answer. How does the Queen know a state secret, that I confided to you alone, that I even whispered in your ear?”
“Sire, I—I do not know,” falters the maid of honour.
“Swear to me, mademoiselle, that you have not betrayed me to the Queen; swear, and I will believe you. Pardieu! I will believe you even if it is not true!” Louis’s eyes shine with hidden fire; his slight frame quivers.
Mademoiselle de Hautefort, trembling for her mistress, with difficulty controls herself. “Your Majesty must judge me as you please,” she replies, struggling to speak with unconcern. “I call God to witness I have been faithful to my trust.”
“I would fain believe it,” replies the King, watching her in painful suspense; he seems to wait for some further justification, but not another syllable passes her lips. Still the King lingers; his looks are riveted upon her.
At this moment the music ceases. The maid of honour starts up, for the Queen has left the balcony. The King had vanished.
Anne of Austria, quitting those around her, advances alone to the spot where Mademoiselle de Hautefort had been talking with the King. “I am going at once to the Val de Grâce,” she whispers in great agitation.
“Indeed, Madame; so suddenly?”
“Yes, at once. I have just heard from the Chevalier de Jars that Chalais is arrested at Nantes. He accuses me and the Duchesse de Chevreuse of conspiring with him. Richelieu meditates some coup de main against me. I shall be safe at the Val de Grâce. You and the Duchess will accompany me. Here is a letter I have written in pencil to my brother; it is most important. I dare not carry it about me; take care to deliver it yourself to Laporte.”
The Queen drew from her pocket a letter, placed it in the maid of honour’s hand, and hastened back to rejoin the company. Mademoiselle was about to follow her, when Louis suddenly rose up before her, and barred her advance.
“Mademoiselle de Hautefort,” he said, “I have heard all. I was concealed behind that curtain. Give me that letter, written by my wife, I command you.”
“Never, Sire, never!” and Mademoiselle de Hautefort crushed the letter in her hand.
“How—dare you refuse me? Give it to me instantly!” and he tried to tear it from her grasp. She eluded him, retreated a few steps, and paused for a moment to think, then, as if a sudden inspiration had struck her, she opened the lace kerchief which covered her neck, thrust the letter into her bosom, and exclaimed:—
“Here it is, Sire; come and take it!”
With outstretched arms she stood before him; her cheeks aglow with blushes, her bosom wildly heaving. Wistfully he regarded her for a moment, then thrust out his hand to seize the letter, plainly visible beneath the gauzy covering. One glance from her flashing eye, and the King, crimson to the temples, drew back; irresistibly impelled, he advanced again and once more retreated, then with a look of baffled fury shouted, “Now I know you are a traitress!” and rushed from the gallery.
THE ancient Benedictine abbey of the Val Profond, near Bièvre le Châlet, three leagues from Paris, was founded by Robert, son of Hugh Capet. Soon after her arrival in France, Anne of Austria bought the ground upon which the then ruined abbey stood, moved the nuns to Paris, and placed them in a convent called the Val de Grâce,[25] under the Mont Parnasse, near the Luxembourg Gardens. To this convent of the Val de Grâce the Queen often resorted to seek in prayer and meditation (for she was eminently pious), consolation and repose. On these occasions she occupied a suite of rooms specially set apart for her use.
It is a bright morning, and the sunshine streams through the painted windows, and streaks the marble floor of the Queen’s oratory with chequered colours. To the east, under a lofty window, stands an altar, covered with a costly cloth, on which, in golden sconces, burn many votive candles. Anne of Austria is seated in a recess, on a carved chair of dark oak. She is dressed in black, her golden curls are gathered under a sober coif; she looks pale, and ill at ease; her eyes, dulled by want of sleep, are anxious and restless, but there is a resolution in her bearing that shows she is prepared to meet whatever calamity awaits her with the courage of her race. Mademoiselle de Hautefort sits on a low stool at her feet. She is weeping bitterly.
“Ah! Madame,” she sobs, “this is Richelieu’s revenge. It is all his doing. How could your Majesty listen to the advice of that wild Duchess, and affront him so cruelly at Saint-Germain? Alas! he will persecute you as long as he lives.”
“I cannot recall the past,” answers Anne sadly.
“Had you reposed confidence in me, Madame, this would never have happened. Madame de Chevreuse has sacrificed you to her love of intrigue.”
“My poor Chevreuse, she is no more to blame than I am. Where is the Duchess, mademoiselle?”
While the Queen speaks a sound of wheels entering the courtyard from the street of Saint-Jacques breaks the silence. A moment after Madame de Chevreuse rushes into the oratory, so hidden in a black hood and a long cloak that no one would have recognised her. She flings herself on her knees before the Queen, and grasps her hands.
“Ah, my dear mistress, you are saved!” she cries, breathlessly. Anne raises her and kisses her tenderly. “I am just come from the Bastille. I went there disguised as a priest. I have seen Chalais. The Cardinal interpreted what Chalais said—purposely, of course—into meaning an attempt upon the life of the King.”
“Great God!” exclaims Anne, turning her glistening eyes to heaven, “what wickedness!”
“The King has joined the Cardinal in a purpose to prosecute your Majesty for treason. His Majesty is furious. He declares that he will repudiate you, and send you back into Spain. He has commanded the Chancellor Séguier and the Archbishop of Paris to repair here to the convent of the Val de Grâce to search your private papers for proofs of your guilt and of your treasonable intrigues with Spain. They are close at hand. I feared lest they had already arrived before I could return and apprise your Majesty.”
“But what of Chalais?” cries Anne. “Why did you visit him in the Bastille?”
“To learn what had passed between him and the Cardinal. We must all tell the same story. Chalais confesses to me that, in the confusion of his arrest at Nantes, he did let fall some expressions connecting your Majesty, Monsieur, and myself with the plot against Richelieu, and that when questioned he avowed that he acted with your knowledge.”
