"Gentlemen," said the king, "the audience is over; I will communicate my answer, or rather my will, to Spain and to Holland;" and with a proud, imperious gesture, he dismissed the ambassadors.
"Take care, my son," said the queen-mother, indignantly, "take care; you are hardly master of yourself, I think."
"Ah, madame," returned the young lion, with a terrible gesture, "if I am not master of myself, I will be, I promise you, of those who do me outrage. Come with me, M. d'Artagnan, come." And he quitted the room in the midst of ageneral stupefaction and dismay. The king hastily descended the staircase, and was about to cross the courtyard.
"Sire," said D'Artagnan, "your majesty mistakes the way."
"No; I am going to the stables."
"That is useless, sire, for I have horses ready for your majesty."
The king's only answer was a look, but this look promised more than the ambition of three D'Artagnans could have dared to hope.
Although they had not been summoned, Manicamp and Malicorne had followed the king and D'Artagnan. They were both exceedingly intelligent men, except that Malicorne was generally too precipitate, owing to his ambition, while Manicamp was frequently too tardy, owing to his idleness. On this occasion, however, they arrived at precisely the proper moment. Five horses were waiting in readiness. Two were seized upon by the king and D'Artagnan, two others by Manicamp and Malicorne, while a groom belonging to the stables mounted the fifth. The whole cavalcade set off at a gallop. D'Artagnan had been very careful in his selection of the horses; they were the very horses for distressed lovers—horses which did not simply run, but flew. Within ten minutes after their departure, the cavalcade, amid a cloud of dust, arrived at Chaillot. The king literally threw himself off his horse, but, notwithstanding the rapidity with which he accomplished this maneuver, he found D'Artagnan already holding his stirrup. With a sign of acknowledgment to the musketeer, he threw the bridle to the groom, then darted into the vestibule, violently pushed open the door, and entered the reception-room. Manicamp, Malicorne, and the groom, remained outside, D'Artagnan alone following him. When he entered the reception-room, the first object which met his gaze was Louise herself, not simply on her knees, but lying at the foot of a large stone crucifix. The young girl was stretched upon the damp flag-stones, scarcely visible in the gloom of the apartment, which was lighted only by means of a narrow window, protected by bars, and completely shaded by creeping plants. She was alone, inanimate, cold as the stone to which she was clinging.
When the king saw her in this state, he thought she was dead, and uttered a loud cry, which made D'Artagnan hurry into the room. The king had already passed one of his arms round her body, and D'Artagnan assisted him in raising the poor girl, whom the torpor of death seemed already to have taken possession of. D'Artagnan seized hold of the alarm-bell, and rang with all his might. The Carmelite sisters immediately hastened at the summons, and uttered loud exclamations of alarm and indignation at the sight of the two men holding a woman in their arms. The superior also hurried to the scene of action; but, far more a creature of the world than any of the female members of the court, notwithstanding her austerity of manners, she recognized the king at the first glance, by the respect which those present exhibited for him, as well as by the imperious and authoritative way in which he had thrown the whole establishment into confusion. As soon as she saw the king, she retired to her own apartments, in order to avoid compromising her dignity. But, by one of the nuns, she sent various cordials—Hungary water, etc., etc.—and ordered that all the doors should be immediately closed, a command which was just in time, for the king's distress was fast becoming of a most clamorous and despairing character. He had almost decided to send for his own physician, when La Valliere exhibited signs of returning animation. The first object which met her gaze, as she opened her eyes, was the king at her feet; in all probability she did not recognize him, for she uttered a deep sigh full of anguish and distress. Louis fixed his eyes devouringly upon her face; and when, in the course of a few moments, she recognized the king, she endeavored to tear herself from his embrace.
"Oh, heavens!" she murmured, "is not the sacrifice yet made?"
"No, no," exclaimed the king, "and it shall not be made, I swear."
Notwithstanding her weakness and utter despair, she rose from the ground, saying, "It must be made, however; it must be; so do not stay me in my purpose!"
"I leave you to sacrifice yourself! I! never, never!" exclaimed the king.
"Well," murmured D'Artagnan, "I may as well go now. As soon as they begin to speak, we may as well save their having any listeners." And he quitted the room, leaving the two lovers alone.
"Sire," continued La Valliere, "not another word, I implore you. Do not destroy the only future I can hope for—my salvation; do not destroy the glory and brightness of your own future for a mere caprice."
"A caprice!" cried the king.
"Oh! sire, it is now only that I can clearly see into your heart."
"You, Louise, what mean you?"
"An inexplicable impulse, foolish and unreasonable in its nature, may momentarily appear to offer a sufficient excuse for your conduct; but there are duties imposed upon you which are incompatible with your regard for a poor girl such as I am. So forget me."
"I forget you!"
"You have already done so."
"Rather would I die."
"You cannot love one whose peace of mind you hold so lightly, and whom you so cruelly abandoned last night to the bitterness of death."
"What can you mean? Explain yourself. Louise."
"What did you ask me yesterday morning? To love you. What did you promise me in return? Never to let midnight pass without offering me an opportunity of reconciliation whenever your anger might be aroused against me."
"Oh! forgive me, Louise, forgive me! I was almost mad from jealousy."
"Jealousy is an unworthy thought, sire.You may become jealous again, and will end by killing me. Be merciful, then, and leave me now to die."
"Another word, mademoiselle, in that strain, and you will see me expire at your feet."
"No, no, sire, I am better acquainted with my own demerits; and believe me, that to sacrifice yourself for one whom all despise would be needless."
"Give me the names of those you have cause to complain of."
"I have no complaints, sire, to prefer against any one—no one but myself to accuse. Farewell, sire; you are compromising yourself in speaking to me in such a manner."
"Oh! be careful, Louise, in what you say; for you are reducing me to the very depths of despair."
"Oh! sire, sire, leave me to the protection of Heaven, I implore you."
