Kitabı oku: «Old Court Life in France, vol. 1», sayfa 16
CHAPTER XXXIII.
THE CARDINAL DUPED
ANNE OF AUSTRIA seated herself beside a fire which burnt on the hearth. She signed to her attendants to withdraw.
“Send hither to me the Duchesse de Chevreuse, if she has returned to the château,” said she to one of the pages in waiting. Then Anne drew from her bosom the letter she had just received. “It is incredible,” said she, speaking to herself, “that he should so compromise himself! Pride has turned his brain. Now it is my turn, Monsieur le Cardinal.” The Duchess entered hastily. “Read, ma belle, read,” cried Anne, holding out the despatch to her, “the fates favour us. Let us a lay a trap for this wicked prelate.”
“Ma foi” replied the Duchess, after having reperused the letter contained in the despatch, “even I could not have contrived it better. Here is the Cardinal craving a private audience of your Majesty in the absence of the King. It will be a declaration in form – such as he made to me.”
“A declaration to me, Duchess? He would not dare – ”
“Madame, he has been a soldier, and has passed his life along with a great queen. He believes himself irresistible. Who knows if Marie de’ Medici did not tell him so?” Anne of Austria looked displeased. “Pardon me, Madame, this saucy Cardinal, whom I call the Court-knave, makes me forget myself. Your Majesty must receive him graciously.”
“Yes, he shall come,” cried Anne; “he shall come and pay for his audacity, the hypocrite! But tell me, Duchess, tell me instantly, how can I best revenge myself? I have a long account to settle. Shall I command my valets, Laporte and Putange, to hide behind the arras and beat him until he is half dead?”
“No, Madame, that would be too dangerous; he might cut off your head in revenge, à la reine Anne Boleyn. We must mortify him – wound his vanity: no vengeance equal to that with a man like the Cardinal. He is intensely conceited, and proud of his figure. He imagines that he is graceful and alluring – perhaps he has been told so by her Majesty – I beg your pardon, Madame” – and the Duchess stopped and pursed up her lips, as if she could say more but dared not.
“Did Marion de l’Orme betray him?” asked the Queen slily, “or do you speak on your own knowledge?”
“I have it!” cried Madame de Chevreuse – not noticing the Queen’s question – and her mischievous eyes danced with glee. “I will meet him when he comes to-morrow, and persuade him to appear in the dress of a Spaniard, out of compliment to you. Stay, he shall dance, too, and we will provide a mandoline to accompany his voice. I will tell him that you have long admired him in secret, and that if he appears in so becoming a costume he is sure to be well received. A Spanish costume, too, for he knows how you adore Spain, the spy – then he shall dance a sarabande, a bolero à l’Espagnol, or sing – ”
“Ha! ha! Duchess, you are impayable” and the Queen laughed until the tears ran down her cheeks. “But will he be fool enough to believe you? If he does, I will kill him with scorn, the daring Cardinal!” and Anne of Austria drew herself up, looked into an opposite mirror, shook her golden curls, and laughed again.
The next morning, at the hour of the Queen’s lever, the Cardinal arrived. The Duchesse de Chevreuse met him and conducted him to a room near the Queen’s saloon. She carefully closed the door, begged him to be seated, and, with an air of great mystery, requested him to listen to her before his arrival was announced to her Majesty. The Cardinal was greatly taken aback at finding himself alone with the Duchess. She looked so seductive; the dark tints of her luxuriant hair, hanging about her neck and shoulders, harmonised so well with her brunette complexion, her brown eyes bent smilingly upon him, her delicate robe clinging to her tall figure, that he was almost tempted to repent his infidelity to her, and that he had come for any other than for her.
“Your eminence is surprised to see me,” said she, smiling, and speaking in the softest voice, and with the utmost apparent frankness, “but I am not in the least jealous,” and she shook her finger at him.
The Cardinal reddened, and looked confused.
“Do you, then, Duchess, guess on what errand I have come?”
“Perfectly, perfectly; when I heard you had requested a private audience in the absence of the King, I understood the rest.”
“Perhaps I have been indiscreet,” said Richelieu, and he sighed, “but I was anxious to explain my position to the Queen. I fear that she misconceives me; that she looks on me as her enemy; that she imagines that I prejudice the King against her. I desire to explain my feelings to her; they are of a mixed nature.”