“Ah, the coward!” cries Mademoiselle de Hautefort bitterly. “And you love him.”
“No, mademoiselle, Chalais is no coward. He is a noble gentleman, whose fortitude will yet save her Majesty. He has been betrayed by Louvigni, the traitor, out of jealousy. Do not interrupt me, mademoiselle,” continues the Duchess, seeing that Mademoiselle de Hautefort is again about to break forth into reproaches against Chalais. “No sooner had Chalais arrived at the Bastille than Richelieu visited him in his cell. He offered him his life if he would consent to inculpate your Majesty in the plot. Chalais refused, and declared that the plot of which you were informed by Monsieur the Duc d’Orléans, was directed against himself; and he told the Cardinal he might tear him in pieces with wild horses before he would say one word to your Majesty’s prejudice.”
“Generous Chalais!” exclaims the Queen, clasping her hands. “Can he not be saved?”
“No, Madame, my noble friend must die. He knows it, and places his life at your feet.”
Anne sobs violently.
“Horrible! Oh, that I should cost those who love me so dear! Proceed, Duchess.”
“The Cardinal had in the meantime, as soon as your Majesty left Saint-Germain, sent to force your drawers and cabinets for papers.” Anne rises to her feet, white with terror. “Never fear, Madame; I had thought of that. Laporte had destroyed everything by my order. Only one letter to your brother the King of Spain was found. It was written the day you left, and confided by you, Mademoiselle de Hautefort, to Laporte,” and the Duchess gives a spiteful glance at the maid of honour. “Before he despatched it, Laporte was seized and searched.”
“There was nothing in that letter derogatory to me as Queen of France,” says the Queen quickly. “I spoke of Richelieu’s insane passion for me, and described the scene at Saint-Germain, and I told him I was about to leave for the Val de Grâce; nothing more. The Cardinal will not show that letter.”
“Yes, Madame, God be praised! it is so. But it was absolutely necessary that I should tell Chalais that but one letter had been found, and that perfectly innocent, before he was examined by the Cardinal. I have told him. He knows he can save his Queen. He is content to die!” As the Duchess speaks, the sound of wheels again interrupts them. “Hark! The Chancellor and the Archbishop have arrived. Courage, your Majesty! All now depends on your presence of mind. Nothing will be found in this convent, and Laporte waits at the door without. He will suffer no one to enter.”
Anne flings herself into the arms of the Duchess.
“You have saved me!” she cries, and covers her with kisses.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
An hour has passed. Laporte knocks at the door, and enters. His looks betray the alarm he tries to conceal.
“The Chancellor, Madame, has arrived, in company with the Archbishop of Paris,” he says, addressing the Queen. “The Archbishop has commanded the Abbess, the venerable Louise de Milli, and all the sisterhood, who went out to meet him, to return each one within her cell, and not to exchange a single word together during the time he remains in the convent, under pain of excommunication.” The Queen and the Duchess exchange anxious glances. Laporte speaks again with much hesitation, “I regret to say that the Chancellor then proceeded to search all the cells. No papers were found.” The Duchess clasps her hands with exultation. “How can I go on?” Laporte groans, the tears coming into his eyes. “Forgive me, Madame; I cannot help it.” The Queen makes an impatient gesture, and Laporte continues: “The Chancellor craves your Majesty’s pardon, but desires me to tell you that he bears a royal warrant, which he must obey, to search your private apartment, and this oratory also.”
“Let him have every facility, my good Laporte,” answers the Queen collectedly. “Mademoiselle de Hautefort, deliver up all my keys to Laporte.”
“The Chancellor and the Archbishop desire to speak also to the lady-in-waiting on your Majesty, the Duchesse de Chevreuse,” Laporte adds.
“What new misfortune is this?” cries Anne of Austria, turning very pale. “Go, dear Duchess; all is not yet over, I fear.”
Madame de Chevreuse leaves the oratory with Laporte. The Queen casts herself on her knees before the sacred relics exposed on the altar. She hides her face in her hands.
It is not long before the Duchess returns. Her triumphant air has vanished. She tries to appear unconcerned, but cannot. Anne rises from her knees, and looks at her in silence.
“Speak, Madame de Chevreuse; I can bear it,” she says meekly.
“Alas! my dear mistress, Richelieu’s vengeance is not yet complete. The Chancellor has announced to me that a Council of State is about to assemble in the refectory of the convent. You are summoned to appear, to answer personally certain matters laid to your charge.”
Mademoiselle de Hautefort utters a loud scream. The Queen, her eyes riveted on the Duchess, neither moves nor speaks for some moments.
“You have more to say. Speak, Duchess,” she says at last in a low voice.
“Nothing whatever has been found—no line, no paper. I took care of that,” and the Duchess smiles faintly.
“You have not yet told me all. I must hear it. Conceal nothing,” again insists the Queen.
“Alas! it is indeed as you say. The Chancellor”—and her voice falls almost to a whisper—“has express orders under the King’s hand to search your Majesty’s person.”
“Search an anointed Queen!” exclaims Anne of Austria. “Never!” and she stretches out her arms wildly towards the altar. “Holy Virgin, help me!” she cries.
At this moment the sound of many footsteps is heard without in the stone passage, approaching the door. Anne of Austria has risen; she stands in the centre of the oratory; an unwonted fire glows in her eyes, a look of unmistakable command spreads itself over her whole person. Never had she looked more royal than in this moment of extreme humiliation. The Duchess rushes to the door and draws the ponderous bolts. “Now let them come,” cries she, “if they dare!” They all listen in breathless silence. The voice of Laporte, who has returned to his post outside the door, is heard in low but angry altercation. Then he is heard to say, in a loud voice—
“No one can be admitted to her Majesty, save only the King, without her permission.”
“We command you in the name of the law. Stand aside!” is the reply.
Then another voice speaks:—
“We are the bearers of an order from the King and the Council of State to see her Majesty.” It is the Chancellor’s voice, and his words are distinctly audible within.