"No, no; Heaven itself shall not tear you from me."
"Save me, then," cried the poor girl, "from those determined and pitiless enemies who are thirsting to destroy my very life and honor too. If you have courage enough to love me, show at least that you have power enough to defend me. But no: she whom you say you love, others insult and mock, and drive shamelessly away." And the gentle-hearted girl, forced by her own bitter distress to accuse others, wrung her hands in an uncontrollable agony of tears.
"You have been driven away!" exclaimed the king. "This is the second time I have heard that said."
"I have been driven away with shame and ignominy, sire. You see, then, that I have no other protector but Heaven, no consolation but prayer, and this cloister is my only refuge."
"My palace, my whole court, shall be yours. Oh! fear nothing further now, Louise: those, be they men or women, who yesterday drove you away, shall to-morrow tremble before you—to-morrow, do I say? Nay, this very day have I already shown my displeasure—have already threatened. It is in my power, even now, to hurl the thunderbolt whichI have hitherto withheld. Louise, Louise, you shall be cruelly revenged; tears of blood shall repay you for the tears you have shed. Give me only the names of your enemies."
"Never, never."
"How can I show my anger, then?"
"Sire, those upon whom your anger would have to fall would force you to draw back your hand upraised to punish."
"Oh! you do not know me," cried the king, exasperated. "Rather than draw back, I would sacrifice my kingdom, and would curse my family. Yes, I would strike until this arm had utterly annihilated all those who had ventured to make themselves the enemies of the gentlest and best of creatures." And, as he said these words, Louis struck his fist violently against the oaken wainscoting with a force which alarmed La Valliere: for his anger, owing to his unbounded power, had something imposing and threatening in it, and like the tempest, might be mortal in its effects. She, who thought that her own sufferings could not be surpassed, was overwhelmed by a suffering which revealed itself by menace and by violence.
"Sire," she said, "for the last time I implore you to leave me; already do I feel strengthened by the calm seclusion of this asylum: and the protection of Heaven has reassured me: for all the petty human meannesses of this world are forgotten beneath the Divine protection. Once more, then, sire, and for the last time, I again implore you to leave me."
"Confess, rather," cried Louis, "that you have never loved me; admit that my humility and my repentance are flattering to your pride: but that my distress affects you not; that the king of this wide realm is no longer regarded as a lover whose tenderness of devotion is capable of working out your happiness: but that he is a despot whose caprice has utterly destroyed in your heart the very last fiber of human feeling. Do not say you are seeking Heaven, say rather that you are fleeing the king."
Louise's heart was wrung within her, as she listened to his passionate utterance, which made the fever of passion course through every vein in her body. "But did you not hear me say that I, have been driven away, scorned, despised?"
"I will make you the most respected, the most adored, and the most envied of my whole court."
"Prove to me that you have not ceased to love me."
"In what way?"
"By leaving me."
"I will prove it to you by never leaving you again."
"But do you imagine, sire, that I shall allow that: do you imagine that I will let you come to an open rupture with every member of your family: do you imagine that, for my sake, you could abandon mother, wife, and sister?"
"Ah? you have named them, then, at last: it is they, then, who have wrought this grievous injury? By the heaven above us, then, upon them shall my anger fall."
"That is the reason why the future terrifies me, why I refuse everything, why I do not wish you to revenge me. Tears enough have already been shed, sufficient sorrow and affliction have already been occasioned. I, at least, will never be the cause of sorrow, or affliction, or distress, to whomsoever it may be, for I have mourned and suffered, and wept too much myself."
"And do you count my sufferings, my distress, and my tears, as nothing?"
"In Heaven's name, sire, do not speak to me in that manner. I need all my courage to enable me to accomplish the sacrifice."
"Louise, Louise, I implore you! whatever you desire, whatever you command, whether vengeance or forgiveness, your slightest wish shall be obeyed, but do not abandon me."
"Alas! sire, we must part."
"You do not love me, then!"
"Heaven knows I do!"
"It is false, Louise; it is false."
"Oh! sire, if I did not love you I should let you do what you please: I should let you revenge me, in return for the insult which has been inflicted on me; I should accept the sweet triumph to my pride which you propose: and yet, you cannot deny, that I reject even the sweet compensation which your affection affords, that affection, which for me is life itself, for I wished to die when I thought that you loved me no longer."
"Yes, yes: I now know, I now perceive it; you are the holiest, the best, the purest of women. There is no one so worthy as yourself, not alone of my own respect and devotion, but also of the respect and devotion of all who surround me: and therefore shall no one be loved like yourself: no one shall ever possess the influence over me that you wield. You wish me to be calm, to forgive: be it so, you shall find me perfectly unmoved. You wish to reign by gentleness and clemency, I will be clement and gentle. Dictate to me the conduct you wish me to adopt, and I will obey blindly."
"In Heaven's name, no, sire; what am I, a poor girl, to dictate to so great a monarch as yourself?"
"You are my life, the very spirit and principle of my being. Is it not the spirit that rules the body?"
"You love me, then, sire?"
"On my knees, yes; with my hands upraised to you, yes; with all the strength and power of my being, yes; I love you so deeply that I would happily lay down my life for you, at your merest wish."
"Oh! sire, now that I know you love me, I have nothing to wish for in the whole world. Give me your hand, sire; and then farewell! I have enjoyed in this life all the happiness which I was destined to meet with."
"Oh! no, no! your happiness is not a happiness of yesterday, it is of to-day, of to-morrow, ever-enduring. The future is yours, everything which is mine is yours too. Away with these ideas of separation, away with these gloomy, despairing thoughts. You will live for me, as I will live for you, Louise." And he threw himself at her feet, embracing her knees with the wildest transports of joy and gratitude.
"Oh! sire, sire! all that is but a wild dream."
"Why a wild dream?"
