The Project Gutenberg eBook, Old Court Life in France, Volume II (of 2), by Frances Minto Dickinson Elliot

By Frances Elliot

Old Court Life in France
2 vols. 8°.

Old Court Life in Spain
2 vols. 8°.

Interview between Henry III. and the Duke of Guise.
From the painting by P. C. Comte.
(With permission of Levy et Fils, Paris.)

OLD COURT
LIFE IN FRANCE

BY

FRANCES ELLIOT
AUTHOR OF "DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY"
"PICTURE OF OLD ROME," ETC.

ILLUSTRATED

VOLUME II.

G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS
NEW YORK AND LONDON
THE KNICKERBOCKER PRESS

Copyright, 1893, by
G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS
Entered at Stationers' Hall, London
By G. P. Putnam's Sons

Made in the United States of America

THE KNICKERBOCKER PRESS, NEW YORK

CONTENTS

ILLUSTRATIONS

OLD COURT LIFE IN FRANCE.

CHAPTER I.

TEMPTED.

NEWS came from the army announcing brilliant success. The valour of the King was specially extolled; he was no longer a bashful, feeble prince, victimised by feminine cabals, tyrannised over by Richelieu. He had suddenly become a warrior, foremost in danger, leading his troops in person into the hottest of the fray. Each day his absence lasted, and every fresh intelligence that arrived, added to the excitement of Louise de Lafayette. The danger to which he was exposed made her tremble.

She eagerly desired his return, not for the mere pleasure of seeing and conversing with him (though that was very dear to her), but because she was sure that the time had come when he would himself hold the reins of government, and display all that nobleness of character with which her romantic fancy had invested him. Such, at least, was the conviction, however delusive, of the pretty maid of honour, who, lost in contemplation of the King's virtues, failed to perceive the state of her own heart.

At length the campaign terminated. Louis had re-taken all the places conquered by the Spaniards. They were in full retreat. The King returned to Paris, which, not having been considered out of danger from the attacks of the enemy, received him with transports of joy. Mademoiselle de Lafayette, a witness of the universal enthusiasm, saw in Louis the worthy successor of Henry the Great, and the inheritor of all his glory. Intoxicated by these dreams, she imagined that even her advice would be in future needless—that the King of his own accord would suppress the arrogance of Richelieu, and from henceforth exercise the royal authority alone.

The following day, the Court being at the Louvre, Louis visited the Queen at her lever. As he returned into the anteroom, he approached Louise de Lafayette. She was too much agitated even to welcome him. That Louis was also greatly moved was evident. The pallor that always overspread his face when excited, was almost death-like, and every feature worked convulsively. For some moments they stood opposite to each other, without saying a word. Then, overmastering his agitation, Louis spoke to her in a low voice:—"I know not, mademoiselle, when we shall be able to resume those conversations which were so infinitely delightful—I am overwhelmed with business." Then, after glancing round, and seeing that every one had retired, he seized her hand and kissed it tenderly.

"Ah! so much the better," said Louise, beaming with smiles. "May you, Sire, ever be thus occupied."

THE OLD LOUVRE.
FROM AN OLD PRINT.

"Do you want to banish me, then, just as I am returned?" said he, retaining her hand in both of his.

"No, Sire; but I want to see you reign."

"You have heard me blamed for my indolence? I am sure you have. All I ask is, that you will wait and judge for yourself. The Court is filled with my enemies." He spoke with animation.

"Sire, I need not wait," replied the maid of honour eagerly, her liquid eyes, full of faith and affection, turned upon him, "I have long ago decided in your favour."

"May you never change!" ejaculated Louis fervently. "It would console me for a world of injustice. I must now leave you," and he pressed her hand again and raised it to his lips.

The eagerness with which Louis applied himself to state affairs after his return, evoked much mirth and ridicule among the ladies of the Court. Louise de Lafayette was pained. When Madame de Sennécy declared that his Majesty's industry could not possibly last, she was offended in the highest degree. The Cardinal, too, was openly abused for the military appointments he had made during the war by these fair critics, whereupon Louise, who dared not openly defend the King, endeavoured to justify him by exonerating the Cardinal. One morning, when both King and minister had been bitterly attacked in the anteroom, before the Queen had left her apartments, Louise remarked to those around her that the Cardinal, though unpopular, was undeniably great; that he had founded the Académie Française, rebuilt the Sorbonne, established the Royal Printing Press, founded the Jardin des Plantes, and that, as a minister, he was brave, daring, and wise.

These sentiments caused great surprise, for Mademoiselle de Lafayette had hitherto by no means spared Richelieu. The Duchesse de Sennécy openly rebuked her for what she styled her "hypocrisy," and sent her in tears to her room. Her words, however, were immediately reported to the Cardinal by Chavigny, a gentleman of the bedchamber, who was present, one of the many salaried Court spies in his pay. Chavigny particularly dwelt upon the earnestness of the maid of honour, and assured the Cardinal that she could only have so expressed herself in order to gain his favour.

No sooner had Chavigny left the Palais Royal than the Comte de la Meilleraye, a distant relation of Richelieu, requested an audience. La Meilleraye was also in attendance on the King. He had come, as he said, to ask a great favour of his all-powerful cousin. Would the Cardinal assist him to a most advantageous marriage with a lady to whom he was devoted—Mademoiselle de Lafayette? From the first moment he had seen her, he said, her beauty, her elegance, her modest bearing and simplicity—qualities so rare in the Court circle—had enchanted him. Thus spoke the Comte de la Meilleraye. Richelieu listened graciously. He liked by all legitimate means to advance his family, and if the maid of honour was his partisan, as Chavigny had reported, nothing could be more expedient than such a marriage. He promised therefore to consult the King at once, and to endeavour to obtain his permission, warning La Meilleraye to do nothing in the matter until he had heard again from him.

THE PALAIS ROYAL, PARIS.

The morning Council of State over, Richelieu accompanied the King into his writing closet, to discuss in private some important matters.

As the Queen's coterie had predicted, Louis soon wearied of business; everything was now replaced, as before, in the hands of the minister.

Louis leant back in his chair. He scarcely heard the Cardinal's remarks.

From time to time, when specially appealed to, he bowed his head in acquiescence. Then turning away his eyes abstractedly towards the windows, which faced the inner court, he anxiously watched the driving clouds that scudded across the sky. He had fixed a hunting-party at Rambouillet, and longed to start as soon as the weather cleared, and Richelieu had left him.

The mellow voice of the Cardinal, who, however imperative in action, never startled his feeble master by any outward display of vehemence, had continued speaking for some time, in a monotonous tone, when the King, seeing the sunshine appear, suddenly rose.

"Your eminence has, I imagine, done with me for to-day," said he, looking eagerly towards the door.

"Yes, Sire; but there is still a trifling matter upon which I would ask your decision."

"Pray mention it," replied Louis, tapping his boots with a riding-whip he had taken off a table.

"My relative, the Comte de la Meilleraye, begs your permission to marry."

"Willingly," replied Louis; "who is the fair lady, Cardinal?"

"It is Mademoiselle Louise de Lafayette, Sire, maid of honour to the Queen."

If a thunderbolt had fallen at his feet, Louis could not have been more overcome. He turned perfectly livid, took a long breath, tottered backwards and sat down again. The all-seeing eyes of the Cardinal were fixed upon him; he did not speak, but watched his master. Louis for some moments did not raise his head; then he heaved a deep sigh, and with much effort, in a strangely different voice, asked faintly—

"Does Mademoiselle de Lafayette herself desire this marriage?"

Richelieu had turned away, and affecting to be busied with some books and papers lying on the table, replied in an indifferent manner—

"As yet, Sire, we are unacquainted with the lady's sentiments; but, as I am informed she has no other attachment, I cannot but believe such an alliance as that of my cousin will be acceptable to her."

The nervous spasm with which it was evident the King had awaited this reply instantly relaxed. The colour returned to his cheeks, his eyes brightened, and he stood up—

"Before I can decide anything," said he, "I must know Mademoiselle de Lafayette's feelings; acquaint me with them speedily."

He spoke in a firm, decided way, very unusual with him.

The Cardinal drew his own conclusions.

By-and-by Chavigny informed Richelieu that Mademoiselle de Lafayette had at once, and unhesitatingly, refused the hand of the Count. Richelieu only smiled. "I knew it. The King, my good Chavigny, is in love with her himself. She returns it. They understand each other. Chavigny, I must see this foolish girl, who ventures to mix herself up with his Majesty. I must personally acquaint myself with her feelings."

"Your Eminence will find it most difficult to speak with her in private. The Duchesse de Sennécy proposes giving a masked ball, at which her Majesty and the Court will be present; would that suit your plans?"

"Not at all," replied Richelieu. "When I speak there must be no mask. I must study her countenance. She is young and disingenuous. I shall read her inmost thoughts. She has not been long enough at Court to have learnt dissimulation. I must see her before the King leaves Paris. We can meet at my niece's, the Duchesse de Combalet."

"Mademoiselle de Lafayette could only feel honoured by such a summons from your Eminence," replied Chavigny.

"Yes, I fancy she will accept the offers I shall make her, unless she is an absolute idiot."

Mademoiselle de Lafayette was duly invited to a déjeûner at the Palais Cardinal by the Duchesse de Combalet, who received her alone. During breakfast her hostess said everything that could flatter and please her. She praised her dress and her appearance. She was so simple, so unselfish, so different from the other maids of honour, the Duchess said. Then she went on to inform her that she knew the Cardinal had the highest opinion of her; that he had often expressed his admiration of her character and her person to herself, the Duchess. "It is very unusual with him, Mademoiselle, to speak to me about the Queen's ladies; he is too much engrossed with state affairs, too serious to notice them. But you are an exception; you have made a deep impression on my uncle."

Louise bowed, grew red and white by turns, and listened in wondering silence.

Suddenly the door opened, and Cardinal Richelieu appeared, followed by two favourite cats. Smiling benignly, he received the maid of honour with great condescension. Mademoiselle de Lafayette rose at his entrance, and was about to withdraw, when he took her hand and insisted on her reseating herself.

The Duchesse de Combalet spoke with him on general subjects, and constantly appealed to Louise for her opinion. She gave it with her usual modest frankness. Everything she said was applauded by the Cardinal. He put forth all his powers to please her.

In about half an hour a servant entered and whispered to the Duchess. She affected great annoyance at the interruption, and begged the Cardinal and her guest to excuse her for a quarter of an hour, while she gave some directions. "Besides," said she, and she turned with a meaning look to the maid of honour, "I know that his Eminence wants to have a little private conversation with you about our cousin De la Meilleraye, whom you have so cruelly refused. Poor man! he is in despair. I shall return in a few minutes." Saying which she kissed Mademoiselle de Lafayette on both cheeks, and withdrew.

Richelieu and the maid of honour were now alone. The Cardinal was no longer the dissolute prelate of other days, the adorer of two queens of France, the slave of Madame de Chevreuse, the lover of Marion de l'Orme. The life of labour he led would have long ago killed any but a man of his iron will and calm temperament. He never slept more than three hours at a time, and literally worked day and night. At eight o'clock in the morning he was astir, ready to receive spies, generals, and ministers, suppliants, and princes, who were already waiting in the anteroom. He was as active as a Roman senator, with a hundred clients assembled in his portico. His cheeks were pinched and sunken; his face sallow; his thin lips colourless; his brow, a network of those fine wrinkles that come of excessive thought. Even his eyes were dull, and half concealed by his eyelids, though on occasions they would still shoot forth sparks of fire. The straight hair that lay upon his forehead, under his red calotte, was scanty and almost white. Altogether, his appearance was that of a man physically worn-out, and indicative of his painful illness and somewhat premature death. But the spirit of the man was strong within him, and a consciousness of latent power disclosed itself in every feature.

As he leant back in a spacious arm-chair, the two cats nestled on his knees, he bent his half-closed eyes upon Louise with almost feline cunning. Those half-closed eyes alone betrayed his nature; otherwise, his countenance expressed nothing but tranquil enjoyment.

"Mademoiselle de Lafayette," he said in a soft, musical voice that struck pleasantly upon the ear, "I have both to reproach you and to thank you." Louise looked at him with surprise. "Yes, I thank you for the favour with which I hear you speak of me; and I reproach you for having hitherto concealed from me your good opinion. I am desirous to see you become a member of my family. I hope you will marry my cousin. But, believe me, the ties of gratitude are stronger with me than those of blood. Mademoiselle, I wish to be your friend." Louise bowed her head with great respect, but felt bewildered.

Richelieu piqued himself on being a great physiognomist. He had made a special study of the human countenance. He saw that the face of Mademoiselle de Lafayette was totally untroubled. Her perfect self-possession astonished him. The phrase he had uttered—"I wish to be your friend," solemn words, indeed, from the mouth of Richelieu—had caused in her no change of expression! Her composed demeanour was, in the eyes of the Cardinal, an additional reason for securing her as a partisan. He had before much desired to gain her to himself, but he now came to attach an immense importance to success.

"I am very grateful for your Eminence's kind expressions," said Louise at last, with great modesty, but with equal firmness; "but I do not wish to marry. If the offer of your friendship involves any sacrifice of my freedom, I must, with sorrow, decline it. I seek nothing, your Eminence. I need no protection." There was a quiet dignity in her words and manner that took the Cardinal aback. He said nothing; but his eyes, now fully open and glistening, rested on the maid of honour with surprise and displeasure.

Yet the real loftiness of soul she displayed, the indifference with which she ignored his offers, appeared to him so unaccountable that he could only imagine she wished to extract from him some terms more definite and decided. This idea gave him courage to recommence the attack.

"Let us be frank," said he, smiling. "I know all."

"What do you mean, monseigneur?"

"The King loves you. The purity of his heart and his high principles may allow you to confess it. He loves you. And his interest, as well as your own, requires that we should be friends."

Mademoiselle de Lafayette grew very pale; she trembled, but did not for a moment lose her presence of mind. "To what sort of friendship does your Eminence allude?"

"An entire confidence on your part, and an active acknowledgment on mine."

The Cardinal was on the point of promising her titles, estates, and pensions; but Mademoiselle de Lafayette, who, with downcast eyes, listened to him in silence, all at once looked up fixedly into his face. This look stopped him short.

"Your Eminence," said she, "can only wish me to give my personal confidence. In honour I could promise no other. But I have no secrets, no concealments. I am without ambition, I desire no favour. Besides, I am sure that your Eminence will at once understand me when I say—that, if ever it were the pleasure of his Majesty to repose confidence in me—there is no temptation, no power on earth, that would induce me to betray it." As she spoke, she looked straight at the Cardinal. The colour returned to her cheeks, and she sat erect—gentle, yet infinitely bold.

Richelieu reddened, but he suppressed his rising indignation. "The confidence of a great King," replied he solemnly, a dark fire darting from his eyes, "can only be properly accepted when the person to whom it is addressed is capable of offering real assistance to the sovereign. I propose, Mademoiselle de Lafayette, to render you capable of imparting such assistance. Whatever may be your natural sense and penetration, this is an occasion in which experience alone is valuable."

"But does not your Eminence think that rectitude of purpose——"

"It is evident that you are little versed in the intrigues of courts, mademoiselle," answered he loftily, eying her with haughty disdain. "Perhaps some day you will discover that the offer I have made you of my esteem and assistance is not to be despised."

"No one can attach a higher value than I do to the good opinion of your Eminence," interposed Mademoiselle de Lafayette with warmth; "but I do not think you have at all proved it in what you have just said. Although I think I deserve it," she added timidly.

The Cardinal contemplated her attentively for some moments. His face was set, his eyes flashed, and his hands which were clenched rested on his knees. "I have only one word more to add," said he in an angry voice. "Any idea of favour with the King without my support is a delusion." He was rapidly losing self-restraint. This girl had lashed him into a fury. She saw it, but felt no fear.

"Your Eminence, I think only of my duty," she replied with firmness. "I fear no threats. I can make no promise."

At these words the Cardinal rose. His face was swollen with passion; a wicked fire gleamed in his eyes; her coolness transported him beyond endurance. "Once more, Mademoiselle de Lafayette, remember what I say. My resolutions are unalterable; I trample down everything. Without my assistance, beware! Think of the future. Recall the past. My enemies are rotting in their graves—my friends rule France." Then, speaking more calmly, he added, "You are too great a fool to understand what you are doing. I can pardon your presumption, however, because I know how to cure it. Mademoiselle de Lafayette, you may withdraw."

CHAPTER II.

THE KEEPER OF THE ROYAL CONSCIENCE.

RICHELIEU, thoroughly exasperated, determined to crush the girl who had dared to brave him. He called to his aid his creature Chavigny. Chavigny was intriguing, acute, and superficial; an admirable tool—for he originated nothing. Years ago he had sold himself to Richelieu, but as he always went out of his way to abuse him, the connection was not suspected. Under the direction of the Cardinal, he had entirely gained the King's confidence. His easy good-nature encouraged the shy Louis to tell him all his secrets, and to consult him in all his difficulties.

Chavigny, who up to this time had attached little importance to the King's inclination for the new maid of honour, looking upon it simply as a passing admiration for an attractive girl, too inexperienced to take advantage of his favour, upon being questioned, informed Richelieu that the King wrote to her daily, and that she replied as often. Richelieu at once resolved on his course of action. He would in future see the correspondence himself. Each letter was to be skilfully unsealed by his secretary, Desmaret, and read, before it was delivered.

It was not possible for even the hard, stern Richelieu to peruse these letters unmoved. He had been once young and passionate himself. He could not but appreciate the delicacy and eloquence with which the King veiled his passion, and softened intense love into the semblance of friendship. Nor could he avoid feeling some admiration for the sweet and simple nature that breathed in every line written by the maid of honour. Both were evidently ignorant of the ardour of their mutual attachment. What was to be done? He must consult the King's confessor.

Father Caussin, a Jesuit, had been only nine months confessor to the King. He was learned, conscientious, and guileless. Richelieu had selected him for this important post in the belief that he would assume no political influence over his royal penitent. The General of the order had objected to his appointment on the same grounds. In person Caussin was tall and spare. His long black cassock hung about his thin figure in heavy folds. His face was pale and emaciated. Yet a kindly smile played about his mouth, and his black eyes beamed with benevolence. Such was the ecclesiastic who seated himself opposite to Richelieu.

"My father," said the Cardinal, saluting him stiffly, and leaning forward and laying his hands on some papers placed beside him on a table, as though they related to what he was about to say.—"I have summoned you on a very grave matter." Nothing could be more solemn than the Cardinal's voice and manner. The pleasant smile faded at once out of the confessor's face. He became as grave, if not as stern as the Cardinal, leant his head upon his bony hand, and turned his eyes intently upon him. "Circumstances have come to my knowledge," continued Richelieu, "which, in my opinion, justify me in asking you a very searching question." Caussin moved uneasily, and in a somewhat troubled manner interrupted him.

"Your Eminence will not, I trust, desire to trench upon the privacy of my office,—for in that case I could not satisfy you."

Richelieu waved his hand impatiently, placed one knee over the other with great deliberation, and leant back in his chair. "My father, I am surprised at your insinuation. We are both Churchmen, and, I presume, understand our respective duties. The question that I would ask is one to which you may freely reply. Does it appear to you that his Majesty has of late shown indifference in his spiritual duties?" Caussin drew a long breath, and, though relieved, was evidently unwilling to answer.

"Pardon me, my father," again spoke the Cardinal, a slight tone of asperity perceptible in his mellow voice, "I ask you this question entirely in the interest of the holy order to which you belong. Many benefices have fallen vacant lately, and it is possible,—it is possible, I repeat, that I may advise his Majesty to fill up some of them from the ranks of the Company of Jesus." His half-closed eyes rested significantly on Father Caussin as he said these words.

Caussin listened unmoved. "There are, doubtless," said he, "many members of our order who would do honor to your selection, Cardinal. For myself, I should want no preferment;—indeed, I should decline it." He spoke with the frankness of perfect sincerity.

Richelieu looked down, and worked the points of his fingers impatiently on the table. His hands were singularly white and shapely, with taper fingers. As a young man he had loved to display them; the habit had remained with him when he was thoughtful or annoyed. "Well, my father," said he, "your answer?"

Caussin eyed the Cardinal suspiciously,—"I am happy to reassure your Eminence; his Majesty is, as usual, in the most pious sentiments."

"Hum!—that is strange, very strange; I fear that the benevolence of your nature, my father—" Caussin drew himself up, and a look as much approaching defiance as it was possible for him to assume passed into his pleasant face. Richelieu did not finish the offensive sentence. "It is strange," he went on to say, "for I have reason to know—I ask you for no information, reverend father—that his Majesty's feelings are engaged in a mundane passion which, if encouraged, may lead him from those precepts and exercises in which he has hitherto lived in obedience to the Church."

"To what passion do you allude?" asked Caussin cautiously.

"To the infatuation his Majesty evinces for the new maid of honour, Louise de Lafayette. The lady is self-willed and romantic. She may lead him into deadly sin."

Caussin started. "I apprehend nothing of the kind," replied he drily.

"True, my father, but that is a matter of opinion. I think differently. Absolution, after repentance," continued the Cardinal pompously, "may wash out even crime, but it is for us,—you, his Majesty's confessor, and I, his minister, both faithful servants of the Holy Father,"—Caussin looked hard at the Cardinal, who was by no means considered orthodox at Rome,—"it is for us to guard him from even the semblance of evil. I have sent for you, my father, to assist me in placing Louise de Lafayette in a convent. It will be at least a measure of precaution. I shall require all your help, my father; will you give it me?" Richelieu, as he asked this important question, narrowly observed Caussin from under his drooping eyelids. The confessor was evidently embarrassed. His kindly countenance was troubled; and he was some time in answering.

"To dedicate a young and pure soul to God," he replied, at length, with evident hesitation, "is truly an acceptable work; but has your Eminence considered that the lady in question is of the most blameless life, and that by her example and influence his Majesty may be kept in that path of obedience and faith which some other attachment might not insure?" As he asked this question Caussin leaned forwards towards Richelieu, speaking earnestly.

"Father Caussin," said the Cardinal, in his hardest manner, and motioning with his hand as though commanding special attention, "we must look in this matter beyond his Majesty's feelings. I have good reason for alarm. A crisis is impending," and he turned again to the papers lying on the table with a significant air. "If Louise de Lafayette has any vocation, let her be advised to encourage it. Consider in what manner you can best bend the King's will to comply. You tell me the lady is a good Catholic; I rejoice to hear it. She comes of a family of heretics. She may be sincere, though I much doubt it. At all events, she must be removed; simply as a matter of precaution, my father, I repeat, she must be removed. Let me beg you to consult the General of your order upon this matter immediately. Understand me, I am advising this simply as a matter of precaution, nothing more." All this time Caussin had listened intently to the Cardinal. The troubled look on his face had deepened into one of infinite sadness. His brow was knit, but there were doubt and hesitation in his manner.

"I can only consent to assist your Eminence," he replied, in a low voice, after some moments of deep thought, "on the condition that the lady herself freely consents. I can permit no violence to be done to her inclinations, nor to the will of his Majesty. If the lady is ready to offer up herself to the Church through my means, it will doubtless redound to the credit of our order; but she shall not be forced."

"Certainly not, certainly not," interposed Richelieu, in a much more affable tone. "I do not know why your reverence should start such a supposition."

"I will consult our General, Cardinal," continued Caussin; "but I am bound to say that the influence the lady has hitherto exercised has been most legitimate, most orthodox, altogether in favour of our order, to which she is devoted, and of the Church. She is a most pious lady."

"All the more fit for the privilege I propose to bestow upon her," answered Richelieu, with unction; "she will be safe from temptation within the bosom of the Church, a blessing we, my father," and Richelieu affected to heave a deep sigh, and cast up his eyes to heaven, "we, who live in the world, cannot attain. We act then in concert, my father," he added quickly, in his usual manner, "we act for the good of his Majesty's soul?"

Caussin bowed acquiescence, but mistrust and perplexity were written upon every line of his honest face, as he observed the evident satisfaction evinced by the Cardinal at his compliance.

Richelieu rose: "We will force no one's inclination, my father," he said blandly, "but all possibility of scandal must be removed. You must at once prepare his Majesty. It will be a good work, and will greatly recommend you to your order." Caussin, with a look of the deepest concern, bowed profoundly and withdrew. When he was alone, the Cardinal re-seated himself and fell into a deep muse. "Now," said he, at length, speaking to himself, "her fate is sealed. I will take care that her vocation shall be perfect. This presumptuous girl shall soon come to rejoice, ay, rejoice, that she is permitted to take refuge in a convent. As for Caussin, he is a fool. I must remove him immediately."

Richelieu, as he said of himself, never halted in his resolves. Caussin was shortly sent off by a lettre de cachet to Rennes, narrowly escaping an intimation from the Cardinal to his Superior that it would be well to exercise his devotion to the order as a missionary in Canada.

SALON OF LOUIS XIII. AT FONTAINEBLEAU.

CHAPTER III.

A NOBLE RESOLVE.

THE Court had removed from the Louvre to Saint-Germain, always the favourite abode of the melancholy monarch.

Louis suffered tortures from the galling restraints his position entailed upon him in his intercourse with Mademoiselle de Lafayette. He rarely saw her alone. When he addressed her, he was conscious that every eye was fixed upon them. Their correspondence, carried on by means of Chavigny, was, he felt, full of danger. His only comforter in his manifold troubles was this same treacherous Chavigny. Prompted by the Cardinal, Chavigny urged the King, on every possible occasion, to make some arrangement with Mademoiselle de Lafayette to meet in private. "If she loves you," said this unworthy tool, "if you really possess her heart, she will long to meet your Majesty with greater freedom as much as you can do. It is for you to make some such proposal to her. Do it, Sire; do it without delay, or I assure you the lady will think you careless and indifferent." Thus spoke Chavigny. Louis listened, meditated on what he said, and was convinced. He gave himself up to the most entrancing day-dreams.

The season was summer. The weather was hot, and the tall windows of the great saloon were thrown open. The Court had gathered round the Queen, who was engaged in a lively conversation with Mademoiselle de Montpensier, the young daughter of the Duc d'Orléans. Seeing that her services were not required, Louise de Lafayette, pensive and silent, stole away to the balcony outside the windows. She stood alone, lost in her own thoughts. With noiseless steps Louis approached her. He lent by her side over the balustrade, bending his eyes on the broad plains towards Paris.

"You are thoughtful, Sire," said Louise timidly. "Will you tell me your thoughts?"

"If I do," replied Louis, casting a fond glance upon her, "will you trust me with yours?"

A delicious tremor passed through her whole frame. She cast down her large grey eyes, and smiled. "Indeed I trust you, Sire," she murmured softly; "you know I do."

"But trust me more,—let our communion be more intimate. A brother's love is not more pure than mine," whispered the King; "but," and he hesitated and blushed, "I have never enjoyed the privilege of a brother." Louise raised her eyes inquiringly.

The King was greatly confused. "A brother—" and he stopped. Then, seeing her earnest look of curiosity—"A brother," he repeated, "salutes his sister: I have never enjoyed that privilege, Louise." He was scarcely audible. "Let my self-denial, at least, secure me all your confidence."

"Oh, Sire, you have it, entire and unreserved; you know it. I might distrust myself, but you, Sire, never, never!"

"How happy you make me!" returned the King, and a sickly smile overspread his haggard face. "I understand—I appreciate your attachment to me; but oh, mademoiselle, how can my feeble words express mine to you?—how can I describe that which is without bounds—without limit? You can live without me. You can find solace in your own perfection, in the admiration of those around you—but I, I am nothing without you. I am a mere blank—a blot upon a luxurious Court—an offence to my superb wife. No one cares for my happiness—not even for my existence, but you. When I cannot approach you, I am overcome by despair. Oh, Louise, give yourself up to me, in pity—without fear, without restraint. Let me see you every day,—let me be encouraged by your words, led by your counsels, soothed by your pity, blessed by your sight. You say you do not doubt me. What then do you fear?"

The maid of honour looked at him with tearful eyes. His earnestness, his desolation, his entreaties, melted her heart. His unconscious love made her pulses beat as quickly as his own.

"You know that I am devoted to you,—what more can I say?" she whispered softly.

"I have a favour to ask you," said Louis anxiously,—"a favour so great I hesitate to name it." He was greatly agitated. At this moment the passionate love he felt animated him with new life, and lent a charm to his countenance it had never borne before.

"A favour, Sire?—it is granted before you speak. How is it that you have concealed it from me?"

"Then I am satisfied,"—the King heaved a sigh of relief,—"what I ask depends entirely on you. You will grant it."

"Am I to promise?"

"Well, only give me your word; that is enough."

"Sire, I give you my word; from the bottom of my heart, I give you my word. Tell me what it is you desire." And she raised her face towards the King, who contemplated her with silent rapture.

"Not now,—not now," murmured he, in a faltering voice; "I dare not; it would require too long an explanation,—we might be interrupted," and he turned and glanced at the scene behind him,—at Anne of Austria, blazing with diamonds, radiant with regal beauty, her silvery laugh surmounting the hum of conversation. He saw the brilliant crowd that thronged around her where she sat. Great princes, illustrious ministers, historic nobles, chivalric soldiers, grave diplomatists, stately matrons, ministers of state, her ladies in waiting, and the five other maids of honour, in the glory of golden youth. He saw the dazzling lights, the fluttering feathers, the gorgeous robes, the sparkling jewels, standing out from the painted walls,—all the glamour of a luxurious Court. Then he gazed at the sweet face of the lonely girl whose loving eyes were bent upon him awaiting his reply,—his soul sank within him.

"Would to God I were not King of France," he exclaimed abruptly, following the tenor of his thoughts. Then, seeing her wonder at his sudden outburst, he added, "The favour I ask of you shall be made known to you in writing. This evening you shall receive a letter from me; but,"—and he drew closer to her and spoke almost fiercely,—"remember you have pledged yourself to me—you cannot, you dare not withdraw your word. If you do,"—and an agonised look came into his face,—"you will drive me to madness." Saying these words, he suddenly disappeared. She was again left standing alone on the balcony.

Louise de Lafayette was startled, but not alarmed. The notion that the King was capable of making any indecorous proposition to her never for a moment occurred to her; at the same time she felt the utmost curiosity to know what this secret might be. She formed a thousand different conjectures, each further than the other from the truth. On entering her room at night, she found a letter from the King. She hastily tore it open and read as follows:—

"I have long adored you, and you only. During the whole time you have been at Court, I have been able but twice to address you alone, and to chance only did I even then owe that inexpressible privilege. It is impossible for me to endure this restraint any longer. If you feel as I do, you will not desire it. I have therefore commanded that my hunting-lodge at Versailles should be arranged as much as possible in accordance with your taste. There is a garden laid out, filled with the flowers you love; there are secluded lawns; there is the boundless forest. Above all, there is freedom. Come then, my Louise, and share with me this rural retreat—come where we can meet, unrestrained by the formalities of my Court. Bring with you any friend you please. At Versailles I hope to spend part of every week in your company. My happiness will be perfect; you will find me the most grateful of men. You will have nothing to fear. Do you dream calumny? Who would dare to attack a lady as pure as yourself? May I not claim your consent when I rely on your promise to grant whatever I ask? I feel that you cannot deny me, for you have repeated a thousand times that you trust my principles. You cannot doubt my honour. To refuse me would only be to insult me. Surely Louise, you would not do that! It would wound me to the very soul. It would destroy every hope of my future life.

"(Signed) Louis."

When Mademoiselle de Lafayette read this artful letter, which had been composed by Chavigny under the direction of Richelieu, and copied out by the King, she was utterly confounded. The fatal veil which had so long concealed the truth fell from her eyes. Even to a girl pure and simple as herself, all further delusion was impossible. This letter and the feelings that dictated it were not to be misunderstood.

"Merciful heavens!" cried she, clasping her hands, "with what a tone of authority, with what assurance, he proposes to dishonour me! This, then, is the attachment I believed to be so pure! What! does he, the husband of the Queen of France, suppose that I would encourage a guilty passion! Wretch that I am! Instead of helping him, I have led him into sin! I had no right to engross his thoughts. He is already estranged from his wife, and I have severed them still further! O God! what will the Queen think of me? How can I atone for this horrible sin? I must—I will—reconcile them. Then God may forgive my involuntary crime!"

Again and again, with tears streaming down her cheeks, she read and re-read the letter. She pressed the paper to her lips. The next moment she dashed it on the floor in an agony of remorse.