“I know of no order but from the Queen my mistress. Your Grace shall not pass. If you do, it shall be across my body,” Laporte is heard to reply.
“We enter our solemn protest against this breach of the law; but we decline to force her Majesty’s pleasure.” It was still the Chancellor who spoke. Then the sound of receding footsteps told that he was gone.
“Where will this end?” asks Anne in a hollow voice, sinking into a chair.
The Duchess and Mademoiselle de Hautefort fling their arms round her.
“Bear up, Madame, the worst is over. Be only firm; they can prove nothing,” whispers the Duchess. “There is not a tittle of evidence against you.”
“Ah, but, my friend, you forget that the King is eager to repudiate me. Mademoiselle de Hautefort knows it from his own lips.”
“He cannot, without proofs of your guilt,” the Duchess answers resolutely. “There are none. And if he does, qu’importe? Why mar that queenly brow with sorrow, and wrinkle those delicate cheeks with tears? Be like me, Madame, a citizen of the world—Madrid, Paris, London—what matters? The sun shines as brightly in other lands as here. Life and love are everywhere. You are young, beautiful, courageous. To see you is to love you. Swords will start from their scabbards to defend you. Your exile in your brother’s Court will be a triumph. You will rule all hearts; you will still be the sovereign of youth, of poetry, and of song!”
As she speaks the Duchess’s countenance beams with enthusiasm. Anne of Austria shakes her head sorrowfully, and is silent.
“You are happy, Duchess, in such volatile spirits,” says Mademoiselle de Hautefort contemptuously, her eyes all the while fixed on her royal mistress; “but I cannot look on the disgrace of the Queen of France as though it were the finale to a page’s roundelay.”
The sound of many heavy coaches thundering into the inner court of the convent puts a stop to further conversation.
“The council is assembling!” exclaims the Duchess.
At these words the Queen rises mechanically; her large eyes, dilated and widely open, are fixed on vacancy, as though the vision of some unspoken horror, some awful disaster, had risen before her. She knows it is the crisis of her life. From that chamber she may pass to banishment, prison, or death. For a moment her mind wanders. She looks round wildly. “Spare me! spare me!” she murmurs, and she wrings her hands. “Alas! I am too young to die!” Then collecting her scattered senses, she moves forward with measured steps. “I am ready,” she says, in a hollow voice. “Unbar the door.”
THE refectory of the convent of the Val de Grâce is a vast apartment, dimly lit by rows of small lancet windows placed along the side walls. These walls are bare, panelled with dark wood; great oaken rafters span the tented roof. At the eastern end hangs a large crucifix of silver. In the centre is a table, round which the three principal members of the council are assembled. Alone, at the head, is the King, uneasily seated on the corner of a huge chair. His whole body is shrunk and contracted, as though he were undergoing some agonising penance. He never raises his eyes; his pallid face works with nervous excitement. His hat is drawn over his brow; his hands are clasped upon his knees. That he had come in haste is apparent, for he wears his usual dark hunting-dress.
At his right hand is the Cardinal, wearing a long tightly fitting soutane of purple silk, with a cloak of the same colour. His countenance is perfectly impassive, save that when he moves, and the light from above strikes upon his dark eyes, they glitter. In his delicate hands he holds some papers, to which he refers from time to time: others lie on the table near him. Opposite the Cardinal are the Archbishop of Paris and the Chancellor Séguier. At the farther end of the council-table, facing the King, Anne of Austria is seated. The colour comes and goes upon her downy cheeks; but otherwise no sovereign throned in fabled state is more queenly than this golden-haired daughter of the Cæsars.
The Cardinal turns towards her, but, before addressing her, his eyes are gathered fixedly upon her. Then, in a placid voice, he speaks—
“Your Majesty has been summoned by the King here present to answer certain matters laid to your charge.”
Anne of Austria rises and makes an obeisance, looking towards the King, then reseats herself.
“I am here to answer whatever questions his Majesty sees good to put to me,” she replies, in a clear, firm voice.
“His Majesty, Madame, speaks through my voice,” answers Richelieu, significantly, observing her pointed reference to the King’s presence; “I am here as his alter ego. It is said,” he continues, in the same impassive manner in which he had at first addressed her, “that you, Madame Anne of Austria, consort of the King, hold a treasonable correspondence in cipher with your brother, Philip, King of Spain, now waging war against this realm of France, and that therein you betray to him secrets of state to the manifest hurt and danger of the King’s armies, by affording treacherous foreknowledge of their movements and of the measures of his Government. What answer does your Majesty make to so grave a charge?”
“If it be so, let these letters be produced,” answers the Queen boldly. “I declare that beyond the natural love I bear my brother and his consort, Elizabeth of France, sister to the King,—which love surely is no crime,—I have never, by word or deed, betrayed aught that I might know to the prejudice of the King, my husband, or of this great country of which I am the Queen.”
“Why, then, Madame, if these letters were harmless did you write in a cipher unknown to the King’s ministers?” asks the Cardinal, bending his piercing eyes keenly upon her.
“Because,” replies the Queen, “I knew that spies were set, by the King’s order, at your instance,” and she points to the Cardinal, “to waylay these letters, the writing of which has been to me, next to God, my greatest comfort in much sorrow and persecution which I have suffered wrongfully since I came into France.”
“Madame,” continues Richelieu, speaking with the same unmoved voice and manner, “do you know Henry de Talleyrand, Comte de Chalais, Master of the Robes to his Majesty, and once esteemed by him as his faithful subject?”
“I do know him,” answers the Queen.
“Do you know also that this gentleman, the Comte de Chalais, has been lately arrested at Nantes, and is now lying in the prison of the Bastille, accused of having treacherously conspired against the sacred person of his Majesty, with the design of placing on the throne, at his death, Monseigneur, Duc d’Orléans—brother of the King; and that the Comte de Chalais avers and declares, before witnesses, that he acted by your order and by your counsel? What answer have you to make to this, Madame?”
