my life, let her do what she may—it is my creed of honour.’
“But his Majesty’s passion for her is so unconcealed. Perhaps, Marshal, the King understood that this marriage must break up your ancient friendship?”
Bassompierre scowls, but makes no reply.
“The King has grown young again,” continues Roquelaure. “Our noble Henri Quatre,—he orders new clothes every day, wears embroidered collars, sleeves of carnation satin—(I brought in the mode)” and he glances at his own—“and scents and perfumes his hair and beard. We are to have another tournament to-morrow in honour of the marriage of the Prince de Condé—in reality to show off a suit of armour his Majesty has received from Milan. Will you have the heart to be present, Marshal?”
“Yes, Duke, I shall attend his Majesty as usual,” replies Bassompierre, turning away with an offended air.
“Come, Marshal, between such old friends as you and I these airs of distance are absurd”; and the Duke lays his hand on the other’s arm to detain him. “Own to me honestly that this marriage with the Prince de Condé gives you great concern——”
Bassompierre hangs down his head and plays with his sword-knot. “I should have desired a better husband for her, truly,” answers he in a low voice. “The Prince is a shabby fellow, with an evil temper. I fear Mademoiselle de Montmorenci can never affect him,” and a deep sigh escapes him.
“Never, never,” rejoins Roquelaure, looking round to note who arrives, “it is an ill-assorted union. You, Bassompierre, would have loved her well. It was possible she might have reformed your manners. Ha! I have you there, Marshal. Pardon my joke,” adds he, as he sees a dark scowl again gathering on the Marshal’s face. “But Condé, the rustre, he hates women—I never saw him address one in his life; a cold, austere fellow, as solitary as an owl; a miser, and silent too—if he does speak he is rude and ungracious; and with the temper of a fiend. If he does right, it is only through obstinacy. I am told he suspects the lady already, and has set spies to watch her. A pretty match for the fair Montmorenci truly, who has lived with a sovereign at her feet.”
“Duke,” cries Bassompierre fiercely, secretly writhing under the Duke’s malicious probing of a heart-wound which still bled, “I have already observed that any inuendoes touching Mademoiselle de Montmorenci displease me.”
“Inuendoes! why, Marshal, even Condé confessed the other day that rich as was the prize, and surpassing the lady, he hesitated to accept ‘one whom the King’s attention had made so notorious!’ ”
Bassompierre’s eyes flash. He is about to make an angry rejoinder when a page approaches and summons them to attend his Majesty.
The marriage between Charlotte de Montmorenci and the Prince de Condé was, as had been anticipated, a failure. Condé, devoured by jealousy, shut up his wife at Chantilly, or at the still more remote Château of Muret. The petted beauty, accustomed to the incense of a Court and the avowed admiration of an infatuated sovereign, scolded and wept, but in vain. The more bitterly they quarrelled, the more deep and dangerous became Condé’s enmity to Henry. Disloyalty was the tradition of his race, rebellious practices with Spain the habit of his house. We have seen how a Condé was ready to usurp the throne under pretence of a Regency, during the conflict with the Huguenots at Amboise. His son, “the great Condé,” is by-and-by to head the standard of revolt, and at the head of Spanish troops to bring France to the brink of ruin. Avarice had led him to accept the hand of Charlotte de Montmorenci—avarice and poverty—and he had counted upon constant espionage and absence from Court as sufficient precautions. But he was young: he had yet to learn the wilfulness of his wife and the audacity of the King. As he gradually discovered that the Princess was neither to be soothed nor coerced, his rage knew no bounds. Sully, seriously alarmed at the rumours that reached him respecting the Prince’s language, requested a visit from him at the Arsenal.
Sully is seated in a sombre closet—looking towards the towers of Notre-Dame—at a table covered with papers. Condé is tall, thin, and slightly made. He is singularly ill-favoured, with dark hair and swarthy skin, a nose quite out of proportion with the rest of his face, and a sinister expression in his eyes. On entering he cannot conceal his uneasiness.
“Be seated, monseigneur,” says Sully, scanning him from under his heavy eyebrows. “I have no time to spare—therefore I must use plain words. You speak of the King my master in terms that do you little credit. You are playing the devil, Prince. The King’s patience is well-nigh exhausted. I am commanded to keep back the payment of the pension you receive to mark his Majesty’s displeasure. If this has no effect upon you, other means must be tried.”
While Sully speaks, Condé sits opposite to him unmoved, save that his dark face hardens, and he fixes his sullen eyes steadfastly upon Sully.
“If I am what you say,” replies he at last doggedly, “if I speak ill of his Majesty, am I not justified? He is determined to ruin me. He persecutes me because I choose to keep my wife in the country. It is my desire to leave France—then I shall no longer give his Majesty offence.”
“Impossible, monseigneur! As a Prince of the blood your place is at Court, beside the Sovereign.”
“What! have I not liberty even to visit my own sister, the Princess of Orange, at Breda, in company with the Princess, my wife? That can be no affront to his Majesty. Surely, Monsieur de Sully, you cannot advise the King to refuse so reasonable a request?”
“I shall advise him to refuse it, monseigneur, nevertheless. Persons of your rank cannot leave the kingdom—the very act is treason.”
Condé casts up his eyes, and his hands—
“Was ever a man so ill used? My personal liberty denied me! My very allowance stopped!”
“It is said, Prince, that you have plenty of Spanish doubloons at Chantilly,” returns Sully significantly.
“It is false—tales to ruin me. Ever since my marriage I have been pursued by informers. It was by his Majesty’s command I married. Now he desires to seduce my wife—that is the truth. If I appear ungrateful, there is my reason.”
“His Majesty assures me, Prince,” breaks in Sully, “that his sentiments towards your illustrious consort are those of a father.”