"Oh, how can I reply?" sobbed she. "What can I say to temper the blow which must sever us? He will be in despair—he will die. But my reputation, my honour—his own—his duty to the Queen! No, I will never consent to such degradation—my soul revolts at the thought! How gladly would I sacrifice my life for him, but I cannot commit a sin. I must leave the palace, I must go—Whither?"

MLLE. DE LAFAYETTE.
FROM MONMERQUÉ'S "TALLEMANT DES RÉAUX."

As she listened to the echo of her own words, an unformed thought suddenly darted into her mind. Go—yes, she would go where none could follow. Youth, beauty, wealth, the sacrifice should be complete. She would prove, even in separation, how great had been her love. "There is no other way," she said, speaking aloud, and an angelic smile lit up her face. She cast herself upon her knees, and prayed in peace. Her prayer finished, she took up her pen and replied thus to the King:—

"Your Majesty desires that we should no longer meet in the presence of witnesses. Before knowing what was required of me, I promised to comply. I will not withdraw my word; but I entreat of your Majesty the liberty of myself selecting the place where these private interviews are to be held. When I have received your Majesty's assent, I will inform you where this place is to be. In eight days' time I shall be prepared to receive you. Your Majesty can then judge of the extent of my confidence, and of the unbounded devotion I feel towards you.

"Louise de Lafayette."

CHAPTER IV.

THE SACRIFICE.

NEXT morning, as soon as it was light, Louise sent for the King's confessor. She showed him the King's letter, and confided to him her resolution. Caussin listened in silence; but the kindly old man, priest though he was, could not restrain his tears—so touching was her innocence, so heartfelt her sorrow. He understood the simple goodness of her heart; he trembled at the sacrifice she was imposing on herself; but he could not combat her arguments. He promised, therefore, to assist in making the needful arrangements, and he pledged himself to support the King in the trial awaiting him.

The coach was in waiting which was to bear her to her future home. All at once she recollected she had still one final sacrifice to make. The letters of the King, which she always carried about her, were still intact within the silken cover in which she preserved them. She drew these letters from her bosom and gazed on them in silent agony. Her eyes were blinded by tears. She dared not read them again, for she knew they would but increase her grief. As she held them in her hand, remorse at what she had done preponderated over every feeling. Thus to have enthralled a husband belonging to another—her sovereign and her mistress—came suddenly before her in its true light. She felt she had forgotten her duty. Once more she kissed the crumpled leaves over which her fingers had so often passed; she deluged them with her tears. Then she lit a taper and set fire to the whole.

She sat immovable before the burning fragments; her eyes fixed, her hands clasped. As the flame rose, glistened, and then melted away into light particles of dust that the morning air, blowing in from the open window, bore away fluttering in the breeze, she seemed to look upon the death of her love. "Alas!" cried she, "now all is over." Vows of eternal constancy, entreaties that would melt a heart of stone, confidence beyond all limit, affection that enshrouded her in folds of unutterable tenderness—gone,—vanished into air! Such was the image of her life: a life bright in promise, gay and dazzling, to smoulder down into ashes, too fragile even to claim a resting-place.

Louise de Lafayette wrote a few lines to the Duchesse de Sennécy, praying her to convey her dutiful salutations to her Majesty, and to request her dismissal from the post of maid of honour, which, she said, "she felt she had fulfilled so ill." Then she addressed the following note to the King:—"I request your Majesty to meet me this day week, at noon, in the parlour of the Convent of the Daughters of Mary, in the Faubourg Saint-Antoine."

When the King read these lines his heart sank within him. The austerity of the place, a rendezvous in a convent of peculiar sanctity, where he knew Mademoiselle de Lafayette always resorted at the solemn season of Lent and Passion Week, where he could only converse with her between double bars, was not the place of meeting of which he had fondly dreamed! Yet his natural delicacy made him fully appreciate the modesty of Louise and the gentle rebuke she administered to him for his too pressing solicitation in naming a place of meeting. At the convent, although they would certainly be alone, no scandal could possibly attach to the interview. More than this he never for an instant imagined. The habits of piety in which Mademoiselle de Lafayette lived, and her frequent retreats for religious purposes, raised in his mind no suspicion. He should see her, and see her alone, undisturbed, unwatched. On that thought he dwelt with rapture; time would, he hoped, do the rest.

Punctually, at noon, the King arrived at the Convent of the Daughters of Mary. He was received by the Abbess in person, and conducted into the parlour. Here she left him. A moment more, a curtain was withdrawn, and, behind double bars of iron, Louise de Lafayette stood before him. She wore the dark brown robes and corded girdle of the order, the long white veil of the noviciate falling round her lovely face. The King stood transfixed, his eyes riveted upon her.

"Forgive me, Sire," said she, in a voice full of sweetness, "forgive me for having dared to dispose of myself without your leave. But, Sire, a too fervent attachment had led us both into danger. I had forgotten my duty in the love I felt for you,—your Majesty forgot you were a husband. That letter, in which you proposed meeting me at Versailles, opened my eyes to the truth. God be thanked, there was yet time for repentance. This morning I have taken the white veil, and in a year I shall pronounce the final vows. My life will still be passed with you, Sire; but it will be a life of prayer." As she spoke she smiled sadly, and awaited his reply.

"Great God!" exclaimed Louis at length, when he could find words. "Is this a vision? Are you an angel already glorified?" He sank upon his knees before her.

"Rise, Sire," said she solemnly; "such a posture befits neither the dignity of your station nor the sacredness of mine. I am no angel, but still your tender friend; a friend who watches over you, who only lives to remind you of your duties. You will share my heart with the holy virgins among whom I live, the saints in heaven, and my God. Let not even the tomb divide us—live, Sire, such a life that we may be reunited among the spirits of the just."

"Oh, Louise!" exclaimed Louis, in a voice choked with emotion; "Louise, who alone fills my despairing, my solitary heart! at your feet I abjure all profane, all unholy thoughts. Speak—command me! my spirit follows you. But, alas!" and he rose to his feet and wrung his hands in bitterest anguish, "what is to become of me in the midst of my detestable Court? Suffer me to follow your example; let me too, within the walls of a cloister, seek that resignation and courage which make you so sublime."

"Good heavens, Sire!" exclaimed Louise de Lafayette, "what do I hear? You, a sovereign, a husband, bury yourself in a cloister! Our situations are utterly unlike. I, a solitary girl, have but withdrawn from a world to which you were my only tie. Your glory, the glory of France, your own welfare, and the welfare of the Queen, are to you sacred duties. And now, Sire, listen to me," and she approached close to the bars which divided them, and a look of the old melting tenderness passed for a moment over her beautiful face, "Sire, if ever I have been dear to you, listen. The sin for which I feel most poignant sorrow—the sin which years, nay, a life of expiation cannot wipe out—is—that I have by my selfish, my miserable attachment, alienated you from the Queen." Louis was about to interrupt her, but she signed to him to be silent. "I know, Sire, what you would say," she broke in hastily,—"that our attachment has in no way altered your relations towards her Majesty. True, it is so; but my influence over you ought to have been devoted to unite you. It ought to have been my privilege to render both your Majesties happy as man and wife, to give heirs to France, to strengthen the Government. Alas, alas! I have sinned almost beyond forgiveness!" and for awhile she broke into passionate sobs, which all her self-command could not restrain. "Her Majesty, Sire, is a most noble lady, beautiful, generous, loyal, courageous. For twenty years she, the greatest queen in Europe, has been neglected, almost scorned by you her husband. Under these trials her lofty spirit has not flinched—she has been true to you and to herself. Temptation, provocation, nay, insults have not shaken her virtue. Believe nothing against her, Sire—her soul is as lovely as her body. Sire, the Queen is childless, devote your whole life to her and to France; tend her, protect her, love her. Then, and then only, shall I be reconciled to God." As she spoke her sweet grey eyes turned towards heaven, her countenance was transfigured as in an ecstasy; no saint standing within a sculptured shrine could be more pure, more holy.

The King gazed at her awestruck. "Dispose of me as you will," murmured he; "command my life—but, remember that now I have lost you, happiness is gone from me for ever!"

"Adieu, Sire," said Mademoiselle de Lafayette. "The hour-glass warns me that our interview is over. Return in six months and tell that I have been obeyed."

She drew the dark curtain across the bars, and the Abbess entered. Louis returned hastily to Saint-Germain.

CHAPTER V.

MONSIEUR LE GRAND.

IN the broad valley of the Loire, between Tours and Saumur, the train stops at the small station of Cinq-Mars. This station lies beside the Loire, which glides by in a current so broad and majestic, as to suggest a series of huge lakes, with banks bordered by sand and scrub, rather than a river. On either side of the Loire run ranges of low hills, their glassy surface gashed and scored by many a rent revealing the chalky soil beneath, their summits fringed with scanty underwood, and dotted with groups of gnarled and knotted oaks and ragged fir-trees, the rough roots clasping cairns of rock and blocks of limestone. In the dimples of these low hills lie snugly sheltered villas, each within its own garden and policy. These villas thicken as the small township of Cinq-Mars is approached,—a nest of bright little houses, gay streets, and tall chimneys telling of provincial commerce, all clustered beneath chalky cliffs which rise abruptly behind, rent by many a dark fissure and blackened watercourse. Aloft, on a grassy marge, where many an old tree bends its scathed trunk to the prevailing wind, among bushes and piled-up heaps of stones, rise the ruins of a feudal castle. Two gate towers support an arch, through which the blue sky peeps, and some low, broken walls, without form and void, skirt the summit of the cliff. This ruin, absolutely pathetic in its desolate loneliness, is all that remains of the ancestral castle of the Cöiffiers de Cinq-Mars, Marquis d'Effiat. From this hearth and from these shattered walls, now raised "to the height of infamy," sprung that handsome, shallow, ambitious coxcomb, known as the Marquis de Cinq-Mars, who succeeded Mademoiselle de Lafayette in the favour of Louis XIII.

Deprived of Louise de Lafayette, the King's spirits languished. In spite of his partial reconciliation with Anne of Austria, and the birth of a son, he was sullen and gloomy, spoke to no one, and desired no one to speak to him. When etiquette required his presence in the Queen's apartments, he seated himself in a corner, yawned, and fell asleep. The internal malady of which he died had already undermined his always feeble frame. His condition was altogether so critical, that the Cardinal looked round for a companion to solace his weariness. Henri de Cinq-Mars had lately come up to Paris from Touraine. In years he was a boy, under twenty. He was gentle, adroit, and amusing, but weak, and the Cardinal believed he had found in him the facile instrument he sought.

Cinq-Mars was presented to the King. Louis was at once prepossessed by his handsome person and distinguished manners. Cinq-Mars, accustomed from infancy to field sports and country life, angling in the deep currents of the Loire and the Indre, hunting wild boars and deer in the dense forests of Azay and of Chanteloup, or flying his gear-falcon from the summits of his native downs, struck a sympathetic chord in the sad King's heart. One honour after the other was heaped upon him; finally he was made Grand Seneschal of France and Master of the Horse. From this time he dropped the patronymic of "Cinq-Mars," and was known at Court as "Monsieur le Grand," one of the greatest personages in France. For a time all went smoothly. King and minister smiled upon the petulant stripling, whose witty sallies and boyish audacity were tempered by the highest breeding. He was always present when the Cardinal conferred with the King, and from the first gave his opinion with much more freedom than altogether pleased the minister, who simply intended him for a puppet, not for an adviser. When the Cardinal remonstrated, Cinq-Mars shook his scented curls, pulled his lace ruffles, talked of loyalty and gratitude to the King, and of personal independence, in a manner the Cardinal deemed highly unbecoming and inconvenient. Monsieur le Grand cared little for what the Cardinal thought, and did not take the trouble to hide this opinion. He cared neither for the terrible minister nor for the eccentric Louis, whom he often treated, even in public, with contempt. It was the old story. Confident in favour, arrogant in power, he made enemies every day.

Monsieur le Grand, however, passed his time with tolerable ease when relieved of the King's company, specially in the house of Marion de l'Orme, Rue des Tournelles. He was presented to her by Saint-Evrémond, and fell at once a victim to her wiles. Marion was the Aspasia of the day, and the charm of her entourage was delightful to him after the restraints of a dull and formal Court. Here he met D'Ablancourt, La Chambre, and Calprenéde, the popular writers of the age. The Abbé de Gondi and Scarron came also, and even the prudish Mademoiselle de Scudéri did not disdain to be present at these Noctes Ambrosianæ. Marion de l'Orme, then only thirty, was in the zenith of her beauty. Her languishing dark eyes exercised an absolute fascination over Cinq-Mars from the first instant they met. Her affected reserve, the refinement of her manners, the entrain of her society, free without license, captivated him. He believed her to be virtuous, and desired to make her his wife. Marion de l'Orme was to become Madame le Grande!

This was precisely what that astute lady had angled for. Hence her reserve, her downcast eyes, her affected indifference. She saw that she was dealing with a vain, ignorant boy, who, in her hands, was helpless as an infant. Truly, he was madly in love with her, but he was a minor, and under the guardianship of the Dowager Marquise de Cinq-Mars, his mother, who might possibly not view an alliance with Mademoiselle Marion de l'Orme as an honour to the ancestral tree of the Effiats de Cinq-Mars. The marriage must be secret. Early one morning they started from the Rue de Tournelles in a coach and never stopped until they had reached the old castle among the hills of Touraine, above the feudatory village of Cinq-Mars. In the chapel of that now ruined pile their faith was plighted. Marion promised love, Cinq-Mars constancy. They were incapable of either. For eight days the old castle rang with the sounds of revelry. Cinq-Mars and Marion were as in a fairy palace; life was but a long enchantment. But at the end of that time Nemesis appeared in the shape of the Dowager Marchioness, to whose ears the report of these merry-makings came at Paris. Cinq-Mars replied to his mother that it was all a passetemps, and that Mademoiselle de l'Orme—well—was still Mademoiselle de l'Orme; that he loved the Principessa Maria di Gonzaga (to whom the handsome profligate had, indeed, paid his addresses before leaving Paris, the better to throw dust in the eyes of the world), and that he should shortly return to Paris and his duty with his Majesty.

The mediæval chatelaine, however, was not to be deceived. She knew of the secret marriage, and nothing could exceed her rage. That Marion de l'Orme should sit on the feudal dais upon the seigneurial throne—that she should wear her jewelled coronet, should eat out of her silver dish, and inhabit her apartments—the thing was atrocious, scandalous, impossible. She flew to the Cardinal, with whom she had some friendship, and informed him of what had occurred. The Cardinal, who had formerly favoured Marion de l'Orme with more than his regard, was as much incensed as herself. That his protégé, Cinq-Mars, should supplant him, made him, old as he was, furiously jealous. That Cinq-Mars should dare to abandon the splendid position he himself had assigned him, leave the morbid Louis a prey to any adventurous scoundrel whose adroit flattery or affected sympathy might in a few hours render him arbiter of the Court and master of the kingdom, was, to Richelieu's thinking, an unpardonable crime. The artful prelate immediately took his measures. A royal ordinance was speedily framed, making all marriages contracted by persons under age, and without the consent of guardians, null and void!

CINQ-MARS.
FROM A PAINTING BY LENAIN.

Cinq-Mars returned to Court indignant, insolent, defiant; swearing vengeance against the meddling Cardinal, and ready to enter into any scheme for his destruction. Mademoiselle Marion de l'Orme re-opened her salon in the Rue des Tournelles.

As for Louis, from whom the knowledge of this little escapade had been carefully concealed, he received back the truant with greater favour than ever. Cinq-Mars, confident in the King's attachment, and looking on him as too feeble to combat his own audacious projects, spoke words which Louis had not heard since the beloved voice of Louise de Lafayette had uttered them. "He ought to rid himself of the Cardinal, and rule for himself," said Monsieur le Grand; "if not by fair, then by foul means." "Let Richelieu die," cried Cinq-Mars, "as he has made others die—the best blood in France: Montmorenci, Chalais, Saint-Preuil, Marillac, and so many others." It is certain that the King listened to these proposals favourably. He actually consented to conspire against himself and the State which he governed. Louis was too stupid to realise the absurdity of his position. He permitted Cinq-Mars to coquet with the Spanish Government, in order to insure the support of Spanish troops to be sent from the Netherlands to defend Sedan against the Cardinal and his own army in case of failure. But Richelieu, now fully alive to the dangerous ascendancy of Cinq-Mars,—for he had spies everywhere, specially the soft-spoken Chavigny, who was always about the King,—openly taxed his Sovereign with treachery in a message borne to him by the Marquis de Mortémart. Louis was dumbfounded and terrified. He wrote a letter that very same day, addressed to the Chancellor Séguier, apologising for his seeming infidelity to his minister. "He did not deny," said he, "that Monsieur le Grand desired to compass the Cardinal's death," but, with incredible meanness, he added, "that he had never listened to him." Monsieur le Grand, whose weak head was by this time completely turned, fully believing himself invincible, openly discussed what he should do when he was himself prime minister. Suspecting Louis of being too weak to be his only supporter, he turned to Gaston, Duc d'Orléans. Monsieur, whose life, like that of his brother's, singularly repeats itself, bethinking himself of early times and of a certain moonlight meeting on the terrace of Saint-Germain, at once addressed himself to the Queen. But she had already suffered too much to allow herself again to be drawn into danger. When Monsieur detailed the plot, and asked her significantly, "What news she had lately had from her brother, the King of Spain?" she answered that she had had no news, and instantly changed the conversation. This did not at all cool Monsieur's ardour, such as it was. Three times he had been banished from France for treason, and three times he had returned, as ready as ever, with or without the Queen, to conspire, to betray, and to be again banished. So the traitor-prince and the vainglorious favourite, both intensely hating Richelieu, laid their heads together to destroy him by means of Spain. To them was joined the Marquis de Thou, one of the jeunesse dorée of the Court, along with Fontrailles, secretary to Monsieur. The great Cardinal, sitting in the Palais Royal like a huge spider in his web, ready to pounce upon his prey as soon as it had reached the precise spot where he intended to seize it, was familiar with every detail. Monsieur was to receive four hundred thousand crowns in order to raise levies in France; he was also to declare war against France in concert with Spain.

The Cardinal was to be assassinated or imprisoned for life; Gaston was to be proclaimed regent for his nephew Louis XIV. It was the old story, only, now an heir was born to the throne, Monsieur did not dare to claim the first place. Fontrailles, a creature of his own, he allowed to be sent into Spain. The treaty was signed at Madrid by Fontrailles, on the part of Monsieur and Cinq-Mars, and by the King of Spain on his own part. This done, Fontrailles flew back to France, with the precious document stitched in his clothes. Scarcely was the ink dry, before Richelieu was provided with a copy.

The Court was at Narbonne, on the Mediterranean, whither Cinq-Mars had led the King, in order to be near the Spanish frontier. Richelieu was at this time greatly indisposed, and in partial disgrace. He hung about the Rhone, sometimes at Tarascon, near Avignon, sometimes at Valence, conveniently near to be informed by Chavigny of everything that happened. Chavigny, deep in Louis's confidence, pendulated between the King and the minister. At the fitting moment, Chavigny requested a formal audience. It was the afternoon of the same day that Fontrailles had returned to Narbonne, the treaty with Spain still stitched in his clothes. Contrary to custom, when Chavigny knocked at the King's door, Louis requested Monsieur le Grand to retire. This alone ought to have aroused his suspicions. While Chavigny talked with the King, Cinq-Mars, ashamed of letting the Court see his exclusion from the room, lolled in the anteroom reading a story. Fontrailles found him there.

"How now, Monsieur le Grand," said he, "do you allow his most Christian Majesty to give an audience at which you are not present? You are getting him into bad habits."

"It is only Chavigny," replied Cinq-Mars, not taking his eyes off his book; "he can have nothing particular to say, for he is here every day. I am weary of the King's company. I have been with him all day, and I want to finish this story, which is much more interesting than his stupid talk." And Cinq-Mars threw himself back in his easy-chair, and resumed his reading.

"Ah, Monsieur le Grand," said Fontrailles, smiling at him curiously, "fortune favours you. You are a beautiful man. Look at me, with my hump" (Fontrailles was deformed); "I use my eyes; I am going to-night to meet Monsieur, before I leave Narbonne. I have brought him that little present from Madrid you know of. I have it safe here in my pocket," and Fontrailles tapped his side and grinned. "Come with me, Monsieur le Grand," said he, coaxingly, and he tried to take his hand, but Cinq-Mars repulsed him. "Come with me; believe me, the air of Narbonne is heavy at this time of year. I am not sure that it is not deadly, very deadly, indeed—especially for you, Monsieur le Marquis. A little change will do your health good. I am going. Come with me where we can breathe"; and Fontrailles laughed a short dry laugh, and looked out of the window upon the blue expanse of ocean, whose waves beat against the yellow shores of the Mediterranean.

"I pray you, Fontrailles, do not trouble me," said Cinq-Mars, looking up over his book and yawning. "I really must have some time to myself, or I shall die. Besides, I want to see his Majesty when Chavigny goes; he is staying longer than usual, I think."

"Yes, Monsieur le Grand, too long for a man coming from the Cardinal, methinks."

Fontrailles still stood watching Cinq-Mars. His deep-set eyes were fixed upon him intently, as Cinq-Mars, with perfect indifference, went on reading his story. Fontrailles passed his hand thoughtfully over his brow two or three times. A look of pity came into his face as he contemplated Cinq-Mars, still reading. He was so young, so fresh, so magnificent; his golden locks long and abundant; his pleasant face faultless in feature; his delicate hands; his perfumed clothes,—all so perfect! Should he try to save him? A tear gathered in the eye of the hardened conspirator.

"Monsieur le Grand," said he softly, stepping up nearer to Cinq-Mars and placing his hand on his red and silver shoulder-knot—"Monsieur le Grand, I say——"

"What, Fontrailles, are you not gone yet? Ma foi! I thought you were far on your road to Monsieur——"

"No, Monsieur le Grand; no, I am not gone yet."

Cinq-Mars put down his book, sat upright, and looked at him.

"What the devil do you want with me, Fontrailles? I will meet you and Monsieur le Duc to-morrow. For to-night, peace."

"Have you no suspicion of what Chavigny is saying to the King all this time, Marquis?" asked Fontrailles with an ominous grin.

"None, my friend; but I shall hear it all before his coucher. His most gracious Majesty is incapable of lying down to rest before telling me every syllable," and Cinq-Mars snapped his finger and thumb contemptuously towards the door of the room within which Louis was closeted with Chavigny.

"Are you quite sure of the King, Monsieur le Grand?" asked Fontrailles significantly, still leaning over Cinq-Mars and pressing his hand upon his shoulder-knot. "It is needful for you to be quite sure of him. His Majesty is apt to be weak and treacherous."

Cinq-Mars nodded his head; then, as if something had suddenly struck him, he rose, and in his turn began to gaze curiously at Fontrailles, whose manner and countenance were strangely expressive of some unspoken fear.

"You are very tall, Monsieur le Grand," said Fontrailles abruptly, speaking low, with his hand placed over his eyes, the better to contemplate Cinq-Mars, now drawn up to his full height, and staring at him with wonder; "you are very tall," he repeated, "and I am such a little man. You are very handsome, too—the handsomest gentleman in all France—and very gracious to me also—very kind and gracious."

Fontrailles spoke thoughtfully, as a man who turned some important matter over in his mind.

"Have you come here only to tell me this, Fontrailles?" answered Cinq-Mars, laughing, and again he yawned, passed his jewelled fingers through his clustering locks, and again took up the book which he had laid down on a table beside him, and reseated himself. Fontrailles, however, had never taken his eyes off him. His gaze had deepened into an expression of deep sorrow, although he spoke jestingly. Whatever train of thought occupied him, it had not been broken by what Cinq-Mars had just said.

"You are very tall," he again repeated, as if speaking to himself, in a peculiar voice; "so tall, indeed, that you could do without your head, Monsieur le Grand, and yet be taller than I am. Perhaps this makes you careless. I am short, and I could not afford to lose my head—so—I am going to leave Narbonne instantly. The air here is as deadly to my constitution as it is to yours. Marquis, pray do believe me. Will you come with me—the tall man with the little one?—both needing a change. Will you come?"

Cinq-Mars did not heed him a whit. Fontrailles laid his hand heavily on the thick shock of Monsieur le Grand's golden curls.

"No, mille diables, no!" roared Cinq-Mars in a rage, shaking him off; "I will not go. Why should I go? For God's sake leave me. I am just at the catastrophe of my story, and you keep on tormenting me like a gadfly."

"Excuse me, Monsieur le Grand," replied Fontrailles submissively, "I did but advise you for your good. I desire your company for the sake of that comely head of yours; but, as I said, you are tall, and I am short, which makes a great difference. It is a long journey across the mountains of France into the Low Countries," added he, sighing. "That will be my road—a long and weary road. It might fatigue your excellency. I am going, Monsieur le Marquis. I am gone—Adieu!"

Cinq-Mars did not look up, and Fontrailles, turning upon him a last look full of pity, disappeared.

CHAPTER VI.

DEATH ON THE SCAFFOLD.

WHEN Chavigny left the King, Cinq-Mars entered the royal chamber. Louis was silent, absorbed, and melancholy—would answer no questions, and abruptly dismissed the favourite on the plea that he was fatigued and needed rest.

Monsieur le Grand was naturally surprised at the change. The significant words of Fontrailles recurred to him; too late he repented his careless indifference to the friendly warning. But after all, if the King failed him, there was Monsieur and there was the treaty. What had he, Cinq-Mars, to fear when the King's brother had so deeply compromised himself? The Cardinal, too, was ill—very ill; he might die. Still, as he turned to his own suite of apartments his mind misgave him. The King had not told him one word of his interview with Chavigny; and although Chavigny would have denied it upon oath on the consecrated wafer, Cinq-Mars knew he was the Cardinal's creature and his go-between with the King.

When Cinq-Mars reached his rooms he found a letter from his friend, De Thou. "Fly," said this letter—"fly instantly. I have certain intelligence that the Cardinal is acquainted with every particular of the treaty signed at Madrid. For myself I have nothing to fear; but you have incurred the deadly hatred of Richelieu."

Thereupon Cinq-Mars, hurriedly disguised himself in a Spanish cloak, with a sombrero hat slouched over his face, stole out of the prefecture where the King was staying, and made his way as fast as he could run to the city gates. They were closed. Then, fully aroused to the urgency of his position, the strange words of Fontrailles ringing in his ears, he sought out the abode of an humble friend, whom he had recommended to serve the Court with mules for the journeying to the south from Paris—a man of Touraine, whom he had known from his boyhood. He roused him from sleep—for the night had now closed in—and acquainted him with his danger. The faithful muleteer did his best. He hid him under some loose hay with the mules in the stable. It was in vain. Cinq-Mars had been seen and tracked from the prefecture to the muleteer's house, and the scented exquisite—whose word a few hours before ruled the destiny of France—was dragged out headlong from the hay, his fine clothes torn and soiled, his face scratched and bleeding, amid the hooting of the populace and the jeers of his enemies.

De Thou, his friend, was arrested on the same day, not as guilty of conspiring, but simply as being cognisant of the existence of the treaty of Madrid, which Fontrailles had carefully carried off into the Netherlands stitched in his clothes, a copy of which lay with the Cardinal.

Monsieur Duc d'Orléans was also, for the fourth time, arrested and imprisoned.

The effect of that copy of the treaty which Chavigny had shown to the King, while Cinq-Mars read his story, was instantaneous. Louis became greatly alarmed. He understood that Richelieu knew all, and therefore must be fully aware that he had himself encouraged and approved a plot to kill him. The same day that Cinq-Mars was conducted a prisoner to the Castle of Montpellier, Louis insisted upon going himself to Tarascon, to make a personal apology to Richelieu. He was already so weakened by the disease of which he died, that he was forced to be carried in a chair into the Cardinal's lodgings. They were together many hours. What passed no one knew, but it is certain that the "amiable criminal," as Cinq-Mars is called by contemporary authors, was the scapegoat sacrificed to the offended dignity of the Cardinal; that Monsieur, the King's only brother, was to be tried for treason; and that Richelieu should be restored to the King's confidence. In his eagerness to propitiate his offended minister, Louis actually proposed to take his two sons from the custody of the Queen and place them with the Cardinal, in order to guarantee his personal safety. This abject proposition was declined by Richelieu, who was unwilling to provoke the Queen's active hostility at so critical a moment.

Richelieu had conquered, but he was dying. Though his body was broken by disease, his mind was vigorous as ever; in revenge and hatred, in courage and fortitude, his spirit was still lusty. In his enormous thirst of blood, none had ever excited him like the airy Marquis de Cinq-Mars,—a creature of his own, whom he had raised to the dizzy height of supreme power, to become his rival in love and power. The great minister felt he had made a mistake: it angered him. He had not patience to think that he should have been taken in by a butterfly, whose painted wings he had decorated with his own hands. He, the all-potent Cardinal, the ruler of France, circumvented by a boy! He swore a big oath that not only should Cinq-Mars die, but that death should be made doubly bitter to him.

Richelieu was now at Valence on the Rhone. How was he to reach Lyons, where the trial was to take place? The distance is considerable. His limbs were cramped and useless, his body racked by horrible pain. But go he would; if he died upon the road he would go. So he ordered a room of wooden planks to be constructed, gilt and painted like a coach, and lined with crimson damask. This room contained a bed, a table, and a chair. Within reclined the Cardinal. Too ill to bear the motion of a carriage, he was borne on the heads of twenty of his body-guard by land. Houses, walls, and gate-ways, were knocked down to make way for him. By water he was conveyed in a towing boat pulled up the Rhone against the current by horses to Lyons. Attached to this boat was another, in which the prisoners Cinq-Mars and De Thou were carried. So Richelieu passed onwards, with all the pomp of a Roman pro-consul conducting barbarian princes first to adorn his triumph, then to die! As for Monsieur, he had already made his peace with his brother and Richelieu. He turned King's evidence, and betrayed everybody. Fontrailles, who alone could have convicted him, was safe across the frontier. "Talk not to me of my brother," even the besotted Louis exclaimed, when he heard that Monsieur was again at liberty; "Gaston ever was, and ever will be, a traitor."

The only crime which even the ingenuity of Richelieu could prove against Cinq-Mars was that he had joined with Monsieur in a treaty with Spain. Now the original transcript of this treaty was lost, Fontrailles having carried it with him into the Netherlands, stitched in his pocket. If Monsieur the Duc d'Orléans, therefore, had declined to speak, Cinq-Mars and his friend De Thou must have been acquitted. But Monsieur, on the contrary, loudly demanded to be interrogated on his own complicity and on the complicity of Cinq-Mars. The Cardinal had already showed what was in his mind, by giving orders, as soon as he was lifted out of his portable chamber, on arriving at Lyons, and before the trial had begun, "for the executioner to hold himself in readiness."

The trial was on the 12th of September, 1642. It began at seven o'clock in the morning, at the Hôtel de Ville. The Chancellor Séguier, a personal enemy of Monsieur le Grand, who had affronted him in the days of his greatness, was the president, and Monsieur Duc d'Orléans the principal witness. Monsieur's evidence was given with touching candour. He was so careful to tell all the truth, so skilful in bringing out all those facts which were calculated to place Cinq-Mars in the most odious light, that the charges were easily proved to the satisfaction of the judges. The trial was over in a few hours. Then the two young men were summoned before the judges in the council-chamber to hear their sentence. It was read out to them by Monsieur de Palleruc, a member of the criminal court of Lyons. According to this sentence they were both to be beheaded; Cinq-Mars was to be tortured. He listened with calmness, De Thou with resignation. They both shook hands with their judges. "I am prepared to die," said Cinq-Mars to Séguier, the Chancellor, "but I must say the idea of torture is horrible and degrading. It is a most extraordinary sentence for a man of my rank and of my age. I thought the laws did not permit it. Indeed, I do not fear death, gentlemen," continued the poor lad, turning to the judges, "but I confess my weakness,—I dread torture. At least, I beseech you, let me have a confessor."

His request was complied with, and Father Malavette, a Jesuit, was brought into the council-chamber. As soon as he saw him Cinq-Mars ran forward and embraced him. "My father, they are going to torture me," he cried; "I can scarcely bring myself to bear it! What is your opinion?"

"That you must submit to the hand of God, Monseigneur. Nothing happens but by his permission."