“That it is false, and unsupported by any evidence whatever, and that you, Cardinal Richelieu, know that it is false.” Then Anne of Austria raises her hands towards the crucifix hanging before her—“By the blessed wounds of our Lord Jesus, I swear that I never knew that the life of the King, my husband, was threatened; if it were so, it was concealed from me.” A stifled groan is heard from the King. Both the Chancellor and the Archbishop appear greatly impressed by the Queen’s solemn declaration, and whisper together. Richelieu alone is unmoved.
Then the Queen rises, and for the first time, turns her large eyes full upon the Cardinal, over whose frame a momentary tremor passes. “It was of another plot that the Comte de Chalais spoke; and of another assassination, not that of the King. His Majesty himself—if I mistake not—knew and did not disapprove of this other project, and of removing him whom I mean. Nevertheless I shrank from the proposal with horror; I expressly forbade all bloodshed, although it would have removed a deadly enemy from my path.” And the Queen, while she speaks, fixes her undaunted gaze full on the Cardinal, who casts down his eyes on the papers he holds in his hands. “Let his Majesty confront me with Chalais; he will confirm the truth of what I say.” Anne of Austria stops to watch the effect of her words. Something like a groan again escapes from the King; he pulls at his beard, and moves uneasily in his chair, as the Cardinal’s lynx eyes are directed, for an instant, towards him with a malignant glare. The Cardinal stoops to consult some documents that lie upon the table, and for a few moments not a word was uttered. Then resuming his former placid voice and manner, Richelieu faces the Queen, and proceeds:—
“Further, Madame, it is averred, and it is believed by his Majesty, that you, forgetting the duty of a wife, and the loyalty of a Queen, have exchanged love-tokens with the said prince of the blood, Gaston, Duc d’Orléans, now for his manifest treason fled into Spain,”—at these words, to which she listens with evident horror, Anne clasps her hands;—“further, that you, Madame, and your lady of the bedchamber, Marie de Lorraine, Duchesse de Chevreuse, did conspire, with Chalais and others, for this unholy purpose.”
Anne’s face is suffused with a deep blush of shame while the Cardinal speaks; for a moment her courage seems to fail her—then, collecting herself, she stretches out her arms towards the King, and says solemnly, “I call on his Majesty, Louis—surnamed the Just—my husband, to confront me with my accusers: I am innocent of this foul charge.”
At this appeal the King half rises, as if with an intention to speak, then sinks back again into his chair. His features twitch convulsively; he never raises his eyes.
“Is that all you have to reply to the wicked and murderous project said to be entertained by you of wedding, from inclination, with the King’s brother, at his death, if by feeble health, or any other accident, his Majesty had been removed?” and the Cardinal bends his glassy eyes earnestly upon the Queen.
“I reply that I should have gained nothing by the change. The Duc d’Orléans is as fickle and unworthy as his Majesty, who sits by unmoved, and hears his consort slandered by her enemies.” Anne’s eyes flash fire; her indignation had carried her beyond fear; she stands before the council more like a judge than a criminal. “Have a care, Armand de Plessis, Cardinal Minister and tyrant of France, that you question me not too closely,” the Queen adds in a lower voice, addressing herself directly to Richelieu. As she speaks she puts her hand to her bosom, and discloses, between the folds of her dark velvet robe a portion of a letter, bound with purple cord, which Richelieu instantly recognises as the identical one he had addressed to her at Saint-Germain, asking for a private audience. The Cardinal visibly shudders; his whole expression changes; his impassive look is turned to one of anxiety and doubt; he passes his hands over his forehead, as if to shade his eyes from the light, but in reality to give his fertile brain a few moments’ time in which to devise some escape from the danger that threatens him should the Queen produce that letter before the council. So rapid has been the Queen’s action that no one else has perceived it. Something peculiar, however, in the tone of her voice attracts the notice of the King, who, rousing himself from the painful abstraction into which he has fallen, gazes round for the first time, and bends his lustreless grey eyes suspiciously on the Cardinal, and from him on the Queen; then shaking his head doubtfully, he again resumes his former weary attitude. Meanwhile the Queen, imagining that she perceives some compassion in that momentary glance, rises and advances close to the edge of the council-table. Grief, anger, and reproach are in her looks. With a haughty gesture she signs to the Cardinal to be silent, clasps her small hands so tightly that the nails redden her tender skin, and, in a plaintive voice, addresses herself directly to the King. “Oh, Sire, is not your heart moved with pity to behold a great princess, such as I, your wife, and who might have been the mother of your children, stand before you here like a criminal, to suffer the scorn and malice of her enemies?”—she is so overcome that her voice falters, and she hastily brushes the starting tears from her eyes. “I know,” she continues, with her appealing eyes resting on the King, “I know that you are weary of me, and that your purpose is, if possible, to repudiate me and send me back into Spain; you have confessed as much to one of my maids of honour, who, shocked at the proposal, repeated it to me. I appeal to yourself, Sire, if this be not true?” and laying one hand on the table she leans forward towards Louis, waiting for his reply; but, although he does not answer her appeal, he whispers a few words into the ear of the Archbishop, standing next to him, who bows. Then he falls back on his chair, as if weary and exhausted by a hopeless struggle. “My lords, the King cannot deny it,” says Anne of Austria triumphantly, addressing the council; “My lords, I have never, since I came into France, a girl of fifteen, been permitted to occupy my legitimate place in his Majesty’s affections. The Queen-dowager, Marie de’ Medici, poisoned his mind against me; and now Cardinal Richelieu, her creature,”—and Anne casts a look of ineffable disdain at Richelieu—“continues the same policy, because he dreads my influence, and desires wholly to possess himself of the King’s confidence, the better to rule him and France.”