“A father! Why, then, does he come disguised to Chantilly? He has been seen hiding in the woods there and at Muret. A pretty father, indeed! By the grace of God, I will submit to the tyranny of no such a father. It is a thraldom unbecoming my birth, my position, and my honour! While the King acts thus I will not come to Court, to be an object of pity and contempt!”
“You speak of tyranny, Prince, towards yourself. It may be well for your highness to consider, however, that the King, my master, has to a certain extent justified your accusation.” Condé looks up at him keenly. “But it is tyranny exercised in your favour, Monsieur le Prince, not to your prejudice.”
Sully’s eyes are bent upon the Prince. While he speaks a half smile flitters about his mouth.
“I do not understand you, Duke. Explain yourself,” replies Condé, with real or affected ignorance; but something in the expression of Sully’s face caused him to drop the tone of bravado he had hitherto assumed.
“His Majesty, Prince, has justified your accusation of tyranny by having hitherto insisted, nay even compelled, those about him to acknowledge you—well—for what you are not!”
Condé almost bounds from his seat. There was a horrible suspicion that his mother had shortened his father’s life, and this suspicion had cast doubts upon his legitimacy.
Sully sits back in his chair and contemplates Condé at his ease.
“Your highness will, I think, do well for the future to consider how much you owe to his Majesty’s bounty in many ways.” And these last words are strongly emphasised. Condé is silent. “Again, I say, as your highness is fortunately accepted as a Prince of the blood, you must bear the penalties of this high position.”
Condé, who has turned ashy pale, rises with difficulty—he even holds the table for support.
“Have you more to say to me, Duc de Sully, or is our interview ended?”
He speaks in a suppressed voice, and looks careworn and haggard.
“Monseigneur, I have now only to thank you for the honour you have done me in coming here,” replies Sully, rising, a malicious smile upon his face. “I commend to your consideration the remarks I have had the honour to make to you. Believe me, you owe everything to the King, my master.”
HENRY was seated in his closet playing at cards, with Bassompierre, the Comtes de Soissons, Cœuvres, and Monseigneur de Lorraine. It was late, and the game was almost concluded, when Monsieur d’Ellène, a gentleman-in-waiting, entered hurriedly, and whispered something in the King’s ear. In an instant Henry’s face expressed the utmost consternation. He threw down his cards, clenched his fists with passion, and rose hastily; then, leaning over upon Bassompierre’s shoulder, who sat next to him, he said in a low voice—
“Marshal, I am lost. Condé has fled with his wife into the woods. God knows whether he means to murder her, or carry her out of France. Take care of my cards. Go on playing. I must learn more particulars. Do the same, and follow me as soon as you can.” And he left the room.
But the sudden change in the King’s face and manner had spread alarm in the circle. No one would play any more, and Bassompierre was assailed with eager questions. He was obliged to reply that he believed the Prince de Condé had left France. At this astounding news every tongue was let loose. Bassompierre then retired, and after having made himself master of every particular, joined the King, in order to inform him. Henry listened with horror to Bassompierre’s narrative. Meanwhile, late as it was (midnight), he commanded a council of state to be called. The ministers assembled as quickly as was possible. There were present the Chancellor, the President Jeannin, Villeroy, and the Comtes de Cœuvres and De Cremail. Henry hastily seated himself at the top of the table.
“Well, Chancellor, well,—you have heard this dreadful news,” said he, addressing him. “The poor young Princess! What is your advice? How can we save her?”
Bellièvre, a grave lawyer, looked astounded at the King’s vehemence.
“Surely, Sire, you cannot apprehend any personal danger to the illustrious lady?” said he, with hesitation. “The Princesse de Condé is with her husband, he will doubtless act as is fitting.”
“Ventre Saint Gris!” cried the King, boiling with passion. “I want no comments—the remedy. What is the remedy? How can we rescue her?”
“Well, Sire, if you have reason to misdoubt the good faith of the Prince de Condé, if her highness be in any danger, you must issue edicts, proclaim fines, and denounce all persons who harbour and abet him; but I would advise your Majesty to pause.”
Henry turned away with a violent gesture.
“Now, Villeroy, speak. If the Princess is out of the kingdom, what is to be done?”
“Your Majesty can do nothing then but through your ambassadors. Representation must be made to the Court of the country whither the Prince has fled. You must demand the Prince’s restitution as a rebel.”
The King shrugged his shoulders with infinite disgust. Such slow measures little suited his impetuous humour.
“Now, President Jeannin,” said Henry, “let us hear your opinion. These other counsels are too lengthy. God knows what mischief may ere this have happened.”
“I advise your Majesty,” replied the President, “to send a trusty officer after the Prince and bring him back along with his wife, if within the realm. He is doubtless on his way to Flanders. If he has passed the frontier, the Archduke, who would not willingly offend your Majesty, will, doubtless, dismiss the Prince at your desire.”
Henry nodded his head approvingly, and turned quickly round to issue orders at once to follow this advice, which suited the urgency of the case; all at once he remembered that Sully was not present, and he hesitated.
“Where is Sully?” cried he.
“Monsieur de Praslin,” replied Bassompierre, who had just left him, “has been again despatched to fetch him from the Arsenal; but he is not yet arrived.”
At this moment the door opened, and Sully appeared. It was evident that he was in one of his surliest moods. Henry, preoccupied as he was, observed this, and, fearing some outburst, dismissed the Council and Bassompierre, and carefully shut the door.
“Sully, what am I to do? By the mass! that monster, my nephew, has fled, and carried off my dear Charlotte with him!”