Cinq-Mars bowed his handsome head, covered with the sunny curls, and was silent. From the council-chamber he was led by Monsieur de Lanbardemont, an officer of the Court, to the torture-room. Here he remained about half an hour, and suffered torture, both ordinary and extraordinary. His supple limbs and delicate skin were horribly lacerated. He was unable to walk when he came out, and was supported by the officials. "Let me now think of my soul," he said faintly; "send my confessor to me, and permit me to be alone with him." This wish was granted, and an hour passed, during which he confessed and received absolution. Then he said to Father Malavette, "I have not eaten for twenty-four hours, my father, and I am very weak. I fear if I do not take something I may swoon upon the scaffold, though indeed, I assure you, I do not fear to die." A little wine and bread were brought to him, of which he partook. "Ah! my father," said the poor boy of twenty-two, "what a world it is! Everybody I know has forsaken me. How strange it is! I thought I had many friends, but I see no one cares for me now but poor De Thou, whom I alone have brought to this pass."

"Alas! my son, you are young, or you would not wonder at this," answered Father Malavette sorrowfully; "'put not your faith in princes.' What says Ovid too, who, like you, enjoyed the favour of Augustus, and was then cruelly punished?

"'Donec eris felix, multos numerabis amicos.'"

"But, my father, when I was the favourite of his Majesty, I tried to serve my friends in every way I possibly could, yet now I am alone."

"No matter," said the priest, shaking his head, "your service to them only made them your enemies."

"Alack, I fear it is so," replied Cinq-Mars, sighing deeply. Then he asked for paper, and wrote to his mother. He prayed her to pay all his debts, and again expressed his utter astonishment at the conduct of his friends. At three o'clock in the afternoon both he and De Thou were carried in a hired coach into the Place des Terraux, lying over against the banks of the river Soane, in the outskirts of the city. Here the scaffold was erected. Every house in the Place was covered by temporary balustrades and balconies; the roofs also were crowded with spectators. Thousands had come together to see the favourite die.

Cinq-Mars with difficulty mounted the ladder leading to the scaffold, with the help of Father Malavette. Then, still holding him by the hand to steady his wounded limbs, he raised his plumed hat from off his head, and, with a graceful air, saluted the multitude. He turned to every side, and passed around to each face of the platform, so that all might see him and receive his salutation. He wore a court suit of fine Holland broadcloth, trimmed with gold lace; his black hat ornamented with red feathers was turned back in the Spanish style. He had high-heeled shoes with diamond buckles, and green silk stockings, and he carried a large scarlet mantle, to cover his body after decapitation, neatly folded on one arm. His fair young face was perfectly serene, and his clustering curls, slightly powdered, were scented and tended as carefully as heretofore. Having bowed to the crowd, he replaced his hat on his head, and, with his hand resting on his right side, he turned round to look about him. Behind were two blocks, covered with red cloth. Beside them stood the executioner. He was only a city porter—the regular official being ill—a coarse and brutal fellow, with bloated face, wearing the dress of a labourer. When he came up to Cinq-Mars with scissors to cut off his hair, M. le Grand put him away with a motion of disgust. He begged Father Malavette to do him this office, and to keep his hair for his mother. While the long ringlets which fell over his shoulders were being cut off, Cinq-Mars turned towards the executioner, who had not yet taken the axe out of a dirty bag which lay beside him, and asked him haughtily, "What he was about?" and "Why he did not begin?" The rude fellow making a wry face in reply, Cinq-Mars frowned, and addressed himself to Father Malavette. "My father," said he, "assist me in my prayers, then I shall be ready."

After he had prayed very devoutly, and kissed the crucifix repeatedly, he rose from his knees, and again in a firm voice repeated, "I am ready, begin!" Then he added, "May God have mercy upon me, and forgive my sins." He threw away his hat, unloosed the lace ruff about his throat, put back his hair from his face, and laid his head on the block. Several blows descended ere his head was severed from the body; the executioner being unready and new to his office. When the head fell it gave a bound, turned itself a little on one side, and the lips palpitated visibly, the eyes being wide open. The body was covered with the scarlet mantle borne by Cinq-Mars on his arm for that purpose, and carried away to be buried.

The King, informed by the Cardinal of the precise day and hour when Cinq-Mars would suffer death,—for every detail had been virtually arranged before Richelieu left Valence in his wooden chamber,—took out his watch at the appointed time, and, with the most perfect unconcern, remarked to Chavigny, "At this moment Monsieur le Grand is making an ugly face at Lyons."

Then Richelieu ordered that the feudal castle of Cinq-Mars, in the valley of the Loire, should be blown up, and the towers razed "to the height of infamy."

CHAPTER VII.

THE END OF THE CARDINAL.

WHEN the Louvre was a walled and turreted stronghold, with moat and drawbridge, bastion and tower, lying on grassy banks beside the river Seine, then unbordered by quays and untraversed by stone bridges, an ancient castle, strongly fortified, stood in the open country, hard by, without the city walls. In the time of Charles VI., the mad king, husband of the notorious Isabeau de Bavière, this castle belonged to Bernard Comte d'Armagnac, Constable of France, the ally of the English against his own sovereign, and a leader in those terrible civil wars that desolated France throughout the space of two reigns. Hither the English and the Burgundians often repaired, to meditate some murderous coup de main upon the capital, to mass their bloodthirsty troops for secret expeditions, or to seek a safe retreat when the fortune of war was adverse. As time went by this castle grew grey with age; the rebel nobles to whom it belonged were laid in their graves; no one cared to inhabit a gloomy fortress, torn and battered by war and sacked by marauders. The wind howled through the desolate chambers, owls hooted from the rents in its turrets, and noisome reptiles crawled in the rank weeds which choked up its courts. It came to be a gruesome place, lying among barren fields, where the ruffians and desperadoes of the city resorted to plan a murder or to hide from justice. This God-forgotten ruin and the foot-trodden fields about it were purchased at last by wealthy nobles, who loved the fresh country breezes beyond the new streets which now arose on this side of the river. The materials of the old castle served to furnish walls for the palaces of the Rambouillets and the Mercœurs, historic names in every age of the national annals. Here they kept their state, until Cardinal Richelieu, either by fair means or foul, it mattered little to him, bought and destroyed their spacious mansions, pulled down all that remained of the castle walls, filled up the ditches, levelled the earth, and, on the ill-omened spot, raised the sumptuous pile known as the Palais Cardinal, near, yet removed from, the residence of the sovereign at the Louvre. The principal buildings ran round an immense central square, or courtyard, planted symmetrically with trees and adorned with fountains and statues. From this central square four other smaller courts opened out towards each point of the compass. There was a chapel splendidly decorated, and, to balance that, two theatres, one sufficiently spacious to hold three thousand spectators, painted on panel by Philippe de Champagne. There were ballrooms furnished with a luxury unknown before; boudoirs—or rather bowers—miracles of taste and elegance; galleries filled with pictures and works of art, and countless suites of rooms, in which every decoration and adornment then practised were displayed. Over the grand entrance in the Rue Saint-Honoré appeared, carved in marble, the arms of Richelieu, surmounted by a cardinal's hat and the inscription "Palais Cardinal." Spacious gardens extended at the rear.

Still the Cardinal, like Wolsey at Hampton Court, added wall to wall of the already overgrown palace, and bought up street after street within the city to extend the gardens, until even the subservient Louis showed some tokens of displeasure. Then, and not till then, did the Cardinal cease building. At his death he presented his palace to the sovereign; and from that day to this the Palais Cardinal, now Palais Royal, has become an appanage of the State.

Before us stands the Palais Cardinal—solitary, in the midst of lonely gardens, sheltered by waving groves. The greensward is divided by straight walks, bordered by clipped lime-trees, rounded at intervals into niches for statues and trophies; balustraded terraces border deep canals, and fountains bubble up under formal groups of yew or cypress. The palace casts deep shadows on the grass. It is very still. High walls encircle the enclosure. The very birds are mute. Not the bay of a hound is heard. Moss gathers on the paths and among the tangled shrubberies, and no flowers catch the radiance of the sunshine. Within is the great, the terrible Cardinal. The ground is sacred to the despot of France, the ruler of the monarch, the glance of whose eye is death or fortune. Journeying direct from Lyons in his chamber on wheels—after the execution of Cinq-Mars—to Fontainebleau, where he rested, he is come here to die. Yonder he lies on a bed of state, hung with embroidered velvet in a painted chamber, the walls covered with rare pictures and choicest tapestry, the windows looking towards the garden. The moment approaches when he will have to answer for his merciless exercise of absolute power over king and people, to that Heavenly Master whose priest and servant he professes to be. How will he justify his bitter hatred, his arrogant oppression of the great princes and nobles of France? How will he meet the avenging ghosts of the chivalrous Montmorenci, the poetic Chalais, the gallant Cinq-Mars, the witty Saint-Preuil, the enthusiastic Urbain Grandier, in the unknown country whither he is fast hastening? Who tried to seduce, then to ruin, the Queen, Anne of Austria, and send her back, divorced and disgraced, into Spain? Who turned the feeble Louis into a servile agent of his ambition, and exercised over his weak mind a tyranny as shameful to himself as degrading to the sovereign? True, Richelieu may plead reasons of State, a rebellious nobility, traitorous princes, and an imbecile king; but the isolation of the throne, begun under his rule, was both barbarous and impolitic, as after ages showed. True, he possessed rare genius, and his life was industriously devoted to what he called "the glory of France"; but it was a mean and selfish glory, to attain which he had waded through the noblest blood of the land.

Look at him now—he has just received extreme unction. A hypocrite to the last, he folds his hands on his breast and exclaims—"This is my God; as in his visible presence, I declare I have sacrificed myself to France." When he is asked by the officiating priest—"If he forgives his enemies?"—he replies, "I have no enemies but those of the State." Now the hand of death is visibly upon him. In a loose robe of purple silk, he lies supported by pillows of fine lace. He is hardly recognisable, so great have been his sufferings, so complete is his weakness; his bloodless lips pant for breath, his hollow eyes wander on vacancy, his thin fingers work convulsively on the sheets, as though striving against the approach of invisible foes.

But, before he departs, a signal honour is reserved for him. Behold, the rich velvet curtains, heavy with golden embroideries, are held aside by pages who carry plumed hats in their hands, and Louis XIII. enters hastily. He is bareheaded, and is accompanied by the princes of the blood and the great ministers of State. Louis is so shrunken and attenuated, so white and large-eyed, that in any other presence he might have been deemed a dying man himself. As he advances to the ruelle that encloses the bed, he composes his thin lips and pinched face into a decent expression of condolence. How can he but affect to deplore the death of a minister whose fierce passions overshadowed his whole life like a moral upas-tree? Nevertheless the fitting phrases are spoken, and he embraces the ghastly form stretched out before him with a semblance of affection. The expiring Cardinal presses the hand of his master, and makes a sign that he would speak. Louis bows down his head to catch the feeble voice, which says—"Sire, I thank you for this honour; I have spent my whole life in your service. I leave you able ministers; trust them, Sire; but,"—and he stops and struggles fearfully for breath,—"but, beware of your Court. It is your petit coucher who are dangerous. Your favourites have troubled me more than all your enemies." Then the Cardinal sinks back, fainting on his pillows.

Louis withdraws with affected concern; but, ere he reaches the spacious anteroom, lined with the Cardinal's retainers in magnificent liveries, he bursts into an inhuman laugh—"There goes a great politician to his death," he says to Chavigny, who is beside him, and he points with his thumb towards the Cardinal's chamber; "a wonderful genius. Now he is gone I shall be free—I shall reign." He chuckles with delight at the idea of being at last rid of the Cardinal; and a grim smile spreads itself over his ashen face.

It is a ghastly joke, as cruel as it is selfish. As if Louis's life were bound up in the existence of his great minister—he is himself a corpse within a year!

CHAPTER VIII.

THE QUEEN REGENT.

LOUIS XIV. was four years and a half old when his father died at Saint-Germain, aged forty-two. Tardy in everything, Louis XIII. was six weeks in dying. The state christening of his son was celebrated during his illness. When asked his name, the little lad replied, "I am Louis XIV."

"Not yet, my son, not yet," murmured the dying King, "but shortly, if so it please God."

Anne of Austria, named Regent by her husband's will, rules in her son's name. A splendid Court assembles round her, at the Louvre, at Saint-Germain, and at Fontainebleau. Her exiled favourites are there to do her homage. The Duchesse de Chevreuse, after a long sojourn in Spain, England, and Flanders,—for she loves travel and the adventures of the road, either masked, or disguised as a page, a priest, or a cavalier,—is reinstated in her Majesty's favour. In Spain the Duchess's vanity was gratified by enslaving a royal lover—the King of Spain, brother of Anne of Austria; in England she diverted herself with fomenting personal quarrels between Charles I. and Henrietta Maria; in Flanders—a dull country—she found little to amuse her.

Mademoiselle de Hautefort (soon to become Duchesse and Maréchale de Schomberg) returns in obedience to the Queen's command, who wrote to her even when the King was alive, "Come, dearest friend, come quickly. I am all impatience to embrace you!"

The Duchesse de Sennécy arrives from the provinces, and the Chevalier de Jars from England. The latter had been imprisoned in the Bastille, and threatened with torture by Richelieu, to force him to betray the Queen's correspondence with Spain at the time of the Val de Grâce conspiracy. He had been liberated, however, but while the Cardinal lived had remained in England.

These, among many other faithful attendants, resume their places at the petit coucher, in the grand cercle, and at the morning lever.

Then there are the princes and princesses of the blood-royal:—Monsieur the Duc d'Orléans—no longer breathing vows of love in the moonlight, but a veteran intriguer—living on the road to Spain, which always meant rebellion, together with his daughter, La Grande Mademoiselle, a comely girl, the greatest heiress in Europe; Cæsar, Duc de Vendôme, son of Gabrielle and Henry IV., with his Duchess and his sons, the Ducs de Mercœur and De Beaufort; Condé, the uncrowned head of the great house of Bourbon—more ill-favoured and avaricious than ever—his jealous temper now excited against the bastards of the house of Vendôme, with his wife, Charlotte de Montmorenci, sobered down into a dignified matron, devoted to her eldest son, the Duc d'Enghien, and to her daughter, the Duchesse de Longueville, the brightest ornament of the Court; the Duc de Rochefoucauld and his son, the Prince de Marsillac, the author of Les Maximes, to become a shadow on the path of the last-named Duchess, who is to die in a convent; the great House of La Tour d'Auvergne, Viscomtes de Turenne and Ducs de Bouillon, from which springs Henri de Turenne, the rival of young Condé; Séguier, Duc de Villemer, generously forgiven for the part he took against the Queen as Chancellor, at the Val de Grâce; and, last of all, Henry, Duc de Guise—by-and-by to astonish all Europe by his daring escapade at Naples, where, but for Masaniello, he might have been crowned King, with the Queen's beautiful maid of honour, Mademoiselle de Pons, at his side.

There is also about the Court a young man named Giulio Mazarin, born in Rome of a Sicilian family, late secretary to Cardinal Richelieu. He has passed many years in Spain, and can converse fluently in that language with her Majesty whenever she deigns to address him. He has a pale, inexpressive face, with large black eyes, à fleur de tête, generally bent on the ground. His manners are modest, though insinuating; his address is gentle, his voice musical. Like all Italians, he is artistic; a conoscente in music, a collector of pictures, china, and antiquities. So unobtrusive and accomplished a gentleman cannot fail to please, especially as he is only a deacon, and, with a dispense, free to marry. The Queen, who often converses with him in her native tongue, appreciates his merits. Her minister, the Bishop of Beauvais, leaves the Court. He finds that his presence is useless, as the Queen acts entirely under the advice of this young Italian, whom she also selects as guardian to the young King, who, poor simple boy, looks on Mazarin as a father.

VICOMTE DE TURENNE.

The Regency begins auspiciously. Fifteen days after the death of Louis XIII. the decisive victory of Rocroy was gained over the Spaniards by the Duc d'Enghien, a youthful general of twenty-two. Paris was exultant. The roads were strewed with wreaths and flowers; tapestry and banners hung from every window, fountains of choicest wines flowed at the corners of the streets, and amid the booming of cannon, the blare of trumpets, the crash of warlike instruments, and the frantic shouts of an entire population, the Queen, and her little four-year old son, ride in a gold coach to hear a Te Deum at Notre-Dame.

Her Majesty's authority is much increased by this victory. Mazarin, under favour of the Queen, gradually acquires more and more power. He presides at the council; he administers the finances—for which he came to be called "the plunderer"; he tramples on the parliament and bullies the young King. The princes of the blood and all the young nobles are excluded from offices of state or places in the household. Every one begins to tremble before the once modest young Italian, and to recall with dismay the eighteen years of Richelieu's autocracy.

But Mazarin has a rival in Henri de Gondi, afterwards Cardinal de Retz, now coadjutor to his uncle, the Archbishop of Paris. No greater contrast can be conceived than between the subtle, shuffling Italian, patient as he is false, and Gondi, bold, liberal, independent, generous even to his enemies, incapable of envy or deceit, grasping each turn of fortune with the ready adaptiveness of genius, and swaying the passions of men by his fiery eloquence; a daring statesmen, a resolute reformer, one of whom Cromwell had said—"that he, De Retz, was the only man in Europe who despised him."

Gondi considered himself sacrificed to the Church—for which he had no vocation—and did his utmost, by the libertinism of his early life, to render his ordination impossible; but in vain. Although he had abducted his own cousin, and been the hero of numberless scandals, the Archbishopric of Paris was considered a sinecure in the family of Gondi, and Archbishop and Cardinal he must be in spite of his inclination and of his excesses. In politics he was a republican, formed on the pattern of Cato and of Brutus, whose lives he had studied at the Sorbonne. He loved to be compared to Cicero and to Cataline, and to believe himself called on to revolutionize France after the fashion of a factious conspirator of old Rome. He longed to be anything belligerent, agitative—tribune, general, or demagogue. "Ancient Rome," he said, "honoured crime, therefore crime was to be honoured." "Rather let me be the leader of a great party than an emperor!" exclaimed he, in the climax of one of his thrilling perorations. The mild precepts of the gospel were clearly little to his taste. He had mistaken not only his vocation but his century. He should have lived in the Middle Ages; and as an ecclesiastical prince-militant led armies into battle, conquered territories, and made laws to subject peoples. Yet underlying the wild enthusiasm of his language, and the reckless energy of his actions, there was a kindly, almost gentle temper that imparted to his character a certain incompleteness which accounts for the falling off of his later years. Grand, noble as was De Retz, Mazarin ultimately beat him and remained master of the situation.

Under the guidance of Gondi (De Retz) the parliament, paralysed for a time, soon learns its power, and gives unmistakable tokens of insubordination by opposing every edict and tax proposed by the Government. Some of the most fractious of "these impertinent bourgeois," as Condé called them, were arrested and exhibited in chains like captives in a Roman triumph—at Notre-Dame on the occasion of a second Te Deum sung for a second great victory gained by young Condé. Mazarin, by this act, over-taxed the endurance of the citizens. In one night two hundred barricades rise in the streets of Paris. The Queen-Regent can see them from her windows. This ebullition of popular fury appears to Gondi as the realisation of his youthful dreams. The moment has come to make him a tribune of the people. He has loyally warned the Regent of the impending peril. The Queen considered his words mere bravado, and treated him personally with suspicion and contempt. Gondi was warned that Mazarin had decided on his exile. His generous nature was outraged: "To-morrow," he said, "before noon, I will be master of Paris." Noon did see him master of Paris; but, loose as was his estimate of the sacredness of his office, he was still Archbishop-Coadjutor; he could not personally lead the rabble, or publicly instigate the citizens to rebellion. A man of straw must represent him, and do what he dared not—harangue at the crosses and corners of the streets, head the popular assemblies, and generally excite the passions of the turbulent Parisians to fever heat. This man of straw was found in the Duc de Beaufort, grandson of Henri Quatre, through Gabrielle d'Estrées,—a dandy, a swaggerer, but a warrior.

Now the Duc de Beaufort, hot-headed and giddy, without either judgment or principles, cares little for either Cardinal, Coadjutor, or Queen,—is utterly indifferent as to who may rule or who may serve, provided always his own claims, as prince of the blood, to the most lucrative posts are admitted. But he does care very much for an affront offered to the Duchesse de Montbazon, of whom he is desperately enamoured.

The Duchesse de Montbazon, stepmother of the Duchesse de Chevreuse, and lady in waiting to the Queen, finds late one evening, on returning to her hotel, two love-letters dropped on the floor of her private closet. One is from a gentleman, the other is from a lady; both are unsigned. She of course at once decides that the handwriting of the one is that of the lady she most hates, that of the other, the lover of that same lady, whom she hates even more, if possible, than the lady herself. Now the lady whom she hates most is the Duchesse de Longueville, younger, more attractive, and more powerful than herself. The gentleman she selects is the Count de Coligni, who had deserted her for the sake of the Duchess. The next morning, at the Queen's lever, Madame de Montbazon shows these two love-letters to every one, and being the mistress of a caustic tongue, makes some diverting remarks on their contents. Her words are repeated to the Duchesse de Longueville; she denies the fact altogether. Her mother, the Princesse de Condé, Charlotte de Montmorenci, broadly hints to Anne of Austria that the Prince de Condé, the greatest general France had ever possessed since the days of the Constable de Bourbon, will join the malcontent parliament, nay, may even lead Spain into France, if her Majesty does not instantly cause the Duchesse de Montbazon to retract all she has said of his sister. Such is patriotism under the Regency! The Queen, overwhelmed by the clamour of the two duchesses, invokes the help of Cardinal Mazarin. The Cardinal, in his Italian-French, soothes and persuades both, muttering many classic oaths of Cospetto and Corpo di Bacco under his breath. He goes to and fro between the ladies, flatters both, and proposes terms of apology. Every suggestion is objected to; an hour is spent over each word. Such a negotiation is far more difficult than the government of France. All conclusion seems impossible, the Queen at last speaks with authority. She says that "if Madame de Montbazon will not retract, she shall lose her place at Court."

So Spain is not at this time to invade France under the command of Condé, and the Duchesse de Longueville is to receive an apology.

The apology is to be made at the Hôtel de Condé. The Duchesse de Longueville—a superb blonde, with melting blue eyes, golden-brown hair, transparent complexion, and a dazzling neck and shoulders, a coronet of orient pearls and a red feather on her head, a chaplet of the same jewels clasping her throat, wearing a robe of blue tissue, bordered and worked with pearls—stands in the great saloon of her father's ancestral palace. Her feet rest on a dais of cloth of gold and silver; the dais is covered by a canopy spangled with stars. The walls of the saloon are covered with bright frescoes of birds, fruit, and flowers, panelled into golden frames. Four great chandeliers of crystal and silver are placed on pedestals at each corner of the room, lighting up a glittering crowd of princes and princesses of the blood who stand beside the Duchess on the estrade. The greatest nobles of France are present. The doors are flung open, and the Duchesse de Montbazon, a dainty brunette, brilliant, audacious, enticing, who, although forty, is still in the zenith of her charms, flashes into the room in full court costume, her sacque (or train) of amber satin brocaded with gold reaching many yards behind her. The colour on her cheeks is heightened either by rouge or passion; her eyes glitter, and her whole bearing is of one who would say, "I must do this, but I defy you." She knows that all the gentlemen take part with her, if the ladies side with her enemy. She walks straight up to the dais on which the Duchesse de Longueville, née Princesse de Condé, stands, stops, looks her full in the face, then leisurely and with the utmost unconcern casts her eyes round on the company, smiles sweetly to the Duc de Beaufort, and bows to those princes and nobles who are her champions, particularly to the Ducs d'Orléans and de Guise. Then she unfolds her painted fan, and with insolent unconcern reads what follows from a slip of pink paper attached to one of the jewelled sticks:

"Madame, I come here to assure your highness that I am quite innocent of any intention of injuring you. Had it not been so I would humbly beg your pardon, and willingly submit to any punishment her Majesty might see fit to impose on me. I entreat you, therefore, to believe that I have never failed in the esteem which your virtues command, nor in the respect due to your high rank."

The Duchesse de Longueville's soft blue eyes, usually incapable of any other expression but tenderness or supplication, look absolutely wicked, so defiant is the bearing of Madame de Montbazon. She advances to the edge of the estrade, draws herself up with an imperious air, and casting a haughty glance at her rival, who, crimson in the face, is fanning herself violently and ogling the Duc de Beaufort, reading also from her fan, pronounces the following words, dictated by Cardinal Mazarin:

"Madame, I am willing to believe that you took no part in the calumny which has been circulated to my prejudice. I make this acknowledgment in deference to the commands of the Queen."

Thus ends the quarrel; but not the consequences. The whole Court and city is in an uproar. The citizens are deeply interested, and to a man take part with the chère amie of Beaufort against the Duchesse de Longueville, and against Condé and Mazarin.

THE GRAND CONDÉ.

Condé is not sure if he will not after all lead the Spaniards against France. The Duchesse de Montbazon feeds the flame for her private ends. She lays all the blame of her humiliation on Cardinal Mazarin, which exasperates Beaufort to madness. She incites Henri, Duc de Guise, another of her adorers—the wildest, bravest, and most dissolute of princes—to challenge the Comte de Coligni, whom she had designated as the writer of one of the love-letters. A duel is fought in the Place Royale. The Duchesse de Montbazon watches the while out of a window of the palace of the Duc de Rohan, her cousin. Coligni is killed. He falls, it is said, into the arms of the Duchesse de Longueville, who is present on the Place, disguised as a page.

The Duc de Beaufort, whose turbulent folly foreshadows the grand seigneur of later reigns and almost excuses the great Revolution, refuses to receive a royal herald, sent to him by the Queen, turns his back upon her Majesty at her lever, and threatens the life of the Cardinal. The Duchesse de Montbazon is banished.

Cardinal Mazarin as an Art Collector.
From the painting by H. J. Vetter.
(With permission of Neurdein Frères, Paris.)

CHAPTER IX.

THE DUC DE BEAUFORT.

THE Duc de Beaufort is summoned to a private audience at the Louvre. On his way up the grand staircase entering from the inner quadrangle he meets his mother, the Duchesse de Vendôme, and his sister, the Duchesse de Nemours, who, their attendance on the Queen over, are descending.

"Good God! Francis," cries his mother, raising her hands with a gesture of horror, "I thought you were safe at Rambouillet. You within the Louvre at this moment? You must be mad!" And she throws herself upon him and tries to bar his further passage.

"Oh, my brother!" exclaims his sister Nemours, in the same breath, throwing her arms around his neck; "in the name of the Holy Virgin, do not tempt your fate. Fly, dear Francis—fly, while you can—our coach is waiting below—come with us instantly." And Madame de Nemours takes him by the arm, and tries to draw him downwards.

Beaufort plants himself firmly on the stair. His first impulse is to push them both forcibly aside, and to proceed; his next to curse their folly in the spicy argot of the halles. He does neither; but stands open-mouthed, his fierce eyes demanding an explanation he does not condescend to ask. The explanation is soon forthcoming.

"My son," cries his mother, bursting into tears, and seizing on his hand to detain him, as he makes a motion as if to evade them, "listen to me, I implore you. Your sister and I have been in waiting on the Queen many hours to-day. She is terribly incensed against you. People have been coming all day with tales to her here, at the Louvre. Crowds have filled her audience chamber."

"Mille Diables! What do you mean, mother?" bursts out Beaufort, shaking himself free from both ladies. "You call me mad, if any one be mad it is yourselves. I am here, summoned by the Queen herself, to a private audience. Ventre de ma vie!"—Beaufort much affects some of the favourite oaths of his grandfather, Henri Quatre—"what are her Majesty's humours to me?"

"Oh, Francis," sobs the Duchesse de Nemours, "what have you done? You have threatened the life of Cardinal Mazarin. The Queen knows it. She has sent for you to secure your person. She can have no other motive. Nothing can exceed her indignation. She said, in my hearing, that you had personally insulted her; that your party, the Importants, were the curse of her reign; and that the Duchesse de Montbazon corrupted the princes of the blood by her intrigues. In the name of Heaven, do not venture near her Majesty if you value your liberty, or even your life!"

The Duchesse de Vendôme wrings her hands while her daughter is speaking.

"For my sake, quit Paris, my dear son. If you remain, not even Gondi can save you. Come with us instantly, and cross the frontier while you can."

Her words are broken; she trembles at her son's manifest danger; Beaufort looks at her, shakes his head, and bursts into a loud laugh.

"You are a couple of lunatics, both of you"—and again he laughs—"I shall not leave Paris; I will not even hide myself. Calm yourself, mother,"—and he kisses her on the cheek—"her Majesty has summoned me to a private audience. I shall obey her. She is no traitress. I have been guilty of rudeness towards her. I go to wipe out the remembrance of it. I am rough, but not brutal, especially to the Queen. Besides, they dare not arrest me." [1]

[1] These words, spoken by the Duc de Beaufort, are the same as those of the Balafré, at Blois, before his assassination by Henry III.

Saying which, he pushes his mother and sister, who still endeavour to stop him, on one side, and bounds up the stairs.

It is evening. Anne of Austria is alone in a spacious withdrawing-room, from which her private writing-closet opens. Four lofty windows turn towards the river—one is open. She sits beside it, gazing at the dazzling tints of the summer sunset that lace the western heavens with bars of fire. In front rise the double towers of Notre-Dame. The fretted spire of the Sainte-Chapelle glistens against a bank of heavy clouds that are rapidly welling up from the south. These clouds deepen with the twilight. The lustre of a stormy sunset soon fades out. The sun disappears, and darker and denser clouds gather and thicken, and obscure the light. Low thunder rumbles in the distance, and a few heavy raindrops descend. Long shadows fall across the floor, the corners of the room grow dark, and only a few bright gleams, lingering low on the horizon, rest on the Queen's face and figure.

Anne of Austria has now passed into middle life; her form is full, her movements heavy. The glorious eyes are still lustrous, but no longer flash with the fire of youth. Her hair, though still abundant, has lost its glossy brightness. Her dress is rich, her bearing cold and stately. She affects a distant, almost a haughty manner, and is severe in exacting the most rigid etiquette from all who approach her, save alone the Cardinal. He comes and goes as he lists, smiling and obsequious, but no longer humble or subservient as of yore. Indeed, at times he treats her Majesty with absolute familiarity, to the utter dismay of the Duchesse de Chevreuse and Mademoiselle de Hautefort. When not engaged with Mazarin in state affairs, or in giving audiences, the Queen passes her time in her oratory. Not only is she devout herself, but exacts at all events the same outward show of piety from her ladies.

Twilight has deepened into gloom, ere the Duc de Beaufort enters. He stands in shadow, and as he glances at the Queen, he inwardly apostrophises his mother and sister as a couple of fools and gossips, for imagining him to be in any danger of her displeasure. His boisterous bearing—for he affects the manners of the lowest of the populace, the better to sway them, and by so doing to embarrass the minister—is visibly softened. He remembers with pain the insults of which he has been guilty in turning his back on the Queen, when they last met, and in refusing to receive her herald. He is both repentant and flattered at her summons. His obeisance to her is unusually low, and some tokens of emotion betray themselves on his dissipated, though handsome countenance.

"Good evening, cousin," says Anne of Austria, as he enters, a gracious smile upon her face, and with that queenly grace natural to her, she presents her still beautiful hand to him, which he kisses kneeling. "Where have you been these four days past? You are a stranger at the Louvre."

Her voice is sweet, her look is gentle. It is impossible that what Beaufort has heard can be true.

"Madame," he answers, bowing, "had I not been absent from Paris, I should not have failed to present my duty to your Majesty. But I am only just returned from a hunting-party at Rambouillet, whither I went with my brother-in-law, Nemours. Until I came back I did not know that you had asked for me. What can I do for your Majesty's service? I am always at your command."

"Ah, cousin, you are always at my command, I know," answers the Queen, repeating his words, and she gives a little laugh. Beaufort winces at the covert rebuke. He feels that her meaning must be ironical, yet she speaks caressingly, and the same gracious smile still plays about her mouth.