"Because I cannot return to the court. Exiled, how can I see you again? Would it not be far better to bury myself in a cloister for the rest of my life, with the rich consolation that your affection gives me, with the latest pulses of your heart beating for me, and your latest confession of attachment still ringing in my ears?"
"Exiled, you!" exclaimed Louis XIV., "and who dares to exile, let me ask, when I recall?"
"Oh! sire, something which is greater than and superior to kings even—the world and public opinion. Reflect for a moment; you cannot love a woman who has been ignominiously driven away—love one, whom your mother has stained with suspicion; one, whom your sister has threatened with disgrace; such a woman, indeed, would be unworthy of you."
"Unworthy! one who belongs to me?"
"Yes, sire, precisely on that account; from the very moment she belongs to you, the character of your mistress renders her unworthy."
"You are right, Louise, every shade of delicacy of feeling is yours. Very well, you shall not be exiled."
"Ah! from the tone in which you speak, you have not heard Madame, that is very clear."
"I will appeal from her to my mother."
"Again, sire, you have not seen your mother."
"She, also! poor Louise! every one's hand, then, is against you."
"Yes, yes, poor Louise, who was already bending beneath the fury of the storm, when you arrived and crushed her beneath the weight of your displeasure."
"Oh! forgive me."
"You will not, I know, be able to make either of them yield; believe me, the evil cannot be repaired, for I will not allow you to use violence, or to exercise your authority."
"Very well, Louise, to prove to you how fondly I love you, I will do one thing, I will see Madame; I will makeher revoke her sentence, I will compel her to do so."
"Compel? Oh! no, no."
"True; you are right. I will bend her."
Louise shook her head.
"I will entreat her, if it be necessary," said Louis. "Will you believe in my affection after that?"
Louise drew herself up. "Oh, never, never, shall you humiliate yourself on my account; sooner, a thousand times, would I die."
Louis reflected, his features assumed a dark expression. "I will love as much as you have loved; I will suffer as keenly as you have suffered; this shall be my expiation in your eyes. Come, mademoiselle, put aside these paltry considerations; let us show ourselves as great as our sufferings, as strong as our affection for each other." And, as he said this, he took her in his arms, and encircled her waist with both his hands, saying, "My own love! my own dearest and best-beloved, follow me."
She made a final effort, in which she concentrated—no longer all her firmness of will, for that had long since been overcome, but all her physical strength.
"No!" she replied, weakly, "no! no! I should die from shame."
"No! you shall return like a queen. No one knows of your having left—except, indeed, D'Artagnan."
"He has betrayed me, then?"
"In what way?"
"He promised me faithfully—"
"I promised not to say anything to the king," said D'Artagnan, putting in his head through the half-opened door, "and I kept my word, I was speaking to M. de Saint-Aignan, and it was not my fault, if the king overheard me; was it, sire?"
"It is quite true," said the king, "forgive him."
La Valliere smiled, and held out her small white hand to the musketeer.
"Monsieur d'Artagnan," said the king, "be good enough to see if you can find a carriage for Mademoiselle de la Valliere."
"Sire," replied the captain, "the carriage is waiting at the gate."
"You are the most perfect model of thoughtfulness," exclaimed the king.
"You have taken a long time to find it out," muttered D'Artagnan, notwithstanding he was flattered by the praise bestowed upon him.
La Valliere was overcome: after a little further hesitation, she allowed herself to be led away, half fainting, by her royal lover. But, as she was on the point of leaving the room, she tore herself from the king's grasp, and returned to the stone crucifix, which she kissed, saying, "Oh, Heaven! it was thou who drewest me hither! thou, who hast rejected me; but thy grace is infinite. Whenever I shall again return, forget that I have ever separated myself from thee, for, when I return, it will be—never to leave thee again."
The king could not restrain his emotion, and D'Artagnan, even, was overcome. Louis bore the young girl away, lifted her into the carriage, and directed D'Artagnan to seat himself beside her, while he, mounting his horse, spurred violently toward the Palais-Royal, where, immediately on his arrival, he sent to request an audience of Madame.
From the manner in which the king had dismissed the ambassadors, even the least clear-sighted persons belonging to the court had imagined war would ensue. The ambassadors themselves, but slightly acquainted with the king's domestic disturbances, had interpreted as directed against themselves the celebrated sentence: "If I be not master of myself, I, at least, will be so of those who insult me." Happily for the destinies of France and Holland, Colbert had followed them out of the king's presence, for the purpose of explaining matters to them; but the two queens and Madame, who were perfectly aware of every particular circumstance that had taken place in their several households, having heard the remark so full of dark meaning, retired to their own apartments in no little fear and chagrin. Madame, especially, felt that the royal anger might fall upon her; and, as she was brave and exceedingly proud, instead of seeking support and encouragement from the queen-mother, she had returned to her own apartments, if not without some uneasiness, at least without any intention of avoiding the encounter. Anne of Austria, from time to time at frequent intervals, sent messages to learn if the king had returned. The silence which the whole palace preserved upon the matter, and upon Louise's disappearance, was indicative of a long train of misfortunes to all those who knew the haughty and irritable humor of the king. But Madame remained perfectly unmoved, in spite of all the flying rumors, shut herself up in her apartments, sent for Montalais, and, with a voice as calm as she could possibly command, desired her to relate all she knew about the event itself. At the moment that the eloquent Montalais was concluding, with all kinds of oratorical precautions, and was recommending, if not in actual language, at least in spirit, that she should show a forbearance toward La Valliere, M. Malicorne made his appearance to beg an audience of Madame, on behalf of his majesty. Montalais's worthy friend bore upon his countenance all the signs of the very liveliest emotion. It was impossible to be mistaken; the interview which the king requested would be one of the most interesting chapters in the history of the hearts of kings and of men. Madame was disturbed by her brother-in-law's arrival; she did not expect it so soon, nor had she, indeed, expected any direct step on Louis's part. Besides, all women who wage war successfully by indirect means, are invariably neither very skillful nor very strong when it becomes a question of accepting a pitched battle. Madame, however, was not one who ever drew back; she had the very opposite defect or qualification, in whichever light it may be considered; shetook an exaggerated view of what constituted real courage; and therefore the king's message, of which Malicorne had been the bearer, was regarded by her as the trumpet proclaiming the commencement of hostilities. She, therefore, boldly accepted the gage of battle. Five minutes afterward the king ascended the staircase. His color was heightened from having ridden hard. His dusty and disordered clothes formed a singular contrast with the fresh and perfectly arranged toilet of Madame, who, notwithstanding her rouge, turned pale as the king entered her room. Louis lost no time in approaching the object of his visit: he sat down, and Montalais disappeared.