This was not, as has been seen, the first time that the grave statesman Sully had been consulted in his master’s love affairs. He had passed very many hours in endeavouring to cajole Henriette d’Entragues to give up the fatal marriage contract signed by the King; he had all but quarrelled with his master in opposing his marriage with Gabrielle d’Estrées; and he had been called up in the dead of night to remonstrate with the Queen when, in consequence of a violent quarrel, she had sworn that she would leave the Louvre. Sully, like the King, had grown old, and was tired of acting adviser to a headstrong master, whose youthful follies never seemed to end. Now he gave a grunt of disapproval.
“I am not surprised, Sire. I told you the Prince would go. If he went himself, it was not likely he would leave his wife behind him—was it? That would have been too complaisant in his highness. If you wanted to secure him, you should have shut him up in the Bastille.”
“Sully, this raillery is ill-timed. I am distressed beyond all words. The Princess is in an awful predicament. Laperrière’s son brought the news. His father was their guide. He left them in the middle of a dismal forest. He shall be paid a mine of gold for his information.”
Sully shook his head and cast up his hands.
“God help us!” muttered he.
“Never was anything more dreadful,” continued the King. “My beloved Charlotte was lured from Muret under the pretence of a hunting-party. She was to be carried to the rendezvous in a coach. The dear creature started before daylight, says Laperrière’s son, and as the morning broke, found herself in a strange part of the country—in a plain far from the forest. She stopped the coach, and called to Virrey, who rode by the door, and asked him whither they were going? Virrey, confused, said he would ride on and ask the Prince, who was in advance, leading the way, the cowardly scoundrel!” and Henry shook his fist in the air. “My nephew came up, and told her she was on her road to Breda, upon which the sweet soul screamed aloud, says Laperrière, and lamented, entreating to be allowed to return. But that ruffian, Condé, rode off and left her in the middle of the road, bidding the driver push forward. At last they came to Couçy, where they changed horses. Just as they were about again to start the coach broke down.”
“Praised be God!” ejaculated Sully. “I hope no one was found to mend it.”
“Sully, I believe you are without heart or feeling,” cried the King, reproachfully.
“Not at all, Sire; but my heart and my feelings also are with your Majesty, not with the Princess. Proceed, Sire, with this touching narrative.”
“Condé then, says Laperrière, the night beginning to fall, purchased a pillion at Couçy, and mounted his wife behind him on horseback.” Sully shook with laughter; but fearing to offend his master, suppressed it as well as he could. “Her two attendants mounted behind two of the suite, the guides being in advance. It rained heavily. Pardieu! I can hardly bear to speak of it. My dear Charlotte in such a condition! The night was dark; but Condé rode on like a devil incarnate to Castellin, the first village across the frontier. When she was taken down, Charlotte fainted.” The tears ran down Henry’s cheeks as he said this. “She fainted; and then Laperrière, convinced of some treason on the part of my nephew, despatched his son to tell me these particulars. Now, Sully,” and the King rose suddenly and seized his hand, shaking off the sorrow that had overcome him during the narrative, “now tell me, what am I to do? I would lose my Crown rather than not succour her.”
“Do nothing, Sire,” replied Sully quietly.
“How, Sully! Do nothing?”
“Yes, Sire; I advise you—I implore you, do nothing. If you leave Condé to himself he will be laughed at. Even his friends will ridicule his escapade. In three months he will be back again at Court with the Princess, ashamed of himself. Meantime Madame la Princesse will see foreign Courts, acquire the Spanish manner from the Archduchess, and return more fascinating than ever. On the other hand, if you pursue him, you will exalt him into a political victim; all your Majesty’s enemies will rally round him.”
Excellent advice, which the King was too infatuated to follow! Forgetting all decency, and even the law of nations, he insisted on punishing Condé as a rebel, and called on the Spanish Government formally to release the Princess. Spain refused; and this ridiculous passion may be said to have been the approximate cause of that formidable alliance against Spain in which, at the time of his death, Henry was about to engage.
The favour which Henry had shown his Protestant subjects had long rankled in the minds of the Catholics. He was held to be a renegade and a traitor. It was affirmed that his conversion was a sham, to which he lent himself only the more effectually to advance the interests of the reformed faith. While he gave himself up to amorous follies and prepared for foreign wars, a network of hate, treachery, and fanaticism was fast closing around him. Enemies and spies filled the Louvre, and dogged his every movement. Already the footsteps of the assassin approached.
After the birth of the Dauphin a strong political party had gathered round Marie de’ Medici. Her constant dissensions with the King, her bitter complaints, and the scandal of his private life, afforded sufficient grounds for elevating her into a kind of martyr.
The intrigues of Concini, whose easy manners, elegant person, and audacious counsels had raised him from a low hanger-on at Court into the principal adviser of his royal mistress, gradually contrived to identify her interests with those of the great feudal princes, still absolute sovereigns in their own territory. The maintenance of the Catholic Church against heresy, and the security of the throne for her son, were the ostensible motives of this coalition. But the bond between Marie and her chief supporters, the powerful Ducs de Bouillon and d’Epernon, was in reality a common hatred of Henry and a bitter jealousy of Sully, whose clear intellect and firm hand had directed with such extraordinary sagacity the helm of state throughout Henry’s long and stormy reign.
Evil influences, which displayed themselves in predictions, warnings, and prophesies, were abroad. The death of the King would at once raise Marie, as Regent for her son, to sovereign power, and throw the whole control of the State into the hands of her adherents. How far Marie was implicated in the events about to happen can never be known, and whether she listened to the dark hints of her Italian attendants, that by the King’s death alone she could find relief. But undoubtedly the barbarous cruelty with which Concini and his wife were afterwards murdered by Henry’s friends had regard to this suspicion. Whether the Duc d’Epernon knew beforehand of the conspiracy, and insured his master’s death by a final thrust when he had already been struck by the assassin, or whether Henriette d’Entragues, out of revenge for the King’s passion for the Princesse de Condé, herself instigated Ravaillac to the act, must ever remain a mystery.