"You once called me the most honourable man in France, Madame; I am proud to remember it." Beaufort speaks roughly, and in a loud voice; the momentary polish is passing away with the momentary emotion. "I am what I ever was. I do not change. I wish I could say the same of your Majesty. Madame, you have greatly altered," and he looks at her straight in the face. Anne of Austria shifts her position, so as to sit in shadow, then she replies:—

"I have no special purpose in summoning you, cousin, save for the satisfaction your presence here gives me." Again Beaufort feels the covert stab, and observes that she studiously avoids noticing his remarks on her altered conduct towards him.

"You and I," adds the Queen, in a voice strangely monotonous, "are indeed old friends and comrades as well as cousins."

"You have not a truer friend in whole France than I am," answers the Duke vehemently, and he advances a step or two towards the window, near which the Queen sits, raises his hand to emphasise his words, and lets it fall so heavily on a table near as to make the whole room echo. The Queen still smiles graciously.

"Yes, Madame, I am no courtier; I hate courts; but before you made that Italian facchino your favourite you relied on Beaufort." As he pronounced the Cardinal's name his face hardens and his hands clench themselves; an almost imperceptible shudder passes over the Queen. Then he continues:—

"Was it not to Beaufort that you entrusted the sacred person of his Majesty and your own safety after the death of your husband, before the Regency was settled?"

Anne of Austria bows her head in silence. She is evidently determined not to take offence. If any one else had dared to mention the Cardinal to her in such language she would have ordered him to the Bastille.

Had the Duke been less giddy this knowledge ought to have curbed him, especially after the warning he had received; but his thoughts are now passing into a different channel, and he heeds it not.

"Yes, cousin, I have known you long, and closely," is the Queen's cautious rejoinder. "You have been at Rambouillet, Prince," she continues; "have you had good sport? The canals there are, I am told, full of fat carp. Do you love fishing?"

The Duke stares at her without replying. The Queen, who appears to desire to continue the conversation, yet to avoid all discussion, still speaks—

"My son will grow up to be a keen sportsman, I hope. The royal forests must be better guarded. Did you and the Duc de Nemours find any deer at Rambouillet?"

Spite of the Queen's unusual loquacity, there is something in her manner which irritates the excitable Duke. He cannot altogether convince himself that she is not mocking him. He had come certainly repentant, but his fiery temper now overmasters him at the bare suspicion.

"Did your Majesty send for me to put such questions as these?" cries he roughly. "If so, I would rather have stayed at Rambouillet."

"Truly, Duke," replies the Queen evasively, colouring at his bluntness, "it is difficult to content you. I have already said that I summoned you for no special purpose, save that we might converse together"—and she stops suddenly, and hesitates—"as cousins, and as friends."

This last word is spoken slowly and with manifest effort. Her voice, which has a strange ring in it, is drowned by a clap of thunder, still distant, and a flash of lightning illuminates the room for an instant, and rests upon the long, fair hair and frowning countenance of Beaufort. Her words are bland, but her bearing is distant and constrained. Even the unobservant Beaufort is struck by this anomaly; but he attributes it to some vestige of displeasure at his late conduct.

"I trust, Madame, you will always treat me with the confidence proper to both these titles," he replies stiffly.

Her words appease, but do not satisfy him. Even while speaking, the Queen has turned her head towards the door of her writing closet, and listens. The wind roars without, and the waters of the Seine dash themselves against the low walls that border the Quay, but no sound within is audible. Anne of Austria resumes the conversation as though talking against time. But Beaufort, naturally unobservant, is now too much excited to notice this. He has forgotten all that his mother and sister had said. Not the slightest suspicion crosses his mind.

"It is a boisterous evening," continues the Queen, looking out of the window—a faint flash of lightning plays round her darkly robed figure—"but the storm is still distant. By-the-bye, my cousin, am I to congratulate you on being appointed beadle of Saint-Nicholas des Champs?" asks the Queen, still smiling. "The bourgeoisie must be greatly flattered by your condescension."

"That is a matter of opinion," answers Beaufort. "I glory in belonging to the people. I would rather be called Roi des Halles than King of France."

The Queen says no more, again she listens. She seems more and more embarrassed, and the conversation languishes. The Duke begins to be conscious that something is amiss. He even goes the length of secretly wishing that the interview were over. A heaviness oppresses him; it is stiflingly hot, and the thunder sounds nearer. The image of his mother weeping bitterly rises up, unbidden, before him. Can there be any truth in her warning?

"Yes," continues Beaufort, after an awkward pause, "yes, I may be too much of a Frondeur to please you, Madame, and for my own safety also." Again the Queen turns her head, and listens anxiously. "A Frondeur against a government headed by an alien—not a Frondeur against you, my cousin—never against you. To you I am ever loyal. You know this." His voice grew thick. He is much moved. "You, my cousin, can never forget my long exile, after the death of Cinq-Mars at Lyons, for your sake. Surely you cannot forget?"

Anne moves uneasily; she taps her small foot on the floor impatiently. Her eyes are bent outwards upon the approaching storm, which draws each instant nearer. The heavens are now like a wall of blackness, save where the lightning glitters for a moment. Yet she neither calls for lights, nor closes the window.

"Next to the Duchesse de Chevreuse," Beaufort continues, "Richelieu hated me, because I was devoted soul and body to you, and he knew it. Ah, my cousin, had the Duchess and I, your two friends, spoken, where would you have been now? Not on the throne, certainly. I carried your secret safely into England with me—I would have carried it to the grave—and you are Regent of France."

Whatever the Queen may feel, she carefully conceals it. A stony expression spreads itself over her face, and the smile on her lip becomes almost a grimace, her mouth is so tightly set.

"If I am grown rough and coarse," he continues, "like the rabble among whom I live—if I offend you by my frankness, remember Beaufort was faithful to you in adversity—most true and faithful."

The tears come into his eyes as he speaks; he brushes them off with his sleeve. The Queen is not at all moved by this appeal. A third time she turns her head as if listening for some expected sound—then, hearing nothing, her eyelids drop, and she plays with her fan.

"These are difficult times, my cousin," she says at last, speaking slowly. "Much depends on the princes of the blood. I reckon on you, Duke, as a firm pillar of the State," and she touches him with her fan.

Beaufort starts. "Would I were such a pillar!" he exclaims with warmth. "Take Gondi as your minister, my cousin. Send Mazarin back to the Roman gutter from whence he sprung. You would have no more trouble with the parliament. I warrant you they would obey you like lambs, my cousin. Banish Mazarin, and I will lead you and the young King in triumph throughout France. Not a Frondeur would be left in the land. If there were, I would shoot him with my own hand. Answer me, Madame; will you try?"

Beaufort stretches out his hand as he speaks, to clasp that of the Queen. Anne neither stirs, neither looks up, nor touches his hand. To speak is evidently difficult to her. Surely she must be expecting some one, for she again turns her head towards the writing-closet and listens. A sharp clap of thunder rattles through the room; when it is past her eyes rest upon the Duke, who is eagerly awaiting her reply. The set smile is still on her lips; she is about to answer him, when a distinct sound of footsteps is heard within in her writing-closet. A page enters, and announces Cardinal Mazarin's arrival to consult her Majesty on urgent state business. Beaufort's face darkens. Ere the page has ceased speaking, the long-gathering storm bursts forth with fury. A tremendous peal of thunder shakes the palace, and big drops of rain are driven through the window. The Queen rises hastily and signs to the page to close the sash. She is evidently greatly relieved. "I regret this interruption, Prince," she says, speaking rapidly, "but it is unavoidable. I must not keep the Cardinal waiting. I cannot, however, consider your audience as over. Will your highness favour me by remaining in the apartments of the ladies of honour until I am free?" and, not waiting for his reply, she hastily passes into her closet. Deluges of rain fall, flash after flash lights up the heavens, and peals of thunder rapidly succeed each other.

The Duc de Beaufort finds the Duchesse de Chevreuse and Mademoiselle de Hautefort sitting together in one of the apartments of the suite allotted to the ladies in waiting. As he enters they both rise hurriedly, and contemplate him in mute astonishment.

"Why, Duke," cries the Duchess, "is it possible? You here? You in the Louvre?"

"And why not, madame? What do these chattering women mean?" he mutters to himself. "One would think I were a monster."

"What! have you not heard, that you are accused of a plot to assassinate the Cardinal?"

"The Queen knows the particulars," broke in Mademoiselle de Hautefort. "She told me so at her lever this morning."

"Perhaps you will kindly inform me what these particulars are, madame?" replies Beaufort savagely.

"Why, Duke, you must be out of your senses!"

"Not that I know of, madame; pray let me hear of what I am accused."

"Why, that in order to take the Cardinal's life you had stationed soldiers in ambush along the road to Longchamps, to fire on him, as he passed in his coach on his way to dine with the President Maison."

"The simple-hearted Cardinal! Imagine, your highness," cries the Duchess, "Signor Giulio, after having said his prayers, trotting along demurely in his red coach, a perfect angel—wanting only wings to fly away from a wicked world, innocent of so much as an evil thought! We know you are a Frondeur, Duke, but you are also a barbarian to desire the life of such a saint," and the Duchess laughs her merry laugh.

"Perhaps, madame," says Beaufort, turning towards Mademoiselle de Hautefort, "you will have the goodness to proceed in the relation of my supposed crime?"

"I have neither the wit nor the high spirits of her Grace of Lorraine," replies she, "to jest. I assure you, Duke, it is a very grave matter. You are in the utmost danger. The Cardinal has made her Majesty believe that his life was only saved by the accidental arrival of the Duc d'Orléans—who was going to dine at the same party—on horseback, and who, as a violent shower of rain came on, dismounted and got into the Cardinal's coach. His presence saved the Cardinal, the guard could not fire upon his Royal Highness. You may imagine the agitation of her Majesty."

"Capital, capital!" exclaims the Duchess, clapping her hands, and still laughing; "admirably done. I never gave your highness credit for so much invention. What a pity the Duc d'Orléans did not start a little sooner," adds she, in a lower voice, "or that it rained! Signor Giulio would have been in heaven by this time."

The Duc de Beaufort sees that Mademoiselle de Hautefort looks both concerned and vexed at this levity. He had left his mother and sister as he entered, in tears. Was it possible all this might be true?

"I beseech you, Duke, to leave the Louvre while you can," says Mademoiselle de Hautefort, very earnestly.

"But I am waiting here, madame, at the express command of her Majesty, until Mazarin, with whom she is now engaged in the council-chamber, retires."

"Are they alone?" asks the Duchess.

"Yes, madame."

"Then, Duke, I do advise you at once to escape while you can. If her Majesty told you to remain, and she is now closeted with Mazarin, the sooner you pass the gates of Paris the better; unless your highness particularly desire to air the best set of rooms in the Bastille; and even they are dull," she adds, with that invincible desire to laugh and make others laugh, at once her charm and her defect.

Careless as is the Duc de Beaufort, his confidence is shaken. He had taken up his velvet cap to depart, when a knock is heard at the door.

"Come in," cries the Duchess.

It was Guitaut, Captain of the Queen's Guards. He walks up to the Duke, and lays his hand on his shoulder: "I command your highness to follow me, in the name of the King and of the Queen-Regent."

Even the Duchess becomes serious.

Beaufort eyes Guitaut for some time in silence. "This is very strange, Guitaut. There must be some mistake. I am here by her Majesty's commands, awaiting a further audience."

"I know nothing of that, your highness. My instructions are precise. You are under arrest."

Beaufort unbuckles his sword. He presents it to Guitaut. Then he turns to the Duchess and Mademoiselle de Hautefort, whose countenances express the concern they both feel. "You are witness, ladies, that I, a prince of the blood, am arrested when, in obedience to her Majesty's commands, I am awaiting the honour of a further audience. Pardieu, that sneaking varlet, Mazarin, shall pay for this. The Coadjutor will revenge me. Lead on, Guitaut. Where is it to be? The Bastille?"

"I have orders to conduct your highness to the Castle of Vincennes," replies Guitaut, bowing.

"To Vincennes! And by the Queen's order! Ventre de ma vie! she is a traitress after all!"

VINCENNES—OLD PRINT.
Prosp. du Chasteau de Vincennes.

CHAPTER X.

MIDNIGHT VISITORS.

THE Queen could no longer appear in the streets without insult. The mob laughed in her face, and called her Madame Anne. They saluted Mazarin with howls, as her bon ami; some said amant. The words sound much alike when shouted by a mob, and are not indeed always different in point of fact. Gondi, in the parliament, uttered thrilling words about la belle France going to perdition between a Spanish regent and an Italian minister. No president was found to rebuke him. Indeed when he demanded that the law respecting aliens holding office of state, passed against Concini (Maréchal d'Ancre) in the regency of Marie de' Medici, should be amended to suit the present crisis, his words were received with such a fury of applause that the roof was very nearly brought down about his head. Yet if any single member of that noisy parliament had been asked what national misfortune he dreaded, what unpunished crime, what neglect, or what personal hardship he desired to redress, he would have found it difficult to answer. It was the fashion for every one to be discontented and to rebel. If citizens, to call themselves Frondeurs; if nobles, Importants. To object to everything; to harass the Government, refuse to pay taxes and subsidies; and to threaten to call in Spain on the most trivial pretences. And this because two duchesses had quarrelled, and certain hungry princes had lost the sinecures they craved for. Thus began the civil war of the Fronde, which lasted during the whole of the minority of Louis XIV.

Mazarin, when he heard that the parliament, lashed on by Gondi, the Coadjutor, seriously proposed to revive an obsolete law, which would connect his name with that of Concini, who had been shot down like a dog within the precincts of the Louvre, was alarmed. Not being a soldier like Richelieu, nor a patriot like De Retz, but only a soft-spoken Italian, with a slight frame,—no unnecessary bones or muscles,—long thin hands, and a sallow, womanish face, he applied to the all-powerful Condé for help. Condé effected a compromise with Gondi. So no more was heard of the obnoxious law at that particular time. But the parliament had, like a young lion, tasted blood in the way of power, liked it, and was not to be appeased. Spite of Condé, seditious edicts and offensive measures, all suggested by the Coadjutor, continued to be passed; and Mazarin shut himself up within four walls, fearing for his very life.

It is night and very dark; only a few ill-trimmed lamps placed on pulleys across the street, and under the signs of the various shops, at long distances from each other, cast a dim and flickering light. The unpaved streets are muddy and full of holes; a mob is collecting in the darkness between the Louvre, the Church of Saint-Germain l'Auxerrois, and the garden of the Palais Royal. It thickens every moment; group after group of men and some women emerge from the gloom. They pour down from Saint-Jacques and from Saint-Antoine, from the quays and the heart of the old Roman city about Notre-Dame and the Hôtel Dieu. They gather from all quarters. Before an hour has passed, a dense multitude, many thousands in number, are packed together. Those who stand under the dim lamps have a dogged, resolute look. All eyes are directed towards the Palais Royal, separated by a high wall from the street. The huge building rises up a gaunt mass before them. Not a light is to be seen at any of the windows; not a sentinel is visible, they are withdrawn within the postern. Threats and oaths and ribald jests pass from mouth to mouth loudly and without fear; savage cries and shouts of laughter ring along the silent streets. Anne of Austria, with her two sons, is within the palace. She is quite aware what is passing without. From an upper window, in a darkened room, she watches the citizens pressing closer and closer to the gates. From amid the tumult, groans and imprecations are now audible; the words reach her ears. "Where is the little King?" cries one. "We will see him!" shrieks another. "You fool! he is not here," answers a third, a smith, as black as his forge, from the slums of Saint-Antoine. "Why not? where should he be but at home?" another voice asks. "We will force the gates, and find him!" roars a stumpy man, with stentorian voice, shaking his fist, and struggling to the front. "Find him! where will you find him? he is in Spain," shouts one at his elbow. "Curses on the Italian priest!" howl many voices in horrible chorus. This cry excites the entire multitude to frenzy; it is taken up from all parts, and a volley of groans and curses for a time drowns all else. The crowd surges to and fro, like breakers on a rocky shore. Each moment it approaches nearer the palace. A tall spare man, an emissary of De Retz, who all along has taken an active part in inciting the people, seizes on the moment as propitious, and calls out in a loud voice, "Death to Mazarin!" Thousands re-echo, "Death to Mazarin!" With hideous gesticulations they throw their arms aloft; caps fly into the air; innumerable hands are clapped in savage applause. "Death to Mazarin!" passes down the lines of the long streets. It is heard at the crossways, and at every side alley and opening, dying away in the far distance into indistinct murmurs.

CARDINAL DE RETZ.

The Queen hears this death-cry standing at the darkened window, and trembles. Again the maddened people shout, "Death to Mazarin!" and again, "Death!" is echoed from afar. "He has spirited away our little Louis into Spain to kill him!" "He has murdered the Regent!" yells out the tall, spare man, forcing his way hither and thither. "Death to the traitor!" "To the gallows with all foreigners!" is the murderous response of the mob.

Fresh cries now arise, led by the tall, spare man with the powerful voice. "Vive Gondi, our noble bishop! We will have Gondi! the Queen shall choose Gondi, our Coadjutor!" "Come forth and answer to us, Dame Anne!" shrieks a woman's shrill voice, very near the palace, during a momentary lull. "Come forth, or we will break in and shoot you! Where is our Roi des Halles? Where is Beaufort? Come out to us, and speak like an honest woman! Let Beaufort free!—Give up your lover, Mazarin!" bellows a fat beldame from the Halles. "Give up the bon ami, and we will roast him at the Grève, and dance round the bonfire!" and hideous peals of laughter, yells, hisses, and imprecations rise out of the night. Then, growing impatient, the whole mass, with one accord, vociferate, "We will see the King! where is the King? Show us the little King, or we will set fire to the palace. The King! the King!"

A tremendous rush is made from behind; those in front fall down, screaming that they are killed; others trample upon their bodies. The gates are forced; the foremost find themselves within the court. Pushed on by the press from behind, they now stand under the colonnade, then beneath the portico, on past the Queen's Guards, who, commanded only to defend, not to attack, stand back, drawn swords in their hands, darkly eying the rioters. The lofty portals of the Palais Royal are wide open; there are lights within the ample hall. Beyond is the grand staircase, with gilded banisters. Finding no obstacle, the rioters mount the stairs. On the first landing a woman stands, immovable. It is the Queen. She is alone. She is pale, but betrays no fear. The rude intruders draw back, amazed at the vision of majesty and loveliness before them. Anne of Austria beckons to them to advance. She places her finger on her lip, commanding silence. The rabble, before so noisy, are instantly hushed as by a charm. Signing to the foremost to follow her, she leads the way, through sumptuous chambers and vaulted galleries, to the King's sleeping-room. She approaches his little bed of gilt lattice-work, and gently drawing aside the lace curtains, displays Louis XIV. in the sound and tranquil sleep of childhood. The citizen Frondeurs are satisfied. The mothers bless his baby face and rich auburn curls. The men contemplate the Queen with awe. She stands beside the bed, surveying them with royal unconcern. When they have stared their full at the little King and at her, those who have already entered turn back. No others dare approach. Ashamed and silent, they retreat across the halls and through sculptured galleries in a very different spirit to that in which they came.

Anne of Austria grows more and more devout. She spends long hours in her oratory, prostrate before an image of the Magdalene. She often retires to the Val de Grâce, where she has built a splendid church, as a thank-offering for the birth of her sons. For days together she wears closely fitting serge dresses, buttoned up to the throat, like a lay nun. She fasts, and chastises herself with a severity proper alike to a sinner or a saint.

Yet there are whispers, and confidences, and anecdotes touching her intimacy with Cardinal Mazarin, not quite in accordance with such excessive austerity.

It is a liaison too public for intrigue, uneasy enough for marriage!

The constant reproaches she addresses to her ladies in waiting for their lack of devotion, tends rather to enrage than to edify these pretty sinners. Mademoiselle de Pons, with a smile and a toss of the head, draws Mademoiselle de la Mothe into a corner, and repeats some hard words the Queen has spoken to her. Mademoiselle de Hautefort, of a quick, impulsive temperament, is continually either in a passion or in tears. The Duchesse de Chevreuse is usually grave, and more silent than she ever was before. The Duchesse de Noailles, lady of the bedchamber, her attendance at the Palais Royal over, orders her coach, and, in company with the Duchesse de Sennécy, returns home to her hôtel in the Place Royale, in a very bad humour. Here a party of ladies, "her nineteen bosom friends," are awaiting her arrival. They are all eager for gossip, and all pledged to a vow of eternal secrecy, a promise they will keep as long as the retailer of the scandal is speaking. Coffee has been handed round in delicate cups of Oriental porcelain. Bonbons and cakes, served on trays of gold repoussé, have been discussed; the ladies lean back in their chairs, to listen with greater ease. Then the Duchesse de Noailles, addressing herself particularly to Madame de Sennécy and a certain Comtesse de Lude, remarkable for a thin pinched face and a very red nose, begins.

ANNE OF AUSTRIA.

CHAPTER XI.

THE TWO DUCHESSES.

"MESDAMES, you have asked me to give you some details of what is passing in the palace. I will do so; but do not imagine, for Heaven's sake, that I wish to spread evil reports or to act la scandaleuse. Far from it; as long as I remain in the Queen's service, whatever her conduct may be towards me, I shall bear it. I shall not dream of revenge."

"Oh, dear, no, not in the least," the ladies murmur; "nothing can be more proper."

"But, really, when I see such an affectation of devotion, that serge gown, and no ornaments except on state receptions; such severity, too, towards every one who dresses like the rest of the world—she told me the other day my dress was too décolleté—can you conceive?—it is more than human nature can bear. It sets me remembering certain stories well known to everybody within the palace, when her Majesty wore low dresses too, and was not quite such a dévote as she pretends to be now."

The assembled ladies assent silently. The Duchesse de Noailles, who is excited and has spoken quickly, having stopped to take breath, the Duchesse de Sennécy seizes the moment to break in—

"You may do as you please, dear Duchess, but for my part I am indignant with her Majesty. She has no gratitude. I might have ruined her years ago, when my cousin, Louise de Lafayette, could turn the late King Louis XIII. round her finger; one word from her, and the Queen would have been exiled! I am indignant, I repeat—I am actually not allowed to choose my own confessor! Her Majesty insists that I should select a Jesuit—a protégé of Mazarin—a man, as I believe, not to be trusted. And the reason she gives is, 'that it is for the good of my soul!' I can take care of my own soul, I suppose. I always confess twice a year. What is it to her Majesty if I do not confess at all!"

All the ladies murmur acquiescence, and the red-nosed Countess, Madame de Lude, says, "It is an impertinence."

"Every one must see," continues Madame de Sennécy, speaking rapidly, for she observes that Madame de Noailles is eager to proceed, "the power Mazarin exercises over her. In her youth Richelieu loved her: now it is Mazarin. She is born to ensnare the Sacred College—perhaps his Holiness himself, if he crossed the Apennines——"

"Oh, Duchess," exclaim several voices, "how shocking!" and some ladies hold up their fans before their faces.

"Gently, madame," says Madame de Noailles, interrupting; "I detest calumny. I only speak of the past—that cannot hurt her Majesty."

"I speak of the present," cries Madame de Sennécy with irritation. "There is quite enough to talk about in the present, without recalling the past. The partiality of the Queen positively injures Mazarin. I believe that this is the principal reason of the great animosity against him among the citizens of Paris, who call themselves Frondeurs."

"But, my très chère," answers Madame de Noailles,—the Mrs. Candour of that day, who, although quite as spiteful as her friend, had more discretion, and dreaded the mischief that might arise by-and-by if the tongues of all the assembled ladies were let loose,—"but, my très chère, it is believed that her Majesty is privately married to Mazarin; the Cardinal has never taken priest's orders; the Queen is a widow. Madame de Motteville is of this opinion; enfin, I believe it myself: else that sneaking, honey-mouthed Italian, whom we all knew as 'Signor Giulio,' secretary to the great Richelieu, would never dare to be so unkind to the King and the little Duke, or so arrogant to her Majesty."

"Ciel! how contemptuously Mazarin answers the Queen sometimes—how meekly she bears it!" exclaims Madame de Sennécy. "Beringhen tells me that he will not allow the King and his brother proper body-linen, and that the sheets of their beds are in holes."

"Ah, Dieu! what a shame," cry the ladies—"the King of France!"—and the red-nosed Countess declares, "That the parliament ought to know it."

This idea alarms Madame de Noailles extremely. She does not want to lose her place at Court, yet it is sweet to her to hear the Queen abused, who had so sternly forbade her to appear again before her in such low dresses.

"Well, Mazarin is bad enough, mesdames," cries Madame de Sennécy (not to be quelled by the frowns and signs of her senior); "he is bad enough—the blood-sucker—as that dear handsome Duc de Beaufort calls him; but, for my part, I can tolerate him much better than those nieces of his, who come up one by one from Rome—Mancini and Martinozzi, or whatever he calls them—with their bold Italian looks and big eyes, devouring every man they see. How intolerable they are!"

"They are quite improper," puts in the red-nosed Countess, "and very ugly."

Some of the ladies say they do not think so. Others declare that they are sallow, bony, and ill shaped. Madame de Sennécy ends the discussion by declaring that one is deformed, and that the other limps; a statement utterly untrue, but which is received as gospel. Madame de Noailles declares that she is sure the Queen would never allow such creatures to be about the Court if she could help it. It is most dangerous for his Sacred Majesty to be educated with them. He might become attached to Olympia, for instance, the eldest unmarried one.

A shudder passes through the assembled ladies at such a monstrous supposition. The red-nosed Countess opines that the princes of the blood should have such hussies imprisoned in the Bastille, and fed on bread and water.

"Ah, ladies," cries Madame de Noailles, in her shrill voice, "how little you know of the intrigues of a Court! Mazarin fully intends to marry his saucy niece, Olympia, to the King. The Queen cannot help it; she is in his power; she is his wife."

"It is to be hoped so," mutters Madame de Sennécy; and the red-nosed Countess shakes her head, and by this significant gesture endorses her doubt of the fact.

"I wish you would listen to me," says the Duchesse de Noailles peevishly. "I was alluding to some curious old stories connected with the Queen; but perhaps, ladies, you know them already," and she looks inquiringly around.

"Very imperfectly," lisps a thin demoiselle of uncertain age, who had been disappointed of the situation of maid of honour. And the red-nosed Countess settles herself in her chair, drinks another cup of coffee, and begs Madame de Noailles to proceed. Madame de Sennécy also joins in the same request. Another lady, a hanger-on of the Duchesse de Noailles, who had not yet spoken, says, "It is well known that Madame la Duchesse relates everything in such a piquante manner." Thus encouraged, the Duchess begins:—

"I desire to speak of the past. The past cannot injure her Majesty. I am without prejudice, and incapable of malice." The Duchesse de Sennécy laughs behind her fan. "I have listened to all Madame de Sennécy has said with deep concern;" and she crosses her hands, and looks up at the ceiling with mock solemnity. "I am lady of the bedchamber to the Queen—a position involving certain duties, certain reserves. God forbid I should forget them!" Madame de Sennécy stares at her with amazement, wondering what is coming next. "Her Majesty was so cautious formerly—so cautious, I say—nothing more—it is not likely she would commit herself now. I do not therefore agree with Madame de Sennécy in her opinion that she is privately married to Mazarin."

"Then she ought to be," the red-nosed Countess says sententiously.

"Remember she had Madame de Chevreuse to help her formerly," thrusts in Madame de Sennécy sharply.

"With your permission, ladies, I will begin my narrative. But if you interrupt me, I cannot do so." and Madame de Noailles draws herself up with an offended air. "A thousand pardons!" every one exclaims. Not a sound is heard. The Duchess, somewhat pacified, surveys her audience. "I presume, ladies, we all adore the miracle wrought in the person of his present Majesty for the continuance of the royal line; I say, in the person of our present Majesty, Louis XIV., a miracle which was brought about by the intercession of that saint, your cousin, Mademoiselle Louise de Lafayette;" she turns towards Madame de Sennécy, who bows. "It was Mademoiselle de Lafayette who persuaded the King to visit the Queen at the Louvre. A miracle—eh, my dear friends?" and a malicious smile plays about her mouth, and she casts up her eyes and pauses; "a wonderful miracle after twenty-two years of sterility, and the King, too, almost in his grave!"

"Quite so," replies the Duchesse de Sennécy; "incredible!" All the ladies laugh. The red-nosed Countess declares she never had believed it; which was exactly what Madame de Noailles intended, though she would not have said so for the world!

"Well, after this truly miraculous event, and when their Majesties were as much alienated as ever—for the Queen never forgave the insult the King put upon her at the Val de Grâce, in summoning her before the council, and making the Chancellor search her papers—their Majesties being, I repeat, as much alienated as ever, the Beau Buckingham came to Court. [2] But, mesdames, this is a long story; you will be fatigued."

[2] George Villiers, Duke of Buckingham, favourite of James I., and of his son, Charles I., assassinated by Felton, 1628.

"No, no—not in the least," answer all the ladies, speaking at once. "Go on, Duchess, pray go on; tell us about the Beau Buckingham. Did he not let pearls fall from his dress, and when they were picked up refuse to take them back?" asks the Duchesse de Sennécy.

"Exactly," replies Madame de Noailles. "Buckingham was a grand seigneur."

"Pray go on, madame."

"Well, mesdames, an embassy came from Charles I. of England—poor man, he had his head cut off afterward—how perfidious those English are!—to ask the hand of our Princess Henrietta Maria—daughter of Marie de' Medici and Henry IV.—in marriage. The Beau Buckingham was the ambassador chosen, and such a one was never seen before; so magnificent, so handsome, so liberal. His dress, his manners, his cortége, all were perfect. He seemed like a prince out of a fairy tale, just arrived from the moon, who spoke nothing but diamonds and rubies, and at whose feet flowers sprung up. All the ladies lost their hearts to him, the husbands shut themselves up in a rage, and the lovers hanged themselves in sheer despair!

"He soon saw how matters stood with the poor Queen. She dared scarcely open her mouth, and looked so terrified in the presence of her husband and Cardinal Richelieu, that what with her beauty and her evident sufferings, she might have touched a heart of stone. Now the Beau Buckingham was far from having a heart of stone where the ladies were concerned. So, le voilà amoureux, the Beau Buckingham! Indeed, from the first moment he came to Court he saw only the Queen. To her all his looks, all his attentions, were directed,—and such looks, such devotion! Bon Dieu, how well I remember him in a justaucorps of white satin embroidered with gold, leaning against a pillar gazing at the Queen, who evidently was aware of his glances. His long beautiful hair streamed over his shoulders in rich chestnut curls, his noble face beamed with expression; in one hand was a cavalier's hat covered with snowy plumes, the other was placed on his heart.

"The Queen was sensible to his homage. Poor Queen! she really was very ill used; it must have been delightful to be loved at last. Indeed, it was quite evident to me, as well as to the whole Court, that Buckingham's feeling was returned. Sometimes she gazed also, nor did her looks want fire. But, mesdames, I hope you do not misunderstand me," and the Duchess glanced deprecatingly round the circle; "I assure you I am not censorious; I am only relating facts, undoubted facts, which happened long ago—in order to convince you all that Madame de Sennécy is mistaken, and that even when young her Majesty was eminently cautious. She is so still. Believe me, she is not married to Mazarin."

"Pray proceed, dear Duchess," cries Madame de Sennécy; "never mind Mazarin; your story is most interesting."

"We want to hear the dénouement," say all the ladies, and the red-nosed Countess opines that "it is easy to understand what that will be."

"Her Majesty used to delight in dancing. Now she often danced with Buckingham. This was only etiquette, as he represented Charles I. of England at the Court of France. Her Majesty was always very cautious, I assure you, very cautious. Buckingham did all he could to retard the negotiation of marriage, and Richelieu, who knew the Queen well and had watched her closely, having, I suppose, discovered her secret, did everything, on the contrary, to hasten his departure.

"There was a story about some diamonds—an aigrette, I believe. I never quite understood it, ladies, but of course Madame de Chevreuse did—some diamonds that the King had given to the Queen, and which she gave to Buckingham, who was imprudent enough to wear them in public. This nearly caused her ruin, for she was surrounded by enemies and spies. The Cardinal got wind of it, and informed the King, and his Majesty called on the Queen to wear these diamonds on a certain day, and but for the exertions of certain musketeers of the Queen's Guard, by name Athos, Porthos, and Aramis, who journeyed night and day to fetch them from England—at least, so goes the tale—Anne of Austria would have been imprisoned, or perhaps beheaded, à la mode Anglaise, particularly as the Cardinal preferred that mode of execution. You remember that charming Monsieur le Grand, who had his head cut off?" says Madame de Noailles, appealing to the red-nosed Countess.