"My dear sister," said the king, "you are aware that Mademoiselle de la Valliere fled from her own room this morning, and that she has retired to a cloister, overwhelmed by grief and despair." As he pronounced these words, the king's voice was singularly moved.
"Your majesty is the first to inform me of it," replied Madame.
"I should have thought that you might have learned it this morning, during the reception of the ambassadors," said the king.
"From your emotion, sire, I imagined that something extraordinary had happened, but without knowing what."
The king, with his usual frankness, went straight to the point. "Why have you sent Mademoiselle de la Valliere away?"
"Because I had reason to be dissatisfied with her conduct," she replied dryly.
The king became crimson, and his eyes kindled with a fire which it required all Madame's courage to support. He mastered his anger, however, and continued, "A stronger reason than that is surely requisite, for one so good and kind as you are, to turn away and dishonor, not only the young girl herself, but every member of her family as well. You know that the whole city has its eyes fixed upon the conduct of the female portion of the court. To dismiss a maid of honor is to attribute a crime to her—at the very least a fault.What crime, what fault has Mademoiselle de la Valliere been guilty of?"
"Since you constitute yourself the protector of Mademoiselle de la Valliere," replied Madame, coldly, "I will give you those explanations which I should have a perfect right to withhold from every one."
"Even from the king!" exclaimed Louis, as, with a sudden gesture, he covered his head with his hat.
"You have called me your sister," said Madame, "and I am in my own apartments."
"It matters not," said the youthful monarch, ashamed at having been hurried away by his anger; "neither you, nor any one else in this kingdom, can assert a right to withhold an explanation in my presence."
"Since that is the way you regard it," said Madame, in a hoarse, angry tone of voice, "all that remains for me to do is to bow submissively to your majesty, and to be silent."
"No; let there be no equivocation between us."
"The protection with which you surround Mademoiselle de la Valliere does not impose any respect."
"No equivocation, I repeat. You are perfectly aware that, as head of the nobility of France, I am accountable to all for the honor of every family: you dismiss Mademoiselle de la Valliere, or whoever else it may be—" Madame shrugged her shoulders.
"Or whoever else it may be, I repeat," continued the king; "and as, in acting in that manner, you cast a dishonorable reflection upon that person, I ask you for an explanation, in order that I may confirm or annul the sentence."
"Annul my sentence!" exclaimed Madame, haughtily. "What! when I have discharged one of my attendants, do you order me to take her back again?" The king remained silent.
"This would cease to be an excess of power merely, sire; it would be indecorous and unseemly."
"Madame!"
"As a woman, I should revolt against an abuse so insulting to me; I should no longer be able to regard myself as a princess of your blood, a daughter of a monarch; I should be the meanest of creatures, more humble and disgraced than the servant I had sent away."
The king rose from his seat with anger. "It cannot be a heart," he cried, "you have beating in your bosom; if you act in such a way with me, I may have reason to act with similar severity."
It sometimes happens that in a battle a chance ball may reach its mark: the observation which the king had made, without any particular intention, struck Madame home, and staggered her for a moment; some day or other she might indeed have reason to dread reprisals.
"At all events, sire," she said, "explain what you require."
"I ask, madame, what has Mademoiselle de la Valliere done to warrant your conduct toward her?"
"She is the most cunning fomenter of intrigues I know; she was the occasion of two personal friends engaging in mortal combat, and has made people talk of her in such shameless terms that the whole court is indignant at the mere sound of her name."
"She! she!" cried the king.
"Under her soft and hypocritical manner," continued Madame, "she hides a disposition full of foul and dark deceit."
"She!"
"You may possibly be deceived, sire, but I know her right well: she is capable of creating dispute and misunderstanding between the most affectionate relatives and the most intimate friends. You see that she has already sown discord between us two."
"I do assure you—" said the king.
"Sire, look well into the case as it stood: we were living on the most friendly understanding, and, by the artfulness of her tales and complaints, she has set your majesty against me."
"I swear to you," said the king, "that on no occasion has a bitter word ever passed her lips: I swear that, even in my wild bursts of passion, she would never allow me to menace any one; and I swear, too, that you do not possess a more devoted and respectful friend than she is."
"Friend!" said Madame, with an expression of supreme disdain.
"Take care, madame!" said the king: "you forget that you now understand me, and that from this moment everything is equalized. Mademoiselle de la Valliere will be whatever I may choose her to become; and to-morrow, if I were to determine to do so, I could seat her on a throne."
"She will not have been born to a throne, at least; and whatever you may do can affect the future alone, but cannot affect the past."
"Madame, toward you I have shown every kind consideration, and every eager desire to please you; do not remind me that I am master here."
"That is the second time, sire, that you have made that remark, and I have already informed you I am ready to submit."
"In that case, then, will you confer upon me the favor of receiving Mademoiselle de la Valliere back again?"
"For what purpose, sire, since you have a throne to bestow upon her? I am too insignificant to protect so exalted a personage."
"Nay; a truce to this bitter and disdainful spirit. Grant me her forgiveness."
"Never!"
"You drive me, then, to open warfare in my own family."
"I, too, have my own family, where I can find refuge."