Marie de’ Medici, urged by the Concini, and advised by her friend the Duc d’Epernon, was at this time unceasing in her entreaties to the King to consent to her coronation at Saint-Denis. According to her varying mood she either wept, raved and stamped about the room, or kissed, coaxed, and cajoled him. And there was cause for her pertinacity. Henry’s weak compliances with Henriette d’Entragues’ pretensions, her residence in the Louvre, and her boastings of that unhappy promise of marriage, had given occasion for questions to arise touching the legitimacy of the Dauphin. Those who were politically opposed to the King would be ready, at any moment after his death, to justify rebellion on the pretence of a prior contract invalidating his present marriage.
Such an idea drove the Queen frantic. There was no peace for Henry until he consented to her coronation. Yet he was strangely reluctant to comply. An unaccountable presentiment of danger connected with that ceremony pursued him. He had never been the same since the loss of the Princesse de Condé. Now he was dull, absent, and indifferent, ate little and slept ill. Nothing interested or pleased him, save the details of his great campaign against Spain, which was about to convulse all Europe.
“Ah, my friend,” said he to Sully, “how this ceremony of the coronation distresses me. Whenever I think about it I cannot shake off sinister forebodings. Alas! I fear I shall never live to head my army. I shall die in this city of Paris. I shall never see the Princesse de Condé again. Ah, cursed coronation! I shall die while they are about it. Bassompierre tells me the maypole, which was set up in the court of the Louvre, has just fallen down. It is an evil omen.”
“Well, Sire,” returned Sully, “postpone the ceremony.”
“No, Sully, no; it shall not be said that Henry IV. trembled before an idle prophecy. For twenty years, Sully, I have heard of predictions of my death. After all, nothing will happen to me but what is ordained.”
“My God, Sire!” exclaimed Sully, “I never heard your Majesty speak so before. Countermand the coronation, I entreat you. Let the Queen not be crowned at all rather than lose your peace of mind. What does it matter? It is but a woman’s whim.”
“Ah, Sully, what will my wife say? I dare not approach her unless I keep my word;—her heart is so set upon being crowned.”
“Let her say what she pleases, Sire; never heed her. Allow me to persuade her Majesty to postpone the ceremony.”
“Try, Sully; try, if you please:—you will find what the Queen is. She will not consent to put it off.”
The King spoke truly. Marie de’ Medici flew into a violent rage, and positively refused to listen to any postponement whatever. The coronation was fixed to take place on Thursday, the 13th of May.
It is certain that the King was distinctly warned of his approaching death. The very day and hour were marked with a cross of blood in an almanack sent to him anonymously. A period of six hours on the 14th of May was marked as fatal to him. If he survived that time, on that day—a Friday—he was safe. The day named for his death was that preceding the public entry of the Queen into Paris, after her coronation at Saint-Denis. He rose at six o’clock in the morning on that day, Friday, the 14th of May. On his way down-stairs, he was met by the Duc de Vendôme, his son by Gabrielle d’Estrées. Vendôme held in his hand a paper, which he had found lying on his table. It was a horoscope, signed by an astrologer called La Brosse, warning the King that the constellation under which he was born threatened him with great danger on the 14th of May. “My father,” said Vendôme, standing in his path, “do not go abroad; spend this day at home.”
“La Brosse, my boy,” replied Henry, looking at the paper, “is an old fox. Do you not see that he wants money? You are a young fool to mind him. My life is in the hands of God, my son,—I shall live or die as he pleases,—let me pass.”
He heard mass early, and passed the day as usual. At a quarter to four o’clock in the afternoon he ordered his coach, to visit Sully at the Arsenal, who was ailing. The streets were much crowded. Paris was full of strangers, assembled for the coronation, and to see the spectacle of the Queen’s public entry. Stages and booths blocked up the thoroughfares. Henry was impatient for the arrival of his coach, and took his seat in it immediately it arrived. He signed to the Duc d’Epernon to seat himself at his right hand. De Liancourt and Mirabeau, his lords in waiting, placed themselves opposite to him. The Ducs de Lavardin, Roquelaure, and Montbazon, and the Marquis de la Force, took their places on either side. Besides these noblemen seated inside, a few guards accompanied him on horseback, but when he reached the hôtel of the Duc de Longueville, the King stopped and dismissed all his attendants, save those lords in the coach with him. From the Rue Saint-Honoré, which was greatly crowded, they entered the Rue de la Ferronnière, on the way to the Arsenal. This was a narrow street, and numbers of wooden stalls (such as are still seen on the boulevards in Paris) were ranged along a dead wall, on one of the sides. There was a block of carts about these booths, and the royal coach was obliged to draw up close against the dead wall. The running footmen went forward to clear the road; the coach halted close to the wall. Ravaillac now slipped between the wall and the coach, and jumping on one of the wheels, stabbed the King twice in the breast and ribs. The knife passed through a shirt of fine cambric, richly embroidered à jour. A third time the assassin raised his hand to strike, but only ripped up the sleeve of the Duc de Montbazon’s doublet, upon whom the King had fallen. “I am wounded,” gasped Henry, “but it is nothing—” Then the Duc d’Epernon raised his royal master in his arms. Henry made a convulsive effort to speak, he was choked by blood, and fell back lifeless. He was brought back dead to the Louvre. There he lay in state, clothed in his coronation robes, the crown upon his head.
The bloody almanack had told true. Henry had circled twenty times the magic chamber of life!
IT is related that the night after the assassination of Henri Quatre by Ravaillac, and while his body lay in the Louvre, his little son, Louis XIII., screaming with terror, cried out that he saw the same men who had murdered his father coming to kill him. Louis was not to be pacified until he was carried to his mother’s bed, where he passed the rest of the night.