"Ah! I should think so, the husband of Marion de l'Orme, the Marquis de Cinq-Mars, a sad profligate and coxcomb, who richly deserved his fate."

"At last Buckingham was to go," continues the Duchess; "he could spin out his time no longer. All the Court accompanied him to Amiens. Madame de Chevreuse was with the Queen, who did all she could to conceal her grief, for, believe me, she is very cautious. Ah! her Majesty knows what it is to be in love though, spite of caution and serge gown, and her petit air dévot. She ought to be more charitable, and let her ladies do as they please, eh, mesdames?" and the Duchess looks round, and sees every eye fixed eagerly upon her; the red-nosed Countess, with a visible sneer on her face, and Madame de Sennécy, full of gratified spite, smiling sarcastically. "Madame de Chevreuse did, ladies, hint to me, that the long evening spent at Amiens was not passed—hum!—well, not passed all in public. For a single moment her Majesty did, extraordinary to say, forget her usual caution, and you know, ladies, a moment may do much."

All the ladies laugh behind their fans, and the red-nosed Countess gives it as her decided opinion "that the Queen is not married to Mazarin," for which the Duchesse de Sennécy warmly applauds her excellent judgment, and adds, "she had always said so."

"There was a fête at Amiens," continues Madame de Noailles, her eyes sparkling with malice, "a shady garden, and a moon not too bright—a lover's moon, we will say—revealing much, not all. It is certain that by the management of Madame de Chevreuse, the Queen and Buckingham had a charming little àpart during the fête, in a grove at the end of the gardens, near the city walls. There was a cry, and Putange, who was in waiting, but—instructed by Madame de Chevreuse—standing apart, though within call, hearing the Queen's voice, rushed forward and found her nearly fainting, and Buckingham on his knees before her."

"Bagatelle!" breaks in Madame de Sennécy, "what a romantic story!"

"Certain it is, Buckingham sailed from France that same night. Madame de Chevreuse had too much on her own hands (en fait d'amour) to know more than what Putange told her. Buckingham sailed, the Queen returned ill to Paris, and was nursed by the Duchesse de Chevreuse. Some say that Buckingham returned again privately. At all events, the Queen, as long as Richelieu and Louis XIII. lived, led a miserable life. Mesdames," and the Duchesse de Noailles gives a triumphant glance round the circle, "I have proved, I think, that her Majesty is seldom incautious," and the Duchess smiles a bitter smile, and again looks around for approval and acquiescence.

Just as the ladies had all risen with great animation to give their various opinions and to thank the Duchess, the rattle of a heavy coach is heard below. In a few moments the door is flung open, and Madame la Duchesse de Chevreuse is announced.

CHAPTER XII.

"PUT NOT THY TRUST IN PRINCES."

MADAME DE NOAILLES rises to receive the Duchesse de Chevreuse, and kisses her with effusion, but is startled at the sight of her blanched face and despondent air. She is plainly dressed in a dark travelling costume, bows to the Duchesse de Sennécy and to the other ladies, and sinks down on a couch.

"Good heavens! what is the matter?" asks Madame de Noailles, with intense curiosity, taking her by the hand; "you are strangely altered since I left the palace a few hours since."

The Duchesse de Chevreuse glances at the circle of ladies, the "nineteen bosom friends," whose eyes are riveted upon her as if to read her thoughts. The red-nosed Countess in particular has advanced close to her, in order not to lose a syllable; her mouth is wide open, to assist her ears in listening.

"I have come on private business of some importance to myself, dear Duchess," says Madame de Chevreuse, speaking under her breath. "I did not know that you received this evening. It is unfortunate."

Madame de Noailles, who is dying to hear what she has to say, looks at her guests with an unmistakable expression. The Duchesse de Sennécy rises at once.

"Allow me to wish you good evening, my dear friend," says she, and departs. The red-nosed Countess is forced to rise and follow her example, how much against her will it is plain to see; the other ladies retire with her.

Madame de Noailles and the Duchesse de Chevreuse are now alone. Madame de Chevreuse heaves a profound sigh; a tear rolls down her cheek, out of which the dimples are faded. Her thin lips are white, and she shivers.

"Tell me, Duchess, what misfortune has happened?" asks Madame de Noailles, taking her hand.

"A misfortune, yes, for I love her—I love her dearly. I have devoted my life to serve her; without me she would not now be Regent of France."

Madame de Chevreuse speaks in broken sentences; her looks are wild; her mind seems to wander; her large prominent eyes are fixed on vacancy.

"Duchess, for God's sake rouse yourself. What has happened? Is it the Queen?" And Madame de Noailles wrings the hand of her friend to rouse her.

"Yes—it is the Queen," replies Madame de Chevreuse slowly, becoming more conscious, and gazing at her. "Her Majesty has dismissed me. I am on my way to Tours—exiled."

"Gracious heaven!" exclaims Madame de Noailles; "what ingratitude!"

"Duchess, I thank you for your sympathy; but, I beseech you, say not one word against my beloved mistress. When I entered this room it seemed to me that sorrow had made me mad—my brain was on fire. I am better now, and calmer. My royal mistress may live to want me, as she has so often done before. She may recall me. At Court—in exile—absent or present, I am her humble and devoted slave."

"She will want no one as long as she has Mazarin," says the Duchess, with a sneer.

"So I fear," returns Madame de Chevreuse.

"But what has happened since I left the palace?" again eagerly asks Madame de Noailles.

"I will tell you. I have never been the same to her Majesty since the old days, when I was banished, after the Val de Grâce, by Richelieu. She received me well after I returned, when she was Regent; but I have loved her too devotedly not to feel the difference. While, on my side, the long years that I had spent flying over Europe to escape the machinations of the Cardinal, had only made me more devoted to her, the Queen—who formerly trusted me with every thought—had grown serious, reserved, and ascetic. I am pious enough myself,"—and a gleam of fun passes into her weary face, and causes her eyes to sparkle,—"I never eat meat in Lent, and always confess at Easter. But her Majesty has become a bigot. She was always reproving me, too, for those little agaceries (vanities she called them) which no one lives without. 'My age,' she said, 'forbade them.' Now I only own to forty, Duchess; that is not an age to go into a convent, and to think of nothing but my soul. Why should I not enjoy myself a little yet?" And her large eyes find their way to a mirror opposite, and dwell on it with evident complacency.

"But the Queen reproaches everybody," returns Madame de Noailles. "Conceive—she reprimanded me for wearing a dress too décolleté."

Madame de Chevreuse smiles faintly; for it was indeed true that the older Madame de Noailles grew, the lower her dresses were cut.

"People who hated me made the Queen believe," continues Madame de Chevreuse, "that I wanted to govern her—to use her patronage. If it were so, I should have done it long ago. It was the Princesse de Condé who told the Queen so; she hates me. When I assured her Majesty that it was false, she seemed to believe me. Then came the affair of Madame de Montbazon and the letters found in her room, one of which she said was written by the Duchesse de Longueville, the daughter of my enemy, the Princesse de Condé. How could I help what my stepmother said?—she is a spoilt beauty, and very injudicious—but her Majesty blamed me, nevertheless. I implored her to forgive my stepmother; and for this purpose, I offered her Majesty yesterday a collation in those fine gardens, kept by Regnard, beyond the chestnut avenue of the Tuileries—you know these gardens, Duchess?"

"I do," replies Madame de Noailles.

"Her Majesty had often wished to go there. I asked my stepmother to be present, in the full belief that the Queen's kind heart would relent when she saw her, and that she would restore her to favour. Alas! I was mistaken. I do not know the Queen now, she is so changed. She came accompanied by the Princesse de Condé. No sooner had she set eyes on Madame de Montbazon, who was conversing with me, than the Queen gave me a furious glance, called the Princesse de Condé to her side, and bid her command the attendance of her pages; then, without another word, her Majesty turned her back on me, entered her coach, and departed."

"Heavens!" exclaims Madame de Noailles, turning up her eyes, "no one is safe, unless they are allies of Cardinal Mazarin."

"An hour afterwards,"—and the Duchesse de Chevreuse raises her handkerchief to her eyes,—"I received an order to quit Paris for Tours. Alas, I have not deserved it!"

"It is the Cardinal," cries Madame de Noailles. "He will drive out all her old friends; they are inconvenient——"

While she speaks the door opens, and Mademoiselle de Hautefort enters the saloon, unannounced. She is bathed in tears; her eyes are swollen with excessive weeping; she cannot repress her sobs. The two ladies rise, and endeavour to sooth her; but her passionate sorrow is not to be appeased. For some time she cannot utter a word. Madame de Chevreuse hung over her affectionately.

"Dearest friend," she says, kissing her, "I guess what has happened. You are exiled; so am I. Come with me into Touraine; let us comfort each other until better days."

"Oh, speak not to me of better days," sobs Mademoiselle de Hautefort. "They can never come to me. My dear, dear mistress, you have broken my heart!" and she bursts into a fresh passion of tears.

The Duchesse de Chevreuse sits down beside her and chafes her hand. Madame de Noailles, who sees in the departure of these two ladies a chance of greater promotion and increased confidence for herself, forms her countenance into an expression of concern she does not in the least feel.

"My dear friend," says Madame de Chevreuse, endeavouring to calm the agony of grief which shook the whole frame of Mademoiselle de Hautefort, "let us share our sorrow."

"The Queen must think herself rich in friends, to cast away such devoted servants," observes Madame de Noailles sententiously, contemplating the group through her eye-glass. "Do speak, Mademoiselle de Hautefort."

She had gradually become more collected, and her violent sobs had ceased; but now and then her bosom heaves, as bitter recollections of the past float through her mind.

"Speak," whispers the Duchesse de Chevreuse in her softest voice, "it will relieve you. In what manner did our royal mistress dismiss you?"

"Late last evening," answers Mademoiselle de Hautefort, in a tremulous voice, stopping every now and then to sigh, and to wipe the tears that streamed from her eyes. "Mademoiselle de Motteville and I were assisting the Queen at her coucher. As is our habit we were conversing familiarly with her. The Queen was undressed, and just preparing to get into bed. She had only her last prayer to say, for she lives on prayer, like a true saint." Madame de Noailles draws down the corners of her mouth and scarcely endeavours to hide her derision. Even the Duchesse de Chevreuse smiles. "Mademoiselle de Motteville and her sister the Comtesse de Jars, and Mademoiselle de Beaumont, had just left the anteroom from whence they had been speaking with the Queen. I was on my knees before her taking off her shoes. All at once I remembered that a gentleman, who attends upon the ladies in waiting, called Nédo, a Breton—you know him, Duchess?"—Madame de Chevreuse answered that she did,—"had asked me to obtain a better appointment for him." Mademoiselle de Hautefort pauses. The scene seems to rise before her, and a fresh fit of violent sobbing prevents her from speaking. "Alas!" she exclaims at last, "why—why did I presume to trouble her Majesty for such a trifle? A stranger to me, too! I have lost what was dearer to me than life—herself. She refused me," continues Mademoiselle de Hautefort, "I was nettled. Oh, Duchess," says she, turning to Madame de Chevreuse, "how often have you borne my hasty temper! How I reproach myself now! That temper has ruined—undone me!"

"What would Monsieur le Maréchal de Schomberg say if he heard you?" asks Madame de Noailles slily.

"Do not name him to me," cries Mademoiselle de Hautefort impatiently. "Schomberg is nothing to me in comparison with the Queen. Had I remained with her, I could never, never have married!"

"Well, you will now," and the Duchess laughs. "But what happened? Do go on."

"Alas! I lost my temper. I was irritated at her Majesty refusing me so small a favour. I told her she had forgotten the claims of her old friends, who had suffered so much in her service."

"That was wrong, ungenerous," interposes Madame de Chevreuse. "A favour ceases to be a favour, if it be made a subject of reproach; besides——"

"Ah! I know it too well!" and Mademoiselle de Hautefort almost groans with anguish; "and it is that which breaks my heart; it is my own fault. The Queen, in one moment, became more excited than I had ever seen her. Her face turned crimson, she threw herself on her bed, commanded me to close the curtains, and to retire. I disobeyed her. I could not help it. I cast myself on the ground within the ruelle of her bed. I clasped my hands. I told her I called God to witness of my love, my devotion to her. I implored her to recall the past, to remember his Majesty Louis XIII."

"Ah! you were very wrong," exclaims Madame de Chevreuse; "most impolitic, most undutiful. You have a good heart, mademoiselle, but you are too impulsive."

"It is true," answers Mademoiselle de Hautefort, humbly. "Her Majesty grew more and more displeased, she said that she must have me know she would allow no one about her who did not love and respect her; then she went on to say that I had made observations upon her valued servant, Cardinal Mazarin, which were very displeasing to her. I replied too hastily that it was my care for her honour that had made me do so; that reports were circulating injurious to her, and that I longed to see the departure of a minister whose presence compromised her."

"What imprudence!" cries Madame de Chevreuse, lifting up her hands. "How could you dare to say this?"

"It is quite true, however," rejoins Madame de Noailles, "and it was the part of a true friend to tell her."

"Would to God I had been silent!" continues Mademoiselle de Hautefort; "no sooner were the words out of my mouth than the Queen sternly ordered me to extinguish the lights and to withdraw. I rose from my knees more dead than alive and departed. When I awoke this morning I received an order commanding me not to approach within forty miles of the Court. Oh, it is dreadful!"

"Come with me into Touraine, my carriage waits below. We will stop at your lodgings in order to give your people time to pack. Come, dear friend, we have lived side by side among the splendours of the court, we have suffered persecution for the same mistress, we love her devotedly, spite of all injuries. Let us now comfort each other in exile."

Mademoiselle de Hautefort casts herself into the arms of the Duchess.

"You will not keep her long," observes Madame de Noailles, with a smile, "we shall soon see her back at Court, as Madame la Marèchale de Schomberg, more blooming than ever."

"No, no," sobs Mademoiselle de Hautefort. "Never!"

"Adieu, Madame," says the Duchesse de Chevreuse, saluting Madame de Noailles, and taking Mademoiselle de Hautefort by the hand. "Excuse our abrupt departure, but the sooner we quit Paris the better. My friend and I would desire in all things to obey her Majesty's pleasure. Let us hope to meet in happier days. Ma chère," adds she more gaily, addressing the maid of honour, "we shall not die of ennui at my château."

DUCHESSE DE CHEVREUSE.

Mademoiselle de Hautefort only replies with sobs. The idea of departing overcame her.

"Some gentlemen of our acquaintance will attend us."

"How like the Duchess! She cannot exist without lovers," mutters Madame de Noailles, to herself. Meanwhile she attended the two ladies to the head of the staircase, with great apparent affection, kissing them on both cheeks. She watched their departure from a window and waved her hand to them, affecting to weep.

"What a relief they are gone!" she exclaims, taking out her watch. "Ma foi, how long they have stayed! It is time for me to dress for the Queen's circle. Now they are gone, there is no one in my way at Court. I am sure of favour—perhaps of confidence. Her Majesty must unbosom herself to some one; why not to me? In half an hour I must be at the palace," and she rang and ordered her coach.

The Duchesse de Chevreuse was never again called to the side of Anne of Austria. Her hatred of Cardinal Mazarin forbade it. She became one of the principal leaders of that "Ladies' Battle," the Fronde.

Nor was Mademoiselle de Hautefort ever forgiven her bluntness on the Queen's very equivocal behaviour. As Marèchale de Schomberg, however, she reappeared at Court, but found Anne of Austria lost to her for ever.

The Duchesse de Noailles wore dresses cut in accordance with her Majesty's taste. Although she never became the Queen's confidante, for many years she held a high station at Court.

CHAPTER XIII.

CHARLES STUART.

LOUISE DE MONTPENSIER—only daughter of Gaston, Duc d'Orléans, second son of Henry IV. and of Marie de Bourbon-Montpensier—was, as has been said, the greatest heiress in Europe. Her girlhood was passed with Anne of Austria. When Louis XIV. was born the Queen called her ma fille. When Mademoiselle romped with the boy-king, she addressed him as mon mari.

In spite of the long nose of the Bourbons, la Grande Mademoiselle, as she was called, was fairly good looking. She was tall and shapely, with regular features, a good skin, finely cut blue eyes, pencilled eyebrows, a large, though well-formed mouth, and good teeth. Flowing ringlets of light hair framed her face and fell over her rounded shoulders. She had, moreover, an unmistakable air of command.

Her character may be best described in negatives. She was not a heroine, although circumstances made her appear one. She understood politics, but had little capacity for a ruler. She had no fortitude, although possessing a certain elevation of character that lifted her above commonplace. She was selfish and cold-hearted, yet capable of warm attachments. She was ostentatious in the use of her great wealth, but not charitable. She was blinded by conceit, yet was not wanting in shrewdness and judgment. She was haughty, yet loved to condescend to the populace. She was excessively ridiculous, yet affected extreme dignity. Whatever advantages she possessed were but too well known to herself. Of her faults—and they were many—she was entirely ignorant. Placed between two parties, the Queen and the Fronde, she was courted by both, and grew headstrong and ambitious in consequence. Although she ardently desired to marry her cousin Louis XIV., she went out of her way to offend, nay, even to outrage him. Yet unconscious of all her follies, to the day of her death she firmly believed she was by wealth, position, and genius raised upon a pedestal which all Europe contemplated with admiring curiosity. Every crowned bachelor within the civilised world, according to her, sought her hand in marriage.

After the defeat at Worcester, Charles Stuart escaped to the Continent. His mother had already fled to France. Poor Henrietta Maria (wrinkled, and prematurely old, with tear-furrowed cheeks, and dull, hollow eyes, her fragrant curls, so often painted by Vandyke, grown grey, her royal carriage bowed by the weight of adversity) lived with her young daughter Henriette, afterwards Duchesse d'Orléans, sister-in-law of Louis XIV., at the Louvre, in right of her birth as Fille de France. For a time this Queen of Shadows, the relict of a defunct monarchy, bore the splendour of her former state. But one by one her ladies in waiting, grooms of the chamber, maids of honour, footmen, chamberlains, and pages disappeared. At last she grew too poor even to procure sufficient fuel to keep out the winter cold. Though living in a palace, she was glad, with the young princess her daughter, to lie in bed for the sake of warmth.

Mademoiselle patronised this afflicted relative, and frequently visited her. But she does not appear to have ministered to her necessities. Henrietta was resigned, even humble to the exalted princess, her niece; and dwelt often on the personal charms of her eldest son, Charles Stuart.

She painted him with a brush dipped in the roseate colours of a mother's fancy. He was, she said, brave, gallant, handsome, witty, accomplished. He had splendid black hair, a rich complexion, as of one much exposed to battles and an adventurous life, and the bearing of a Paladin. He would be certain to crush his enemies, and sit upon his father's throne, she told her niece. But the wily heiress, while she listened to the eager gossip of the broken-hearted Queen, was preoccupied by a matrimonial intrigue carried on by a certain Abbé de la Rivière, to make her Empress of Germany.

"I perfectly understood my aunt's drift," she says; "but I liked the Emperor better."

When Charles Stuart, having escaped almost by a miracle from England, arrived at Fontainebleau, where the Court was staying, he was presented to Mademoiselle by his mother. Charles saluted her as a cousin and a friend, saluted her in dumb show, however, for he could speak no French. The exiled Queen, therefore (already grasping in anticipation the revenues of the principalities, dukedoms, forests, and castles of her wealthy niece), set herself to act interpreter.

Charles Stuart had a melting eye and a manly presence. He dallied with his cousin, sat beside her when she played, led her to her coach, held the flambeau while she adjusted her dress, was again found at her door—having run on in front—to assist her to descend, and generally ogled, languished, gazed, and sighed, to the very utmost of his power. But a dumb lover is dull, and love-making by proxy never answers. La Grande Mademoiselle, already in imagination invested with the diadem of an Empress, did not fancy a prince who was only an exile, and who could not even plead his own cause. She looked on him as a bore—indeed, worse than a bore, an object of pity.

The Queen of England tried hard to melt her heart. She even coaxed her; with her own hands she decked her soft hair with jewels for her Majesty's ballet. She flattered her into a belief that she was as beautiful as Venus. She declared that Charles Stuart's heart was breaking, that his health suffered, that he would die. No mother ever served a son better than did this poor distracted lady. But there was her son, with his swarthy, hard face, as strong and hale as an oak sapling, his wanton black eye wandering over the belles of the French Court,—a living contradiction to all she said! At last, Charles Stuart, who cared less for the well-filled purse and boundless dominions of his cousin than his mother, who knew what it was to be pinched with cold and hunger, grew impatient, and insisted on an answer. He sent Lord St. Germains to Mademoiselle to say that he was so passionately in love with her, he could no longer bear suspense. Mademoiselle replied with the discretion of a maiden, and the judgment of an heiress, conscious that she was dealing with a royal fortune-hunter—

"The Prince of Wales did her great honour, but as she understood that he required much pecuniary assistance to recover the Crown of England, his birthright, she feared she might find herself overwhelmed with expenses incompatible with the wants of a person of her exalted rank. That she must, in consequence, make sacrifices and adopt resolutions difficult to contemplate. That she might risk the loss of her entire possessions on the chance of Charles's re-conquering his kingdom; and that, having been educated in splendour as one of the greatest princesses in the world, the prospect alarmed her."

Yet there must have been some charm about the hard-featured, stalwart youth that attracted her; she would not say, "No." In order to throw down a bait, she hinted that she desired him to change his religion.

"Impossible, madame," was the reply of Lord St. Germains. "A king of England cannot change his religion. He would exclude himself for ever from the throne!"

Again, however, Charles was permitted to approach her, and to make a last attempt. She relished a little mild flirtation with an exiled King, although she vastly preferred marriage with an Emperor. Nevertheless, she curled her hair in honour of the occasion, a thing not usual with her.

"Ah, look at her!" said the Queen-Regent, when she appeared in the evening: "it is easy to see she is expecting a lover. See!—how she is decked out!"

Mademoiselle blushed, but was too discreet to commit herself by a single word.

When Charles Stuart entered the Queen's saloon he looked provokingly well. His mother, nervously alive to every trifle, felt this. A man with such a constitution was not adapted to play the part of a despairing lover. When questioned by the Queen about his affairs in England, he replied that he knew nothing. Mademoiselle instantly formed a bad opinion of him. She turned to her lady in waiting, Madame de Fiesque, and whispered—

"He is too much of a Bourbon for me. Quite engrossed by trifles" (the race has not changed). "He can talk about dogs and horses and the chase to her Majesty, but he has nothing to say about the revolution in England."

Later in the evening, at the royal table, Mademoiselle was shocked at Charles's coarse appetite. He despised ortolans and Italian pastry, and threw himself upon a joint of beef. Not satisfied with that, he ended by a shoulder of mutton. "A despairing lover ought not to have such a monstrous appetite, or he should satisfy the cravings of hunger beforehand," thought Mademoiselle. He stared fixedly at her, with his big black eyes shaded by heavy eyebrows, while he was shovelling huge pieces of meat down his throat, but he never spoke. Truly this was not a fashion of pushing his suit with a fastidious princess who desired to be an empress!

Mademoiselle yawned, looked at him under her eyelids, shrugged her shapely shoulders, and called her lady in waiting to her side to amuse her. Thus passed the precious moments which were to decide the momentous question—would she, or would she not?

At length, having gorged in a prodigious manner, Charles Stuart rose. He made Mademoiselle a formal bow, and opened his mouth to speak for the first time. "I hope," he said, in very bad French, "my Lord St. Germains has explained to your highness the sentiments with which you have inspired me. I am, madame, your very humble servant."

Mademoiselle rose to her feet, made him a formal curtsey, and replied, "Sir, I am your very humble servant."

So ended this wooing; but poor Henrietta Maria, figuratively rending her clothes and sprinkling ashes on her head at such a conclusion, could not let Mademoiselle off without one Parthian shot. "I see," said she, "my son is too poor and too unfortunate for you, my niece. It is quite possible, however, that a king of eighteen may be better worth having than an elderly emperor with four children." This little ebullition of spite is pardonable in an unfortunate Queen whose heart was broken. Let it not lie heavy on her memory!

Meanwhile, the struggle between the Queen-Regent and her ministers on one side, and the parliament and Gondi on the other, had become more and more envenomed. At length the Queen-Regent, under advice of Mazarin, resolved by a coup d'état to restore the royal authority.

It is Twelfth-night. Anne of Austria is spending the evening in her closet, watching the King and his brother, the Duc d'Anjou—both dressed in character—struggle on the floor over the remains of the cake from which they had dug the "bean" and the "ring." Louis XIV. is a handsome boy, docile yet spirited; Philip of Anjou is puny, peevish, and cowardly.

Anne of Austria leans against the back of a chair, and watches the two boys. Her ladies watch her. There is a strange rumour that her Majesty is to leave Paris that very night. To look into her placid face, such an idea seems absurd. By-and-by, Mazarin and some of the princes of the blood come in to ask her pleasure for the morrow. They do not remain, as there is a supper at the Maréchal de Grammont's in honour of the day. When they are gone, the Queen turns to Madame de la Trémouille.

"I shall go to-morrow to the Val de Grâce. Give orders that everything may be ready for me. Call Beringhen; it is time for his Majesty and the Duke to go to bed."

The King at once comes forward to bid his mother good night. The Duke begins to cry.

"What is it, my son?" says the Queen.

"I want, Madame, to go with you to the Val de Grâce to-morrow—do let me!" and he kneels and kisses her hand.

"If I go, my son, I promise to take you. Now, good night, Philip," and she raises him in her arms, and kisses him; "do not keep his Majesty waiting."

She retires early. Those ladies who do not sleep at the Palais Royal leave, and the gates are closed.

At three o'clock in the morning, Mademoiselle de Montpensier, at the Palace of the Luxembourg, is awakened by a violent knocking. She rouses her women, and orders them to see who is there. It is a messenger from the Queen.

"Let him enter," says Mademoiselle, speaking from her bed. It is well to say that Mademoiselle was entirely concealed by heavy curtains, and that the bed stood in a deep alcove.

"The Captain of the Queen's Guard awaits your highness's pleasure," calls out Monsieur de Comminges, from the door.

"What has brought you here at this time of night, Comminges?" asks Mademoiselle from her bed.

"Your Highness, the Court is leaving Paris secretly. Her Majesty commands your attendance. Here is a letter which will explain the Queen's wishes.

"Monsieur de Comminges," replies Mademoiselle,—who at that time had not conceived the possibility of being one of the à la mode leaders of the Fronde, and pointing the guns of the Bastille against her cousin, the King—putting the letter under her pillow, "the commands of her Majesty are sufficient for me. I need no letter to enforce them. Retire, Monsieur le Capitaine, into the anteroom. I will rise instantly, and accompany you. But tell me, Monsieur de Comminges,"—calling after him—"where are we to go to?"

"To Saint-Germain en Laye, your highness."

In a short time Mademoiselle is ready. Without waiting for her women, or what she calls her "equipage" (which she desired to have sent after her), she goes out into the night accompanied by Monsieur de Comminges, whose coach waits without. It was pitch dark, but with the help of a flambeau they traverse the unpaved and ill-lit streets, and reach the garden entrance of the Palais Royal without accident. There they find another coach drawn up under some trees. Within sits Anne of Austria; the two princes are each in a corner—Louis XIV. very sleepy and cross, the Duc d'Anjou crying. Mademoiselle is instantly transferred into the royal coach.

"Are you frightened, my cousin?" asks the Queen, speaking out of the darkness to Mademoiselle.

"Not in the least, Madame," is her reply. "I will follow your Majesty anywhere," and she takes her place opposite to her in the coach.

It is a long and weary drive to Saint-Germain. When they arrive it is breakfast time. But the Queen commands every creature, including her children, into the chapel to hear mass. As soon as they had time to look round, they find the palace (a dreary, gaunt edifice at all times) cold and wretched beyond description in a dark January morning. The rooms are entirely empty—Mazarin having made no provision for the Queen's arrival, out of fear, perhaps, that her flight might become known. There are neither beds, furniture, nor linen. There is not a servant or attendant of any kind but such as have accompanied them. When it is night the Queen lies down to rest on a little camp bedstead. The King and his brother fare no better. Mademoiselle is accommodated with a straw mattress in a magnificent saloon on the third floor. There were plenty of mirrors and much gilding, and the windows were lofty, and commanded an extensive view, but there is not a single pane of glass in one of them! No one has a change of linen. What was worn by night was washed by day. The Queen laughs at everything. She says—"It is an escapade which will at most last three days; when the citizens find that the Court has left the Palais Royal they will speedily come to their senses."

CHAPTER XIV.

THE LADIES' WAR.

WHEN the citizens of Paris find that the Court had left the Palais Royal, instead of coming to their senses, they were furious. The Coadjutor, who had broken with the Regent, ruled supreme. He skilfully availed himself of the crisis, and caused the parliament to pass the act against aliens. This measure outlawed Mazarin as an enemy of the King and of the State, a conspirator, a perjurer, and a thief; confiscated his possessions, and enjoined all faithful subjects to shoot him without trial.

Civil war breaks out. The troops of the Queen-Regent were but feebly attacked. It was the hearts of her generals that were vigorously assailed by the lady commandants of the Fronde, whose artillery was blandishments and enticements.

Every soul in Paris armed himself, and took the field in whatever costume he usually wore. The nobles led the way in feathered hats, satin doublets, silk stockings, and high-heeled boots. No one knew what they were fighting for. The cry was, "Vive la Fronde!" "Mort à Mazarin!"

The Duchesse de Longueville, supported by her brother, the great Condé, took possession of the executive government at the Hôtel de Ville. She was quickly joined by the Duchesses de Chevreuse and de Montbazon. The Duc de Beaufort was set at liberty. But as it was quite a "Ladies' War," he acted only as subordinate. The Duchesses distributed all the military posts and honours among themselves—they created themselves generals, lieutenants, and colonels, like so many Bellonas. War was waged on quite new principles: Maréchal d'Hocquincourt, defending Peronne for the Queen-Regent, assured the Duchesse de Montbazon, who invested it for the Fronde, "That Peronne was at the service of the fairest of the fair."

DUCHESSE DE LONGUEVILLE.

Not so la Grande Mademoiselle. She ranged herself on the popular side against the Court, and commanded at the Bastille. She fought in good earnest, and pointed the well-loaded guns of that fortress against her King and cousin, who, with his army, lay encamped without the walls of Paris. Louis retreated precipitately to Saint-Denis.

We are in the Hôtel de Ville, within the apartment of one of the very prettiest aides-de-camp attached to the Duchesse de Longueville. This fair lady, Mademoiselle de Rosny, has just finished a most elaborate toilette, and having arranged the innumerable little curls (then so much in vogue) round her face, and fastened the proper quantity of ribbon in her dark locks, takes a last fond look in the glass, and then seats herself in the happiest possible state of expectation. Now there is a certain all-conquering beau—Monsieur d'Aumale by name—who has more than half achieved the conquest of her heart; and she has a kind of presentiment that the morning will not pass without a visit from this pearl of cavaliers. Nor is she mistaken: a soft knock at her door announces the approach of some one. How her heart beats! It must be M. d'Aumale! So she says "Entrez!" in a trembling voice, and D'Aumale stands before her.

"Mademoiselle de Rosny," he exclaims, "I am in the utmost haste, I am come to beg you to be present at the most singular spectacle you ever beheld!"

"What may it be?" replies she, rather chagrined that instead of a tender love-scene, such as she anticipated, M. d'Aumale seems so preoccupied.

"It is but a review, mademoiselle, ordered by the council; but, ha! ha! such a review! Morbleu, you will never guess of whom—the oddest idea! It is no other than a review of priests, monks, and seminarists, all sword in hand, and ready to charge the enemy. It is the strangest idea of defence that ever was conceived; but as we have lady-generals, and the Grande Mademoiselle for commander-in-chief, we are now to have an army of priests for them to lead to battle. Those tonsured recruits are actually now all assembling on the bridge near Notre-Dame. You must be quick."

"Was ever anything so ridiculous!" and Mademoiselle de Rosny laughs. "But I shall be terrified at their awkwardness; they will be sure to fire too low and hit us."

"Oh, but you must come. I will be your guard; I pledge myself that you shall return uninjured," and D'Aumale gives the lady a tender glance. "Besides, to reassure you, I believe that these monk-warriors are not even to be trusted with matches; the arquebuses and cannon are as empty and as innocent as when in the arsenal; so there is nothing to fear. If you will come, I will conduct you in my new coach—the very model of elegance—I will answer for it there is not such another in all Paris."