“So I would suppose,” answered Madame de Chevreuse, primly, almost bursting with suppressed laughter.
“Do you think, then, madame, that her Majesty might be induced to lay aside her silence, her reserve? Are you authorised to admit me to her presence?”
“I am, Cardinal.”
Richelieu’s face flushed deep, his eyes glistened.
“To a certain extent,” continued the Duchess, “the Queen is gratified by your homage. Her Majesty has noted your slim yet manly form, your expressive eyes. She admires your great talents.”
“Do I dream?” exclaimed Richelieu. “You, madame, are indeed magnanimous. I feared that you might be indignant at what you might consider my inconstancy.”
“No, Cardinal, you could not be inconstant, for you were never loved.”
Richelieu started.
“By me – I mean to say, your eminence. You really should spare me,” added she, affectedly; “but I suppose I must speak. Anne of Austria, the daughter of a hundred kings, the wife of your Sovereign, secretly loves you, monseigneur. It is astonishing your extraordinary penetration never discovered this before. Since you went into the Church you must have grown modest; but love is blind, says the motto,” and the Duchess was obliged to hold her handkerchief to her face to hide her laughter.
“What words of ecstacy do you utter, adorable Duchess! But you must be aware of the coldness, the insulting scorn which the lovely Queen has hitherto shown towards me. How could I venture to guess – ”
“Ah, Cardinal, it is easy to see you are not so advanced in the art of love as of politics. Let me advise you to read Ovid – a little of The Art of Love—pour vous remettre. Did you learn so little, then, from her late Majesty, Marie de’ Medici, as not to know that where most Cupid triumphs he most conceals his wicked little person? That very coldness and scorn you speak of are but proofs of the Queen’s passion. But let me tell you one thing: the Queen fears you may deceive – betray her; and you must excuse her in this, when you remember, monseigneur, certain tales of treachery – all utterly false, of course – but then pardon a woman’s fears. You must, to speak plainly, give her some undoubted proof of your love.”
“Madame, you cannot doubt after what I have just heard that I can hesitate in promising to do all and everything my royal mistress can desire.”
The Duchess confessed afterwards to the Queen, that it was with the utmost difficulty she could keep her countenance, so absolutely farcical were his transports.
“Have a care what you promise,” said the Duchess to the Cardinal; “the Queen is very bizarre, and perhaps may require something impracticable.”
“Madame,” replied Richelieu, “to me nothing in this realm is impracticable; speak only her Majesty’s wishes, and I hasten to obey them.”
“Well, then, to-night you must come at dusk to her apartments.” The Cardinal bounded from his chair with delight. “To-night; but not in this sombre, melancholy dress; you must wear a toilette a little convenable to the part you hope to act – something brilliant, gaudy —un pantalon vert, par exemple.” The Cardinal started. “At your knees little bells must be fastened. You must have a velvet jacket, scarlet scarf, and, in fact, all the et cæteras of a Spanish dress. It will please the Queen, and pay her a delicate compliment, to which, believe me, she will not be insensible.”
All this time Richelieu had listened to the Duchess in an agony of surprise and amazement. “But, madame,” said he, at length, “this is impossible. I, a dignitary of the Church, a Cardinal. Much as I desire to show my devotion to the Queen, she herself cannot expect from me so strange, so extraordinary a proof – ”
“Certainly, monseigneur, it is an extreme proof of your devotion, and as such the Queen will regard it. She will be gratified, and at the same time will be thoroughly convinced of your sincerity. However, pray do as you please,” and the Duchess shrugged her shoulders; “I merely mention her Majesty’s wishes; you are quite at liberty to refuse. I shall therefore,” and she rose, “report your refusal.”
“Stop, Duchess, stop, I entreat you!” interrupted Richelieu, “you are so precipitate! I will – I must! (But what a fearful degradation! I, the prime minister of France, a prince of the Church, to appear in the disguise of a mountebank!) Ah, madame, her Majesty is too hard on me; but I adore, I worship her too much to refuse. Yes, – her wishes are my law; I cannot, I dare not refuse. Tell the Queen, at twilight this evening, I will present myself in her apartments.”