To this infantine terror, this early association with death and murder, may be traced the strange character of Louis; weak in body and mind, timid, suspicious, melancholy, superstitious, an undutiful son, a bad husband, and an unworthy king. The fame of his great father, and the enthusiasm his memory inspired, instead of filling him with emulation, crushed and depressed him. He became a complete “Roi fainéant.” His reign was the reign of favourites, and nothing was heard of the monarch but in connection with them, save that, with a superstition worthy of the Middle Ages, he formerly placed France “under the protection of the Virgin.”
His early favourite, Albret the Gascon, created Duc de Luynes and Constable of France, was his tyrant. As long as he lived Louis both hated and feared him. He hated his mother, he hated Richelieu, he hated his wife, Anne of Austria. Louis, surnamed “the Just,” had a great capacity for hatred.
Poor Anne of Austria, to whom he was married at fifteen, she being the same age, what a lot was hers!
Her personal charms actually revolted the half-educated, awkward boy, whom all the world thought she would govern despotically. He could not help acknowledging her exceeding loveliness; but she was his superior, and he knew it. He shrank back, terrified, at her vivacity and her talents. Her innocent love of amusement jarred against his morbid nature. Melancholy himself, he disliked to see others happy, and from the day of their marriage he lived as much apart from her as state etiquette permitted.
Maria de’ Medici, ambitious and unprincipled as ever, widened the breach between them. She still sat supreme in the council, and regulated public affairs. Richelieu, her favourite and minister during the Regency, in continual dread of a possible reconciliation between Louis and his wife, and in love with the young Queen himself, was rapidly rising to that dictatorship which he exercised over France and the King until he died. Both he and the Queen-mother roused Louis’s jealousy against his wife, and dropped dark hints of danger to his throne, perhaps to his life. They succeeded only too well; the King and Queen become more and more estranged.
Anne of Austria uttered no complaint. She showed no anger, but her pride was deeply wounded, and amongst her ladies and her friends her joyous raillery did not spare the King. Reports of her flirtations also, as well as of her bon mots and her mimicry, heightened by the malice of those whose interest it was to keep them asunder, reached Louis, and alienated him more and more. Anne, too young to be fully aware of the growing danger of her position, vain of her success, and without either judicious friends or competent advisers, took no steps to reconcile herself to her husband. Coldness and estrangement rapidly grew into downright dislike and animosity; suspicions were exaggerated into certainty, until at last she came to be treated as a conspirator and a criminal.
The age was an age of intrigue, treachery, and rebellion. The growing power of the nobles narrowed the authority of the throne. The incapacity of the King strengthened the pretensions of the princes. Spain, perpetually at war with France, sought its dismemberment by most disloyal conspiracies. Every disaffected prince or rebellious noble found a home at the Court of Philip, brother of Anne of Austria.
Thus Louis knew nothing of royalty but its cares and dangers. As a boy, browbeaten and overborne by his mother, when arrived at an age when his own sense and industry might have remedied defects of education, he took it for granted that his ignorance was incapacity, his timidity constitutional deficiency.
A prime minister was absolutely indispensable to such a monarch, and Louis at least showed some discernment in selecting for that important post the Bishop of Luçon (Cardinal Richelieu), the protégé of his mother.
Estranged from his wife, pure in morals, and correct in conduct, Louis, still a mere youth, yearned for female sympathy. A confidante was as necessary as a minister—one as immaculate as himself, into whose ear he could, without fear of scandal, murmur the griefs and anxieties of his life. Such a woman he found in Mademoiselle de Hautefort, maid of honour to the Queen. Her modesty and her silence first attracted him. Her manners were reserved, her speech soft and gentle. She was naturally of a serious turn of mind, and had been carefully educated. She took great apparent interest in all the King said to her. Her conversation became so agreeable to him, that he dared by degrees to confide to her his loneliness, his misery, and even his bodily infirmities, which were neither few nor slight. This intimacy, to a solitary young King who longed for affection, yet delicately shrunk from the slightest semblance of intrigue, was alluring in the highest degree.
Long, however, ere Louis had favoured her with his preference she had given her whole heart to her mistress, Anne of Austria. Every word the King uttered was immediately repeated to the Queen, with such comments as caused the liveliest entertainment to that lovely princess, who treated the liaison as an admirable joke, and entreated her maid of honour to humour the King to the very utmost, so as to afford her the greatest possible amount of amusement.
The Court is at Compiègne. Since the days of Clotaire it has been a favourite hunting-lodge of the Kings of France. One vast façade stretches along verdant banks sloping to the river Oise, across which an ancient bridge (on which Jeanne d’Arc, fighting against the English, was taken prisoner) leads into the sunny little town. On the farther side of the château a magnificent terrace, bordered by canals, links it to the adjoining forest. So close to this terrace still press the ancient trees and woodland alleys, backed by rising hills crowned with lofty elms, and broken by deep hollows where feathery beeches wave, that even to this day the whole scene faithfully represents an ancient chase. So immense is the château that the two Queens, Marie de’ Medici and Anne of Austria, could each hold distinct Courts within its walls. Marie, in the suite called the “Apartments of the Queens-dowager of France,” then hung with ancient tapestry and painted in fresco, looking over the grassy lawns beside the river and the town; Anne, in the stately rooms towards the forest and the woodland heights.