"That will be delightful!" cries the lady. "I do admire those new coaches so much, if it were not for this abominable war, I suppose they would become universal. Well, Monsieur d'Aumale, I am ready! let us see these monks; it will be a good story with which to entertain Madame la Duchesse de Longueville this evening at her reception. How the Duc de Beaufort will laugh!"

In high glee Mademoiselle de Rosny departed, accompanied by her admirer, her pleasure not a little heightened by the idea of appearing in a coach, then by no means common in Paris, and reserved generally for royalty, or for grand occasions, or state processions—heavy lumbering vehicles, such as figure in the old prints of that period, with a sloping roof like a house, and drawn by Flemish horses of huge dimensions. On arriving near the bridge, they stop under the shadow of the Cathedral, and there behold the most extraordinary spectacle. All the young monks in Paris are crowded near Notre-Dame, with the exception of the Benedictines and some other orders, who refused to take any part in this mummery. At least fifteen hundred ecclesiastics, drawn up in excellent order, are executing the various manœuvres of march, halt, right-about face, etc., with tolerable precision. The greater number have fastened up their black robes, and invested their lower limbs with most uncanonical garments. The reverend fathers, with their hoods hanging over their shoulders, are booted and spurred, many wear helmets and cuirasses, and all carry such halberts, lances, swords, and bucklers as they had been able to lay hands on. Others grasp a crucifix in one hand, and in the other a pistol, a scythe, an old dagger or a knife, with which each intends to perform prodigies of valour against the enemies of the Fronde. As they advance and retreat on the dusty soil in lines and columns, they present the appearance of an immense flight of crows hovering over a field of newly cut wheat.

To this martial array is added the clamour of drums, trumpets, and warlike instruments, accompanied with no end of benedictions, Oremus, and chanted psalms. At the head of the troops is a bishop, metamorphosed into a commander. He moves very slowly, by reason of his corpulence, and the weight of the armour he wears, and looks like a dilapidated St. George, minus the dragon. Then come Carthusians, Begging Friars, Capuchins, and Seminarists, each different order led by their abbot or prior. They all advance gravely with the orthodox goose-step. Cries of "Down with the Regent!" "Death to Mazarin!" "A bas the Italian beggar!" "Long live the Union!" "Vive la Duchesse!" "Vive la Fronde!" add to the clamour of the martial music and the psalms. Mademoiselle de Rosny is fain to hold both her ears, notwithstanding all the sweet things her companion is whispering. The mob of Paris en masse is assembled to witness this extraordinary review, and to rejoice in the unexpected aid contributed by the Church in the general emergency. Nor is M. d'Aumale's the only coach on the Quai Notre-Dame that day; many other possessors of such vehicles have been attracted by the scene. The Legate is among the number. The crowd is immense, the applause enthusiastic.

"Ciel!" calls out Mademoiselle de Rosny, on a sudden. "Look—Oh, look! Monsieur d'Aumale, you have deceived me, I am sure. They are going to fire!"

"No, no," replies D'Aumale, "believe me, you are mistaken. 'Give the monk his rosary, the soldier his sword,' says the motto. Messieurs les moines will not venture to burn their hands in attempting to handle firearms."

"But I tell you," cries the lady, "they are going to fire! Good heavens, the guns are all turned this way! Oh, D'Aumale, we shall be murdered. Help! help! I implore you!" And she catches hold of him, and begins to scream after the most approved fashion preparatory to a fit of hysterics.

D'Aumale looks out of the window. "In the name of Heaven, beware—beware!" he shouts to the priests. But in the confusion his voice is inaudible. The ecclesiastical artillerymen, awkward and inexperienced, have already lighted the matches, and the cannon, which were loaded, explode right and left in the crowd. A fearful cry arises from the Legate's coach.

"Thank Heaven, D'Aumale, we have escaped,—this time at least," gasps Mademoiselle de Rosny in a low voice, for she is now calmed by excessive fear.

"Yes, but I fancy some one else has been seriously wounded. I will alight and see," says D'Aumale, unfastening the door.

A dense crowd surrounds the coach belonging to the Legate. The secretary of his eminence had been shot dead by a bullet through the chest, the Legate's confessor is wounded in the head, and his two valets also much injured. Never was there such confusion. M. d'Aumale hastens back to secure the safe retreat of the fair De Rosny. They are soon disengaged from the crowd, and rolling back over the muddy ground to the Hôtel de Ville. Here we must bid them farewell, assuming that mademoiselle soon secured the possession of the much-admired coach by a speedy marriage with its handsome owner.

CHAPTER XV.

MAZARIN PLAYED OUT.

THE marriage bells peal merrily for the august espousals of Louis XIV. with the Infanta Maria Theresa, daughter of the King of Spain. The troubles of the Fronde are over. Gondi, the Coadjutor, now Cardinal de Retz, is imprisoned. Cardinal Mazarin has cemented a peace between France and Spain. He has triumphed.

Mazarin left Paris with a great retinue of coaches, litters, and mules, attended by bishops, secretaries, lawyers, and priests, to meet the Spanish ambassador, Don Luis Da Haro, on the frontier, there to arrange the preliminaries of the treaty and the marriage. Don Luis had already arrived, attended with equal splendour. A whole month was lost in the all-important question of precedence. Should Mazarin call on Da Haro, or Da Haro "drop in" on Mazarin? This momentous point was never settled. Mazarin, the wily Italian—Il Signor Faquino, as the Prince de Condé calls him—took to his bed, hoping that the anxiety felt for his health by Da Haro would induce him to pocket his Castilian dignity and make the first advance. But Da Haro was not to be caught, and obstinately shut himself up, ate, drank, and made merry with the most dogged patience, and the most entire want of sympathy. So it ended in this wise—no visit was made at all. The great plenipotentiaries met, quite unofficially, on the Island of Pheasants, in the middle of the River Bidassoa, dividing France and Spain. There the real business was very soon despatched. In process of time, the King and the Infanta were married.

The Infanta was very small, fair, and plump. There was an utter absence of expression in her freshly complexioned face; her eyes were large and gentle, but said absolutely nothing of any soul within. Her mouth was large, her teeth were irregular. Her dress horrified the French ladies. It was unanimously voted tawdry, ill-made, and unbecoming. As for the ladies in attendance on her, it was not possible to find words to paint their grotesqueness. They were black-skinned, scraggy, and awkward. They had hideous lace, and wore enormous farthingales. One of them, the "governess of the Infanta," is gibbeted in the pages of history as "a monster." She unhappily wore what are designated as "barrels" under her dress. Such was the first effect of crinoline on the ladies of the French nation.

The Duchesse de Noailles was appointed lady of the bedchamber to the new Queen. She was recommended to this office by the Queen-dowager, Anne of Austria, her aunt.

Cardinal Mazarin has now reached the summit of power. He has imprisoned his rival, Cardinal de Retz, and has tranquillised a great nation. He has even received the solemn thanks of the once turbulent parliament. He has equalled, if not exceeded, the renown of Richelieu. After the sounding of those marriage bells he returns to Paris, to repose upon his laurels. See him! the artistic egotist, who all his life has fed on the choicest grapes from his neighbour's vine, and sipped the most fragrant honey from flowers not his own. See him within his magnificent palace, the outward and visible evidence of the enormous wealth which he no longer fears to display. Louis XIV. looks on him as a father. Anne of Austria trembles when he frowns. All France is subservient to his rule. The walls of his chamber are lined with artistic plunder:—pictures set in gorgeous frames of Florentine carving; statues, mirrors, and glittering chandeliers; tables and consoles bearing ornaments of inestimable value, in marble, bronze, porcelain, pottery, enamel, and gems. Richest hangings of tapestry, and brocaded satin and velvet, more costly than the gold which surrounds them, shade the intrusive sunshine, and tone all down to that delicious half light so dear to the artistic sense. Everything has been arranged by the hand of a master; and there he sits, this master, dying. The seeds of disease, sown on the frontier where he was detained by Da Haro, have developed into a mortal malady.

He has just risen from his bed. He reposes in a chair on wheels, in which he is rolled from frescoed gallery to marble vestibule; from corridors of pictures to precious libraries; from dainty retiring-rooms to painted pavilions, from guard-room saloon—those superb saloons where he received the Court.

He even penetrates to the stables, and surveys his priceless stud; he ventures into the magnificent gardens which surround his palace, to feast his eyes on all his vast possessions. Returning again, greatly fatigued, to the picture-gallery, he bids his attendants pause. He rests, absorbed in thought, under a Holy Family, by Raphael, a work beyond price, now in the Louvre. Here he desires his attendants to leave him. His secretary, who is never beyond call, he commands to wait his pleasure in the anteroom, behind the thick silken hangings that veil the door. Inadvertently this door is left ajar, and the secretary, curious to know what his master is doing, looks through a chink in the curtain, and watches him. The Cardinal, when he has glanced round carefully—to be sure he is alone—lays hold of a crutch placed ready to his hand, and with the utmost difficulty struggles to his feet, for they are swollen, and almost useless from gout. After many efforts he disengages himself from the chair, and reaches the ground, then, balancing himself upon the crutch and any object near at hand, he moves a few steps, stopping for lack of breath. (The secretary doubts if he should not rush in before he falls, so uncertain and tottering are Mazarin's movements, but he forbears, fearful of angering the Cardinal, whom suffering has made irritable.)

Mazarin sighs deeply as he limps on from picture to picture, and surveys his favourite works.

"I feel better," he says, speaking aloud. "If I could only get my breath, I should recover. Diamine! I shall—I will recover. I cannot leave my pictures—such a collection,"—and he turns round with difficulty, and surveys the galleries—"not yet complete—to pass into other hands. No, no—it cannot be; I feel stronger already. I—alone in my gallery—without those spies always about me to see my weakness—I can breathe." And he draws a long breath. The long breath ends in a groan. "That divine Raffaello!" and again he sighs, and turns to the gem of his collection, a Nativity. "Raffaello is my religion. Credo in Raffaello! What anima! That exquisite Virgin! and the Christ nestling in her arms! I wonder who sat for that virgin? She must have been a perfect creature! I salute her di cuore. That picture came to me from the King of Spain—a bribe. Who cares? I never refuse a present. The King knows my taste. He sent me word there were many more to come if I concluded a peace. I did conclude a peace; I took that picture and others; but Sangue di Dio, I was faithful to France. Ah, ha! I was too sharp for him—a dull king! That torso there, dug up at Portici—what stalwart limbs! what grand proportions! How finely the shadows fall upon the thigh from that passing cloud. Aha! my foot!" (and he shakes on his crutches so violently the secretary's head and shoulders are inside the room, only the Cardinal does not see him). "I am better now," falters Mazarin, "much better"; then, taking a few steps onwards, he pauses before a Titian. "Venus, my Goddess!—Laus Veneri. Oh, the warmth of the flesh tints, the turn of that head and neck—divine! I gave a great price for that picture; but, Cospetto! it was not my own money," and he laughs feebly. "It will sell for double! That Paolo Veronese and that Tintoretto yonder came from the sale of Charles I. of England, after his execution—those English ruffians! What supple forms, what classic features!—like my native Romans in the Imperial city, where the very beggars think themselves equal to kings; and so they are, per Dio. Glorious Italy! Ah, cielo!" and he creeps on to a favourite landscape by Caracci, lit, as it were, by the living sunshine of the south. "Ah, that sun—I feel it—wonderful! wonderful!—a gem of the eclectic school of Bologna, given to me by the Archbishop. Poor man, he was not, like me, satisfied with art—ha, ha!"—his laugh ends in a severe fit of coughing. "He liked nature. He could not stand inquiry.—I helped him. Oh, my foot!" (And he totters so helplessly, that the secretary, watching him with curious eyes, again nearly rushes in; for if Mazarin dies his salary ceases.) Recovering, however, he steadies himself against the pedestal of a marble group just arrived from Rome, "Leda and the Swan." He drags himself with difficulty into the recess where it was placed, shifting his position, in order to catch the precise light in which to view the rounded limbs of the figure. "What grace, what abandon, in that female form!—a trifle leste for the gallery of a prelate—presented, too, by a lady—a woman of taste, above prejudices. No one has seen it. I must invite the Court—the Queen-mother will be scandalised. Ha, ha! the Queen-mother!" and he feebly winks and laughs; his laugh brings on another fit of convulsive coughing. (The secretary is on the threshold.) "I must not die before I have disposed of my pictures," Mazarin mutters, breathing again; "I cannot bear to die!—now, too, that I have triumphed over all my enemies." The Cardinal sighs heavily, shakes his head, and casts a longing glance round the painted walls. He tries to move onwards; but his strength fails him, suddenly his hands are cramped, the crutch falls on the floor, he groans, sinks into a chair, and faintly calls for assistance.

The secretary is with him in an instant, and summons the attendants. Weary, and utterly exhausted, they lay him on his bed, where he weeps and groans, as much from anguish of mind as from bodily pain. He feels that nothing can amuse or delight him more, neither singing men nor singing women, the wonders of art, or the flattery of Courts. From henceforth to him the world must evermore be mute; the flowers in the gardens he has created shall no longer fling their scented blossoms at his feet; to him the birds are dumb in the groves he has planted, the fruits cease to be luscious, and the sun is already darkened by the shadow of death. His face turns of an ashy hue, and he feebly calls for his physician.

One of the many attendants that hover about his bed (each one hoping to be remembered in that will of his, of which all Paris has heard), flies to fetch him. He appears in the person of Guénaud, the Court doctor of that day.

Mazarin has revived a little. He is propped up on pillows, to relieve his breathing, which, by reason of the oppression on his chest, is laboured and difficult. At the sight of Guénaud he trembles; his teeth chatter. He has summoned the leech, and now he dares not hear what he has to say. Mazarin, with his sensuous Italian temperament, clings wildly to life. He shrinks from the dark horrors of the grave—he, who adores sunshine, warmth, open air, and beauty.

"Well, Guénaud, well. You are in haste to come to me."

"Your eminence sent for me," replied the physician gravely, bowing to the ground; then he contemplates the Cardinal with that all-seeing eye for obvious symptoms and for remote details, that makes the glance of a doctor so awful to the sick.

"I—I am better, Guénaud—much better, now; I had fatigued myself among my pictures. But I did much, Guénaud—I did too much. I even crawled to my stables—to my garden; I am gaining strength. To-morrow——"

Mazarin stops; a severe fit of coughing almost suffocates him. Again the ashy hue—grey as the shadows of departing day when the sun has set—overcasts his features. Guénaud does not reply, but still contemplates his patient attentively. The Cardinal looks up; a hectic colour flushes his cheeks.

"Come," says he, "speak; be honest with me. I am better?" Guénaud bows.

"I trust so," replies he.

"Sangue di Dio!"—and the Cardinal grows crimson, and clenches his thin fingers with nervous agony—"speak. Your silence agitates me. What have you to tell me? How long have I to live? Shall I recover?"

Guénaud shakes his head. Mazarin's face again becomes of a sudden deadly pale. He leans back on his pillows, and sniffs a strong essence in a filigree bottle lying by his side. "Guénaud," says he, "I dread death, but I am no coward. I am prepared for the worst."

"I rejoice to hear it," answers the physician solemnly, feeling his pulse. "You will have need of all your fortitude."

"Is it so? Well, then, let me hear my fate!"

"Your eminence cannot live long. Nothing can save you."

A strange look of determination comes into the Cardinal's eyes as Guénaud speaks. Mazarin was, as he said, no coward; but the flesh was weaker than the spirit, and shrank from suffering and disease. Now that he has heard the truth, he bears it better than would appear possible in one so slight, nervous, and attenuated.

"I cannot flatter your eminence," continues Guénaud, "your disease is incurable; but I admit that remedies may prolong your life, though they cannot preserve it. Remedies, ably administered, can do much, even in fatal cases."

"I respect your frankness, doctor," says the Cardinal calmly. "Speak out, how long can I last?"

"Your eminence may hope to live for two months, perhaps, by following the rules I shall prescribe."

"Well, well—two months! Ah, it is a short time,"—and a nervous spasm passes over his face, and his hands twitch with a convulsive spasm. "I do not die of old age; I have sacrificed my life to France and to the King. I never got over that negotiation at the Pyrenees. Well, well—so be it. At least, I know my fate. This interval must be consecrated to the care of my soul. Two months! I shall do my best. All my brother prelates will assist me——"

"To live, your eminence?"

"No, no, Guénaud,"—and the shadow of a smile passes over his thin white lips,—"no, no, not to live, but to die; to die for the sake of the abbeys, bishoprics, and canonries my death will leave vacant. In two months one may have a world of indulgences; that is something. The Holy Father will rejoice at having my patronage; he is sure to give me a helping hand; and plenty of indulgences. I stand well with the Pope, Guénaud. But—but my pictures, my statues—a collection I have been making all my life, at such a vast expense. Who knows, Guénaud? you may be mistaken," he added, brightening up, his mercurial nature rushing back into its accustomed channel at the recollection of what had been the passion of his life. "Who knows, I may get better!" and his eye turns sharply upon the physician, with a sparkle of its accustomed fire; "eh, Guénaud—who knows?" Guénaud bows, but is silent. "You may be mistaken. Non importa, I must think of my soul. It is indeed a great trial—a sore trial—a man of my age, too, with so many years to live! and such a collection! You know my collection, Guénaud?"

"Yes, your eminence," answers he, bowing.

"The finest in Europe," sighs Mazarin, "and not yet finished; fresh works coming in daily. A great trial—but I must think of my soul. Go now, Guénaud; come again to-morrow. Perhaps—who knows?—you may see some change, some improvement—who knows?"

Guénaud shakes his head silently, and withdraws.

Meanwhile the Queen-mother, Anne of Austria, informed of Mazarin's desperate condition, hastens to visit him. She is attended by her gossiping ladies, eager to catch every word, and with nods and winks, and sighs of affected sympathy—to comment on her sorrowful expression.

Her Majesty is pale and sad; tears gather in her eyes as she advances towards the bed on which Mazarin lies, and she asks with a timid yet tender voice after his health. He replies that he is very ill, and repeats to her what Guénaud had told him. If I were to add that he displayed to the Queen and her ladies one of his bare legs, to afford ocular demonstration of his reduced condition, I fear I should be accused of imitating the mauvaise langue of Madame de Noailles. But he really did so, to the great grief of Anne of Austria, and to the utter discomfiture and horror of her less sympathising ladies in waiting, who rapidly retreat into the recesses of the windows, or behind the draperies of the apartment, to escape so unpleasant a spectacle.

"Look!" exclaims Mazarin, thrusting forward his leg—"look, Madame, at the deplorable condition to which I am reduced by my incessant anxiety for the welfare of France! And to leave my pictures too,—my statues. Ah, Madame, it is a bitter trial!"

Soon after this extraordinary interview, and when all the world believed Mazarin to be dead or dying, the cunning Italian, determined once more to dupe the whole Court, and deceitful in his death as he had been in his life, gave orders that his convalescence should be announced. He caused himself to be painted white and red, dressed in his Cardinal's purple robes, and placed in a sedan chair with all the glasses down. Thus he was wheeled along the broad terraces of his garden, taking care to be well observed by the vast crowd collected by the news of his recovery. For a moment he presented the appearance of health and vigour. But the effort he had forced himself to make, in order to enact this ghastly comedy, was too much for his remaining strength. He swooned in his sedan chair, and was brought back and placed on his bed, never to rise again. Thus died as he had lived, Cardinal Mazarin, a dissembler and a hypocrite; but a great minister. Not cruel or bloodthirsty, like Richelieu, though equally unscrupulous, Mazarin gained the end he had in view by patience, cunning, and intrigue. At his death he left France, already exhausted by the wars of the Fronde, completely subdued; and in such a state of abject submission to the throne, as paved the way to the extravagance and oppression of Louis XIV's reign.

CHAPTER XVI.

LOUISE DE LA VALLIÈRE.

THE young King Louis XIV. was active, vigorous, and graceful. He excelled in outward accomplishments, in riding, dancing, and fencing; but intellectually he was both idle and ignorant. His education had been purposely neglected by Cardinal Mazarin; and he was so fully aware of it, that he carefully avoided displaying his ignorance by a too facile or rapid address. Even in youth he was grave and ceremonious; in later years he became pompous and overbearing. On the other hand, the refinement of his mother's nature was reproduced in the son of her love. He was brought up by her side in a circle as elegant and refined as the Hôtel de Rambouillet in its palmiest days. He never forgot the lesson he then learnt, that the outward proprieties of life must be studiously observed, whatever freedoms may be permitted in private. He desired all his life to be considered pious, just, and moral. He failed in each, for his passions were strong and his temper was imperious. The vicissitudes of his early life during the civil wars of the Fronde, when he was often obliged to fly at a moment's notice from place to place, gave him, however, a power of assuming calmness and dignity under all circumstances, which he could never have acquired in less eventful times.

Above all sovereigns Louis understood the art of reigning, of appearing to be a great king when he was really but a shallow, vain, irresolute man, extraordinarily accessible to flattery. Yet that a son of Louis XIII. should say with truth, "L'état c'est moi," and dare to drive out the national Parliament solemnly assembled in the legislative chamber, whip in hand, is one of the most striking anomalies in history.

In person Louis resembled his father. He was dark, broad shouldered, and rather short, with regular features and a prominent nose. But he had all the fire of his mother's Spanish eyes, and withal the grandest manners and the most royal presence ever seen. From a boy he was an ardent admirer of the fair. All his life he continued to be secretly ruled by female influence. Indeed, his long reign may be divided into three periods, corresponding with the characteristics of the three women who successively possessed all the love he could spare from himself. He was gentle, humane, and domestic with La Vallière; arrogant, heartless, and warlike with De Montespan; selfish, bigoted, and cruel, with De Maintenon.

His boyish philandering with the handsome nieces of Cardinal Mazarin has been already noticed. What subtle plans developed themselves in the brain of that unscrupulous schemer never can be known; but he could not have arranged matters better to place one of his nieces on the throne of France. Nor to his Italian notions would this have been extraordinary. Mazarin would have argued that a Mancini was as well born as a Medici, whose arms were a pill, and that Martinozzi was as ancient a name as Bourbon.

Anne of Austria looked on with displeasure. Mazarin wore an imperturbable front, a sphinx-look, ready to answer either way, as circumstances might prompt. By the time that Maria Mancini came from Rome, Louis's passions were thoroughly roused. The young lion had tasted blood, and found it pleasant to his palate. Maria was far less beautiful than her sisters,—indeed, that bitter-tongued chronicler, Bussy Rabutin, calls her "ugly, fat, and short, with the air of a soubrette"; but she had the temper of an angel, and seemed to the boyish Louis a soft, plaintive, clinging creature, who appealed to his pity. In reality she had a force of character ten times greater than his own, and the courage of a heroine.

In Maria Mancini, Mazarin made his great move in the matrimonial game. Louis gave signs of a serious attachment. Anne of Austria set a watch upon him. It was needful. Louis had a temperament of fire, Maria was born under an Italian sky. Notwithstanding the watch set Louis found opportunity to promise marriage to Maria. He repeated this promise with protestations and oaths, but, cautious even in his youth, he did not, like his grandfather Henry IV., commit it to writing.

Mazarin, informed by his niece of what had passed, opined that the time to speak had come. He ventured to sound the Queen-mother. He spoke of the charms of genuine attachment, the happiness of domestic life on a throne; he hinted at the Queen's own unhappy career, sacrificed as she had been to a political alliance. He enlarged on the antiquity of the Latin races, specially those of Rome and Sicily, "all of them," he said, "once reigning houses, and poverty," he added, "did not make blue blood red."

The Queen, however subservient to the Cardinal on all other matters, flared out—"If ever my son condescends to marry your niece," cried she, "I will disown him. I will place myself, with his brother, Philip of Orleans, at the head of the nation, and fight against him and you, Cardinal Mazarin."

The Cardinal had many consolations; he was fain to yield. Maria was sent to a convent. Poor Maria—to go to Brouage instead of sitting on a throne! It was very hard. Louis was in despair. When they met to say adieu, he wept.

"What, Sire!" she exclaimed; "you love me—you weep—and we part?" and she turned her liquid eyes upon him with a look of passionate entreaty.

Perhaps the tears in the King's eyes blinded him, or he did not hear her; at all events, he heeded neither her look nor her innuendo, and she went.

Then those marriage bells sounded from over the frontier of which we have spoken. The King espoused the Infanta of Spain, and Maria Mancini became La Principessa Colonna, and lived at Naples.

The Court is at Saint-Germain. Louis XIV. was born there, and until Versailles and Marly were built, he made it his principal residence. In one of the principal saloons, on the first floor, lying midway between the turreted angles of the façade, looking over the plains towards Paris, Louis XIII. had ended his miserable existence, his private band playing a "De Profundis," of his own composition, during his death throes. His morbid nature—reproduced in his descendant Louis XV., who said he loved "the scent of newly made graves"—made him await the approach of death with a sort of grim curiosity. As he lay on his bed, opposite the windows, his dim eyes resting on the wide expanse outstretched below, he called Laporte to him. He was so near his end that he articulated with difficulty. "Remember, my good Laporte," he gasped, "that place, below there, where the road turns under that rise,"—and he raised his shrunken finger, and pointed to a particular spot, on the road to Saint-Denis, along which his funeral procession must pass to reach the tombs of his ancestors—"that place there. It has been newly gravelled, Laporte. It is rough, and will shake me. Let the driver go gently over the loose stones. Be sure to tell him I said so."

This was not like his son, Louis XIV., who came to detest Saint-Germain because this very Cathedral of Saint-Denis, where he must be buried, was visible on the horizon line. Such an object did not suit a monarch who desired to be thought immortal.

The Court is at Saint-Germain. It is a cool, delicious evening, after a day of unusual heat. The summer evenings are always charming at Saint-Germain, by reason of the bowery freshness of the adjacent forest, from which cool breezes come rippling through the air, and fan the heated atmosphere. The sombre château is now a mass of deep shadow, save where the setting sun lights up some detail of its outline—an arched window, a rich cornice, a pillared portico, or a pointed tower, which stand out against the western sky with fugitive brightness. The parterre blazes with summer flowers, the perfume of which creeps upwards in the rising dews of evening. The formal gravel walks are bordered by statues and orange-trees; the splashing of many fountains stirs the air. A flock of peacocks strut on the greensward, their long tails catching the last rays of the sunset. The summer birds make delicate music among the shrubberies; and the giant elms, in the outer park, divided from the garden by an open iron railing, bow their rounded heads to the breeze.

When the sun has set, a merry party, consisting of four of the maids of honour, leave the château by a side door. They run swiftly along the terrace,—frightening the peacocks, who drop their tails and fly screeching into the trees,—and ensconce themselves in a trellised arbour, garlanded with honeysuckles and roses, hid in a thicket of flowering shrubs skirting one side of the parterre. Once there, their tongues are let loose like so many cherry-clappers.

It was so nearly dark that the maids of honour did not notice the King as they scudded along the garden, who, attended by the mischief-loving Comte de Lauzun, had also stolen out to enjoy the evening. Louis watched them as they ran, and then, hearing their voices in such eager talk, was seized with an intense desire to know who they were, and what they were saying. He dare not speak, for they would hear him, and perhaps recognise his voice. Signing to his confidant Lauzun to follow him, he softly approached the arbour in which the four girls are hid.

He finds that they are all talking about a fancy ball given the night before by Madame Henriette, Duchesse d'Orléans, his brother's wife; and particularly about a ballet in which he himself had danced. The King and Lauzun, favoured by the increasing darkness of the night, and well entrenched behind the shrubs, lose not a syllable.

The question is, which dancer was the handsomest and the most graceful? Each pretty lady has, of course, her own predilection. One declares for the Marquis d'Alençon, another will not hear of any comparison with M. de Vardes, a third stoutly maintains that the Comte de Guiche was by far the handsomest man there and everywhere else (an opinion which, par parenthèse, Madame herself takes every opportunity of showing she endorses, displaying, moreover, this opinion somewhat too openly, notwithstanding her designs on the heart of the King himself, whom she fancies, and others declare, is, or has been, her admirer). The fourth damsel is silent. Called upon to give her opinion, she speaks. In the sweetest and gentlest of voices she thus expresses herself:—

"I cannot imagine how any one could have been even noticed when the King was present. He is quite fascinating."

"Ah, then, mademoiselle, you declare for the King. What will Madame say to you?"

"No, it is not the King nor the crown he wears that I declare for; it is not his rank that makes him so charming: on the contrary, to me it is rather a defect. If he were not the King I should positively dread him. His position is my best safeguard. However——" And La Vallière drops her head on her bosom and falls into a deep reverie.

On hearing these words the King is strangely affected, he whispers to Lauzun not to mention their adventure; they retire silently as they came, and re-enter the château. The King is in a dilemma. If he could only discover who this fair damsel is who prefers him to all others with such naïveté—who admires him for himself alone, and not for his rank—a preference as flattering as it is rarely the lot of a monarch to discover! All he knows is that it must be one of the maids of honour attached to the service of Madame Henriette, his sister-in-law, and he cannot sleep all night, he is so haunted with the melting tones of her voice, and so anxious to discover to whom it belongs.

In the morning, as soon as etiquette allowed of his appearing, Louis hurries off to the toilette of Madame, whom he finds seated before a mirror of the rarest Dresden china, looped up with lace and ribbons, her face and shoulders covered with her long brown hair.

"Your Majesty honours me with an early visit," says she, colouring with pleasure as he enters. "What plans have you arranged for the hunt to-day? When are we to start?"

Louis, with his usual politeness—shown, be it recorded to his credit, towards any woman, whatever might be her degree—gallantly replies that it is for her to command and for him to obey. But there the conversation drops, and the Duchess observes that he is absent and preoccupied. This both chagrines and disappoints her. Piqued at his want of empressement, she turns from him abruptly and begins conversing with the Comte de Guiche, who with ill-disguised uneasiness had stood aloof watching her warm reception of his Majesty.

Henriette, the royal daughter of the Stuarts and the Bourbons, without being positively handsome, has the air of a great princess. The freshness of her complexion is, however, all that is English about her. Her forehead, high and broad, but too much developed for beauty, gives a certain grandeur to her expression; her eyes are sparkling, but placed too near together. Still her face is intelligent and lively. She is tall, slim, and very graceful. Around her long neck, on which her small head is admirably set, is bound a single string of fine orient pearls, and a mantle and train of turquoise faille fall back from a flounced petticoat of yellow satin.

While Madame Henriette talks with the Comte de Guiche, Louis is at liberty to use his eyes as he chooses, and he hastily surveys the group of lovely girls that stand behind the Princess's chair. One placed a little apart from the rest rivets his attention. Her pale and somewhat melancholy countenance imparts an indescribable air of languor to her appearance, and the graceful tournure of her head and neck are admirable.

"Can this be she?" he asks himself. He hopes—he fears (he was young then, Louis, and not the blasé débauché he afterwards became)—he actually trembles with emotion, suspense, and impatience. But determined to ascertain the truth, and regardless of the furious glances cast at him by Madame,—who evidently neither likes nor understands his wandering looks, directed evidently to her ladies, and his total want of empressement towards herself,—he approaches the fair group and begins conversing with them, certain that if that same soft voice is heard that had never ceased to echo in his ears, he shall at once recognise it. He speaks to Mademoiselle de Saint-Aignan, but his eyes are fixed on the pale face of La Vallière, for she it was whom he so much admired. La Vallière casts down her eyes and blushes.

The King advances towards her and addresses her. He awaits her reply with indescribable anxiety. She trembles, grows still more pale, then blushes crimson, and finally answers in a voice tremulous with timidity; but it was the voice! He has found her. This, then, is the unknown, and she loves him; her own lips confessed it. Delightful! He leaves the apartments of Madame abruptly in speechless ecstasy.

From that day he sees, he lives only for La Vallière. Ever in the apartments of his sister-in-law, it was evident even to her that he did not come to seek her, and her rage knew no bounds. She had hitherto had ample reason to believe that the attachment the King felt for her somewhat exceeded that of a brother. With the spiteful penetration of a jealous woman, she now discovers how often the eyes of Louis are fixed with admiration on the timid, downcast La Vallière. She is not, therefore, long in guessing the object of his preference, and the cause of his frequent visits to her apartments. From this moment she hates poor Louise, and determines, if possible, to ruin her.