The Queen’s bold words had greatly impressed the council in her favour. The Archbishop and the Chancellor consult anxiously together. At length the Archbishop of Paris interposes.
“Her Majesty the Queen appears to have explained most satisfactorily all the accusations made against her. I was myself present at the examination of her private apartments within this convent of the Val de Grâce. Nothing was found but proofs of her pious sentiments and devout exercises, such as scourges, girdles spiked with iron to mortify the flesh, books of devotion and missals. It is to be desired that all royal ladies could disarm suspicion like her Majesty. If, therefore, the evidence which the Cardinal holds be in accordance with her Majesty’s declarations, all the charges may be withdrawn, and her Majesty be returned to those royal dignities and honours which she so fitly adorns. Speak, Cardinal Richelieu, do you hold counter evidence—yea, or nay?”
The Cardinal does not at once answer. He shuffles some papers in his hands, then turns towards the King, and whispers in his ear. Louis makes an impatient gesture of assent, and resumes his despondent attitude.
“I have his Majesty’s commands for replying,” answers Richelieu, “that no letters implicating the Queen in treasonable correspondence with her brother have been at present actually found, although his Majesty has reason to believe that such exist. Also that the Count de Chalais’s statements are in accord with those of her Majesty. Also that the King acquits Madame Anne, his consort, of the purpose of marrying with his brother, Monsieur Duc d’Orléans, on whom alone must rest the onus of such a crime. Usher of the court, summon the Queen’s ladies-in-waiting to attend her. Your Majesty is free,” adds Richelieu, and the mocking tone of his voice betrays involuntarily something of the inward rage he labours to conceal. “Madame Anne of Austria, you are no longer a prisoner of state under examination by the council, but are, as before, in full possession of the privileges, powers, immunities, and revenues belonging to the Queen Consort of France.”
Anne of Austria leaves her chair, salutes his Majesty with a profound obeisance, of which Louis takes no other notice than to turn his eyes to the ceiling, and then advances towards the door. The Chancellor and the Archbishop rise at the same time from the council-table, and hasten to open the door by which she is to pass out, bowing humbly before her.
“The royal carriages are in waiting, Madame,” whispered the Duchesse de Chevreuse, who, with Mademoiselle de Hautefort, was waiting outside; and she wrung the Queen’s hand. “My dear, dear mistress, I know you are free!”
“Praised be God!” replied Anne, “I have escaped,” and she kissed her on both cheeks, as also her maid of honour, who was so overcome she could not say one word of congratulation.
“Come, Madame,” cried the Duchesse de Chevreuse, “let us leave this dreadful place, I beseech you, lest the Cardinal should concoct some fresh plot to detain you.”
“Duchess,” replied Anne gaily, “you shall command me. It is to you I owe my liberty. But for your forethought those unhappy letters, wrung from me in moments of anguish—ah! of despair, would have been found, and I should at this moment have been on my way to the Bastille. My good Hautefort, you have not spoken to me. You look sad. What is it?” and the Queen took her hand.
“It is because I have contributed nothing towards your Majesty’s freedom. Besides, a foreboding of coming evil overpowers me,” and she burst into tears.
She again kissed her, and led her by the hand towards the cumbrous coach which was to bear her to Paris. As Anne was preparing to mount into it, assisted by her page and Laporte, who had reappeared, the Chevalier de Jars approached hastily, and bowed before her.
“How now, Chevalier! any more ill news? What is your business here?” asked Anne.
“It is with this lady,” said he, turning to the maid of honour. “Mademoiselle de Hautefort, you cannot accompany her Majesty to Paris.”
“Why, Chevalier?” demanded Anne impatiently, still holding her hand.
“Because I am commanded to make known to you that Mademoiselle de Hautefort is exiled from France during his Majesty’s pleasure. I am charged, mademoiselle, to show you this token,” and he produced the other half of the golden medallion which Louis had broken during their interview at Fontainebleau. “The King bid me say that by this token he himself commands your instant departure.”
The Queen clasped her in her arms.
“My poor Hautefort, is it indeed so? Must I lose my trusty friend?”
Mademoiselle de Hautefort threw herself, weeping bitterly, at the Queen’s feet.
“Alas! Madame,” sobbed she, “I am banished because I have been faithful to you!”
“Have you got another order—for my arrest, par exemple, Chevalier?” asked the Duchess archly. “I have also committed the awful crime of faithfulness to her Majesty. I suppose I shall go next.”
The Chevalier shook his head.
“No, madame. You will accompany the Queen to the Louvre.”
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
The Duchesse de Chevreuse did accompany the Queen to the Louvre; but, on arriving there, she found a lettre de cachet banishing her from France within twenty-four hours. A similar order was also served on the Chevalier de Jars.
The Queen was free, but her friends were exiled.
LOUISE DE LAFAYETTE—the only child of Comte Jean de Lafayette, of Hauteville, and of Margaret de Boulon-Busset, his wife—was the young lady selected to fill the vacant post of maid of honour to the Queen, vice De Hautefort, banished.
So long a time had elapsed since the departure of the latter that it seemed as though Anne of Austria never intended to replace her; however, the new mistress of the robes, the Duchesse de Sennécy, a distant relative of Mademoiselle de Lafayette, urged the Queen so strongly in her favour, that the appointment was at last announced.
Louise de Lafayette had passed many years of her girlhood in a convent, and was somewhat dévote, but she was sincere in her piety, and good-natured to excess. Not only was she good-natured, but she was so entirely devoid of malice that it actually pained her to be made acquainted with the faults of others. Perhaps her chief characteristic was an exaggerated sensibility, almost amounting to delusion. She created an ideal world around her, and peopled it with creatures of her own imagination, rather than the men and women of flesh and blood among whom she lived—a defect of youth which age and experience would rectify. She possessed that gift, so rare in women, of charming involuntarily—without effort or self-consciousness. When most attractive and most admired, she alone was unconscious of it; envy itself was disarmed by her ingenuous humility.