"Do you mean that as a threat, and could you forget yourself so far? Do you believe that, if you push the affront to that extent, your family would encourage you?"
"I hope, sire, that you will not force me to take any step which would be unworthy of my rank."
"I hoped that you would remember our friendship, and that you would treat me as a brother."
Madame paused for a moment. "I donot disown you for a brother," she said, "in refusing your majesty an injustice."
"An injustice!"
"Oh, sire! if I informed others of La Valliere's conduct; if the queen knew—"
"Come, come, Henriette, let your heart speak. Remember that you have loved me; remember, too, that human hearts should be as merciful as the heart of our sovereign master. Do not be inflexible with others; forgive La Valliere."
"I cannot; she has offended me."
"But for my sake."
"Sire, for your sake I would do anything in the world, except that."
"You will drive me to despair—you compel me to turn to the last resource of weak people, and seek counsel of my angry and wrathful disposition."
"I advise you to be reasonable."
"Reasonable! I can be so no longer."
"Nay, sire, I pray you—"
"For pity's sake, Henriette; it is the first time, I have entreated any one, and I have, no hope in any one but in you."
"Oh, sire, you are weeping!"
"From rage, from humiliation!—that I, the king, should have been obliged to descend to entreaty! I shall hate this moment during my whole life. You have made me suffer in one moment more distress and more degradation of feeling than I could have anticipated in the greatest extremity in life." And the king rose and gave free vent to his tears, which, in fact, were tears of anger and of shame.
Madame was not touched exactly—for the best women, when their pride is hurt, are without pity; but she was afraid that the tears the king was shedding might possibly carry away every soft and tender feeling in his heart. "Give what commands you please, sire," she said; "and since you prefer my humiliation to your own—although mine is public, and yours has been witnessed but by myself alone—speak, I will obey your majesty."
"No no, Henriette!" exclaimed Louis, transported with gratitude, "you will have yielded to a brother's wishes."
"I no longer have any brother, since I obey."
"Will you accept my kingdom in grateful acknowledgment?"
"How passionately you love, sire, when you do love!"
He did not answer. He had seized upon Madame's hand and covered it with kisses. "And so you will receive this poor girl back again, and will forgive her; you will find how gentle and pure-hearted she is."
"I will maintain her in my household."
"No, you will give her your friendship, my sister."
"I have never liked her."
"Well, for my sake you will treat her kindly, will you not, Henriette?"
"I will treat her as your mistress."
The king rose suddenly to his feet. By this word, which had so unfortunately escaped her lips, Madame had destroyed the whole merits of her sacrifice. The king felt freed from all obligation. Exasperated beyond measure, and bitterly offended, he replied:
"I thank you, madame; I shall never forget the service you have rendered me." And, saluting her with an affectation of ceremony, he took his leave of her. As he passed before a glass, he saw that his eyes were red, and angrily stamped his foot on the ground. But it was too late, for Malicorne and D'Artagnan, who were standing at the door, had seen his eyes.
"The king has been crying," thought Malicorne. D'Artagnan approached the king with a respectful air, and said in a low tone of voice:
"Sire, it would be better to return to your own apartments by the small staircase."
"Why?"
"Because the dust of the road has left its traces on your face," said D'Artagnan. "By Heaven!" he thought, "when the king has been giving way like a child, let those look to it who may make her weep for whom the king has shed tears."
Madame was not bad-hearted, she was only hasty and impetuous. The king was not imprudent, he was only in love. Hardly had they both entered into this sort of compact, which terminated in La Valliere's recall, when they both sought to make as much as they could by their bargain. The king wished to see La Valliere every moment in the day; while Madame, who was sensible of the king's annoyance ever since he had so entreated her, would not abandon La Valliere without a contest. She planted every conceivable difficulty in the king's path; he was, in fact, obliged, in order to get a glimpse of La Valliere, to be exceedingly devoted in his attentions to his sister-in-law, and this, indeed, was Madame's plan of policy. As she had chosen some one to second her efforts, and as this person was our old friend Montalais, the king found himself completely hemmed in every time he paid Madame a visit; he was surrounded, and was never left a moment alone. Madame displayed in her conversation a charm of manner and brilliancy of wit which eclipsed everything. Montalais followed her, and soon rendered herself perfectly insupportable to the king, which was, in fact, the very thing she expected would happen. She then set Malicorne at the king, who found the means of informing his majesty that there was a young person belonging to the court who was exceedingly miserable; and on the king inquiring who this person was, Malicorne replied that it was Mademoiselle de Montalais. To this the king answered that it was perfectly just that a person should be unhappy when she rendered others so. Whereupon Malicorne explained how matters stood: for he had received his directions from Montalais. The king began to open his eyes; he remarked that, as soon as he made his appearance, Madame made hers too; that she remained in the corridors until after he had left; that she accompanied him back to his own apartments, fearing that he might speak in the antechambers to one of her maids of honor. One evening she went further still. The king was seated, surrounded by the ladies who were present, and holding in his hand, concealed by his lace ruffle, a small note which he wished to slip into La Valliere's hand. Madame guessed both his intention and the letter too. It was very difficult to prevent the king going wherever he pleased, and yet it was necessary to prevent his going near La Valliere, to speak to her, as by so doing he could let the note fall into her lap behind her fan, and into her pocket-handkerchief. The king, who was also on the watch, suspected that a snare was being laid for him. He rose and pushed his chair, without affectation, near Mademoiselle de Chatillon, with whom he began to talk in a light tone. They were amusing themselves in making rhymes; from Mademoiselle de Chatillon he went to Montalais, and then to Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente. And thus, by this skillful maneuver, he found himself seated opposite to La Valliere, whom he completely concealed. Madame pretended to be greatly occupied: she was altering a group of flowers that she was working in tapestry. The king showed the corner of his letter to La Valliere, and the latter held out her handkerchief with a look which signified, "Put the letter inside." Then, as the king had placed his own handkerchief upon his chair, he was adroit enough to let it fall on the ground, so that La Valliere slipped her handkerchief on the chair. The king took it up quietly, without any one observing what he did, placed the letter within it, and returned the handkerchief to the place he had taken it from. There was only just time for La Valliere to sketch out her hand to take hold of the handkerchief with its valuable contents.