The King on his part, unconscious of the storm he was raising about La Vallière, is enchanted not only with herself, but with all he hears of her character. She is beloved by every one; her goodness, sweetness, and sincerity are universally acknowledged, and the account of her various good qualities tend to enhance her merit.

When the Court returns to Saint-Germain (now, can one fancy romance within those dingy walls?—but so it was), Louis is desperately, head and ears over, in love. A party of pleasure is arranged to take place in the forest under a tent formed of boughs, tapestry, and flowers. The ladies invited to this sylvan retreat are habited as shepherdesses and peasants. They form charming groups, like Sèvres china. On their arrival the most delicious music is heard from the recesses of the leafy woods, which as it plays at intervals, now here, now there, among the trees, is the signal for the appearance of various groups of satyrs, fauns, and dryads, who after dancing grotesque figure-dances, and singing verses in honour of the King, disappear, to be quickly replaced by another troupe. These present flowers, and also sing and dance as no dryads or fauns had ever dreamed of in classic bowers, but in a style quite peculiar to the age and taste of le Grand Monarque, who liked even nature itself to appear as artificial and formal as he was himself. This agreeable fête has lasted all day, and the company is about to return, when, conceive the alarm—a violent storm comes on, thunder rolls, the sky is suddenly overcast, and a heavy rain, enough to drench the whole Court to the skin, descends with remorseless violence. How every one scuds hither and thither! The thickest trees are eagerly seized on as a slight protection against the storm. Others hide themselves in the bushes, some penetrate deeper into the cover of the copse wood. Spite of the rain, and the destruction of the dresses, the ladies come to vote it rather an agreeable incident on the whole, when they find their favourite cavaliers beside them, placed, perchance, somewhat nearer than would have been comme il faut in the Court circle. For although the ladies might really at first have been a little terrified, the gentlemen are certainly not likely to be troubled with any nervousness on account of a thunderstorm, and preserve sufficient sang-froid each to select his lady-love in order to protect her from the weather. Thus it chanced that Madame Henriette finds herself under the care of the Comte de Guiche; the fair Mancini, once beloved by the King, now Comtesse de Soissons, is under the protection of her dear De Vardes; and Mademoiselle d'Orléans—la Grande Mademoiselle—is completely happy, and forgets the thunder, rain, and, more wonderful still, her own dignity, at finding herself escorted by Lauzun!

The King, nowise behind his courtiers in gallantry, at once offers his escort and his arm to support La Vallière, who, naturally timid, is really frightened, and clings to him with a helplessness that enchants him. All the world knows she is a little lame, a defect which was said in her to be almost a grace. Now she does not perhaps regret that this infirmity prevents her running as quickly as the rest, and thus prolonging the precious moments passed alone with the King. Louis places her under a tree, where they are both protected from the rain and are shrouded by the thick boughs which hang low and fringe the grass.

The King seizes on this happy opportunity to declare his passion, and to whisper to La Vallière the love she has inspired ever since that evening, when he had overheard her. Poor Louise! She had never dared to imagine that her love was returned, and she well-nigh faints as the King proceeds. Her heart beats so violently it is almost audible. She is actually on the point of rushing from under the tree, when the King lays hold of her hand, and retains her.

"What!" cries he, "do you fear me more than the storm? What have I done to frighten you? you whom I love, whom I adore! Why do you hate me? Speak, I implore you, Louise."

"Oh, Sire! do not say hate. I revere you—I love you—as my King, but——"

"Sweet girl, I breathe again. But why only love me as your Sovereign—I, who cherish your every look, who seek only to be your servant—your slave?"

Saying this, Louis falls on his knees upon the grass; he seizes her hands, which he covers with kisses; he swears he will never rise until she has promised to love him, and to pardon the terror his declaration has caused her.

Mademoiselle de la Vallière cannot control her emotion. She implores him to rise.

"You are my King," she says, "the husband of the Queen. My royal master, I am your faithful subject. Can I say more?"

"Yes, dearest, promise me your love. Give me your heart; that is the possession I desire," murmurs Louis.

Pressed by the King to grant him some mark of her favour, La Vallière becomes so confused she cannot reply. Louis grows more and more pressing, interpreting her emotion as favourable to his suit. In the midst of the tenderest entreaties the thunder again bursts forth, and poor Louise, overcome at once by fear, love, and remorse, swoons away. The King naturally receives the precious burden in his arms. He seeks hastily to rejoin the other fugitives and his attendants, in order to obtain assistance. Ever and anon he stops in the openings of the forest to gaze at her, as she lies calm and lovely in repose, her long eye-lashes sweeping her delicate cheeks, her half-closed lips revealing the prettiest and whitest teeth. I leave my readers to imagine if Louis did not imprint a few kisses on the fainting beauty he bears so carefully in his arms, and if now and then he did not press her closer to his breast. If in this he did take advantage of the situation chance had afforded him, he must be forgiven; he was young, and he was deeply in love.

Words cannot describe the surprise felt by La Vallière on recovering to find herself alone, borne along in the King's arms, in the midst of a lonely forest. History does not, however, record that she died of terror, or that she even screamed. The respectful behaviour of the King doubtless reassured her.

The moment she opens her sweet blue eyes he stops, places her on the ground, and supports her. He assures her that being then near the edge of the forest, and not far distant from the château, they are sure to meet some of his attendants. Louise blushes, then grows pale, then blushes again, as the recollection of all the King had said to her while under the shade of the greenwood gradually returns to her remembrance. She reads the confirmation of it in his eyes. Those eyes are fixed on her with passionate ardour. Disengaging herself from his arms, she thanks him, in a faltering voice, for his care a thousand times—for his condescension. She is so sorry. It was so foolish to faint; but the thunder—his Majesty's goodness to her—— Here she pauses abruptly; her conscience tells her she ought at once to reject his suit; her lips cannot form the words.

While she is speaking, a group of horsemen are visible in the distance, at the end of one of those long woodland glades which divide the forest. On hearing the voice of the King, who calls to them, they gallop rapidly towards him. The King and La Vallière reach the château shortly after the other ladies, none of whom, as it appeared, had been in haste to return.

From this moment La Vallière's fate is sealed. Long she had loved and admired the King in secret; but until she learnt how warmly he returned this feeling she was scarcely aware how completely he had enthralled her. The ecstasy this certainty gave her first fully revealed to her the real danger of her situation. Poor Louise! Is it wonderful that, as the scene of this first and passionate declaration, she should love the old Château of Saint-Germain more than any other spot in the world?—that when suffering, the air restored her? when unhappy (and she lived to be so unhappy), the sight of the forest, of the terrace, revived her by tender reminiscences of the past?

When the secret of Louis's attachment to La Vallière transpired (which, after the scene in the forest was very speedily), nothing could exceed the indignation of the whole circle, who each conceived that they had some especial cause of complaint.

Louis's old love, the Comtesse de Soissons (Mancini), with the thirst for practical revenge bred in her hot Italian blood, held council with De Vardes and De Guiche, how to crush her, whom she styled "the common enemy." A letter was planned and written by the Countess in Spanish, addressed to the Queen, purporting to come from the King of Spain. This letter detailed every particular of her husband's liaison with La Vallière. The bad spelling and foreign idioms, however, betrayed it to be a forgery.

The letter was placed on the Queen's bed by the Comtesse de Soissons herself. Instead of falling into the Queen's hands, as was intended, it was found by De Molena, Maria Theresa's Spanish nurse. She carried it straight to the King. He traced it to Madame de Soissons. She was banished.

Madame Henriette d'Orléans was more noisy and abusive than any one. Her vanity was hurt. Her feelings were outraged at the notion that the King, heretofore her admirer, should forsake her openly for one of her own women! It was too insulting.

"What!" cried she in her rage, "prefer an ugly, limping fillette to me, the daughter of a king? I am as superior in beauty to that little minx as I am in birth! Dieu! qu'il manque de goût et de délicatesse!" Without even taking leave of Louis she shut herself up at Saint-Cloud, where she made the very walls ring with her complaints.

The poor, quiet little Queen, the only really injured person, wept and mourned in private. She was far too much afraid of that living Jupiter Tonans, her husband, to venture on any personal reproaches. She consoled herself by soundly abusing La Vallière in epithets much more expressive than polite.

In this abuse she was joined by Anne of Austria, who, in her present austere frame of mind, was the last person in France to spare La Vallière.

An explanation was decidedly needful.

CHAPTER XVII.

THE CONVENT OF CHAILLOT.

MADEMOISELLE DE LA VALLIÈRE is summoned to the presence of the Queen-mother. She is sitting in the Grey Chamber, next to her oratory. Louise is aware that Anne of Austria never gives audiences in the Grey Chamber except on the most serious occasions. The Queen-mother wears a dark dress, in cut and shape like the robe of a nun; her grey hair is gathered into a head-dress of white lace, and she carries a rosary at her side. She looks old and sad; her stately form is bent, her face is thin, her features are drawn, and wrinkles obscure her once brilliant eyes.

The Duchesse d'Orléans is seated by her side. Louise enters. She dares not advance beyond the door. Standing there she makes deep obeisances to the Queen-mother and to Madame Henriette. She blushes scarlet, then turns pale. Her head drops on her bosom; as she stands before them she feels more dead than alive.

"I see you are there, Mademoiselle de la Vallière," says the Queen, frowning. "I wish to speak to you in the presence of your late mistress, Madame Henriette de France, my daughter-in-law. You are aware why we have sent for you?"

"No, Madame," answers the maid of honour, faintly, "but I humbly await your orders."

"What affected humility!" exclaims Madame Henriette with a sneer. "You act uncommonly well, petite."

"All the better if she be humble, my daughter," rejoins the Queen-mother, speaking of La Vallière as if she were not present—"all the better. It is some step towards repentance that she is conscious of her crime. It will save us the trouble of insisting on it. Pray to God, mademoiselle, to pardon you; you have no hope but in heaven." And she casts a stern glance at her.

The tears gather in La Vallière's soft blue eyes. They course each other down her pallid cheeks, and fall, spotting her pale blue dress. Her head, covered with a profusion of short fair curls, is still bent down. She looks like a delicate flower bowed before a cruel tempest.

"What are you going to do with those fine diamond bracelets the King presented to you the other day out of the Queen's lottery?" asks Madame Henriette tauntingly, interrupting the Queen.

Anne of Austria makes a sign to her to be silent. Poor Louise for an instant turns her eyes imploringly upon her. Madame grows pale with spite as she remembers those superb diamond bracelets that the King drew as a prize from the lottery,—which she had fully expected he would present to herself,—were given by him to La Vallière. She is so wroth she cannot leave Louise alone; again she attacks her. "Your vanity is insufferable, mademoiselle. Do you imagine, petite sotte, that any one cares for you? Mademoiselle de Pons is the belle of the Court. His Majesty says so."

At this malicious stab Louise shudders.

"My daughter," interposes the Queen-mother, "do not agitate yourself. I understand your annoyance at having introduced such a person as Mademoiselle de la Vallière at Court. Let me address her. She is unworthy of your notice. You understand, of course, mademoiselle, that you are dismissed," she says, turning towards her and speaking imperiously.

"But, your Majesty—" and La Vallière's streaming eyes are again lifted upwards for an instant—"what, oh, what have I done?"

"Ask yourself, mademoiselle. Unless there are to be two queens of France, you must go. You cannot wish me, the mother of his Majesty, to enter into details on a subject so painful to my feelings."

"No, I should think not," breaks in Madame Henriette, "unless you have no sense of decency. A little unworthy chit like you to dare to trouble royal princesses; you are as impertinent as you are disreputable."

MADEMOISELLE DE LA VALLIÈRE.
FROM A STEEL ENGRAVING.

At these cruel words La Vallière staggers backwards, and almost falls. Then she again turns her swollen eyes towards the royal ladies with absolute terror.

Ah, heaven! she thinks, if the King did but know her agony, her sufferings! Ah, if he were but here to speak for her! But not a word passes her lips.

Madame Henriette's eyes fix themselves on her with a look of triumph. She becomes absolutely radiant at the sight of the humiliation of her whom she calls "her rival."

"You know our pleasure, mademoiselle," says Anne of Austria, rising from her arm-chair." You will return from whence you came—Touraine, I believe. You will be conducted by Madame de Choisy; but, indeed, you need no escort; you have nothing to fear now," and the Queen-mother casts a look of withering contempt on the wretched girl, more offensive even than her bitter words.

Louise shrinks backwards. She would fain escape.

"Do not forget, mademoiselle, before you go, to thank Madame Henriette de France for all her goodness to you," says the Queen, arresting her with a motion—"goodness, indeed, you have so ill requited."

"No, no!" cries Madame; "I want no thanks. I only want to be rid of her. Let her go, my mother; I ask no more."

The two Princesses rise together. They both deliberately turn their backs upon La Vallière, and leave the room. For some moments she stands as if turned into stone. Then she gives a wild scream, raises her small hands, clutches the delicate curls that hang about her face, and rushes from "the Grey Chamber."

"Dishonoured—banished! Ah, God! what will become of me?" she cries distractedly when she has locked herself in her own room. "Ah! what will my mother say when she knows all? Holy Virgin, I am lost!"

She paces up and down the floor—she sobs, she moans. Everything about her reminds her of the King. She handles the presents he has given her; she takes out his letters; she kisses them; she presses them to her bosom. She tries to collect her thoughts, but the murmur of the night wind, sweeping over the trees in the adjacent forest and whistling round the angles of the palace, catches her ear. To her excited imagination it wails lamentations over her. As she listens she seems to hear her mother's voice reproaching her. Now as the blast rises higher and higher it is her father, who curses her in the tempest that sweeps by. Trembling in every limb she rises and dashes the glittering baubles she still holds in her hands to the ground. Her head reels, her reason totters. Fresh sobs and fresh torrents of tears come to her relief. Suddenly the same idea, in the same place, rushes into her mind as had struck Louise de Lafayette, yet under widely different circumstances. Louise de Lafayette, a creature so pure, so angelic as to start back dismayed from the faintest whisper of a too ardent love—she, Louise de la Vallière, held up to public contumely, dismissed the Court! She must fly; she must never be heard of more. She can never return home. A convent must hide her. "God alone and the blessed saints are left to me!" she cries; "wretch that I am, let me seek them where they may be found."

As soon as the grey morning comes creeping into her room, lighting up her white face and crushed figure, as she leans back in the chair where she has sat immovable all the live-long night, she rises, and puts together a little bundle of necessaries. She covers herself with a cloak, and softly opening the door, makes her way down the nearest flight of stairs. No one sees her, for the day is only dawning. She glides swiftly out of the palace, passes the gate, where the sentinel is sleeping at his post, and finds herself in the street of the little town of Saint-Germain. Her heart beats so quickly, and her steps are so rapid, that she is soon obliged to stop for want of breath. Not knowing where to go, she leans against the corner of a house. She strains her eyes up and down the street in every direction, but sees no one of whom she can ask her way. At last, at the bottom of the grande rue, a country woman appears, carrying a basket on her arm. She is on her way to market. Louise flies towards her. The woman stares at her. La Vallière's lips move, but she has no breath to speak.

"God speed you, pretty lady. Where are you going so early?" asks the peasant.

"Ma bonne," at last answers La Vallière, when she has recovered her breath, "can you tell me the way to Chaillot? I want to go to the convent."

Now, Chaillot was a convent founded by Henrietta Maria, Queen of England, situated between Saint-Germain and Paris, no vestige of which now remains.

"Surely, belle dame, I can tell you. Come with me, I am going that way," and the woman stares at her again. "Why are you out so early? Are you from the palace?"

"No, no!" gasps La Vallière, terrified to death lest the woman's suspicions should be aroused, and that she would refuse to let her follow her. "I am not from the palace. Ask me nothing. I can only tell you that a great misfortune has happened to me, and that I am going to consult the Superior of Sainte-Marie, at Chaillot, who is my friend."

The peasant asks no more questions, and La Vallière, who clings to her side, arrives in due time under the walls of Chaillot.

"There, mademoiselle, is the Church of the Sisters of Sainte-Marie. God speed you."

Louise rings the bell, and asks the portress to be permitted to speak with the Superior.

"She is in retreat, madame, and cannot be disturbed," the portress replies.

"In the name of God, my sister, tell her that a person in great affliction craves her help."

The portress does not immediately answer, but leads her into a hall within, at one end of which is the latticed grille which divides the professed nuns from the lay sisters.

An hour passes, and no one appears. La Vallière, fatigued by the unaccustomed exercise, almost distracted, gazes wistfully at the bare walls that surround her. This then is to be the living tomb of her youth, her love. This grim refuge or the grave. She turns to the strong door, bound with iron bars, by which she entered, and shudders. She watches the handle; no one comes, not a sound breaks the silence. It seems to her that God and man have alike forsaken her—a creature so vile, so unworthy. Her repentance has come too late. Heaven's mercy-gates are closed! A wild, unreasoning terror seizes her—her brain beats as with iron hammers—she grows cold and faint—a mist gathers before her eyes—a deadly sickness creeps over her—she falls senseless on the stone floor.

When she opens her eyes, she is lying upon a clean bed, shaded by snowy curtains, in a little white-washed cell; two dark-robed Carmelite sisters are bending over her.

It was not long before the King heard that La Vallière had fled. Not daring to make too public inquiries, he sent for the superintendent of police, La Regnie.

"Find Mademoiselle de la Vallière," he says, "dead or alive; find her instantly—instantly, I say, or I dismiss you from my service."

This was not difficult; the trembling steps of the fugitive were soon traced. La Regnie returns, and informs his royal master that La Vallière is within the Convent of Chaillot. Louis does not lose a moment in following her. He appears at the convent gate, accompanied by his confidant, Lauzun. He demands admittance. Some of the older nuns, scandalised at the idea of a man entering the cloister, refuse to unlock the gate; but the Mother-Superior, wiser in her generation, herself descends, and key in hand undoes the fastenings, and welcomes his Majesty with the utmost deference.

Meanwhile, La Vallière, somewhat recovered from her swoon, sits alone beside a narrow window which overlooks the convent garden. She feels dull and oppressed; her eyes are dazed; her head is heavy.

The perfect silence around her, the homely little cell looking into a peaceful garden, full of herbs and vegetables for the service of the convent, in one corner a grove of cypress-trees, which overtops the high walls that encircle it, is all new and strange to her. She seems to have passed into another world. She remembers but indistinctly all that has happened; she has almost forgotten how she came there. A pensive melancholy paralyses her senses. She is very weak and helpless; her brain is still confused. It is all very strange. She cannot collect her thoughts, but over all the mists of memory, plain and distinct, rise a face and form dear to her beyond life.

Suddenly a sound of approaching footsteps awakens the echoes of the long corridor leading to the cell. As well as steps there is a confused hum of many persons talking. At first she listens vaguely; then, as the sounds grow nearer, she springs to her feet. A sound has struck upon her ear—a sound sweeter than music. It is the King's voice! The door is flung open, and Louis—his handsome face flushed with excitement, his eyes beaming with tenderness—stands before her.

"Come," he says softly, whispering into her ear, and pressing her cold hand within both his own, "come, my beloved, you have nothing in common with this dreary place. I am here to carry you away. Fear no one; I will protect you—I will glory in protecting you. Rise, my Louise, and follow me."

The Carmelite sisters stand peeping in at the door. The Superior alone has followed his Majesty into the cell. Some moments pass before Louise commands her voice to speak; at last, in a scarcely audible whisper, and trembling all over, she says—

"Sire,——" then, not daring to meet the King's impassioned glance, she pauses; "Sire," she repeats, "I did not come here of my own accord. I was obliged to leave. My remaining at Saint-Germain offended her Majesty and other great personages—" she stops again, overcome by the recollection of the scene with the Queen and the Duchesse d'Orléans—"personages, Sire, whom I dare not—I could not offend." Her soft face is suffused with a blush of anguish; she hangs down her head. "I was sent away, Sire; it was not my wish to go—indeed it was not my wish!" she adds, in a voice so low and tremulous that Louis could not have heard what she said had he not bent down his ear close to her white lips.

"Then you shall return, dearest, for mine. I am master, and my wish is law. I care nothing for 'august personages'; they shall learn to obey me—the sooner the better."

"But, Sire, I cannot be the cause of strife. The Queen-mother and Madame have dismissed me; and they were right," she added in a very faint voice. "I dare not offend them by my presence, after——" She stops, and can say no more.

"Think of the future, Louise, not of the past; it is gone," and Louis takes her trembling hands in his. "A future lies before you full of joy. Leave the Queen-mother to me, Louise. Come—come with me," and with gentle violence he tries to raise her from her chair. "Follow me, and fear nothing."

"Oh, Sire," whispers Louise, the colour again leaving her cheeks, "do not tempt me from my vocation."

"Do not talk to me of your vocation," returns Louis roughly; "what is your vocation to me? Can you part from me so lightly?" he adds, more gently.

"Alas, Sire, I dare not return to Court; every look would condemn me!"

"Condemn you! Believe me, I will place you so high that no one shall dare to condemn you. Am I not the master?"

"Oh, suffer me to lay my sins upon the altar! Do not seek to prevent it," sighs La Vallière, clasping her hands. "But remember, Sire, oh, remember, that in my heart you can have no rival but heaven." She speaks with passion, but she dares not look up at him; had she done so, she would have quailed before the expression of his eyes;—they devour her.

All this is said very low, in order not to be overheard by the Superior, who, although she has retired as far as the doorway, is still present.

"Louise, you do not love me. You have never loved me," whispers Louis, and he turns away. He is deeply offended; her resistance to his commands enrages him.

"Ah, heaven!" La Vallière sighs, and turns her blue eyes, swimming with tears, towards him, "would to God it were so!" She speaks in so subdued a tone—she is so crushed, so fragile—that the King's compassion is suddenly excited; he looks steadfastly into her face; he trembles lest she may die under this trial. Again he takes her hand, raises her from her chair, and draws her towards the door.

"If you love me, Louise, follow me. I cannot live without you!" he adds almost fiercely. "Fear nothing. Her Majesty shall receive you. The Queen-mother and Madame"—at their names La Vallière quivers all over—"shall offend you no more. Leave this horrible cell, my Louise. Come, and let me enshrine you in a temple worthy of your beauty, your goodness, and of my love," he adds, in a fervid whisper, which makes her heart throb with rapture. "Come!"

Louise returns to Saint-Germain. She is created Duchesse de la Vallière, and is appointed Lady of the Bedchamber to Queen Maria Theresa.

CHAPTER XVIII.

FOUQUET, SUPERINTENDENT OF FINANCE.

NICHOLAS FOUQUET, Marquis de Belle-Isle and Vicomte de Mélun et Vaux, [3] held the post of Superintendent of Finance under the Regency of Anne of Austria. He was continued in this important office after the accession of Louis XIV. Fouquet was insinuating, specious, hypocritical, and sensual; a munificent patron to those about him, and an adorer of the beautiful in art and nature. He was, moreover, one of those courtly financiers so constantly met with before the Revolution, who, however the country starved, always found funds "for the service of his Majesty."

[3] Vaux-Praslin, near Mélun, is still a superb château. It was sold by the son of the Superintendent to the Maréchal de Villars who, in his turn, sold it to the Duc de Praslin.

In course of time, Louis grew alarmed at Fouquet's reckless expenditure; his personal magnificence was boundless, but there was not a sous of state money in reserve. Colbert was consulted by the King. Colbert was jealous of Fouquet's position; he examined his accounts, and found them incorrect. The King courteously pointed out the errors to Fouquet, who persisted in the perfect accuracy of his figures. Louis, convinced of the Superintendent's dishonesty, resolved to dismiss him on the first opportunity.

FOUQUET.

But this falsification of accounts was his least cause of offence to his Sovereign. Fouquet had presumed to imitate the Olympian tastes of the Grand Monarque. If Louis was a god, his Superintendent was at least a demi-god, and claimed a demi-god's privilege of "loving the daughters of men." Unfortunately, too, he dared to raise his eyes to those particular idols worshipped by the King. His disgrace was therefore certain. Some indistinct rumours of the danger that threatened him reached his ears. He was moved, but not alarmed. He racked his fertile brain how best to recover favour, and he determined to give so magnificent a fête in honour of the King at his country-seat, Vaux, near Mélun, as should remove all suspicion of his loyalty. Such were the customs of the age. Having for years systematically robbed the State, Fouquet was to reinstate himself in favour by a still more public theft!

Before Versailles arose on the sand-hills lying between Saint-Cyr and the wooded uplands of Saint-Cloud, Vaux was the most splendid palace in France. The architect was Le Vau, celebrated by Boileau. The corps de logis was surmounted by a dome supported by sixteen marble arches, resting on pillars; two immense pavilions formed the wings. The gardens, designed by Le Nôtre, were decorated with statues, and ballustraded terraces bordering canals, and water-works, in the Italian fashion—"surprises," as they were called. All was formal and symmetrical; the very plants and shrubs were only permitted to grow to order. Nature was banished to the distant woods, which spread in verdant folds about the rising ground behind the château, and decked the greensward of the park, ere it reached the waters of the Seine flowing below.

The fête was fixed for the 17th of August. It was a splendid day; the sky was unclouded, and the golden sunshine lighted up the deepest recesses of the forest, when Louis started in the morning from Fontainebleau, where the Court was then staying. He was escorted by D'Artagnan and a regiment of musketeers.

There was a goodly company; the King drove La Vallière and the Comtesse de Guiche in his calèche; the Queen-mother came in her coach; other ladies were in litters. The Queen, who was in an interesting state of health, stayed at home. Fouquet stood ready, at the grand entrance of his palace. He received the King kneeling, and presented to him the golden keys of Vaux. Louis touched them with his fingers, raised Fouquet from the ground, and in a few gracious words assured him of his favour and protection; with what truth we shall see. The same ceremony was repeated by Madame Fouquet to the Queen mother, with a like result.

On entering the vestibule, even the Gallic Jupiter was amazed at the magnificence of all he saw. The suite of rooms were arranged in allegorical order, each named after a god or goddess; the ceilings and walls painted to represent their attributes and the events of their lives. The sun and moon, the planets and fixed stars, also formed an important feature in the decorations. The seasons added their attributes, and together with the winds lent themselves gracefully to the necessities of the general arrangements. His Majesty was invited to repose in the billiard-room, dedicated to Hercules, who by a happy invention prefigured himself. From the billiard-room he entered the grand saloon, where the sun, in gorgeous colours of saffron, crimson, and scarlet, covered the entire ceiling. Louis smiled a smile of gratification; the sun was his acknowledged emblem. Was it possible, he thought, that Fouquet might be forgiven? The Superintendent advanced. He bowed to the ground, and asked leave to explain the legend.

"The sun—the centre of the universe, the creator of light, heat, and life—is your Majesty. Deprived of your gracious presence, we sink into darkness and death. That star beside the sun is myself, Sire, receiving light from your Majesty's benignant rays."

Louis frowned, and bit his lip. It seemed to him that the star was dangerously near the sun; it displeased him. He changed his mind, and now decided that that too assertative star must be extinguished.

From the saloon, Louis passed into a retiring-room, dedicated to the Muses and the Virtues, all with open mouths, grouped round a figure of Fidelity, whose praises they sang.

"Who is represented by fidelity?" asked Louis, turning to the Duc de Saint-Aignan, in attendance on him.

"I have just been told that Fidelity represents Fouquet himself, your Majesty."

"What on earth can Fidelity have to do with a Superintendent of Finance?" muttered Louis, shrugging his shoulders. "And that female figure conducting Fidelity—who is that?"

"Prudence, I am told," replied Saint-Aignan. "Prudence; and the one on the other side is Reason."

"Prudence, Reason, and Fidelity guiding Fouquet. Ma foi, it is not bad," and an ironical smile passed over the monarch's face. "But we have not done with the paintings yet. Who are the others?"

"That figure, Sire, in a golden-coloured robe, is Clio, I am told, the Muse of History. With one hand she assists Fidelity into heaven, with the other she records the annals of his life."

"The annals of his life," muttered the King (for Fouquet stood near at hand, to be summoned by his Sovereign when wanted). "It will be well for him if history does not record his signal disgrace. He may prove another Phaeton, this M. Fouquet, and fall from the stars into eternal darkness. Jupiter still grasps his thunders. Let us leave this room—it stifles me," said Louis aloud. "What is the meaning of the device of the serpents I see everywhere?" again inquired Louis of the Duke.

"The serpents represent Colbert, the rival of Fouquet, Sire. Fidelity, Reason, and Discretion crush these serpents as you see."

"Really, these allegories are charming, M. Fouquet," said Louis, with a covert sneer, turning towards his host, and speaking in a loud voice, "but allegories are not always truthful." Fouquet bowed to the ground, and turned very pale.

After having examined the interior of the château, and partaken of a sumptuous refection, the King was invited to pass into the garden to see the illuminations.

There the whole horizon was aglow. On three broad terraces, of the purest white marble, which extended along the entire façade of the building, rows of golden candelabra bore myriads of wax lights. Rows of gigantic orange-trees, in full blossom, shone with orbs of variegated light, that glittered on the dark surface of the polished leaves. Below, in a vast square, fashioned into a sunken parterre of flowers, arranged in various patterns, cunningly concealed lamps of every hue were hidden among the leaves, their innumerable flamelets forming a carpet of living fire. Jets of flame leaped from tree to tree. Beyond the parterre, the broad canal banks blazed and palpitated with fiery heat. The waters, of a ruddy hue, now reflecting the gorgeous scene, now riven into jets d'eau and fountains which blaze upwards for an instant, throwing up clouds of rockets that sport like comets among the stars, to fall back in cascades of golden sparks. Beyond, in the woods, each noble forest-tree, in minutest detail of every branch and twig, stood out in relief against what appeared a vault of fire. Long vistas led far away among stalwart oaks and feathery limes, growing out of a sea of flames. All around there was nothing but fire—dazzling, overwhelming fire. Now it turned to green, then by some magic touch it changed to blue, then flashed into crimson; while feux de joie and cannon roared from concealed batteries, and shook the very air. Behind, the architectural lines of the château were marked by clusters of golden lamps. Every room shone brighter than at noon, and the central dome, with its graceful colonnade, blazed like a volcano. On the terrace, in front of the château, military bands clashed with joyous symphonies. When these ceased, soft music sounded from out the fiery woods, from violins and flutes, swelling in the cadences of some tender melody. The crowd below, changing with the metamorphose of the lights, formed a fitting fore-ground to this burning perspective. It was a scene of artificial life after Lancret, backed by a conflagration. Brocaded trains swept along the fine gravel of the walks. Wreaths of diamonds sparkled on voluminous wigs, which fell in heavy curls over neck and shoulders. Long white feathers, and finest Brussels lace, fringed and decked turned-up hats of velvet. Glittering officers were side by side with comely pages, brighter than butterflies. Gold embroideries shone on delicately coloured velvets, satins, and watered-silks; priceless jewels glittered on knee and shoe, on neck and arm, on waist and drapery; torsades on hats, and sword-hilts flashed and multiplied the fiery marvels of the night. Even le Grand Monarque, as he paused upon the terrace to observe the scene, deigned to express his admiration and surprise. But his praise was scant, his words cold, he spoke morosely, and his brows were knit.

The more he investigated the magnificence of Vaux, the more he believed the accusations of Colbert. Fouquet heard the praise; he did not observe the frown. He was radiant. Louis looked round, anxious to escape from the glare and the crowd. He longed to retire into some shady grove with La Vallière. She was very beautiful that evening. Louis reproached himself for ever having caused her pain. She wore a dress of white stuff, worked with golden leaves; a blue ribbon, tied in a knot in front, encircled her small waist. Her light hair, untouched by powder, and sown with flowers and pearls, fell over her shoulders; two enormous emeralds hung in her ears. Her arms were uncovered, but to conceal their thinness, she wore above the elbow a broad circlet of gold set with opals. Her gloves were of fine Brussels lace, showing the rosy skin beneath. Her graceful yet dignified manners, her tender blue eyes, breathing nothing but love and gentleness, her look of patient goodness, were never more charming than when seen among the painted and powdered belles of that intriguing Court. It was impossible for Louis to have a word with her in private. Every feminine eye was bent upon him. All the ladies—young, old, fair and dark—pressed round him as he moved among the alleys and terraces of the illuminated garden. He was the rose that attracted alike the butterflies and the grubs—the sunshine and the shadow. Like royalty of all ages, Louis soon grew weary of this espionage, and called for the Duc de Saint-Aignan. He was nowhere to be found. At last, after having walked up and down the three terraces, admired the great cascade and the grotto, afterwards to be repeated at Saint-Cloud, he sought out the Queen-mother. She was seated on the terrace, surveying the illumination at a distance. Louis leaned over the marble balustrade near her.