The Duchess waited no longer, but flew to acquaint the Queen with her success. Neither could for a long time articulate a single syllable, they were so overcome with laughter. Music was introduced behind the arras, for the Cardinal was to be prevailed on to dance a sarabande. Then they impatiently awaited the moment of his arrival. At last, enveloped in a Spanish cloak that entirely concealed his dress, the Cardinal entered. He was hastily rushing towards the Queen – Heaven only knows with what intentions – when Madame de Chevreuse interposed:
“Not yet, Cardinal – not yet; you must show us your dress first, then you must dance a sarabande, a bolero– something. Her Majesty has heard of your accomplishments and insists on it.”
“Yes,” cried Anne of Austria, “I insist on it, monseigneur, and have provided the music accordingly.”
The violins now struck up. Richelieu looked confounded. He was almost on the point of rushing out, when a few words whispered to him by the Duchess arrested him; they acted like a charm. Casting one deep, impassioned glance at the Queen, who sat at a little distance reposing on a couch, ravishing in beauty, her rosy lips swelling with ill-suppressed scorn, he threw down his cloak, displaying his extraordinary dress, bells, scarlet scarf and all, and began to dance – yes, to dance!
Poor man! he was no longer young, and was stiff from want of practice; so after a few clumsy entrechats and pirouettes, he stopped. He was quite red in the face and out of breath. He looked horribly savage for a few moments. The music stopped also, and there was a pause. Then he advanced towards the Queen, the little bells tinkling as he moved.
“Your Majesty must now be convinced of my devotion. Deign, most adorable Princess, to permit me to kiss that exquisite hand.”
The Queen listened to him in solemn silence. The Duchess leaned behind her couch, a smile of gratified malice on her face. The Cardinal, motionless before them, awaited her reply. Then Anne of Austria rose, and, looking him full in the face, measured him from head to foot. Anger, contempt, and scorn flashed in her eyes. At last she spoke – ineffable disgust and disdain in her tone – “Your eminence is, I rejoice to see, good for something better than a spy. I had hitherto doubted it. You have diverted me immensely. But take my advice; when you next feel inclined to pay your addresses to the Queen of France, get yourself shut up by your friends for an old fool. Now you may go.”
Richelieu, who had gradually turned livid while the Queen spoke, waited to hear no more. He covered himself with his cloak and rushed headlong from the room.
CHAPTER XXXIV.
THE MAID OF HONOUR
THE King returns to Saint-Germain as suddenly as he had departed; he commands a hunt in the forest at noon. The château wears an air of unusual gaiety. The King and Queen start together from the quadrangle, but they do not address each other. Anne, who rides on in front, attended by Monsieur, is positively dazzling in her sunny beauty. Her delicate cheeks are flushed with excitement. A small velvet cap, with a heron’s plume, rests on her head, and an emerald-coloured riding-dress, bordered with gold, sets off her rounded figure. She is followed by her ladies, many of whom wear masks to protect their complexions. The maids of honour are in blue, with large hats overtopped by enormous feathers.
Near them rides the King. He is much too shy to address Mademoiselle de Hautefort before such an assemblage; but his eyes constantly follow her, and he is infinitely gratified by the reserve of her manner towards the young gallants of the Court. Behind him rides the Grand Falconer, followed by the huntsmen, the piqueur, the whippers-in, and the falcons, hooded and chained to the wrists of their bearers. Last come the dogs – the sad King’s special favourites. The brilliant cavalcade flashes among the glades, which intersect the forest in every direction. The gaily caparisoned steeds, and their still gayer riders, the feathers, the lace, the embroidery, flutter in and out among the openings of the wood, and are lost in the many paths, where every turn is so like the other, yet each marked by some special beauty. Most of the ladies are mounted on palfreys, but some prefer litters; others are drawn up and down in cumbrous coaches, that threaten each moment to overturn on the gnarled roots of beech and oak that break the sward. On the riders dash between the giant tree-trunks, unhidden by the luxuriant foliage that masses the woods in summer – for the season is spring – and the trees are covered with but a slight shade of green leaves just bursting from the grey boughs. Yonder they dart under a pine-tree that darkens the ground, its spiky branches casting forth an aromatic perfume. Then beneath a cherry-tree, white with snowy blossoms, on among a maze of goss and yellow broom that streak the underwood with fire.