But Madame, who had observed everything that had passed, said to Mademoiselle de Chatillon, "Chatillon, be good enough to pick up the king's handkerchief, if you please: it has fallen on the carpet."
The young girl obeyed with the utmost precipitation, the king having movedfrom his seat, and La Valliere being in no little degree nervous and confused.
"Ah! I beg your majesty's pardon," said Mademoiselle de Chatillon; "you have two handkerchiefs, I perceive."
And the king was accordingly obliged to put into his pocket La Valliere's handkerchief as well as his own. He certainty gained that souvenir of Louise, who lost, however, a copy of verses which had cost the king ten hours' hard labor, and which, as far as he was concerned, was perhaps as good as a long poem. It would be impossible to describe the king's anger and La Valliere's despair; but shortly afterward a circumstance occurred which was more than remarkable. When the king left, in order to retire to his own apartments, Malicorne, informed of what had passed, one can hardly tell how, was waiting in the antechamber. The antechambers of the Palais Royal are naturally very dark, and, in the evening, they were but indifferently lighted. Nothing pleased the king more than this dim light. As a general rule, Love, whose mind and heart are constantly in a blaze, dislikes light anywhere else than in the mind and heart. And so the antechamber was dark; a page carried a torch before the king, who walked on slowly, greatly annoyed at what had recently occurred. Malicorne passed close to the king, almost stumbled against him in fact, and begged his forgiveness with the profoundest humility; but the king, who was in an exceedingly ill-temper, was very sharp in his reproof to Malicorne, who disappeared as soon and as quietly as he possibly could. Louis retired to rest, having had a misunderstanding with the queen; and the next day, as soon as he entered the cabinet, he wished to have La Valliere's handkerchief in order to press his lips to it. He called his valet.
"Fetch me," he said, "the coat I wore yesterday evening, but be very sure you do not touch anything it may contain."
The order being obeyed, the king himself searched the pocket of the coat: he found only one handkerchief, and that his own; La Valliere's had disappeared.While busied with all kinds of conjectures and suspicions, a letter was brought to him from La Valliere; it ran in these terms:
"How kind and good of you to have sent me those beautiful verses: how full of ingenuity and perseverance your affection is; how is it possible to help loving you so dearly!"
"How kind and good of you to have sent me those beautiful verses: how full of ingenuity and perseverance your affection is; how is it possible to help loving you so dearly!"
"What does this mean?" thought the king: "there must be some mistake. Look well about," he said to the valet, "for a pocket-handkerchief must be in one of my pockets: and if you do not find it, or if you have touched it—" He reflected for a moment. To make a state matter of the loss of the handkerchief, would be to act too absurdly, and he therefore added, "There was a letter of some importance inside the handkerchief which had somehow got among the folds of it."
"Sire," replied the valet, "your majesty had only one handkerchief, and that is it."
"True, true," replied the king, setting his teeth hard together. "Oh, poverty, how I envy you! Happy is the man who can empty his own pockets of letters and handkerchiefs!"
He read La Valliere's letter over again, endeavoring to imagine in what conceivable way his verses could have reached their destination. There was a postscript to the letter:
"I send you back by your messenger this reply, so unworthy of what you sent me."
"I send you back by your messenger this reply, so unworthy of what you sent me."
"So far so good; I shall find out something now," he said, delightedly. "Who is waiting, and who brought me this letter?"
"M. Malicorne," replied the valet-de-chambre, timidly.
"Desire him to come in."
Malicorne entered.
"You come from Mademoiselle de la Valliere?" said the king, with a sigh.
"Yes, sire."
"And you took Mademoiselle de la Valliere something from me?"
"I, sire."
"Yes, you."
"Oh, no, sire."
"Mademoiselle de la Valliere says so distinctly."
"Oh, sire, Mademoiselle de la Valliere is mistaken."
The king frowned. "What jest is this?" he said; "explain yourself; why does Mademoiselle de la Valliere call you my messenger? What did you take to that lady? Speak, monsieur, and quickly."
"Sire, I merely took Mademoiselle de la Valliere a pocket-handkerchief, that was all."
"A handkerchief—what handkerchief?"
"Sire, at the very moment when I had the misfortune to stumble against your majesty yesterday, a misfortune which I shall deplore to the last day of my life, especially after the dissatisfaction which you exhibited, I remained, sire, motionless with despair, your majesty being at too great a distance to hear my excuses, when I saw something white lying on the ground."
"Ah!" said the king.
"I stooped down—it was a pocket-handkerchief. For a moment I had an idea that when I stumbled against your majesty I must have been the cause of the handkerchief falling from your pocket; but as I felt it all over very respectfully, I perceived a cipher at one of the corners, and, on looking at it closely, I found it was Mademoiselle de la Valliere's cipher. I presumed that on her way to Madame's apartment in the earlier part of the evening she had let her handkerchief fall, and I accordingly hastened to restore it to her as she was leaving; and that is all I gave to Mademoiselle de la Valliere, I entreat your majesty to believe." Malicorne's manner was so simple, so full of contrition, and marked with such extreme humility, that the king was greatly amused in listening to him. He was as pleased with him for what he had done as if he had rendered him the greatest service.
"This is the second fortunate meeting I have had with you, monsieur," he said; "you may count upon my friendly feeling."
The plain and sober truth was, that Malicorne had picked the king's pocket of the handkerchief as dexterously as any of the pickpockets of the good city of Paris could have done. Madame never knew of this little incident, but Montalais gave La Valliere some idea of the manner in which it had really happened, and La Valliere afterward told the king, who laughed exceedingly at it, and pronounced Malicorne to be a first-rate politician. Louis XIV. was right, and it is well known that he was tolerably acquainted with human nature.