Within a vaulted room, the walls hung with Cordova leather stamped in patterns of gorgeous colours, Anne of Austria is seated at her toilette. Before her is a mirror, framed in lace and ribbons, placed on a silver table. She wears a long white peignoir thrown over a robe of azure satin. Her luxuriant hair is unbound and falls over her shoulders; Doña Estafania, her Spanish dresser, who has never left her, assisted by Madame Bertant, combs and perfumes it, drawing out many curls and ringlets from the waving mass, which, at a little distance, the morning sunshine turns into a shower of gold. Around her stand her maids of honour, Mademoiselles de Guerchy, Saint-Mégrin, and de Hautefort. The young Queen is that charming anomaly, a Spanish blonde. She has large blue eyes that can languish or sparkle, entreat or command, pencilled eyebrows, and a mouth full-lipped and rosy. She has the prominent nose of her family; her complexion, of the most dazzling fairness, is heightened by rouge. She is not tall, but her royal presence, even in youth, lends height to her figure. When she smiles her face expresses nothing but innocence and candour; but she knows how to frown, and to make others frown also.
There is a stir among the attendants, and the King enters. He is assiduous in saluting her Majesty at her lever when Mademoiselle de Hautefort is present. Louis XIII. has inherited neither the rough though martial air of his father, nor the beauty of his Italian mother. His face is long, thin, and sallow; his hair dark and scanty. He is far from tall, and very slight, and an indescribable air of melancholy pervades his whole person. As Louis approaches her, Anne is placing a diamond pendant in her ear; her hands are exquisitely white and deliciously shaped, and she loves to display them. She receives the King, who timidly advances, with sarcastic smiles and insolent coldness. While he is actually addressing her, she turns round to her lady in waiting, the Duchesse de Chevreuse, who stands behind her chair, holding a hand-mirror set in gold, whispers in her ear and laughs, then points with her dainty finger, bright with costly rings, to the King, who stands before her. Louis blushes, waits some time for an answer, which she does not vouchsafe to give; then, greatly embarrassed, retreats into a corner near the door, and seats himself.
The Duchesse de Chevreuse, the friend and confidante of Anne of Austria, widow of the King’s favourite the Duc de Luynes, now a second time
Duchess, as wife of Claude Lorraine, Duc de Chevreuse, an adventuress and an intrigante, is a gipsy-faced, bewitching woman, dark-skinned, velvet-eyed, and enticing; her cheeks dimpling with smiles, her black eyes dancing with mischief.
The King sits lost in thought, with an anxious and almost tearful expression, gazing fixedly at Mademoiselle de Hautefort who stands behind the Queen’s chair among the maids of honour. Suddenly he becomes aware that all eyes are turned upon him. He rises quickly, and makes a sign to Mademoiselle de Hautefort to approach him; but the eyes of the maid of honour are fixed upon the ground. With a nervous glance towards the door, he reseats himself on the edge of his chair. The Queen turns towards him, then to Mademoiselle de Hautefort, and laughs, whilst the maid of honour busies herself with some lace. A moment after she advances towards the Queen, carrying the ruff in her hand which is to encircle her Majesty’s neck.
Anne leans back, adjusts the ruff, and whispers to her—“Look, mademoiselle, look at your despairing lover. He longs to go away, but he cannot tear himself from you. I positively admire his courage. Go to him, ma belle—he is devouring you with his eyes. Have you no mercy on the anointed King of France?”
Mademoiselle de Hautefort colours, and again turns her eyes to the ground.
“Duchesse,” continues Anne in a low voice, addressing the Duchesse de Chevreuse, “tell mademoiselle what you would do were you adored by a great king. Would you refuse to look at him when he stands before you—red, white, smiling, almost weeping, a spectacle of what a fool even a sovereign may make of himself?” And the Queen laughs again softly, and, for an instant, mimicks the grotesque expression of the King’s face.
“Madame,” says Mademoiselle de Hautefort, looking up and speaking gravely, “the opinion of Madame la Duchesse would not influence me. We take different views of life. Your Majesty knows that the King is not my lover, and that I only converse with him out of the duty I owe your Majesty. I beseech you, Madame,” adds she, in a plaintive voice, “do not laugh at me. My task is difficult enough. I have to amuse a Sovereign who cannot be amused—to feign an interest I do not feel. Her grace the Duchesse de Chevreuse would, I doubt not, know how to turn the confidence with which his Majesty honours me to much better account”; and Mademoiselle de Hautefort glances angrily at the Duchess, who smiles scornfully, and makes her a profound curtsey.
“You say true, mademoiselle,” replies she; “I should certainly pay more respect to his Majesty’s exalted position, and perhaps I should feel more sympathy for the passion I had inspired. However, you are but a mere girl, new to court life. You will learn in good time, mademoiselle—you will learn.”
Mademoiselle de Hautefort, about to make a bitter reply, is interrupted by the Queen.
“Come, petite sotte,” says Anne, still speaking under her breath, “don’t lose your temper. We all worship you as the modern Diana. Venus is not at all in the line of our royal spouse. Look, he can bear it no longer; he has left the room. There he stands in the anteroom, casting one last longing look after you; I see it in the glass. Go, mademoiselle, I dismiss you—go and console his Majesty with your Platonic friendship.”
Mademoiselle de Hautefort left the room, and was instantly joined by Louis, who drew her into the embrasure of an oriel window.
“YOU have come at last,” said Louis eagerly. “Why would you not look at me? I have suffered tortures; I abhor the Queen’s ladies, a set of painted Jezebels, specially the Duchesse de Chevreuse, a dangerous intriguer, her Majesty’s evil genius. I saw them all mocking me. Why did you not look at me? you knew I came for you,” repeated he, querulously.
“Surely, Sire, I could not be so presumptuous as to imagine that a visit to her Majesty from her husband concerned me.”
“Her husband! would I had never seen her, or her friend the Duchesse. They are both—well, I will not say what, certainly spies, spies of Spain. My principles forbid me to associate with such women. You look displeased, mademoiselle—what have I done?”—for Mademoiselle de Hautefort showed by her expression the disapproval she felt at his abuse of the Queen. “It is your purity, your sweetness, that alone make the Court bearable. But you are not looking at me—cruel, selfish girl! would you too forsake me?”