Louise was twenty-three years old when she was presented to the Queen at Fontainebleau by the Principessa di Mantua, during her morning reception. The saloon was filled with company, and great curiosity was felt to see the successor of Mademoiselle de Hautefort. The most critical observers were satisfied. The new maid of honour, though modest and a little abashed, comported herself with perfect self-possession. She was superbly dressed, had a tall and supple figure, good features, and a complexion so exquisitely fair and fresh, and such an abundance of sunny hair, as to remind many in the circle of her Majesty when, in the dazzling beauty of her fifteenth year, she came a bride into France. But Anne of Austria never had those large appealing grey eyes, beaming with all the confidence of a guileless heart, nor that air of maiden reserve which lent an unconscious charm to every movement, nor that calm and placid brow, unruffled by so much as an angry thought.
Why had not Mademoiselle de Lafayette married? was the general question which passed round the circle.
“Because she has found no one worthy of her,” was the reply of her friend and cousin, the Duchesse de Sennécy.
After the new maid of honour had made her curtsey to the Queen, who received her very graciously, the King (who had as usual placed himself almost out of sight, near the door, in order to ensure a safe retreat if needful) emerged, and timidly addressed her.
Since the scene at the monastery of the Val de Grâce, and the discovery of Mademoiselle de Hautefort’s treachery, Louis had never once appeared at the Queen’s lever until this morning. At the few words of compliment he found courage to say to her, Louise blushed and curtsied, but made no reply.
The next day the King was again present at her Majesty’s lever. He did not speak, but his eyes never for an instant left the new maid of honour.
The Court was at this time greatly agitated by political events. The Spaniards were making the most alarming progress in France; they had penetrated in the north as far as Corbie, in Picardy; in the south they were overrunning Provence. Troops and money were both wanting. The position of the ministry was so critical that even Richelieu was at fault. Louis, roused from his habitual apathy, suddenly remembered that he was the son of a great warrior, and electrified the Council of State by announcing that he intended at once to take the field in person. A resolve so contrary to his usual habits excited great discussion and general interest.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
The Saloon of Saint-Louis, at Fontainebleau, opens from the royal guard-room. It is a noble apartment, divided into a card-room and a with-drawing, or, as we say, drawing-room. The decorations are the same as those in the Gallery of Francis I.; the walls, painted in fresco after designs by Primaticcio, are divided by sculptured figures, in high relief, entwined by wreaths of flowers, fruit, and foliage. The ceiling is blue, sown with golden stars. Lights blaze from the chandeliers disposed on marble tables and in the corners of the room, and display the artistic beauty of the various paintings and frescoes that cover the walls.
The Queen is playing cards with the Bishop of Limoges. The Court groups itself about the double rooms, and at the other card-tables. Near the Queen are her favourites of the hour, the Principesse di Gonzaga and di Mantua; the Duchesse de Sennécy is in attendance. The King is seated on a settee in the darkest and most distant corner. Anne dares not now treat him either with impertinence or hauteur. If she cannot bring herself actually to fear him, she knows that he is capable of revenge. She has learnt, however, both to fear and to dread his minister, Richelieu, under whose insolent dominion Louis’s life is passed. Madame de Chevreuse is no longer at hand to tempt her into rebellion, and she has learnt to submit quietly, if not contentedly, to her lot. She has perceived the impression made upon the King by her new maid of honour, and looks on amused and indifferent. Of the absolute goodness and perfect rectitude of Louise de Lafayette, no one, and certainly not the Queen, could entertain a doubt.
As she pushes the cards towards the Bishop of Limoges to deal for her, which he does after making her a low bow, she turns round, the better to observe his Majesty. He has moved from the settee, and is now seated in earnest conversation with Mademoiselle de Lafayette. A sneer gathers about the corners of her rosy mouth, and her eyes dwell upon him for an instant with an expression of intense contempt; then she shrugs her snowy shoulders, leans back in her chair, takes up the cards that lie before her, and rapidly sorts them. The conversation between Louis and Mademoiselle de Lafayette is low and earnest. His naturally dismal face expresses more lively interest, and his lack-lustre eyes are more animated than they have been for years. As to the maid of honour, she listens to him with every faculty of her being, and hangs upon his words as though, to her at least, they are inspired.
“The condition of France,” the King is saying, “overwhelms me. Would that I could offer up my life for my beloved country! Would that I possessed my great father’s military genius to defend her! I go, perhaps never to return! Alas! no one will miss me,” and he heaves a heavy sigh, and the tears gather in his eyes.
The maid of honour longs to tell him all the interest she feels for him, her genuine admiration, her devotion, her pity for his desolate condition; but she is new to court life, and, like himself, she is too timid as yet to put her feelings into words. She sits beside him motionless as a statue, not daring even to lift up her eyes, lest they may betray her.
“Happy, ah! happy beyond words is the man who feels he is beloved, who feels that he is missed!”—here Louis stops, casts a reproachful glance at the Queen, whose back was towards him, then a shy, furtive look at Mademoiselle de Lafayette, whose heightened colour and quickened breathing betrays the intensity of her feelings: “such a one,” continues the King, “has a motive for desiring fame; he can afford to risk his life in the front of the battle. Were I”—and his voice sinks almost into a whisper—“were I dear to any one, which I know I am not, I should seek to live in history, like my father. As it is,” and he sighs, “I know that I possess no quality that kindles sympathy. I am betrayed by those whom I most trust, and hated and despised by those who are bound by nature and by law to love and honour me. My death would be a boon to some,”—again his eyes seek out the Queen—“and a blessing to myself. I am a blighted and a miserable man. Sometimes I ask myself why I should live at all?” It was not possible for the human countenance to express more absolute despair than does the King’s face at this moment.
“Oh, Sire!” was all Mademoiselle de Lafayette dare trust herself to reply; indeed, she is so choked by rising sobs that it is not possible for her to say more.
