Old Court Life in France, Volume II (of 2)

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.

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?"

"Gracious heavens! what can a creature so young and brilliant know of sorrow?"

"Much. Alas! too much!" The beautiful Marquise raised her handkerchief to her eyes. "Monsieur de Montespan never loved me. It was a marriage arranged by my sister, Madame de Thiange. She sacrificed me to family arrangements; he to his love of play – he is a desperate gambler. Worse still, he is a libertine." She paused, and tried to blush. "Can I, dare I hope, Madame la Duchesse, to find a friend in you? Nay more – a protectress? May I be permitted to ask your counsel?"

"Reckon on me," cried La Vallière, who was deeply interested in this artful appeal. Madame de Montespan cared no more for her husband than he did for her. "Come to me whenever you need advice, whenever you want sympathy or protection. Come to me freely – at all hours, at all times – this house is yours."

"But, Madame la Duchesse, his Majesty may perhaps object to my presence here. I do not think he likes me. He has scarcely once addressed me during the few times I have been at Court."

"Ah, I will arrange that," answered La Vallière, her face all aglow with excitement. "I will manage that you shall be here when he comes. To see you, dear Marquise, as I do now, must be to esteem and respect you. His Majesty's heart is so excellent, all his ideas so great, so noble! You shall help me to entertain him; you have such charming spirits, such a sunny smile."

Madame de Montespan gave a little start. She could with difficulty conceal the delight this speech gave her, La Vallière had so completely fallen into the trap she had laid. Again she kissed her thin white hand, and pressed the long delicate fingers laid confidingly in her own.

"What an honour!" she exclaimed. "How happy I shall be to serve you in the smallest way, in return for all your goodness!"

"To serve me!" repeated La Vallière, gazing at her vacantly. "Not to serve me – that is impossible. Ah, no one can serve me. My life is a long remorse. I love – with my whole soul I love. That love is a crime. I can neither leave the King nor can I bear to remain. God's image rises up within me to shut out his dear form from my eyes. Alas, alas! – I prefer him to God." La Vallière melted into tears. She sank back on her chair, lost to all else but the agony of her own feelings.

Madame de Montespan observed her with a look of sarcastic scrutiny. No shade of pity tempered her bold stare. Her eyes were hard as steel, her full lips were compressed.

"How I admire your devotion to his Majesty," she said, in the most insinuating voice. "It is extraordinary." Her kind words singularly belied her cruel expression, but Louise, blinded by her tears, did not observe this. "What astonishes me is that, feeling as you do, you can endure to remain here – so close to the palace, almost living in the Court, so long. In such magnificence too," – and she gave a spiteful glance round the superbly decorated saloon. "You must have extraordinary self-command," she added artfully, "immense self-denial. I suppose you see his Majesty often, Madame la Duchesse?" she asked this question with well-affected indifference, fixing her eyes steadily on poor La Vallière, who still lay back in her chair, weeping. "He is always at Versailles. It must be a great trial, and with your religious convictions too." As she spoke she carefully noted the effect each word produced upon La Vallière.

"Alas!" replied her victim, her cheeks now suffused with a burning blush, "I see him almost daily. Those hours are all that render life endurable."

"Do you really mean this, dear Duchess?" returned Madame de Montespan, feigning extreme surprise. "I should have imagined that the refinement of your nature would have rendered the indulgence of a guilty passion impossible."

"Ah! I see you despise me," groaned poor La Vallière, overcome by shame. "I cannot wonder. Young and pure as you are, I must be to you an object of horror."

"Oh, Madame la Duchesse, what a word! On the contrary, I admire the sacrifice you make."

"Alas!" interrupted La Vallière, "it is no sacrifice. I cannot tear myself from him because – because – " she stopped for a moment, then added hastily, "I fear to give him pain. It seems to me I ought to bear anything rather than hurt one whose love has raised me so near himself. I have not the courage to wound him – perhaps to embitter his whole life. No, although conscience, duty, religion command it, I have not the courage." La Vallière turned aside and hid her face.