The birds sing in the bushes, the bees buzz among the blossoms, and the horses’ hoofs crush the tender mosses and the early flowers that carpet the ground. At the approach of the hunters hares and rabbits run lightly away, and timid does, with their young at their side, scamper far into the deepest recesses of the woods. Now the bugles sound, the dogs bay loudly; they spread themselves from side to side and disappear among the coppice, and the whole glittering company, gilded coaches, litters and all follow them, and dash out of sight and are hidden among the trees.
It was arranged that the hunt should lead towards a noble mansion lying on the confines of the forest, in the direction of Bondy, where the host, apprized of the intended honour, had prepared an ample collation.
Etiquette demanded that the King and Queen should be served apart from the rest. After their repast was finished and their attendants had withdrawn, the Queen approached nearer to the King. He started up and turned towards the door. Anne followed him. The long ride in the forest had flushed her cheeks. She looked brilliant. “Your Majesty will not refuse to speak to me, surely,” said she in the softest tones of her naturally sweet voice, and she raised her glorious eyes, which would have melted any other man but Louis, beseechingly.
The King shook his head sullenly.
“What have I done that your Majesty should scorn me?” said she, stretching out her beautiful hand with the most winning gesture to detain him.
Louis shrank from her touch, and turned his back upon her.
“Sire, will you not at least hear me, as you would hear the least of your subjects?” and the Queen’s eyes filled with tears and her hand dropped to her side.
“What have you to say to me?” asked Louis harshly, not looking at her.
“When I last saw your Majesty at Compiègne,” replied she with a faltering voice, “your mother, the Queen-dowager” – at her name Louis shuddered – “was mistress of the palace and of France. She sat at the royal board; she presided at the Council of State; your Majesty obeyed and loved her as a son. She is now a prisoner – disgraced, forsaken, ill.” The Queen’s voice became so unsteady that she was obliged to stop, and unbidden tears rolled down her cheeks. “What has this great Queen done to deserve your Majesty’s displeasure?” she added after a pause.
“Madame, it is no affair of yours,” answered Louis gruffly. “I refuse to give you my reasons. I act according to the advice of my council. Do not detain me,” and he turned again to leave the room. Anne placed herself in front of him; her head was thrown back, her figure raised to its full height, the tears on her eyelids were dried; she was no longer timid, but exasperated.
“If I have ventured to intercede for the Queen-mother,” said she with dignity, “it is because she implored me to do so. She wept upon my bosom. Her heart was all but broken. I comforted her as a daughter. I promised her to use such feeble powers as I had, to soften your heart, Sire. It is a sacred pledge I am discharging.”
“You are a couple of hypocrites!” exclaimed Louis with great irritation, facing round upon her. “You hate each other. From my mother I have freed myself; but you – ” and he surveyed her savagely from head to foot – “you, Madame Anne of Austria, you remain.”
“Yes, I remain,” returned Anne, “until, as I am told, you crave a dispensation from the Pope and send me back to Madrid.” These last words were spoken slowly and with marked emphasis. “I am a childless queen,” and she shot a bitter glance at Louis, who now stood rooted to the spot and listened to her with an expression of speechless amazement.
“Who told you, Madame, that I sought a dispensation from the Pope, and to send you back to Madrid?” asked Louis sharply. Then, without waiting for an answer, he put his hand to his forehead as if some sudden thought had struck him, knit his brows, and was lost in thought.
“I have heard so, no matter how,” answered the Queen coolly, “and on excellent authority. Sire,” she cried passionately, no longer able to restrain her feelings, “you use me too ill – rather than suffer as I do I will leave France for ever; I will not bear the mockery of being called your wife – I would rather bury myself in a convent at Madrid.”
Louis was so completely abstracted, that although he had asked her a question, he had forgotten to listen to her reply. Now he caught at her last word.
“Madrid? Yes, Madame, I believe it. Your heart is there. I know it but too well. Would you had never left Madrid! Ever since you came into France you have desired my death that you might wed a comelier consort.”
Louis could scarcely articulate, so violently was he excited. Anne did not stir, only her glowing eyes followed, as it were, each word he uttered.
“You talk of the Queen-mother, do you know that she warned me long ago that you were dishonouring me?”
“Oh, Sire, if you forget who I am,” exclaimed the Queen, “remember at least that I am a woman!” and she burst into tears, and for a few moments sobbed bitterly.