The King is conscious that her voice trembles; he notices also that her bosom heaves, and that she has suddenly grown very pale. Her silence, then, was not from lack of interest. Louis feels infinitely gratified by the discovery of this mute sympathy. All that was surpressed and unspoken had a subtle charm to his morbid nature. After a few moments of silence, Louis, fearful lest the Queen’s keen eyes should be turned upon them, rises. “I deeply deplore, mademoiselle, that this conversation must now end. Let me hope that it may be again resumed before my departure for the army.” Louise does not reply, but one speaking glance tells him he will not be refused.
At supper, and when she attends the Queen in her private apartments, she is so absent that her friend, Madame de Sennécy, reprimands her sharply.
The next morning the Duchess went to her young cousin’s room. Madame de Sennécy had a very decided taste for intrigue, and would willingly have replaced the Duchesse de Chevreuse in the confidence of Anne of Austria, but she wanted her predecessor’s daring wit, her adroitness, witcheries, and beauty; above all, she lacked that generous devotion to her mistress, which turned her life into a romance. Now Madame de Sennécy thought she saw a chance of advancing her interests by means of her cousin’s growing favour with the King. She would gain her confidence, and by retailing her secrets excite the jealousy and secure the favour of the Queen.
“My dear child,” said she, kissing Louise on both cheeks, a bland smile upon her face, “will you excuse my early visit?” She seated herself opposite to Mademoiselle de Lafayette, the better to observe her. “Excuse the warmth with which I spoke to you last night in the Queen’s sleeping-room; but really, whatever attention the King may pay you, ma chère, you must not allow yourself to grow careless in her Majesty’s service. As mistress of the robes, I cannot permit it. All the world, my dear cousin, sees he is in love with you”—Louise blushed to the roots of her hair, shook her head, and looked confused and unhappy—“of course he loves you in his fashion. I mean,” added Madame de Sennécy quickly, seeing her distress, and not giving her time to remonstrate, “a perfectly Platonic love, nothing improper, of course. He loves you timidly, modestly, even in his most secret thoughts. I am told by his attendants that the King shows every sign of a great passion, much more intense than he ever felt for Mademoiselle de Hautefort, who, after all, trifled with him, and never was sincere.”
“I do not know the King well enough, Duchess, to venture an opinion on his character,” replied Mademoiselle de Lafayette, with diffidence, “but I may say that if I had any prepossessions against his Majesty, I have lost them; I am sure he is capable of the tenderest friendship; he longs to open his heart to a real friend. His confidence has been hitherto abused.”
“My dear child, I have come here to advise you to be—well—that friend.”
“Oh! madame, I fear I am too inexperienced to be of use to him; but if the King does ask my advice, which seems very presumptuous in me to suppose, I shall conceal nothing that I think, neither facts nor opinions.”
“Ah, my cousin, try to rouse him; make him reign for himself; tell him to shake off that dreadful Cardinal.”
“That is, I fear, impossible; I am too ignorant of politics. Besides, what can I do now? he is going away to the war.”
“Well, but, petite sotte, he will return, and you will meet again.”
“Oh, no,” replied Louise, again colouring under the scrutinising eye of the mistress of the robes, “he will forget me long before that.”
“Nothing of the kind, Louise,” replied the Duchess, “the King never forgets anything.”
“Dear Duchess, you really are talking nonsense. What on earth could make the King care for me?” and she sighed deeply, and fell into a muse. “I do pity him, though,” she added, speaking with great feeling; “I pity him, I own. He is naturally good—brave—confiding,” and she paused between each word.
“I am glad you find him so,” answered the Duchess drily.
“Yet he ill fulfils his glorious mission,” continued Louise, as if speaking to herself. “He is conscious of it, and it pains him. I am sure he suffers acutely.”
“Heal his wounds, then,” said the Duchess, with a cynical smile, but speaking in so low a voice that Mademoiselle de Lafayette did not catch the words.
“Ah! if he had but one true friend, he might emulate his great father! Did you hear, Duchess, with what firmness he addressed the deputies yesterday, who had refused to register the royal edicts for raising the necessary funds for the army? ‘This money,’ he said, ‘is not for myself, but for the nation, and to maintain the national honour. Those who refuse it, injure France more than her enemies, the Spaniards. I will be obeyed,’ he said. There was energy! Oh, it was noble!” and her eyes glistened and cheeks glowed.
“I suppose the Cardinal had composed this neat little speech for him beforehand,” replied the Duchess with a sneer, contemplating her cousin with amused inquisitiveness. “You do not believe he ever spoke like that himself? You do not know him as well as I do, else you would not be so enthusiastic. However, it is all as it should be. I do not desire to disenchant you, I am sure. Au revoir,” and the Duchess left the room.
The next morning, before his departure for the campaign, Louis went to bid the Queen farewell. It was only a formal visit, and he stayed scarcely a minute. The Queen did not affect to care what might become of him. On leaving her audience-chamber he lingered in the anteroom in which her attendants were assembled. Mademoiselle de Lafayette was seated, with another maid, in a recess; she,—Mademoiselle de Guerchy,—seeing the King’s anxious looks, at once rose and retired. He immediately took her place, and signed to Louise to seat herself beside him. Separated from her companion, and sitting apart with Louis, Louise suddenly remembered that it was precisely thus the King had conversed tête-à-tête with Mademoiselle de Hautefort; she became greatly embarrassed.
“I come,” said the King, turning towards her, and speaking in a plaintive voice, “I come to bid you adieu.”
Louise bent her head, and put her handkerchief to her eyes. Louis started at seeing the big tears roll down her cheeks.
“I have enjoyed few moments of happiness in the course of my dreary life,” continued he, pressing her hand, “but this is one.”
He broke off, overcome apparently by his feelings. Louise wiped the tears from her eyes.
“Sire, believe me, I only feel the same emotion as thousands of your faithful subjects at a moment when you are about to lead the campaign against Spain. If you would condescend to inform yourself of general opinion you would find it as I say.”