Miracles, unfortunately, could not always last forever, while Madame's ill-humor still continued to last. In a week's time, matters had reached such a point that the king could no longer look at La Valliere without a look full of suspicion crossing his own. Whenever a promenade was proposed, Madame, in order to avoid the recurrence of similar scenes to that of the thunderstorm, or the royal oak, had a variety of indispositions ready prepared; and, thanks to them, she was unable to go out, and her maids of honor were obliged to remain indoors also. There was not the slightest chance or means of paying a nocturnal visit; for, in this respect, the king had, on the very first occasion, experienced a severe check, which happened in the following manner. As at Fontainebleau, he had taken Saint-Aignan with him one evening, when he wished to pay La Valliere a visit; but he had found no one but Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente, who had begun to call out fire and thieves in such a manner that a perfect legion of chambermaids, attendants, and pages ran to her assistance; so that Saint-Aignan, who had remained behind in order to savethe honor of his royal master, who had fled precipitately, was obliged to submit to a severe scolding from the queen-mother, as well as from Madame herself. In addition, he had, the next morning, received two challenges from the De Montemart family, and the king had been obliged to interfere. This mistake had been owing to the circumstance of Madame having suddenly ordered a change in the apartments of her maids of honor, and directed La Valliere and Montalais to sleep in her own cabinet. Nothing, therefore, was now possible, not even any communication by letter; to write under the eyes of so ferocious an Argus as Madame, whose kindness of disposition was so uncertain, was to run the risk of exposure to the greatest dangers; and it can well be conceived into what a state of continuous irritation, and of ever increasing anger, all these petty annoyance threw the young lion. The king almost tormented himself to death in endeavoring to discover a means of communication; and, as he did not think proper to call in the aid of Malicorne or D'Artagnan, the means were not discovered at all. Malicorne had, indeed, some occasional brilliant flashes of imagination, with which he tried to inspire the king with confidence; but whether from shame or suspicion, the king, who had at first begun to nibble at the bait, soon abandoned the hook. In this way, for instance, one evening, while the king was crossing the garden and looking up at Madame's window, Malicorne stumbled over a ladder lying beside a border of box, and said to Manicamp, who was walking with him behind the king, and who had not either stumbled over or seen anything, "Did you not see that I just now stumbled against a ladder, and was nearly thrown down?"
"No," said Manicamp, as usual very absent, "but it appears you did not fall."
"That doesn't matter; but it is not, on that account, the less dangerous to leave ladders lying about in that manner."
"True, one might hurt one's self, especially when troubled with fits of absence of mind."
"I don't mean that; what I did meanwas, that it is dangerous to allow ladders to lie about so near the windows of the maids of honor." Louis started imperceptibly.
"Why so?" inquired Manicamp.
"Speak louder," whispered Malicorne, as he touched him with his arm.
"Why so?" said Manicamp, louder. The king listened.
"Because, for instance," said Malicorne, "a ladder nineteen feet high is just the height of the cornice of those windows." Manicamp, instead of answering, was dreaming of something else.
"Ask me, can't you, what windows I mean," whispered Malicorne.
"But what windows are you referring to?" said Manicamp aloud.
"The windows of Madame's apartments."
"Eh!"
"Oh! I don't say that any one would ever venture to go up a ladder into Madame's room; but in Madame's cabinet, merely separated by a partition, sleep two exceedingly pretty girls, Mesdemoiselles de la Valliere and de Montalais."
"By a partition," said Manicamp.
"Look; you see how brilliantly lighted Madame's apartments are—well, do you see those two windows?"
"Yes."
"And that window close to the others, but more dimly lighted?"
"Yes."
"Well, that is the room of the maids of honor. Look, look, there is Mademoiselle de la Valliere opening the window. Ah! how many soft things could an enterprising lover say to her, if he only suspected that there was lying here a ladder nineteen feet long, which would just reach the cornice."
"But she is not alone; you said Mademoiselle de Montalais is with her."
"Mademoiselle de Montalais counts for nothing: she is her oldest friend, and exceedingly devoted to her—a positive well, into which can be thrown all sorts of secrets one might wish to get rid of."
The king did not lose a single syllable of this conversation. Malicorne had even remarked that his majesty had slackened his pace, in order to give him time to finish. So, when he arrived at the door, he dismissed every one, with the exception of Malicorne—a circumstance which excited no surprise, for it was known that the king was in love; and they suspected he was going to compose some verses by moonlight; and, although there was no moon that evening, the king might, nevertheless, have some verses to compose. Every one, therefore, took his leave; and, immediately afterward, the king turned toward Malicorne, who respectfully waited until his majesty should address him.
"What were you saying, just now, about a ladder, Monsieur Malicorne?" he asked.
"Did I say anything about ladders, sire?" said Malicorne, looking up, as if in search of his words which had flown away.
"Yes, of a ladder nineteen feet long."
"Oh, yes, sire, I remember; but I spoke to M. Manicamp, and I should not have said a word had I known your majesty could have heard us."
"And why would you not have said a word?"
"Because I should not have liked to have got the gardener scolded who had left it there—poor fellow!"
"Don't make yourself uneasy on that account. What is this ladder like?"
"If your majesty wishes to see it, nothing is easier, for there it is."
"In that box-hedge?"
"Exactly."
"Show it to me."
Malicorne turned back and led the king up to the ladder, saying, "This is it, sire."
"Pull it this way a little."
When Malicorne had brought the ladder on to the gravel walk, the king began to step its whole length. "Hum!" he said; "you say it is nineteen feet long?"
"Yes, sire."
"Nineteen feet—that is rather long; I hardly believe it can be so long as that."
"You cannot judge very correctly with the ladder in that position, sire. If it were upright, against a tree or a wall, for instance, you would be better able to judge, because the comparison would assist you a good deal."