“Can you deny it, Madame,” continued the King, with rising fury, his mouth twitching nervously, as was his wont when much agitated – “can you deny it? Am I not become a jest among my own courtiers? You, the Queen of France, openly encourage the addresses of many lovers. You are wanting, Madame, even in the decency of the reserve becoming your high station,” and Louis clenched his fist with rage.
“I deny what you say,” returned the Queen boldly; “I have discoursed with no man to the dishonour of your Majesty.” She was trembling violently, but she spoke firmly and with dignity. “If I am wanting in concealment,” added she, “it is because I have nothing to conceal.”
“I do not believe you,” answered the King rudely.
“No, Sire, you do not, because you are my enemy. Your mind is poisoned against me. You encourage the lies of Richelieu, you slander me to my own attendants. Worse than all, you dare to couple my name with that of the Duc d’Orléans, your own brother. It is a gross calumny.”
Her voice rose as she spoke; the power of truth and innocence was in her look – it was impossible not to believe her. For an instant the King’s suspicions seemed shaken. He followed eagerly every word she uttered; but at the name of Monsieur a livid paleness overspread his face; for a moment he looked as if he would have swooned. Then recovering himself somewhat he came close up to her, and with a wild look he scanned her curiously, as though to read some answer to his suspicions. “Who can have told her? who can have told her?” he muttered half aloud – “a secret of state too. It is not possible that – ” The last words were spoken so low that they were lost. Louis was evidently struggling with some painful but overwhelming conviction. His head sunk on his breast. Again he became lost in thought. Then, looking up, he saw that the Queen was watching him. She was waiting for him to speak. This awakened him suddenly to a consciousness of what was passing, and his anger burst forth afresh.
“You say I am your enemy – yes, I am, and with reason. Are you not devoted to the interests of Spain, now at war with France? Do you not betray me in letters to your brother? Answer me.” It was now the Queen’s turn to falter and turn pale. The King perceived it. “I have you there, Madame Anne; I have you there;” and he laughed vindictively. “My life is not safe beside you. Like my great father, I shall die by an assassin whose hand will be directed by my wife!” A cold shiver passed over him. “Richelieu has proofs. Vrai Dieu, Madame, he has proofs. It is possible,” he added, with a sardonic smile, which made him look ghastly, “that you may return to Madrid sooner than you imagine – you and the Duchesse de Chevreuse, your accomplice.”
“Not sooner than I desire, Sire, after your unworthy treatment,” exclaimed Anne, proudly, her anger overcoming her fears that her letters might have been really deciphered. “I come of a race that cannot brook insult; but I can bear disgrace.”
Louis, who felt that the Queen was getting the better of him, grew furious – “I will have no more words, Madame,” shouted he; “we will deal with facts. I shall appeal to my minister and to my council. For myself, I am not fit to govern,” he added, in an altered voice, and with the forlorn air of a man who cannot help himself.
“Speak not to me, Sire, of Richelieu and the council over which he presides,” cried Anne, goaded beyond endurance. “Richelieu is a traitor, a hypocrite, a libertine – not even his sovereign’s wife is sacred to him!”
“Ah, Madame, it is natural that you and Richelieu should disagree,” retorted the King, with an incredulous sneer. “He is a match for you and for the Duchess your counsellor – the Duchess whose life disgraces my Court.”
Anne had now thrown herself into a chair, her hands were crossed on her bosom, her eyes bent steadily on the King, as if prepared for whatever fresh extravagance he might utter. Even the enraged Louis felt the influence of her fixed, stern gaze. He ceased speaking, grew suddenly confused, paced up and down hurriedly, stopped, essayed again to address her – then abruptly strode out of the room.
…
The Queen and her ladies are seated on a stone balcony that overlooks the parterre and the park of Saint-Germain. Below, the King’s violins are playing some music of his composition, set to words in praise of friendship, full of covert allusions to Mademoiselle de Hautefort. The Queen’s fair young face is clouded with care; she leans back listlessly in her chair, and takes no heed of the music or of what is passing around her. The Chevalier de Jars approaches her. There is something in his air that alarms her; she signs to him to place himself beside her.
Mademoiselle de Hautefort, conscious that every one is watching the effect of the music and the words upon her, sits apart at the farther end of the gallery, from which the balcony projects, almost concealed from view. A door near her opens noiselessly, and the King puts in his head. He peers round cautiously, sees that no one has perceived him, and that Mademoiselle de Hautefort is alone, then he creeps in and seats himself by her side. He looks saddened and perplexed.