The maid of honour feeling that she must say something, and assume an interest she did not feel, looked up into the King’s face and smiled. “I am here, Sire, for your service. I am neither cruel nor selfish, but I am grieved at the terms in which you speak of my gracious mistress. Let me pray your Majesty, most humbly, not to wound me by such language.”
Her look, her manner, softened the irritable Louis. He took her hand stealthily and kissed it. He gazed at her pensively for some moments without speaking.
“How beautiful you are, and wise as you are beautiful!” exclaimed he at length. “I have much to say to you, but not about my Spanish wife. Let us not mention her.” His eyes were still riveted on the maid of honour; his lips parted as if to speak, then he checked himself, but still retained her hand, which he pressed.
“You hunted yesterday, Sire,” said she, confused at the King’s silence and steadfast gaze; “what number of stags did you kill? I was not present at the curée.” She gently withdrew her hand from the King’s grasp.
“I did not hunt yesterday; I was ill,” replied Louis. “I am ill, very ill.”
This allusion to his health instantly changed the current of his thoughts, for Louis was a complete valetudinarian. He became suddenly moody, and sank heavily into a seat placed behind a curtain, the thick folds of which concealed both him and the maid of honour.
“I am harassed, sick to death of everything. I should die but for you. I can open my heart to you.” And then suddenly becoming conscious that Mademoiselle de Hautefort still stood before him, he drew a chair close to his side, on which he desired her to seat herself.
Mademoiselle de Hautefort, knowing well that the King would now go on talking to her for a long time, assumed an attitude of pleased attention. Louis looked pale and haggard. His sallow cheeks were shrunk, his large eyes hollow. As he spoke a hectic flush went and came upon his face.
“Will you not let me take your hand, mademoiselle?” said he, timidly. “I feel I could talk much better if I did, and I have much to say to you.”
She reluctantly placed her hand in his. The King sighed deeply.
“What is the matter, Sire?”
“Ah, that is the question! I long to tell you. I sigh because I am weary of my life. My mother, who still calls herself Regent, and pretends to govern the kingdom, quarrels perpetually with Richelieu. The council is distracted by her violence and ill-temper; affairs of state are neglected. She reproaches Richelieu publicly for his ingratitude, as she calls it, because he will not support her authority rather than the good of the kingdom. The Duc d’Epernon supports her. He is as imperious as she is. Her ambition embitters my life, as it embittered that of my great father.”
“Oh, Sire, remember that the Queen-dowager of France is your mother. Besides, Richelieu owes everything to her favour. Had it not been for her he would have remained an obscure bishop at Luçon all his life. She placed him at Court.”
“Yes, and he shall stay there. Par Dieu! he shall stay there. If any one goes it shall be my mother. I feel I myself have no capacity for governing; I shrink from the tremendous responsibility; but I am better able to undertake it than the Queen-mother. Her love of power is so excessive she would sacrifice me and every one else to keep it—she and the Duc d’Epernon,” he added, bitterly. “Richelieu is an able minister. He is ambitious, I know, but I am safe in his hands. He can carry out no measures of reform, he cannot maintain the dignity of the Crown, if he is for ever interfered with by a fractious woman,—vain, capricious, incompetent.”
“Oh, Sire!” and Mademoiselle de Hautefort held up her hands to stop him.
“It is true, madame. Did not the Queen-mother and her creatures, the Concini and the Duc d’Epernon, all but plunge France into civil war during her regency? She was nigh being deposed, and I with her. What a life I led until De Luynes rescued me! He presumed upon my favour, le fripon, and brought boat-loads of Gascon cousins to Court from Guienne. I never knew a man have so many cousins! They came in shoals, and never one of them with a silken cloak to his back—a beggarly lot!”
“But, Sire,” said Mademoiselle de Hautefort, sitting upright in her chair, and trying to fix the King’s wandering mind, “why do you need either her Majesty the Queen-mother or the Cardinal de Richelieu? Depend on no one. Govern for yourself, Sire.”
“Impossible, impossible. I am too weak. I have no capacity. I have none of my great father’s genius.” And the King lifted his feathered hat reverently from his head each time he named his father. “Richelieu rules for me. He has intellect. He will maintain the honour of France. The nation is safe in his hands. As for me, I am tyrannised over by my mother, laughed at by my Spanish wife, and betrayed by my own brother. I am not fit to reign. Every one despises me—except you.” And the King turned with an appealing look towards Mademoiselle de Hautefort. “You, I hope, at least, understand me. You do me justice.”
There was a melting expression in the King’s eyes which she had never seen before. It alarmed her. She felt that her only excuse for the treacherous part she was acting was in the perfect innocence of their relations. A visible tremor passed over her. She blushed violently, a look of pain came into her face, and her eyes fell before his gaze.
“You do not speak? Have I offended you?” cried Louis, much excited. “What have I said? Oh, mademoiselle, do not lose your sympathy for me, else I shall die! I know I am unworthy of your notice; but—see how I trust you. The hours I spend in your society give me the only happiness I enjoy. Pity, pity the King of France, who craves your help, who implores your sympathy!”
Mademoiselle de Hautefort, speaking in her usual quiet manner, entreated him to be calm.
“Am I forgiven?” said he in a faltering voice, looking the picture of despair. “Will you still trust me?”
“Yes, yes, Sire. I am ashamed to answer such a question. Your Majesty has given me no offence.”
Louis reseated himself.
“It is to prepare you for an unexpected event that I wish to talk to you. It is possible that I may shortly leave Compiègne suddenly and secretly. I must tear myself away from you for a while.”
“Leave the Court, Sire! What do you mean?”