"This is magnificent, my mother," said he; "so magnificent that I believe every word Colbert has told me. Colbert showed me peculations on paper; I see them here with my own eyes. Think of the millions he must have spent! Look at my palace of Saint-Germain—dilapidated, dismal; Fontainebleau still unfinished. It is shameful! Fouquet is a mushroom, who has nourished himself out of my revenues. I can crush him—I will crush him—destroy him!" and the King stamped his foot savagely on a pavement of coloured marbles.

"My son, do not speak so loudly," replied the Queen.

At this moment Saint-Aignan appeared ascending the steps from below.

"Where have you been, Duke?" asked Louis sharply.

"A thousand pardons, your Majesty. They searched for me in the wrong place. You will not, however, have reason to regret my absence," and he gave the King a look full of meaning, and signed to him to move farther off from all possibility of listeners. "Sire," continued he, "I have made a discovery."

"A discovery! Where? What have you found?" and Louis drew closer to him.

"Sire, I fear you have a rival," and Saint-Aignan glanced significantly at the Duchesse de la Vallière, who sat on a settee behind, not far from the Queen-mother.

"A rival! Ridiculous! You have been asleep and dreaming, Duke."

"No, Sire; on the faith of a peer of France, no. Your Majesty has a rival, I repeat."

"What do I care for rivals! I have her heart," and Louis glanced tenderly at La Vallière.

"But is your Majesty so certain?"

"Certain? Ask me if I live!" exclaimed Louis with warmth. "But tell me what you mean. Speak, Duke, and speak quickly, for we may be interrupted."

"Well, Sire, some fairy, who I suppose watches over your interests, told me to wander over the château and examine the more private chambers. No one was by. Every one was in the garden with your Majesty to see the illuminations. At the end of a long gallery, in a distant part of the house, I came upon a boudoir—such a bijou of a room!—evidently belonging to Fouquet. On the walls hung the portraits of some of the fairest ladies of the Court. It is a hall of beauty, Sire."

"Go on," said Louis impatiently; "I understand."

"Among these beauties, Sire, was—well—there was the lady you honour with your special attentions—Madame la Duchesse—" and Saint-Aignan stopped, and again indicated La Vallière, who, unconscious of what was going on, sat near, her delicate cheek resting on her hand.

"You need mention no names, Saint-Aignan. I tell you, I understand," replied the King with evident irritation. "And pray what does it matter if you did find the portrait of that lady there? I see nothing in it at all remarkable. No hall of beauty would be complete without her likeness. Who were the other portraits?"

COLBERT.

"Ah, Sire, that is precisely the point I am coming to. They were all portraits of ladies who are or have been the acknowledged mistresses of Fouquet. If Madame la Duchesse de——"

"I beg you again not to mention any names, Duke," broke in the King haughtily, a storm gathering on his brow.

"If that lady, Sire, had not resembled the others, why should she have been there?"

To this somewhat daring question Louis did not vouchsafe a reply. His countenance darkened into an expression of silent rage. His eyes glittered as he passed his hand over them. When he spoke there was doubt, anxiety, as well as anger in his voice and manner. "I am astonished, I confess," said he, speaking very deliberately. "I am quite at a loss to explain it. Her portrait is there, you say. It may be, Saint-Aignan. I cannot doubt your word, but—it is impossible that——" He paused, and his eyes rested on her guileless face.

"Sire, it is not for me to differ from your Majesty," rejoined Saint-Aignan, fearful lest he had injured himself in the King's opinion by his over-frankness; "your superior intellect and far-seeing judgment will unfold to you mysteries impervious to my grosser comprehension; but I repeat, in the boudoir of M. Fouquet I saw the portrait of Madame La Duchesse—I beg your Majesty's pardon—placed among those of ladies whose relations with him are more than equivocal."

"I will speak to the lady myself. She is ignorant of this, I venture my life," said Louis, his eyes again fixing themselves wistfully upon La Vallière. "In the meantime, Duke, I thank you for your zeal in my service. Now, remember, until our return to Fontainebleau silence—absolute silence—or I shall never forgive you." Louis placed his finger on his lip—Saint-Aignan, glad to end so perilous an interview, bowed, and immediately fell back among the crowd of courtiers who hovered about the King.

Louis's blood boiled within him. He had controlled himself in the presence of Saint-Aignan, but it was with the greatest difficulty he could any longer restrain his passion. He longed then and there to call in the musketeers, and arrest Fouquet on the spot. D'Artagnan and his followers were at hand; it would have been the work of an instant. At a loss what to do, and feeling the necessity for some expression of the violent rage he felt, he approached his mother, Anne of Austria, who was leaning back in her chair, absorbed in a deep reverie. She was only present at that dazzling fête in body—her mind was far away. To her the pomps and vanities of the world were become a mockery and a toil; she longed for the seclusion of the cloister.

"It is all over," whispered the King, and his voice grated huskily in her ear; "Fouquet will be arrested to-night."

"What has he done?" asked Anne of Austria.

"I have excellent reasons, my mother; besides, Fouquet may escape to Belle Isle—here I have him, I hold him!" and Louis, in his seat, shook his fist in his mother's face.

"You are strangely moved, Louis. I do not know your reasons, but I advise you, for the sake of your own dignity, to choose a more suitable moment than during a fête at which you are present in his own house."

"Every time is good to catch a traitor."

"Yes; but, my son, there is such a thing as decorum. The Superintendent has given you a superb fête, which you have accepted. You are under his roof; you cannot arrest him while you are his guest. It is out of the question."

"But, my mother, I have reasons of state."

"Then they must wait. What would the Court—what would France—say to such an act? Take care, my son, that those who may never know your justification do not condemn your act. Even you are not above public opinion."

Louis did not reply, but the Queen-mother perceived that her words had convinced him.

The Court returned to Fontainebleau in the same order as it came.

A lettre de cachet, dated the day after the fête, consigned Fouquet to the fortress of Pignerol. Louise de la Vallière was enabled to soothe his Majesty's suspicions, with regard to the portrait, by assuring him that if his indignation had been aroused, her feelings had been much more grossly outraged.

CHAPTER XIX.

DEATH AND POISON.

"ANNE, daughter of Philip III., King of Spain, and Margaret of Austria, his wife, married to Louis XIII., King of France, surnamed the Just, mother of Louis XIV., surnamed Dieudonné, and of Philip of France, Duc d'Orléans, born September, 1601, died January, 1666."

These words stood at the head of a will which was signed "approved, Louis." Anne of Austria has stood before us from her fifteenth year until now; first, the golden-haired girl, next the prosecuted wife, then the stately regent, finally the devoted and conscientious mother. And now her time has come; she is dying at the Louvre. Her malady is a cancer in the breast, long concealed, now aggravated by the ignorance of quacks. Latterly it has become an open wound, the seat of intense suffering. Her daintily nurtured body and sensitive skin, which could not bear the touch of any but the finest and softest linen, the delicate habits of her daily life, her extreme refinement of mind and person (not common in those days even among princes), have come to this: "God punishes me in that body which I have too carefully tended," she said. But the Queen's mind had long been weaned from the world, her once lofty spirit schooled to the uses of adversity, and she bears her protracted sufferings with admirable meekness and resignation. Her face shrunken, drawn, and ashen, her frame bowed with intense pain rather than the weight of years, have lost all trace of their singular beauty; but the hands and arms are still white, plump, and shapely. To the last, her son Louis XIV. reverently kisses those taper fingers that had fondly entwined themselves among his clustering curls from boy to man. As long as that silvery voice could make itself heard, it was as a peacemaker and as a friend. When Maria Theresa, her niece, complained to her of the King's too apparent liaison with La Vallière, the dying Queen stroked her cheek, and comforted her, praying her to pardon the fire of youthful blood, and to remember that Louis, if erring, both loved and respected her. She reminded her, "that she [Maria Theresa] had at least a much happier lot than her own." Overcome by suffering during the long watches of the night, when she could not sleep, she weeps; as the tears roll down her wrinkled cheeks, Mademoiselle de Beauvais wipes them away with her handkerchief.

Maria Theresa.
From a painting by Velasquez in the Louvre.

"I do not really weep, ma bonne," said the dying Queen; "these tears that I shed are forced from me by intense anguish; you know I never cry." The Archbishop d'Auch, seeing her condition, told her plainly that the doctor despaired of her life.

"I thank God," she answered. "Do not lament," added she, turning to her ladies, whose sobs caught her ear; "we must all die. I am still among you; when I am gone, then grieve for me, not yet."

Her son, Philippe d'Orléans, sat constantly beside her bed. While he was present she never allowed herself to utter a complaint, but when he left her, she turned to Madame de Motteville and said, "I suffer horribly. There is no single part of my whole body that is not rent with pain." Then raising her eyes to heaven she exclaimed, "Praised be God, it is His will, His will be done—I submit to it with all my heart; yes, with all my heart." Yet in this condition she took the liveliest interest in all that concerned her sons and the King of Spain, and caused every letter to be read aloud to her coming from Madrid. Two nights before her death she bade good-night to her children with a haste unusual to her. It was because she did not wish them to witness sufferings she could no longer conceal. As soon as they were gone she desired that the litany of the Passion should be chanted throughout the weary hours of the night. Now and then her groans interrupted the solemn office. When her women strove to mitigate her agony, she pushed them away, saying,

"My vile body is given up to the justice of God. I care not what becomes of it."

In the morning the King, of whom she was ever devotedly fond, and who warmly returned her love, remained many hours with her. That afternoon she grew worse. During the night her son Monsieur hid himself in the curtains of her bed, not to leave her, as she had earnestly desired he would do. The next morning, it was deemed advisable to administer extreme unction. The King and Queen, Monsieur d'Orléans, Madame his wife, and Mademoiselle de Montpensier were present. They went out to meet the Lord's body and to bear it to her. After she had communicated, a heavenly expression spread over her countenance, her eyes shone with unnatural brilliancy, and the colour returned to her cheeks.

"Observe my dear mother," whispered the King, who was standing at the foot of her bed, to Mademoiselle de Beauvais, "I never saw her look more beautiful." Then she called her children round her, and solemnly blessed them. These four, her two sons and their wives, knelt by her bedside. They kissed her hands and shed tears of a common grief. The curtains were then closed, that the Queen might take a little rest. When they were undrawn, the film of death had gathered on her eyes.

Beautiful Saint-Cloud, enfolded in softly undulating hills, its sheeny lawns and majestic avenues descending to the Seine, whose clear waters dance and ripple below in the soft spring light;—Saint-Cloud, with its dimpling uplands and lofty summits, on whose topmost verge stands what was once a Roman watch-tower, looking towards Lutetia, the ancient Paris, now a Grecian temple called the Lanterne de Diogène; Saint-Cloud, dense, leafy, forest-like; yonder a deep glen, in which the morning shadows lie; above, grassy meads of finest greensward, where the primrose and the cowslip, the anemone and the foxglove blossom under scattered groups of noble trees, gay with every shade of green, oaks yellow with new leaves; delicate beech and the soft foliage of the tufted elm; all rising out of a sea of paler tinted copsewood. Midway on the hill-side, the ground suddenly falls; and the woods melt into sculptured terraces, on which the spray of many fountains catch and reflect the morning sun. These terraces are again broken by a magnificent cascade, which dashes downwards, to be presently engulfed by the overhanging trees, before it falls into the river.

It is early summer. The air is full of perfume. The scent of new-made hay and the odour of dew-laden flowers are wafted from the terraces towards the palace, lying in the lowest lap of the hills, shut in by hanging gardens, its pillared portico basking in the sunshine.

From the days of Gondi, the Italian banker, the friend of Zametti, who was more than suspected of poisoning la belle Gabrielle—for both Gondi and Zametti had country houses there—Saint-Cloud was a fair and pleasant place. Hither came Catherine de' Medici to give great fêtes and banquets, and to visit such of her countrymen as lived near the palace, all of them skilful Italian Jews, dealing largely in money, with which they were ready to supply the royal coffers,—on exorbitant interest, be it well understood—who received her with Oriental magnificence, and dressed out height, the terrace, and garden with silken flags and embroidered banners, in the Italian style, to do her honour. Within the palace of Saint-Cloud was struck down Henry III., the last of Catherine's sons, the last prince of the royal house of Valois, by the hand of Jacques Clément, the Dominican. Here Henri Quatre was proclaimed king, and here, in due process of time, came to live the Duc d'Orléans, brother of Louis XIV. Philippe d'Orléans, once a peevish child, is now a soft, effeminate gentleman. In person he is the replica of the King, only in fainter colours; a water-colour sketch of an original design in oils. He lives among his favourites, whom the world stigmatises as gamblers and scoundrels, especially the Chevalier de Lorraine, who governs Monsieur despotically.

All the world (except her husband) adores the brilliant Henriette, Duchesse d'Orléans, his wife and cousin-german, who, with her mother, Henrietta Maria, suffered so much at the Louvre from poverty, that they lay in bed for warmth. Now, her brother, Charles II., sits on the throne of England, and she loves not to have the days of her adversity recalled. Henriette d'Orléans is not an absolute beauty. Like her mother, her features are irregular, and her mouth large, but her fresh English colouring tells well among the olive-complexioned ladies of the Court. She is tall, and eminently graceful. Her sunny smile, her ready wit, her joyous manners, win every heart she cares to gain. But, as we have seen, she can be both haughty and cruel. Once she had hoped to marry her elder cousin, the King; but the Mancini girls stepped in, and she was forced to content herself with his younger brother, Philip, whom she despises and dislikes.

Now matters have grown worse than ever between the spouses, for the Duke of Monmouth—illegitimate son of Charles II. by Lucy Waters—has come to Court, and does not conceal his admiration for his English relative, nor observe those precise rules of etiquette needful at the French Court. What makes matters worse is, that Madame, exasperated by her husband, is defiant, and publicly encourages his attentions. Monsieur, weak-headed and irritable, complains to everybody. He says he shall leave the Court, unless Madame conducts herself better. Madame rejoins that he only persecutes her because she happens to be aunt to the Duke of Monmouth. To spite Monsieur, she uses her influence with the King, and Monsieur's favourite, the Chevalier de Lorraine,—who whispers these tales about her into her husband's ear,—is packed off; exiled to the sea-girt fortress of the Château d'If, near Marseilles. This aggravates Monsieur, who treats Madame worse than ever. They have fresh quarrels every day, during one of which Monsieur calls Madame a "vaurienne." Even when they ride together in the King's coach, Monsieur must insult and taunt his wife. "He believes in astrology," he says, "and as his horoscope foretells he shall be the husband of many wives, and Madame looks ill, he hopes he shall soon have a change." At this rude speech Madame weeps, but says nothing. All this is very bad, and creates such a scandal that Louis interferes; he expostulates with his brother.

The King, to give Madame a little respite, appointed her at this time his ambassadress into England, to treat with her brother, Charles II. In her suite she carried the beautiful Bretonne, Louise de la Querouaille, who became afterwards so well known in this country as the Duchess of Portsmouth.

After a time Madame returns from England, blooming in health and joyous in spirits. She cannot bring herself even to affect common concern for the death of her mother,—poor broken-down Henrietta Maria,—who has just died from taking an overdose of opium. Monsieur refuses to meet his wife at Amiens, a public slight which nettled her exceedingly, especially as the Chevalier de Lorraine has returned from banishment, and is again at Saint-Cloud.

Madame is now twenty-six, and as strong and healthy as any young woman can be. Very early on a certain morning, in the first days of June, a page rides out of the park gates of Saint-Cloud in furious haste. He bears a message of life and death to the King, who is at Saint-Germain. He spurs his steed along the paved roads which lead from palace to palace, along the heights. The word he carries is—that Madame is dying. Never did messenger of evil cause such consternation. The King flies to Saint-Cloud; he loved the sweet princess. He is followed by the Queen, accompanied by la Grande Mademoiselle. When the royal coach draws up under the grand portico, Valtot, the Court doctor, is there to receive them. He says the illness of Madame is nothing but a violent attack of colic, and is of no consequence whatever. But this attack of colic had seized Madame so suddenly she could not bear to be carried to her own bed, but lay on a little couch in a recess of one of the reception-rooms. A very serious attack of colic, truly. When Maria Theresa enters, she finds Madame in convulsions; her long hair streaming over her face and pillow, her limbs cramped, her body contorted, her nightgown unfastened to relieve her breathing, her arms bare and hanging out of the sleeves, her face bearing every appearance of approaching death.

"You see what a state I am in," she whispers to the Queen between the paroxysms. "Save me, oh, save me—my sufferings are horrible!"

The Queen kisses her hand. Every one was affected. The King leans over her with the utmost affection.

"Surely," cries the King to Valtot, "you will not let her die without help?"

Except the royal party no one seems to care about her. Monsieur is quite indifferent. He laughs and talks in the very room where she is lying.

The end came soon. In a few hours, Madame died in horrible agony. Her corpse immediately turned black.

Louis XIV. is in his private closet at Saint-Germain. He is in his robe de chambre, and he has been weeping; three extraordinary events for the King, not to hold his usual levee, to wear his robe de chambre, and to weep.

A dreadful rumour has just reached him—the words poison and murder have passed from mouth to mouth about the Court. At last he has heard them. What!—his beloved sister-in-law, she who but two days before had danced with him in a ballet, dressed as Aurora; she—the pride of his Court, the cynosure of all eyes—poisoned! Oh, horrible! By whom was this poison given? By his brother? Impossible. By one of his disgraceful favourites whom Madame hated? The Chevalier de Lorraine, perhaps? Was he the murderer? The King cannot brook suspense or delay. He sends privately for Morel, the maître d'hôtel of his brother. Morel comes trembling; he guesses the reason of the summons.

"Morel," says the King in an unsteady voice, "I have sent for you to tell me the truth. Now, on pain of instant death, answer me. Who murdered my sister-in-law? Presume not to equivocate or to deceive me. Did the Duchess die by poison?"

"She did, your Majesty."

Louis shudders. "By whose order was it administered?"

"By the order of the Chevalier de Lorraine," answers Morel. "Poison was put into a cup of chicorée-water, the Duchess's usual beverage, by the hands of the Marquis d'Effiat. Before God, your Majesty, I am innocent of all save the knowledge of this crime."

Louis, seeing that Morel is about to cast himself on his knees before him, by a stern gesture forbade it. He then motions him to proceed.

"The Duchess, Sire, complained of thirst; soon after a cup of chicorée-water—the cup of porcelain, which her Highness always used—was presented; she drank its contents to the last drop. Soon after she was seized with convulsions. Your Majesty knows the rest."

There is a pause. "Tell me," asks Louis, speaking with a great effort, "tell me, had my brother—had the Duc d'Orléans any part in this crime?"

"I believe not, Sire," answers Morel, shaking from head to foot, for the King's looks are not reassuring. "They dared not trust him; he would have betrayed them. But it was believed that the death of Madame would not be——"

"Answer as I desire you, sir. Answer the questions I address to you, nothing more," interrupts the King, scowling at him, at the same time greatly relieved by hearing that his brother was not an accomplice. "I have heard what I want to know. I am satisfied. I will spare your life, wretched man," and he turns from Morel with disgust, "because you have spoken the truth; but you must leave France for ever. Remember, the honour of princes is in your hand, and that wherever you fly, their vengeance can pursue you. Therefore, be silent, if you value your life."

The King dared investigate no further; too foul a picture of his brother's life would have been revealed to public curiosity. The death of this charming, though frivolous princess, remained unavenged, her murderers unpunished, and she was soon forgotten in the dissipation of a Court where the Sovereign set an example of the most heartless egotism.

As for Monsieur, nothing daunted by the suspicions attached to his name, and although believed by many to have been a direct accomplice in Henriette's death, he determined to bring home a fresh wife to Saint-Cloud and the Palais Royal. This he did in the person of a German princess (ever the refuge of unfortunate royalty in search of wives), a formidable she-dragon rather, by name Charlotte de Bavière, a lady certainly well able to defend herself in case of need. What a contrast to the feminine, fascinating Henriette! Charlotte's autobiography remains to us, a lasting evidence of her coarseness of mind and of body. This is the opening page:—

"I am naturally rather melancholy. When anything annoys me, I have always an inflammation in my left side, as if I had a dropsy. Lying in bed is not at all my habit. As soon as I wake I must get up. I seldom take breakfast. If I do, I only eat bread and butter. I neither like chocolate, coffee, nor tea. Foreign drugs are my horror. I am entirely German in my habits, and relish nothing in the way of food but the cuisine of my own country. I can only eat soup made with milk, beer, or wine. As to bouillon, I detest it. If I eat any dish that contains it, I am ill directly, my body swells, and I am fearfully sick. Nothing but sausages and ham restore the tone of my stomach. I always wanted to be a boy," this extraordinary "Princess" continues, "and having heard that Marie Germain became one by continually jumping, I used to take such fearful leaps, that it is a miracle I did not break my neck a thousand times."

This was the mother of the Regent Orléans.

GALLERY OF HENRY II. AT FONTAINEBLEAU.

Charlotte de Bavière was walking one evening alone in the dusk through the almost interminable suite of rooms which encircled the four garden fronts of the Palais Royal. Many of these rooms had been constantly inhabited by her predecessor, Madame Henriette. It was stormy weather, and the gathering clouds were rapidly darkening what little daylight was left. The wind moaned among the branches of the trees without; it whistled through the rooms within, swaying the rich curtains to and fro. The shutters were not yet closed. The Duchess wandered on from room to room until she reached a remote apartment on the ground-floor, which had been much frequented by Madame Henriette—a garden pavilion opening by large windows and a flight of steps to a parterre. At this window Charlotte stood watching the clouds passing over the moon which had just risen, as they were drifted rapidly onwards, driven by the wind. How long she remained there she could never tell. All at once a slight sound behind her, like the rustling of drapery along the floor, caught her ear. She turned, and saw advancing from the door towards the spot where she stood a white figure, wearing the form of the late Duchess, her predecessor, Henriette of England. She knew her instantly from her portraits. What passed between these two—the dead and the living wife—never was told. Charlotte, all her life long, insisted on the perfect truth of this story, but would say nothing more. In time it came to be understood that some awful secret connected with the Orléans family, only to be known to the head of the house, was revealed by the phantom.

CHAPTER XX.

AT VERSAILLES.

THE Duchesse Louise de la Vallière, after her return from Chaillot, lived much at the Hôtel Biron, a residence at Versailles presented to her by the King. Her two children, the Comte de Vermandois and Mademoiselle de Blois, were with her. The Hôtel Biron, a sumptuous abode, situated between "court and garden," lay in a hollow close to the yet unfinished Palace of Versailles, on the same side as the reservoir. Adjoining were the royal gardens, already planned and partially completed by Le Nôtre. These gardens, with the formal groves and symmetrical thickets which enclose them, sloped downwards from the grand terrace of the southern front, and overshadowed the hôtel, giving it a sequestered, not to say melancholy aspect. On the other side a wooded park stretched away in the direction of what was in time to become the site of the two Trianons. The new Palace of Versailles was as yet covered with scaffolding; innumerable workmen laboured night and day on the north and south wings. The corps de logis, of brick and stone, was alone completed, and though greatly enlarged and beautified, still retained those suites of small rooms—les petits apartements—portions of the original hunting-lodge, which was so often visited by Louis XIII. in his hunting expeditions.

VERSAILLES FROM THE PIÈCE D'EAU DES SUISSES.
From an engraving by Rigaud.

La Vallière lived a life of extreme retirement. She rarely appeared at Court, except upon occasions of state, and received only such visits as etiquette rendered necessary. Save the King, her confessor, and a few intimate friends, she avoided every one. The splendour of the retreat assigned her by the King pained and humiliated her. She was but too conscious that in permitting herself to be dowered and ennobled by him, she was exposing herself to the charge of ambition, arrogance, and avarice—she, who only loved the man, and who shrank abashed from the sovereign!

The very letters-patent by which Louis created her Duchesse de la Vallière infinitely wounded her. It was intolerable to her to be publicly addressed as "his singularly and entirely beloved Louise Françoise de la Vallière, possessed of his Majesty's special and particular affection." Vainly had she endeavoured to combat his resolution thus to distinguish her; vainly had she entreated him to allow her to sink into oblivion, forgotten by all save himself. Louis had declared, and with truth, that after her flight to Chaillot and her return to Saint-Germain, all mystery was impossible. He could not bear, he told her, to see her continually suffering affronts and mortifications in his own Court, to which her sensitive nature specially exposed her, and from which even he could not screen her.

Vainly did he invoke all his authority as a sovereign, all his devotion as a man, to raise the object of his love beyond the reach of calumny. Vainly did he surround her with all that the luxury of kings, the treasures of the state, and the refinements of love could devise to reconcile her to her position. He could not stifle her conscience. Louise could not bring herself to leave him, but she sank under the consciousness of her sin.

When, by a formal declaration of the parliament, her children were legitimatised and created princes of the blood royal, she was in absolute despair. Again she conjured the King never more to let her name be heard. But, selfish even to her, Louis commanded that she should appear in the Queen's circle, and receive the congratulations of the Court. A prey to anxiety and remorse, silent, yearning, solitary, her health gave way. Her lovely figure lost its roundness, her violet eyes their lustre. She grew dull, oppressed, and tearful, and her lameness increased.

The Comtesse du Roule, formerly maid of honour to Madame Henriette d'Orléans at the same time as La Vallière, was one of the few friends she still received.

They had not met for some time when Madame du Roule called on her. Madame du Roule found Louise seated alone in a pavilion overlooking the palace of Versailles. She was so lost in thought she did not hear her friend's footsteps. When she rose to receive her she looked more delicate and dejected than usual.

"Dear Louise," said the Comtesse after having saluted her, "how I grieve to see you so unhappy. Can nothing be done to console you? Remember you are ruining your looks. Do you imagine that his Majesty will care for you when you have made yourself wrinkled and ugly?"

"Alas, Celestine, I cannot help it! I ought not to be here", and Louise kissed her tenderly, and placed her on a seat beside her. "This magnificent hotel, those royal servants, my luxurious life—daily remind me of my degradation. While I was unknown and poor, lost among the crowd of a great Court, I was my own mistress. My heart was my own to bestow. Now," and she placed her hand on her heart as if she suffered "a price seems put upon me. I cannot bear it! Ah, why did I leave Chaillot?" and her head, covered with light baby curls, sank upon her bosom; and she heaved a deep sigh.

"But, Louise, if you love the King," said the Comtesse, laying her hand gently on that of La Vallière, "you must accept the inevitable position, else some one less scrupulous and more mercenary than yourself will certainly take it."

"Ah, Celestine, that fear is ever present to me. It is agony to me; it keeps me here. Do not imagine that I misunderstand my position. I suffer because it is too painfully evident. Yet I love the King too much to resign him. Love! ah, more—I worship him!" and she raised her head, and an inner light shone from her soft grey eyes, that made them glow with passion. "Is he not my master—my sovereign!" she continued; "am I not bound to obey him? Could I exist without him? Who else but Louis could have brought me back from Chaillot? Who else could have torn me from the altar to which my heart still clings? Celestine, I know I shall return to that convent."—The Comtesse smiled incredulously.—"But," continued La Vallière, "when I see my faded face in the glass, and I know I am faded and changed,"—Madame du Roule shook her head deprecatingly—"I tremble—oh, I tremble lest I should lose him! I know I ought to rejoice at his loss," added she in a broken voice; "yet I cannot—I cannot!" and the tears streamed from her eyes, and she covered her face with her hands.

"Have you perceived any difference in the behaviour of his Majesty of late?" asked Madame du Roule, when La Vallière became more composed.

"Oh, what a question, Celestine! Such an idea never crossed my mind—changed now, at this time—could it be possible? When I spoke of losing him, I meant in the course of years—long, long years. Surely he would not change now?" An agonised expression came into her face as she spoke, and she turned appealingly towards her friend for reassurance against what presented itself to her as some horrible dream.

"I only ask you this question for your good, dear Louise," answered the Comtesse soothingly, imprinting a kiss on her pallid cheek. La Vallière threw her arms around her neck, and made no reply. "I see you are incapable of judging for yourself. If I ask a painful question, it is to spare you, not to wound you. Answer me honestly, Louise—is his Majesty changed?"

A shudder passed over the slender frame of La Vallière. For a time she could not bring herself to reply; then hesitatingly she answered: "I have fancied—but, oh heavens! may it be only a fancy—that his Majesty finds his visits to me more dull than formerly. I am so depressed myself, that must be the reason," and she bent her eyes upon her friend, hoping that she would assent; but Madame du Roule only listened with grave attention. "He has sat," continued Louise, evidently forcing herself to a painful confession, "he has sat for half an hour at a time quite silent, a thing unusual with him. He has remarked, too, repeatedly, on my altered looks; he has often regretted my low spirits. He is most considerate, most tender; but"—and she faltered more than ever—"I fear that I depress him; and I have tried—" here her voice dropped, and her eyes fixed themselves upon a medallion portrait of Louis that hung round her neck by a chain of gold. She contemplated it earnestly.

"That is just what I feared, Louise," and the Comtesse laid her hand softly on her shoulder to rouse her from the deep reverie into which she had fallen; "that is precisely what I feared. If you cease to amuse the King, others will; he will leave you."

"Holy Virgin!" cried Louise, starting from her chair and clasping her hands; "do not say so; such an idea is death to me!"

"Louise, be calm; reseat yourself, and listen to me. You rarely go to Court; but you well know that his Majesty is surrounded from morning till night with crowds of most fascinating, most unscrupulous women. They follow him like his shadow; he cannot shake them off—even if he would. The poor Queen, who is as stupid as an owl, sits in a corner, sighs, and sulks, or plays at cards, and loses thousands to pass away the time. But she says nothing, and has no influence whatever over her husband. By-the-way, she is very jealous of you, Louise, and calls you 'the lady with the diamond ear-rings.'"

La Vallière blushed, then sighed; and again her dreamy eyes sought the medallion portrait of the King, which she still held within the palm of her hand.

"Rouse yourself, Louise; believe me there is need," urged the Comtesse. "When the King visits you next, throw off these gloomy vapours; or, if you cannot, invite some friend to be present and assist you in entertaining him."

The tears gathered in La Vallière's eyes, and slowly coursed each other down her cheeks.

"Alas! has it come to this, then? Do you indeed, Celestine, counsel me to call on another to do that which was once my privilege? How he once loved my company! how he praised my gentleness and my timidity, which charmed him inexpressibly, he said, after the boldness of the ladies of the Court."

"All this is folly," said Madame du Roule impatiently. "The King is robust, happy, and fond of pleasure. He delights in the society of women. You must, Louise, either return to Chaillot, as you say you desire to do (excuse my frankness, dear, it is for your good), or you must change. His Majesty is neither a penitent, nor ill, nor sad. Do you know any one you can invite here when he comes?"

"No," replied La Vallière with a look of infinite distress upon her plaintive face. "No one I could trust. Besides, the King might resent it as a liberty. It is a matter needing the nicest judgment."

"The person, whoever she is," said Madame du Roule, "must be sincerely attached to you, polished, agreeable, and sympathetic. She must be good-looking, and not too old, either; for the King loves youth and beauty. There is the new lady-in-waiting, the Marquise de Montespan. You have seen her. She is a mere girl, just come to Court, and belongs to no clique. She is as witty as a Mortémart ought to be, and gloriously handsome. Such eyes, dear Louise, such colour! and there is plenty of fun, not to say malice, about her. I would not have her for an enemy! When she was presented to the Queen, there was the most extraordinary sensation at Court—people stood on chairs to look at her."

"But, dear Celestine, what a hag I shall look beside this fresh young beauty?" cried La Vallière in alarm.

"You need have no fear of that. The King is perhaps the only man in the whole circle who does not admire her. You would be quite safe to invite her. She is full of badinage, positively a child in her love of amusement; her lively sallies will help to pass the time. She desires, too, greatly to be presented to you, and has already conceived a romantic friendship for you."

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

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

CHAPTER XXI.

MADAME DE MONTESPAN.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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