“Why do you shun me?” he asks, abruptly.
“You have been absent, Sire.”
“Did you miss me?” His voice sounds so strange and hollow that Mademoiselle de Hautefort looks up into his face. Something has happened; what could it be? Some misfortune to the Queen is always her first thought. Before she can reply, Louis sighs profoundly, so profoundly that he almost groans, contemplating her, at the same time, with looks of inexpressible sorrow. “Alas!” exclaims he at last, “I had hoped so much from this interview when we parted at Fontainebleau; I have lived upon the thought, and now – my dream is ended; all is over!” The maid of honour grows alarmed: either he is gone mad, she thinks, or something dreadful has happened.
“I cannot conceive what you mean, Sire?” she replies, not knowing what to say.
“Are you, too, false?” he continues, “with those eyes so full of truth? Yet it must be you, it can be no other. False like the rest; a devil with an angel’s face!” The maid of honour is more and more amazed. “Yet I trusted you; with my whole heart I trusted you,” and he turns to her with a piteous expression, and wrings his hands. “I unfolded to you my forlorn and desolate condition. It might have touched you. Tell me,” he continues, in a tone of anguish, “tell me the truth; was it you who betrayed me?”
Mademoiselle de Hautefort is terribly confused. She understands now what the King means; a mortal terror seizes her; what shall she say to him? She is too conscientious to deny point-blank that she has told his secret, so she replies evasively, “that she is his Majesty’s faithful servant.”
“But, speak,” insists the King, “give me a plain answer. How does the Queen know a state secret, that I confided to you alone, that I even whispered in your ear?”
“Sire, I – I do not know,” falters the maid of honour.
“Swear to me, mademoiselle, that you have not betrayed me to the Queen; swear, and I will believe you. Pardieu! I will believe you even if it is not true!” Louis’s eyes shine with hidden fire; his slight frame quivers.
Mademoiselle de Hautefort, trembling for her mistress, with difficulty controls herself. “Your Majesty must judge me as you please,” she replies, struggling to speak with unconcern. “I call God to witness I have been faithful to my trust.”
“I would fain believe it,” replies the King, watching her in painful suspense; he seems to wait for some further justification, but not another syllable passes her lips. Still the King lingers; his looks are riveted upon her.
At this moment the music ceases. The maid of honour starts up, for the Queen has left the balcony. The King had vanished.
Anne of Austria, quitting those around her, advances alone to the spot where Mademoiselle de Hautefort had been talking with the King. “I am going at once to the Val de Grâce,” she whispers in great agitation.
“Indeed, Madame; so suddenly?”
“Yes, at once. I have just heard from the Chevalier de Jars that Chalais is arrested at Nantes. He accuses me and the Duchesse de Chevreuse of conspiring with him. Richelieu meditates some coup de main against me. I shall be safe at the Val de Grâce. You and the Duchess will accompany me. Here is a letter I have written in pencil to my brother; it is most important. I dare not carry it about me; take care to deliver it yourself to Laporte.”
The Queen drew from her pocket a letter, placed it in the maid of honour’s hand, and hastened back to rejoin the company. Mademoiselle was about to follow her, when Louis suddenly rose up before her, and barred her advance.
“Mademoiselle de Hautefort,” he said, “I have heard all. I was concealed behind that curtain. Give me that letter, written by my wife, I command you.”
“Never, Sire, never!” and Mademoiselle de Hautefort crushed the letter in her hand.
“How – dare you refuse me? Give it to me instantly!” and he tried to tear it from her grasp. She eluded him, retreated a few steps, and paused for a moment to think, then, as if a sudden inspiration had struck her, she opened the lace kerchief which covered her neck, thrust the letter into her bosom, and exclaimed: —
“Here it is, Sire; come and take it!”
With outstretched arms she stood before him; her cheeks aglow with blushes, her bosom wildly heaving. Wistfully he regarded her for a moment, then thrust out his hand to seize the letter, plainly visible beneath the gauzy covering. One glance from her flashing eye, and the King, crimson to the temples, drew back; irresistibly impelled, he advanced again and once more retreated, then with a look of baffled fury shouted, “Now I know you are a traitress!” and rushed from the gallery.