“It may be, mademoiselle; but I only wish now to know your feelings. If you will indeed be to me the devoted friend I have so long sought in vain, my entire confidence shall be yours. I go to-morrow, but the most tender recollections will cling to me.” As he spoke he took her hand in his and kissed it with fervour. “Think of me, I implore you, with the same interest you now display. Believe me, my heart echoes all you feel. If I am spared, please God, your sympathy will be the consolation of my life.”
At this moment the Duchesse de Sennécy opened the door, in order to cross the anteroom. The King started up at the noise, and walked quickly towards another door opposite. The Duchess stopped; looked first at Mademoiselle de Lafayette seated alone, covered with blushes, then at the retreating figure of the King. She took in the whole situation at a glance. It was too tempting an opportunity to throw away. There was a favour she specially desired to ask. This was the very moment. In his present state of confusion the King, only to get rid of her, was sure to grant it. She rushed after him, and before Louis could reach the door, she had seized upon him and spoken.
When he had gone the Duchess ran up to Louise, who was now stitching at some embroidery to hide her blushes, and burst out laughing.
“You are merry, Duchess,” said the maid of honour, glad that anything should divert attention from herself.
“I am laughing, Louise, at the admirable presence of mind I have just shown. As you are only a débutante, I will explain what I mean for your special instruction. His Majesty does not exactly hate me, but something very like it. No love is lost between us. He dreads my making capital of all I see and hear to the Queen. He dreads my turning him into ridicule—which is so easy. Of all the persons about Court whom he would least have liked to have surprise him in the tender conversation he was holding with you, I am the one. He tried to reach the door. I saw my advantage, and pursued him. I knew he wanted to shake me off, so I seized the opportunity to ask a favour—of great importance to me. It is granted! Is not this clever? I am grateful, and will not repeat one word of this little adventure to her Majesty.”
Louise shook her head, and affected not to understand her. “You are altogether mistaken, Duchess. His Majesty simply honours me with such friendship as he might feel towards any loyal subject devoted to his interests. It is because the Court affects to despise him that I appear singular in estimating him at his true value; nothing else.”
“You are a prude,” exclaimed the Duchess, bluntly. “I hate affectation, especially of that kind.” Louise hung her head down, and played with some pearls with which the grey silk dress she wore was trimmed. “Besides, my little cousin, you must not sacrifice the interest of your friends, who have a right to look to you for favour and patronage.”
“Oh, Duchess, what a vile thought!” cried Louise; reddening. “Do you think I would make his Majesty’s friendship a matter of barter!”
“Oh, bah!” replied the Duchess, growing angry. “Louise, you are not so simple as you pretend. If you ask me the question, I reply, certainly your friends have a right to look to you—especially myself, who never let the Queen rest until she appointed you her maid of honour. She had almost made a vow never to fill up the place of her dear Mademoiselle de Hautefort.” Louise stared at the Duchess with a troubled look. Worldliness and meanness was a new and unpleasant experience—a fresh page in the history of the Court—that pained and revolted her.
“When the King returns,” continued Madame de Sennécy, not condescending to notice her disapprobation, “I shall expect you to give me all your confidence. You shall have excellent advice in return. If you follow it, in six months’ time you will revolutionise the Court, and banish Cardinal Richelieu. You will by that one act secure the King’s friendship and her Majesty’s favour. Eh, Louise? a brilliant position for a little provinciale like you! You must mind what you are about, or the Queen will grow jealous. I will take care, on the first opportunity, to assure her you are only acting in her interests.”
“Jealous of me! Impossible!” cried Louise. “Such a great Queen! so beautiful, so fascinating! Oh, Duchess, you are joking.”
“Nothing of the kind. I warn you not to imagine that there is any joking at Court, or you will find yourself mistaken. Now I shall leave you, Louise. Think over what I have said. Remember what you owe to those friends whose influence has placed you in your present high position.”
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
As soon as the Duchess left her, Mademoiselle de Lafayette hastened to her room, locked the door and sat down to reflect calmly upon all that had passed. She was disgusted with the coarse selfishness of the Duchess, whom she determined for the future to avoid. Then her heart melted within her as she recalled the King’s tender farewell. How eagerly his eyes had, sought hers! How melodious was his tremulous voice! How tenderly he had pressed her hand! He had spoken out: he wanted a friend; he had made choice of her; he had promised her all his confidence! Delicious thought!
No one had ever dreamed of attaching the slightest blame to his intimacy with Mademoiselle de Hautefort. It would be therefore absurd to reject his advances. She was safe, she felt, entirely safe in his high principles, his delicacy, and his honour. If she could only teach him to be as firm as he was winning, release him from the bondage of favourites, emancipate him from the tyranny of Richelieu, and deserve his gratitude—perhaps his affection! With what energy she would address him on his return, and remonstrate with him on his indolence, his indifference! With his courage, his powers of mind (in which she sincerely believed), his sensibility and gentleness, guided by her devoted far-seeing friendship, might he not equal his father as a sovereign—surpass him, perhaps, as much as he now does in morals, as a man? All these vague ideas floated through the brain of the simple-minded girl as she sat musing within the solitude of her chamber.
Note 1, p. 4
Francis I., born at Cognac, was the only son of Charles d’Orléans, Duc d’Angoulême. After the death of two sons, born to Louis XII. by his wife, Anne de Bretagne, he created his relative, Francis, Duc de Valois, married him to his daughter, Claude, and selected him as his successor to the throne.
Note 2, p. 20
Saint-Germain l’Auxerrois, one of the oldest churches in France, dedicated to St. Germain, Bishop of Paris, by Chilperic. Saint-Germain l’Auxerrois, Saint-Etienne du Mont, the Hôtel de Clugny, and the Hôtel de Sens, all dating from a very early period, still remain.
Note 3, p. 21