Madame de Montespan fell into a deep muse. Again an expression of cruel determination passed over her fair young face, and she gave La Vallière a glance in which malice, anger, and contempt were mingled. La Vallière, absorbed in her own sorrow, did not perceive it.

"How I grieve for you, dear friend," Madame de Montespan continued, speaking in her sweetest voice. "How I respect your scruples. Are you sure," added she, carefully noting the effect of her words, "that the King would really suffer from your absence as keenly as you imagine!"

"I have never dared broach the subject," answered La Vallière, looking up. "My remorse I cannot hide. He knows I suffer, he sees I am ill. But I would not for worlds openly acknowledge that I wish to forsake him."

"Yet, dear Duchess, this struggle will kill you. What a balm to your sensitive feelings the solitude of a convent would be! Among those holy sisters, in a life of prayer, you would find new life."

"I know it – I know!" cried La Vallière, passionately; "but how to leave him – how to go?"

"Perhaps, Duchess, I may assist you," and Madame de Montespan bent, with well simulated interest, over the slight form beside her, and gazed inquiringly into the trusting eyes that were turned so imploringly upon her. "I might be able to place this dilemma before his Majesty as your friend, dear Duchess. A third party is often able to assist in a matter so delicate. If his Majesty would indeed suffer as poignantly as you imagine, your departure is out of the question. I could at least learn this from himself in your interest."

Louise sprang to her feet, she threw her soft arms round Madame de Montespan, and nestled her pale face on her bosom.

"At last I have found a real friend," she cried; "at last I have found one who understands me. But," and she looked up quickly into the other's face, with a confidence that was most touching, "you will say nothing to his Majesty. Not a word. Be here when he next comes. (I will ask his permission.) You will then be able to judge for yourself – to counsel me. I would rather suffer torture, I would rather die, than give him a moment's pain, remember that," and La Vallière put out her little hand and pressed that of Madame de Montespan, whose face was wreathed with smiles.

"Do you think his Majesty will consent to my presence here?" asked Madame de Montespan, carefully concealing her feelings of exultation, for she foresaw what the reply must be.

"I will make him," cried La Vallière. "I will teach you exactly how to please him – what to say – never to contradict him – to watch the turn of his eye, as I do. The ice once broken, your tact, your winning manners, will make all easy."

Madame de Montespan acquiesced. She strove to appear careless, but she knew that her fate was on the balance. If she met the King there, she was resolved her rival should not long trouble her.

"Then you will tell me what I ought to do," continued La Vallière. "I shall be for ever grateful to you – you will reconcile me to myself!"

When next the King visited La Vallière, Madame de Montespan was present. She was as plainly dressed as was consistent with etiquette. At first she said little, sat apart, and only spoke when the King addressed her. But afterwards, gradually feeling her way, she threw in the most adroit flattery, agreed with all he said, yet appeared to defer in everything to La Vallière. Sometimes she amused him by her follies, and brought with her a team of mice she had tamed and harnessed to a little car of filigree, to run upon a table; sometimes she astonished both La Vallière and the King by her acute observation, her daring remarks, and pungent satire. The King's visits to the Hôtel Biron became longer and more frequent. If Madame de Montespan was not there he asked for her, and expressed regret at her absence. The Comtesse du Roule inquired anxiously of La Vallière if Madame de Montespan was useful to her. Reports had reached her which made her uneasy. It was said that this beautiful young friend, whom she had so unwittingly introduced to La Vallière, had designs of her own upon the King; and that she openly boasted that she would speedily supplant the Duchess.

Madame du Roule had also heard that Monsieur de Montespan had appeared at the Queen's circle dressed entirely in black, and that on being asked by the King for what relative he wore such deep mourning, had replied —

"For my wife, Sire."

La Vallière laughed at this story, and would not listen to a syllable against her new friend.