“The quarrels between my mother and Richelieu are more than I can endure. They must end. One must go—I will not say which. You can guess. I am assured by Richelieu, who has information from all parts of France, that her Majesty is hated by the people. She is suspected of a knowledge of my great father’s death; she has abused her position. No one feels any interest in her fate.”
“But, surely, your Majesty feels no pleasure in knowing that it is so, even if it be true, which I much doubt.”
“Well, her Majesty has deserved little favour of me,” replied he with indifference. “Richelieu tells me that her exile would be a popular act——”
“Her exile, Sire! You surely do not contemplate the exile of your own mother?”
“Possibly not—possibly not; but a sovereign must be advised by his ministers. It is indispensable to the prosperity of the State.”
Mademoiselle de Hautefort was silent, but something of the contempt she felt might have been seen in her expressive eyes.
“I do not feel disposed,” continued he, “to face the anger of the Queen-mother when she hears my determination. She would use violent language to me that might make me forget I am her son. Richelieu must break it to her. He can do it while I am away. Agitation injures my health, it deranges my digestion. I have enough to bear from my wife, from whom it is not so easy to escape——”
Again he stopped abruptly, as if he were about to say more than he intended.
Mademoiselle de Hautefort, ever on the lookout for all that concerned her mistress the Queen, glanced at him with sullen curiosity. Her eyes read his thoughts.
“Your Majesty is concealing something from me?” she said.
“Well, yes,”—and he hesitated—“it is a subject too delicate to mention.”
“Have you, then, withdrawn your confidence from me, Sire?” asked she, affecting the deepest concern.
“No, no—never. I tell you everything—yet, I blush to allude to such a subject.”
“What subject, Sire? Does it concern her Majesty?”
“By heaven it does!” cried the King, with unwonted excitement, a look of rage on his face. “It is said—” and he stopped, and looked round suspiciously, and became crimson. “Not here—not here,” he muttered, rising. “I cannot speak of it here. It is too public. Come with me into this closet.”
Mademoiselle de Hautefort, foreboding some misfortune to the Queen, followed him, trembling in every limb, into a small retiring-closet opening from the gallery where they had been seated. He drew her close to the window, glanced cautiously around, and placed his hand on her arm.
“It is said,”—he spoke in a low voice—“it is said—and appearances confirm it—that”—and he stooped, and whispered some words in Mademoiselle de Hautefort’s ear, who started back with horror. “If it be so,” he added coolly, “I shall crave a dispensation from the Pope, and send the Queen back to Madrid.”
“For shame, Sire! you are deceived,” cried Mademoiselle de Hautefort, an expression of mingled disgust, anger, and terror on her face. She could hardly bring herself to act out the part imposed upon her for the Queen’s sake. She longed to overwhelm the unmanly Louis with her indignation; but she controlled her feelings. “On my honour, Sire,” said she firmly, “they do but converse as friends. For the truth of this I wager my life—my salvation.”
“Nothing of the kind,” insisted Louis doggedly. “It is your exalted virtue that blinds you to their wickedness. My mother, who hates me—even my mother pities me; she believes in the Queen’s guilt.”
“Sire,” broke in the maid of honor impetuously, her black eyes full of indignation, “I have already told you I will not hear my royal mistress slandered; this is a foul slander. To me she is as sacred as your Majesty, who are an anointed king.” Louis passed his hand over his brow, and mused in silence. “I beseech you, Sire, listen to me,” continued she, seeing his irresolution. “I speak the truth; before God I speak the truth!” Louis looked fixedly at her. Her vehemence impressed, if it did not convince him. “Your Majesty needs not the counsel of the Queen-mother in affairs of state; do not trust her, or any one else, in matters touching the honour of your consort.” And she raised her eyes, and looked boldly at him. “Promise me, Sire, to dismiss this foul tale from your mind.”
“All your words are precious, mademoiselle,” replied Louis evasively, and he caught her hand and kissed it with fervour.
Mademoiselle de Hautefort dared not press him further. She withdrew her hand. They were both silent, and stood opposite to each other. As Louis gazed into her eyes, still sparkling with indignation, his anger melted away.
“When I am gone, mademoiselle,” said he tenderly, “do not forget me. You are my only friend. I will watch over you, though absent. Here is a piece of gold, pure and unalloyed as are my feelings toward you,” and he disengaged from his neck a medallion delicately chased. “See, I have broken it. One half I will keep; the other shall rest in your bosom”; and he pressed it to his lips, and placed it in Mademoiselle de Hautefort’s hands. “As long as you hold that piece of gold without the other half, know that as the token is divided between us, so is my heart—the better half with you.”
Her conscience smote her as she received this pledge. Louis had such perfect faith in her integrity, she almost repented that her duty to the Queen forced her to deceive him.
“Your Majesty overwhelms me,” said she, making a deep reverence.
“The Court is full of intrigues,” continued Louis, “I have no wish to control my minister; but remember this—obey no order, defy all commands, that are delivered to you without that token.” The maid of honour bowed her head. A tear stole down her cheek; the King’s simplicity touched her in spite of herself. “Adieu, mademoiselle,” said he, “my best, my only friend. I humbly crave your pardon for aught I may have said or done to wound your delicacy. We will meet at Saint-Germain: then, perhaps, you will fear me less. We will meet at Saint-Germain.”
He hesitated, and approached dangerously near to the handsome maid of honour, whose confusion made her all the more attractive. As he approached, she retreated.
Suddenly the curtain was drawn aside, and a page entered the closet, and announced—
“The Queen-dowager, who demands instant admittance to her son, the King.”
Mademoiselle de Hautefort disappeared in an instant through a door concealed in the arras. The King, pale as death, put his hand to his heart, sank into a chair, and awaited the arrival of his mother.