"Oh! it does not matter, M. Malicorne; but I can hardly believe that the ladder is nineteen feet high."
"I know how accurate your majesty's glance is, and yet I would wager."
The king shook his head. "There is one unanswerable means of verifying it," said Malicorne.
"What is that?"
"Every one knows, sire, that the ground-floor of the palace is eighteen feet high."
"True, that is very well known."
"Well, sire, if I place the ladder against the wall, we shall be able to ascertain."
"True."
Malicorne took up the ladder, like a feather, and placed it upright against the wall. And, in order to try the experiment, he chose, or chance, perhaps, directed him to choose, the very window of the cabinet where La Valliere was. The ladder just reached the edge of the cornice, that is to say, the sill of the window; so that, by standing upon the last round but one of the ladder, a man of about the middle height, as the king was, for instance, could easily hold a communication with those who might be in the room. Hardly had the ladder been properly placed, than the king, dropping the assumed part he had been playing in the comedy, began to ascend the rounds of the ladder, which Malicorne held at the bottom. But hardly had he completed half the distance, when a patrol of Swiss guards appeared in the garden, and advanced straight toward them. The king descended with the utmost precipitation, and concealed himself among the trees. Malicorne at once perceived that he must offer himself as a sacrifice; for, if he, too, were to conceal himself, the guard would search everywhere until they had found either himself or the king, perhaps both. It would be far better, therefore, that he alone should be discovered. And, consequently, Malicorne hid himself so clumsily that he was the only one arrested. As soon as hewas arrested, Malicorne was taken to the guard-house; when there, he declared who he was, and was immediately recognized. In the meantime, by concealing himself first behind one clump of trees and then behind another, the king reached the side-door of his apartments, very much humiliated, and still more disappointed. More than that, the noise made in arresting Malicorne had drawn La Valliere and Montalais to their window; and even Madame herself had appeared at her own, with a pair of wax candles, asking what was the matter.
In the meantime, Malicorne sent for D'Artagnan, who did not lose a moment in hurrying to him. But it was in vain he attempted to make him understand his reasons, and in vain also that D'Artagnan did understand them; and, further, it was equally in vain that both their sharp and inventive minds endeavored to give another turn to the adventure; there was no other resource left for Malicorne, but to let it be supposed that he had wished to enter Mademoiselle de Montalais's apartment, as Saint-Aignan had passed for having wished to force Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente's door. Madame was inflexible; in the first place, because if Malicorne had, in fact, wished to enter her apartment at night through the window, and by the means of the ladder, in order to see Montalais, it was a punishable offense on Malicorne's part, and he must be punished accordingly; and, in the second place, if Malicorne, instead of acting in his own name, had acted as an intermediary between La Valliere and a person whose name need not be mentioned, his crime was in that case even greater, since love, which is an excuse for everything, did not exist in the present case as an excuse for him. Madame therefore made the greatest possible disturbance about the matter, and obtained his dismissal from Monsieur's household, without reflecting, poor blind creature, that both Malicorne and Montalais held her fast in their clutches in consequence of her visit to De Guiche, and in a variety of other ways equally delicate. Montalais, who was perfectly furious, wished to revenge herself immediately, but Malicorne pointed out to her that the king's countenance would repay them for all the disgraces in the world, and that it was a great thing to have to suffer on his majesty's account.
Malicorne was perfectly right, and, therefore, although Montalais had the spirit of ten women in her, he succeeded in bringing her round to his own opinion. And we must not omit to state that the king helped them to console themselves, for, in the first place, he presented Malicorne with fifty thousand francs as a compensation for the post he had lost, and, in the next place, he gave him an appointment in his own household, delighted to have an opportunity of revenging himself in such a manner upon Madame for all she had made him and La Valliere suffer. But as he no longer had Malicorne to steal his pocket-handkerchiefs and to measure ladders for him, the poor lover was in a terrible state. There seemed to be no hope, therefore, of ever getting near La Valliere again, so long as she should remain at the Palais Royal. All the dignities and all the money in the world could not remedy that. Fortunately, however, Malicorne was on the look-out, and this he did so successfully that he met Montalais, who, to do her justice, it must be admitted, did her best to meet Malicorne. "What do you do during the night in Madame's apartment," he asked the young girl.
"Why, I go to sleep, of course," she replied.
"But it is very wrong to sleep; it can hardly be possible that with the pain you are suffering you can manage to do so."
"And what am I suffering from, may I ask?"
"Are you not in despair at my absence?"
"Of course not, since you have received fifty thousand francs and an appointment in the king's household."
"That is a matter of no moment; you are exceedingly afflicted at not seeing me as you used to see me formerly, and more than all, you are in despair at my having lost Madame's confidence; come now, is not that true?"
"Perfectly true."
"Very good; your distress of mind prevents you sleeping at night, and so you sob, and sigh, and blow your nose ten times every minute as loud as possible."
"But, my dear Malicorne, Madame cannot endure the slightest noise near her."
"I know that perfectly well; of course, she can't endure anything; and so, I tell you, she will not lose a minute, when she sees your deep distress, in turning you out of her room without a moment's delay."
"I understand."
"Very fortunate you do."
"Well, and what will happen next?"
"The next thing that will happen will be, that La Valliere, finding herself alone without you, will groan and utter such loud lamentations, that she will exhibit despair enough for two persons."
"In that case she will be put into another room."
"Precisely so."
"Yes, but which?"
"Which?"
"Yes, that will puzzle you to say, Mr. Inventor-General."
"Not at all; wherever and whatever the room may be, it will always be preferable to Madame's own room."
"That is true."
"Very good, so begin your lamentations a little to-night."
"I certainly will not fail to do so."
"And give La Valliere a hint also."
"Oh! don't fear her, she cries quite enough already to herself."
"Very well! all she has to do is to cry out loud."
And they separated.